pairing: soft dom!joel x f!reader
wc: 12k (i am so sorry)
summary: using tommy to make joel jealous seemed harmless enough- but joel had other plans...
warnings: 18+ mdni, jackson au, big age gap (mid 50s and mid 20s), soft dom!joel, protective!joel, pervy!tommy, clingy/needy reader, possessiveness, jealousy as foreplay, praise kink, daddy kink (nickname only used once), rough sex, oral sex (m receiving), food play, oral fixation, deepthroating, gagging, spit, tears during oral, hair pulling, throat holding, spanking mention, semi-public risk, unprotected p-in-v sex
a/n: i had a dream ab going down on joel so this is what transpired...
i swear after this i'm limiting myself to fics under 6k words- bc its physically impossible for me to write something under 11k words... o.O
anyway, i hope yall enjoy! i'll be going through my requests soon so feel free to ask/submit any ideas or whatever while they're open! i love to hear from you guys!!! ♡♡
also: i only proofread this like once...:/
now playing... the giver - chappell roan
Joel Miller tells you no at least ten times a day. Though you can’t remember the last time he actually meant it.
No, you can’t follow him to the stables when he has work to finish. No, you don’t need help fastening every little button on your dress. No, he isn’t carrying you upstairs simply because your feet hurt.
Then you look at him long enough, or curl both your hands around his wrist, or let your lip poke out the way he claims stopped working months ago.
And that usually ends with you perched nearby while he works, his hands working at the front of your dress, or one thick arm hooked under your knees while he mutters something about how spoiled you’ve gotten.
As if he isn’t directly responsible for it.
Joel has catered to every clingy little impulse you possess and kept the reason perfectly hidden from the rest of Jackson.
Nobody knows why you’re always the first person he searches for when he returns through the gates. They don’t know that the key in his pocket belongs to the house you practically live in now, or that half the clothes folded inside his dresser are yours.
And they certainly don’t know what happens after you slip through his backdoor each night.
You tried to hide your clinginess at first.
Because people in Jackson are nosy, and the difference between you and Joel was already impossible to miss. You figured sitting in his lap or hanging from his arm would have the whole town whispering before you even made it through dinner.
Instead, everyone came to the same wrong conclusion.
They thought Joel was taking care of you.
Not fucking you. Not keeping your underwear beneath his pillow because you had a habit of leaving without them.
They thought he was taking care of you in the respectable, almost parental way an older man might look after a younger girl who had become too attached to him. They thought you’d attached yourself to Joel because he was older and dependable and that he indulged in you because refusing a pretty girl young enough to be his daughter was just one of the few survival skills he never learned.
And once they decided that, they stopped examining any of it.
So you stopped caring who saw you cling to him.
Joel, however, remained careful enough for the both of you.
He won’t kiss you in public, and he’d probably drag you home by the back of your dress if you ever tried. But that doesn’t stop you from winding both your arms around his bicep while he talks to someone about patrol duties or resting your head in his shoulder during dinner. You press your face into his chest whenever patrol keeps him gone too long. You stand between his spread knees at community meetings, close enough to feel his breath against your neck while his hand remains respectably above your waist.
Everyone just thinks you’re seeking comfort from him.
They don’t know that same hand held your face against the mattress the night before.
People smile whenever they catch you tucked under Joel’s arm—they think it’s cute. Tommy rolls his eyes and calls you his brother’s spoiled little girl, usually earning a glare from Joel and an embarrassing thrill between your legs.
Women old enough to remember life before the outbreak tell you how lucky you are to have a man like Joel watching over you, a father figure — unaware that he had you crying into his pillow before breakfast for reasons you absolutely cannot divulge to them.
The worst part is how easily you’ve begun taking advantage of it.
You can sit pressed against Joel’s side at the Tipsy Bison with your thighs fitted between his and nobody gives you a second glance. You can play with his fingers under the table, tracing the thick knuckles that were inside you that morning, while everyone just assumes you needed another bit of reassurance. Once, you even fell asleep with your head in his lap. Joel stroked your hair the entire time, scowling down at you because he knew exactly what you were doing.
Nobody noticed the way his fingers closed around a handful of it when you smiled up at him.
They just saw an older man indulging in the poor girl who followed him everywhere like a lost puppy. They didn’t see the erection you could feel beneath your cheek or the warning in his eyes when you rubbed against it.
Yet, those warnings were rarely empty.
He liked making you pay for taking advantage of everyone’s assumptions about the two of you.
If your hand wandered too high beneath the table at the community dinner, he’d wait until he got you home to bend you across his lap and redden your ass. If you accidentally mentioned waking up in his bed within Tommy’s hearing, he made you stand against the bedroom wall with your dress gathered around your waist while he decided what to do with you. And if you managed to sleepily call him daddy in front of half the Tipsy Bison, he’d make you repeat it into his pillow until it was the only word you could manage.
But It was hardly a punishment when both of you knew you misbehaved because you wanted exactly that.
You loved the change in him once you were behind a locked door. He could pin both your wrists above your head with one hand, then use the other to sweep your hair away from your face when it stuck to your lips. His knees forced your legs apart whenever they tried to close around him, but he kissed the tears from under your eyes and told you what a good girl you were for taking him so well.
Sometimes he fucked you hard enough to drive the bedframe against the wall, his palm covering your mouth while he reminded you that the neighbors already paid too much attention to who came and went from his house. Even then, his thumb passed over your cheek, his forehead rested against yours, and every filthy command ended with baby or sweetheart.
But his roughness just came naturally to him.
Joel was a big man with hands that could circle both your wrists and a cock that made your body ache the next morning, even on the nights the sex was slow and gentle. He left fingerprints around your thighs when he held them open. His bread scraped the sensitive skin between your legs raw. Sometimes his hips would strike hard enough to bruise, especially when you clenched around him and his restraint slipped for a few strokes.
But he never took more than he believed you could handle, and he never took anything purely because he wanted it.
You loved that in the beginning. You still do. You love how thoroughly Joel cares for you, how naturally his body closes around yours afterward, how he cleans you up and pulls the blankets beneath your chin. You love falling asleep sore between your legs with his hands spread across your belly.
You don’t have to do anything besides lie beneath him and accept it.
But that’s exactly the problem.
You wanted to make Joel feel good for once.
You wanted to learn his body as thoroughly as he had learned yours—to know what touch made his hips jerk, which drag of your tongue made him lose his train of thought, which gag would finally send him over the edge.
But he’d never even let you taste him.
The closest you ever got was a kiss from his after he’d finished in you then went down on you after.
Joel has never allowed you to kneel between his leg and take him into your mouth. He’d never stood over you with his hand fisted in your hair and taught you how to take him without choking. You’d spent countless nights imagining him using your mouth until tears ran down your cheeks, imagined what he’d look like when you’d glance up to find every trace of patience gone from his face.
He refused to let the fantasy get any further than that.
He always claimed he didn’t need it.
That was the word he always used. Need. Like it was air or water.
And you’d tried often enough to know his refusal had nothing to do with him disliking the idea. His entire body would betray him the few times you managed to get on your knees for him. His thighs would go rigid, his cock would thicken behind the seam of his jeans, and his fingers would flex at the sides of his thighs like he was already imagining a handful of your hair.
Once, you’d actually managed to get to your knees and open his belt before he stopped you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with his jaw clenched while you rubbed your cheek helplessly over the bulge in his pants. The dark patch at the tip grew against your lips as you pressed a kiss to it through the fabric, and the sound that tore from his chest kept you awake thinking about it for days.
“Teach me, Joel,” you whined, rubbing your cheek over the length trapped inside his jeans again. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
His refusal was already there, but it looked painfully close to breaking.
A muscle jumped beside his mouth. His lips parted each time yours brushed the damp patch slowly spreading over his zipper, then they’d press together again before any sound could escape. One of his hands gripped the edge of the mattress hard enough to bleach his knuckles. The other hung beside your head, fingers opening and closing as his eyes followed every pass of your mouth across his cock.
You tipped your face toward him without lifting your chin from his crotch. Your eyes were enormous and pleading from where you were, your lashes fluttering with every blink. And he watched every single one of them. You could almost see him imagining those lashes wet and clumped together while he held you down on him.
“Please, Joel. Just let me try,” you begged. “Let me show you how bad I want it.”
His fist gripped at the edge of the bed again when you turned your head and pressed another open-mouthed kiss to the tip. His cock jerked against your lips, and a broken grunt left his throat, followed by your name bitten out between his teeth.
You could see how badly he wanted to give in. His thighs spread another inch around your body, his heel scrapped across the floor as his hips pushed involuntarily toward your mouth. The hand hanging between your head lifted; his thick fingers passing through your hair, gathering it away from your face until his fist closed near your scalp as he stared at your mouth.
He used his free hand to drag his thumb across your lower lip, pulling it down until your mouth parted slightly. When his cock twitched again under your chin, you could’ve sworn that was is it. He was going to free himself, guide you forward, and finally let you give him everything you’d been begging to.
You leaned into his grip, already opening wider.
You watched his eyes close, and another curse leave him through clenched teeth before the fist in your hair loosened.
“No, darlin’.” His thumb passed once against your cheek again. “Get up for me.”
He slid both his hands beneath your arms and lifted you from your knees, making sure not to let them scrape against the floor. By the time he sat you on the mattress, every trace of that near-surrender had been locked away again—except for the erection still straining against his jeans.
He never let it get that far again.
After that night, Joel got better at recognizing your intentions before you could even think about dropping to the floor. You could barely kiss his belly before his hands were catching your waist and hauling you back up. If your fingers even hesitated near his belt, he laced them through his and pinned them beside your head. You never got another chance to feel his cock jerk against your lips or see how close he could come to losing himself over your mouth.
Naturally, that only made you want it more.
Usually, Joel gave you enough attention to keep frustration from consuming you. It was difficult to remain upset with him when his hands or mouth were on you, and most nights ended with you too exhausted to remember what he’d even refused.
But even that distraction had been taken from you.
Joel had barely been home. Between patrol, repairs near the gate, and whatever someone kept dragging him away to handle, you received whichever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. A kiss against your forehead while he ate supper standing at the counter. His hand squeezing your waist when he passed behind you. He barely lasted ten minutes tucked beside you in bed before his breathing evened out against your hair.
You loved those parts of him too, though.
Some of your favorite nights spent with Joel had nothing to do with sex. You were perfectly happy sitting beside him while he repaired the torn strap of his gun or sharpened the knife he kept at his hip, your legs across his lap and his thumb passing over your ankle whenever he paused. You loved watching him wash the day from his face at the bathroom sink, sleeves shoved to his elbows and gray curls wet and flattened at his temples. You even liked listening to him complain about his patrol assignments you barely understood, especially when he stopped halfway through to ask whether you were paying attention and found you staring at his hands instead.
You didn’t need him inside you every time the two of you were alone.
You did, however, need more than a sleepy kiss and the back of his shirt clutched in your fist while he passed out beside you.
By that evening, you were itching to see him. Joel had left shortly after sunrise, promising he would be home before supper, and that occupied nearly every thought you had for the rest of the day. You wondered where he was while you finished your morning chores, whether he had remembered to eat when you passed the dining hall, and how much longer he would be gone each time boots sounded against the porch.
He was due back any minute, so you had already made yourself comfortable on his couch to wait for him.
The little blue bowl that rested in your lap, filled with strawberries Joel had hulled and cut for you this morning. Sugar clung to their wet surfaces and collected with the juice at the bottom. Joel always sprinkled more over the top than necessary because he knew you liked scooping up the sweet syrup with your spoon afterward. A tall glass of milk sat within reach on the table next to you, beads of condensation running down the outside and gathering on the coaster under it.
You were lifting another sugar-covered strawberry to your mouth when boots struck the porch.
Excitement had you sitting upright before the latch even lifted. You placed the bowl beside your milk and wiped your sticky fingertips against the napkin you brought with you, already preparing to launch yourself at him the moment he came through the door.
The familiar weight of Joel’s boots crossed the threshold into the house, each step heavy enough to carry through the floorboards under your feet.
You were already pushing up from the couch when another set followed behind his. Louder. Uneven. One heel scraped across the wood before a shoulder struck the side of the door with a dull thud.
You barely had time to process the second pair of footsteps when you heard a drunken, slurred Tommy and a tired, very irritated Joel.
“Tommy, quit draggin’ your feet. Your scrapin’ up my damn floor,” Joel groaned from the entryway.
Tommy lifted one boot and brung it down against the floorboards with a deliberate thud. Then the other. The sound traveling through the house while he laughed at his own joke, one arm still hanging across Joel’s shoulder.
“Calm down, big brother. House survived all this time without you fussin’ over it.”
“House ain’t what I’m worried about. Keep that up, you’re gonna bust your damn teeth.”
All you could hear was a distant laugh from Tommy and another groan from Joel.
You sink back against the couch, plucking the bowl from beside you and placing it back in your lap.
All afternoon, you had pictured Joel coming through that door alone.
You’d imagined wrapping yourself around him before he could even take off his boots, following him into the kitchen while he ate, and stealing back every bit of attention Jackson had kept from you that week.
Instead, one of his arms is occupied by Tommy, and the other is carrying both their coats.
The strawberry between your fingers drips pink juice onto your palm.
You return it to the bowl without finishing it.
Joel looks toward the couch as he walks in. His eyes find you immediately, passing over the half-drunken milk, the bowl in your lap, and the disappointment you haven’t managed to hide from your face. His mouth presses into a line.
Joel pauses mid-sentence, catching the pet name before it can fully leave his mouth.
Tommy’s head turns toward him, his brows pulling together as he tries to follow an apology that wasn’t meant for him. “Sorry for what? I’m havin’ a wonderful fuckin’ time.”
Joel pays him no attention. His eyes remain fixed on you, taking in the frown at your mouth.
To you—curled into the corner of the couch with your legs crossed under you, a white cotton nightgown spilling across your thighs. The hem has ridden up while you waited, leaving most of your legs bare, and dull pink juice shines across your fingertips resting against the rim of your bowl.
Tommy looks at you for what feels like ever.
“Well, hell.” His unfocused eyes travel from your bare legs to the thin straps on your shoulders before his grin spreads. “Would’ve cleaned myself up if I knew Joel had pretty company waitin’ at home.”
Tommy’s grin only widens. “They are.”
You manage a smile, wiping the strawberry juice from your fingertips.
You like Tommy. He’s funny, easy to talk to, and far more willing than Joel to entertain whatever nonsense comes into your head sometimes.
He also gets shamelessly perverted after a few drinks.
His eyes linger where they shouldn’t, innocent compliments become filthy, and he has a habit of letting his hand remain on your knee long after the joke has ended.
But you’ve never felt threatened by it. Tommy flirts with half of Jackson, and you know he’d pull away the second you genuinely asked him to—even drunk. Usually though, you just roll your eyes and enjoy him anyway.
Tonight, though, is an unfortunate night to be trapped with the drunk, handsy version of him.
Because after spending all day waiting for Joel, the sight of Tommy hanging from the man you wanted makes your chest ache with an embarrassingly childish resentment.
You don’t want to share Joel’s attention with anyone—especially his brother, who seems to be determined to require every bit of it.
“Just for tonight, kid,” he adds, giving Tommy a shove toward the nearest chair. “Ain’t in no shape to make it home.”
“Okay,” you mumble, pulling the bowl closer in your lap.
You know he wasn’t eally asking for permission. Even if he were, you could hardly insist he throw his drunken brother into the street because you’d spent the day planning to monopolize him.
Kid is what Joel calls you when other people are listening.
The word helps everyone keep believing exactly what they already believe—that you’re just the girl Joel feels responsible for, and his attention carries no desire behind it. in public, you’re kid. Occasionally, you’re sweetheart, if nobody is paying enough attention to question it. Never baby, though.. Never his pretty girl. And definitely never the filthy names he presses against your ear while his cock is buried inside you.
Usually, you enjoy the deceit. There’s a private thrill in hearing Joel call you kid while his hand rests innocently on your shoulder, knowing that same hand would close around your throat once he got you alone.
Tonight, it only reminds him that you won’t be getting him alone.
Joel deposits Tommy in the chair and disappears into the kitchen for water. The moment his back is turned, Tommy is pushing himself upright and dropping onto the couch next to you.
He lands hard enough to jostle the bowl in your lap. The wet strawberries slosh against the side, and you catch it with both hands before it spills across your nightgown.
“Tommy,” Joel warns from the kitchen doorway.
“I’m sittin’ down,” he slurs.
“Put you in a chair for a reason.”
“Yeah, and I left it for a better one.”
You can tell Joel wants to argue back, but stops when he realizes it’s not worth the fight with a drunken Tommy Miller.
Tommy stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you, taking up far more room than he needs to—typical. His thigh presses against your folded legs, so you draw them closer to you, but the couch is small and he doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that he’s crowded you farther into the corner.
He looks down at your bowl. “What’ve you got there?”
Your eyes bounce between him and the bowl, one eyebrow slightly raised but not enough for him to notice.
“Just a snack,” you reply, plainly. “Strawberries and some milk.”
“I can see that.” He lifts his eyes back to yours as he nods toward the bowl. “You mind?”
Your eyebrows draw together, lips parting as you search for an answer. “Uh, I—”
You barely get out the first sound out before his hands are moving.
His fingers dip into the bowl, plucking one of the largest berries from the sugar collecting at the bottom. He pops it into his mouth whole, then licks the juice from his thumb.
“Tommy,” Joel calls more sternly from the kitchen.
He glances around his shoulder; his cheek rounded around the berry. “What? She ain’t complainin’.”
The berry was yours, Tommy is a little too close for comfort, and the whiskey on his breath makes your eyes water whenever he speaks.
But your eyes drift past him. To Joel standing in the kitchen doorway.
His eyes are bouncing between Tommy’s fingers in your bowl, and you curled into the corner of the couch.
For the first time all night, Joel’s attention was on you.
He’d spent the entire week giving you distracted kisses and whatever parts of him Jackson hadn’t exhausted. Tonight, after waiting all day to finally have him alone, he arrived with his drunken brother hanging from his arm.
Now all it takes is one stolen strawberry for him to watch every movement on his couch.
The complaint dies on your tongue.
Because you like Tommy. You do. He’s generous, knows how to make you laugh, and is usually harmless beneath all the drunken flirting. Letting him steal a strawberry isn’t betrayal.
If it irritates Joel, that’s merely an added benefit.
So when Tommy asks what you’ve done all day, you answer. When he tells you your nightgown is too pretty for sitting around in Joel’s house, you laugh and glance toward the kitchen to see whether Joel heard him. You even let him steal two more strawberries, leaving the bowl in reaching distance despite having plenty of time to move it.
You aren’t flirting with him.
You’re simply not making any effort to discourage him.
Joel returns a few minutes later with a glass of water and a damp cloth. He gives Tommy the water first, then tosses the cloth into his lap.
“Drink. Clean yourself up.”
Tommy wipes it once across his mouth before dropping it onto his knee. “She’s been keepin’ me company.”
Joel answers with half grunt, half laugh as his eyes travel over the arm stretched behind you, Tommy’s leg pressing into yours, and the half empty bowl resting between the two of you. The muscles beside his mouth draw taut, but all he does is nod toward the water.
Tommy drinks half before becoming distracted again.
“You always dress like this for him?” he asks you.
Your fingers pause against the rim of your bowl.
“Quit it,” Joel says firmly.
“What?” Tommy turns toward Joel, attempting an innocence his grin immediately ruins. “Just tellin’ her she looks nice.”
“You said it. Now move on.”
Tommy gives you a conspiratorial grin, treating Joel’s irritation as another private joke between the two of you. “He always this bossy with you?”
Your eyes lift to Joel before you answer, making sure he’s watching.
“Sometimes,” Tommy repeats with a laugh. His hand drops onto your knee as if you’ve shared a joke at Joel’s expense. “Poor thing.”
Joel does not find the joke nearly as funny.
Tommy’s palm remains there, and this time, you don’t pull your leg away.
Your fingertips continue circling the rim of the sticky bowl while you watch Joel take Tommy’s abandoned glass from him. The base strikes the wood hard, sending a ring through the room.
“Hands to you damn self, Tommy.”
Tommy glances down as if he’s only just discovered where his hand ended up. “Jesus, Joel. It’s her knee.”
“And it don’t belong to you.”
The words leave him too quickly.
No one speak after that. Tommy’s eyes narrow as he looks between the two of you, his drunken mind trying to catch hold of whatever slipped beneath Joel’s answer.
“You’re twice her size, drunk off your ass, and crowdin’ her into the damn wall,” he adds. “Move.”
“It’s okay,” you tell him.
Joel’s head snaps to yours.
You try to look innocent, although the thrill running through you probably shows. Joel stares long enough to make you wonder whether he already knows what game you’re playing.
Tommy gives your knee a tiny squeeze. “See? She’s fine.”
Tommy lift his hands in surrender then scoots several inches away. Joel watches until a respectable amount of couch appears between you. Then he collects their coats and heads upstairs, probably to prepare whatever space he’s going to throw Tommy in.
You immediately wish he hadn’t left.
Tommy’s attention holds very little appeal without Joel there to witness it. The fun came from watching Joel notice every inch his brother took—the space beside you, the strawberries from your bowl, your knee beneath his clammy palm.
Without Joel in the room, you’re merely sitting beside a trunk man who doesn’t seem to remember what personal space is.
Tommy is filling the empty space before Joel’s even made it halfway up the stairs.
He asks whether you have anyone waiting for you at home, then tells you a girl who looks the way you do shouldn’t spend her night alone. You answer him with enough sweetness to keep him talking, but your attention remains on the stars.
You could tell him to move. You know that.
The trouble is that you’ve spent the last ten minutes smiling at him.
You laughed at his drunken compliments, let him stick his fingers in your bowl and eat from it, and left your leg beneath his hand after Joel told him to remove it. Pushing him away the instant Joel left would make it embarrassingly clear that none of this had ever been about Tommy.
So you let him continue. Only until Joel comes back.
Then Tommy steals his fourth strawberry.
And this time, instead of reaching into the bowl, he takes it directly from your sticky fingers. His fingertips drag across yours, collecting the sugar and juice left behind.
“You gonna eat all these yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, dangling it between your fingers.
You manage a laugh. “I was planning to.”
He sucks his teeth, popping it into his mouth. “Thought Joel taught you to share.”
The words send an uncomfortable pulse through you. Tommy couldn’t possibly know what Joel has taught you, yet your heart still skips a beat at the thought.
Tommy laughs when he sees your reaction. “Aw, don’t get shy now.”
“I’m not shy,” you insist.
“You are,” he teases as he leans closer. “Face gives you away.”
Joel’s boots cross the floor above you.
You lift the bowl out of Tommy’s reach when he tries to take another strawberry, but your smile ruins the refusal. He follows the bowl across your body, his hand pressing into your thigh as he reaches farther.
“Tommy,” Joel shouts. “What the hell did I just tell your ass?”
His words crack across the room.
Joel appears at the foot of the stairs, a folded blanket crushed beneath one arm. His eyes are fixed on Tommy’s palm against your thigh, and the tendons along the back of his free hand stand out where his fingers have curled into a fist.
Tommy sits back, more startled by Joel’s tone than ashamed. “Christ, Joel. We’re just talkin’.”
“Then you can do it from over there.” Joel points toward the opposite end of the couch. “Move your ass.”
Tommy lets out a loud laugh and looks at you for support. “She ain’t asked me to stop.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” he sneers. Joel strides farther into the room and drops the blanket onto the chair.
“You’re drunk, you’ve got her crowded into a corner, and I’ve already told you to leave her alone. What part’re you havin’ trouble understandin’?”
“Joel, it’s okay,” you say, smoothing your nightgown over your knees.
Tommy lifts his eyebrows at him, smug. “See? She said it’s—”
“No, it ain’t.” Joel cuts him off so quickly that the words nearly overlap. Then he catches himself, his jaw working before he looks back at Tommy and continues. “You’re makin’ an ass of yourself. Sit over there, drink your water, and keep your damn hands to yourself.”
Tommy stares at him for a second, then lifts both his hands with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “All right. Jesus. Didn’t realize she needed a damn guard dog.”
“She don’t,” Joel replies. “You just need somebody remindin’ you how to behave.”
Tommy mutters something under his breath as he scoots across the couch angrily, sloshing the remaining water across his knuckles in the process.
The relief you feel when his thigh leaves yours is almost immediate.
You had enjoyed Joel’s reaction for more than you enjoyed the hand that caused it. Tommy’s touch left behind a little more than the fading pressure of his palm. But Joel’s jealousy has your underwear clinging to you under your nightgown. And Joel looks about ready to break Tommy’s hand.
The sight sends another embarrassing throb between your legs.
You’ve spent days desperate for his attention, and now every bit of it is fixed on you—the fist at his side, the anger spread across his face, the possessiveness he has no respectable way to explain. Tommy’s palm has already left your thigh, but Joel’s reaction makes you press them together beneath your nightgown.
You hadn’t meant to cause an argument between them.
But you can’t pretend you’re sorry to discover how easily another man’s interest strips away Joel’s restraint.
Joel glances at you once more before returning to the kitchen. His eyes pause on the fabric gathered over your thigh.
You hold his stare while you smooth the nightgown back over your legs.
The difference is minor enough that Tommy misses it. But you don’t. You can tell Joel is beginning to suspect you aren’t quite as uncomfortable as he assumed.
Someone sensible would stop there.
But you spent all week being sensible.
Tommy behaves for less than a minute.
He finishes off his water, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and watches Joel disappear around the kitchen doorway then his attention is back on you.
“Still allowed to talk to you, sweetheart?”
You glance toward the kitchen. Joel has his back to the room, but the rigid line of his shoulders tells you he’s definitely listening.
“Depends,” you say, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “You wanna get yelled at again?”
Tommy laughs and leans closer despite Joel’s warning. “Might be worth it.”
You should end the game. You’ve already gotten what you wanted: Joel is angry, attentive, and painfully aware of every inch between you and his brother.
Then Joel looks over his shoulder.
The directness of his stare nearly wipes the smile clean from your face. You immediately reach for the glass next to you, hoping it’ll hide whatever guilt he might read in your expression. It gives your hands an innocent place to go too—like you’re only sitting there finishing your snack, completely unaware of the game you’ve been playing.
The glass is still cold against your sticky fingers, wet enough with condensation that it nearly slips from your grip. You bring it to your lips and drink much faster than you need to, swallowing mouthful after mouthful while Joe’s eyes lay into you from across the room.
The milk catches at the corner of your lips when you tip the glass too far. One drop slips over your chin and trails down the front of your throat. Another follows, reaching the neckline of your nightgown before disappearing beneath the white cotton. A small splash darkens the fabric over your chest, leaving it damp enough to cling to your skin.
By the time you lower it, the cold has begun to ache behind your teeth.
And Tommy’s attention is no longer on your face.
His eyes have followed the wet path down your throat and stopped on the darkened patch across your chest. The playful grin disappears for a second, replaced by an intent stare that makes your fingers close harder around the glass.
“Spilled a little,” he says.
His tongue passes across his bottom lip before he looks back at your mouth. Another drop remains in the corner.
He leans across the space he’d been ordered to leave between you. “Here. Lemme help you, sweetheart.”
You start lifting your hand, mainly because your first instinct is to wipe it away yourself. Then your eyes drift toward the kitchen doorway.
Joel’s watching again, one hand planted against the counter and his entire body turned toward the couch.
Your hand pauses halfway to your face.
That single moment of hesitation is all Tommy needs. His thumb passes across the corner of your lips, collecting the milk. And instead of pulling back, he drags the pad of it along your lower lip, his eyes following the motion.
Joel is out of the kitchen before Tommy’s hand can leave your face.
His fingers lock around Tommy’s wrist and wrench his hand from your mouth so quickly that the couch jolts beneath you. The milk on Tommy’s thumb smears across his knuckle as Joel twists it away from your face.
“Goddamnit, Tommy.” Each word forces its way through his teeth. “What the hell’d I’d tell your ass?”
Tommy rocks sideways, his free hand catching on the couch. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Joel drags him upright, Tommy’s knee striking the table on the way up, rattling your glass and sending milk over its rim, but Joel doesn’t even glance in its direction.
“I’ve told you three goddamn times to keep your hands off her.”
“I wiped her damn mouth, Joel,” Tommy curses back.
“You put your hands on her mouth.” Joel gives his wrist another yank when Tommy tries to pull free. “After I told you to leave her alone.”
Tommy’s face pinches. “You’re gonna break my fuckin’ arm.”
“The quit fightin’ me,” Joel scolds, giving his wrist another wrench.
Joel releases his wrist only to shove him back by the chest. Tommy stumbles into the table, and Joel follows, keeping his body planted between the two of you. His hands curl into fists, and the veins stand out along his forearms because of it, and each breath pushes hard through his nose as he stares his brother down.
You’ve seen Joel angry before. You’ve watched him handle men outside the gates and silence entire rooms with a look. He usually keeps that part of himself buried around you.
It’s overflowing at the surface now.
Tommy rubs the inside of his wrist. “She ain’t even tell me to stop.”
“Since when do you get to decide who puts their hands on her?”
Joel steps into him again. “Since your drunk ass forgot how to listen.”
Tommy turns toward you now. “She ain’t looked too bothered all night.”
You’re still sitting on the couch with the bowl clutched against your stomach and milk drying across the front of your nightgown. His eyes move from the damp fabric to your lips, then rise to meet yours.
You see the exact second every polite laugh, every strawberry you let Tommy steal, and every glance you sent towards the kitchen arranges itself inside his head.
You should feel guilty now that he’s caught you. Instead, the knowledge that Joel understood exactly how bad you wanted his jealousy, sends another heartbeat between your legs.
“I’m okay, Joel,” you tell him, attempting the same innocent expression that usually earns you whatever you want.
“Yeah,” he replies, turning back toward Tommy. “I can see that.”
You suck in your lip to keep from smirking.
Tommy’s eyes move between you. The alcohol no longer clouds all of his attention as he looks between Joel standing in front of you and the guilt threatening to betray your performance.
“Why do you care so damn much?” Tommy asks.
For half a second, you think he might answer honestly. His lips pull back from his teeth, and his chest expands under his shirt as every ugly, possessive word he can’t say collects behind them.
Then his hand closes around the back of Tommy’s neck.
“Because you’re embarassin’ yourself, pawnin’ at a girl half your age.” He turns Tommy toward the stairs with his hand still locked around the back of his neck. “You’re done. Get upstairs.”
“Get your hands off me,” Tommy hisses.
Joel shoves him onto the first step. “Start walkin’ then.”
Tommy turns as though he intends to argue again. But Joel catches a fistful of his shirt and slams him against the staircase railing, bracing his forearm across his chest. The impact knocks the remaining fight from Tommy’s face.
“You’re gonna go upstairs,” Joel tells him, each word pressed through his clenched jaw. “You’re gonna get in bed, and you’re gonna stay there until you’re sober enough to remember how a grown man keeps his hands to himself. You understand me?”
Tommy just stares at him.
Joel drives his forearm harder against his chest. “Asked you a question.”
“Yeah. Fine,” Tommy replies reluctantly.
Joel releases him with a shove that nearly sends him to his knees on the stairs. Tommy grabs the railing, curses, and begins his ascent. His boots strike every step unevenly, but Joel remains directly behind him, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt whenever he moves too slowly.
Before they disappear, Joel glances over his shoulder at you.
His eyes drop to the milk staining your nightgown, then return to your face.
The warning there promises he hasn’t forgotten your part in this.
A small knot of guilt forms under your ribs as you listen to Joel force Tommy up the remaining stairs. You hadn’t intended for the game to end with his wrist nearly twisted behind his back. You only wanted Joel to notice. To look at you with the same hunger he kept denying whenever you tried to please him.
Judging by the anger he carried upstairs, you definitely accomplished that.
Maybe tonight wouldn’t be another night spent curled against Joel’s back while he slept. Maybe he’d finally give you more than a distracted kiss and ten exhausted minutes under him. The possibility of that makes it difficult to regret much of anything.
A bedroom door slams overhead. Joel’s boots cross the floor once, followed by the scrape of furniture being dragged in front of the door. Tommy protests, but Joel just tells him to sleep it off, and then the house goes silent.
You remain on the couch with your bowl pressed against your stomach while milk dries against your throat and makes the front of your nightgown stay clinging to your chest. Your lips still carry the strange phantom of Tommy’s thumb, but the sensation disappears when Joel begins descending the stairs.
He looks furious when he reaches the bottom.
His sleeves are shoved past his elbows, exposing the veins raised along his forearms. His gray curls lie disordered across his forehead, and the first buttons of his shirt have been pulled open during the struggle. His eyes find you immediately.
“Kitchen.” He nods toward the bowl in your lap and the glass on the table. “Bring your dishes.”
Your guilt returns. But still, you collect both and follow him.
When you enter, Joel doesn’t look at you. He only takes the dishes from your hands and places them beside the sink. The strawberries slide through their pink syrup when the bowl meets the counter, filling the room with their sugary scent.
Then he catches you around the waist.
Your feet leave the floor in one easy motion. He sits you on the counter and steps between your dangling knees, already reaching for your face.
His fingers cup your jaw and turn your head toward the light. He wets his thumb with his tongue before passing it over the corner of your mouth where Tommy touched you. Then down the line of the dried milk beneath your chin and down your throat. His eyes travel over every inch of skin he uncovers.
“He touch you anywhere else?”
You shake your head. “Just my leg.”
He pushes your nightgown above your knee and spreads his hand across the place Tommy’s palm had rested. There’s no mark for him to find—of course—but after one final pass of his thumb over your thigh, the concern leaves his face.
His jaw clenches under his beard. “You like him touchin’ you?”
Your eyebrows lift in confusion, and all you can do is stare at him. You thought Joel had already understood the game; surely, he hadn’t watched you glance toward him after every stolen strawberry and mistaken any of that for genuine interest in Tommy.
“No.” Your answer comes out breathless with a surprise. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Sure as hell looked like you did.”
“Well, I didn’t.” You reach for him, combing your fingers into the gray hair near his temple. “I only let him keep flirting because you were watching. I just wanted your attention.”
His head tips into your hand despite the accusation in his eyes. His cheek brushes your wrist as your fingernail passes through his curls.
“Could’ve just asked me, baby girl.”
“I have been asking.” Your lips push into a pout, but then you notice how firmly his jaw remains set. The possibility that you genuinely hurt him drains the satisfaction from your face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you this upset,” you plead. “I just missed you, and then you came home with Tommy, and I thought you weren’t going to want me tonight either.”
His head rises under your grasp. He draws your face toward his, forcing your eyes back to him while his other palm closes around the inside of your thigh.
“Well, you got my attention, didn’t you, darlin’?” His thumb presses into your lower lip. “Had me watchin’ every time he looked at you. Every time he put his hands where they didn’t belong.”
Your knees part farther as he moves between them.
“Seems to me you need a lesson in how to ask for my attention,” he scolds, the anger in his face and voice tempered by the hand caressing your thigh. “Hm?”
Your eyebrows draw together as you search his face. A lesson could mean a number of things with Joel, and the fingers moving higher under your nightgown gives you very little indication of which one he has in mind. Still, you nod uncertaintly.
He catches your bottom lip beneath his thumb and pulls it down. “Use your words.”
“Mhm,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to his mouth. “Y-yeah.”
“S’right.” His grip eases under your chin, his thumb soothing the place he just pressed into.
“Been beggin’ me to teach you somethin’,” he hums. “Figure we’ll start with that mouth you used to get yourself in trouble.”
The promise hidden beneath his words, sends a thrill through you. Your lips part around a hopeful, little breath and both your hands close around his wrist.
“Really?” You can’t stop the smile beginning to spread. “You’re really gonna let me—”
Joel pulls away before you can finish.
The loss of his body between your thighs leaves you leaning forward on the counter. He takes one step back, gives you enough room to move, and nods towards the floor between his boots.
Your smile disappears beneath a startled blink.
You had begged to hear those exact words for forever. Still, their abruptness catches you unprepared. Joel has always lifted you from the floor whenever you tried kneeling for him. Now he stands over you expecting obedience, his shirt partly open in his eyes fixed on your face.
And Tommy is directly upstairs. If the floorboards carry even half as much sound upward as they carried his drunken cursing down, he’d be able to hear everything.
But somehow that risk only makes him more eager.
A hint of affection finally breaks through his stern expression. He reaches for you again, brushing your hair behind your ear before his fingertips trail under your jaw.
“Now, baby.” His thumb passes over your cheek. “C’mon. Been waitin’ so patiently for me, haven’t you?”
He takes your hands as you slide from the counter. He keeps hold of them while you lower yourself, supporting your weight until both of your knees hit the tile. The floor is cold under your skin, but the small discomfort barely lasts once he’s standing above you.
“There.” He smooths your nightgown over your shoulders where the straps have fallen around your arms. His palm remains on the crown of your head afterward, stroking across your hair. “So pretty, darlin’.”
His praise pulls a small smile across your face. You lean into his palm, your cheek brushing the inside of his wrist as your knees inch closer to his boots.
You curl your hands around his calves, as you look up at him, unable to stop touching him now that he’s finally put you where you spent weeks waiting to be. The worn denim under your palms carries the heat of his body; your fingers climb toward his knees until he catches one hand and presses a kiss into its sticky center.
“Eager little thing.” His lips brush your fingertips as he speaks. “Haven’t even told you what to do yet.”
“I know.” You tuck your bottom lip in between your teeth. “Just wanna be good for you.”
“You will be.” He places your hand against your thigh, then gathers your hair behind your head. He twists the length around his fist without pulling, keeping it away from your face. “Gonna teach you. All you gotta do it listen.”
His faith in you makes your chest ache.
Joel brushes his knuckles over your temple, then lets his hand travel down to cup your cheek. The touch carries none of the anger from moments earlier. He holds you as carefully as he does after sex, his thumb moving beneath your eye while he studies your excitement.
“Still got a lesson to learn, baby doll.” His thumb caresses your cheek, while the rest of his hand holds your jaw firmly, keeping your face tipped toward him. “You asked me to teach you, so you listen and take exactly what I give you. Understand?”
You nod, your lashes fluttering faster now.
“Good girl,” he draws out.
Only then does he reach for his belt.
The buckle opens with a muted click above you. Your eyes follow his hands as he pulls the leather free and lets it hang open on either side of his jeans. He takes his time with the button, watching your expression while he lowers the zipper.
Your fingers curl into the denim covering his thigh as he works open the front of his jeans. His eyes drop to your hand, watching it and grip him harder while the zipper begins traveling down.
“Both hands behind your back.”
His command catches you by surprise. You’d assumed he would teach you how to touch him first—guide your hand around the length of him and show you what pressure he liked. Instead, he intends to leave you with nothing except your mouth and whatever he decides to give it.
You hesitate for barely a second before releasing his thigh. Both arms fold obediently behind you, your fingers clasping together against your spine.
He watches you arrange yourself before pushing his jeans lower on his hips.
“Perfect,” he praises, reaching down to sweep more hair away from your face. “You stay just like that for me.”
Your eyes follow his free hand as he finishes popping open the last button on his jeans. The loosened denim has barely begun to separate when a floorboard creeks above the kitchen.
Both of your heads snap upward.
Another groan travels through the wood followed by the muffled scrap of Tommy moving around in the bedroom.
Your face immediately flushes hot.
It was thrilling when he was only a distant threat upstairs. But now, hearing exactly how little separated him from the kitchen reminds you exactly what would happen if he came down here.
There would be no innocent explanation for finding you on your knees with your hands tucked behind your back while his brother stood over you with his pants open.
And by morning, he might not be the only one.
You tip your face toward Joel, your eyes wide and searching. “What if he hears us?” you ask nervously. “What if he comes—”
Joel’s palm curved around your cheek, covering nearly half your face as his thumb passes under your lashes. He listens until the floorboards stop creaking above and then returns his attention back to you.
“Then you better not give him a reason to come lookin’.” His pale caresses your cheek again. “Keep that pretty little mouth quiet.”
Your eyes widen a little, suddenly suspecting he intends to test exactly how quiet you can be.
You nod beneath his hand regardless, pressing your lips together around the breath threatening to escape. The danger upstairs now only makes you more eager to prove you can listen.
A small smirk crosses his lip.
His hand lingers against your head while the other finally pushes his jeans and underwear down far enough to free himself.
His cock springs from the waistband and juts rigidly upward, bobbing once before the thick shaft angles toward his stomach. The head is swollen and flushed, a clear bead of precum already shining at the slit under the kitchen light.
From your knees, all of him seems bigger. His thighs frame your body on either side, blocking anything else beside him. His shirt hangs open above you, exposing his belly and the dark hair interrupted by thin streaks of gray. Even his hands look bigger from down here—one tangled at the back of your head, the other wrapping around the base of his cock.
You stare without attempting to hide it.
And from down here, his cock looks even bigger than it feels inside you. His thick shaft extends past his fist, veined and flushed, with a slight curve toward his stomach. The pale scar crosses one side near the base—the same one you’ve blindly traced with your fingertips in bed—and a few silver strands break through the dark hair surrounding it. His hand can’t even fully close around himself. His swollen head shines only mere inches from your face, and the thought of fitting all of him in your mouth makes your jaw ache, but still, your tongue presses forward inside your mouth at the thought of finally tasting him.
You lean forward on instinct.
The hand he has fisted in your hair tightens and closes near the roots, stopping you several inches away.
“I know,” you whine, your body still leaning forward, despite the fist in your hair pulling you back. “But I’ve waited so long,” you add, your eyes still fixed on the shiny tip.
“I know you have.” Joel strokes your hair once, his affection tempering the restraint of his fist. “And you’ve been such a good girl about it, haven’t you?”
You nod, though both of you know tonight has proven otherwise.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Mostly good.”
His free hand reaches past you for the bowl next to the sink. He plucks a strawberry coated in sugar and brings it toward your mouth.
Skeptical, you still obey, expecting him to feed it to you. Instead, he presses the berry against your lower lip and drags the wet fruit from one corner to the other. Sugar sticks against your skin, and red juice runs toward your chin, but his thumb follows and wipes it away before it can fall.
“Better use for that mouth.” His thumb smears the juice across your lip. “Should’ve kept it busy with me instead of flirtin’.”
Your brows furrow together again. You’re already forming another protest—ready to remind him that you hadn’t truly been flirting—when he sees it gathering on your face.
“Ah-ah.” He taps the berry against your parted lips, cutting you off before the first word escapes. “No talkin’. Thought you said you were gonna listen.”
Your mouth closes again, though the small crease remains between your brows.
Joel smooths it away with his thumb. “S’my girl. Now bite.”
You sink your teeth into the strawberry. The juice of it bursts all over your tongue and across Joel’s fingers as he holds the rest against your mouth. He waits until you finish chewing before pushing the remaining half between your lips.
“All of it,” he instructs, his fingers still at your lips.
You chew and swallow all of it before closing your mouth around his fingers, sucking the sugar from them before he can remove them.
His pupils widen down at you as he scoffs.
“Gonna make this hard for me, aren’t you?”
You release his fingers with an innocent smile. “I’m only listening.”
“Yeah?” he hums, rubbing his thumb over your lip while he strokes himself.
You nod slowly, rejecting the urge to lean forward.
His hand leaves your lip to caress your cheek again, pride and hunger crossing his face equally.
“Let’s see how well you listen with your mouth stuffed full of me.” His thumb collects a final grain of sugar from the corner of your mouth before he brings it to his lips and swipes it clean. “Don’t disappoint me, baby.”
He wraps his fist around the base of his cock and brings the swollen, pink head toward your strawberry-stained lips. He doesn’t let you take him yet. Instead, he drags the tip from one corner of your mouth to the other, smearing the clear bead of precum through the red juice already shining there.
Your lips part beneath the contact, but he pulls back before you can catch him.
“Lick your lips for me, baby girl.”
Your tongue slips out immediately. You trace the path he left across your mouth, gathering strawberry sugar and the first salty taste of him. The mixture coats your tongue—sweet at first, followed by a trace of bitterness that makes you lean forward again.
“Taste good?” he asks, stroking his knuckles over your cheek.
You nod, almost too eagerly.
The hand in your hair holds you in place. “Good. Open wide.”
You part your lips, eager, despite the nerves running through you.
A breath of laughter leaves his nose. “Wider, baby. Ain’t gonna fit in there if you’re shy about it.”
Your cheeks will burn, but you open until the side of your jaw start to ache.
“S’exactly what I needed.” His thumb strokes behind your ear, easing the pull of his fist in your hair. “Knew that greedy little mouth could make room for me.”
He presses the head onto the center of your tongue. His skin is hot against the lingering chill of the fruit in your mouth. He watches your eyes widen as his taste reaches you without the sugar hiding it this time—salt, skin, and the precum slowly leaking from the slit.
“Don’t move yet.” His thumb caresses the base of his cock while it rests heavily on your tongue. “Let yourself get used to me.”
You remain obediently still, your hands still clasped behind your back as your knees start to sting against the tile. You feel the saliva gathering beneath him and starting to slip over your lower lip.
Instinctively, you start to free one your hands to wipe the saliva gathering under your lip, but you don’t get very far. Joel is already drawing the head outward, spreading the wetness across your tongue with it before pressing it in again.
Your lips seal around the swollen tip, straining at the corners to accommodate the girth. He lets it rest there for a moment, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue.
Your cheeks hollow around him at the command.
Pleasure passes openly across his face when you suck for the first time. His sucks in a quick breath, and the fist holding your hair closes until a pleasant pull spreads across your scalp.
“That’s my good girl,” he praises. “Mouth was made for me, wasn’t it?”
His approval makes you suck harder.
He draws himself out until your lips catch beneath the ridge of his head, then guide you forward again, another inch filling your mouth. The thick vein under his shaft drags across your tongue, and you press upward against it, eager to discover what earns another reaction from him.
When his hips jerk toward you, you glance up. Delighted.
“Don’t look so proud.” The corner of his mouth lifts despite the scolding. “Keep your tongue right there.”
You do, tracing the vein each time he moves between your lips. He feeds you more with every pass, guiding your head through the hand wrapped around your hair. He leaves you enough time to adjust before it reaches the back of your tongue.
And your throat immediately resists.
A gag contracts around him, and your shoulders jerk. He withdraws before panic can follow, leaving only the tip resting between your lips while his palm moves in your hair.
“Easy, baby.” His thumb strokes beneath your eye, collecting the first tear before it can travel down your cheek. “Ain’t gotta take all of me yet. You’re learnin’.”
You whine around the head, frustrated with your own body.
“I know.” Joel taps the tip against your tongue. “Want it all right away, don’t you?”
You nod as much as his grip permits.
“Greedy girl.” His affection softens the tease as his hands leave his cock to pass over your cheek again. “Take what I give you. We’ll get you there.”
He presses forward again.
You concentrate on keeping your jaw loose, and your tongue flattened under him. When the head reaches the back of your mouth again, your eyes water, but he holds you there for a second, forcing it, before drawing it out.
“Good.” His thumb catches another tear. “Again.”
He wraps his hand back around the base and guides the length of him farther into the back of your mouth.
You get farther this time.
Saliva spills over your lower lip and runs onto your chin. Your hands twitch behind your back, desperate to wipe it away or reach for his thighs, but he watches closely enough to notice.
“Hands stay where I put ‘em.”
Your fingers clasp tighter against your spine and the smirk on his face dampens your thighs.
He continues guiding you. Each pass pushes another fraction of him beyond your lips until your nose nearly reaches the dark hair at his base. Your jaw burns, and the tile is biting even harder into your knees now.
But none of it matters when Joel’s composure is starting to come apart above you.
His chest is rising fast up and down under his open shirt, the muscles across his stomach squeeze whenever you suck, and his hand has started to grip tighter into your hair, a small sting forming at the base of your scalp.
And now you finally understand why he kept refusing you.
He hadn’t been worried you would enjoy this. He’d been worried about how much he would.
That makes you moan loudly around him.
His eyes flick toward the ceiling and his grip tightens again in your scalp.
“Gotta keep those pretty noises down, baby,” he reminds you, his thumb passing across your wet cheek. “Don’t wanna get in trouble now do we?”
You shake your head at the warning, but it sends another pulse through your underwear, and you have to press your thighs together, but the position offers no release.
Joel’s eyes drop to your legs pressing together under him.
“Gettin’ off on this, aren’t you?” He eases his cock from your mouth, leaving you gasping under him. “Kneelin’ there with your hands behind your back while I use this sweet little mouth.”
You nod fast, trying to swallow whatever he left on your tongue.
He smirks. “Can see it all over that pretty face.”
He reaches past you and toward the glass of milk sweating on the counter. The condensation wets his fingers as he lifts it in front of you.
Your eyes follow the glass until it’s right between you. “What—” You choke a little on your next swallow. “What’re you—”
“Thought I said no talkin’?”
You swallow, closing your parted lips.
He caresses your cheek with the back of his finger. “Open.”
You hesitate for just one second before your lips part on their own, your tongue slipping out in the process.
The hand in your hair loosens to come to the base of his cock. He tips the glass and pours a small amount on him. The milk strikes his swollen head and runs along his shaft in little pale streams, carrying traces of your spit with it. Drop after drop falls onto your waiting tongue, and the rest travels across his knuckles and drips from his fist onto the front of your nightgown.
Cold milk splashes against your chest and the white cotton darkens and clings to your nipples as they tighten under your nightgown.
Joel watches one drop travel beneath your neckline before his thumb presses at the bottom of your lip, dragging it down and directing your attention back to the milk running down the length of him.
You hesitate again, but it barely lasts a second before you’re leaning forward, licking the milk from the underside of his cock. Your tongue follows it from the base toward the head, gathering every drop along with the salt on his skin. He allows you to reach the tip before he takes hold of your hair again.
You obey, and he presses into your mouth.
Milk spills around the sides of his shaft when your lips close. It runs over your chin and down your throat, joining the damp patches across your chest.
The first taste is mostly milk, a little cold and creamy on your tongue. Then you suck harder and find the familiar taste of Joel under it, salty and a little musky, and that bitter little trace that’s waiting at the tip.
You suck until there’s nothing left except the taste of him and the slightest trace of milk and strawberry on your tongue.
“Such a good, fuckin’ girl,” He groans.
His thumb sweeps through the mess beneath your lip, but instead of wiping it away, he smears it across your cheek. “Finally got what you wanted, and you’re already covered in it.”
He drives into your mouth again.
“Should’ve put you on your knees weeks ago.”
You gag around him again, closing your eyes, trying to fight the gag—the pain of it every time it hits the sensitive part at the back of your throat—but Joel’s hand is already lifting under your chin, stroking the underside of it.
“Keep those pretty eyes open for me, baby.”
Your lashes lift reluctantly, wet and clumped together. Tears blur him at first, turning his face into hazy mess above you, but you blink until he comes back into focus and holds his stare, despite the reflex still fluttering through your throat.
And you watch his face change.
The tenderness remains in his hand, cradling your jaw, but hunger takes over the last of his restraint. He guides you forward, pushing past the depth that made you gag earlier.
Your throat fully contracts around the head this time.
He pulls back, then presses in again before you can fully recover. The movement becomes faster now, driven more by his hips and the hand holding your hair. Every thrust fills your mouth with the taste left on his skin and forces another wet sound from your lips.
“Wanted me to use you,” he says, clearly fighting to whisper but losing. “This what you were beggin’ for?”
You nod around him, another gag slipping out.
“Could’ve had this instead of lettin’ that drunk flirt with you.”
The mention of Tommy makes you whine.
He drives his hips forward again and pushes his cock to the back of your throat, and keeps it there, holding you full while your eyes spill over. His thumb caresses your temple, reassuring you even as his fist prevents you from escaping the pressure.
“S’mouth belongs to me, baby girl.” He withdraws enough to let air pass through your nose without obstruction. “You remember that next time you think about usin’ it to make me jealous.”
The second your head stops moving, Joel begins fucking your mouth in earnest.
His hips meet your lips with each thrust. Saliva strings between your chin and his shaft whenever he pulls back, broken only when he pushes into you again. Your throat opens for him more easily now, though every third or fourth thrust still makes you gag.
At each time, Joel watches.
He eases when your body needs him to and pushes farther when he sees your fingers remain obediently folded behind your back. His control never disappears entirely, though. One hand uses your hair to guide you; the other pets your face, wipes tears from your cheeks, and checks the muscles working beneath your jaw.
“Take a little more for me,” he breathes.
Your jaw is already stretched as far as it’ll go, the tendons on both sides starting to ache, but you listen and force your mouth wider.
He presses in until your nose meets the damp hair at his base. His cock fills your throat, leaving no room for even a little sound, let alone air. Tears slip freely while he holds you there— not from the pain, but from the reflex your body can’t suppress and the overwhelming satisfaction of finally taking him this far.
A trimmer runs through the thigh beside your cheek, his grip stutters in your hair, then closes again as his hips twitch against your face.
“Jesus, fuckin’ Christ,” he drags out, his head tipping back.
The sounds scraped out of him make the ache worthwhile by itself.
When he finally pulls out, you drag air through your swollen lips as fast as you can. Saliva and leftover milk coat your chin, and strawberry juice stains the corners of your mouth pink. He gives you only a few seconds before tapping the heavy head against your tongue again.
You try to speak—to tell him yes. That you can take more—but all you can manage is another eager nod.
“Exactly where you wanna be, huh?”
You nod again, already parting your lips.
He swipes his thumb along your bottom lip and brings it to his mouth. “Greedy girl.”
He feeds himself back into your mouth slowly, and you take him with renewed enthusiasm. You work your tongue under the head and suck hard whenever he withdraws.
You start to feel his cock pulsing more frequently, each throb kicking against your lips. His movements start losing their rhythm, and the hand in your hair trembles. A broken sound catches behind his teeth when you swallow around the tip on the next thrust.
You already know what’s coming before he even has to tell you.
Excitement makes you suck harder.
Joel curses loudly under his breath, and the fist in your hair pulls so tight your scalp starts to throb. He pulls you back until only the head rests against your lower lip while his fists move over the slick shaft, spreading saliva with every pass.
“Gonna come, baby.” His free hand cups your cheek, his thumb wiping a tear from under your lashes. “Want it in your mouth. Tell me you can take it.”
Your head bobs up and down, your sore knees dragging across the floor as you try to scoot closer.
“Y-yes,” you swallow, your lips trembling around the words. “I can take it. P-please.”
This is the part you’ve replayed in your head for months now. The thought of finally getting to taste Joel’s release on your tongue has your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands behind you.
The muscles across his cock jump at your answer. And his thumb moves from your cheek to your lower lip and draws it down.
“So proud of you darlin’,” he coos. His fist starts pumping against his shaft, firmer now. “Gonna keep those pretty eyes up for me and keep that mouth open, yeah?”
You nod eagerly, a breathless “Yes” slipping out before you open wide and extend your tongue beneath him.
He positions the swollen tip in the center, his hand gripping back into your hair firmly enough to keep it exactly where he wants it.
“Stay just like that,” he hums, his fist working faster now. “Gonna give that perfect mouth everything It’s been askin’ for.”
You stay open under him, your tongue shaky, and your eyes glued to his face. His hand moves over his shaft in quick strokes, carrying the mixture of sweat and saliva from the base to the head. Each pass forces another little clear bead from the slit and leaves his cock shining under the kitchen light.
You watch as his expression begins to break apart above you.
The muscles in his forearms are straining, and his lips try to separate around a breath, but it stops halfway out. The fingers threaded through your hair flex hard enough to send another sting across your scalp while you fight the urge to close your mouth around him.
He told you to stay open, and you want to prove that you can follow every instruction he gives you.
“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he hums, tapping the tip against your tongue.
The last of whatever restraint Joel was fighting, breaks through him on the first pulse against your tongue.
The first release spills into the center of your mouth, hot and thick enough to startle you. Salt spreads across your tongue and cuts through the strawberry sugar that was still lingering there.
The second spurt reaches farther back, striking near the roof of your mouth before sliding toward your throat. Your tongue dips under the sudden weight of it, and your lips twitch with the instinct to close.
“Keep it open, baby,” he groans, his fist continuing to work over himself. “Doin’ so good.”
You force your jaw wider, blinking up at him.
Another thick release coats your tongue, joining the first two until there’s enough to pool beneath it. The taste is stronger now—salty, musky, and slightly bitter beneath the milk still sticking to the insides of your cheeks. The strawberry barely clings to your lips now, making every part of him taste stronger.
His eyes remain fixed on the pearly streaks, coating your tongue as his fist drags over his swollen head again. A final hard pulse sends another spurt toward the back of your mouth before you can prepare for it, and your throat contracts around it.
A loud gag jerks through you, sharp enough to make tears spill from your eyes. Your fingers tear apart behind your back, but you manage to keep them there while you fight the reflex to swallow.
Joe immediately angles his cock away from your throat. The hand in your hair loosens, his fingertips caressing your scalp instead of holding you in place.
“Easy, sweetheart.” His thumb reaches down to wipe the tear traveling over your cheek. “Got a lot in that little mouth of yours, don’t you?”
You nod carefully, terrified of spilling any.
Pride softens his face as he traces the swollen corners of your lips, catching the thin white line threatening to escape. His thumb pushes it back onto your tongue.
“Kept every drop,” he says, his chest rising and falling. His knuckles stroke your cheek. “Made for me aren’t you?”
Your jaw aches from remaining open, and that thick mixture is starting to slide towards the back of your throat again. Joel lets you hold it only long enough to admire the sight.
You can only imagine what he sees.
Your swollen mouth held wide, your tongue cupped and shaking beneath the pearly white pool he left there, another thin streak slipping free and trailing down the corner of your mouth.
The half empty glass of milk enters your peripheral, streams of it coating the sides, and your certain the two look obscenely similar.
“Go head and close, baby,” he hums, passing his thumb over your swollen bottom lip.
The taste is stronger now without the air between you. His release coats the inside of your cheeks and clings to the roof of your mouth, mixing with the last traces of milk and strawberry until you can just barely taste all three with every swirl of your tongue.
His palm cups beneath your chin.
Your throat works beneath his hand.
The first swallow clears only part of it. The thickness sticks near the back of your throat and forces you to swallow again, your eyes watering as it travels down. A small amount remains across your tongue, salty enough to make your lips purse.
Joel watches every movement in a trance.
He grips your chin between his thumb and pointer finger. “One more.”
You obey, swallowing until your mouth is empty, except for the taste he left behind.
You drag your tongue across your bottom lip, savoring the saltines of him, and wishing he had given you just a little more.
You part your lips and stick out your tongue for him.
A thin pearly trace remains near the corner, and Joel wipes it forward with his thumb, pressing it into the center, and waits until you close your lips around him.
You wrap your swollen lips around his thumb and suck it clean.
“S’my perfect, perfect girl.” His other hand strokes across your hair, repairing the strands his fists disturbed. “Took everything I gave you and more.”
The approval makes you smile weakly around his thumb.
He withdraws it and caresses your sticky cheek. His cock stands hard enough to hang heavily from his open jeans, damp with saliva, and the release you hadn’t managed to catch.
His hand slides from your cheek to your throat. His fingers close around it and draw you upward while his other arm catches your waist, hauling you from the floor until your body presses tight against him. Your knees are sore and weak; you barely have time to straighten before his mouth is on yours.
He kisses you with none of his earlier patience. His lips force yours apart and his tongue sweeps inside as though he intends to taste every trace of himself you swallowed. The force of it tips your head back against his palm and leaves you clinging to his open shirt.
His grip remains firm around your throat, pressing beneath your jaw while you cling to him.
“Taste so good,” he mutters against your mouth.
You try to kiss him again, but his hand keeps your head tipped back.
“Mouth took me so well,” he whispers into your mouth, his grip still firm on your throat. “Wanna see how well the rest of you does.
You moan against the hand around your throat and the length of him dancing between your sticky thighs.
“P-Please,” Joel,” you whine, trying to inch closer to him.
“Please what?” he asks, his hand gripping tighter around your waist.
“Please, f-fuck me,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss under your chin and onto your mouth, swallowing the desperate sound that follows when he turns you around.
“Anythin’ you want, darlin’.”
He pushes your front against the counter and gathers your nightgown above your hips. Cool air reaches the damp fabric between your legs as he hooks his hand behind one knee and lifts it onto the counter, leaving you exposed with your other foot barely touching the floor.
The bowl, now holding nothing but strawberry syrup, rattles beside your elbow, pink juice lapping against the porcelain while Joel pulls your underwear aside.
His fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the slickness there before chasing it back toward your clit. The brief contact pulls a helpless moan from you, your hips bucking into his hand and searching for more.
“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, pressing a kiss beneath your ear as his fingers caress you again. “Gonna let me fuck that ache away?”
You whimper at his touch, your head nodding helplessly as your cheek rubs against his. “Y-yes. Please, Joel.”
“Don’t worry baby.” He pulls your hips firmly against his. “Gonna take such good care of you.”
He wraps one arm around your waist and positions his swollen head at your entrance. Then he drives inside, filling you in one firm thrust that forces your hands against the counter and sends the bowl rattling toward the wall.
The sudden fullness forces a full-on cry from your chest. His palm rises from between you and wraps around your mouth before the sound can carry upstairs.
“Keep it down, he warns into your ear. “Can’t let him hear us.”
You nod against his hand, tears threatening your eyes.
He releases his it from around your mouth and wraps it back around your throat. He drives into you again, hard enough to push your hip into the counter—hard enough to bruise probably. He doesn’t fuck you with the same patience he usually does. Each drive of his cock forces you onto your toes, your lifted leg trembling beside the bowl while his fingers dig into the flesh at your hips.
It’s exactly what you wanted from him.
His pleasure without apology. His body using your instead of arranging every touch around your comfort. Still though, his care survives inside the roughness—his arm braces your chest when your elbow threatens to buckle, and his palm muffles each cry without stealing your air.
“Takin’ me so well,” he praises into your hair. “Knew I’d fuck that little game right outta you.”
His words send you over faster than either of you expects.
Your body clamps around him, puling hard enough to interrupt his rhythm. His hand leaves your mouth and curls around your throat again, holding you upright while your orgasm tears through you.
“I know, baby.” His lips press against your temple. “Ride it out.”
He fucks you through the final contractions, his strokes turning uneven as your body keeps gripping him.
“Missed you so damn much,” he whispers into your ear.
Then his hips drive flush against you and remain there while his cock pulses inside you.
Hot release fills you in several thick spurts, each one accompanied by Joel’s fingers in your mouth to muffle your whimpers. His face buries against your hair as he holds you against his chest until the last twitch passes.
For several seconds, neither of you moves. It’s just the sound of his breathing in your ear and the sound of you gasping for air.
Then Joel lowers your leg and turns you carefully in his arms. Your knees nearly give out, but he catches you and wraps both his arm around your waist before you can fall.
His hand caresses the throat he was just gripping, and he presses a wet kiss to the side of your mouth.
You nod, exhausted and pleased, because that’s all you can manage.
“Yes,” you correct yourself, still breathing heavy. “I’ll come to you next time. P-promise.”
“S’right.” He kisses your forehead and draws your nightgown back over your thighs with his free hand. “My good girl.”
You curl against his chest, smiling into his shirt.
His palm comes down quick against your sore ass, loud enough to make a noise that he doesn’t seem to care about.
