babe i don't care that he is morally unjust or unforgivably problematic. babe have u considered that he's unapologetically hot while he's doing incredible harm
Thank you for the tags, I have been dreaming up a fun little Javi x Reader story.
This is just the first little excerpt. Not sure what I'm going to call it yet, but the plot is loosely centered around Reader: a wiretap specialist at the embassy that gets targeted and has to go into hiding at a safe house... But who will be taking you there? Why, your work rival Javier Pena.
Probable tags: rivals to lovers, forced proximity, sexual frustration, Playboy Pena... More to come as I flesh it out.
Onto the excerpt!
Plump. Plush. Pouty.
You muse that all these P words are accurate descriptors for the lips of another P.
Pena. Agent Javier Pena.
P words for his personality however aren't as kind; Pompous. Patronizing. Pushy. Pain in the ass.
But it's the former you're fixated on right now. Your eyes scan his mouth as you pretend to read the file on your desk, stuck on those pouty pink lips of his wrapped loosely around a fresh cigarette.
And it's not carnal desire that has you so focused on this part of his anatomy, it's because the secretary from across the hall told you earlier that Javier Pena has a magic mouth and that phrase has stuck in your mind.
No, not that way.
Get your head out of the gutter.
Apparently she says he can charm anyone. Man, woman, call girl, informant. He can get information from people that his co-workers can't even begin to imagine. That includes you- You always thought yourself winsome until you started working here.
People that won't even look up when you ask for files go out of their way to help Javier. Hell, Marcus in accounting probably holds his dick for him when he takes a leak.
Javier changes his personality to suit his needs. Charming Playboy? He's got that covered. Brooding misunderstood agent? Yep. That too. It seems inevitable that everyone falls under the spell Javier Pena weaves.
tags: meet-cute, soft! Frankie, competent!Frankie, get to know eachother, mild angst
summary: After a stormy day the kind stranger at the gas station unexpectedly calms the weather.
word count: ~ 2,4 k words
a/n: My little treat for Frankie Friday 💜 Special thanks to my sunshine @berryispunk for beta-reading it and helping me prepare the post (and for encouraging me to publish it and cheering me up in general in my day-to-day life, even when I’m not doing well, especially then. You’re the bestest)
The day had already been doomed from the moment you woke up.
Breakfast had started the wrong way: no hot chocolate left in the cupboard, only an empty package you had forgotten to replace. Small, silly, but enough to sour your mood before the day had even fully begun.
Work didn’t make it better. Being on your feet all day behind the counter, dealing with endless customers, had drained you in ways no desk job ever could. The rude ones lingered in your mind longer than the kind faces, and by the time lunch rolled around, you discovered that, of course, you had left your packed meal sitting on the kitchen counter. The gnawing feeling in your stomach had kept you irritable until closing time.
And then came the text. Him. The guy you had been seeing, the one who had felt like a little spark in your routine. You had let yourself feel hopeful, almost giddy, like something new and promising was finally unfolding. But his words on the screen weren’t promises. Nothing about plans or sweet nothings. They were a clean, polite break, if you could even call it like that. Whatever fragile thing you had been building shattered in a handful of detached sentences.
By the time your shift ended, you were a frayed wire. Driving home under the storm felt like a test you weren’t ready for. You were still so new at this, still awkward with the car, still second-guessing every move behind the wheel. The rain only made it worse. The windshield wipers squeaked with frantic effort, and every car that passed sprayed up waves that sent your grip tightening on the steering wheel.
When the gas light blinked on, your stomach dropped. You had been meaning to figure out how to fill the tank, but the chance had never come up until now. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
You pulled into the next small roadside station, neon lights smudging across the rain-slick glass. With stiff hands, you parked by the pump, the storm hammering against the roof of the car. Getting out meant facing it, because the engine couldn’t run on nerves alone. So you opened the door. And in a matter of seconds, you were soaked through, rain plastering your hair to your face, jacket sticking heavy against your skin. Your glasses misted up from the rain as well.
You quickly selected the kind and quantity of fuel and paid for it in the pre-payment system machine. Cold seeped into your bones as you fumbled with the fuel cap, fingers clumsy, slipping again and again. Each failed attempt tightened the knot in your chest until frustration bubbled over.
“Perfect,” you muttered, voice sharp and small against the roar of the storm. “Just fucking perfect.”
That’s when a deep voice cut through the rain. “Everything okay out here, or is the car winning this fight?”
You spun around and your breath caught.
The man stood a few steps away, framed by the station’s yellow light. A dark cap shadowed his face, droplets of rain dripping from the brim, but his eyes caught yours with an ease that steadied something inside you. His denim shirt clung to broad shoulders, open just enough to reveal the dark t-shirt underneath. The scruff along his jaw only made his crooked smile more disarming. His voice had a warmth that cut right through the storm, laced with humor but softened by something else. Patience, maybe. Or kindness.
The stranger (Frankie, as you would later come to know) kept watching you with that mixture of mischief and quiet patience, like he knew the tempest wasn’t just falling from the sky but pressing down on you too. For a moment, you forgot the rain, the cold, even the string of disasters that had been your day. You just stared, caught off guard by the way his presence steadied something in you that had felt frayed all day and the unexpected calm he carried with him into the storm.
“I… uh—” You cleared your throat, shy and suddenly painfully aware of how miserable you must look. “It’s my first time… filling it up. Honestly, I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
Something softened in his expression. He closed the distance between you, steps steady despite the slick ground.
“Don’t worry. Happens more often than you think. Want me to walk you through it?”
Relief hit you so fast your chest ached.
“Please. Today’s just… not my day.”
“Yeah?” His voice was warm, even over the storm. “Well, maybe I can at least help fix this part.”
He crouched slightly, showing you where to press, how to twist the cap until it popped free. His hands moved with easy confidence, but he didn’t rush you, he let you try, stepping back enough to give you space. When your cold fingers slipped again, he reached in, steadying the movement with his own, fingers brushing yours briefly.
“There,” he murmured. “Not so hard, right?”
The cap loosened easily under Frankie’s hand, the nozzle sliding into place like it had been waiting for him.
“See? Doesn’t bite.” Frankie teased, as you put the fuel pump nozzle inside. “Though some people swear gasoline has a temper.”
You managed a shaky, nervous laugh. “I feel useless.”
He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes dark but kind and meeting yours without wavering. “You’re not useless,” he said, steady as stone. “You’re just learning. Everyone has to start somewhere.”
The words landed in your chest, heavier than you expected. No one had spoken to you like that all day. Not with patience, not with softness either.
The pump clicked, startling you both. Frankie pulled the nozzle free, moving with practiced ease, and sealed the cap again.
“All set,” he said, straightening up. His cap was dripping and his shirt darkened with rain, but he didn’t look bothered. Just… solid. Like he belonged in storms.
Rain still fell steadily as you both eventually stepped beneath the awning. Frankie handed you a paper napkin.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
“No problem.” His smile was small but genuine. “You look cold. Want to come inside? Warm up before you get back on the road?”
The offer shouldn’t have mattered, just a kind stranger doing his job, but something in his voice made your chest ease. You nodded, and he pushed the glass door open for you, the faint jingle of the bell overhead greeting you as you stepped into the quiet of the convenience store. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the faint smell of coffee and motor oil, the shelves lined with snacks and faded travel maps welcomed you; it was all ordinary, but after the cold outside, the warmth felt like shelter.
Frankie moved behind the counter, peeling off his wet cap and running a hand through damp curls. Without the shadow of the brim, his face came clearer into view: tired eyes softened by kindness, lines carved deep from years of worry and laughter, the sort of face that seemed built for both whirlwind and the calm after.
“Coffee?” he asked, already reaching for a paper cup. “It's on the house.”
“I don’t really…” you started, then hesitated. “I usually drink hot chocolate.”
You surprised yourself being self-conscious at the prospect of him thinking that your drink choice was childish. Instead, his brows lifted, and a crooked smile tugged at his mouth again.
“Hot chocolate, huh? That’s a solid choice.”
He bent down behind the counter, rummaging, and came back up with a sachet. Cheap, instant, the kind you had forgotten was empty in your own cupboard that morning. “Guess you’re lucky.”
The laugh that escaped you was unexpected, shaky but real. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” He poured hot milk into the cup and tore open the sachet, stirring it with a plastic stirrer before sliding it across the counter toward you. “Not fancy, but it does the job.”
You wrapped your cold hands around the cup, letting the steam fog your glasses. The first sip was too sweet, too artificial, but it spread warmth through your chest all the same.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “Burned my tongue on that stuff more times than I’d like to admit.”
You let out a small laughter.
“You’re a lifesaver,” you said, quieter than before, without even thinking.
Frankie leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying you with that same patient calm. “So… rough day?”
You gave a short laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh.
“That’s an understatement. Everything that could go wrong… did. Work, people, driving in the rain…” You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the cup in your hands. “Even the guy I was seeing decided today was apparently a good day to end things.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the way Frankie’s presence felt like a safe place to set them down.
His expression softened. “Sorry to hear that.”
You shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter as much as it did. “Guess I should have seen it coming.”
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the rain pattering against the roof of the store. Then Frankie’s warm voice cut it.
“Sometimes people walk away because they don’t see what’s right in front of them. Doesn’t mean you’re not worth staying for.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You blinked down at the swirl of cocoa in your cup, unsure how to respond. Frankie, sensing the heaviness, shifted the mood gently.
“Besides,” he added with a smirk, “you survived your first time filling up your car. That’s a win. I’ve seen people mess it up a lot worse.”
The corner of your mouth curved despite yourself.
“Really?”
“Really.”
His grin widened just enough to warm you more than the hot chocolate.
You stayed like that longer than you meant to. Him leaning on the counter, you sipping slowly, both of you watching the rain blur the world outside. The silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it was a kind of ease you hadn’t realized you had been craving.
When you finally set the empty cup down, Frankie glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Roads will still be slick for a while. If you want, you can sit here till it eases up.”
You should have said no, you barely knew him, and there was no reason to linger. But the thought of stepping back into the rain, into the lonely silence of your car, made you hesitate. And the way Frankie looked at you, not pushing, just quietly offering, made the decision easier.
“Maybe just for a bit,” you murmured.
His answering nod was small but warm, as if he had been hoping you would say yes. And so you stayed. The two of you ended up sitting at the small plastic table tucked near the coffee machine. You weren’t sure why, maybe because it was better than standing, maybe because Frankie’s presence made it easy to settle into the moment. He had brought over a bag of chips, torn open at the corner, and slid it between you without asking.
The storm outside pressed against the windows, the world beyond blurred into streaks of gray. But inside, there was warmth. The hum of the lights overhead, the crinkle of the chip bag, the soft sound of Frankie’s laugh when you told him about forgetting your lunch… it all softened the edges of your day.
He wasn’t much of a talker, not at least in the way that cut the silence just to fill it. But when he spoke, it was simple and honest. A story about a customer who once drove off with the nozzle still in their car. A confession that he hated working nights but liked the quiet between shifts. Little things that made him real, solid. You found yourself telling him things too. How driving still made you nervous. How the rain tonight had made your chest tight the whole way there. How sometimes it felt like you were still catching up to everyone else.
Frankie listened. Really listened. No judgment, no interruption. Just that steady gaze and the occasional nod, like everything you said mattered.
By the time the worst of the pour began to ease, you realized you weren’t ready to leave. The thought of stepping back into the night, into your car, into your empty apartment didn’t compare to this unexpected but pleasant pause.
But you couldn’t stay foreve, you knew that. So you rose reluctantly, sliding your empty cup across the table. Frankie stood too, tugging his cap back on, his smile small but certain.
“You’ll be okay on the road now,” he said. “Just take it slow.”
You nodded, adjusting your damp jacket.
“Thank you. For the help. And for… this.”
He tipped his head slightly, his eyes catching yours.
“Anytime.”
He accompanied you to the door, both of you awkwardly reluctant to part ways.
“There you go,” he said with his crooked grin, dipping his large hands in the pockets of his worn out jeans. “Next time, you’ll have it down. Or…” His eyes sparked with something playful. “You can call me, and I’ll play the hero in the rain again.”
Your laugh surprised you once more, small but real, bubbling up despite the weight of the day. For a heartbeat, the world before you stepped into the gas station seemed to haven't existed. The storm, the exhaustion, the hollow ache left by that text. There was only him, steady and close.
“I might take you up on that some time.”
His smile widened, slow and genuine. For a moment, it felt like the air between you hummed with something more. Something unspoken, left hanging in the quiet. But neither of you reached for it. You only held his gaze, memorizing the curve of his smile, the steadiness in his eyes, lingering on you like maybe he felt it too.
And then, with a final nod, you stepped out into the damp night, the heavy rain finally softening to a drizzle. As you drove off, headlights cutting through the mist, you glanced once in the rearview mirror. Frankie was still there, framed in the yellow glow of the gas station, one hand lifted in a small wave, watching until you disappeared into the dark.
The day had been nothing but disaster, one thing after another, breaking you down piece by piece. And yet, somehow, it ended with this. With him. Brief, unexpected, fleeting but warm enough to carry with you, long after the storm.
Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader • w/c: 557 • masterlist
Note: Little comfort snippet because today is one of those weird sad-brain days and apparently the only thing that helps is writing Javi being soft somewhere in Laredo.
Warnings: mild angst, hurt/comfort, reader having a weird sad day, Javier Peña being annoyingly good at reading people, warm hug, soft touches, hair kisses, one sad reader, one very patient DEA agent, feelings sneaking in
The room is loud. Too loud. Music, people laughing somewhere behind you, glasses clinking. Everyone seems to be having a good time.
You’re standing near the wall pretending to watch the crowd when you feel it. That quiet pull of someone looking at you. You glance up.
Javi’s across the room. Plaid shirt, sleeves down for once, talking to a couple of guys. But the moment your eyes meet his, the conversation clearly stops mattering. He watches you for a second. Then he’s already walking over. “Hey,” he says softly when he reaches you.
“Hey.”
He studies your face a little too carefully. “You okay?”
You shrug. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Javi tilts his head. “That the story we’re going with?”
You try to smile. “Maybe.”
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. “C’mere.” His hand settles at the back of your arm, guiding you gently through the crowd and out into the hallway where it’s quieter.
The door shuts behind you and the noise drops instantly.
Javi leans back against the wall, looking at you again. “Alright,” he says. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Bullshit.”
You look down.
He sighs softly, then reaches out, pulling you closer until you’re standing right between his knees where he’s leaning against the wall. His hands settle warm at your sides. “You’ve had that look all night,” he says quietly.
“What look?”
“The one where you’re pretending you’re fine.”
You don’t answer.
Javi’s thumb brushes slowly along your arm. “Hey,” he murmurs.
You finally look up at him.
His expression softens immediately. “There she is,” he says gently.
Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “I’m just having a weird day.”
“Yeah?”
You nod.
For a second he just watches you. Then his hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly along your cheek. “You wanna tell me about it?”
You shake your head. “Not really.”
“That’s alright.” He pulls you into him without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your shoulders.
You melt into him almost immediately.
Javi presses a soft kiss into your hair. “I got you,” he murmurs.
You exhale against his chest. After a moment you mumble: “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being… like this.”
His arm tightens slightly. “Hey.”
You look up again.
“Don’t apologize for needing a minute,” he says quietly. Then his thumb brushes under your eye. “You take all the time you want,” he adds. “And I’ll stay right here.”
You’re quiet for a second. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“At what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing weakly between the two of you. “Making me feel better.”
Javi huffs a small laugh. “Years of practice.”
“With who?”
He shrugs a little. “Stubborn people.”
“Are you calling me stubborn?”
“I’m saying,” he replies calmly, “you’re lucky I like you.”
That finally pulls a small laugh out of you.
Javi notices immediately. “There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That sound.” He nudges your chin gently with his knuckle. “I was starting to miss it.”
You shake your head, but you’re still smiling a little now.
“Feel a little better?” he asks.
“A little.”
“Good.” He presses another soft kiss into your hair and pulls you a little closer. “See?” he murmurs. “Told you I’d fix it.”
See Masterlist for story warnings. Spotify playlist.
Authors Note
Tumblr you're getting this first because Ao3 is always fuckin down so here is your treat. Let me know what you think!
Chapter Summary
You say goodbye to Marcus (for now) and start your plan to escape Austria
Karoline left the room to give the two of you a chance to…talk. No one wanted to call it goodbyes, because that was acknowledging the possibility that your plan could fail and you may never see each other again. It was a plan you had to craft so quickly that the chances of your failure weren’t nonexistent. There were likely numerous cracks in the plan that could screw you up.
“We have time to solidfy our plan.”
You turned your head from the door you watched Karoline walk out of toward Marcus. It was as if he was dipping his hand into the pool of your brain and pulling out your thoughts.
“How are we supposed to do that if I am prevented from speaking to you?”
He hummed and you didn’t notice that his hand was resting over yours.
“You still have your Sundays, no?”
The shooting lessons. Everything in the last few days had moved so quickly that your lesons seemed so miniscule compared to what was going on right in front of you.
“I-I think so,” you became keenly aware of how fast your heart was racing, a similar pace as it did in your nightmares, “I’m unsure what Thomas will expect of my time now. He seems to be cracking down on what he is allowing me to do.”
You couldn’t hide the laugh of disbelief that came out of you.
“The only reason I even entertained him was because he treated me like a human and not a woman. Everyone I open up to disappoints me.”
A flash of hurt went through Marcus’s face, but he recovered quickly, understanding that you meant no harm. It was true. Everyone in your life has hurt you. Except him.
For now.
That’s all that could echo through your mind as your hand flinched out from under Marcus’s and you stood up, pacing your chambers.
He hasn’t hurt you yet.
“Are you not comfortable with this?” Marcus chimed in softly while you paced, chewing your nails to the quick. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. None of this matters if it’s not what you want–”
“--it is what I want!” you dropped your hands from your mouth, “It is what I want more than anything in the world, a chance to finally be happy. A chance to feel something I have never been allowed to feel. But I can’t stop thinking about how this is all too easy.”
Marcus did not move from the bed, but you could see he wanted to. He wanted to hold you and tell you it was okay and that your brain had become so adapted to not trusting others that you didn’t know what was real or not anymore.
But he didn’t move. You needed to work through this yourself if you were ever going to trust again.
“I love you and I have no shame in admitting that I love you, but that is a term I have said before, and it is a term that has been used against me while I was being tortured by the same man. I can’t…” You brought your hand to your chest in a fist, wanting to rip your heart out and hand it to him. “Promise me. Marcus, promise me you won’t betray me like everyone else has.”
He was watching you, eyebrows furrowed and a frown plastered on his face. He looked so focused, so deep in thought. And yet, he said nothing. You chewed on your lower lip, your eyes welling with tears.
“Come on Marcus, I can’t…I can’t do this if I don’t promise me. I know promises don’t mean much and you can always disobey me but for my own state of mind please Marcus, please. Just promise me you won’t hurt me.”
He waited until you finished, a hot tear falling down your face and your lip quivering after putting all of your insecurities on a platter for him. All of this was for your own peace of mind. But your mind never knew peace, did it?
He slowly rose from the bed and stood in front of you, taking your hands in his. His thumbs ran over your faintly bleeding fingers from how bad you chewed on them. You hadn’t even noticed you broke skin, nor that your body was slightly shaking. You didn’t realize until you had his hands to compare.
“I wish I could have seen you in a world different from this one. Where you have a different family. One that is normal and common and loves you the way you should be loved. One that protected you from the horrors of what war looks like a normal family. A child who has been hurt only knows a life of hurt, and you have been hurt just by being born into this family. It is cruel, and unfair, and I–” he caught himself and sighed, “I thought I was religious before I met you. Since I was a kid I went to church every Sunday, just like I was taught. In the battalion, I attended every mass they held for soldiers because it was the only time I could ever escape the guilt that bore down on me every waking moment. I prayed after every fight that the men I killed and my brothers who were killed made it safely to heaven despite their crimes because they were all just boys. They didn’t know any better.”
“I used to wear a cross, you know. Right here, under my shirt,” he released one of his hands and pressed it on his chest. “It was my moms. I don’t think I ever told you about her–I don’t think I tell most people about her, really. She had tuberculosis and died a few years after Elise was born. She didn’t have much of her own since everything was in my fathers name, but that cross necklace was the one thing in the world that was hers. Her mother had given it to her and her to me. God was my only connection left to everyone I loved and everyone I lost.”
He inhaled and wiped your quiet tears that were now falling more rapidly.
“I threw it in the river where we first spoke months ago.”
A ragged breath escaped you. You stopped believing in God the moment you prayed and prayed to him to get you out of France and no one came, but you knew how deeply religion rested for people. A deep part of you envied those who were able to wake up in the morning and believe that there was a God out there who was going to protect them.
You spoke no higher than a whisper.
“Why did you do that?”
His lower lip jutted out slightly as he frowned, his own eyes welling. He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed.
“At first, when I looked at you, it just verified my belief in God. Only a god could create someone as beautiful and kind and articulate as you are. But after that night, the night I heard your nightmares – it all clicked for me. There is no God, or, well–” he chuckled, “There is no God out there that I want to believe in that puts someone who has shown nothing by loyalty to those who do not deserve it and respect to those who receive it the least in such extensive torture. I have met many men deserving of God's wrath and yet a majority of them walk free. I have met a few people who are completely innocent in the world, and yet those people suffer the most. It is cruel, it is unkind, and it is not a God that I choose to believe in.”
He gave up his religion for you.
He gave up his future in heaven for you.
All because he believed in what was just.
“Why would you do that for me?” Your voice cracked despite your effort to steady it. “Marcus… we’ve only known each other a few months. I’m not some innocent girl who has never sinned, I–I am cruel. I hurt people.”
It wasn’t dismissal. You didn’t have it in you to dismiss him.
. He let out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“You think I measure love in months?” he asked softly, like you were the most fragile thing he had ever seen.
“You barely know me,” you insisted, your hands slipping from his chest as you took half a step back. “You know pieces, y-you know what I’ve survived. That isn’t the same as knowing me.”
“I know what matters,” he sounded almost like he was begging.
You shook your head. “You could wake up one day and realize this was intensity. Trauma bonding. That you felt protective, or guilty, or angry at the world. And then what? I lose you too?”
That hit him. You saw the flash of pain, but it didn’t destabilize him. His features rehardened.
“I have spent most of my life hesitating when I know I am in love,” he pleaded, “And every time I hesitated, it cost me.”
Johanna. The unspoken name sat between you, not as a reminder of what Marcus could have had, but as a truth to his experience.
“I have replayed the moment I left her in my head a thousand times. The way she looked at me. The way she asked me to pick her. And I chose the uniform.”
His eyes lifted to yours from the floor.
“I am not doing that again. I am not going to stand in front of something I know is love and pretend I need more proof. I am not going to hesitate until it is buried.”
Your heart pounded so loudly it felt like it might bruise you from the inside.
“I am going to love you loudly,” he said. “Even if it terrifies me. Even if it ruins me. Even if it means I burn everything else down to do it.”
You scanned his face for doubt but found none.
“And if this fails?” you wiped his tears the way he wiped your,“If we fail?”
“Then I fail loving you,” he said immediately. “Not wondering.”
He was ready to die if it meant loving you. And that broke you.
You stepped forward and kissed him.
It was desperate and trembling and full of everything neither of you could afford to say out loud. It was hungrier and faster than your kiss earlier, more urgent.
Your hands fisted in his undershirt. His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you flush against him like instinct.
He kissed you back with the same intensity he had just promised. His mouth moved against yours in fast bites that stole the air from your lungs. One of his hands slid up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades as if cementing you to him.
You felt him grow hard when you deepened it the kiss, slipping your tongue in his mouth. His mouth trailed to your jaw. Down your neck. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging slightly, earning a low, involuntary moan from his throat that invigorated you..
He walked you backward without breaking the kiss until the back of your knees hit the bed. You fell onto it, pulling him with you.
He caught himself with one arm so he wouldn’t crush you, hovering above you as he kissed you slower now; less frantic, more intentional.
His hand slid under your dress to your thigh.
“Marcus,” you exhaled.
He froze instantly.
“Tell me to stop.”
You shook your head quickly. “No. I just…”
You swallowed, your hands sliding to his shoulders.
“When I have you,” you chewed your cheek, “I want it to last.”
He blinked.
“Last?”
“I don’t want our first time to be because we’re afraid we won’t get another chance. I don’t want it rushed.”
His expression softened in a way that almost undid you without touch.
“You think I would rush you?”
“No…I think I would rush me.”
He studied your face for a long moment before a slow grin tugged at his mouth.
“You think I can’t make you finish in five minutes?”
Your mouth dropped open.
“Marcus.”
He laughed quietly, his forehead dropping to yours, still breathing hard.
“I am exceptionally efficient,” he added gravely.
You swatted his shoulder.
“This is not a battlefield Acacius.”
“Everything is a battlefield.”
“Do not militarize my body.”
He grinned wider. “Noted.”
You couldn’t stop the breathless laugh that escaped you. He’s such a fucking tease.
“I want it to last too,” he said. “When I have you like that… I want it to be because you are safe. Not because we’re counting hours.”
Your hands slid up to cradle his jaw.
“Promise me one more thing,” you mumbled.
His expression turned serious immediately.
“I can’t promise I’ll never hurt you,” he said carefully. “I’m human. I will make mistakes. I will frustrate you. I will get things wrong. But I promise I will never betray you. I will never weaponize your trust. I will never make you regret loving me.”
Your lip quivered and he kissed it like a wound he was trying to make better.
“I hesitated once,” he murmured. “I am not hesitating with you.”
You rolled your lips into your mouth and looked at every detail of his face, encasing him into your mind.
“We should leave before Karoline can’t cover for me fixing my dress anymore,” you tried to chuckle, but both of you knew how scary this would be. You sat up slowly, (actually) fixed your dress, and fixed up your hair so it wouldn’t look so disheveled. When you turned around, Marcus was wearing his armour again. Now that you held it in your own hands, you grimaced at how heavy it must have felt on him. He seemed unfazed by it, standing straight up like he was trying to morph back into his guard persona.
He looked you up and down with a soft smile, so undeniably soft underneath the hardness of his armor. You could see his throat bob as he swallowed.
“You should…you should leave first in case they’re nearby. I’ll hide and wait until the coast is clear.”
You still wanted to cry. You hadn’t let all of your tears out. You didn’t have enough time in the world to let your tears out.
Don’t say goodbye.
You put on the same sad smile he had on and gave him one last soft kiss, hoping that the universe would freeze time with your lips on his.
But the universe has never shown to have been on your side.
You leaned back and closed your eyes.
“Be safe. Please.”
He chuckled, but you could sense how anxious he was, “Bah, don’t worry about me. I’m a war hero, remember?”
You laughed softly back, so that your possible last memory together would be a happy one. Then you squeezed his hand and left your chambers.
As time went on, the information started slipping from him like water. He wasn’t a careless man by any means, but he was proud.
“You worry too much about the eastern corridor,” Laurent had said, swirling his wine lazily. “No one is foolish enough to attack through the Ardennes in winter.”
You tilted your head slightly. “No one?”
He smirked. “No one who wishes to keep their men alive. Supplies move south this month. The north will be quiet.”
South. You stored that in your brain for notes, trying to keep your expression curious.
“And if someone were foolish?” you pressed.
He stepped closer. “Then they would starve before they reached us.”
You hummed as if impressed. God, how stupid was he?
You had what you needed – you should have left then. But leaving immediately would have been suspicious. And Laurent was watching you with that predatory interest again.
“You are very invested in military logistics for someone who claims boredom.”
“Strategy fascinates me,” you replied smoothly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You enjoyed learning new things. You were learning more here in France and with Antoine than you ever did in Austria.
“Or control does.”
You smiled. “Are they not the same thing?”
He studied you longer than you liked. It always made you wonder if he was putting the pieces together that you were the spy that was now making rounds.
“You hide yourself well,” he said.
“So do you.”
He laughed softly, more gentle than usual. Like he was a real man and not the devil–though those two words are basically the same thing.
“You think I hide?”
“I think,” you said, stepping just close enough for him to notice, “that you prefer to be underestimated.”
“And you?” he asked quietly, eyes darting from your eyes to your lips. “What do you prefer?”
You had the information. You could bow your head, offer a polite farewell, walk out untouched.
You had too much of an ego to walk away. So, you held his gaze.
“I prefer honesty.”
His brow lifted. “Honesty?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
“And what would you like me to be honest about?”
Your heart began its familiar war drum.
“Why do you invite me here Antoine?” you answered.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Because you are not like the others.”
“That is not honesty. Honesty is details.” you murmured.
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
“You want real honesty?”
“Yes.”
He set his glass aside deliberately.
“I invite you because when you look at me, I cannot tell whether you admire me or are assessing me.”
“And which unsettles you more?” you asked.
“The possibility that you are cleverer than I am.”
You absolutely were.
You let a soft laugh escape.
“Impossible.”
“Is it?”
“You ask questions like a diplomat,” he continued. “You listen like a soldier. And yet you pretend indifference.”
Diplomat was close actually.
“Perhaps I am simply curious. Can a woman not be curious?”
“Curiosity is dangerous.”
“So is boredom.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. He lifted his hand slowly, giving you time to move away, and yet…you didn’t.
His fingers brushed your jaw.
“You are thinking very hard,” he murmured.
“Am I?”
“Yes. I can see it. Your face gets all scrunched up.”
“Maybe I am deciding something.”
“And what is that?”
Whether I let you believe you are winning.
Instead, you said: “Whether you are as bold as you pretend to be.”
“You doubt me?”
“I question you.”
He leaned closer, his voice lowering, raspy from all of his cigars.
“Careful.”
“Why?” you whispered. “Will you prove me wrong?”
His hand moved to your waist and he tilted your chin slightly.
“You came here for more than conversation,” he said softly.
Your heartbeat thundered.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think I came for?”
His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.
“Me.”
God, his arrogance was so useful.
“Perhaps.”
That was all he needed. He kissed you, breaking his own vows with his wife and his vows to his country by kissing a informant.
You kissed him back, breaking your vows to Austria, to your father, to your mother.
But none of them deserved your vows. Not with how they treated you. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer.
“You see?” he murmured against your mouth. “Bold enough.”
His breath was so warm.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I have reason to be.”
“Oh?”
“You’re still here.”
Your fingers curled lightly into his coat.
“You mistake patience for surrender,” you said.
He smiled against your lips.
“I don’t think you surrender to anyone.”
If only he knew.
His mouth returned to yours, savoring what he believed was conquest. Inside, you were cataloging everything. Mostly the way his guard dropped when praised.
“You’re thinking again,” he muttered between kisses. “Stop that.”
“You notice everything.”
“Not everything,” he said. “Just you.”
You forced yourself not to recoil from the intimacy of that statement.
After another lingering kiss, long enough to cement the illusion, you slowly drew back.
“You’re leaving?” he asked with a slight pout.
“For tonight. I’ll come back.”
“You are very controlled.”
“And you are very observant.”
A faint grin, the most boyish you ever seen him.
“You’ll return.”
It wasn’t a question. Of course it wasn’t.
“Perhaps. I’ll consider it.”
You turned and walked to the door. You had let him kiss you – not because you wanted him, but because you refused to be powerless.
And that distinction was everything
The door clicked shut behind you, you couldn’t take your hand off of the knob for a moment. You didn’t want to look away from the happy bubble you were in.
You are a good actor, you told yourself, You have pretended to be an entirely different person. You can fake a few dizzy spells.
You hadn’t thought about Rosaline much. Rosaline de Beaumont was a foreign woman who died in French imprisonment. You worked so hard over the last year to distance yourself from that personality and leave everything in France behind.
But you needed her skills. You needed her ability to adapt in every situation, to not panic. To be confident. Fuck, you just needed her acting skills.
You inhaled one last time facing the door and turned around, walking down the hallway.
You needed her back.
By the time you reached your brother’s wing, your steps had developed the faintest inconsistency. You couldn’t decide how you wanted to go about this and why you were scared now than you were when you spoke to Antoine as Rosaline.
The stakes were higher with Marcus.
The guards opened the door without hesitation. They had been waiting for you for quote a while.
Inside, your brother Adonis stood near the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantel as he spoke in low tones to the Duke. Both men turned at the sound of the door.
Thomas smiled and Adonis grimaced.
“There you are,” he said lightly. “I was beginning to think the dress had defeated you.”
Adonis snorted, not hiding his disdain of you. “Or that she had changed her mind again.”
You paused just inside the threshold, blinking at them as if the room felt too bright.
“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t realize I kept you waiting.”
His smile faltered as he took in your expression.
“You’re pale,” he said, stepping forward. “Have you been unwell?”
Adonis folded his arms, unamused with the attention you were getting.
“She was perfectly fine this morning,” he said flatly. “Now she looks like she’s wandered in from a crypt.”
You pressed your fingers lightly to your temple, trying to remember what you did the last time you had a headache.
“It’s nothing,” you said, letting the words slur slightly. “I just… feel strange.”
“Strange how?”
Thomas was close, his eyes soft like a puppy. Damn him and his bipolar change between kindness and hatred. You always fell for those damn eyes.
You hesitated deliberately.
“Like I’m not entirely here.”
Adonis let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Not entirely here,” he repeated. “That is convenient.”
Thomas shot him a warning glance.
“Adonis.”
“What?” your brother replied firmly. “You’ve seen it. One moment she’s composed, the next she’s trembling like a leaf. It’s exhausting.”
You let your breathing thin, your gaze unfocused, not looking Thomas in the eye.
“I didn’t mean to be exhausting.”
“Then stop performing,” Adonis snapped. “We have enough real problems without theatrics.”
The Duke stepped closer to you, his hand hovering before settling carefully at your elbow.
“Ignore him,” he said gently. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
You swallowed, letting your throat work visibly.
“When I close my eyes, I’m not here,” you said. “I hear things. Water. Voices. And when I open them, I can’t tell which is worse.”
Adonis rolled his eyes.
“This again. Thomas, she is not stable–”
Your hands trembled more noticeably now.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” you whispered. “I thought if I dressed and came down like normal, it would pass.”
“And yet it hasn’t,” Adonis said coldly. “Do you know how this looks? The council already whispers. They think you’re unstable.”
Thomas scowled at your brother. “She has endured trauma.”
“She has indulged it,” Adonis countered. “Other women survive worse without turning themselves into spectacles.”
You flinched, letting the motion be small but visible.
“I am trying,” you said faintly. “I practice in the mirror. Smiling. Standing straight. I thought if I rehearsed it enough, my body would listen.”
Thomas’s puppy eyes darkened with something protective.
“She should not have to rehearse sanity.”
Adonis laughed again.
“Sanity would help.”
You made your breathing faster.
“I didn’t mean to ruin anything tonight,” you said, swaying slightly. “I know I make things difficult.”
“Yes,” Adonis said without hesitation. “You do.”
Thomas moved closer immediately, both hands now steadying your arms as your balance wavered.
“Enough,” he said firmly. “Can you not see she’s unwell?”
“I see a woman who understands precisely when to falter,” Adonis replied. “Every time responsibility approaches, she collapses. She is stressed about the wedding and is pulling this.”
You let your knees weaken just slightly.
“I’m not pretending,” you whispered. “I wish I were.”
“Of course you do,” Adonis said dryly. “That would absolve you of it.”
The Duke’s voice dropped.
“Look at me,” he told you gently. “Focus on my voice. You are safe.”
“I don’t feel safe,” you breathed, letting panic edge into your tone. “My own thoughts feel like they’re closing in.”
Adonis threw his hands up and scoffed.
“This is absurd. We should have confined her months ago instead of indulging these episodes.”
“No physicians,” you said quickly, clutching weakly at the Duke’s coat. “Please. They ask too many questions. I can’t–I can’t answer them without–”
“Without inventing something new?” Adonis cut in.
Thomas’s head snapped toward him. “That is enough.”
Your body swayed harder now, and this time you allowed your legs to give out completely. You had to brace yourself for the very likely possibility that you were about to bruise.
He caught you before you hit the floor, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other braced your back.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered urgently. “You’re not falling. My sweet girl.”
Your head lolled against his chest, lashes fluttering as if consciousness thinned.
“She’s doing it again,” Adonis muttered, though there was the faintest edge of uncertainty beneath his irritation. “Every time.”
“She is not doing anything,” he shot back. “She is collapsing.”
You stirred faintly in the Duke’s arms, letting your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his coat.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I wanted to be better tonight. I didn’t want you to think I was… broken.”
“You are not broken,” he said with quiet intensity. “You have been pushed beyond what anyone should endure.”
Adonis’s voice turned colder. “And yet the world does not pause for her fragility.”
“She is not fragile,” Thomas snapped. “She is injured.”
You attempted to stand, pushing faintly against him, but let your legs fail again so he had no choice but to lift you fully into his arms.
“I don’t want to be alone,” you murmured, barely audible.
“You won’t be,” he promised immediately, his free hand stroking your hair.
Adonis watched as the Duke carried you toward the adjoining chamber, his expression a mixture of frustration and…concern?.
“This cannot continue,” he said. “If she cannot stand through a conversation, how is she meant to stand beside you?”
Thomas did not look back. “Then we adjust the world around her. Not the other way around.”
As you let your breathing even into the fragile rhythm of feigned unconsciousness, you knew exactly what had just shifted. Rosaline was back.
The holidays are around the corner and I have been working on a special project for my readers. I have mentioned it before but...
On December 15th I will be dropping
1. A final, completed version of "So much to Lose" in epub and mobi format.
It will include the following:
- fully edited story (I'm doing my best here kids, don't expect perfection!)
- additional and expanded scenes
- a brand new chapter
- the final installment of the seasons series
- a kiss for each one of you who read, wrote comments, supported me and fell in love with the characters.
2. A companion book who's details I am keeping a surprise for now!
I read many of you telling me that you couldn't afford much in this economy and I heard you. All of this is FREE, my Christmas gift to you.
3. I have also started an author instagram in the hopes of building a following so I can go to publishers to be like "See! People like me! Publish my book!" If they don't, the plan is to self publish STFF by July 2026 and "The F*ck-It List" by early 2027 (or earlier if things work out well!) so if you could support me on there I would so appreciate it!!!
Lastly, if you feel like tipping this author, I thank you kindly. Ko-fi is here.
"Who the hell has a bachelor party two days before Christmas?"
"Someone whose best man must be clueless. I'm surprised all those guys were even able to make it," you tell Addy, handing over the last of her drinks from your place behind the bar. There has to be at least thirty guys attending the bachelor party. "Do you need help carrying them up?"
She looks over her shoulder, knocking her drooping Santa hat out of her field of vision. The loft overlooking the bar where you work is where parties are always held and the staircase to get up there tends to get crowded.
"No, I think I'm good. Thanks, though. I'm sure I'll be back in ten minutes with more orders," Addy replies, rolling her eyes. She stoops down and lifts the tray of drinks to balance on her shoulder, then begins to weave her way through the crowd.
It's busy. Always is before a holiday. People who are usually not in town come back to visit their families and, once relatives turn in for the night, they try to make plans to catch up with old friends. Given your bar is the favorite amongst the locals, it tends to be one of the busiest nights of the year. You and the other girls you work with have found over the years that dressing up a little earns you more tips from patrons who are already feeling rather generous and in the holiday spirit. Tonight is no exception. Wearing a Santa hat, a tight black tshirt, and a short velvet red skirt with a thick white trim to match your hat has already earned you more money tonight than you made all of last weekend combined.
It's so loud and you're so busy fielding as many requests as you can that you don't even hear the crash of glass until Addy returns with a sheepish look and a completely soaked shirt.
"I should've taken you up on that offer to help," she says, looking down at her ruined clothes. "I fucking reek of beer, oh my god."
"Oh, no! Here, I brought an extra change of clothes," you say, leaning under the bar for your tote bag.
"No, no, I can't do that! It's freezing out, you need your jeans for later."
"I'd rather you take my jeans for the night than leave me to handle that party upstairs," you say, shoving the bag into her arms. She gives you a grateful smile and hurries away to clean up. With the help from another girl, you remake the dropped drinks and volunteer to take them up yourself.
"Excuse me!" you shout over the music, pushing people out of the way with your free hand so they don't accidentally bump into your tray. You take the stairs carefully, sidestepping one of the busboys who is cleaning up the broken glass, and breathe a sigh of relief when you make it to the top unscathed.
A quick scan of the group tells you the men seem to be a few years older than you. Most are probably married or settled down in some way. Those are usually the best kind of bachelor parties—they aren't too rowdy and they tip well.
It seems like they just wrapped up eating and now are milling around the room. Some are staring at some sporting event on the television and pointing out had it not been for that pesky knee injury, they could have gone pro. Others are laughing at the mostly empty table over some story from their glory days. But one man unfortunately noticed you before the rest and stumbled over with a sloppy smile and reddened cheeks.
"Are you our new waitress or did you just get hotter since you left?" he slurs. You resist the urge to scrunch your nose in disgust and when you bend to set the tray of drinks down on the table, you try to be conscientious of your short skirt.
"Just thought I'd help Addy while she cleans herself up," you say, gaze cast down and focused on the drinks. But the guy doesn't take the hint.
"Aw, that's a shame. But you can hang out with us, yeah?"
You shake your head and blindly begin passing out the beers.
"I'm tending bar downstairs, I gotta get back, but I promise you're in good hands."
Stale breath sweeps across your cheek and he says—not as quietly as he thought—"Think I like your hands better, sweetheart."
Your back and forth must have pulled the attention of others because a boisterous conversation happening across the table dies down. You're trying not to look up for fear your face will give away your disgust, but when you hear a familiar voice, your head snaps up.
"Ho, Ho, Ho-ly shit!"
When you see Tommy Miller with the group in front of the television wearing a half buttoned flannel and a tacky button pinned to it that says, "I'm getting married, buy me a drink!", you smile and straighten up.
"Tommy!" You toss your arms around him for a big hug and it takes about five more seconds before you realize it:
If Tommy is here for his bachelor party, then that means...
"Joel! Look who it is!" Tommy turns with a cheeky grin, one arm still slung loose around your waist, the other pointing to you like Joel didn't already see you when you walked up the stairs.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to find him amongst the now mostly quiet group. Downstairs the music is still playing, people are shouting and laughing, yet for a second it all fades away when you lock eyes with Joel.
He's hard to read. Always has been. But his expression looks taught and you're pretty sure he's angrily chewing on the inside of his cheek as those soft, dark brown eyes flicker between you and his brother.
You clear your throat and take a step away from Tommy.
"Hey," you nod to Joel, voice obviously void of the excitement you harbored just a moment ago.
He grunts and looks away, then back up to his brother.
"This is why you picked this place?" he asks. You bristle, wishing you weren't working so you could give him a piece of your mind, but instead focus on distributing the rest of the drinks.
Tommy laughs. "No, no, it's just a good spot, is all."
"Did you know she worked here?"
You scoff under your breath but Joel still hears it.
As much as you wish it didn't hurt to hear the iciness in his tone, it does. You do your best to brush it off and hurry back downstairs, but then an unexpected hero comes to your rescue.
"Hey... that's why you look so familiar." Their friend, the one who was clearly way too drunk to process what was going on, spoke up. He points lazily at you and you look up. He's slowly piecing it together, you can see it, then his eyes light up when he figures it out. "You're the one in the, in the wallet! In Joel's wallet! Asked him—hey, hey, Joel—" He turns to find Joel glaring at him from his chair, arms pulled tightly across his chest. "She's the one from your wallet, 'member? When I was askin' earlier—"
"Shut the fuck up, Charlie!" Joel shouts.
"Alright, Joel, enough. Don't ruin my night, okay?" Tommy scolds. You have to stifle a grin when Joel's neck flushes bright pink with embarrassment and you figure that's enough payback for his shitty comment, so you collect your now empty tray with renewed confidence and fix the Santa hat on your head.
"Well, it was great seeing you, Tommy. Congrats," you say, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. You can practically feel the daggers Joel is staring into your back and you smirk to yourself before heading towards the stairs, throwing your hips a little more than usual so that your Santa skirt sways as you walk away.
When you make it downstairs and back behind the safety of your bar, you finally exhale a loud, shaky breath. One of the other girls notices and gives you a look of concern.
"Everything alright?"
You nod and snatch up a shot glass. Pouring from the closest bottle, you toss it back with a wince before answering.
"Yeah," you say, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth. "Just saw my ex-husband upstairs. Merry fucking Christmas to me."
---
It was a long night but mercifully, busy enough to keep your mind from dwelling too long on Joel. And after tip out, you made enough to cover half your rent for the month. Awkward encounter aside, it was a good night, but you're bone tired and freezing your ass off as you shuffle to your car across the empty parking lot in just that stupid Santa skirt.
"Jesus fucking Christ," you whine once you're inside your car, teeth chattering and hands shaking. Once the engine starts, you blast the heat, but your car is old as dirt and you know better by now than to expect the thing to actually heat up in less than the fifteen minutes it takes to get home.
The roads are empty, like they usually are at this hour. It's usually calming but tonight your fingers grip the steering wheel as you desperately try to warm yourself up.
Taking the back roads is quicker, so you always go that way. Hardly anyone ever takes these streets, especially in the middle of the night, so when your headlights flicker dim for a moment followed by a loud sputter from your exhaust, you know you're absolutely fucked.
"No!" you scream when the engine dies. You're able to slow down and steer just off the road so you're safe, but you're freezing even more and now on the verge of tears.
Once you're safely in park, you pick up your phone and groan.
"No signal," you mutter, but you try anyway. After the third attempt you give up and let the tears flow. All you want to do is go home, get under your covers, and pray that look Joel gave you earlier doesn't haunt your dreams. Instead, you're going to freeze to death on the side of some country road wearing a tiny Santa skirt and matching hat.
After about ten minutes of feeling sorry for yourself, you stop crying but don't bother to wipe the dried tears from your face. You're already about to have the worst night ever, who cares if you have mascara streaked down your cheeks?
Just when you're thinking about using fast food napkins as a blanket, you spot headlights in your review mirror and you gasp.
"Oh, my god!" You're scrambling to unbuckle your seatbelt so you can flag them down, but it turns out you don't need to—the truck slows and parks behind you, already anticipating your cry for help.
"Oh, thank god," you mutter, watching with relief as the shadow of your savior steps out of the truck. You lean back in your seat with a sigh. "Yes, yes, yes, yes—"
But when the man's broad body blocks the bright headlights, revealing an all too familiar face, your joy vanishes.
"No, no, no, no."
Joel leans down with a friendly smile and lifts his hand to knock on your window, but when he sees you, he freezes. His face immediately falls into a scowl and with a defeated sound, you open your door.
"Just leave me here, I'd rather die," you say.
Joel scoffs and steps back. He tries to catch himself, but you saw the quick once over he gave you before angling his body towards the woods—and even though you've been cursing this skirt since you stepped out of the bar, you're a teensy bit grateful for it now.
"Fine by me."
"I'll wait for someone else."
"Yeah? Dressed like that?" Joel nods angrily towards your ridiculous get up. "Gonna freeze to death but be my guest."
Then he turns to head back to his truck, boots crunching loudly over the snowy ground. You shift your weight and anxiously chew your bottom lip before throwing your hands in the air.
"Wait!"
Joel stops but doesn't turn. You take a deep breath.
"Can you... can you help me?" You hear how pathetic you sound and can only imagine how pleased he must be to have the upper hand.
"Yeah? Why should I do that?" he calls over his shoulder. You think about it for all of two seconds.
"For old times sake?"
Joel huffs. His shoulders tense and he begins to walk away, then you try again.
"Joel, please! It's Christmas!"
He skids to a stop with his hand on the door of his truck. From here, you can see his jaw work as he thinks things over. You wrap your arms around yourself and bounce from foot to foot, legs practically made of ice at this point. Finally, he sighs and turns to you.
"Fine."
He moves to open the backseat of his cab and you crane your neck, trying to see what he's doing. He shuts the door and heads back to your car carrying a toolbox.
"Get in the truck."
You squeak happily, grab your purse from the front seat, and hurry past him to his truck. Warmth wraps around you like a hug when you open the door and you could cry you're so happy. Rubbing your arms and legs while hovering near the fans, you desperately try to bring life back to your limbs while Joel pops the hood of your car.
Ten minutes and some feeling in your fingers later, Joel returns.
"I'm gonna give you a jump but it takes some time to charge the battery," he says from the backseat. He's rifling around for something under the driver's seat and you nod.
"Thank you."
He grunts and slams the door shut, and you watch as he takes jumper cables over to your car. He does something you can't see before he returns and hops behind the wheel. You sit in silence as Joel moves his truck then turns around so your cars are facing one another, then he slides back out to attach the cables to his own truck. The hood is popped so you can't really see him, but you can see his hands—the way they move, twisting cables, examining other foreign looking objects under the hood... he does it so smoothly, like he's done this a hundred times. He barely has to think about it. He's always been one of those men who learns things very fast. He's smart, you used to tell him so all the time, but he didn't think so, no matter how many times you pointed out what a remarkable memory he had or how he just had an innate ability to understand how something—or someone—works.
Heat flares between your legs and you quickly shut it down by forcing your attention elsewhere, but your mind wanders against your will, back to simpler times when you were young and in love, breathlessly telling Joel how amazing he was when he was making you fall apart with his fingers or mouth or—
"Alright. Got 'bout twenty minutes."
Joel climbs into the cab and shuts the door with a shudder. You watch as his hands cup the fans on his dashboard, capturing the heat between his palms before bringing his curled fists up to his mouth to exhale, warming them up faster.
You shiver and look away, then his gaze is back on you.
"You coulda died out here wearin' that."
"I know."
There's a pause. Then—
"What the hell were you thinkin'?"
You sigh and lean back into the worn grey fabric seat. "It wasn't my first choice. Your waitress dropped drinks all over herself so I gave her the clothes I was gonna change into after work."
You stare out the window as a thick silence settles between you once again. Just when you think this is going to be the longest twenty minutes of your life, Joel says something that surprises you.
"M'sorry, 'bout earlier."
Your brows shoot up in shock and you look at him, but he's staring straight ahead, like what he's saying is causing him actual pain.
"Shouldn'tve been rude. Just took me by surprise, is all."
You're speechless. The last thing you expected from him was an apology, you're not prepared at all, but you know you need to say something because too much time is stretching on and Joel is starting to shift uncomfortably in his seat.
"It's okay," you finally say. His eyes dart to lock with yours and in that moment you swear you can see the man you fell in love with all those years ago, buried somewhere underneath all that gruff. The longer he stares at you the faster your heart races and you can't stop the shiver that rolls down your spine. Joel sees it and frowns.
"You're cold, here," he says, shrugging off his oversized brown coat. Before you can protest he has it wrapped around your shoulders, and when you inhale his warm, comforting scent, your eyelids flutter shut and you shamelessly bury your nose into the collar.
The corner of his mouth lifts but he turns his face away before you see it.
"So, uh... how long you been workin' there?" He's staring down at the speedometer like it holds some valuable information—anything to find a reason to avoid your eye.
"Three years," you tell him. "But I also substitute teach for Oakmont Elementary."
Joel hums. "I can see you doin' that. You'd be good at that."
You grin, trying to hide it behind his coat. "It's fun, I don't mind it."
"You thinkin' 'bout doin' it full time? Bein' a teacher?" When he looks at you now it's so soft and sweet that you temporarily forget all the pain you went through together.
"I'd have to go back to school, I don't know..."
Joel shrugs. "You could do it. Always were good in school."
Your cheeks warm under the compliment. "It'd be a lot of work. Going to class during the day, working at night. That's hard."
"Yeah, but when you stick your mind to somethin', you just do it. Never let anythin' stop you before."
He graces you with a shy smile for the first time all night and you have to look away or else you're afraid you might say something stupid.
Change the subject, you think.
"Did Tommy have fun tonight?"
"Oh, yeah," Joel says, leaning back in his seat with a light grin. "Just dropped him off, as a matter of fact. Shitfaced like you'd expect. Almost wandered into his neighbor's house."
"Ah, so that's why you're out so late."
"Promised him I wouldn't drink so I could get 'em home."
"Well, that's nice, considering the shit he pulled for your bachelor party."
It's a risky move bringing up anything related to your marriage, you knew that. But he just seems so relaxed and you're finally getting the warmth back in your toes and feeling much better than you were thirty minutes ago, so you go for it. And Joel pauses, taken off guard, but then he chuckles low and deep, the sound causing a familiar pull between your legs.
"My god," he murmurs, then rolls his head to the side to give you a look. "To this day I ain't ever hear a woman bring a man to his knees the way you did to me and him that night. Never saw you so mad."
"I warned you—no strippers."
"And I told you I didn't touch any of 'em."
You throw your head back and laugh, missing the way Joel's gaze lingers on the curve of your neck, the plushness of your lips, the smoothness of your skin.
"Bullshit, Joel Miller! You can tell me the truth, we're not married anymore."
When you find his eyes again, there's an energy that pulls between you and it suddenly feels like no time at all has passed.
"I ain't lyin'," he swears, palms up in the air. "The other guys did but I didn't. Scout's honor."
"Yeah, okay," you say, rolling your eyes, but you can't erase the smile he put there a moment ago.
"I didn't need another reason for your old man to hate me, I did what I was told," he says, hand over his heart. You giggle and shake your head.
"Oh, I don't think that would have mattered much. He never liked you."
Joel grins and lets his gaze drift as a comfortable silence settles in the cab.
"I heard he passed a few years back. M'sorry," he says softly, and you meet his eye once again. He looks genuinely sympathetic, despite everything your father did to tear you apart.
"Thanks."
"What was it?"
"Cancer," you tell him, then shrug one shoulder like it didn't mean anything when you both knew it did.
"Ah, shit," he sighs. "You livin' in that house?"
"Nah. Couldn't do it. I sold it," you say, staring down at your hands tangled in your lap. Joel makes a sound like he understands and he lets it go, lets the quiet envelope you once again like he knew you just needed a few minutes to think. He was always good at reading you, you never forgot that.
"I'm sorry, too," you tell him. You hear him twist his head to look at you but you keep your face angled down. "For the way he treated you. He was never good to you, Joel, and I'm so sorry."
"Hey, it's alright. No need to be sorry."
You sniffle and finally raise your chin with glassy eyes. "It's not alright. He said some horrible things to you—"
"He was just scared for his little girl," Joel says, extending a hand across the seat to rest carefully on your knee. "Didn't like some guy six years older than her sniffin' around, had you sneakin' out and shit... hell, lookin' back, I don't blame 'em."
"Well, I do. I blame him," you mumble. Then, to your dismay, one lone tear streaks down your cheek when you add, "Am I horrible? For not forgiving him for what he did to us?"
Joel's eyes widened and his hand instantly lifts from your knee to cup your face. "No," he breathes with a light shake of his head, "No, you ain't horrible. Don't think that."
His thumb brushes over your cheek and you close your eyes.
Well, there's no going back now, you figure. Might as well go all in.
"Why didn't you fight for me, Joel?" you whisper, lower lip trembling. Your eyes slowly open and two more tears fall. "Why didn't you—"
"'Cause I couldn't come between you 'n your family," he says urgently, his own eyes darting back and forth across your face like it was of the utmost importance you understood. "He was gonna disown you. Said he'd never speak to you again unless we got a divorce. And I couldn't be the reason that happened, honey, I just couldn't—"
"But you were my family," you whimper. "I only wanted you."
"I wanted you, too," he says back, voice strained like he's holding back tears. "Thought I was doin' the right thing by lettin' you go. I was young and dumb and scared, I just wanted you to be happy."
"Well, I wasn't," you confess, and one of your hands comes up to curl around his, still pressed gently against your cheek. His hands are big and a little rough, just like you remember, and you close your eyes, leaning into his touch. "I cried for years over you, Joel," you whisper, "Every time I'd hear someone mention your name or I'd see a sign or truck for your business I'd get so fucking angry. Do you know why?"
You force your eyes back open and through the unshed tears, you see him shake his head.
"I hated the idea of you out there, living your life, meeting new people, meeting new girls and forgetting all about me when I could hardly get out of bed most days."
"You meant everythin' to me," he says, jaw tight as he leans closer across the seat. "Still do."
A sob lodges in your throat, but you swallow it down and force out the question that's been on your mind for years.
"Then why are you always so fucking cold to me whenever I see you? Like tonight?"
"'Cause seein' you reminds me of the biggest mistake I ever made, and I fuckin' hate myself for lettin' you go."
The confession falls from his mouth like it had been waiting there for years to be said. No hesitation whatsoever. Just raw emotion packed behind years of regret. You don't know what to do with it, what to say. You just stare at one another, searching each other's eyes like you could find the answers to your problems right there until it dawns on you at the same time—that maybe you never really had any problems at all, aside from meeting a little too young and moving a little too fast.
But nothing is holding you back anymore. You're not freshly out of high school marrying a guy who was struggling to start a construction business with his baby brother. You both have five years of wisdom now, and even after all that time, those feelings you have for Joel still burn hot under your skin.
And that has to mean something.
"Joel?" you whisper, and his brows pitch up ever so slightly in response. His shoulders still like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to say it. So you do.
"Kiss me."
A breathless sound slips past your lips when his mouth presses firmly over your own, but just as quickly as you feel him, he pulls back. His eyes find yours and he searches, like he's looking for an answer to a question he's too scared to ask. You gaze back at him with tear soaked cheeks and a trembling lip, hoping he sees what you feel. Then his throat bobs and his shoulders sag like a weight has been lifted and his mouth finds yours once again.
Desperation fills the cab of his truck. Your mouth falls open and his tongue slides smoothly against yours, never missing a beat. His fingertips dig into your cheek and you pull him forward by his flannel, searching for more. The sharp brush of his beard rubs into an upward motion against your lips and you know he's smiling at your eagerness.
"C'mere," he mumbles before both his hands find your waist and he leans back, hauling you over the seat and into his lap without breaking the kiss. He pushes his coat past your shoulders and tosses it behind him, giving himself better access to your body.
It's all happening so fast that when his hands skate slowly down your sides to curve and cup your ass under your skirt, you jump like a frayed wire. Every nerve ending is alight, as if your body has been waiting all these years to be brought back to life by his touch.
"Easy," he chuckles in between kisses, "it's just me. Just me, baby."
It nearly destroys you. Joel—your first and probably only real love is right here, back in your arms. You kiss him harder and he groans, needy tongues swirling together like you may run out of air.
"Joel—" you gasp, but he cuts you off.
"Christ, I missed you." His mouth sloppily sears over yours with a groan before separating again. "Missed you so much. Then I finally see you and..." His gaze flicks down but you're too busy trailing a path of wet kisses down his neck. "And you're wearin' this slutty little thing. Couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout it... c'mere." His chin drops to seek out your mouth and you let him, moaning softly when your lips reconnect. He kisses like a madman, you always loved that about him. Every kiss feels like it's important, like he needs to show you how he feels because there are no words in existance that do it justice.
"You should see what I wear to work on Valentine's Day," you giggle when he gives you a second to breathe.
"Can't wait."
Then he quiets you with another deep kiss.
Can't wait. Can't wait. Two simple words that hold so much meaning. Two words that assure you whatever happens tonight won't be a one time thing. It sets your heart on fire and you whine into his mouth when his hands dig into the curve of your hips, pulling you down harder into his lap.
Joel leans back with a filthy grin so he can watch you drag your hips back and forth, over his cock straining against his zipper.
"Shit. Christmas came early," he mumbles in a daze as he continues to watch you move.
"That better be the only thing that comes early," you tease before clutching his face in your hands for another lust soaked kiss. And even though there's no real rush, your hands move hastily anyway. They slip between your bodies as your tongue dips into his mouth and he groans when your palm presses over his aching cock. His own slide back under your skirt to wrap around your underwear and he tugs, growing frustrated with the thin piece of fabric.
"Take these off," he demands roughly.
"There's no room," you say, biting at his scruffy chin. "Your steering wheel is digging into my ass."
With one harsh, loud tear, your underwear fall loose. You gasp and open your heavy eyes to watch him pull the black shreds from between your legs, then he tosses it somewhere behind his seat.
"Joel! I already hardly have any clothes as it is!" you exclaim, but he shushes you with a quick kiss before his mouth drops to your throat.
"Don't worry. I'll warm you up," he grins before his hands make their way up your skirt once more. He moans against your neck as his palms glide over your soft skin. Desperation claws at your throat when his fingers glide through your folds, dragging your arousal up to circle your clit. You curse his name and press your body tightly against his chest.
"Please, Joel, please," you beg as you rub the outside of his jeans. His jaw falls open and his head rolls back against the seat before he pulls his hand from between your legs. You whimper at the loss, but then his fingers slip into his mouth with a rough noise and you fall silent, watching him greedily taste you with heavy lidded eyes.
You feel dizzy, short of breath and aching with need when your fingers find his zipper. Pulling it down while he works on the button of his jeans, you moan a little when his cock is finally freed, all thick and heavy between you.
"Sit on it, baby," he pants while watching you lift onto your knees. He pushes up your skirt so he can see you notch the thick head of his cock at your opening and he feels drunk, his brain a cloudy, needy mess at the sight he's dreamt about for years.
Every day that passed without you, the memory of how you felt faded against his will. But having you on his lap now, your scent invading his senses as you slowly sink down on his cock, all those memories come flooding back: your warmth, the tightness of your pussy, the fucking noises you make from your pretty mouth... it's enough to bring him to tears.
One falls and you see it. You're holding your breath, still impaling yourself on his cock and reveling in the stretch, but you still cup his cheek and wipe the tear away. The sweet gesture just makes another one fall and when your hips finally grow flush with his lap, he releases a strained, choked sob, unable to look away from the depth of your gaze.
"Fuck, I missed you," you whisper, pressing your forehead against his.
"I know, baby, I know," he murmurs, blinking away the tears and wrapping his arms around your waist. The tip of your hat gently taps his cheek and he grins when you lift it off your head just to drop it on top of his messy curls.
"There you go," you say with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. "Now you've got the Christmas spirit."
"Already got what I asked for, anyway," he chuckles before the palm of his hand cracks lightly across your ass. You yelp and giggle, falling forward to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
"And here I thought you had a permanent place on the naughty list." You begin to move with more purpose, moaning softly against his collarbone as the tip of his cock catches just right inside you.
"You oughta talk," he scolds with a small smile. It's equal parts frustrating and relieving to have this with him again. Had you just talked things out instead of snapping at each other every time you crossed paths, you would have saved so much time, and yet you can't be mad because you're too grateful to have him at all.
It's so easy to fall back into the familiar rhythm. Just like muscle memory, you both remember what the other likes. Without being asked, you tug your black shirt up and over your head so he can bury his face in your breasts as you ride him. His hands grip and pull you, helping you move and deepen the angle until your thighs start to shake. When his lips suction over your nipple, you arch your back with a sweet moan. His tongue is so warm and wet against your skin so you chase it, bouncing on him a little faster and he rewards you by switching to the other one.
"Yeah, baby, just like that," he pants, warm breath fanning across your wet skin. "Oh, fuck—ju-just like that."
You're stuck staring down at him, at the way the shadows stretch across his face, at the softness around his eyes, at the way he struggles to breathe. A sound catches in your throat and his dark eyes find yours before your mouths crash together in a hungry kiss.
"So good," you whisper against his lips. "So, so good."
He groans and lifts his hips, snapping them up into yours, driving himself deeper. You gasp and one hand reaches out to scramble for leverage, but your fingers just slide down the foggy window next to you. The Santa hat askew on his head falls off somewhere behind him but you're both too soaked with desire to notice.
Your legs shake as you work to keep up with his pace but your whole body is shuddering in his lap and for once, it's not due to the cold. He's slamming into you, pushing mercilessly against a sweet spot hidden away deep inside, and it's tearing you down.
"Oh god, Joel," you cry through clenched teeth, then your head tips back and your eyes squeeze shut and his mouth is on your throat, then your jaw, then your face—quick, urgent kisses that desperately try to make up for lost time.
Joel feels your muscles tighten and he grips you harder. He groans into your skin and fucks up into you, moaning about how good you feel and how tight you are and how he wishes he could have gotten his mouth on you, if only for a few minutes.
"But next time, I'm gonna eat this pussy til you're screamin', hear me?" He's grinding into you, forcing you to take him as deep as you can and stealing all the air from your lungs. "Never gonna let you go after this. Not gonna—shit—not gonna fuck this up again, okay?"
Tears slide down your cheeks and you nod before you gasp sharply and your body spasms with relief on top of him. He groans around the squeeze of your cunt and fucks you faster.
"M'sorry," he whispers over and over. But you're in a love drunk haze, you can barely hear him. Your body slumps forward to rest against his shoulder and a moment later, he comes with a rough curse in your ear. You sigh, pressing your cheek against him as he floods your pussy. He's holding you close to his chest and filling you up until he has nothing left to give and his body sags into the seat.
Your lips seek out the sweaty skin of his throat and you leave little kisses there while he catches his breath.
"Can you come over for Christmas Eve?" he asks suddenly, and you giggle before straightening your spine and leaning back. His eyes are deep and warm and he's giving you that sexy smirk you remember all too well. Your heart flips and it feels like you're falling in love with him all over again.
"Are you sure?"
He nods. "'Course I'm sure. So long as you're ready, 'cause Tommy's gonna give us a lot of shit."
You laugh and his face softens at the sound.
"Okay. I think I can stop by."
Joel smiles and looks down at your skirt fanning over his lap, hiding where you're still connected.
"Can you wear this?"
You smack his shoulder and he laughs. It's so lighthearted that you can't remember any of the heartbreak. You card your fingers through his sweaty hair and he gazes up at you sweetly as his laughter dies down, both of you staring at one another with matching smiles.
"Battery's probably good by now," he finally murmurs, still looking at you with stars in his eyes and a goofy smile on his face.
"Oh, shit, I forgot," you say, glancing over your shoulder at the steamy windshield. Joel fishes around to find your discarded shirt and hands it to you before helping you off his lap. You both groan, muscles aching, then you swing your leg back over to the passenger side. When you slip your shirt back on, you squeeze your thighs together, cheeks burning when you catch his sticky release dripping down your leg.
"You good?" he asks. He's already done his jeans back up and his hand is on the door. He's got his coat back on, ready to finish fixing your car, and your chest aches for him.
Typical Joel. So good at taking care of you.
"Come here," you whisper, then the corner of his mouth lifts before he releases the door handle and he stretches across the cab to press his lips softly against your own.
"Merry Christmas, Joel," you say, kissing the tip of his nose.
He smiles warmly before coming in for one more kiss.
part of the little by little verse in which you are forced to marry quickly after a rumor is spread about you.
warnings: loose historical au (read; I had no time period in mind just an idea which means historically inaccurate to any time period), religion (implied christian), unspecified age gap, major religious guilt and shame, praying, feelings of humiliation and anxiety, gender norms of the time period, mentions of pregnancy (no actual pregnancy), infertility, sexually inexperienced reader, sexually inexperienced and therefore confused about sex reader, smut (fingering, handjob, piv, m!receiving oral, unrealistic first time giving head)
a/n: late post sorry love you
The sun is setting.
You cross the clearing quickly, leather bound notebook beneath your arm, racing the lengthening shadows folding themselves over the swaying branches of the trees; chasing the wraith of your long ago promise to Joel.
The boots on your feet are muddied, your shawl caught with brambles, but you know Joel will not mind to find you that way.
You emerge from the dark enclosure of the forest, furred evergreen boughs swaying in the last dregs of the day’s heat. You had spent the afternoon hiking. meandered and drawn and written unfettered, untethered, a bird released from its coop. You pause and search the rapidly dimming yard for him, anxious to set your eyes on him.
Not just so he knows you have again kept your promise to return home before the veil of darkness has settled in, but because you ache for his company.
You miss him, you find, in a way you have never missed anyone else. Perhaps, because he let you follow your own whims. You are given the chance to miss him, and desire him all the more for it.
Before you were married, you could have disappeared for days at a time and never wanted for company other than your own. You never wanted for anything aside from your own mind, your own freedom.
A soft yellow light unfolds from beneath the stable door as it rolls suddenly open. Joel's silhouette appears, his face a creased mask of worry before his eyes land on you, already turning and hurrying toward him. A smile twitches onto your face, a yearning uncorked in your chest, the barest spark of all too familiar desire, flooding onto your features.
The bruises on your knees, from desperate prayer you'd never engaged in before, twinge as if in response to your thoughts, reminder of all the unnatural wants that now stirred within you since he first laid his hands on you.
"Cuttin' it close tonight, aren’t you?" He calls, expression loosening, shoulders relaxing. He frets, not that you won't return but that you have run into trouble, ever since you nearly drowned.
You slip past him, into the heat of the stables. The days are still long and hot, despite the onset of fall, the slow waning of the days. "I was caught up in something. Were you worried about me, Joel?"
"And what is it you was caught up in?" He ignores your question and you think to press it, make him loosen his tongue and admit he had been worried, though light still seeps in golden rivulets from behind the mountains, the branches of the fir trees.
Joel follows you to his workbench, a new project covered by a worn oil cloth is surrounded by curled wood shavings. You gently push it back, careful not to disturb the cloth and then flip open your notebook with charcoal smudged fingers, the gleam of your wedding band flashing in the sun reminding you of Joel kneeling in the yard among the wildflowers one warm evening, presenting it to you, only weeks ago.
Careful to flip past other, more lewd musings—your favorite and most consistent interest of late being the man close at your heels. As with all things, your curiosity drives you to him, like a moth flocking to the light, like he is a rare species only you could catalog, that must be cataloged.
Though your body aches for him, your sin has always been greed. You are greedy for him, for knowledge of him. You find every part of him fascinating, the creases in his skin, the scars on his cheeks, the way his hands move, sure and steady, the dip of his back and width of his shoulders.
Most recently the base desire to put his cock in your mouth has been fluttering around your mind. The moment you let your thoughts wander, that is what you find yourself meditating on. Self serious considerations of such an act, how he would feel on your tongue, what sounds he might make, where it would all fit as you aren't sure your mouth is big enough and you want all of him
Heat flushes through your body and you primly smooth the correct page back, clearing your throat. A low burning fire smoulders hot and low in your belly in near constancy since he first took you, made you his, in so many ways.
You tilt the page toward the fading sunlight, and present your findings of your hike to him. Things you’d seen, found the itch to mark down. A dwindling brook that curved down the mountain, the branches of a copse of trees with half their leaves shaken loose already, a pair of birds on a branch, and, finally, an elk.
He watches over your shoulder, pressing in close behind you, hands anchoring on your waist in the thickening darkness. Joel's breath fans across the back of your neck, gooseflesh lifting along your arms in response. "Now tell me you weren't close to that thing."
You laugh and settle back against his chest, feel the warmth and weight of his arms around your already heated body.
It is a welcome touch.
"I wasn't close to him," you promise, covering his hands with your own. "Not terribly close, anyway. Shouldn't you be more worried about the stream?"
He grunts and draws you closer, his beard brushing against your cheek, clearly not finding your teasing amusing. The soft scent of leather and lavender gathers around you, hay and the pine shavings of peeled wood, the salty tang of skin that spent a day beneath the sun.
"I guess," he drawls against the soft flesh of your temple, "I trust you not to drown in a foot of water."
You laugh and close your eyes, sink into the bliss of his attention. He is unaware, you think, of how you ache for him, the need and want reaching from between your lungs, foresting the branches of your ribcage in thick drippings of ivy.
Summer has seemed to last an age. The warm mornings and long evenings encouraging the yearning settled heavily within you.
Each task of the day has been burdened by daydreams of what the evening will bring. Very often only kissing, or Joel’s fingers or mouth between your legs. Sometimes, his reluctance to other intimacy confuses you, makes the shame that comes afterward no matter what all the worse. You want him, again and again, to feel him taking up space inside you.
And, you are terrified of your own want.
It feels as though you think of nothing else, though you know it isn’t true. The thoughts only loom larger, hold more weight.
A confused shame coats you like a second skin when you think of how badly you ache for him, the craven wanton pulse of desire beneath your skin. All the ways in which he touches you replaying like treacherous dreams imprinted behind your eyes.
Yet, you are bound to it, hopeless against its pull, its demand. You want to give into it.
You have been practically lazy with want, distracted from chore and task, by wandering thoughts. Though your thoughts have always been prone to distraction, never before had they been accompanied by a physical desire.
This must be what the sermons regarding the lusts of the flesh had been referring to, the distraction of it pulling you away from worship. For surely if you and Joel were in regular attendance at Sunday service, you would have been distracted from godly devotion as well the minding of your homestead.
Maybe your scant attendance since marriage was evidence of your sins and distraction.
There is not a day that goes by that you don't wish to remain in bed with him, shuttered from the world in the too hot, summer warmed air, satisfying your curiosity of him, slaking an ever growing, ever persistent thirst.
It makes you feel depraved, filthy. The need to look, to touch and feel.
Each time a task is neglected, your winter stores a day or two off the harvesting schedule, you feel wretched, so shameful and guilty that you force yourself to pray, alone, in secret, in the stables, ask for forgiveness, for the feelings to go away, beg for your husband to be granted benevolence, and understanding of your faults. You beg to atone, somehow, to find the willpower to curb your want. For if you do not last the winter, it will be all your fault for causing your homestead to fall behind.
And Joel would have every reason and right to be the hard husband you had anticipated him to be.
Often, though, as you knelt there in the hay, your thoughts turned to other things, to desperate fingers, wanting mouths, in the uncomfortable, sweltering heat, clutching your fist against your chest, lips whispering prayers that you are sure go unheard, trying to drown out your own thoughts.
Once, you had not been able to drown them out and fallen onto your back on the mound of hay so desperate did your thoughts turn. The imagining of Joel pulling out of you, pushing you to your knees and letting you instead put him in your mouth, your own taste on your tongue. You had winced as you pushed your fingers under your skirts, touching, until that knot in your belly loosened and unspooled, biting back your cries of pleasure.
In the aftermath, you'd felt so ashamed and stricken that you had been unable to meet Joel's eyes when you eventually wrenched yourself back together, still trembling, straightened your skirts, and hurried through the yard back to the kitchen where you should have been all along, attending to breakfast.
The brush of Joel's fingers against your shoulders when he met you in the kitchen and said good morning, a usual, casual touch, had made you jerk violently and upset the pan of biscuits on the stove.
"I only aim to please you," you answer softly, now. "So, I always do my very best not to drown. I've never seen an elk before. They're so big."
"Mm. Just don't get too close." His hands spill down your waist, caressing your hips, like he's testing your want.
It is unnecessary, because you are already lost to him, breath an anticipatory rasp in your mouth, all too ready and willing to give into the temptation.
“Joel,” you murmur, reaching back blindly, raking your hand up through his hair.
He chuckles and pushes one hand between your legs. The warmth of his palm cupping you is faint, the pressure almost nothing though your skirts.
Days have passed since he was last inside you, and you are wretchedly wanting of him.
You wonder often if he only humors you, if he can sense your unnatural need.
"Are you hungry?" You squeak out, attempting to pull away from him, fearful of the clench of your core, the flutter between your legs, the pull of your body toward his, like a tide tugged by forces unknown. The sure swallow of shame that will follow when it’s over. "I should start supper—"
"Starvin'" He mumbles against your neck.
"Oh—"
He tugs you around, presses one calloused palm to your jaw, examining you with a surprising intensity, eyes flicking over your face, looking for something.
Joel tilts your head back, eyes flickering over your face. You feel warm, your clothes too tight and heavy, chest constricted, like a hand is curled around your throat, choking your breath.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
You frown, frozen beneath his penetrating stare. “Of course.”
It seems to satisfy him for the moment.
He presses his mouth to yours, and, despite yourself, the festering anguish, you melt into him, open your mouth to the intrusion of his tongue. If it is his desire, and not yours, guiding this moment, maybe all your clumsy prayer had paid off, maybe this was okay. It's a duty to him, you think, it is care and vows.
The wretched pains of desire return, an endless pit. It feels good; he is your husband. Why should you feel so insidiously infected by doctrine you never listened to nor cared for before?
The rumor flashes through your mind, the lies about the sins you supposedly committed with your body, that you'd tempted someone with. It had landed you here, with someone who cared for you, but it had still shattered your life. People had still believed it of you. All your other myriad of misbehavior had never seen you punished as harshly as that lie. Something you never even did.
Maybe some quiet part of you had always been worried they might be right about you, your predilection toward disobedience. Maybe it had been why the mayor's daughter's accusation had been so easily believed.
His hands slide around your back, cradling you; his pelvis flush with yours, his cock heavy against your thigh. The unwarranted rush of pride makes your worries fade, and drift aimless from your mind.
His hunger for you is physical—a presence between you that seems to grow teeth the longer you hold back, gnawing at your bones.
Your chest heaves with stuttered breath. He withdraws just far enough for his fingers to rake your skirt up and over your hips, collecting the layers beneath by the palmful, until he can press one finger inside your already damp pussy. You slot a hand against the back of his neck, tug him in to tangle your tongue with his again, fumbling with his trousers with the other, marveling at the taste of his mouth, the salt of it undercut by mint leaves he must have chewed while he worked.
A whine crowds the back of your throat when he presses a second finger inside you, crooks the pair forward against the spongy inner wall, calloused thumb rubbing rough circles against you. "I want to feel you," you say against his mouth, feel his breath against your lips.
Joel pulls his fingers from you slowly, a chuckle pressed against the corner of your lips. "Jesus, darlin', you're gonna wear me out."
It's said in jest, teasing and gentle, as he pulls away and turns you, fingers circling your wrists to press your palms flat against the workbench, his chest warm against your spine.
Still, it makes the worry flood your mind again, lecherous and salacious.
You feel the cold press of his belt buckle against your inner thigh, the nudge of his cock between your thighs, hands groping over your belly and chest, squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts in his wide palms. You spread your legs wider to accommodate him. There is an ache as he pushes into you, and then the warmth and pressure of him settling heavily inside you.
You moan and rock back into him, the answering thrust of his hips. You yank at the buttons of your dress, desperate for the feeling of his hands on your bare skin.
The thoughts of sin and guilt and fear flee once again as he presses you down against the benchtop, thrusting hard and slow, so you feel every inch and ridge of him, one hand on the back of your neck, the other palm cupped beneath one breast, thumb circling your pebbled, stiff nipple.
But they will not be gone for long, and come morning, you will be in the stables again, kneeling, praying for answers that would never come.
.
.
.
His want for you turns him inside out. It pains him that he cannot keep up with you, a constant reminder that you had been forced to marry him, that no matter how well he loved you he’d always be too old for you, like a mismatched set of chipped teacups.
Guilt unfurls in his chest, like a hot iron on his chest, for wanting you, ruining you.
Joel wakes to an empty bed one morning in late summer, gray light leaking from beneath the shuttered bedroom windows, a humid taste in the air.
It's early yet, too early, but when he reaches for you, he finds the other side of the bed empty, and cold.
He frowns and blinks into the dim expanse of the bedroom. The lamp had been snuffed out, shadows gathered in the corners of the room like cobwebs. "Sweetheart?"
The bedroom door is open, but you don't answer. He can't hear you, either, shuffling around the kitchen or humming beneath your breath.
Joel climbs heavily from the bed, feeling taken apart, flashes of the night before flickering behind his eyes, how the sound of your moans echoed against the walls of the stable, the rattle of the tools together as he thrust into you, the curve of your cheek and parted lips as you looked over your shoulder at him, brow damp with sweat, a line of coal on your nose from your journal.
After you went inside and had dinner side by side in the kitchen, you’d reached for him again, and he pressed you down into the floor, tilted your hips toward his mouth with his hands behind your back, calves folded over his elbows.
He knew, maybe worried, he wouldn’t be able to fuck you again. A sense of disappointment and anxiety rolled off you before he made you forget his shortcomings.
Joel grits his jaw against the thought, washes and dresses and stumbles into the kitchen. He finds it, too, deserted and blisteringly clean, though you’d left the dishes on the table the night before. A platter of eggs and potatoes on the stove beneath a cloth, and a fresh pot of coffee, a tin cup left out next to it.
Despite the gnawing hunger in his stomach, he covers the eggs again and strides to the front door to yank it open, a familiar tightness in his chest.
Fog has climbed down off the mountains, layered everything in a milky white shroud.
There is a basket of vegetables and fresh picked berries in a metal pail at the foot of the porch, the garden looks newly weeded, the hens are clucking about the yard, feed scattered in the grass. All tasks you normally do together, are already done.
Something in his heart seizes as it always does when you disappear, but it isn't the first time you've woken at an ungodly hour, finished the morning chores and trotted off without him. Usually, you leave a note on the table, a page torn from your journal with a few scrawled words and a little picture at the corner.
Even so, he can't help but remember the previous night in a less charitable light, his hands too rough on your skin, your enthusiasm imagined. Always too much and not enough. He wishes, not for the first time, that he were younger, that he could be the husband you really need.
He calls your name, voice echoing through the valley. This is not an unusual morning, he thinks, just giving it too much thought. He sighs heavily and descends the front steps, when he notices the cracked door of the stables.
Joel strides across the yard, wondering what he might find.
A pale shaft of light falls across the hay strewn floor, haloing around your head, where you kneel at the back of the stables like it's a makeshift chapel.
He frowns at the sight. "Darlin’? You hear me?"
You startle and turn, looking at him over your shoulder, a profoundly guilty look on your face. In all the months you've been married, he's never known you to pray. Only the polite bowing of your head on the few Sundays you've spent in a pew together.
Neither of you, as far as he knew, put much stock in the whole business, considering what it had put you through. "Joel," you smile and start to get to your feet. "Good morning."
He crosses and helps you up with a hand beneath your elbow. "Prayin'?"
You nod and smooth your skirt, bending to brush away the hay stuck to your skirt. He forgets, sometimes, how young you are, how naive about somethings, how your upbringing is only a stone's throw behind you and not something you're like to forget quick, even as wilful as you were.
"Somethin' on your mind?" He asks, pressing a hand to your spine, his voice teasing.
"Nothing—just, nothing,” you answer tersely. You fidget with your sleeves, then sigh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”
“That’s all right. You okay?”
“Yeah, but I have an errand I’d like to run in town. I know we have a lot of work—”
“Hell, I think you done most of it already.”
You smile at him, and touch his cheek, your fingers warm and velvet against his skin. “We have plenty more to get on with. I’ll make it up, when I get back.”
“No, take all the time you need,” he reassures, “I can saddle up one of the horses, give you a ride—”
“No,” you say sharply, then more gently, “No. No, I need to go alone. The walk would do me good.”
The urge to push the issue surges up the back of his throat. You’re worried enough about something that you’ve turned to a god you don’t believe in. Pushing, though, is likely to get the door slammed in his face. “All right. You just let me know if you need somethin’.”
"Thank you."
You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek before you spin on your heel and whisk away, into the pale morning light.
.
.
.
Maybe it had been a coincidence, or bad luck, that all your friends had married men they did not like having sex with.
For each story you heard, told of endurance and pain, a rutting that ended in an ugly groan and a cloth mopping up the mess between their legs.
It had been, for them, a only test of patience, or simply okay, something to get on with. A duty to fulfill, particularly in the beginning of the marriage, to fall pregnant as soon as was possible.
But you are like a woman in thrall. It is not a duty to please your husband, not a test of wifely endurance, to you.
You like it.
You like that he makes you come, that it is always good, but you like being close to him more, feeling him inside you, feeling safe with his arms curled around your back, holding you close to his chest. As long as he was there, the accusations of others could never touch you.
You have no one else to ask what is usual, and have had no other experience with any other man to compare these feelings with. Childhood crushes and brief teenage romances had never inspired this intense of a need within you. Just a stirring, nothing more.
He treats you so well, finds it within himself to provide you with an understanding and patience that defies sense, and you reward him with wanton desperation that borders on the unseemly. It's a foolish thought, but one that has stuck, that you are not upholding your end of the partnership, the marriage, especially because of the allowances he makes of your quirks, your willful disobedience. Your behavior reflects poorly on him, you know.
Your knees are bruised, an ache that shoots up your thighs with each step towards town, treading through the dry, cracked ruts left by wagon wheels.
Likely, you should have let him accompany you, but where you’re headed would just raise suspicion in his mind. It’s already been raised, by the fact of your sudden supplication.
Concerned with desire like an overflowing brook and not sure how to stem it, desperate to stop feeling so shameful, so wretched, you had decided when you woke that morning, watching Joel’s chest rise and fall that you would seek advice elsewhere, perhaps a remedy, if one existed.
Either God did not see fit to answer you, or it was as you suspected all along, that there was never anyone listening in the first place.
The town appears suddenly, nestled in the valley below your home. You turn and look back through the trees but there isn’t even a suggestion of the winding road, let alone the cottage hidden there. For a moment, vertigo sweeps through you, like the last months have been nothing but a dream, that you’ll walk home and find the house and Joel and your life there were never real in the first place.
You walk quickly though town, not glancing at the proud steeple of the church piercing the sky in the center, and approach the apothecary where you know a midwife works.
A bell tinkles over your head as you push the door open and approach the counter where she is bustling about, bent over some herbs. The pharmacist seems to be out at lunch, as you’d hoped he would be.
Under the guise of asking for a small remedy for your monthlies, you dare to ask after these feelings, how often she and her husband have—
"Relations?" You finish delicately, glancing over your shoulder. Though the town nearer to the cottage is far more lenient, the church still looms over all. And you feel you've sinned enough as it is.
You are desperate for this woman to tell you she also craves, wants.
She only puts a concerned hand in your arm. "Oh, are you sore? When we were first married my husband was like a dog in a rut the way he would not stay off of me. I could hardly walk for it. I couldn't wait for him to leave me alone. Just something you have to get through, though, my dear." She shakes her head sadly, pats your hand in a conciliatory manner. "It gets easier with time, too, as you get used to it. He'll soon leave you be." She winked at you. "It's like he's just eager for you to be with child, at his age. Soon as you're pregnant he'll leave you to your peace."
It confirms everything you feared was true. The unquellable base hunger within you is not usual.
You clear your throat delicately. "How often—"
She waves a hand, "They can be insatiable hounds—"
"You misunderstand," you interrupt, feeling hot, sweat beading along your brow. "How often do you. . .have want of him?"
She laughs, "Me? If he never climbed atop me again, it would be too soon. I'd think to thank God for it."
“Oh, yes,” you agree thickly. “As would I.”
She eyes you for a moment, before her brow softens, eyes flicking down to your belly, then the remedy she mixes for you, for period pain. Something seems to connect for her. “Are you barren?”
You feel your eyes go wide. “No, I—”
“If he is being hard with you, because you have not conceived, remind him that stress does not encourage seed to take.” She hums, eyes still flicking over you, like she could see the inside of you and know your troubles by sight alone. “After he is finished,” she says delicately, “keep the womb warm and tilt your hips up.”
You nod, stuttering out thanks as you back toward the door. A new consideration added to your growing list, why you had not yet fallen pregnant as many times as he has finished inside you. This, at least is knowledge your mother had uncomfortably passed down to you.
Tomorrow, you vow, as you walk home, tomorrow you will regain yourself, your composure, your restraint. You will be a proper wife, will only open yourself to the feelings if he had need of you. He's given so much to you, this is the least you can afford him. You can be useful; you can be good.
It is the first time in your life you have ever considered it. But you do not want to make a mistake, do not want to lose what has become precious.
.
.
.
Soon enough, the leaves turn and fall, the harvest begins and the warm safety of summer turns its back on you.
Joel promises you time and again that you have adequately prepared for the next six months, even if the roads were impassable for the entirety of winter you would have enough. You have been dutiful, worked hard, until your muscles screamed and exhaustion made sleep an easy, early thing in the evening.
The colder days and longer nights drive you closer to him, though, seeking out his arms more often, the warm comfort of his body around yours. Now, as the dark draws over you again, your mind turns back to old thoughts, though less frequently that they once had. Some days it seemed impossible not to want him; other days, especially on your cycle, a reminder now that you’ve been married a year without speaking of children, you feel you might scream if he even breathes near you.
“Wanna take a walk?” he asks one evening, dark already spilled like ink over the land. You glance up from where you are settled on the bed, tracing the lines beneath his eyes in graphite into your journal slowly.
He is shirtless, water dripping down his chest, beaded in his beard, a razor held loosely in his hand over the basin on the dresser.
You swallow, the hollow parts of you aching. “Too late for that. Dark.”
He nods, and sets down the razor, a dark shock of hair falling out of place and over his eyes. He has let it grow longer as the cold deepens, settles between the bones of the world. “Well, we’d be together. You ain’t been goin’ so much lately on your own.” He says it casually, but you hear the worry beneath his voice, deep in his chest. “Workin’ yourself so hard.”
“I needed to help. We had a lot to get—”
“I know,” he says, drying his face with the cloth you’d laid next to the basin for him. “And your first year gettin’ ready for winter. I know how it is, feels like it’ll never be enough.” He walks across the room slowly, like he’s trying not to startle you, pausing at the side of the bed, hand curling around one bare ankle.
“Darlin’,” he says. “You okay?”
The question throws you for a moment. His hand is so hot it burns, the path of his thumb over the knob of bone in your ankle shouldn’t make your pussy flutter, but it does. “Yes.”
“Just seems like you always got something on your mind. Like something is eatin’ at you.”
You press your lips together. “We’ve just been busy,” you repeat, “That’s all.”
“You can talk to me.”
“I know.”
And some part of you does. If you just opened your mouth, Joel could tell you up from down. He’s older, experienced. He had a wife before you, and if he was as good to her as he is to you, maybe he would be able to tell you you’d shared these feelings of want and shame, a vicious cycle of snakes swallowing themselves whole. He seems to know a woman’s body better than many other men, at the very least.
But he is looking at you like a man starved, and you’d rather keep this moment.
Despite the cold outside and only being in your shift, you feel hot, and don’t protest when he yanks you closer. You close your journal and toss it, hear it land softly on the bed behind you.
“I thought we were going on a walk,” you say softly as you sit up. His gaze rakes over you greedily, the expanse of your skin, the sway of your breasts beneath your shift.
“Better idea.”
He leans over you, skin warm and damp, the scent of him clean and musky and intoxicating. The hair on his chest scrapes pleasantly against your own through the thin fabric of your gown, making your nipples stiffen in response, when he wraps his arms around you and pulls you flush to him.
Joel’s hands are everywhere, grabbing handfuls of you, burying his nose in your neck.
You slide your hands over his back, along the waist of his trousers, palming his half hard cock until he thrusts against your hand.
You pull him closer, into the cradle of your thighs, pressing your mouth against his bicep and collarbone and throat.
“Joel,” you moan, pressing yourself against him, hips seeking pressure. “Joel, I want to put your cock in my mouth.”
He jerks back, something feral in his gaze as his eyes search yours. You stand, and he’s forced to take a step back. You aren’t sure what made you say it, that dark little fantasy you kept just to yourself, half afraid he is about to scoff or laugh or tell you it was a sick desire.
You touch him again, when he doesn’t say anything. “Is that usual?”
He chokes out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I’d say it is. For some.”
You breathe out, take a shaky inhale.
"Show me how."
Your tremulous little request is met with a grunt. "You sure?"
Joel is lit by orange lamplight, his skin damp with sweat. Despite the pervasive chill outside, in your close bedroom heat blossoms in the air. Sweat pools between your breasts, too, gathers behind your knees, which only adds to the wanton, craven feeling clawing at your chest.
You are, you feel at this moment, manifestation of every accusation you'd ever heard leveled against women in sermons rolled into one neat package. A temptress; lustful and sinful and dirty for it.
But you can’t bring yourself to care.
"Yes," you plead, whine. "Yes, Joel."
He cups your cheek, doesn't seem aware of the turmoil roiling within you, that is always nagging at the edges of your mind. How wrong you are, like a terrible little nymph sent to temp a good man. "You want my cock in your mouth that bad?"
Gentle humiliation warms you from the inside out, but your mouth waters all the same. You ache for it, you want so much of him so badly it makes you feel small and ashamed. It isn't natural, you think for the umpteeth time in so many months.
But he is good to you, never cruel.
And, he endures your witless, inane request to put his cock in your mouth.
You are quite sure no lady has ever ached for that before.
All equanimity had been lost to you the last few months, through the long, hot summer. Maybe some of your condition could be chalked up to the first real bloom of love flowering in your heart, but so much of the stirring in your belly could only be pitiful, sinful lust.
The want is perverse, you are sure of it. You had heard tell for all your life of the responsibility of a wife to satisfy her husband when he was in need, not the reverse. You feel as though you should not want at all.
Joel doesn’t look away from you, waiting patiently for your answer.
He seems to live between your thighs some nights, tongue never quite satisfied, satiated, like you were a well he could drink eternally from. Even if you wondered why he didn’t always seem to want to be inside you.
Maybe your desire to do the same isn't unusual.
"Yes," you breathe, casting your eyes down. "If I should not—"
He shakes his head, pulls your body flush against his, hip to hip, chest to chest. His cock is hard between you, pressing against your thigh. A good sign, surely. It's moments like these, that the uncertainty, the shame, dissipates. His acceptance of your desire allows you to revel in it.
"Just makin' sure."
"You. . .lick. . .me all the time—"
He grunts, a half caught chuckle. "All right, guess I can understand it then."
"I want to be good at it." You lower your head, look at him demurely through your lashes, all wiles and sin, hand slipping between your bodies to cup him in your hand again, stroke him through his trousers. "I want to please you, husband," you moan, meaning it more than he could ever know.
His hands press over the curves of your waist, to your hips, and back again. "You do that plenty," he teases. “I got real lucky.”
You roll your eyes and he chuckles, the vibrations of it echoing against your own ribs.
"I want to please you with my mouth and not my pussy."
"Well, listen to you." He cups one broad hand against your backside and squeezes your ass. "Get on your knees, then, girl."
Your breath catches, excitement ringing through you like a wicked bell. You pull away from him and sink to your knees, keen to be given what you want, to have your curiosity satiated, to have the shame in your head silenced at least for a while.
The wooden floorboards are cool against your knees, a welcome contrast to the heat burning though your body, the humidity hanging in the air. The bruises on your knees from all your kneeling and praying, only smart a little.
You are alight with tension and anticipation, excitement that must border on the unholy, or at the very least something unseemly. Would he ever be able to look at you as a wife again, if you do this? Surely, he will think you dirty.
The thought makes your eager hands pause against the top button of his trousers, but only for a moment. You are putting this curiosity to rest, and can deal with the consequences of it later. The thought has already been loosed, even if you don’t, he will know your thoughts.
You tug the fabric away and pull him from the confines of his pants. You've seen his cock plenty, felt his velvet skin, fisted him in your hand—but never this close.
Maybe you should look to him for guidance, but your hands and mind are working on instinct now. You trace the vein that travels the length of the underside of his cock with your finger, and watch it twitch in response. The head is a pretty, flushed, red color.
You lean forward and stroke his cock with one hand, balance against his thigh with the other, to lick the leaking head.
The taste of him isn't much different to the way the other places on his body you've kissed taste, his throat and chest and biceps. Just a muted saltiness.
He grunts and leans one hand against the bedpost behind you. "Hell," he mutters.
"What?" You lick him again, then push your lips around the tip and suck lightly. "Is that all right?"
"Yep," he answers tightly.
You suckle again, not moving your hand curled around the base, repeatedly running your tongue over the slit at the tip. It seems sensitive, you think, and hollow your cheeks around him. He groans tightly, hips jerking when something bitter blooms in your mouth. A pearlescent bead of come. That means you're doing something right and he isn't just sparing your feelings.
"Move your hand, too," he directs, one big palm against the back of your head. "Put your mouth on me and—There you go, sweetheart."
You move your fist slowly at first, still sucking lightly, still tonguing the slit as you let your eyes fall closed.
His hand guides your head down a little further. “Take a little more.” You follow his instruction, glancing up at him. “Good girl,” he says, stroking your cheek, the line of your jaw, lets you continue on that way for a few long minutes.
The feeling is nice, you like the way he feels on your tongue, the lazy you can move your mouth around him and get a response. You take him out of your mouth to kiss down the length of it, to the hair curled at the base, before licking the underside, tongue a point against the vein there.
Joel takes your free hand in his, lifts it to his mouth before cupping your fingers around his balls. When he releases your hand, you squeeze carefully, not sure if that's what he wants or if it's the right pressure if it is.
You pull back, glance up at him, feeling hazy and warm, like the few occasions you’ve drank wine. "Like that? Am I doing okay?"
"Doin' real good," he says, reaching down to cradle your cheek, thumb hooking in the corner of your mouth for a moment before sliding over your spit slicked lips. "Think you can take more?"
A ravenousness shudders through you. "Yes. I want to try."
"Take it slow," he says, guiding your head forward again. You take him deeper this time, running your tongue along the vein again, hollowing your cheeks around him, and then gagging when he hits the back of your throat, with a couple inches still in your fist. Your mouth is so deliciously full, your mind a silent whirl as you focus on controlling the convulsion of your throat, getting all of him inside.
Could you take it? Is that something anyone could do? It seems impossible, but you want to try.
You tug gently at his balls again as you work to take more of him into your mouth, down your throat. “That a girl,” he mumbles. Through the tears beading at the corners of your eyes, you can tell he’s hold back, that he wants to shove himself down your throat.
You pull back for a harsh breath, saliva dripping from your lips like gossamer webbing connecting you. It sparkles in the low light before dripping onto your chest.
"Goddamn," he mutters, hand against the back of your head, pushing you closer. "Spit on it, sweetheart."
Feeling dirty and not minding, you do, and he groans again.
"Joel," you say, voice cracking until you cough. His cock is wet when you fist your hand around him now, the slide so easy and slick. You note that for the future, that you could spit in your hand to ease your grip around him. "Can I, uh—" you squeeze him, and instead of finishing the question, duck your head to press your lips to his balls, sucking, sweeping your tongue out.
He grunts, control a fragile thing now, hips stuttering forward. "Yeah," he croaks, running his thumb against your jaw when you look up at him. "Christ, yeah, that's good."
You sweep your tongue out before pulling away to push him back into your mouth, steadily taking more of him, deeper into your throat. It makes breathing nearly impossible, but you don't particularly care.
The ache between your legs is nearly painful, begging to be touched.
But this is more important, more important than air, than the shame the need and desperation shot through you like curdled milk.
What are you to enjoy this? You feel depraved for it.
Never, have you heard of a woman, wanting, needing, so very much.
You must be better than this, get yourself under control of the thoughts. Mortified, you release his cock and push the skirt of your shift up to touch your pussy, despite it, rubbing yourself.
Joel grips you softly, pulls you back so air is forced into your lungs in a wild, half-choked gasp.
You lick your lips, feeling messy, exposed. He rubs the corner of your mouth with his thumb and you turn to press a kiss to the calloused pad.
"Don't hold your breath," he says, thumbing the edge of your jaw. "You have to breathe."
You nod, feeling drunk, the ache between your thighs is so intense it feels like you might break, shatter like glass beneath his gaze.
Joel’s eyes are dark, locked on your hand between your legs. "Is it good?" You ask, looking up at him, taking him in your hand again. "Am I good?"
Joel nods back at you, pushes your hand away and makes your heart flutter with panic for a moment. But he only leans over and kisses your wet mouth, hands sweeping over your body, fitting against your breasts. The thin material is wet with your saliva, his hands all the warmer on your skin for it.
He pinches your nipples through the fabric. You keen and arch into his hands, mouth dropping open against his; he pushes his tongue against yours like lightning racing down your spine.
"You pick up on things so quick, darlin'," he coos, yanking down the top of your slip until your breasts spill out. He tugs your nipples again, firmer this time, and a whine slips past your lips, cunt pulsing.
If Joel says it's good, how is it that embarrassment still stalks you? "Can you tell me again?"
Joel's eyes flick over you, some of the haze clearing, concern pulling his brows in instead. "Doin' good," he affirms. "You all right?"
"Yes."
"Mm, c'mere. You done enough."
He pulls you up from the floor, his hand laced with yours as you lay back.
You watch him slot himself over you, the damp heave of his chest, the bob of his cock between his thighs still dripping your saliva. The arch of his arms around you is familiar. He smells like you now, like your skin, the lavender rubbed into your wrists and throat.
Joel yanks your underwear down your thighs and brushes his thumb through the wet of your cunt, gathering the slick that had pooled there.
He hitches himself in his hand and pumps his cock before he guides himself to your entrance and thrusts into you all at once. You groan long and loud, gripping the sheets in your fits, before he kisses you and the noise breaks off.
The room is warm and humid, all pulse and pull of you together, Joel’s grunts against your mouth, the slap of skin.
You come suddenly, a tide you hadn’t known was rising.
Joel’s hips stutter to a stop as you clench around him, and buries his head against your chest, pulse pounding in his throat. “Jesus, darlin’, you grip me so hard when you come.”
You are drowned, lost in the ocean of pleasure flowing over you, inside you, sweat soaked and wet, ruined, hips still rolling against his, until it hurts.
He sucks your nipple into his mouth, rolls the other between thumb and forefinger before he lifts his head and kisses you, pumping into you slowly until he comes with a grunt, eyes locked on yours.
The pressure of his body against yours keeps your thoughts at bay, keeps them from spiraling when he is so thick and heavy inside you and on top of you.
Arms curl around you, roll you onto your side, coo and stoke, and loosen only in sleep.
Your mind is curiously blank, empty, except for the man wrapped around you as you follow him into dreams.
.
.
.
You wake at the cold edge of dawn the next morning, torn from sleep by a terrible nightmare, chest heaving in the dim sable shadows still gathered in the corners of the room. The wick of the lamp had long ago burned down, taking its comforting, warm glow with it.
The dream had been one that had become recently recurrent, Joel with a lantern walking away from you until the glow disappeared, not looking back, not once. Like that of Orpheus never never turning to see if Eurydice were behind him, only this time she could not follow, would not have been there.
It feels like an omen this morning. Jaw and thighs sore.
Gray light leaks from beneath the shuttered bedroom windows, and when you rise to prise them back, the world is a blank white slate beyond. You gasp softly, curling your arms around your naked middle. Your body is overheated, slicked in nightmare sweat, and the chill seeping around the rattling glass is welcome. It is early in the season, even in your chilly corner of the world, for snow.
It's early yet, and perhaps you should start your day, a good wife would fetch eggs from the chickens and have breakfast on the table before the sun was fully risen, but you only tuck yourself back into bed, wriggling beneath Joel's arm, languishing in him, the scent and heat of his body. You press your nose to the hollow of his throat and inhale, the salt and soap smell a comfort to you, loosening the terse ridges of your shoulders. He smells like sex too, like sweat and come.
"Mornin'," he says against your forehead, body stretching against yours, his voice like a caught river in his throat, a low rumble that you feel in your ribs, and, shamefully, in a little pulse between your legs. It’s barely there, sated as you are.
"It is snowing."
He grunts, rubs the space between your shoulders. "'Bout that time."
"It's too early."
"Not up here it ain't. Comes a little later where you're from, down in the valley."
There is so much that he has knowledge of that you do not. It's a rare instance you feel the gulf between you.
His arms tighten around you, fingers dancing over the indent of your spine. There's something on his mind, you can tell, but the silence persists, equal to your own distracted thoughts. "You feelin' all right?"
You frown into his throat. "How do you mean?"
Joel doesn't answer for a moment as the room grows brighter, chasing away the grim gray tucked into the corners of the room. Eventually, he takes in a slow breath, lungs expanding against yours. "Last night,” he clarifies. “You all right? It wasn't too, uh—”
"Oh," you mumble, voice faint. "Yes, I—"
You do not need led, you have never had need of a leash snared around your throat. But in some things, you are ignorant. No amount of exploration or curious observation would garner answers. You are stumbling blind in the dark, convinced of sins you aren't sure are real, that you don't believe in, even if they are. The echoes of wronged, shamed women from the misty memories of early mornings spent in the chapel, the ablutions they made, superimposed on your own desires.
Your journal festers now, a guilt ridden artifact. . .all because you want your husband. It’s a tiresome circle of feeling pathetic for feeling shamed, and then feeling so guilty you feel ill. Joel could help, at least help you understand.
"No, actually, I’m not okay," you answer, bold in the assertion. You feel his body go rigid beside you, eyes closing briefly, like he is accepting something he already knows to be true. "Joel, I need. . .to understand something."
“What?” His voice snaps a little when he looks at you and you bite your lip. “Talk to me,” he says, making an effort, you can tell, to soften his voice.
“I worry that I disappoint you.”
His shoulders loosen; a confused tangle of relief and confusion spreads over his face. “Darlin’,” he murmurs, his voice velvet, something easy to land on. “That ain’t ever gonna be true. That what’s been botherin’ you all season?”
You sit up next to him, peer down into his eyes. A fondness spreads through your chest, makes you reach out and twitch a lock of hair back from his lined forehead. You wonder how long he has been wondering about you, how long he has known something is wrong.
The whole time, probably, there is not much he misses about you. Maybe he knew, too, that you would eventually admit it to him.
It seems silly now, all the questions, all the worries, when you had a well of knowledge at your fingertips. He would not condemn you; he would not treat you as your village had.
At the very least, he would see your effort; he would see that you could be a caged thing, if needed, be settled, be tamed.
"I need you to talk to me," he says again.
You swallow and touch his cheek, trace the fine scars there that he had admitted were but from brawling when he was a younger man.
The explanation comes in a halting lurch of words, pausing every now and then to gauge his reaction, to see if you are as wretched as you feel you are—the, what feels to you, unendingly lustful thoughts, the distraction of it, the conversation with the midwife, the isolating fear that he would find you disgusting, that he had already.
"And I don't want to disappoint you," you repeat, finishing softly. "But I fear that I already have. I am not unaware, of the grace you have for me and my quirks of character. I do not want you to be ashamed of me, for my. . .impurity. And I don't understand what is normal to feel, or what is immodest. And I don't understand why you don't have want of me, the way I have want of you. I fear something is broken, that there’s something wrong."
“Don’t want you?” He asks, incredulous.
Embarrassment makes your tongue thick in your mouth. Your chest hurts. “To be inside me,” you clarify. “All the women I know don’t seem to want it, but I do. You don’t seem to crave it, as I do.”
The answer is slow coming, like it is caught behind his teeth. You sense he's trying to be delicate with you, gently affirm that there is something wrong about the lasciviousness you feel, the sacrilegious uneven keel of your want.
He clears his throat and sits up slowly in bed, taking your hands between his. "I told you before, I don't put much stock in all that," he says, squeezing your fingers. "Now, you listenin’?”
“Yes,” you answer, desperate to know, for him to unveil this truth to you.
Joel pinches your chin between his fingers. “There’s nothin’ wrong with you. Them other ladies. . .just have husbands that don’t know what the hell they’re doin’.”
You feel frozen, rooted to the spot. “I don’t—”
“You do. You’re smart.” He gathers you close to his chest, clears his throat. “They just shove it in, don’t make it good for their wives, I reckon. And I. . .if I was a younger man, I'd be able to keep up with you." There's something self retributive in his voice. “That you want anything to do with me at all, is surprisin’.”
"Oh."
"If I could be buried inside you all the time, I would be."
"You want me," you breathe.
Irritation turned inward bleeds across his features. "That ain't been clear?"
"I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I only thought I should not be feeling as I did, and that was why.” You nestle beneath his chin, let him tilt you back against the bed. “I only wanted to be good to you, for you.”
His hands caress your naked sides, the curves of your waist, taking stock of you. “There nothin’ wrong with you. You want it ‘cause I’m good at it. Think them thoughts don't really count anyway, if it's about your husband, anyway.”
You bury your face in his neck. “Pride is a sin,” you mumble, laughing.
“So is lyin’.”
You snort, breathing in as his hand slides between your thighs. “Should your wife not practice restraint and modesty?”
“I’d prefer it if she did as she liked.” He answers. "Like she always has."
“I can manage that.” You widen your thighs, glance down to watch his thick fingers pry you apart, slip inside you, pumping slowly. The shame is still there, in it’s long standing home, but when you knock your forehead against Joel’s, see the devotion colored in his eyes, feel the metal press of his wedding band against your skin, it abates.
He nudges your head back down, makes you look. “We’ll work on it,” he promises. "There ain't nothin' wrong with wantin' it."
The room is a bright white, softening the edges of the world when he eventually retracts his fingers and pushes into you instead, curled together on your sides like the lapping of twin waves, deep and sloppy, his mouth open against yours.
You stay in bed all day as you once dreamed.
"Will you walk with me?" You ask into the quiet, against the pulse of his heart, his skin beneath your lips. "I'd like it if you did. I'd like to show you where I go."
Frankie’s been in love with you for years. Quietly. Painfully. He noticed you first—before his buddy ever did—but he stepped back. Told himself it wasn’t meant to be. That someone like you deserved someone better. Cleaner. Less scarred. And so he watched. Watched you fall for his friend. Watched you build something that looked a lot like love. Smiled through the ache. Bit his tongue every time you laughed at a joke that wasn’t his. Stayed your closest confidant, your ride home, your soft place to land—never more, never less. Until one night your boyfriend fucks up, bad. And you show up at Frankie’s door, soaked in rain and tears, eyes searching for something familiar—something safe. And Frankie, poor heart-heavy Frankie, lets you in.
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