blurb - You know your husband—five years of marriage has seared every one of Joel’s habits into your mind. The good, the bearable, and especially the parts you’ve learned to swallow down. So when he gets petty, you know how to manage it. But how much can Joel really handle when his wife is standing right there—and how much longer can he stand there when you look like that?
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, jealousy, established relationship (marriage), petty!Joel Miller, slightly possessive!Joel Miller, slightly mean!Joel, no outbreak AU, fluff, slight angst, mentions of Sarah, some plot before the porn, DIRTY talk, orgasm control/denial, condescending, panty gags, finger fucking, oral sex (f receiving), marriage kink??, heavier (yet not fully stated) Dom/sub dynamic, light spanking, creampies (don't try this at home!), and aftercare.
One shot requested by: @ anyomous
You noticed it in the produce section.
At least, that’s where you started paying attention.
Joel was standing in front of the tomatoes. Arms crossed over his chest, brows low, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You watched him stare at a container of cherry tomatoes for a solid minute without blinking.
You approached slowly, pushing the cart with your forearms as you scrolled on your phone. “What’s going on over here?”
His head tilted, just slightly. But he didn’t look at you. Then he spoke. That flat, deadpan, bone-dry drawl. “Tomatoes look like shit.”
“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”
Joel still didn’t look at you.
You stared at the side of his face. “...Are you mad at the produce section?”
Just a grumble under his breath and a slow pivot toward the green beans like that would explain everything. You stared at his back as he walked away—boots heavy, jaw set, posture stiff—like he was storming a trench.
Okay, you thought, weird.
You exhaled, rolling your eyes affectionately, and turned back to the tomatoes, tossing a decent-looking carton into the cart anyway. He was right, they did look a little sad. But they were for Sarah, and if she wanted soft tomatoes, soft tomatoes she would get.
You plucked up a few avocados next, giving each one a careful squeeze, mind half on ripeness and half on tomorrow. Joel had been buzzing around the house all week like a man possessed. Re-caulking sinks that didn’t need caulking. Replacing lightbulbs that hadn’t even burned out yet. He scrubbed the guest bathroom twice.
You hadn’t been much better. The linens were washed, the throw pillows fluffed and rearranged. You dusted the top of the kitchen cabinets, for God’s sake. You’d picked up her favorite shampoo, baked muffins for her first morning back, and cleaned out a corner of the garage in case she wanted to bring any boxes home from her dorm.
She wasn’t yours biologically, but it didn’t matter. She was Sarah. Bright, funny, stubborn as her father. She gave the best hugs and asked about your day even when she was swamped with finals. You’d loved her before you even realized that was what it was. And now that she was coming home?
So Joel’s poor attitude today was the least of your worries.
You shrugged it off. Kept pushing the cart. You were halfway to the cereal aisle when he started doing it again.
You held up a box of your favorite granola. “This one okay?”
He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”
"Or do you want something else?”
"...Raisin Bran? You’re always weird about fiber—"
You blinked again. Slowly lowered the box. The tone was clipped. Not sharp, not angry, but weird. Off. Tired and dry and… cold.
That was when it really hit you.
He was being weird. Really weird.
Joel was never chatty, sure. You didn’t expect him to spin cartwheels down the aisles and ask about your day like a sitcom husband. But he did usually toss random things in the cart. Made fun of the music playing. Stood behind you at the fridge section and pressed his hand low against your back like he always needed to touch you somehow, even in the most ordinary moments.
You watched him reach for a gallon of milk. Shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight, no eye contact. He handled it like it might explode if he moved wrong—slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the 2% as he dragged it off a wire shelf.
You grabbed the cart and rolled up beside him, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder. “Okay. Seriously. Are you mad?”
The voice was outhern and flat, worn paper edges and deadpan delivery. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as blink in your direction. Just dropped the milk into the cart like it might bite him if he held onto it too long.
Joel wasn’t dramatic by nature—not loud or combative, not the storming-out, voice-raising type. He didn’t get into shouting matches or start fights for the sake of it. No, when he was pissed, it was like this.
Five years married to him and you could spot the signs from a mile off: the long silences, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way he clammed up like someone stapled his jaw shut. He’d sulk for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours depending on the severity of the offense. And, of course, with how hot it was outside, it added about twenty percent to his overall grump factor.
It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even intentional, really.
It was just Joel. It was his version of cooling off. Letting his mind spin out until he could file his feelings into neat, Joel-shaped boxes. Then he’d let you in. After he’d suffered in silence for a while first.
You’d learned to give him space. Learned to let him take the long road back to you.
So, you just sighed, patted his shoulder as you passed, and said, “Okay. You do your thing, baby.”
Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.
Not close, not far—just hovering within a four-foot radius like some brooding, ghost. You could hear his boots behind you, heavy and slow, the rhythm off-tempo like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk next to you or not.
You were wearing one of your thinner sundresses—pale yellow, soft cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs. It clung in the heat, even in the fridge aisle, the air conditioning barely keeping up with the July temperatures that had been frying the pavement outside. Your thighs felt tacky. Your collarbone was slick. You could still feel the outline of sweat across your lower back, even though it had dried on the walk from the car to the store.
You crouched in front of the dairy case, cold air blasting against your legs, trying to find the right cheese for the pasta you were planning that night. You could feel him watching you—even if he was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t.
You stayed there for an extra second, reaching slowly, letting your fingers graze a few of the blocks. Then, without looking back, you asked:
“Joel, which cheese do you want for your pasta?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, with no help to you what-so-ever: “Cheese.”
You blinked and turned your head slowly.
“You wanna say that again?”
He was leaning on the edge of the freezer case, arms crossed, pretending to study the shredded cheese.
You held up a block of cheddar. “Yes, Joel. Cheese. Incredible answer. Groundbreaking. But what kind of cheese?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, hell no. Last time I picked, I used goat cheese and you had one of your little fits.”
“I do not fit,” he growled.
You arched a brow. “Really?”
Just crossed his arms harder, like he could make himself immune to the conversation by doubling down on the pout.
You looked him up and down. The heavy brow. The tight jaw. That stubborn line his mouth always settled into when he was trying to bury his emotions six feet.
“Sure,” you said. “Sure, you don’t throw fits. You just stop talking, glower at your dinner plate, and mumble about textures like you’re the one who did the cooking.”
That earned you a twitch. Not a full reaction— but a crack in the armor.
You rolled your eyes, sighed dramatically, and grabbed the block of aged white cheddar you knew he liked. “Fine. If this one suddenly offends your delicate palette, that’s on you.”
He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. So you pivoted and veered into the home décor section.
You didn’t need anything.
But Joel wasn’t talking, so you were going to use the opportunity however you wanted.
You could feel him trailing behind you, still not talking, still definitely watching, filled to the brim with opinions he refused to say out loud.
You stopped in front of a little wooden sign that read Home is where the coffee brews and snorted. “We need this.”
You didn’t turn around. Just kept moving, hips swaying a little more than necessary, letting your fingers trail across a row of throw blankets you absolutely didn’t need. The fabric was soft, plush. Your fingertips curled around the edge.
“Hmm,” you murmured. “This one would look good on the couch.”
“We got three already,” Joel said, voice gravel-thick and grumbled.
You gasped and turned. “Oh my god. He speaks.”
Joel gave you a dead stare.
You sighed, amused, and reached up to adjust the strap of your dress. The movement lifted the fabric just enough to expose more skin, your hand brushing your collarbone lightly.
Joel’s eyes—subtle as they tried to be—dropped.
For just a second. Just a flicker of heat. Then gone. Buried again under that mask of annoyed indifference.
You reached for a vase you didn’t need. “Should I get this? Maybe put some fake sunflowers in it?”
But when you gently dropped the too-expensive vase into the cart, he reached out with one big, calloused hand and nudged it so it wouldn’t tip over.
You saw that. You always saw it.
The little things. The quiet things. The kinds of gestures that lived in the in-betweens. Between I’m pissed and I love you too much to let you drop something and break it. Between leave me alone and don’t go too far.
You smirked to yourself, just a little.
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” you murmured.
Still standing there like a statue. Still arms crossed, still jaw clenched, still eyes focused anywhere except you. He looked like he was trying to manifest a portal in the linoleum. Like he’d rather fall through it than talk about his feelings.
You didn’t even think about it, you just moved on instinct. The same instinct that had been honed over five years of knowing his rhythms, his moods, the way he built walls only so you could gently scale them.
You lifted your hand and cupped his face.
Fingers soft, brushing over his scruff. His skin was warm—not just from the heat in the store, but from him. Always was. Like he carried a low burn under the surface, something he never let reach his mouth, but always lived in his eyes.
His body went still the second you touched him.
And then—after a breath—his arms dropped from his chest, as he slightly melted.
You tilted your head, giving him your softest smile. The one that usually melted him like butter left out in the heat.
“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry.”
Joel’s eyes finally met yours. They were darker than they’d been earlier. Brow drawn, mouth slightly parted—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite sort out what.
“You’re not mad at me,” you continued gently. “Not really.”
So, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Just soft lips brushing rough skin. Just one warm second of closeness. You pulled back with another sheepish smile, fingers still cupping his jaw.
Joel blinked, then his eyes darkened. His voice came low. Tight. Gritted like he’d chewed through a whole bag of nails.
Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.
“I—I was just saying sorry,” you said. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand went to his hip. Like he was physically restraining himself.
“Not really mad at you,” he muttered. “Ain’t even the point.”
You stared. “Then what’s the point?”
Joel’s jaw flexed. He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the concept of gravity. Something he felt every damn day, pulling at his bones, weighing him down—but couldn’t quite put into words.
The silence stretched. You stared at him.
And he stared at your mouth. Then your neck. Then your legs.
The hem of your sundress had hitched higher when you leaned forward earlier. You didn’t even realize.
You reached for his hand.
That was it. That was the end of him.
He took a step back. Like he needed space. Like he was two seconds from doing something that’d get you banned from this store for life.
“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.
“Go. Get the rest of what you need. I’ll finish up here.”
The look in his eyes stopped you cold. It was raw. Like he was hanging on by a thread.
Your head tilted, then you nodded slowly, trying not to let your smile falter. “Okay… yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll grab the rest.”
You stepped back, turned away.
You rush, but you didn’t look over your shoulder either. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little wounded by the way he’d shut down.
Like you weren’t standing in the middle of a home decor aisle asking your husband for a truce while he looked at you like touching you was some kind of mistake.
You grabbed the last few things you needed: soap, razors, paper towels. You took your time. Didn’t linger, didn’t sulk, but you didn’t exactly hurry either.
It wasn’t the first time Joel had gotten like this. And it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
You knew his moods. Knew how he simmered. But today felt different—a little sharper around the edges. A little less I just need a minute and a little more don’t touch me unless you want me to snap.
You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.
Register Four was open. You recognized the boy behind it—he was young, probably twenty at most. Soft brown curls under a baseball cap, name tag crooked, fingers fidgeting with the barcode scanner like it might bite him if he didn’t angle it right.
You came here often, usually alone. Joel was extremely busy during the late afternoons to do anything like this with you, but Tommy had given him the day off to go on a ‘real date’ for once.
“Take your wife out,” he’d said with that crooked grin, “‘fore she starts thinkin’ Maria’s the only one in Austin who knows what wine is.”
Joel had grunted. You’d been excited. But now?
Now you were standing in line feeling vaguely rejected while the AC hummed and a nervous boy with too-kind eyes struggled to scan your bottle of dish soap.
He cleared his throat. “Uh—uh, sorry, ma’am.”
You smiled politely. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Take your time.”
He flushed immediately. His fingers fumbled with the box of pasta. Nearly dropped it. Caught it at the last second and blurted, “C-Can I ask you somethin’?”
You cocked your head to the side. “Sure.”
He looked like he was going to combust. Then, suddenly, in a rush: “Can I have your number?”
The world tilted for a second, like the floor dropped two inches beneath your feet.
“Oh,” you said. His face turned crimson. You held up your hand slowly, showing him your ring. “Oh, sweetie—I’m married.”
The words left you gently. Kind. Soft. Not an ounce of mockery in your voice.
His eyes went wide. “Oh my God—no—I didn’t—I didn’t mean anythin’ bad—I just thought—y-you come in here a lot and you always smile and you’re so—uh, I mean—ma’am, I’m so sorry—”
You winced. “Oh no, don’t apologize. I’m not upset. Really.”
“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”
“You didn’t!” You leaned forward, laughing softly. “Hey. Breathe. I promise you, it’s okay. You’re sweet. You were just being brave, and I think that’s admirable.”
He stared at you like you’d just spoken ancient Greek.
“Some girl’s gonna be real lucky,” you said, giving him an encouraging nod. “It’s not me, but—hey, you’ll get there.”
The poor boy looked like he might cry. Or faint.
You reached into your purse to grab your wallet, hoping the small distraction might settle the tension—and that’s when you heard it.
The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.
You felt him before you saw him—a heat behind your back, a presence too heavy to ignore. All broad shoulders and silence. The cart creaked slightly as Joel gripped the handle tightly. You didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.
The boy immediately blanched.
Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, eyes fixed like a sniper’s scope on the poor kid who had just made the mistake of his life.
You turned slowly. Looked up at your husband. He didn’t glance at you.
He was too busy leveling his deadpan, I’ve killed a man with a wrench stare at a twenty-year-old cashier who probably still lived with his mom.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean anythin’—”
“Oh my God,” you muttered, turning fully to Joel. “Joel.”
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
His presence was doing the job just fine. His glare was practically a physical force. You stepped between them slightly, trying to cut off the eye contact.
The boy was now full-on panicking. “Please—I swear—I wasn’t trying to cross a line—I just—I didn’t know!”
You pressed a hand to your face. “Joel, stop.”
“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.
“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”
The kid swiped your items faster than humanly possible. It was honestly impressive. You barely saw his hands move. Bags were packed, receipt printed, card already back in your purse and you hadn’t even finished sighing.
You took the bags gently.
“Have a good day,” you said softly.
He just nodded, eyes still wide, and looked like he might call for security if Joel so much as blinked wrong.
You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.
The Texas heat hit you again like a slap. Joel loaded the bags into the truck while you stood there with your jaw locked and your arms crossed.
Finally, once everything was packed and the cart shoved into the return stall, you turned to him.
“Well,” you said dryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“You traumatized the poor boy.”
“He’ll live,” Joel muttered, rounding the front of the truck.
You followed behind, shaking your head. “He’s like, twenty.”
“He asked for your number.”
“He asked once. The second he saw you he died, Joel. Like he was gonna apologize himself into the floor.”
You threw up your hands. “If he pushed after I said I was married, then fine—that’d be a problem. But he didn’t. He backed off. He was nervous as hell. That’s it.”
He opened the driver’s side door, one big hand gripping the top of the frame as he climbed in. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that might’ve been kid shoulda known better.
You stared at him for a beat.
And then you dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and exhaled sharply. “Just drive, Joel.”
The truck rumbled to life.
No music. No conversation. Just the buzz of the engine and the whoosh of cars passing by. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in thick summer air and the occasional wail of cicadas from the tree line. You sat with your arms crossed, looking out the window, sighing loudly every five minutes like it might crack the silence open.
Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.
Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.
He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out without a word.
You didn’t follow right away.
You just sat there, hands limp in your lap, watching as Joel carried every single grocery bag inside on his own—arms full, face still unreadable, steps heavy against the driveway like he was stomping out a fire.
You finally got out once the door swung closed behind him.
Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.
Just slipped quietly into the bathroom, peeled off your sticky clotes, and stepped under the hot water.
And then you let yourself think.
What the hell could you have done?
You rewound the day like a cassette tape.
Grocery list. The belt joke. Teasing him in the dairy aisle. Cupping his face. The kiss. Okay, maybe the kiss.
But he didn’t even look mad about that.
You dragged your hands through your hair, water cascading down your back, and sighed. Again.
This wasn’t like a normal Joel mood. He was always slow to process—needed time, needed space, needed quiet. But this felt different. Sharper. Heavier.
By the time you shut off the water, you were still no closer to an answer.
You toweled off, still thinking, still analyzing, and threw on one of Joel’s old contracting t-shirts—the faded gray one with Miller Bros. Construction across the chest in chipped blue lettering. It hung soft and oversized over your hips, swallowing your frame in familiar cotton.
You slipped on a pair of sleep shorts. Didn’t bother with a bra. Your skin was still warm from the shower, hair damp, sticking slightly to the back of your neck.
Joel was in the living room.
Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown across the back cushion, the TV flickering against his cheekbone. Some football game was on—low volume, closed captions flickering across the bottom of the screen.
Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.
You stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. Your arms folded gently across your chest, the hem of your shorts brushing your thighs.
You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”
“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just gonna do the Cold War thing ‘til I forget why I like you?”
You narrowed your eyes and slowly walked around behind the couch. Your steps were soft. Bare feet against wood. You leaned over the back of the couch, arms draping over Joel’s shoulders like a shawl. He was so warm. Stubbornly still.
You pressed your mouth to his neck. Right beneath his ear. Soft. Sweet.
Still nothing—except for the slight shift in his shoulders. Barely there. But you felt it.
You smirked to yourself. Didn’t mean to. It just happened.
“Baby,” you whispered against his skin, “if you don’t tell me what I did, I’m gonna start apologizing for everything I’ve ever done.”
“I’m sorry for throwing away that old shirt you said you didn’t care about, but definitely cared about.”
“I’m sorry I fell asleep during Scarface. Twice.”
“I’m sorry for making you late to that dentist appointment ‘cause I wanted to see how long I could make you moan in the shower—”
His head tilted slightly. Barely.
“I’m sorry for using your flannel to clean up that wine spill,” you continued sweetly. “I’m sorry for not telling you I bought more candles when you said we had enough. I’m sorry for giving the mailman banana bread and not saving you the corner piece you like.”
You leaned over the back of the couch, lips brushing his temple, hands sliding around to gently cup his jaw and turn his face to you.
“Joel,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear, “Please.”
He finally looked at you.
Expression flat. Deadpan.
But there was something under it. A spark you could feel in your chest like a struck match. His hands didn’t move. His shoulders stayed tense.
You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.
Then you flopped onto him—full weight, no hesitation. Limbs splayed, pressing him into the cushions like a weighted blanket of pure intent.
He let out a soft oof like you’d knocked the wind out of him.
You wiggled, settling in. Your leg slid between his. One arm wrapped around his middle. Your cheek found the curve of his shoulder, pressed against soft cotton and sun-warmed skin.
“You’re not that fragile,” you murmured into his shirt.
“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.
Joel always gave you something when you got dramatic enough. It was like chipping away at a glacier with a spoon, but eventually, you knew he would crack.
You sighed. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just said what was bothering you.”
“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”
So you started stretching—slowly, like a lazy cat. Arms up, spine arching, your full weight still sprawled across his lap and chest. You felt his hand twitch slightly against your waist, like he wanted to grab you. Anchor you. Maybe throw you.
“God, you’re such a man,” you muttered teasingly. “All silence and brooding and long-suffering looks. It’s like being with a cowboy who doesn’t know how to write his own country song.”
You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressed a soft kiss there. Then another.
But you could feel the tension in his chest now. Could feel the way he wasn’t breathing evenly. The heat of his skin.
Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.
You pulled back slightly, leaned over him, peering into his eyes. “Is this about the cheese?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”
He sighed. “It ain’t about the cheese.”
“Oh, thank God,” you whispered, deadpan. You threw your head back for dramatic effect. “Because if I have to listen to your slideshow on all your picky foods, I’m calling Sarah to mediate.”
That got him. A tiny—tiny—upward quirk of his mouth.
You leaned down and kissed it.
You pulled back just an inch.
Then climbed farther into his lap.
Joel’s hands hovered near your thighs now. Not touching. Just there. Like he didn’t know what to do with them. Or he did, and was trying not to.
The soft curve of his neck again.
And all the while, you kept talking. Soft little murmurs between kisses.
“Remember when we first moved in and you said, ‘I don’t need throw pillows’ and now you’re the one who fluffs them before bed?”
“Remember when you said you didn’t want a dog, and now every time you see one on the street, you stop and talk to it?”
“Remember when you said you don’t do pouting?”
You kissed the edge of his mouth.
Then pulled back and pouted.
Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.
He exhaled hard through his nose.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
You gasped, loud and dramatic. “You do still speak!”
Nothing in his expression changed.
But his eyes flicked over your face. Down your body. Then quickly back up, like he hadn’t done it.
You just smiled—soft and amused—and stretched again, your hips shifting in his lap as you moved to loop your arms around his neck.
“God, you’re warm,” you murmured, half to yourself. “You always get warm when you’re annoyed. Or when you’re turned on.” You snorted. “Which, now that I think about it, probably means I’m annoying and hot.”
Joel blinked once. Slowly.
You ran your hands along the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape as you kept going. “Also, this shirt is very soft. I get why you wore it for ten years. Smells like you too. Not fair.”
Joel exhaled—tight. Controlled. His hands hadn’t moved, but the one at your waist was gripping just a little harder now. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to let you feel it.
“Y’know,” you added thoughtfully, fingers trailing down the edge of his collar, “when I was in the shower, I kept thinking about all the stuff I could’ve done to make you mad. I even washed all the way behind my knees just in case you were mad about that.”
A strangled sound—half cough, half growl—escaped his throat.
“What?” you asked, blinking innocently. “You’re always saying I never rinse right.”
Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.
And then his head dropped.
Right onto your shoulder.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just slumped a little heavier, his breath hot against your skin.
You froze, heart thudding in your chest.
Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”
Just sighed. Deep and long. A full-body exhale like he'd been holding something in for hours.
Then, low, gravelly, and rough:
You blinked. “...Know what?”
He turned his face slightly, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips near your collarbone.
Then finally, slowly, he said:
“You were wearin’ that dress.”
He sighed again. Frustrated. “At the store. That yellow one. The one that clings. That makes your thighs—” He cut himself off, groaning. “Fuck.”
“…You’re being pissy at me ‘cause of my dress?”
He finally sat up. Met your eyes. And oh—his face.
That quiet, deadpan fury.
That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.
“I ain’t mad at the dress,” he ground out. “I’m mad ‘cause you wore it without even thinkin’. You just—put it on. Walked around the store, leanin’ over, lookin’ like—like that. Like you didn’t know. And that little boy looked at you like he’d just seen God.”
“I’ve been hard since the dairy aisle.”
He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.
“And then you came home. In my shirt. No bra. Crawled all over me. Kissed me like it was sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were doin’. Whisperin’ all soft, makin’ those fuckin’ pouty faces. I’m sittin’ here tryin’ not to throw you over the back of the couch, and you’re talkin’ about ‘behind your knees.’”
“And I can’t be mad at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “Not really. ‘Cause you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just bein’ you.”
You opened your mouth to respond.
His chest was rising hard now. His hands had slid to your hips. Gripping. Holding you still in his lap like he wasn’t sure what he’d do if you moved again.
“I hate how much I love you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Hate it when you’re cute. Hate it when you wear my shirts. Hate it when you kiss me when I’m tryin’ to be mad.”
You whispered, breathless, “So don’t be mad.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to be mad,” he snapped, fingers tightening. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ lose it.”
“…You want me to get off you?”
“Fuck no,” he said, and the word hit like a warning. “You move now, I swear to God—”
You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:
“…So I’m off the hook about the cheese?”
Then, without another word—
Like he’d been waiting all day to do it. His mouth found yours with heat, with hunger, with the kind of urgency that made you squeak softly against his lips before melting—completely—into him.
His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other sliding over your hip to keep you grounded, pressed tight into his lap where you belonged.
You gasped into his mouth when he angled you just right, when he kissed you like he wasn’t your husband of five years but a man trying to earn you.
“Joel—” you breathed, between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, “baby, I—need to start the pasta—”
“Screw the pasta,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing along your collarbone like he was mapping it for memory. “Fuck all of it.”
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up in your chest, bright and breathless.
Joel kissed the sound right out of you.
“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.
You blinked, a little dazed. “Missed me?”
He nodded, nose brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. I know you’ve been here, but baby… you’ve been everywhere but with me.”
Your brows drew together, guilt tugging already, but Joel just kept going, voice low and full of heat and heartache.
“You’ve been movin’ nonstop all week. Preppin’ the guest room, scrubbin’ the floors like it was a damn hotel inspection comin’. Stressin’ over the timin’ of the plane, re-foldin’ towels that didn’t need foldin’, runnin’ errands twice ‘cause you forgot the list the first time. Cookin’ like we’ve got ten people to feed instead of just one girl comin’ home for the week.”
His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.
“Runnin’ out the door before I can even tell you I love you.”
He was still kissing you, slower now. Softer. Like every word cost him something.
“I ain’t mad about the cheese,” he whispered. “Ain’t mad about that poor boy at the register lookin’ at you like his world was endin’. I’m just…”
And then held you closer.
“…selfish,” he admitted. “I want my wife.”
You melted against him, curling your fingers through the back of his hair. “Joel…”
“I want her mouth,” he murmured, kissing the corner of yours. “Want her laugh. Her hands. Her smart mouth and her soft skin and her stupid apologies about flannel.”
You giggled again, and he kissed that too.
“I’m yours,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said roughly. “And I still missed you.”
Your heart cracked open. And that was it.
That was the moment you moved.
You slid forward, slow and deliberate, swinging one leg fully across his lap until you were straddling him—knees planted firm on either side, thighs bracketing his hips.
Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.
His hands landed on your waist automatically. Like muscle memory. Like they’d been there a thousand times and still weren’t done learning the shape of you.
You lowered yourself slowly into his lap, letting the weight of your body sink against the growing heat beneath his jeans. The second your hips touched down, you felt it—thick, hard, there.
But he didn’t say a word.
You leaned in and kissed him. Open-mouthed and deep.
You kissed him like you missed him too, like you hadn’t seen him every day. Like you meant it. Like every minute of silence between you had been a mistake you were now determined to fix with your mouth.
He let you lead, just for a moment.
And God, the sound he made when you pulled back just slightly, only to roll your hips forward, pressing down against him with a teasing grind—
A low, broken grunt spilled from his throat, half-pain, half-prayer.
You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.
Joel’s hands gripped your waist like he was barely holding back. Like he was grounding himself. You felt the flex of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt.
He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.
You shifted again, dragging your cunt over the firm line of his jeans, and Joel exhaled like it physically pained him.
He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.
“You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered again, trying to keep his classic deadpan delivery, but his chest was rising hard now, breath shallow.
You tilted your head, smiling innocently, biting the corner of your lip like you weren’t absolutely soaked and unraveling already.
“Why?” you asked sweetly. “What am I doing?”
He gave you that look—half narrowed eyes, half disbelief—like he could see straight through you.
You didn’t give him time to answer.
Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.
Then firmer, deeper—trailing kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat, until you reached the warm patch of skin behind his ear that always made him twitch. You kissed it slowly, let your breath spill over it.
“You said you wanted my mouth,” you whispered. “Just trying to give it to you.”
Joel groaned. Just one low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like it cost him something.
You felt his grip slide lower, from the swell of your hips to the backs of your thighs, and then he rocked you forward for you.
Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.
Your breath hitched. “Oh—”
“Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough and fraying. “Then give it to me, baby. Just like that. Keep grindin’. Nice and slow.”
You whimpered. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t help it.
So you did what he asked. What he always made sound like a command, even when he spoke soft.
You rolled your hips against him again. And again.
Each pass sent sparks shooting down your spine. Each brush of friction left you clinging a little tighter, breathing a little harder.
The TV flickered in the background, some commentator still droning about pass coverage or something equally irrelevant.
But Joel didn’t look away from you. Not once.
He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.
His mouth opened against yours, tongue curling deep, hand still anchored around your thigh, keeping you pressed tight. Like if he let go, the earth might shift.
“This what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses. “Crawlin’ all over me in that damn shirt… knowin’ I was tryin’ to stay mad?”
You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips still moving, pace steady and deliberate.
“I was trying to apologize.”
“Tryin’ my ass,” he growled, biting the edge of your jaw. “You were makin’ it worse. Bein’ all soft and sweet… kissin’ on me like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”
You leaned in close again, breath mingling.
“Didn’t I say I was yours?”
And it hit you—like a wave crashing in all at once.
That deep, simmering heat that lived behind his eyes, like he was fighting it every second just to keep it contained.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You did.”
His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging slow and reverent across your stomach, then higher, like he was relearning every inch of you.
“Still tryin’ to stay mad,” he muttered, tone dry but unraveling. “Not doin’ a very good job of it.”
You grinned. Pressed your hips to his again. Harder this time.
Joel hissed through his teeth, hands tightening on your waist for just a second. Like he had to remind himself not to flip you over right then and there.
Because the truth was—he was just as mad. At himself. At the way he always snapped at you first before ever admitting how he felt. At how you knew how to twist him up without even trying. At how good you looked in his damn shirt.
At how fucking much he wanted you.
He didn’t explain. Just grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it up over your head, arms slightly rough but careful, like muscle memory had him treating you like something expensive.
You didn’t even get a second to tease him for it. Because the second your shirt hit the floor, he was on you.
His mouth locked around your nipple like he’d missed it. Like it was a lifeline.
His only response was a low groan. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed to him, the other still gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you not to float away.
The couch creaked beneath both of you. That ugly old brown one you always said he should’ve gotten rid of when you first moved in. But right now? The way he had you anchored in his lap, thighs spread, chest bare under his mouth—you would’ve worshipped that goddamn couch if it meant you got to stay right here.
He switched sides, mouth greedy now, and your head dropped back as your nails dug into his shoulders. He sucked, slow and deep, then grazed his teeth along the sensitive skin, a groan vibrating low in his throat when your hips rolled again—instinct, need, love, all tangled together.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.
You barely had time to register the look before he moved—swift and deliberate. One arm looped around your waist, the other shifting beneath your thigh, and suddenly you were airborne for half a second—
You yelped, a high, startled sound, as your back hit the couch cushions, Joel’s weight braced above you, one hand cupping the back of your thigh as he hiked your leg up and perched it over the armrest like it was his position and his idea.
Your hands flew to his chest, more out of instinct than resistance, heart thudding as he looked at you with that flat, unreadable Miller stare. The one that meant he was thinking something loud but saying absolutely nothing.
“Joel,” you warned, already breathless. “I just showered.”
His fingers were already sliding under the waistband of your shorts.
“And the game’s still on,” you added quickly, trying to hold onto a sliver of reality as your shorts started disappearing, Joel tugging them down like they were offending him.
Just stared at you, flat and unreadable, that slow blink that always made you feel like he was assessing something. Whether he was going to tease you or be straight forward. Go gentle or go mean.
Then—his brow lifted. Just a slight arch, subtle, but smug in that way that made your stomach twist.
Your hips jolted as he tugged your shorts the rest of the way down—slow, unhurried—and left your panties on. Thin lace, soaked clean through. Like it was part of your punishment.
You shifted, instinctively trying to lift for him, to help.
“Stay,” he muttered, pressing one broad palm flat on your hip. His other hand slid between your thighs, spreading them open with firm, heavy pressure, until you were open for him.
Hot breath dragging over fabric that felt thinner by the second. His tongue didn’t touch skin. It ran slow and warm across the center of you, pressing the soaked material against your aching clit.
You whimpered. The sound came out high and needy, and he smiled.
“You said the game’s still on,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. “So we’re watchin’. Both of us.”
And then—finally—his tongue. Right through the center of you. A slow, deliberate drag that made your eyes roll back in your head. Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, hips bucking before you could stop them.
He paused. Pulled back. Looked at you with that lazy, lethal stare. “Don’t move,” he said, quiet. Dangerous. “Or I stop.”
You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”
Joel didn’t reply. He never did when he was in this mood—this controlled, razor-sharp space he sank into like second nature. He just bent again, licked over you with slow, measured cruelty. Tongue steady, pressure maddening. Over. And over.
You were soaked. The lace clung to you, sticky and wet. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. He was teasing you through it, sucking at it like it was skin, like he had all day.
“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.
“Watch the game,” he murmured, lips brushing right against your clit, his voice muffled by your body. “You’re fallin’ behind.”
You blinked at the screen, trying to focus, but everything was heat and static and him.
“What’s the down?” he asked.
Another flick of his tongue—sharper this time. Precise. You choked on a moan.
“I said,” he said again, tone cooling, “what’s the down, baby?”
Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”
His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”
Joel sat back on his heels. Fingers hooked in the side of your panties, tugging them aside with infuriating gentleness. He leaned in again. One long, hot lick—bare skin now. Bare clit. Bare torture.
Then he pulled away. Sat there. Breathing you in. Looking at you like you were a meal he’d decided to starve just because he could.
You shook, panting. “Joel—”
“You don’t guess,” he said flatly. “You either know, or you don’t get to come.”
You whimpered. Full-body shiver. Nails curled into the couch cushion. Every muscle screamed for friction, for movement.
“Focus,” he said softly. Not kindly. “Get it right, or I’ll make you beg for more than just permission.”
You turned to the screen, vision blurred with tears and need. Some play was happening. You weren’t even sure what anymore.
Joel’s tongue met you again. Gentle, coaxing, relentless. And then—
He hummed. A reward. His tongue flattened against your clit, slow circle, firm pressure. Just enough to make your breath hitch. You moaned, moved just barely, and he immediately pulled back.
“You moved,” he repeated. Cold. Decided. “Better learn the difference.”
You covered your face with your hands. “You’re evil.”
“I’m patient.” He brushed a single finger over your thigh. “That’s worse.”
You whimpered, again. And he didn’t stop.
The next stretch was agony.
He mouthed at you—sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always calculated. Just when your hips rose, just when your chest stuttered with that telltale gasp, he’d pause.
Flag on the play—what for?
If you answered right—he’d reward you. Tongue firm and dragging. The kind of lick that made you sob.
If you answered wrong—he went silent. Kissed all around your thighs, letting his stubble drag out whimpers and pleads.
He didn’t speed up. He didn’t give in. Joel Miller had you mapped. He knew every twitch. Every inhale. Every desperate, clenching muscle.
He kept you on the edge for what felt like hours—until your eyes were glassy and your thighs were trembling. Until your nails had torn at the cushion. Until your chest was heaving and your panties were ruined, and you weren’t even watching the game anymore, just listening—but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. From his mouth. From his tongue tormenting you.
“Joel,” you begged, voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Please—please, I’m—”
Your mind scrambled, hands fisting the cushions. “Uh—24–21?”
Joel looked up at you from between your thighs. Smug. Ravenous. His mouth slick and glistening, chin wet with your arousal. His eyes held that gleam—that sharp, satisfied gleam that made your stomach flip.
And then he devoured you.
No teasing. No slow build. No more cruel, lingering licks meant to test your patience. He shoved your panties properly aside, and dropped his mouth to your cunt like a man starved—like he’d waited all damn day to rip into you and was finally cashing the check.
Your breath caught, then tore loose in a sob. You cried out, voice shattering in your throat as heat rolled over your body in waves. Hands flew to his hair—those thick strands you loved to grip—fingers curling in deep. Your thighs twitched around his head, instinctively trying to pull him closer, to anchor yourself to something as he wrecked you.
And fuck, did he wreck you.
His tongue slid through your folds with obscene pressure—long, deliberate strokes that left you soaked and quaking. Like every lick was a reminder: this was his. You were his.
His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, the rough drag a perfect contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Joel groaned into you like the taste of you was everything. His hands gripped your thighs tight—bruising tight—thumbs digging in, keeping you open, helpless, exactly where he wanted you.
“Sound real sorry now,” he growled against your cunt, voice shredded and low. His tongue never stopped moving. “Should I keep goin’? Or you wanna get smart again?”
You sobbed. You sobbed, the sound barely human. Your legs clamped around him and your hips bucked wildly against his face.
“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”
Joel laughed. A dark, amused sound, muffled by your cunt. He sounded pleased. Too pleased.
Then he flattened his tongue over your clit and dragged it slow. Long. Torturous. Like he knew how close you were. Like he could feel it in your thighs, in the twitch of your hips, in the broken way you moaned.
“Thought so,” he muttered.
Your orgasm slammed into you like a huge wave. There was no slow climb. It hit hard—violent in its release—like your body had finally quit holding back and gave itself over to him completely.
Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound ripped free—raw and wrecked. You came with your whole body—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the couch. Fingers yanked hard in his hair, like that was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.
He kept his mouth on you like it was his right, his job, his revenge. Licking you through it, dragging it out until your thighs trembled and your hips jolted with every aftershock.
When he finally pulled back, your thighs were shiny. And you were boneless, panting like you’d just run a marathon barefoot.
Joel sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lick the rest off his lips, and gave you that look. The one that was from a smug husband who just made you weak from one orgasm.
“You cryin’?” he asked, brow arched. “Or just finally quiet?”
You blinked up at him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your voice was wrecked. “Need more—”
He tilted his head. “More?”
You nodded desperately. “Yes—please, Joel, I—fuck—I need it—”
He looked at you for a long, quiet second. Then glanced at your ruined panties, still moved off to the side, completely soaked through. Then back at your face.
He slid them off slowly with a firm grip on your ankle. They made a quiet, wet sound as they peeled off your cunt.
“Should make you wear these around the house after I’m done,” he muttered. “Let you feel how soaked you get beggin’ for it. Make you sit in your own mess while I watch somethin’ nice.”
Joel smirked again. “What, that too much?”
You shook your head. “No—no, I want it.”
He leaned in, hand sliding up your bare thigh, settling heavy on your pelvis, thumb brushing between your folds where you were still sensitive and trembling.
You gasped. Twitched. Your hips bucked helplessly into his touch.
“Goddamn,” he murmured. “Look at you. Blissed out and still greedy.”
And Joel—dear and evil—laughed low in his throat.
“C’mon, baby. Spread these legs wider. I ain’t done teachin’ you your lesson yet.”
You did as told. Because how could you not?
Your hips tilted, thighs falling open, and the pads of his fingers got better access as he barely brushed where you were soaked, and your hips jumped.
You let out a shuddery breath, squirming beneath his touch. “Please—”
You swallowed, tried to speak, but your voice cracked in the middle of it. “I—I want your cock.”
Joel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was especially unimpressed.
“Yeah? Wantin’ don’t mean gettin’,” he muttered. “Don’t remember sayin’ you could ask for anythin’.”
Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”
He cut you off with a sharp glance, fingers sliding between your folds in one slick.
“I said,” he growled softly, “you take what I give you. And you stay damn quiet.”
You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.
And that was it. That was enough.
He reached behind him without warning, took your panties in his free hand, and before you could even react, he stuffed them into your mouth.
You gasped, muffled immediately, lips stretched around the fabric. You could taste yourself—warm, musky, sharp from where he'd worked you over earlier—and the moan that escaped your throat was pathetic.
Joel grinned. Not wide. Not gleeful. Just slow and knowing.
His hand cupped your jaw for a moment, thumb dragging across your cheek, eyes sharp as they bore into yours.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “Gettin’ worked up over your own mess. Filthy girl.”
You nodded because it was all you could do. Your thighs tried to rub together restlessly. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure where to go, what to do with yourself.
Joel got up. Shifted his weight to sit back onto the couch next to you.
Then, without warning, he reached for you and dragged you into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you easily until your spine was pressed against his chest, your legs straddling his denim-covered thighs, your ruined panties still in your mouth.
The couch groaned under both your bodies, the old leather protesting with every shift—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. Your brain was mush, your limbs boneless, your mouth still slack and wet around the wad of fabric he’d stuffed there minutes ago.
And then—Joel’s hand again.
Sliding down between your thighs like it belonged there. Like it had never left.
Two fingers pushed into you without warning. Thick. Slick. Deep. The stretch punched the air from your lungs and sent your hips jerking reflexively.
Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.
“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, right at your ear, slow and steady like he wasn’t the one wrecking you open on his lap. “You stay still.”
Your hips moved anyway, rocking helplessly against his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the space between you.
His fingers curled inside you, just the right pressure against that devastating spot that made your back arch and your knees quake.
You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked his fingers into you harder. “Can feel you clenchin’ already. Barely inside and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”
You pressed your head back against his shoulder, trembling all over, thighs spread wide over his lap. The rough fabric scraped your skin. Your hands clawed at the front of his jeans, grabbing at anything, his belt buckle, waistband, seams, anything to keep you sane.
His pace quickened. His fingers drove up into you, every stroke sharp, confident, filthy. His palm was soaked, smacking wetly with each thrust, the heat of your arousal smeared over your thighs, your folds, your inner legs.
His thumb started to brush your clit. Fast. Tight little circles.
“Fuckin’ greedy thing,” he murmured, lips dragging against your neck. “Thought you were done cryin’. Thought I’d worn you out.”
You whimpered around the gag, back arching. Every muscle tight, electric.
Joel grunted softly, like the sound of you unraveling turned him on more than anything. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Course you got more in you.”
You were ruined. The couch cushions beneath you were damp, and the mess between your legs was shameful, slick, and constant. Your thighs were shaking. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your body burned—hot and tight and strung out.
His arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you still, keeping you open. His fingers fucked into you relentlessly, slick and punishing, while his thumb dragged over your clit with merciless precision.
So fast, it blindsided you.
That coil inside you snapped, sharp and raw, and your whole body convulsed in his arms. Your thighs slammed shut around his hand, your spine bowed, and the scream that tore from your throat was strangled by cotton and spit.
You shattered—mouth wide, tears spilling, muscles spasming.
“Mm. There she is,” he said, low and warm like you hadn’t just come like you were dying. “Knew you had another one in you.”
You whimpered, boneless now. Arms limp. Head heavy against his shoulder.
His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.
You let out a broken sob through your gag, and Joel just grinned, pressing a kiss to your jaw.
He shifted behind you—gentle now. No more teasing pressure. No more mean streak. Just a warm, solid wall of comfort at your back.
His big hand rested low on your belly, spread wide, thumb tracing little slow, aimless circles over sweat of your skin.
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Bare skin, damp with sweat. His nose nudged you after, slow and unhurried.
Then one right behind your ear, soft enough to make your heart hiccup. You made a small sound, muffled by the panties still stuffed in your mouth.
“‘S’alright,” he murmured. “I got you. Just breathe a sec.”
You did. Or tried to. Inhale in. Exhale out. His scent wrapped around you—soap and salt and the heat of his skin. The TV was still on, some post-play analysis murmuring in the background, but it felt far away. Fuzzy. Like it didn’t matter anymore.
Joel reached up. Fingers brushed along your jaw. Then gently, he pulled your ruined panties from your mouth.
They came free with a soft, wet sound, and he set them aside without a word. You breathed in deeper, lips tingling, tongue dragging over them instinctively.
“You with me now?” he asked, pressing another kiss to the shell of your ear. “Hm?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.
You felt his smile more than saw it—small, private. His chin dipped down, and he kissed your cheek. The side of your neck. Then your shoulder again.
“Did good for me,” he murmured.
Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”
That earned a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a hum. You could hear the apology in it, even if he didn’t say it aloud.
“Was I?” he asked. “Don’t remember hearin’ any complaints.”
“You gagged me with my own panties.”
He kissed the side of your mouth.
“You whined so damn loud, baby. Was the only way to shut you up.”
You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.
“You were perfect,” he said.
That quieted you. Completely. Because even with your hair stuck to your forehead, your thighs slick and trembling—you believed him. You felt it in the way he rocked you just slightly in his lap, grounding you. Felt how he loved you completely with no conditions.
Joel didn’t say shit he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste words. So when he whispered things like that—it hit hard.
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired. Soft. His forehead rested against yours.
But even through all the love, you could feel it.
Pressed tight behind you, the warmth of his body steady, grounding—but his cock, straining hard against the thick denim of his jeans, throbbed like a barely-contained secret. And it wasn’t subtle, either. Not with the way you’d come apart for him, more than once, all over his tongue and fingers and the damn couch.
He was giving you a break.
Even if it cost him his own pleasure. Even if it meant sitting there while you trembled, thighs sticky and breath still catching in your throat.
Because Joel never asked for more than you could give. He knew your edges, every single one.
Where to push. Where to let you fall.
And right now, he was holding.
Even though his body was screaming to take.
That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.
So you shifted—slow at first, experimental—grinding your hips back into him. Rubbing your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, where you knew he was aching, pulsing.
Joel groaned. Low and guttural, barely contained. His hand tightened on your hip like a warning.
“Baby,” he gritted out, voice hoarse, “I’m bein’ nice.”
You rocked again. Firmer this time. Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch beneath you. Big. Hard.
“Tryin’ to give you that break,” he went on, jaw clenched. “C’mon. Take it.”
Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.
He huffed. Short. Sharp. No patience left. “You sure?”
You turned your head a little. Just enough to whisper, “Yeah.”
Joel paused, studying your face to confirm you were sure.
The next second, his hands were under you, lifting you like nothing, and you squealed, breathless as he turned your body with ease and planted you down again. Hips against the armrest this time, bare skin against leather, ass in the air, legs spread.
You barely had time to breathe before he was behind you again—hovering close, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, thumbs digging in like he wanted to mark you there.
You felt the heat of him through his jeans. Still in control. Always in control.
He palmed your ass, slow and reverent at first. Then slapped it, sharp and deliberate.
You jumped. Moaned softly. Chest pressed to the armrest.
He did it again. Slower this time.
“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a pretty ass for my pretty wife.”
You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Pretty enough to make you lose your damn mind in a store.”
Joel made a sound. Something between a groan and a laugh. His palm skimmed over your ass again, this time lingering. Loving.
“Mm,” he drawled. “You think I forgot about that dress?”
“I think you stared long enough to memorize every inch of it.”
“Wasn’t the dress I was memorizin’,” he muttered, hand slipping lower. “You walked in front of me on purpose.”
You smiled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. “Sure did.”
Another slap. Harder this time.
You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.
Behind you, you heard the soft clink of metal. His belt—coming loose. Then the snap of his jeans as he unbuttoned himself one-handed, still keeping you pressed down with the other.
You craned your head, trying to look back at him. “You’re still dressed.”
“Yeah.” His voice was low. Dangerous. Warm. “And you’re not.”
The implication of that was everything. The unfairness of it. The intentionality.
You clenched around nothing, already needy again. You heard him sigh—a deep, throaty exhale like he was trying to keep his composure.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured.
You smiled again, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “I think I do.”
Then the sound of his zipper lowering. Slow, easured and drawn out like a threat. Like a promise.
Your whole body tensed—not from fear, but from the kind of aching anticipation that made your skin burn.
“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.
“Shhh.” His mouth was close. Too close. The rough scratch of his beard brushed your cheek as he leaned in, voice pitched low and raspy—like it came from the center of his chest. “Lemme look at you…”
His palm braced against the small of your back, steady and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You felt it—hot and thick behind you, heavy in his grip. The barest brush skimmed your ass, then slid down the curve with a slow, deliberate drag.
Then over the swell of your hip. Along the inside of your thigh. Everywhere but where you needed him.
Your breath caught. Fingers clenched the couch cushion like it was the only thing holding you to earth. Your knuckles ached. Your thighs twitched.
He let the weight of him trail over your bare skin. Lazily. Like he was painting you with it. Marking every inch of you with his cock before he even gave you the chance to take it.
You panting. Absolutely wrecked, your body overstimulated, used up, still trembling from two orgasms, but it didn’t matter. Not when Joel was like this. Not when his patience was more devastating than any touch.
“Joel—” you gasped, trying to tilt your hips back, desperate to catch the head of his cock, to line him up, to feel something. You missed.
He chuckled. Low. Pleased. Like you were performing exactly the way he liked. “Aw. Sweet thing,” he murmured. “You’re tryin’, huh?”
“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just—just put it in—”
“Mm.” That small sound of false consideration. Barely interested. “You think beggin’s all it takes?”
You let your forehead drop to the cushion, gasping now, thighs spreading wider out of instinct. “It’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re teasing—”
“That’s ’cause I can,” he said simply. Another drag of his cock, this time notched so close to where you needed him—almost there—and still he didn’t push forward. “And you like it.”
You shook your head. Tried to protest. Then he leaned down again, chest brushing your back, the rough cotton of his flannel rasping against your flushed, sweat-slicked back . His breath ghosted over your neck.
“You been good?” he asked, casual as anything. Like he was asking about the weather. Like you weren’t spread open and dripping for him.
You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”
He hummed, unconvinced. A kiss landed at the base of your nape. Warm. Unfairly tender.
“You wore that little yellow dress,” he murmured. His mouth dragged down your shoulder, slow and unhurried. “Knew exactly what it’d do to me.”
Your breath hitched. “You liked it, though…”
He shifted, and his cock slid down the inside of your thigh again, hot and impossibly slick from how ready you were. The head caught—just briefly—at the edge of your folds.
It was enough to make your spine jolt.
Joel grunted softly. Like the feel of you against him had snapped something loose in his control. “You wanna be filled up, baby?”
“Yes.” Your voice broke, wrecked and raw. “Yes—please—God, please—”
The hand at your back flattened. A warning. A reminder.
He just hovered. Let the head of his cock rest there, heavy and perfect, teasing your entrance, just existing. Threatening.
“You look real pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging a hand down the curve of your spine. “Bent over. Waitin’. Drippin’.”
You were panting now. Shaking. Your hips trembled with need.
“I’m ready,” you whispered.
He laughed—low. Dark. A little cruel, a little sweet. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or worship you.
“I know you are,” he said.
You felt it. The tip of him, thick and flushed, pressing just barely where you needed it most. The promise of relief, right there—
“Say thank you,” he commanded.
You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”
His voice dropped, a growl at your ear. “For what?”
You shut your eyes, mouth trembling, chest heaving. “Thank you… for making me feel good.”
The words left you hoarse and broken. Quiet and sincere. Your voice barely made it past the pounding of your pulse.
But Joel heard it. He always did.
A beat of silence. A low grunt.
Your breath left you in a broken gasp, your spine arching hard as he filled you deep, impossibly deep, the stretch so intense your hands scrabbled against the couch for anything to anchor you.
“Jesus,” Joel hissed behind you, voice ragged, gravel thick in his throat as he started to rock back and forth. “Always so fuckin’ tight after you come.”
You whined. Couldn’t help it. Could barely hold yourself upright with the way your body shook, stretched full and pulsing around him. It felt like he’d taken everything—what was left of your breath, your bones, your reason—and replaced it with him.
He was so warm. So there. One braced at your waist, holding you in place like he was scared you’d float away.
Blindly. Desperately. Your left hand stretching back, trembling midair, searching behind you for something that made this real. Something solid.
You didn’t even have to ask.
Joel’s hand found yours. Rough, warm fingers threaded between yours, locking down. Anchoring. His palm enveloped the back of your hand like a promise.
And that’s when he broke.
You felt it in the tremble of his exhale, the way his hips faltered for just a beat before crashing into you again, harder, deeper. A growl built low in his throat—raw and breathless, cracked at the edges.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’ll never get over this.”
“Our rings,” he gritted out between his teeth, his thrusts jolting your whole body. “Your fingers on mine like that—fuck.”
But the rhythm had changed. Something deliberate in it now. Like every thrust was a vow.
He shifted forward, chest brushing your back, his weight covering you now, thick denim scratching against your thighs. His breath was hot at your ear.
“That ring, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Means you’re mine when we’re like this. Means you chose me.”
“I’ll always choose you,” you whispered.
He pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder, soft and fleeting, like he couldn’t let himself be gentle for long without unraveling.
You cried out when he bottomed out again, your body clenching down instinctively. The sound tore from your throat was high, open, and honest.
He held your hand tighter. Like it was the only thing tethering him now.
You could feel his wedding band press into your skin as he gripped your hand. Could feel your own—twisting slightly on your finger as his thrusts jolted you forward and pulled you right back again.
You were trembling. Overstimulated. Barely here—but that grip in your hand kept you grounded.
“You love this,” he whispered, nose brushing behind your ear, breath hot. “Love when I take my time. Love when I make you earn it.”
You nodded—shaky, frantic. “I do. I do, Joel—”
He kept driving into you like he wasn’t done yet. Like he needed to finish what he started and brand the memory of this into your bones.
“I give you everythin’, baby,” he muttered, fingers flexing in yours. “All day long. Every day. You know that, right?”
You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”
“So when I ask you to wait,” he said, still going, “when I tease… make you beg…”
He pulled your hand further, dragged it down the curve of your stomach, placed it flat over your own belly, his on top.
“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
“You. This sweet body. Mine.” He grunted the word, thrusts getting sloppier, chest heaving behind you. “You wearin’ my ring, cryin’ for my cock—”
“Joel,” you gasped, throat burning, hips jolting with every punishing thrust. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he snapped. “You will.”
And God help you, you did.
The orgasm hit like a truck.
Your whole body seized. You went rigid, then loose, your limbs jerking helplessly as pleasure tore through you—raw, electric, and far past the point of sanity. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.
Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.
He just adjusted his grip, dragged you up against his chest, and kept going, growling low in your ear.
“You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he breathed, his arm banded tight around your waist. “After that? After the way you fuckin’ beg for it?”
He pushed in deep and held, breath shuddering. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers toying with the mess he’d made of you.
“Look at this,” he muttered. “Look how good you take it. How fuckin’ ruined you are.”
You whined—pathetic, needy. Your whole body was trembling, oversimulation taking over, heart jackhammering against your ribs. And Joel…
“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, pace stuttering. “Gonna come so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days.”
Then you heard him groan. It hit all at once—warm and hot and so thick inside you, it made your stomach twist.
Joel kept pushing. Grinding. Emptying everything into you with his jaw clenched and breath stuttering.
You cried out—overwhelmed, stunned, mind white-hot and blank. It was all too much. Too much heat, breath, heartbeat, and sweat. The air around you thick and quiet, like the house itself had stilled to make space for what just happened.
Your cheek was pressed to the couch, your chest heaving. Your knees trembled where they’d gone weak. Your fingers were still laced with his, though neither of you had moved.
And he was still inside you.
Or maybe it just felt like he was. The weight of him, of what he’d just given you, settled so deep, so complete, it didn’t feel like something that would leave anytime soon.
Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.
Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.
Another, lower. Then one to the side of your neck, his lips pressing into the flushed skin like they had all the time in the world.
You nodded. Couldn’t speak yet. Could barely think. But God, you leaned up into him.
Shivering a little, your muscles twitching, nerves frayed, but still chasing every brush of his mouth. You could feel him softening in you, feel the shift in his breathing, calmer now.
His nose brushed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin between words. “You always just—fuck. You bring it outta me.”
You closed your eyes. Your hand found his again, right where he’d dropped it at your hip. You tangled your fingers, holding him.
“You okay?” he asked again, a little lower this time.
He chuckled, just under his breath. “That all you got in you?”
“Don’t make me talk, Miller.” You hummed, too wrecked to laugh.
Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.
“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “You need water? Blanket?”
“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.
He laughed for real then. Low and breathy. God, you loved that laugh.
Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.
You winced. A soft inhale through your teeth. Your whole body trembled once, a shiver slipping down your spine like your nerves hadn’t figured out that you were done.
Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.
Joel stilled behind you. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.
Closely. Intently. Probably with that smug, twitchy-lipped expression he wore when he was trying not to look smug.
“Don’t,” you warned, voice hoarse as you buried your face into the couch cushion. “Don’t say a word.”
Then: a short huff. Half a chuckle. A shake of his head. “I didn’t say anythin’,” he muttered.
You lifted your head just enough to side-eye him. He was standing now. Somehow still put-together while you were bare and wrecked in the living room sunlight. His belt hung loosely open, jeans low on his hips, cock still out.
He looked down at you like you were the prettiest mess he’d ever seen.
You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”
“I’ll get somethin’,” he said simply. Voice flat. Not unkind—just Joel.
And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall. You took a breath. Stood up slowly. Very slowly.
“Oh—shit,” you whispered, biting your lip as you shifted your weight to maneuver around the couch to sit. The movement sent a dull ache radiating through your thighs and lower back. Everything between your legs was sore. Sticky. Tender.
Your arms wrapped instinctively across your chest—not out of shame, but because your skin felt loud. Touched in every sense of the word.
You looked around your living room. The way the sun hit the hardwood. The TV was still playing, now with an ad that was sponsoring some new water bottle.
And there you were. Naked. Blown apart. Sitting on a couch you complained constantly about.
Joel returned with a warm towel in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, zipped up and looking a tad bit flushed. He handed you the towel first wordlessly, and you took it with a whispered, “Thanks.”
He didn’t move far. Just leaned a hip against the armrest and waited. You cleaned yourself slowly.
The towel was soft and warm from the dryer. You pressed it between your legs and flinched, hips jolting at the sting. Not pain, not exactly. Just the rawness..
And God, the mess. You breathed through it. Wiped slowly, trying not to tense up, trying not to think about how full you still felt.
Not in a way that made you feel exposed. Like he was giving you the space to care for yourself, but couldn’t stop making sure you were okay.
When you were done, you dropped the towel back into his out stretched hand. He handed you the water next. You drank.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”
“Figured.” He stepped away and returned a second later with a folded t-shirt and another pair of cotton sleep shorts. He didn’t hand them to you, just set them gently beside you on the couch. “These’re clean. I’ll throw the rest in the wash.”
Joel dutifully went around the living room, picking up each of your discarded clothes. His fingers brushed over your panties on the opposite end of the couch, and you swore a smile crossed his face. He then disappeared back into the hallway.
The shirt he gave you was soft and worn—another one of his. Still smelled faintly of him and laundry detergent. You tugged it over your head slow, your limbs still limp, body aching in all the right ways. The cotton shorts were better. And, importantly, clean.
You sank down onto the couch with a quiet exhale, limbs folding in like you’d melted. The TV was still droning on in the background—some post-game commentary, pixelated stats dancing on the screen.
You grabbed the remote with the tips of your fingers and clicked around until you landed on something quieter. Comforting. Just background hum. A house-hunting show, with soft music and couples debating backsplash options.
You should’ve stood up. You should’ve gone to the kitchen. Started the water. Chopped the garlic. That was the plan, wasn’t it?
But your body wasn’t listening. It was sunk deep into Joel’s shirt—your shirt now—and your limbs were humming, still, faint echoes of everything he’d done to you not even five minutes ago.
And then you heard the washer click on down the hall. Then the creak of the floorboards. The sigh of the hallway. Joel’s footsteps, low and even, approaching from around the corner.
He rounded the corner, changed into a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from where he’d splashed his face.
You glanced up, already reaching for the armrest to start pushing yourself up.
“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”
“You don’t even like making pasta.”
“I like you not passin’ out in the kitchen ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sit down.”
You huffed, flopping harder against the cushions. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen. “And you’re gonna be walkin’ funny, so maybe hush.”
You covered your face with your hands and groaned.
But you didn’t move. You stayed curled on the couch while he rummaged through into the bags, found the pasta box, clattered the pot onto the stove. You heard him muttering about the olive oil again. He never remembered where you kept it, even though it hadn’t moved in five years.
The water started to boil. You caught the smell of garlic—strong and sharp, mixing with the citrus of the countertop cleaner he must’ve wiped up with after.
He was humming now. Quiet. Just a line or two of something—sounded like it was from the radio. You couldn’t quite place it, but the low timbre of it settled in your ribs like a lullaby.
You peeked over the back of the couch.
Joel stood barefoot at the stove, spoon in one hand, your favorite chipped mug full of water in the other, waiting for the timer to go off. The sunlight caught on the edge of his watch. Alongside that, his wedding band glinted.
It hit you like it always did after days like this—when your body was sore, and your heart felt wrung out, and the house was quiet. That ache of love. That sense of this is real. This man. This home. This life. Five years of inside jokes and laundry folded wrong and everything in between.
You leaned your cheek against the back cushion and watched him for a moment longer, smiling softly to yourself.
You then tell yourself it was fine to just let Joel do it—to lay back, enjoy the pleasure of being cared for, every ounce of soreness earned and every bite of pasta lovingly stirred by the same hands that’d destroyed you.
But the moment he muttered something about not being able to find the damn colander—again—you were already on your feet.
You padded into the kitchen slow, your knees sore but steadied. The ache between your legs was sharp, but not enough to stop you. You leaned against the fridge for a beat, watching Joel try to juggle both the spoon and the strainer.
He clocked you instantly. Didn’t even turn, just said, “No.”
You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”
“I told you to sit down.”
You reached up and grabbed the block of cheese from the grocery bags. “Just grating cheese. I’m not building a deck.”
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Gratin’ cheese turns into settin’ the table, then stirrin’ the sauce, then fillin’ glasses—”
“I’m just grating,” you repeated, fighting back a smile as you pulled the grater down from the cabinet and got to work.
He groaned under his breath. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”
“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”
He went back to stirring, jaw working like he was biting back whatever scolding he wanted to give you. You didn’t look at him—just grated slowly, deliberately, watching curls of cheese pile onto the plate.
There was a silence as you both worked. Only the sound of water bubbling and voices of a couple decided between city or suburban life echoed between you both. Then, quietly, you placed down the cheese and grater, and stepped around him
You didn’t say anything at first—just looped your arms around his neck from behind and pressed a kiss to the nape of it, right where his skin was still a little warm.
Joel sighed. “You’re ‘pose to be gratin’ cheese. Why are you kissin’ me?”
You smiled, let your lips trail to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses there through his shirt. Then another. And another.
One to his jaw. Another to the spot just behind his ear.
Finally, he turned—just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all that for?”
You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.
“I love you,” you murmured. “And all your little grievances.”
“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.
His brow twitched. “The hell does that mean?”
You grinned against his cheek. “Just sayin’ I love all the Joel-isms. The stuff you complain about every day.”
He turned now, fully, the spoon still in his hand, water boiling quietly behind him. “Like what.”
You counted on your fingers. “The thermostat. The towels being folded ‘wrong.’ Your mystery colander you keep misplacing. People who park too close to your truck. People who walk too slow at the store. Mushrooms—”
“Exactly,” you laughed. “And you complain about them like they’ve been made to spite you.”
“They are,” he grumbled, but his mouth twitched.
You kissed him again. This time slower. Right on the lips. Your fingers hooked behind his neck now, your body slotting up against his.
“And I love all of it,” you whispered.
Then: “Even when I get pissy ‘cause you wear that dress to the grocery store?”
You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”
Joel huffed, but he was smiling now, really smiling, that quiet, softened version of it that only ever showed up at home, when no one else was around to see.
You rested your cheek against him again. Let him hold you.
The water boiled behind you. Garlic and tomatoes scented the air. Mushrooms in a pack laid unopened.
But neither of you moved.
Because some grievances could wait.
It’s official, Tumblr hates me 😭. A girl can’t write fan fic in peace without having to gut her work to fit the 1000 block limit.
Can you guys tell I'm obsessed with domestic Joel?? I love all the requests that ask me to do Joel when he's your husband/boyfriend. Hehe...
Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Just letting you guys know my requests are still open!!
gummygunk
germansingergirl
snowghoul
areudirty
