#I'm so itchy lately | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedgito · 1 month ago

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𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 | Joel Miller x reader — Series Masterlist (part ii)

summary | The temptation with Joel is unavoidable, one consequential choice leading to several, but with time, you find that healing is easier with someone just as broken as you.

author's note | I DID NOT FORGET THEM I SWEAR. i know the first part was posted in july and i abandoned my baby i'm horrible. BUT, the writing bug is back in full force and this chapter was already halfway done so PLEASE ENJOY. i missed these two dearly.

content warning | 18+ smut, DDDNE - this is very loosely stepcest, so if that's not your thing, ignore. that's the only warning i'm giving on that, additional warnings: no outbreak, step-uncle!joel, age gap (20/late 40s), religious trauma, parental trauma, no one's making good choices here, lowkey religion kink?? if you get it, you get. fingering, unprotected piv sex, semi-public sex, mentions of deconstruction, alcohol tw, this is packed with so much stuff i'm sorry

word count —11k

PART ONE, PART THREE (tbd)

The tweed sweater is more grating than the sound of your mother’s voice as you approach the doorstep of the Miller’s home. It’s fucking itchy, scratching at your neck in desperation to strip yourself of your more modest church clothes the moment you crosses the threshold. Your mother seems to notice your fidgeting, swatting at your hand with a look of unmistaken warning.

Cut it out.

Your hand drops to your side, fingers curling into your palm as they dig into the skin. The pain squeezes at your vocal cords, keeping you quiet. Tommy always looks slightly ridiculous when you step out for church on Sundays—starched jeans and perfectly ironed plaid button up to match, paired with an egregious belt buckle and cowboy boots.

The thing was though, he fit in perfectly. And you couldn’t hate Tommy, it was nearly impossible.

Once inside, you’re already beelining for the attic with your shoes slipped off by the door and ready to strip down the layers of clothes to quell the sticky heat that was lingering on your skin. But, there’s a creak to your left and a voice you hadn’t heard since the night before, under…more nefarious pretenses. But, he didn’t know that. You shouldn’t either.

Your eyes can’t meet his own as he rounds the corner, damp hair dripping droplets of water onto his clothed shoulders. He doesn’t speak to you, but he does look you over. There’s a smugness in his expression, amusement at your outfit like he knows. A perfect, modest length appropriate dress with that ugly fucking sweater your mom insisted on you wearing. You hate it, it was smeared all over your face, lips pulled into a tight line as your mother began barraging both of the brothers at once.

“She’ll come with,” You attention focuses back on the conversation halfway through, sneaking a small peak at Joel’s tired features, scratching at his beard with his other hand settled against his hips, so desperately wanting to escape the conversation, “I don’t need her being a nuisance while Joel’s trying to sleep.”

“She lives here,” Tommy points out, “I’m sure she can keep quiet. Do you wanna tag along?”

“No,” you respond with evident distaste, but there was also the creeping worry of being alone with Joel again, unsure how to approach your unfavorable behavior with him, “I’d really rather not, if that’s okay.”

Tommy offers a shrug to your mother, reminiscent of a told you so, before he’s cracking a joke at Joel’s expense, who still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Keep this loner some company anyways, he needs it,” Tommy jests.

“Well, we’ll be out until the evening,” your mother adds, almost like it was a bad thing which wasn’t nearly the case, in fact—it was a heavy weight off your chest, “so call if you need anything and sweetheart, mind your manners.”

“She’ll be alright,” Joel interjects suddenly, “ain’t never caused any problems with me.”

Your mother nods despite her inclination to make a comment or prove a point and after a tense goodbye and a hug that was far too tight, she’s dragging Tommy out the front door again and it shuts with a deafening click as Joel still remained in his previous position, eying the floor for a time before his eye meet your own as yank at the buttons of your sweater and shrug it off your shoulders.

The events over the past few weeks were clawing at your gut, that nervous and fluttering feeling driving you to silence—girl, always testin’ me—it was a constant echo in your head. That, flurried with his grunts and the sight of his hand gripping his cock. And your teasing words were no better, inviting him in and welcoming the temptation.

You had to cut the cord—this wasn’t you. It was wrong, sinful, the shame sitting on your tongue and bitter to swallow. It didn’t matter that it didn’t feel wrong, factually, it was. You would be shamed, frowned upon, rejected by your own mother if she even caught a whiff of your advances toward Joel. But, he’d lied for you when he didn’t have to and that was more confusing than it needed to be.

Joel clears his throat, “I’m gonna head to bed, worked a fifteen hour shift and I’m barely standin’ right now,” Your gaze flicks up as you kneel on the couch, settling into the cushion but leaning yourself slightly over the arm, “you gonna be alright?”

You nod silently and watch as he returns the motion and turns on his heels, the floorboards creaking under the weight and there was no chance like now—say it, just apologize.

“Joel,” you say louder than needed, but it does the trick, “I—you lied for me to my mother, you didn’t have to and I’m…sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I know that doesn’t change anything, but I—”

There’s a flickering of guilt across his own face that you’re familiar with, knowing he’s dreamt of you in the exact ways you’ve suggested and while he doesn’t audibly admit it, his thoughts almost project, eyes racking over your chest for a beat to long as they press together under your thin top and peek through the deep cut in your shirt.

“No harm done,” He lies, his eyes noticeable flicking back up toward your gaze and you don’t react, neither does he, “no sense in pissing her off more than she already is with you all the time, right?”

“Right,” you mumble dejectedly, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you settle into the cushion more permanently, “just…thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies assuredly, knowing he’d done you a favor with the expectation that it might absolve him of some of his own guilt about the entire situation—but just as Joel was being disingenuous, he suspected you were too.

Save your own ass and all that.

It didn’t matter and Joel knew it was better to move beyond it entirely.

Except his dreams are invaded with the sight of your tits, pert and perfect as he squeezed them under his grip and he swears he can feel the warmth of your skin, your smell, but the deep slumber quickly pulls him under.

There’s only so much to occupy your day, having made a few snacks for yourself and wandered aimlessly around Joel’s home, even managed a short nap amongst his soft snoring from his cracked bedroom door, occasionally looking around the corner or over your shoulder to find him sleeping deeply. By high noon, you’re restless. It was hot. Wicked summer heat. You decided to change into your swimsuit and head outside, grabbing a towel and a bottle of newly purchased sunscreen.

There’s a few reclining lawn chairs on Joel’s back deck luckily, snagging one as you drag it toward the lawn and into the sun, squinting at the blistering UV as you bring your sunglasses down your face and allow them to make home on the bridge of your nose. The neighbors have their sprinklers going, giving their gardens a much needed drink during the non-stop dry spell that Austin seemed to be under, the spray hits your skin gingerly as you settle into a good spot and take a seat, spreading the sunscreen out sparingly over your arms and legs, resigned to the fact that you wouldn’t be able to reach your back appropriately, but that didn’t matter.

You untied the back of your top, both at your spine and neck and reclined the chair out completely before resting on your stomach, eyes closed to the quiet hum of afternoon summer and kids playing a few houses down, the soft buzz of dragonflies and bees amongst the foliage.

It was the simple luxuries you enjoyed that weren’t possible with your mother hovering around you, but that was why you had so much appreciation for Tommy, keeping her busy beyond her means and knowing that she was happier when occupied with other things—like him, or the possibilities and expectations that would come with their new life when they did find a place together.

You knew you weren’t going with them, but that was another mountain to climb trying to explain to your mother, knowing it wouldn’t bode well and would end in an all out brawl if you dropped it on her now—in due time, you think.

Your tendency to fastrack through missed opportunities and experiences were your own downfall, but the newfound freedom was exhilarating, breathing in deep as you closed your eyes and relaxed, several minutes passing before you heard a creak at the backdoor.

But even then, you don’t move.

You know it’s Joel when the grill lid whines in protest, utensils clinging behind you.

He doesn’t say a word and forces himself to keep his eyes on the dirtied grill as he scrubs it down ignoring your occasional fidgeting and the soft creaks of the reclined chair, his eyes catching the soft skin of your back, the curve of your breasts as press out at your side, squeezed against the towel you were laying on and the strings dangling toward the grass that Joel had neglected for the past couple weeks and he’s only realizing his wandering eyes when his hand slips through the slit in the grill and drops the sponge into the ash, cursing loudly to himself.

“Was I being too loud?”

Joel tosses the sponge to the side and opens the tray to dump out the remaining remnants of ash from their last cookout, walking toward the dumpster near the gate leading to the front yard, no further than a few yards from you as he mumbles a quiet, “No. Wasn’t you.”

Weird. Your brow furrows for a moment before you reaching for the bottle of sunscreen, taking advantage of the extra pair of hands as you offer the bottle to his empty ones, the plastic cap hitting his stomach as you press it against him, hands pressed tight over your swim top to keep your breasts covered, despite how much the material failed to hide.

“Just my back,” you explain, “I can’t reach it. Well—I can, but I’m definitely missing some spots.”

Joel’s fingers curl around the bottle but he doesn’t pull and your fingers haven’t left either, grazing against the denim at his waist and you sigh in subtle frustration.

“Joel, it isn’t a trick,” you promise, “besides, with your hands it’ll take like, two seconds.”

He makes a face at that, halfway between amused and mortified. You shove the bottle deeper against his stomach, insistent as you raise your eyebrows.

“Oh, come on,” You beg, “It’s sunscreen, get over it.”

There it was. The snark you couldn’t hide, like second nature with him. He snatches the bottle with his tongue slipping under his top lip as he snaked it over his teeth and popped the cap with his thumb, flashing a content smile in his direction as you settle back on your stomach, pushing down at the strings of your bottoms slightly to offer the full expanse of your back.

Joel, poor Joel, swallows around the lump in his throat and tries indefinitely to ignore the everlasting bulge that grew in your presence, a side effect of inappropriate thoughts and your sharp tongue. He’s pathetic and he knows it.

He kneels down between your split legs, one knee on the cheap plastic and his other foot planted firmly in the grass as he hovers. It was as close as he could allow himself, a few inches forward and he would have his thigh pressed against your center, the swell of your pussy grinding against his jeans and he wouldn’t be able to resist, pulling at the loose ties and diving into the sweet divine.

You clear your throat, turning your cheek to rest against the back of your palm as you wait with the cold tip of your cross necklace snug between your lips, a self-satisfied smile growing on your face as the warmth of his hand contrasts the cool sunscreen, a broad stripe up your back from tailbone to neck as his fingers fold over your shoulder and drag against the chain before he’s tossing the bottle into the grass to make use of his other hand, spreading the sunscreen out evenly on the full expanse of your back.

A pseudo massage masked in the way his thumbs rub along the center of your skin, fingers rubbing in the sunscreen along your side, just along the curve of your hips before they’re back up at your shoulders and the muscle is being squeezed gently under his grip.

“You’re tense, kid,” Joel notes, pulling away to wipe his cream covered hands on the towel, catching your gaze.

“With a mother like mine, wouldn’t you be?”

Joel pauses briefly, a silent acknowledgment as he stands, vehemently ignoring the way your legs slip together and your ass pushes up into the air slightly as you reposition yourself.

He grimaces at how sticky his hands feel still, reaching for the spout on the siding and gripping the hose in his hand as the water pours out, hot for a moment as it slips out before it rushes out ice cool, wetting his hands generously.

“Can’t stand getting a little messy, can you?” You tease when you hear the water run behind you, lifting up on your forearm to peer at the older man, his face still frozen in a tight grimace but his eyes briefly turning up toward you.

What a little shit.

His thumb slides over the opening on the hose and transforms the flow into a forceful spray as he lifts stream and at the chair you were lounging in, forcing you up in a matter of seconds while Joel rendered you drenched, top forgotten as you slip your arm over your breasts in attempt to retain some decency.

The cause of action only dawns on Joel in the aftermath, watching you sopping wet as you stomp toward him and attempt to yank the hose from his grip, the option for turning the spout off forgotten—it couldn’t be that simple.

Joel quickly extends the main end of the hose from your grip with a tug of a smirk and you huff, hard through your nose as you twist and press your back against his chest as you wrestle for his arm, in a wrestle for the hose his arm finds home against your chest and you gradually fall to your knees, tackled by Joel in a manner that is surprisingly gentle despite your frustration.

But, somehow you end up chest to chest and none of the effort is worth it, even as you turn the house on him and the water soaks his clothes and your chest, hose slapping into the grass as you toss it aside, breath catching as your heart raced from the exertion.

Joel makes the mistake of shifting to move, his knees hiking behind the curve of your ass and pushing his clothed cock against your core, only separated by a couple layers of clothes, his denim against your think bikini tied lazily at your waist and his eyes drag down by pure coincidence as he tries to find his grip against the grassy surface.

There it was—his eyes on your chest, your eyes on him, and his cock hard against your cunt in an unignorable way.

Joel quickly scrambles to his feet with a frustrated clear of his throat, ignoring you like a quick spreading plaque as he left his tasks behind to disappear as quickly as he had resurfaced and you reach blindly for your top, draping it over your chest hastily as you tried and failed to piece together what the hell had just transpired.

It was like a shot of adrenaline in your bloodstream as you sat up, the world spinning in a way that made you woozy—you turned toward the back door, slightly ajar from the force Joel used to shut it, slamming against the frame before it popped back open.

He could deny you all he wanted, but his body couldn’t lie—wondering if he was running off to finish himself like he had the night before, almost daring to chase after him.

But instead, you hide.

Decisive and calculated, you’d wait him out.

Like meek prey, he’d seek you out if the hunger struck.

—

After a swift shower you barricade yourself upstairs, the murmuring voices below lulling you to sleep as you skip dinner—you couldn’t speak to Joel, wouldn’t.

He lies for you, despite knowing that your avoidance of dinner was entirely his own fault.

Sort of.

It was a double-edged sword, both parties responsible.

But, Joel feels the guilt faster, easier, and he drowns it away in a six pack of beers Tommy brings home as he and his brother, and his soon-to-be sister in law enjoyed a quiet dinner, the occasional complaint slipping from your mother’s lips as she ate.

“She wasn’t feeling too good,” Joel fibs, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, crumbling the flimsy material in his fist, “I can bring her a plate up later, after I clean up—”

“Oh, please,” She holds her hand up to interrupt, politely refusing, “we’ll clean up, won’t we?”

Tommy squints, eyeing the table full of dirtied dishes but nods regardless.

Always the yes man. Joel smirks, a flippant chuckle under his breath.

Joel tips back the final bottle of beer and swallows it down, having learned to manage his alcohol well after years of casual drinking that had slowly morphed into a crutch. He gets the buzz, the warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest but otherwise it was undetectable, aside from the hasty decision making to find a reason to bother you after the wrestling match that afternoon.

He quietly piled the food onto a plate, working around the kitchen and squeezing past the other two bodies before he’s yanking at the cord to the attic stairs, your body lunging up at the sound, nearly jumping out of your own skin as the light peeks through and the hard, heavy footsteps follow.

Joel hears the both of them, Tommy and your mother, as they finish up in the kitchen and trail off into their own respective room in the house, pulling at the handle with his unoccupied hand to seal out the creeping light from downstairs. He slides the plate of food on the dresser shoved against the nearest wall before his head is turning toward you, watching as you rubbed at your eyes, faking the grogginess from a deep sleep you never managed to fall into, running both hands through the front of your hair before they’re flattening out against your duvet, wondering which one of you should speak first.

Both hands shoved into his front pockets, he turns to you fully. He’s changed from earlier, denim traded for a soft cloth; sweats, paired with his usual dark washed shirt.

Relaxed. He looks…relaxed. His eyes are undeniably softer, too. His lips rubbing together tight before his tongue slips out to wet them and he’s still standing, waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

“I’ll eat it later,” you appease his lingering presence, taken aback as the words seem to bring him back to life, socked feet soft against the wood floors but the intent is heavy and intimidating, “I will, I promise—“

You weren’t lying, you would.

But, then the bed creaks as he takes a seat and your legs widen to make room for him, the blanket slipping down your thighs and revealing bare legs under a long t-shirt, having changed out of your damp clothes too.

Closer, you can see the flush in his chest. Cheeks warm and hot, you’re sure if you touched him it would be confirmed. Drunk? It didn’t seem likely, but he had definitely been drinking, a deep but quiet sigh coming from his chest before he spoke.

“Don’t apologize,” you began before he could get the words out, “god—don’t, just…”

“I was gonna ask if you’re feelin’ alright,” Joel begins, turning toward you hesitantly, a fist curled and stamped into the mattress, watching the muscle of his bicep and forearm flex with the action, core clenching at the sight of it.

You nod lazily, “How was dinner?”

He knows you’re not asking about the food.

“Typical,” He responds lightly, “your mom loves carryin’ the conversation, doesn’t she?”

“She just enjoys the sound of her own voice.”

Joel chuckles quietly, hand unfurling and his fingers grazing against your knee. For a moment, you think it could be an accident, but as you find a surge of confidence and drag your fingers over his own, pulling his hand up to your face curiously, making a show to smell his hand with a light quip thrown his way.

“Got all the sunscreen off finally,” You joke and the stretched out glimpse of you flashes through Joel’s mind, his fingers pulling at tied strings, the nylon falling against thick blades of grass, “did you enjoy your shower?”

Joel quirks his brow, curious.

Right, he didn’t know. A momentary lapse of judgment letting the words slip.

“You know, was it…peaceful? Nice?”

No additional expletives groaned out under the steady stream, fist wrapped around his cock? Selfishly your eyes wandered toward the no longer tented material, having caught quite the eyeful earlier—and felt it just the same.

His hand slowly drops to the bedsheet, thumb grazing the cream material while the rest of his fingers curl over your knee, your own hand placed atop it, an unspoken but welcomed touch.

He was losing his mind, surely.

He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have sat down.

But, Joel lied for you and that was the first mistake.

“I lied for you, again,” He comes clean, emphasis on his final word as his eye flicks up despite his downturned gaze, watching your thumb rub into the spot between his own and pointer finger, “makin’ habit of it, it seems.”

A soft breath mingles between the space, tight and tense, too intimidated to confront him head on now, shaking your head at his words, “You were the one who said my secret was safe, remember?”

His large hand flexes around yours as he presses the back of your hand into the sheets, held prison under his grip, “You know I never meant it like that—“

“Didn’t you?” You counter, turning your eyes up toward him cautiously, daring him to confess.

Our secret, alright?

It was the gateway—one small lie unfolding into many and soon it would be like breathing, second nature.

“Why are you still here?” There’s a softness in your tone that beckons a confession, but Joel’s hard-headed.

So, he retaliates.

“Why haven’t you asked me to leave?” His eyebrows raise, a subtle smile pulling at his lips that was brought up by the inhibitions of alcohol, mostly Joel but there was something lingering.

The words float through your head, climb up your throat, but you can’t force them to leave your mouth, eyes softening under his gaze as a warm, careful hand caresses up your thigh, fingertips grazing your clothed cunt, the wet heat undeniable as it seeps through your underwear.

You can smell the beer on his breath but it doesn’t stop your hand from clawing up his chest and behind his neck, allowing him to pull your leg over his lap, spread wide on your bed as he fit between them, “You’ve been drinking,” it was obvious, but Joel shakes his head, tongue licking at his bottom lip as his left hand squeezes at your calf, “haven’t you?”

“That bother you?” He wonders—he’s mostly unaffected, you can tell. The creeping flush to his face a mix of the alcohol and you, he’s just as in his right mind as you, the inside of his palm reaching further to cup your cunt, rubbing gently with the heel of his palm.

A breathy sigh and a head shake in return as your legs spread wider, hips canting into his touch as your hand falls to your side, exposing your clothed chest to him, breasts peeking through the sheer fabric of your top while your other hand grips Joel’s neck harder, blunt fingernails digging into the skin.

“What are you doing?” You ask carefully, not wanting to startle him.

It doesn’t even seem to phase him, though. His hand moves forward slightly to push your shirt up your stomach before it slipped beyond the fabric of your underwear and against your bare skin, two fingers sliding between your folds to press into your sticky slick.

“Giving you what you want,” Like it was obvious; the constant taunting, ill-mannered behavior, his own resolve finally breaking and the guilt he was feeling disappearing in an instant now that he has you like this, a clandestine sight, “—s’what you wanted, right?”

You nod, a subtle jerk of your head.

At the notion, his hands are in two different directions—one hand is tracing the chain that wore like armor, a dainty necklace your mother had gifted you when you were young that was the only significance you had to show for with her, your undying faith. He slips the necklace around and between your shoulder blades, out of sight. His other hand slips between your thighs until they’re finding home against your cunt. Absent fingers drifting deeper between your shoulder blades, delicate touches tracing along your spine over soft skin until he’s back at the nape of your neck and squeezing, determined fingers rubbing slowly at your sensitive clit, a stuttered and quiet gasp falling from your lips.

He’s not the first man to touch you like this, but he was skilled. No fumbling hands and hesitant touches, there was surety in his movements and his gaze that didn’t shy from yours in embarrassment or lack of care.

Joel Miller was in the mood to watch you fall apart for his own entertainment.

“Shh,” He reminds you, a soft command, “don’t need them gettin’ curious.”

You shake your head in agreement, a plethora of sins being committed in the act of one greedy and selfish desire, “Mo—More,” You plead, feeling his fingers slide down the center of your cunt before they’re breaching your tight hole and pressing inside. Joel grunts as you pull at his short curls, his tongue resting wanting over his bottom teeth, yearning for a taste.

“Take it off,” He demands, “wanna see those pretty tits, darlin’.”

Your skin prickles with anticipation, separating from him briefly to pull your shirt over your head and Joel, in a moment of blind lust, takes the advantage of you on your back to yank your panties down your ankles and balling them up, thrown haphazardly near the top of your bed as he settles on his knees between your outstretched legs—

God, he’s going to hell.

And you want to kiss him, the feeling so strong it sends an ache down your core, releasing a shaky breath as he squeezes at your thighs before his fingers continue, dipping inside of you with ease. Luckily, with this position, he’s got a free hand to rub at your clit, thumb pressed firmly against the nub and drawing soft, mewling sounds from your lips.

It’s intoxicating, the subtle smell of barley and fresh soap. He’s speaking to you in some far off, distant place, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he sets an inescapable pace. They’re goading words, encouraging and bordering the line of patronizing but you can’t commit them to memory, only coming as another soft command falls from his lips.

Because he sees your fingers itching, needy, “Touch yourself,” He murmurs, his touch somehow more tender as his fingers pump inside of you, thumb working quick circles of your clit as you hands drag feather-light of your breasts, a tickle at the center of your chest before you’re squeezing the flesh under your grip and moaning louder as he changes the angle of his fingers inside of you, deep and undeniably precise. Thick fingers keep you full and satisfied.

He can hear your breath quickening, a silent warning when your brain wasn’t catching up with the rest of your body, words a complete loss. His fingers slip out of you, wet slick smearing over your mouth as he leans forward to muffle the unintentional cry that falls from your lips as he pulls you over the edge with a mere motion of his thumb, your eyes squeezing shut as you come.

The pleasure blooms inside, teeth digging gently into the skin of his palm as you selfishly savor the feeling, Joel only moving away when your eyes fall back on him—back to reality.

“How’s that for a mess?” Joel doesn’t miss a beat, turning your earlier jab back on you as you notice the gleam on his fingers, thin strings of slick hang between his fingers as he separates them and you pull at his wrist, knowing that Joel would follow through the rest of the way, pressing his fingers to your lips as you clean him, tongue dragging along the digits diligently.

You swear you hear Joel groan, but it was muffled by your own squeak as Joel grabbed at your chin, flesh pinched between his fingers, “Eat your damn dinner,” He demands, but you quickly muffle him with the fabric of your underwear, shoving it into his mouth before you move dangerously close to his face, still under the stern grip of his hand.

“No problem,” You appease him, “and a suggestion—”

Pulling the fabric from his mouth, you aren’t amiss as he pockets it, his eyebrows raising in question.

“Double check your doors next time you decide to jerk off to me.”

Because if anything, you wanted him to be more deliberate.

Joel’s flush deepens, shame flashing in his eyes for a brief moment before you break out into a playful smile as you sing softly, “Goodnight, Joel.”

Joel’s never had a harder time falling asleep, night creeping into dawn before the slumber finally takes him, riddled with a guilt that is indescribable.

–

Breakfast is quiet.

Too quiet.

You pick lazily at the fresh blueberry muffins your mother had baked that morning, watching as Tommy conversed with Joel across the living room, both of them nursing steaming cups of coffee. Your mother notices your trailing gaze, mistaking it for you spacing out as she perks up, speaking from beside you as she pours more orange juice into your empty glass.

“I was thinking we could do something in town today,” She begins, “all of us—Joel, too. Tommy mentioned they’ve got a fair going on downtown—food, music, plenty to keep you interested.”

You slip the blueberry beyond your lips and chomp down, “What’s the occasion? Big news? Don’t tell me your pregnant—”

Your name comes out as a stark warning, the plastic bottle of orange juice crunching under her grip, “That is not—no, I’m not. But, Tommy and I…may have put an offer down on a house, if you’re that curious. We were gonna drive by on the way there and show it to you.”

You shake your head nonchalantly, “Joel was actually going to take me to that cowboy museum a couple towns over—I forgot to ask, but you don’t care, right?”

Joel perks up at the mention of his name, his conversation with Tommy stalling.

“I mean, I’ll be with Joel,” You remind her, “I’ll be safe, won’t I?”

Your head turns over your shoulder, catching Joel’s surprised expression and watching as it slowly morphs into understanding, silently following the path you had so carefully constructed as he approaches the counter at your side, pressing his mug into the counter.

“I shoulda mentioned it,” He lies through his teeth, “slipped my mind, but it’s alright with you?”

She swallows. Tense.

Tommy interjects then and chuckles, clapping a hand over his brother’s shoulder.

“History of cowboys?” He asks, “Oh come on, sweetheart. Let ‘em go, they can always meet up with us after.”

She folds for Tommy, of course. Flashing an apprehensive smile that you knew too well, eyes flitting toward the pair of brother’s with a cynical regard, catching Joel’s tight expression for a brief moment. You had lied, big deal.

It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve done as of late, watching the leisurely swagger of Joel’s walk as he steps toward the coffee pot, offering a sturdy goodbye over his shoulder as the lovebirds make their escape, leaving you both under the thick cloud of unspoken tension.

With disregard, he walks past you and sips noisily at his coffee, taking a seat on the couch with the low hum of the morning news as your sock covered feet pat softly against the floor. Your thigh presses against the arm hanging over the couch as you squeeze by, but you’re stopped by Joel’s foot pressing into the coffee table, blocking your path.

“You make plans for somethin’ I’m unaware of?”

You huff out a soft laugh through your nose before you shove at his foot gently, knocking it to the ground before you’re climbing over his lap, mug screeching against the table as Joel scrambles to place it down, his hands falling against your hips instinctively as you settle over him, tight shorts crawling up your thighs and settling in the crease of your hips.

His touch is intimate—and warm, god his hands were always so warm. Your fingers scratch testingly at his patchy facial hair, a delicate touch that extends to his mused morning hair, untouched and still riddled with sleep. Then he’s inhaling hard as your lips press to his without preamble, his mouth opening in a quiet sigh and your tongue find the opportunity and slips beyond his lips, dragging over his teeth as it swipes against his own tongue and for a few minutes he melts into you, returning the kiss back feverishly.

But, like a fragile tower—the moment snaps and collapses in on itself as Joel shoves you away, a large hand pressed against your collarbone as you yelp at the sudden movement, slightly disappointed as you frown.

“Stop,” he breaths out harsh, his hand fisting in your shirt as he peers up you through a half-lidded gaze, “you—we can’t keep doin’ this, kid.”

“No one’s here,” you murmur, pushing at his hand but it doesn’t budge, so you settle for his thighs, cotton material smooth to the touch as you fingers climb until they can settle near his groin, rubbing your clothed cunt against his hardened cock, a noticeable tent in his pants, “if you worried about getting caught.”

“I know you’re doing this to get back at your mother,” Joel begins, but he never gets the chance to finish.

“And if I was doing this for me?” You counter, “Because I want to? What would you say then?”

There’s a long beat of silence, Joel’s hands pressing into your hips again to keep you still, frozen in place and unable to chase the pleasure you were so desperately after.

“Naive,” He offers, “childish—downright stupid, if you think about it. I’m twice your age and if the other reason wasn’t obvious, well—“

“We’re not blood related,” you argue, “it isn’t nearly the same thing and you know it.”

You lean forward, crowding into his space once more, the ghost of his breath across your lips as he eyes follow, his head leaning back as you move in, hesitant.

“Besides, I think you’ve ruined all other men for me,” You goad, a salacious grin spreading across your face, “your fingers—Joel, they’re—“

At a loss for words, you sigh, hips dropping against his groin pointedly, he grunts and you can see the hard line of his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

“I’m not the one, darlin’. You can’t compare me to them—I’m old, I’ve lived. Don’t think you gotta settle for me.”

Joel has sequestered himself to loneliness—after his separation from his wife, the loss of his daughter, he was content being alone. Living alone. Dying alone.

Drowned out by bad decisions and alcohol, he’s found himself regretting his choices once again, but not for the reasons he had hoped.

He didn’t regret you—his actions with you, but how the repercussions would affect you if your mother found out, his brother. There was no coming back, no explanation that could justify his actions.

But you’re sitting, pouting in his lap as your finger twirls around the string of his sleep pants and he knows that look—more, give me more.

Nothing would satiate that hunger.

“I’m not a virgin, you know,” you add as if it may magically heal things, but the next words out of your mouth have Joel squeezing at the flesh of your hips, words that make his cock pulse under his clothes, “I think you enjoy corrupting me, too. My mom put me on birth control the second she was able, afraid I’d turn out like her.”

Luckily, you hadn’t. She’d never let you live that down.

You press in further, a hand climbing up to press against the column of Joel’s throat, lips sliding against his as you whisper, “Do you wanna ruin me, Joel?”

All you get in response is a growl, deep and intense as he surges forward, kissing you soundly to shut you up.

It was a weight off your chest, a sharp breath as he slips his tongue into your mouth as you part your lips as his fingers pull at the base of your scalp, a sharp sting of pain drowned out by pleasure.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, mouth down your neck hungrily, “in your room, now.”

The heated, dark look in his eyes tells you that you weren’t going alone, his footsteps trailing behind you.

He splits you open with his thighs, already bare underneath him as he’s stripped himself of everything but his pants, sans his underwear he definitely wasn’t wearing, an unreadable expression on his face. Pinched, his brow furrowed as he lingered around you, hands pressing into the mattress but not you, careful that his hands didn’t stray too far again.

“Should I say my morning prayers?” You tease, your pointer finger trailing down the center of his chest, both of your eyes following the digit until it hooks into the waistband of his underwear, “Absolve you of some guilt?”

“It ain’t guilt,” Joel retorts, dark eyes flicking up toward you, “you really think all that prayin’ actually works?”

You shrug, “I dunno what I think anymore—what do you believe in, Joel?”

Joel chuckles lowly, ignoring your hand as it slips beyond the material to touch him, his cock heavy in your hands, feeling the surreality of the moment hit you all at once as his hips keen into the touch, a subtle gesture as his fists settle into the space beside your head.

“Ain’t never believe in nothing,” He responds quieter, “easier that way.”

You hum softly, nodding absently to his response as you force the final piece of clothing down his hips, his eyes never really leaving you—wandering, maybe, but you have his full attention.

“Come on, Joel,” You squander, giving his cock a light squeeze before your hand trails up his chest, fingers forming to the lines of his jaw as your fingers glide over his scruff, “Easier?”

“You’re brainwashed,” He admits, pausing to slip his hand between your bodies and drifting over your cunt before he slips two fingers inside of you without warning, a gasp ripping from your throat but quickly settling as his fingers work inside of you meticulously, dragging with gentle pressure against your walls, “can’t think for yourself without feelin’ guilt, can you?”

He’s making a mockery of the beliefs you’ve been under for years—you get it, you do. But, it seems to strike a nerve when you dig deeper, unsure why, amongst your building pleasure the taunting scripture slips from your lips in an attempt to rile him further.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just—” Your voice wavers as Joel’s attention snaps to your soft words, eyes locked on his unreadable expression, “ and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousn—”

A tight squeeze at the cross around your neck does him in.

A familiar sound slips beyond his lips, a hungry and deep set growl as he breaks from you, manhandling you with force onto your stomach and in an attempt to muffle your antics and silence you, a hand pressed against the back of your neck, face pressed into the soft fluff of your pillow as his voice rumbles behind you.

“Ain’t gonna listen to that shit,” Joel gripes, his free hand binding to your waist as he lifts your hips up, back arched and ass up, breathing out a soft noise of protest as he squeezes at your skin, “—you done?”

You shake your head weakly, a small laugh bubbling from your chest as the full expanse of his hand slides over your cheek, pressing your face deeper into the pillow, his thumb tracing along the corner of your mouth.

“There’s no savin’ yourself from this, sweetheart,” Joel acknowledges, a vague but somehow crystal clear way of checking in, assuring there was consent to follow through—that you wanted this.

“I know,” You mumble around the finger that glides over your lip, a calloused thumb against soft, fleshy lips.

Joel presses inside of you with a low groan, mixed with a tight hiss as you clench around him instinctively, your eyes drifting shut as his cock fits inside your tight walls, both hands drifting to the pillow under your head and gripping tight as he begins a slow, steady snap of his hips in utter silence, forceful exhales coming from his nose as he fucks you from behind, noting the way your lips drift apart when he presses just a little too deep, the skin between your eyes scrunching up at the bridge of your nose.

His thumb presses inside of your mouth, against the inside of your cheek before pressing against your tongue, effectively silencing you, “Go on,” Joel taunts, “keep prayin’.”

Your eyes roll back as the hand gripping your waist travels over your stomach and toward your cunt, his middle finger drifting featherlight over your clit in slow circles, your grip in the weak cloth fabric growing tighter—you make an attempt, unintelligible mumbles around his thick finger, followed by a deep snicker of amusement from the man behind you, inside of you.

“Don’t try and convince me you believe that shit,” Joel tells you, “not when you’re beggin’ me to fuck you like this—’ve never been a saint, either.”

Eventually, your mind goes blank, a welcomed numbness as Joel fucks you into the mattress above a squeak boxspring in a home that didn’t belong to you, in a room that has only been yours for a short time, giving in to a forbidden temptation with a man who’s challenged every belief you’ve ever known.

He notices your attention drifting, removing his hand from your mouth, smearing the saliva over your breasts as he jostles you upright, your back pressed tight against his chest as you move against him lazily, feeling the deep, full snap of his hips as he breathes hot and heavy into your neck.

“Just this time,” He promises you, “no more teasin’, or lying—”

The preaching to you was rich, given his own actions. He must be speaking to himself, committing himself to it aloud. You nod regardless, knowing now that you’ve learned his weakness.

Because, like you, it was the unavoidable temptation.

“Another secret?” You tease, feeling the crest of your orgasm building in your gut as he squeezes at your breast, his soft groans evolving into throaty moans, a boisterous surprise to somehow who’s always so forlorn, an empty house with no reason to hide his deep and selfish need for pleasure, you giggle quietly through the force of your orgasm as you both collapse on the mattress, Joel’s hands barely catching himself to avoid the weight of his body pressing into you as he pulls out of you slowly, the bed creaking underneath the movement.

You feel candescent, shirt barely covering your body as you haphazardly drape it over yourself, watching as Joel pulled his sweatpants back up over his hips, his eyes catching on you in a way you’ve never witnessed, his come literally dripping down your thighs and he senses the shift in your expression, immediate guilt flushing your body and showing in the way your body curls in on itself, avoiding the eye contact he was offering.

He sees it, the way your brain is programmed to feel immediate guilt, shame, and as much as he’d like to think of a way to fix it, he knows that was something you had to work through on your own.

A shower would work for now, though.

Wash away the sin until the inevitable happens.

There is some normalcy that returns to your life as your classes resume, finding that time away from the Miller household was refreshing in a way. Tension with your mother was unavoidable, the wedding on the horizon and the impending truth threatening to come to light—your mother had done an excellent job as sheltering you, brainwashing you, and scaring you into behaving out of fear that you might be stuck down.

It all seemed small and finite now, that craving to break Joel down for your own pleasure, seeing the shell of a man he was now.

And he, of course, couldn’t even follow through with his own promise to himself.

Though, as you return for the short weekends, he doesn’t always seem like…Joel.

He drinks more, itching toward the end of September soon and a couple months back at school and when you aren’t buried in the sheets of your twin bed or locked away in the darkness of his room when you’re both home alone, he reeks of alcohol and silence.

He doesn’t seem angry or upset, but the sadness is like a wave.

It makes it easier to keep your distance, something Joel acts like he wants, but then he’s seeking you out in the dark again, bourbon on his tongue and you return the messy kiss he presses to your lips, trying to silence your own thoughts by occupying yourself with him.

But, he does sense your hesitancy.

“I’ll go,” He speaks into the darkness, a hand cradling your head as he squeezes at the base of your neck, a comforting gesture despite the cloud that shrouded him, “if you want me to.”

You’ve barely seen him all day, both of the brothers overwhelmingly forlorn, but you don’t pry.

“No, no,” You insist, hushed against his mouth as you seek out his eyes, glossed over and hooded, his shoulders twitching when your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, “you just—you seem tired.”

It was a loaded word, one that Joel doesn’t touch or elaborate on. But, he was tired, physically. Taking on more shifts before the holidays approach, begging to keep himself occupied alongside his brother who was stressing for his own reasons. He’d come to you seeking a weird dichotomy of comfort and it made you feel warm inside, but a tinge of warning couldn’t be ignored.

“Just sleep here,” You suggest, “I’ll wake you early, before they’re up.”

Without protest, he nods.

You can’t explain how easily your bodies mold together on the too small mattress, like this was something you’ve done for years, staring up blankly at the ceiling as Joel snored quietly beside you.

–

“Hey, kiddo,” Tommy boasts from the kitchen counter as descend the stairs, making your pass through the fridge before you’re gone for another week, “school treatin’ you alright?”

“It’s fine,” You shrug noncommittally, ripping a banana from its bunch and reaching for the half empty jug of orange juice, pouring half a cup to sate your stomach, “how’s mom?”

Tommy feels the heaviness around the question, tensing as he sips at his coffee, “Stressed over the wedding, all the planning, ya know—“

“Yeah,” It’s lazy and short, but Tommy knows your relationship with her is less than favorable lately, sensing your desire for freedom and answers, truth rather than careful lies your mother has constructed around you for your safety, “uh, can I ask a question, actually?”

Tommy nods, hearing the faint creaking of the floorboard somewhere distant in the house.

“Is…Joel okay?”

Tommy seems surprised, but he masks it quickly.

“Oh, he…usually gets…worse around the anniversary of Sarah’s death,” Your eyes wander, clearly missing crucial information but your eyes drift toward the closed bedroom door that was vehemently off limits, always wondering but never questioning, “shit—we ain’t mentioned her to you?”

You shake your head.

“She died about five years ago, raisin’ her alone had always been tough on Joel but her dying…it’s been hard.”

“His daughter?”

He had a daughter.

I’m old, I’ve lived, the words echoing in your head.

“He…never mentioned her, you’ve never…”

“He won’t,” Tommy tells you, “can’t even bring her up to him most days—I thought I’d mentioned it to you but it must’ve slipped my mind, I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“No, don’t…don’t apologize.” You assure him, taking a sip of the tart juice and peeling slowly at the peel of your banana, “I guess that explains the bottles on the table when I come home every weekend.”

And the alcohol on his breath when he kisses you.

Tommy notes the way you so easily call the house home now, smiling slightly. But, he’s always been aware of his brother’s…problem, not sure how to help or fix the situation without an implosion happening.

In the distance, you can hear your mother calling out for Tommy, his eyes drifting toward the sound.

“Have a good week,” He pressed a gentle kiss at the crown of your head, squeezing at your shoulder before leaning over to speak under his breath, “—you should talk to your mom before you plan on taking that offer, by the way.”

Your attention perks up, his finger drifting toward the envelope hidden under a stack of placemats on the kitchen table before he’s interrupted by another shout from your mother, “I can handle the fallout for you, kiddo. Don’t worry.”

Tommy retreats and eventually, you do too. Snatching the letter up and stowing it away in your bag, you aren’t able read through it until later that night, Joel’s unsaved number lingering on the phone screen in your missed calls.

It was an internship at your dream job in Dallas, a flat rate pay out with six months of lodging covered while you got on your feet—but more importantly it was an escape.

You should be upset at Tommy for prying, opening the letter before you had a chance to peek at it yourself, but he’s sensed the tension for months. He loved your mother, but he cared for you, even in the tumultuous months he’s been around you both.

You were strong, independent, and far better off blossoming on your own without the hard grip of your mother and her undying but fickle faith.

The second call from Joel startles you back to reality, answering with a shaky finger.

“Didn’t say goodbye this morning,” Joel greets, only sounding slightly bitter.

You’re quiet for longer than Joel is comfortable with and he almost speaks again, apologizes, but you cut him off.

“Sorry…my mom, it seemed like she was already on her reign of terror and I didn’t…she’s hard to be around anymore.”

“I’m just messin’ with you, kid,” He replies, letting out a soft huff as he sat down in his worn-in recliner.

“Are they home?”

“Left about an hour ago, they’re movin’ stuff into the house, I guess? I don’t know,” Joel sounds disinterested and you share the sentiment, but then there’s a distinct snap of a bottle cap that you try to ignore.

Joel hears your lips part on the other end, “It’s been a long day,” It was the first time he’s outright acknowledged it, which was a step, but not what you needed.

“Tommy told me,” You blurt in frustration, “about her.”

“Listen, I don’t need you judgin’ me either. I get it enough from Tommy as is—“

“I’m not…I wasn’t,” You respond, confused, “I just, I wish you’d mentioned her, at least. Not that you owe that to me…but—”

Joel clears his throat and the bottle scuffs the table, undrank as he settles back into his seat.

“I got my own baggage, ain’t no sense dragging you into that,” Joel defends, “not with all you have going on.”

“If you can fuck me, you can talk to me too,”

It silences him effectively, “I’m not a child. I’m not your child. I’m an adult—“

“Where is this comin’ from? I’ve never said that—“

“I don’t know,” You sigh in exasperation, “It’s been a long day, Joel. I’m gonna head to bed, okay?”

You don’t wait for his response, hanging up on him with a frustrated finality, mad at yourself and him, reasons unclear—you haven’t prayed in months, but you find the urge as the guilt creeps in, wondering if Joel was the corruptor your mother had always warned you about.

They’ll come at your weakest and test your faith, and if you break, you’re just as feeble as the rest of the world without faith to guide them.

The week drags and you’d much rather be somewhere else, but you find yourself turning the doorknob to the Miller home and a Happy Birthday balloon floating into the open doorway, a contorted look of confusion on your face as your eyes land on the three adults in the living room.

“Are we celebrating early?” You look at your mother, who’s birthday is approaching in a couple weeks, but she’s quickly shaking her head.

“It’s Joel’s birthday, honey.”

“Oh,” Your eyes glide over the three of them until they land on Joel, “Happy Birthday?”

Joel hates the attention, clearly.

The next few hours are spent together at a fancy restaurant Tommy decides to treat everyone too, a nice gesture for his brother’s birthday, but it doesn’t dissipate the underlying frustration.

And Tommy, being a pushover for the sake of allowing his brother to enjoy his birthday, drinks alongside him—four beers down and a couple shots later, dinner finished and skipping dessert, everyone is heading back to the car in silence, though Joel does look considerably lighter in his expression, his normally furrowed brow now relaxed.

Your mother is quick to drag Tommy to their shared room when you’re home, giving you a gentle hug that you haven’t felt in months, strange and unsettling to your psyche. Joel relaxes onto the couch, kicking his boots off toward the edge of the rug before he’s searching around blindly for the remote, thumbing the button to turn on the television.

It illuminates the dim room and you find yourself standing there, unmoving, suddenly feeling completely out of place in a home you’ve grown comfortable in.

“You’re quiet,” Joel notes, not looking at you while he fumbles with his watch, twisting in on his wrist as he places a sock covered foot against the coffee table.

“And you’re drunk,” You retorted, the again unsaid but implied.

“Believe it ‘r not, I can handle myself. I know my limit,” Joel responds, “I’ve been cuttin’ back, I don’t need you tellin’ me what I can handle. You’re young, you wouldn’t understand anyways.”

“Guess so,” You reply lamely, stripping off your shirt down to the thin spaghetti top, the thick September heat seeping inside the Miller home, even as the sun set—and you can feel Joel’s eyes on you before you look at him, eyes lingering longer than they should.

There were often moments where he would fend off your advances, quiet moments at home alone when you would slip into his lap or behind him and he’d let you down easily, but he wasn’t always that strong—a weak man with temptation dangling in his face. He’s always been in the wrong from the beginning, allowing any of this to develop and further.

But, you’re feeling vindictive tonight—upset and angry at yourself, angry at Joel—no, frustrated.

And with Tommy and your mother turned in for the night, absolutely no sign of them resurfacing until morning, nothing was stopping you as Joel’s eyes bored into you and the slow rise and fall of your chest.

He’s always been cautious and safe, never while the house was occupied, only in quiet and enclosed spaces that he could lock the doors—that in the chance you might get caught he could lie or evade and not face the consequences, but even as you grow closer and climb into his lap, he doesn’t stop you.

Your hands grip his hair immediately, yanking his head back as you press your ass into his thighs and bring your lips to his jaw, mouthing against the line of his neck and around, pulling at the collar of his shirt to nip at his chest, nothing but his shallow breaths and the soft hum of the television to fill the air, the solid press of his hard cock against your inner thigh a warning sign.

You could end it here, leave him with the guilt that continued to grow within him.

You could drag him to his room, ride him over his sheets like he desired, a clandestine sight that would have any man on his knees—or so he’s told you.

Or, you seduce him here.

He was already nearly there, reaching for you as he leaned forward when you pulled back, pressing a hand into his chest, “I’m leaving, after the wedding,” Joel pauses, the furrow in his brow returning faintly, “I got an offer for an internship.”

“Well..that’s good, ain’t it?”

His hands squeeze at your sides as they travel and settle there, ignoring the obvious danger that the two could walk out at any moment, focused solely on you. It shouldn’t make you feel good, but it does. You shouldn’t want this, but you craved it.

“No, like—I’m leaving that night. To Dallas.” A long pause follows and Joel waits, watching as you glance down the hall, “I don’t know how to tell her.”

“Do you want to?” Joel asks.

You sigh softly, playing with the hem of his collar, “No, I don’t. Tommy told me he could deal with the fallout, but—”

“Tommy knows?”

You look at him with a tired roll of your eyes and a faint smile, “Yes, he does. He snooped and read the letter—he’s known I’ve wanted this opportunity for a while.”

“I didn’t think you two talked that much,” Joel replies honestly.

“We don’t, not always,” You admit, “not with my mom around—and he told me, about your drinking problem.”

Joel huffs quietly, scratching at his cheek as he looks away.

“I just—this isn’t…like, it isn’t also because of that, right?” You ask, “Does drinking make you feel less guilty about it?”

You know it isn’t the entire reason, but there is some suspicion. Given the constant lingering taste on his lip after the first instance together and the several that followed, a burgeoning problem of his own melding with the dangerous secrets you’ve been trying to keep.

“There’s no guilt,” It was the most confident you’ve heard Joel to be…ever. Not an ounce of hesitation in his tone, “We’re adults, we made a choice. But, I think there is a point where we have to realize this can’t work.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Joel awaits quietly, not giving you a nod but his eyes turn up in wait, his thumbs slipping under the fabric of your shirt to press into warm flesh.

“If they weren’t together—if your brother wasn’t going to be my stepdad, would you have thought twice? If we had met at a bar or something?”

“I don’t know,” Joel answers, unsure.

You sigh deeply, leaning into his eyeline to capture his lips, an unexpected kiss that grabs his attention, his hands climbing higher under your shirt in search of skin.

“I think you do,” You mumble against his mouth, “I also think you were vulnerable and you saw that I was too and you wanted to feel a little less lonely.”

Joel can’t find the words to respond, feeling like you’ve seen straight through him.

“So, let me help a little more,” You soothe his rapidly beating heart with your sultry tone, unbuttoning your jeans with slow movements, only removing yourself from him briefly to strip your jeans and underwear off before you return to his lap.

You wait until he finally got with the program and unbuttoned his own jeans, shifting them just far enough down his thighs that they’re out of the way, grabbing for the blanket draped over the couch to wrap around you and you almost protest, but the concentrated look on his face as returns your gaze short-circuits your thinking, fisting his cock as he slides it between your wet folds, pressing inside of you slowly, your slow breaths mingling together in each other’s mouth.

“Quiet,” He reminds you, “we have to be quiet.”

Easier said than done, you giggle against his lips.

“Says you,” You tease, lifting your hips slowly as he follows the movement, allowing you to lead, your hands pressing into the back of the couch, “I like hearing how bad you want it,”

Joel’s hand dwarfs your mouth as he covers it, eyes narrowing at your pointed choice of words and he snaps his hips into you harshly without warning, forcing out a yelp into his palm as your hands tighten into the cushion, canting your hips as you lift them in time with his thrusts.

He’s got his teeth digging into his bottom lip in an attempt to silence himself, eventually grabbing for your hand and covering his own mouth in desperation, wrapping his free hand around your back and pulling you to his chest, foreheads pressed against each other as you meld together, different emotions swirling as he commits this feeling, and your body, to memory.

Joel feels the familiar, cold touch of your dangle chain necklace, plain silver cross interlocked at the center of it, at this angle it nudges his nose with every thrust, a dainty piece of jewelry that he always took the time to tuck behind your neck—he’s never seen you without it.

He thinks for a moment, considering his action before he’s reaching to tuck it behind your head.

But, your hand stops him, placing it back center before you’re reaching behind to unclasp the necklace from your body, dangling it over the empty cushion beside you.

“It’s okay,” You can sense Joel’s confusion, worry— “I’m starting to figure things out for myself,” It’s intimate, the way you’re talking to him now, voice barely above a whisper as his hips rock gently to keep a slow place, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, “besides…the things I want you to do to me, it’s blasphemy, really.”

Joel snorts at that, finding the sudden burst of energy to snake his hands under your thighs, lifting you up slightly as he scoots himself further down the couch, feet planted flat on the ground and allowing you proper leverage to use his body just the way you desire.

It takes very little time to work him up, a deep growl suppressed behind clenched teeth as your fingers dig into his cheek where your hand is still tight over his mouth, riding him with a clear determination, his eyes softening and pleading—he’s right there and you can see it.

His eyes flutter, hand squeezing and kneading at your thigh in silent prayer.

Rich, you think. Maybe you’ve been worshiping wrong your entire life.

Your climax comes slowly, alongside his. It’s quiet, a long moment of drawn out sighs poured into each other’s skin, his achy groan a light reprieve to the moment as you climb off of him.

“Staying or going?” He asks after you’ve stood, blanket wrapped around your body.

“Depends,” Your finger dangle in front of his face, watching as he works his jeans back up his thighs, belt sitting unbuckled in his lap, “your room or mine?”

Joel nods with a smile, nudging you toward the hall.

–

Joel’s dangling the silver necklace in his hand as you exit the bathroom, hair damp and dressed in only a shirt—his shirt, climbing onto his bed while he approaches with an extended hand.

You take it silently, passing it off to his bedside table without a word.

“So, when do we have the talk?” You ask curiously, ripping the bandaid off immediately.

“Not tonight, if you don’t want to.”

Your brow pinches together as he slips under the blanket beside you, throwing the cover back to beckon you underneath. You oblige, sliding onto your knees to lean against his chest, forearm covering his abdomen as you rest your chin on your arm.

“I was thinking about starting deconstruction therapy,” You admit, scratching a fingernail at the patchy and fading emblem on his shirt, “It’s…silly, I know. But, I think it might help. I’m doubting—well, everything. I just need someone to talk to. A professional, I mean.”

“That really what you want?” Joel asks curiously, his fingers wrapping around your wrist gently, rubbing his thumb into the skin, “It ain’t because of me, is it?”

“I think I’ve been questioning things long before you, or even Tommy. I’m telling you because—I don’t know, I guess I want to hold myself accountable. So I don’t chicken out. Besides, you seem pretty good at keeping secrets.”

Joel shakes his head slightly in amusement, heaving out a long sigh as his eyes turn toward the ceiling, still favoring your touch as he continues to rub slow circles into your skin.

“I…also think you should get some help,” You add gently, “talk to someone about Sarah—doesn’t have to be me. I mean, Tommy is terrified to mention her, and thinks you’ll blow up on him. You’re…you’re an alcoholic, you know that? My mom was too, before she met Tommy.”

Joel keeps quiet, chewing at his bottom lip. It wasn’t a horrible sign, so you continue.

“She hid it really well, you…not so much.”

“So, holdin’ each other accountable then, huh?” Joel inquires, eyebrow raised.

“I can forgive your lapse in judgement when it came to me—the sex is…good,” You pause, considering your words, “really…really fucking good, but I think we’re using it to avoid things.”

“Think you can fix me?” Joel asks, with a tone of honesty in his voice, “Sweetheart, I’ve been broken for a long time.”

“Mend,” You emphasize, “you can heal—so can I. I think we both owe it to ourselves”

His hand engulfed the side of your face, the hot press of his skin against your cheek as you smiled against the touch, watching as he slowly returned the gesture.

“I think we do, sweetheart.”

I’ll try, for you—he thinks silently but doesn’t say. It doesn’t matter that his fatal attraction had turned into something of lasting admiration, because that would never work.

But, for you, he’d try.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #my writing #absolution

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coucouatoi · 4 months ago

Text

now you're in my life... | h.s.

Pairing: Harry Styles X Reader

Warnings: sexual tension, slutshaming, women being viewed as wives and baby makers only (not by Harry), fluff, Harry being a gentleman, implied age gap, smut

A/N: Bridgerton fic incoming!! I'm late to the Bridgerton party but I've finally rewatched it all... also didn't reread a 7th time so if u find any errors, sorry <3

Summary:

Dearest Gentle Readers, remember that a Bridgerton Courting season is never complete without some juicy drama. Here's some tips to stay... out of trouble:

1- Don't attempt to stand out

2- Don't even try to become the Diamond

3- Don't get caught with Londons most sought after bachelor in a compromising position

Good luck readers!

Lady Whistledown

Travel is exhausting. It always is.

Travelling with the end goal being dancing, presenting yourself, being courted and then wed is excruciating.

Your mother, bless her, is more excited than you've ever seen her. The carriage is already quite cramped with you, her and your younger brother squeezed tightly against each other. Her legs bounce constantly, her fan is flapping like she wants it to break in half and the lessons. Oh god, the lessons. A second of silence is too long. You have to be bombarded with rules and tips to make you the perfect debutante this new season.

Your brother, however, is barely spoken to. He is not going to be presented to the ton until a few more years have passed. The conversations seem to bore him. Bore him so much that he has seemingly slept through the entire trip... or at least pretended to.

Your trip to London is quite long. You have taken a boat and ridden so many carriages your behind has most likely become flatter. Today is the last day of travel thankfully. You'll be arriving at your family's English estate soon enough, your father is probably already waiting in the steps most likely impatiently tapping his foot.

He and your mother are still obsessively in love with each other. Married three weeks after courting during their first-ever year as debutants. First child, you, nine months later... after that things slowed down. It took them twelve years to have another child and now, six years later, she's gotten pregnant again. Their grand finale as they keep calling it.

You can only wish that you'll be able to find someone who makes you feel even just a smidge as happy as your parents make each other. That there's someone here, in London, who will make a worthy husband and an even more worthy father.

Your mother's squeal startles you out of your thoughts as you turn into the estate. She must have spotted your father.

The time has come, you must now be the best future bride possible for all the men in the Bridgerton ton to run after.

You feel absolutely ridiculous. Who allowed this to be the standard for debutantes?? A feather tucked into your neatly styled hair but not just any kind of feather it's not small or dainty, no. It's tall. Taller than most things in the room. On your tiptoes, you could reach some of the lower ceilings with it. The dress is fine, the gloves are only a little itchy and the shoes are actually quite pretty. But that damn feather...

"Are you sure I can't just accidentally set it on fire?" you grumble to your mother who is your sponsor for your official debut this season.

"That would certainly bring attention to you... I'll entertain the thought" she quips with a small smile.

"I look ridiculous with it! What's the point of looking like an ostrich? Is that what English men find desirable?" you're incredibly confused. This can't possibly be something that attracts suitors...

"The Queen demands it, my dear", she rubs your arm reassuringly, "We don't want to upset her"

You shrug in defeat. Your mother is right, no one would dare go against the queen. Especially when you are to be presented in her court.

The two women in front of you are escorted into the ballroom as their names are called. The doors close as the debutante bows to the Queen.

This is it. You're next. You're going to walk in front of the entire ton as fresh meat. Someone they don't know.

Your father owns an estate here but you've only been to London twice before this. Never enough time to make friends or make any kind of impression. Hopefully, they don't eat you alive.

Your mother fusses over the sleeves of your dress. Then she tugs your gloves up, making them pull uncomfortably at the webbing between each of your fingers. You let her fix anything that she deems askew or not perfect enough. It's the nerves making her twitchy. As the doors open in front of you she pushes the feathers you wear deeper into your up-do.

"Y/N L/N and her mother Lady L/N" Your mother locks your elbow with hers as you walk forward.

The room is littered with people, London's finest and richest gathered to see what fresh meat this courting season brings.

The other debutantes are lined next to each other facing the door, their mothers or older sisters behind them peering over shoulders.

Once your eyes lay on the queen you suck in the breath you were about to take. She sits on her throne like she was born to be on it. Her head held high but her eyes inquisitive. She eyes you up and down, more than once, it makes you stand up straighter. You want her to like you, get her and the rest of the ton curious.

Your mother lets go of you as you get closer to the Queen. The last steps you take are the most nerve-wracking ones you've ever taken. All eyes are on you; men, women, debutantes, the queen's harem, potential prospects.... Everyone.

You bow to her, deeply. Your right leg goes behind your left, you bend your knees and your head tucks down towards your chest. You stay like that, it's only polite to stay low as long as you can but when your foot starts feeling numb you stand back up.

She's in front of you. Eyes locked on your face, she examines it as a smirk forms on her face. The Queen approves of you.

"My diamond, make me proud" She taps your cheek once, twice, thrice before kissing your forehead and nodding her head as she makes her way back to her throne.

What does she mean by Diamond?

As soon as you enter the Bridgerton ball with your family you're swarmed. It's as if you're the newly set dessert table.

Potential suitors waving pens in your face begging for a spot on your dance card.

Is this what being the Diamond is all about?

Being chased around like you're nothing more than a cheap prize to these men? That's probably what you are to them...

You fill out two dance spots at random before managing to wiggle your way through the crowd and into the actual festivities.

The ballroom is enchanting, with flowers of every kind scattered all around the room. You feel like you've stepped into an indoor garden, everywhere you look there's at least one blooming plant. It's gorgeous. You want to stay in this room forever.

The dance floor is currently occupied by couples, waltzing around each other, the choreography running through their veins as if they were born knowing them.

It's all so hypnotizing. The dances, music, seeing the ton gossip so proudly, the men trying to woo this season's debutantes and the women batting their lashes waiting for someone to walk up. It's a game, all of it and you love being a witness. Well, a player now...

"They have a buffet!" Your little brother exclaims as he runs through the crown and straight for a table littered with a large array of foods. He's going to be distracted there for at least 2 whole dances. You have the next dance clear for now so you take the time to wander around, head held high as you take everything in. Your mother had fused incessantly over how you should act tonight and over your chosen outfit. It had to be:

- Fit for a diamond (whatever that may be)

- Have flowers, by order of the Queen

- Unique enough to attract attention

- Modest but not prudish

Complicated demands under the time restraints you had but she made it work. Calling upon her best modiste contacts and personally seeing to the design of them. You have to admit she has done quite the selection for you this evening.

Your gown is a light green, sage might it be? There's a thin layer of darker tule over the bottom half and your sleeves, giving it dimension. The area that goes around your bust and upper back is lighter and full of gemstones shaped like different flowers. It looks like the modiste managed to sew an entire bouquet into the fabric. The gloves are sage as well, going past your elbows and trimmed with the same darker tule. Your mother had a spare ribbon of the sage silky fabric saved for your hair. It's styled into the updo, weaving itself perfectly between the colours of your neatly styled hair. Smaller gemstones have also been placed precariously to make sure you shine as bright as any diamond should.

They've done an excellent job at making you look like a walking dream. Tempting, gorgeous and almost unattainable.

The song that is playing is about to end, which means you're about to have your first dance of the evening. You can't even recall with whom you had simply grabbed a random pen and wrote the colour of his jacket. Too many names had been screamed at you for you to decipher which was his. Hopefully, whoever occupies your first spot manages to find you and whisk you away to the dance floor.

As the couples either leave the dance floor or get ready for the next song, you look around somewhat panicked. Is your first slot not even going to find you? That would be slightly humiliating...

"Lady L/N" you turn swiftly toward the voice behind you. "I'm Lord Talag, pleasure to finally make your acquaintance" Lord Talag takes your hand and presses his lips to the back of it. His suit is blue with silver stitching, your very first slot. He leads you to the dance floor and you both take the first positions for the waltz. The violins start first and you're instantly moving.

Arms gracefully twirling over your head as you spin backwards. As you turn you can't focus on Lord Talag but you know he's doing the same thing. When you stop your turns and face your partner, you see that he's fallen. On his ass, on the floor, in front of everyone. The other couples around you stop abruptly to not trip over him.

"My Lord! Are you alright?" you gasp reaching out to help him stand. However, he ignores your attempts to aid him back on his feet and dusts himself off.

"Good evening, Lady L/N," he says and rushes out of the room. He resembles a kitten running to beg their owner for a treat: legs kicking quickly, bum shimming from side to side, a determined expression...

You're left standing in the middle of the dance floor as everyone looks at you with a confused expression. Your own must look quite similar to theirs. Your first dance partner for the evening has walked out on you. All because he fell on his ass. Men, am I right??

Taking a breather after the embarrassing moment Lord Talag put you through is essential. You can't possibly face the ton as they gossip about it. His chances of finding a bride now are squashed, he's the laughingstock of this courting season. Well, for now at least...

The midnight air is crisp. The cold air prickles at your skin causing goosebumps but you enjoy it, your skin had heated up under everyone's stares. There's no wind, no sound (besides the muffled voices inside) and only a slight orange hue glows around you on the balcony. There are some oranges perched around you and over your head. They aren't quite ripe yet but they do look particularly inviting.

You turn to rest your bum against the marble railing, lifting your head towards the sky. The stars are bright. Brighter than you would have imagined to see in the city. They reflect over the artificial pond under you, seemingly dancing on the ripples. It's all so peaceful.

"Don't you think it's a little cold to be out here without a coat?" the deep voice has you jumping out of your skin. You turn around abruptly to see who's sharing the balcony with you.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know someone was already here" you bow politely already stepping towards the door. You're not about to have two incredibly embarrassing moments in one evening. Would the Queen be tempted to take away your 'Diamond' status?

"There's no need to leave!" He rushes towards you, his right arm extended towards the door and body facing you. You back up quickly not wanting to make any accidental contact. You're unchaperoned in a private setting with a man... Please let no one come outside!

"I'm sorry if I startled you. I just realized you were holding onto yourself quite tightly... as if trying to heat up" he adds moving away from you as he stands up straight again. He must have realized how compromising this could seem.

"Oh! No, I'm actually comfortable... I'm just overthinking" you clarify for the mysterious, albeit handsome, man. You don't want him offering his jacket or anything of the sort. That would look even worse.

"Ah, I see. These types of events always bring out the worst in people" he laughs dryly as he shakes his head. It's almost as if he's recalling a specific memory. "I'm Harry, Duke Styles if you want specifics"

DUKE??? Your nighttime patio buddy is a DUKE?? This could not look any worse. You have to leave the secluded area now! Before anyone joins you and screams indecency.

Your panic must not be very well concealed as Har- Duke Styles, gets closer to you again with his hands raised.

"I'm not going to bite you, please don't panic" his hands are waiving slowly in front of your face. He's trying to demonstrate that he means no harm but all it does is make you jump back. Your mother would berate you if she knew what was happening right now. "What's your name?" he asks in a soft tone.

"Um, I'm... I'm Lady L/N" You somehow manage to speak in a slow and stuttering manner but it worked.

"The diamond?!" Oh god. He didn't even know. "How do you have time for a breather? Isn't your dance card full?" he sounds completely shocked.

You shake your head rapidly. It's the only answer you're able to give him before the patio door bursts open as a couple attached at the lips tumbles outside. They walk straight into Lord Styles, making his knees give out and then falling straight into you. His hands grasp your waist and arm seemingly trying to get himself straight up on his feet again. He fails. He keeps falling unfortunately dragging you down with him. His left hand, the one holding your arm, quickly moves to the back of your head before it makes contact with the stone floor. The other at your waist stays there but his grip tightens, you can feel it firmly through your corset.

The couple has separated from one another and they are now looking at you both in shock. They were most likely not expecting anyone outside. They are speaking, well you think so. Their lips and arms move erratically but there's only a high-pitched ringing in your ears.

The hand on the back of your head tilts it away from them, your eyes meet Lord Styles. They are wide, worried, panicked. You're not sure why.

He's talking too but he must be whispering as the ringing is still the only thing you hear. It's getting annoying; you want to know what he's saying to you. It seems important.

Your vision blurs right before it darkens completely. You've passed out not even knowing of the commotion you've caused.

Tule, satin, silk, needles, charcoal drawings on the walls, books scattered on various surfaces... Where have you found yourself now? You seem to be in a study of some sort that also serves as a studio. You manage to sit up slowly, the pounding in your head spiking for a second before it settles.

"Mother?" you call out in a weak voice. How did you get here? Or better yet, who put you in here? No one answers your call so, at a snail's pace, you manage to get into a standing position. Your legs are stronger than you thought they would be, aiding you in your quest to figure out where in the Queen's name you are.

As soon as you leave the study your eyes burn because of the bright sunlight streaming in the hallway you now find yourself in. Blinking a few times makes your eyes adjust quicker making you able to tune into your other senses.

You hear mumbling, a few different voices leak out of the room right next to where you had been sleeping. You try to make out what they saying but nothing makes sense in your mind. You can't even hear them enough to confirm if you know any of the voices.

Not even considering that some may think it rude or even improper you open the door and make your way inside.

Lord Styles is the first on his feet; almost seems like a knee-jerk reaction. His posture is tight, and uncomfortable he is standing straight as a ruler as he looks at you with a terrified expression.

"My darling!" your mother rushes to you as fast as she can with her swollen feet and round stomach slowing her usual pace.

She brushes your hair out of your face before embracing you. She holds you tight but carefully as if to not break you.

"How do you feel?" she asks you once she pulls away.

"Fine, I think. My head hurts quite a bit but it's bearable" You smile at her reassuring as your gaze drifts back to the man still statuesque in the middle of the room. You don't find words to say but you do walk towards him. You don't like seeing him this uncomfortable... especially in what seems to be his estate.

"This is yours? The house?" you ask him gently. His eyes meet yours and the tension seems to bleed out a little. He's a bit more at ease seeing that you are polite and cordial with him.

"Yes, we thought it was best to bring you back here... less scandalous" He gestures to your father and he only nods back as an answer.

"Less scandalous?" you look around the room, at the three people surrounding you with different expressions on their faces. Your mother; excited, your father; thoughtful, Lord Style's; embarrassed?

"Why is your estate less scandalous, Lord Styles?" you meet his eyes, hoping to somehow be able to read his mind. Figure out why he's so closed off now. He did seem pretty willing to talk to you on the pat-

The patio. Oh my. The patio!

"Why am I here Father?" your headache spikes when you turn your head rapidly towards him. His expression tells you all

that you need to know. You're now engaged. There's no scandal because you're going to wed Duke Harry Styles.

"An outdoor wedding would be gorgeous this time of year, don't you think so Y/N?" your father smiles at you kindly. He's happy with the man you've managed to "score", even if it isn't a love match like him and your mother.

You only nod at him before looking back at Lord Styles, whom you find to be already looking in your direction. He meets your gaze and bows his head in a polite gesture, welcoming you. Welcoming you in your new home, into your new life as a Duchess.

The wedding is set to happen in 9 days. The first wedding of this year's courting season. Your mother has been on top of everything, she's practically planning the whole thing. You and Lord Styles, your fiancée, let her do it... after all this was a surprise to both of you.

Today you're choosing your wedding dress. The last dress that you'll wear as the incredibly eligible and sought-after diamond. The dress you'll become a bride and then a wife in. You'll become a duchess, Duchess Styles...

"What do you think of this one, dear?" your mother is holding a white gown with delicate baby pink embroidered flowers all over it. You nod approvingly making your way back behind the changing partition as she brings it over to you. It's only the second one you're trying on so your spirits are still high. Madame Delacroix, the modiste, was much too eager to have you wear one of her gowns on your big day. Said it was "Perfect marketing!" and she led you to her newest collection that was apparently straight from France.

You manage to slide it on with no issues and as you're about to ask the modiste for some help with the clasp in the back you hear a voice you don't recognize say your name. You stay quiet hoping to hear what they are saying.

"You haven't read Lady Whistledown yet?! This one is so juicy, she talks about Duke Styles and the Diamond"

"Please tell me you have a copy of it on you! I need to know how that happened"

Are people really this eager to know how you got engaged?

After the first girl presumably pulls out a copy of whatever they were talking about they start reading it aloud.

"But how could I forget to mention the most surprising moment of the courting season yet? London's own most wanted bachelor, Duke Harry Styles, has found a worthy bride. He does shoot for the stars, doesn't he? Or rather in the mines... as the newest Duchess soon joining the ton is Lady L/N, the Diamond.

However, the choice seems to have been made by herself and herself only. Who wouldn't throw themselves at him just to be caught in a compromising position? I certainly would! Her parents must be so proud to have such a stellar whore seductress presented this season.

The hopefully happy couple already share a house, how warm is the Duke's bed? Has Lady Y/N done what so many other noble women have wanted to do?

Congratulations to the happy couple... See you at the wedding!

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown"

Your blood runs cold, you're frozen in place after hearing what was written about you. You don't even know who these two girls are, who the writer is or where this paper comes from. Is that really what people think of you? That you whored yourself to Duke Styles to secure a wealthy and powerful man? You haven't made a single friend yet and now this is what people are saying about you, how are you meant to live amongst them now?

You quickly undress yourself of the wedding gown and get back into your dress, you somehow manage to clasp it yourself. Before running out of the boutique you hand the dress back to your mother and take a quick look at the girls that were just gossiping.

They are already looking at you with wide eyes and shocked expressions. Well, at least that's what you think their reaction is to seeing you practically trip out of the shop.

You don't hear what your mother calls out to you, too concerned with the humiliation pumping throw your veins. You need to get back to the Dukes manor as soon as you possibly can. You're grateful to have ridden here separately from your mother so you don't have to leave her stranded with no carriage and very pregnant. The ride back feels never-ending... How can you ever face the ton again?

The bath water is almost boiling, perfect to wash away the shame you felt. Your mind is all over the place. Nothing you can come up with will fix this, you're stuck labelled as some desperate whore. Does your betrothed know who this woman is? What those papers are? If anyone and everyone reads what she writes about other people? The lies she creates to make things interesting... You didn't even manage to find a gown you liked for the wedding... You might now not even be able to face the public, would the Queen allow a private wedding for her diamond? Probably not.

"Oh! I'm sorry I didn't know you were back" For the second time today your blood runs cold. The scorching hot water feels icy against your skin as you look up to meet Duke Styles's gaze.

He is also stuck where he is. His feet seemingly glued to the floor, one hand holding the door handle and the other stopped halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes leave your face and trail down your nude body under the water. No man has ever looked at these parts of you, he isn't supposed to see them until your wedding night.

He swallows when his gaze snaps back to yours, probably just registering what he was doing.

"I'll let you bathe, sorry for interrupting" he turns around quickly but before he can close the door you call out to him.

"Who's Lady Whistledown?" your voice cracks halfway, desperate to get an answer that no worker has answered. Not the chariot driver, not the gardener, not even the maids that helped prepare the bath everyone avoided your question. "Why did she write about me, my lord? About us?"

He takes a few seconds to walk back into the room but eventually comes in and shuts the door.

He sees there is a small stool in the corner of the room, the maid has used it to undo your hairdo when you got in the bath. He grabs it and places it next to the tub, close to where your face is. He sits facing you with one of his arms resting on the edge, trying to look nonchalant.

"Call me Harry, no need for formalities between us" is the first thing he says, you nod as your answer.

Before speaking again he takes in a deep breath and wipes down his face, looking for a way to explain this.

"You read it?" your voice is meek, he saw that she called you a whore. He read that you threw yourself at him to trap him.

"I did. Only because the men at the club told me to" he answers honestly. "I told them that what she wrote was wrong. That yes our marriage was unexpected but not an entrapment"

"Did they believe you?"

"Yes, after I told that I am very satisfied with my future wife. How lucky I am to have such a gorgeous lady share my house, such a smart lady in my life. They wouldn't dare question me or us" his words shock you. You didn't know if he was satisfied with you or your engagement. There hadn't been a conversation about it but you're happy to hear he doesn't resent you.

Harry seems to read your mind and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, he lets his hand fall to your shoulder after.

"She called me a whore, a seductress. I've never even let a suitor hug me... Much less seduced one" his eyes bore into you. They are enchanting and so inviting. You want him to look at you this way always like you're the only thing he could ever look at so attentively.

"That's what she does... Last season she almost destroyed Lady Eloise Bridgerton... You haven't met her yet but she didn't leave her manor for the rest of the season" his hand is rubbing from shoulder to shoulder, pinky finger grazing the very top of your breasts at each movement. You don't move or break the eye contact it feels good.

"The ton eats her words up but don't waste time thinking about what she thinks, she is a coward saying all of this nonsense anonymously" he shakes his head disapprovingly.

"So there is no Lady Whistledown in the ton? Is it an alias?" your questions stays unanswered but it is obvious that is what he was saying. No one knows who she is or rather who they are.

Harry's hand has travelled lower without you even noticing he's gone past the water and travels from your chest to your stomach. It seems casual and natural like you've done this a million times before.

Silence stretches as you take in the small amount of information about this person who spreads false claims about you and the man currently exploring your body.

He is now going up and down your legs switching legs once in a while. You don't know what he's doing or why he's doing it but it feels so intimate... so good that you don't stop him, you don't want him to.

You will bear his heirs and pleasure him when he wants you to but what he is doing now seems to actually pleasure you. His fingers graze your core and you gasp as the sensation takes you by surprise. This breaks the trance he had been in as he rips his hand away from your body and out of the water then out of the room before you can even get a single word out.

You finished your bath shortly after with your skin still tingling from where Harry had touched you. The ghost of his fingertips exploring places no one has touched not even yourself. You wanted to see how far he'd go, what he would do to you, how he would keep exploring your naked body. Seeking him out feels desperate but you have to know how far he was willing to take you. Was he just as affected by the intimacy? You knock at his chamber door softly praying that he doesn't reject you. "Come in" you hear him speak through the thick wooden door.

You quickly smooth out your sleeping gown before making your way into his chambers. This is the first time you've been in them, the amount of fabric, mannequins and art around the room surprises you. You had previously seen his work room where he designs and creates many different clothes but you had no idea he had more where he rests. You find Lord Styles lying on his large bed with one arm covering his eyes. He hasn't realized that's it you that's walked in yet so you take some time to look over his designs. You see some suits, daywear, and gowns of all kinds but then you stumble upon one that is called "My Bride". You pull it out from under some other sketches. The gown he's drawn is breathtaking, tight bodice detailed with what you think must be lace and gemstones, there's many layers of lace going downwards towards the bottom of the dress giving the impression of a flower that has not yet bloomed. He's added a simple shawl to the sketch which just adds to the elegance of the look.

"Would you make this dress for me?" your voice is loud in the otherwise quiet room. Harry startles on the bed, clearly not expecting you, sitting up quickly. He holds your gaze for a few seconds before looking at the paper you are holding.

"I can, if you want me to make it for you I will" he nods looking back up, studying your face.

"I'd like that" you smile "I'm much too ashamed to go back to the modistes anyway..." you put the drawing back down on his desk. At this point, you are only pretending to be looking around his space. Your goal is to make your way to his bed... try to get him to touch you again.

"There's no need for you to be ashamed. They should be ashamed, the ton is over-critical of newcomers" he leans back on his hands the now completely unbuttoned shirt falls off of his torso, revealing it.

"I suppose so... it's still disheartening to think that people think like that about me" you sigh walking towards him again. His eyes don't leave you he seems to be analyzing you, your actions, your body, everything.

"What can I do to make you feel better?" he tilts his head in thought, "Threaten anyone who looks at you wrongly? Find this Lady Whistledown and burn her out of existence?"

"You..." Okay, deep breaths, this is when you'll make your move, "You can touch me again... Keep doing what you were doing?" the pitch of your voice is much higher than usual as you finish your suggestion. You avoid meeting his gaze, too embarrassed to look at his reaction.

What you hear isn't an answer but the sound of him moving on his bed, towards you? God, you hope so. You still don't totally understand what his touch made you feel or why it has you craving for more. You don't even really know what "more" means.

"I wouldn't want to ruin you as some say" he guides your head towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes, so intense and inviting.

"Well, they already think you have... I just want you to make me feel good" You don't back down keep your eyes on his.

"Have you ever made yourself feel good?" Harry's voice is deeper than you've ever heard, it sends a shiver down your spine.

You shake your head as an answer, the ability to speak lost when he placed his hands on your hips. He tugs you forward, bringing you so much closer to him it makes you flush. He hums in understanding, still debating if he should do this or not... but the look on your face, the curiosity and the neediness makes his decision very easy.

He gently pulls you to lay down on his luxurious bed, the silky sheets and soft mattress feel glorious. You could stay in his bed all day long.

"Don't you resent me? I cut your first courting season quite short" he gently pecks your cheek before gliding across your lips to do the same to the other. You unconsciously follow his lips trying to have them meet yours again, you're already in a mental fog of pleasure and he's barely touched you.

"Can't answer, doll? Mh... don't worry I'll make you feel good" That's when he kisses you. Properly.

You let him take complete control as you've never kissed anyone. You don't want to make it unenjoyable for him or yourself so you follow his lead. His hands slowly bunch your nightgown up revealing more and more skin, skin that he is now seeing for the second time. He separates from your lips to look down at you, to admire your figure. Goosebumps spread all over as he delicately rubs his hands up and down your thighs spreading them apart adding him in lying down between them.

His face is inches away from your most private parts. Parts that have never been seen by anyone but your aids when getting dressed or cleaned. To aid him you didn't put any underclothing on, hoping he would accept your request. So, he's staring directly at you, making you flush from embarrassment.

"You want me to do this, gorgeous, you're sure?" your eyes meet his. His expression is unreadable, you've never had someone look at you like that. Like he wants to eat you whole.

"Please Duke Styles" you answer in a soft voice, he smirks at your answer and immediately gets to work.

What you're feeling is something completely new, foreign, unbelievably good; The curl of your toes as his mouth meets the skin you've never even explored yourself, the arch your body does and the loud gasp that slips past your lips. Who knew you could feel this way? Why did no one tell you that you could feel so unbelievably good?

Your hands grab onto the edges of the pillow you're lying on and you try to meet his gaze or maybe just to see what he's doing looks like.

Harry's eyes are already on you, your gazes meet easily, his pupils are dilated and his brows furrowed. He's so concentrated...

His tongue circles your clit sucking at it before letting his free hand join. His middle finger teases your entrance, not wanting to take your purity, he'll be somewhat of a gentleman and keep that for the wedding night.

"Ah! Harry" you moan desperately, desperate for something you don't even know, begging for him to keep going. You have an urge to shut your legs together but Harry's pushes onto your left one, keeping it pinned to the mattress.

The hand that was teasing your hole slowly goes up your nightgown, touching your skin delicately as he works his way up to grab your breast. His hand is warm on your chest, grabbing and massaging the skin he reaches.

He uses your slight distraction to prod his tongue inside of you exploring the few inches he's able to reach. Maybe exploring your inside isn't so bad... You'll be married no matter what happens...

His hand leaves your chest and makes its way back down, circling your bud. He can feel how close you are so he zeroes in. Lost in your pleasure and on his quest to make you feel good. Make you forget about the judgement the ton regards you with. He pinches your clit making your body lock up and your breath hitch but Harry doesn't stop. He keeps going until your whole body is spasming against his mattress until you're unable to make a sound with your mouth agape in pleasure.

You don't feel anything besides the tingling going from the tip of your fingers to the tip of your toes and the ends of your hair. Your heartbeat slowly stops being so erratic and your breathing calms down. As you start wondering where Harry has gone you feel a damp cloth rubbing against your intimates. You shiver at the feeling, obviously still sensitive, flinching when he gets close to your sensitive bud.

"How do you feel, my lady?" Harry's voice is soft and tender. Probably trying to preserve the warm atmosphere around both of you.

You hum positively as an answer, words lost as you meet his intense gaze.

"Cats got your tongue?" his tone is teasing. He throws the cloth away and joins you on the bed. You shake your head with a smile.

"I'm lost in thought" is the first thing you say to him, "I will be for a while after that" you sigh dreamily as you get comfortable in his sheets.

"Mh, maybe we should rush the wedding, get the Queens blessing for her diamond to wed in a rush... you won't speak a week after what I'll do to you" You just might have to march into the royal palace first thing in the morning.

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