Cut the Cameras

by mrschrisrobertevans

Summary:

Saylor, a virgin porn star, wants her dad's best friend, Joel Miller.

What is it about him? Is it the way his mustache curves perfectly around his upper lip? Or how his beard makes me wonder–does it tickle when he's between my legs? Maybe it's the way his eyes darken whenever they find me. Sometimes, Joel stares a little too long. And when our eyes meet, he doesn't look away. Not even for a second.

We sat across from each other at the dinner table. Dad's been letting him stay over while he looks for a place. It's only been a few days, but Joel's been in my head nonstop. When Dad said an old friend would crash with us, I pictured someone beer-gutted and balding–not him. Not the kind of man who makes my cheeks flush bright pink just by telling me I look pretty.

Joel says things that sound dark, twisted, sinful–and yet, they hit me somewhere deep. He makes me question everything. Trust me, my morals are already in the trash. I'm a goddamn porn star, and somehow he still makes me feel like I'm crossing a ling. Every fucking day.

"Honey, can you hand me the mashed potatoes?" Joel says.

And like that, my heart begins to flutter.

I hand him the bowl, but he doesn't break eye contact. A shiver trails down my spine, but I try my best to ignore it. I don't shutter, I don't even fucking move. The last thing anyone in this house needs to know... is that Joel Miller makes my pussy ache.

"How was school today?" Dad asks, snapping me out of Joel's gaze.

"College was good." I say, forcing a smile as I swallow the lump in my throat. "I passed my midterms, surprisingly. Oh, and half of.. Uh– I mean... next semester's tuition is due in the next two weeks." I say.

"Okay, good to know." Dad says before taking a sip of his wine.

I mimic him, bringing the glass to my lips and taking a slow, steady drink. It's the only thing keeping my nerves from unraveling.

I'm a porn star–but truthfully, no one's ever touched me. Not like that. Not at all. Almost every night, once everyone's asleep, I set up my camera and do things that make me feel fucking amazing. I post them to my OnlyFans, where strangers watch–but no one's ever joined me. No one's ever touched the parts I have.

The craving to have someone between my legs never existed. Not really.

Not until Joel.

"What do you study?" Joel asks.

"Science." I reply, short and clipped. "Anthropology, to be exact."

He gives me a closed-mouth smile and nods.

"Smart girl." He says. "How long have you been in school?"

I push my green beans around with my fork, hyper-focused–because it's the only way I can answer him without letting anything else slip out.

"Three years." I answer. "This is my last year."

"Oh, congratulations."

"Thank you." I murmur, finally daring to look up at him.

Of course I regret it immediately. His eyes are so fucking dark–a deep brown, richer than anything I've ever seen. But his hair. It curls so effortlessly under the brim of his hat. I can spot a few grays, barely, peeking through. Just enough to make my chest tighten.

Then my eyes drop.

Three white buttons undone on his flannel shirt. Just three, but enough. Chest hair curls out like it knows exactly what it's doing. His skin glows golden under the dim light above the kitchen table–smooth, sun-worn, and stupidly perfect.

His arms fight for their life against the tight sleeve gripping them. The fabric clings like it's desperate too.

God help me. I can't fucking stop. I might as well hand a neon sign around my neck that says "FUCK ME NOW".

And just when I think I can't sink any lower... he smirks. That slow, cocky, sinister little smirk. And then–he fucking winks.

I can't do this anymore. I need him. I'm so fucking horny I can't think straight. And for some reason–some infuriating reason–I know Joel knows. He knows exactly what he's doing to me. I can see it written all over that smug face of his.

"Dad." I say, snapping my head toward him. "I'm full. I need to go study for my next midterm. Dinner was amazing, as always. Thank you." I slide my chair back and stand before I explode. "Let me know when you're heading to bed, okay?"

I grab my plate, dump the leftovers in the trash, and set it in the sink–my hands moving on autopilot while my brain chants, run, run, run.

"I'll wash the dishes first thing in the morning," I say, already halfway up the stairs. "Goodnight!" I call over my shoulder, not daring to make eye contact with either of them as I bolt.

My footsteps thud against each step like a heartbeat, and the second I'm in my room, I slam the door shut behind me.

What is it about Joel? He's smart. He's sexy. He's older. Everything about him screams DILF–I don't know if he has kids. But if he does, he'll definitely be a DILF with a capital D.

And then it hits me. The guilt. The lie. That flash of regret that always comes too late. Telling Dad I had to study? That was bullshit. Today was my last midterm. All that's left are a few extra credit assignments, and I'm done. I'll graduate.

But I couldn't stay down there another second. Not with Joel looking at me like that.

That smile. Those eyes. The way his presence consumes the room. He's in my head, under my skin, and I want him everywhere. I want his tongue. His lips. His hands. His cock–

Deep. Hard. Buried so far inside me I forget how to breathe.

~~~~~~~~~

Three hours later.

Dad: Hey sweetie, I'm going to bed now. Not sure if you're still up, but I'll see you in the morning. I think Joel's hitting the hay too. Goodnight. Love you. 10:30 p.m

Me: Goodnight, love you too. 10:31 p.m

I wait for thirty minutes before I start gathering my camera and speaker. I always wait until Dad's asleep before filming. Usually, I batch my content over a few days so I don't have to be in front of the camera every single night. It's only on days that Dad is out overnight that I go live.

I slide into my skimpiest bikini and check myself out in the mirror. My breasts are full and held up tight by the thin straps tied around my neck. My bottoms are comfortable despite being thong, and they make my ass look absolutely gorgeous. I'm bragging–but this body pays half my tuition with one video alone. It's been footing the mortgage on this house for over a year now, and damn, I'm proud of it.

No, my stomach isn't flat. Yeah, I've got stretch marks on my arms and legs. But people love it. Natural, imperfect, real–and fucking beautiful. I'm not knocking anyone who gets work done, but for me? Body positivity

Before leaving my room, I put on my favorite red robe. I make sure the strings are tied tightly before grabbing my things and quietly leaving. I stop at Dad's door, and crack it open just a smidge. I check to make sure he's asleep, and yep. He's snoring just like always.

Once I'm downstairs and out by the pool, it doesn't take me long at all to get my camera and light setup. My tripod holds the camera steady on the far side of the water. I squint through the lens, adjusting until the angle's just right. My laptop sits on a chair nearby so I can watch myself as I record.

When I started my OnlyFans, I didn't realize how much time triple-checking angles would take. One time I filmed my wall for ten minutes straight... yeah, never again.

Once I'm satisfied with everything, I hit a record and take a deep breath.

I clip the portable mic onto the thin string of my swimsuit top, making sure every moan will be crystal clear. Closing my eyes, I picture Joel. As I stride to the other side of the pool, across from my camera, I allow Joel's image to burn in my brain. The rasp in his voice, the peppered beard, and that damned calloused touch. My pussy wets at the thought of his fingers running up my legs, soft but sure. Opening my eyes, I turn toward the camera, and flash a slow, wicked smile.

Peeling off my robe, the cool air hits my chest. My nipples harden instantly, but that's fine. It's more for my viewers to feast on. I sink down onto the towel I laid out earlier, and reach for the vibrator next to me. Turning it on, I place my hand on the head of the wand, making sure it's on the right speed.

I begin slowly moving it down my chest. It hums against my breast. When it brushes my nipple through the thin fabric, a soft moan slips from my lips. Just a moment there, then I trail it down my stomach, one arm bracing me as I lean back. I drag the wand down the inside of my thighs, ignoring the ache burning between my legs. Closing my eyes, I picture Joel–his rough tongue teasing me, licking through the fabric until I'm begging for more. His beard tickles my inner thigh as he presses kisses on my cunt.

"Fuck." I moan quietly.

I press the vibrator to my cunt, and a shiver shoots up my spine. The vibrations pulse through the bikini bottoms, straight to my clit. I suck in a deep breath and throw my head back.

My moans spill out, soft and breathless, as my hips grind against the rhythm.

I don't even realize how close I am until it hits–that sharp, overwhelming build-up just behind my clit. I don't fight hit. I let it take me. I ride the wave, hips thrusting, breath stuttering, and every thought tangled in the image of Joel Miller.

I performed a few more things for the camera–less dressed this time. By the end, my body's buzzing and worn out. I slip on my robe, wrapping it around my naked skin. My nipples ache from the cold, and goosebumps crawl over every inch of me.

This was probably my worst idea yet–filming on a cold spring night.

I gather my gear quickly, rushing toward the double sliding doors that lead into the kitchen. The second I step inside, the warm air wraps around me, and I exhale in relief.

Shivering, I shrug the cold, damp robe off my shoulders to let more heat in. My cleavage is the only part of me still visible, the rest hidden beneath the folds of fabric.

I close my eyes and stand still for a second, soaking in the warmth before I make a run for the stairs. Clothes first. I'll come back for my camera and vibrator later.

"What's got you up so late?"

I jump at the voice and snap my eyes open. Joel stands across the kitchen island, leaning on the counter like he's been there for a while–watching.

"I- uh." I stammer, my heart thudding in my throat. "I was thirsty." The lie rolls off my tongue too fast, too thin.

Joel's gaze doesn't budge. He scans my face, trailing down–slowly–until he lands on my bare shoulders. The robe is still hanging loose around my arms, exposing way more than I realized.

His eyes stop at my chest. My breasts nearly spilling out, nipples hard and poking through the thin fabric. That's when I remember: this robe is sheer as hell. Practically transparent under the obnoxious bright lights my dad insisted on installing.

It doesn't leave much to the imagination, and Joel isn't looking away.

"Are you now?" Joel says, his voice low and thick.

His eyes drag back up from my chest to my face. When they meet mine, they're nearly black. There's heat there. Restraint, too–but barely. I try to breathe. Try to think, but it's like my brain short-circuits. I can't lift my robe. I can't leave, and I can't speak. I'm just standing here like a deer in headlights. A nearly naked deer in a very sheer robe.

And my camera is still out by the pool. Right outside that sliding glass door. If he steps out there, even for a second...

Fuck.

How do I explain that? How do I tell my dad's insanely hot best friend that I was just outside–recording porn, using a vibrator, and pretending it was him?

"I'm sure your cold sweetheart." Joel says softly, like he's testing the water.

"No. Not really." I lie, forcing myself to look at him.

My heart pounds. I can hear it in my ears.

He's holding a water bottle in one hand, twisting the cap off with the other. His biceps flex as he takes a sip, and my eyes betray me–drifting to the movement of his throat, the slow shift of muscles under skin.

Joel doesn't stop looking at me. Not even for a second.

And then–he takes a few slow steps forward.

"Here." He says, holding the water out to me. I give him a blank stare, and he chuckles lightly. "You're thirsty." Joel says.

The way he says it–like he knows. Like he fucking knows.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." My voice sounds far away, like it's coming from someone else.

My hand shakes as I reach out, fingers brushing his as I take the bottle. The plastic crinkles between us. That stupid sound feels deafening in the stillness.

My mind is racing. What if my dad wakes up? What if he comes down here and sees me–barely dressed, nipples hard, eyes blown wide–standing in front of his best friend like I'm about to drop this robe and bed?

But what if he doesn't?

What if Joel is giving me that look?

What if I'm not imagining it?

He steps closer.

Closer enough that I feel his breath, warm and steady, brushing my cheek. We're face to face, and my whole body feels like it's caught in a current. Like I jumped into the freezing pool outside and forgot how to swim. I open my mouth to speak, to say anything, but all that comes out is a shallow breath. My chest rises and falls, slow and unsteady.

Joel's eyes drop.

They follow the curve of my breath–down to the swell of my chest, to the peaks of my nipples pressing against the fabric.

Then he closes his eyes.

His jaw clenches. He bites down on his lip like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. When he opens his eyes again, they're darker. Almost like he's annoyed.

I wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn't.

Instead, he just reaches for the water–and takes a drink. His eyes never leave mine as he swallows, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.

"Still thirsty?" he asks, voice low and wicked.

I nod. That's all I can manage.

He smirks. Not the playful kind. No–this one's dangerous. Sinister. Like he already owns me and he knows it.

Once again, I'm speechless. Joel erased every coherent thought from my skull. All that's left is him. His voice. His scent. His stupid sexy arms in that unfairly tight blue shirt. He's not just standing in my space–he's crowding every neuron in my head. Taking up all the room where common sense used to live.

I want him to cross the line. I need him to.

He takes a step closer.

Joel lifts his hand and places it on my shoulder, fingers warm, rough. Slowly, he drags them up my neck. His fingers brushing my skin in a way that makes my knees wobble. I close my eyes, enjoying the touch. It's exactly like I imagined.

Only better.

His touch is firm, but careful. His calloused fingertips graze over the softest parts of me, and it makes my whole body ache in the kind of way that hurts good. When he reaches my chin, he tilts my head up, forcing me to look at him.

Then he leans in, close enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

"Open." He says.

And I do.

Opening my mouth, a million thoughts slam into me all at once. All the ways this could go wrong. How this could blow up in my face, in Joel's. But God help me–I've never wanted anything more.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe the worst thing that happens is we get caught. But I'm a grown woman. I can sleep with whoever I want. Even if I've technically never slept with anyone.

Virgin porn star and all.

The only things that have ever touched me intimately are my fingers, and the toys I film with. Never another person. Never a man. Never someone like him.

Joel lifts the water bottle to my lips. Tilts it slowly. The cool stream hits my tongue just as his hand slides beneath my chin.

And before I can even swallow–his lips are on mine.

The water flows between us. From my mouth and into his. He drinks me in like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done this a thousand times.

Then he pulls back, and swallows.

"It tastes better coming from your mouth." He whispers, voice gravel.

Joel reaches out, gently sliding my robe back onto my shoulders. His eyes stay locked on my face–only my face. He doesn't look down.

That somehow makes it worse. I want more.

"Grab your camera," he says quietly. "And go to bed."

"But–"

"Now," he snaps, his voice strained, desperate, like he's one second away from throwing every ounce of self-control out the window. "For fuck's sake–please go."

And I do.

Even though I want to stay. Even though I want to drop to my knees and beg for his hands, his mouth, him.

I go.

Anger and lust pulse through my veins as I storm outside to grab my camera. My robe flaps against my skin, doing absolutely nothing to hide how naked I am underneath. I'm pissed–because I wanted more. I needed more. I wanted him to fuck me right there, on the goddamn kitchen island.

And what does he do?

He sends me out here like some shame-walk of lust. He knew I wanted him. He could've had me and Joel knew.

My head is spinning. My cunt aches. My body is vibrating like I'm stuck halfway between orgasm and rage.

When I finally step back inside, he's gone.

No Joel. No water bottle. Lights off. Kitchen silent.

Did I imagine it? Was I that far gone that I made the whole thing up? No. No fucking way. I can still taste him on my lips. I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my chin.

Is this what it means to lose your mind? Because if this is madness, I don't want to be sane.

As I shut the door, I hear it–a low groan. Not one of pleasure. No. It sounds like pain. Desperation.

"What's with the camera anyway?" Joel's voice cuts through the quiet, rough and unsteady.

I roll my eyes before I even think about it. "What do you think?" I mutter. "I wasn't out there stargazing."

His voice lowers. "So you're a pornstar?"

I don't flinch. I walk over, setting my camera gently against the glass table and turn to face him fully. "Yes."

He stares at me like he's trying to decode a language he's never heard before. "How long?" he asks. "How long have you been doing that?"

"Two years."

Joel leans back against the wall across from me, arms crossed, eyes tracking every inch of my body. But this time, I gave him nothing. My arms fold across my chest, my leg crosses tightly over the other. I don't let him look.

He had his chance.

My heart slams in my chest–not with lust this time, but with rage. How dare he pull me in like that, just to push me away? He could've had me. He wanted me. I saw it. Felt it. And then he told me to go to bed like I was some little girl with a crush and not a woman who's been fantasizing about him for days.

"I'm sorry," Joel finally says in a low voice. "I shouldn't have done that."

A thick, bitter laugh tumbles from my lips. I roll my eyes without apology, clutching my camera in one hand, vibrator in the other–like some twisted parody of a walk of shame. I move to pass him, but Joel stops me.

His hand catches my arm. Then slowly, purposefully, he pulls the back of my robe down off my shoulder. My breath catches in my throat.

"My God," Joe mutters. His fingers ghost over the cherry tattoo inked just beneath my collarbone, rubbing it gently. Calloused and familiar. Too familiar. "You're CherryTaste, aren't you?"

I freeze.

His fingers linger, brushing the edge of the ink like it holds all the answers. I shiver. Not from the cold this time.

"How did you–" I cut myself off. My heart thuds in my chest. "You watch my videos?"

"Yes," he answers, voice rough, like he's ashamed and turned on all at once.

"Did you know it was me?" I whisper.

Joel slowly pulls the robe back up over my shoulder, but his hand doesn't leave me. His thumb rubs a slow, dizzying circle into my skin.

"No," he admits, quietly. "You always hide your face. But your body, your moans..." His voice dips even lower, practically a growl. "You're the only person I've ever subscribed to."

"Joel," I whisper, barely breathing.

He takes a shaky breath, like my voice physically hurts him. His eyes flicker, tortured and dark. "Please... go upstairs. I don't want to do something you'd regret."

He steps back like I burned him.

"You can't just kiss me," I snap. "You can't tell me you've watched me fuck myself on camera and then–what? Just walk away?" My voice grows louder, and more desperate. "Do you want me or not?"

Joel doesn't answer. Not with words anyways.

He grabs my camera out of my hand, like it's radioactive, and brushes past me. Don't look back. His footsteps echo across the kitchen tile, each one a stab to my already aching core. I'm confused, horny, and pissed the fuck off.

"Fucking prick," I mutter under my breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning

I didn't sleep. Not really.

Between scrubbing my face out of the footage from last night, syncing the audio, and exporting the final cut, it was almost sunrise before I shut my laptop. But even with the editing done, sleep never came. My brain was too loud. Too... Joel.

The way he pressed his lips to mine. Taking the water straight from my mouth and into his. The way his rough hands held my face like I'd break if he let go. And then–just like that–he did.

It's like he cast a spell, left the potion half-finished, and now I'm just here...drowning in it.

I should be pissed. I am pissed. But under all the fury and confusion, I just want more. More of his touch. More of that hunger in his eyes. More of that gravelly voice saying my name like it tastes better than anything he's ever said.

And then there's the kicker—CherryTaste.

He watched me. Me. Out of the thousands of girls doing exactly what I do, I'm the one who gets Joel Miller's undivided attention. The man practically screams "repressed desire" and I'm the object of his secret obsession.

There's a knock on my door, and any other time I would've yelled at whoever dared disturb my spiral. Normally, I like to toss and turn in complete emotional ruin, but today, I'm almost grateful. Joel has taken up every corner of my brain. His lips, his voice. That fucking water bottle trick that now lives rent-free in my head like a damn highlight reel. I'm thankful to have a distraction.

But of course, when I open the door, It's him.

His expression is soft, but his eyes are still dark and tempting. Like he's been pacing all night, arguing with his better judgment and losing badly.

"Are you here to kiss me and tell me to leave again?" I ask, leaning against the door frame.

He stands there, not saying a word. I move to shut the door, but his boot stops it.

"Actually," he says, pushing the door open. "I came to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you last night. It was inappropriate of me."

I cross my arms. A dramatic sigh escapes me.

"Okay." I say flatly." Is that all?"

Joel steps inside, slow and careful, before shutting the door.

"No." He says, voice low and serious now. "It's not."

He's standing just a few feet away, and somehow that feels closer than last night–when we were mouth to mouth, breath to breath. Because now there's nothing performative about this. No water bottle. No robe. No excuses.

As much as I'm putting on a brave face–arms crossed, eyes sharp, voice cold–everything inside of me is screaming. Begging. Pleading for him to do it again.

To kiss me like he did last night, like I was something forbidden and irresistible.

The ghost of it still lingers on my lips, a phantom touch that flares every nerve ending I have. And it's not until Joel's eyes drop to my legs–his brows twitching the slightest bit–that I realize I'm clenching my thighs together like It's the only thing keeping me from falling apart right in front of him.

Fuck. Why does he do this to me?

"What is it, then?" I ask, softer this time. My voice doesn't carry the attitude anymore–it's laced with something else now. A quiet kind of desperation.

Joel swallows, slow and audible, and I see the tension in his jaw as he drags his gaze back up my body. Every inch of me feels like it's been touched by his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, but his voice stays measured–too measured.

"And I'll unsubscribe from CherryTaste," He says finally, like that's the noble thing to do. Like this is some honorable exit strategy. "Now that I know it's you... I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Again, I'm sorry."

That twisted my chest. There's a feeling of disappointment growing inside of me, instead of relief.

My heart shutter, but my voice doesn't flinch.

"Don't be sorry." I say, holding his stare. "You don't have to do that. It doesn't make me uncomfortable."

I walk across the room and climb onto my bed. Joel doesn't move. He just leans against the door, like he's carrying the weight of every thought crushing him. His focus isn't on me either–not really. Instead, his eyes drift around the room, landing on the picture of me and my mom on the wall. Some are from when I was a kid, but most are from after she got sick–the times I hold onto the hardest.

"And to answer your question from last night," He finally breaks the silence, voice low, and a bit rough. "I do want you, but it's not right. I shouldn't be looking at you the way I do. You're my best friend's daughter, and I'm twice your age." He doesn't meet my eye. "When I saw you last night–thin fabric draped over your shoulder, and your–" He clears his throat, like the words taste bitter. "Your cleavage on display like that, my mind just... stopped. I wanted nothing more than to bend you over that island and take you right there. But once I touched you–once my hand grazed your skin–the only thought that ran through my head was, 'What if she doesn't want this?'" Finally, his eyes lift and lock onto mine. Those deep brown pools are darker than usual, almost drowning me. "But when you asked me if I wanted you." He says, voice barely above a whisper, thick with everything he's holding back. "And God, I wanted to scream yes. I wanted to drop to my knees and taste every inch of you–"

"So why didn't you?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Joel just shakes his head, a slow grin creeping across his lips like he's fighting back a secret smile. His eyes lock on mine again, heavy with something I can't quite place.

"Because you're my goddaughter," he says quietly. "I'm supposed to protect you–from the men who look at you the way I do."

My heart drops. The man I met just day ago–the one who's been lingering in my head, in my skin– is my fucking godfather. And I had no idea I even had one until, well... now.

"You're my–" I start.

"Yes," he cuts in gently. "My wife was your godmother. She passed away just before your mother did."

The weight of his words presses down on me.

"Aren't I supposed to know my godparents?" Isn't that... the whole point?" I ask, confusion and a little hurt threading through my voice.

"Technically, yes." Joel admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

I nod slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "So... why am I just meeting you now?"

"When my wife and I got married, we moved far away." Joel begins, his voice low, like he's dredging up a memory he'd rather forget. "Your father told me about you the second your mom found out she was pregnant. He asked us to be your godparents then. Of course, we said yes. We were supposed to come visit–hell, I wanted to–but there was always something." He pauses, swallowing hard. "I had a daughter, but she... she passed away. Your father never got to meet her. Hell, I barely knew her. She was just starting to grow into herself. Only thirteen. You were eighteen then." Joel's eyes darken. "Not long after, my wife took her own life. I thought...I thought I'd be okay, but I started to lose myself. I stopped talking to your dad."

He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, the sadness thick in the air. Then he pulls himself back together. "I lost my job. Started doing side hustles just to get by. Then, about a year later, I got a call from your dad."

"Because my mom passed?" I cut in softly.

He nods slowly. "Yeah. Your mom passing... it hit hard. But I didn't have the money to come back. I tried. I wanted to be there for your dad, for you–but I'd lost everything. Your father had to be strong for you, but I had no one to be strong for. Then last month, your dad called me... told me he had an opening at his company. I couldn't say no. I wasn't in any position to say no. So here I am."

The weight of his words sinks in, and despite everything, my chest tightens with this ache I can't shake. A single tear slips down my cheek, slow and almost reluctant.

I pat the end of my bed, and Joel takes the hint, moving over to sit beside me. The mattress dips under his weight, and it hits me–this is the first time I've ever had a man in my bed.

"I'm sorry for what you went through." I say.

Joel's hand lands gently on my knee. I catch my breath, holding it tight–but he stays there, quiet and steady, like he's wanting to see if I want him to pull away... or stay.

"Don't be sorry," he says, voice low. "It's not your place to be sorry."

I nod, my eyes dropping to his hand. Before I even think twice, I reach out and grab it–fingers weaving through his like it's the most natural thing in the world. Joel doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. He just lets me hold on.

I look up, really look at him for the first time. Those chestnut brown eyes, flecked with quiet storms and stories. That salt-and-pepper in his beard and stache, the cure at the edge of his hair–it all feels so gentle right now, like I could spill everything and he'd hold it without judgment.

Heat blooms in my chest, and suddenly I want to kiss him.

"Can I tell you something?" I ask.

Joel nods, eyes locked with mine.

"I don't need a godfather," I say, squeezing his hand tighter. "I'm twenty-one. I make good money doing what I do. The last thing I need is someone to protect me. To me, you're just Joel."

He laughs, a low rumble that makes my chest flutter. "Understood. But I'm still unsubscribing."

I drop his hand like I've been stung and throw my head back dramatically, putting on my most tragic pout.

"Ouch!" I whine.

A low laugh rumbles from Joel's chest, and before I can savor it, I hear my dad yell my name from downstairs. Silence falls between us as I stand and make my way to the door. Joel's eyes flicker after me, struggling to meet mine.

"Breakfast is ready." Dad calls out. "Is Joel up there with you?"

"Yeah." I yell back. "We'll be down in a sec."

Joel stands, a slow smile tugging at his lips as he grabs my robe. He steps closer–closer–and my entire focus zeroes in on his mouth. The way those lips would feel against my skin again... My heart pounds like a war drum.

There's so much riding on this, so much he could lose if he slips.

He holds the robe, the same rob that revealed too much, fingers tracing it's edge. His gaze drifts over me, flicking to my body. He tucks his bottom lip under his teeth, and my insides ignite.

When we're almost chest to chest, Joel leans down just enough to drape the robe over my shoulders.

"Don't forget this," he murmurs, so low it's barely a whisper.

"Joel," I whisper, heart thudding. "What would you have done last night... if it wasn't for the whole godfather bullshit?"

His eyes snap shut, frustration plain on his face. I know I'm crossing the line, but I'm tired of holding back.

"Saylor, I can't." His voice is rough, strained. "I can't do this."

"Please," I breathe, desperation bleeding through.

Joel inhales deep, his hands sliding down my arms like he's trying to steady himself. His gaze darkens–like someone else took the wheel.

"You really wanna know?" His voice drops lower, thick with desire.

I nod, barely daring to breathe.

He groans low, brow furrowed, then grabs my shoulder, slamming me gently but firmly against the door. The air whooshes out of my lungs, but I don't care.

"I would've bent you over the kitchen island." His mouth hovers just a breath from mine. A dark laugh rumbles. 'This"--- he tugs the robe with a wicked grin–"would've been on the floor so I could have the perfect view of everything under it. That shitty light wasn't enough. I wanted all of it, Saylor. In person. Not on some goddamn screen."

My cheeks flame, hot and alive, and I swear I'm blushing like a damn teenager. His words slide off his tongue so smoothly–no hesitation, just raw, hungry passion. His eyes don't leave mine, locking me in.

"My dick went hard the second I saw your nipples poking through that thin fabric." Joel's hand slides up my leg, fingers grazing over my ass with a possessive squeeze. "I wouldn't have needed foreplay, but I wanted to give you everything." His voice drops, almost a growl. "God only knows how badly I wanted to drop to my knees and taste you. What I'd give to taste you right now."

"Fuck, Joel." I whine, eyes squeezing shut as I throw my head back. "I want you so bad."

He grips my ass tighter. A sharp moan slips from my chest, echoing in the quiet room.

"God." Joel groans, voice thick with need. "Is this what you want, Saylor?"

God, yes. This is all I've wanted since I saw him.

"Yes." I breathe, "Please."

Joel presses his lips against mine–rough and demanding, yet impossibly gentle. I'm frozen at first, mouth still, hands pinned helplessly at my sides. But the second he pulls back, I grab him, yanking him closer, crashing our lips together like I'm trying to swallow him whole. He tastes like freshly brewed coffee–bitter, dark, and addictive. Not usually my thing, but with him? Fuck, it's irresistible.

His tongue teases my bottom lip, and I part willingly, fingers tracing up his back until my nails dig into the fabric of his shirt. His hard length presses insistently against me, and then–without warning–he lifts my leg, hooking it over his waist. Before I can even catch my breath, he slides a finger beneath the hem of my shorts.

"Can I touch you?" He breathes against my lips.

I nod, pull him back into the kiss.

His fingers slip between my folds, and I moan, breath hitching into his mouth.

"So fucking wet," he whispers.

I want to tell him he's the first to ever touch me like this, the first to make me feel like this–but my voice fails me. Instead, I surrender to the delicious torment as he finds my clit, circling it with tender precision.

"Oh, God." I cry out, louder than I mean to.

He's instantly there, covering my mouth with his free hand, a sly smirk dancing on his lips.

"No need to be so loud, Saylor. This isn't your first time," he jokes.

I go stiff. My eyes widen as his rhythm slows.

And just like that, the moment dies.

His expression shifts–desperate lust replaced by sheer panic. I instantly regret reacting at all.

"You're a..." he trails off, pulling his hands away and backing up. "You've never had sex?" I don't move. I can't move. I don't even speak. "But you're a pornstar."

The words hit harder than he probably means them to. I straightened, jaw clenched.

"That doesn't mean anything," I snapped. "Have you ever seen anyone else in those videos besides me?"

Joel's face drains of color. He stammers, shaking his head.

"No, but I just assumed—"

He stops. The silence is louder than anything else.

"You just assumed what, Joel?" I fold my arms over my chest.

Joel rubs a hand down his face and groans.

I know I shouldn't be offended–hell, I shouldn't even be this mad. My job is literally getting in front of a camera and showing my body to people who pay to see it. It's not crazy for him to assume I've had sex. Honestly, It's fair.

But it shouldn't matter. I shouldn't change anything. Virginity is so subjective anyway–or at least, it is to me.

"Don't do that," he says sharply. "After everything I told you... this is just the icing on top. I was about to fuck you, Saylor."

"And I wanted you to." I say, voice rising.

"Saylor!" my Dad shouts from the other room. "Joel, come on before the food gets cold!"

Joel takes a step toward the door, but I plant myself in front of him.

He's not walking away from me again. Not like this. Once was bad enough. Twice is just cruel.

He lowers his head, eyes on the floor.

He won't even look at me.

"Move," he says, voice flat. "Please, Saylor."

This hurts.

Not the kind of hurt you can brush off–this stabs you in the heart and slices straight down the center. It's sickening.

I want him. He's the only person I've ever wanted to be my first. I've had my chances. God, I've had plenty of chances to lie on my back in someone's bed. But they weren't right.

They didn't make me feel the way Joel does.

They didn't make me want it like he does.

And now, here I am again–aching, hurting, and fucking pissed.

"Joel, please."

"Move out of the way and get dressed, Saylor." he says. "Now."

So I do. I step aside.

Joel doesn't waste a second. He grabs the door knob.

Just before he walks out, I turn to him.

His broad back is facing me, but he's still.

"Tell Dad I'm not hungry." I say.

He doesn't answer. Joel just leaves.

And I'm alone.

Again.

Still wanting Joel.

~~~~~~~~~

A couple of hours later, I got a text from Dad. He and Joel had left for work not long after everything went down, and it wasn't until then that I finally left my room. My stomach's been growling since this morning, but I was too stubborn to sit in the same room as Joel.

Every time we're together, it ends with me feeling one of three ways–confused, pissed off, and hollow. It's exhausting.

One minute, he can't keep his hands off me.

The next, he's pushing me away like I'm something dirty.

I pass his room on the way to the stairs, and stop.

I knock–softly at first, hoping maybe he stayed home.

Nothing.

I knock again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

Just silence.

For a second, I consider opening the door. A part of me wants to barge in, throw something, scream, demand answers. If I were anyone else, maybe I would. Maybe I'd tear the place apart.

But I don't.

Because that's not me.

So I keep walking.

Usually, when the house is empty and I don't have any classes, I use the time to record content in different rooms.

The living room is my go-to, but my fans especially love it when I use the shower head.

I'd planned on filming a couple scenes today. I had it all mapped out, but I can't get in the mood. Even thinking about touching myself just circles back to Joel–how much I want him, how badly I wish last night had gone differently.

So instead, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and flop onto the couch, Netflix humming in the background.

It's not exactly thrilling, but at least it's quiet.

It's rare I get to just sit and watch tv. Most of the time, I'm studying or in class. And on the days I'm free, I'm usually filming–or cooking dinner for my dad, so he has something hot when gets home.

Since Mom died, there's been no one to care for him. So when I can, I make sure the house is clean, dinner's made, and the place feels a little less empty.

He tells me all the time I remind him of her. The way I laugh, especially. He calls it whimsical. Majestic. Just like hers. That warms me.

Funny thing is, I don't really remember her laughing. By the time I was old enough to make real memories, she'd already been diagnosed with cancer. And laughing...well, it's hard when you know you're dying. Hard to find humor in anything. It was hard for me, too.

When she stopped working, that's when everything really started to fall apart. I was nineteen when I overheard her and Dad talking about losing the house. They needed sixty thousand dollars in two months, with no safety net.

That night, I went to my room and looked up ways to make money. Not your regular nine-to-five would make that kind of cut. And that's when I found OnlyFans.com.

I didn't know what OnlyFans was for at first. But once I saw the profiles, it was pretty clear. So I signed up. Within three weeks, I'd made over ten grand.

It came easy.

I was young, and it was obvious–painfully obvious–that I was experiencing real orgasms for the first time.

It didn't take long to hit our goal.

Two months later, I was standing at the bank with a cashier's check and a nervous smile, asking them not to tell my parents where the money came from–not my brightest moment—but It helped that the teller was a subscriber.

Blackmailing him wasn't exactly my proudest achievement–but it kept the roof over our heads. It kept the pressure off, and that's what mattered. Especially when Mom passed the following week.

I'd never seen Dad look so broken. I'd never seen him cry before that day.

Ring...

Ring...

Ring...

I grab my phone and pause Bridgerton. Picking up my phone, I see Joel Miller's name flashing across the screen.

I roll my eyes.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

I answer even though I really don't want to.

"Hello." I say.

Silence.

All I hear is wind–he's either outside or in his truck.

"Saylor, um..." Joel finally says. "Your dad had to leave town. He couldn't call, but he asked me to let you know."

"Okay," I reply. "How long will he be gone?"

More silence. Just the wind rustling faintly in the background.

"Joel," I pressed.

"Uh—" he pauses, like he's waiting for the answer himself. "Three days. The next state over had a pretty bad storm. They want him to assess the damage, figure out if he can rebuild once everything clears."

Fuck.

"How about you?" I ask. "Are you going too?"

"No. I'm staying back to finish the job we've got here."

Perfect. Three days. Alone. With Joel.

"That's cool," I say, trying not to let anything show. "Thanks for letting me know."

"No problem." he replies.

And then–silence.

I set my phone down beside me and sink into the cushions, rubbing my hands over my face. After everything that's happened the past few days, I'm not sure I can handle three days alone with Joel Miller.

~~~~~~~~~~

I only get a couple more hours to myself before Joel pulls into the driveway. Right on cue, the oven dings—garlic bread is done.

As I bend down to grab the tray, I hear the front door shut and the sound of shrugging of his jacket.

"Something smells good," he calls from the living room.

I roll my eyes, just a little, as I set the hot baking dish on the island and peel off the oven mitts.

Joel doesn't take long to make his way to the kitchen–and fuck, when I look up at him, it's like seeing him for the first time all over again.

His hair's a mess. There's a line of sweat glistening along his temple, even though it's cold outside tonight. He looks exhausted. And unfairly good.

"Quite the cook, I see." Joel says, pulling off his hat and setting it on the kitchen table. "Is that spaghetti?"

"Obviously." I say, trying like hell to act like this blue-collar man doesn't completely undo me just by standing in my kitchen.

"Sit down. I'll make you a plate."

It's weird, maybe, how much I want to take care of Joel. Not just in a sexual way—though that's there too—but in quiet, simple ways. Making sure he eats after a long day. That he showers. That he does to bed with a full stomach and clean sheets.

It's not pity. Not for the wife and daughter he lost. It's just... I know what it feels like to lose someone who truly cares about you. When Mom died, Dad couldn't even leave the bedroom at first. He couldn't even fake a smile.

So I stepped in.

On my free days, I cooked. I cleaned.

On busy days, I brought home takeout.

Eventually, Dad came back to himself. He found a rhythm again. But grief doesn't leave—it just learns how to live with you.

I imagine Joel's still figuring that out. Just like me. Just like dad.

"I hope you don't mind that I mixed the sauce with the spaghetti." I say, reaching into the cabinet for a plate. "We're also out of parmesan. I didn't realize until dinner was already halfway done."

"Don't matter to me." Joel says, "Smells delicious, though."

I start making our plates while Joel begins to set the table—or does his best to. I'm not exactly traditional when it comes to meals. There's no rule that says you have to eat at the table every night. Hell, he doesn't even have to eat with me, but he insists.

Without a word, he grabs two wine glasses from the cabinet and sits them down. We don't make eye contact–not once–as we go about our quiet, awkward rituals.

I pile spaghetti on his place, add two slices of garlic bread, and pretend like he isn't there. Even when I carry the plates to the table, I don't look at him. I can't.

Joel pours both of us a glass of wine and takes a seat across from me. I mutter out a quiet thank you and dig into my food.

Joel doesn't touch his, though. He doesn't lift his fork, or even sip his wine. He just watches me. Still... too still.

"Saylor, why haven't you–"

"Joel," I cut him off before he can finish.

I already know where this is headed. It's going to be the same tired question, same tired back-and-forth. Joel wants answers I'm done giving.

He wants to understand something about me—but only when it serves whatever game he's playing. Pull me in, push me away.

The tug at the edge of intimacy, then slam the door shut.

I'm tired. So fucking tired.

He leans back a little, blinking like I slapped him.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I'm just... curious." His voice grew quiet. "I mean–I've seen your videos. I'm sure there are tons of men who'd kill for a chance to have you."

Have me? No one can fucking have me. I don't post my body so people can want me–I do it because it pays the bills. Because it covers my tuition. That's it.

"Can you just eat?" I snap, voice rising. "It's none of your goddamn business why I've never had sex. None of your fucking concern how many chances I've had either. The only thing that should matter to you is that you–not anyone else, you—had the fucking chance." I slam my hand against the table, rattling the wine glasses. "And you blew it."

He stares down at his plate like the food might answer for him. And I just watch him.

Waiting.

Wanting anything to come from him.

A flicker of guilt and a flash of sadness. Something.

But he just sits there–quiet, blank, like my rage is nothing more than background noise.

"Sorry." He says.

That's it. No excuses. No explanation. Just one goddamn word.

We eat in silence.

We clean in silence.

And now we sit on opposite ends of the couch–still in silence.

I should be used to it by now, but tonight it feels heavier. Like something is sitting between us, taking up all the air in the room.

When he reaches over and hands me the remote, I almost don't take it.

He doesn't look at me.

Just say, "Watch whatever you want."

I don't reply.

I just press play and let Bridgerton fill the silence. The opening scene rolls, right where I left off–the wedding. The Duke and Daphne, standing at the altar, surrounded by flowers and expectation.

"Is this one of those romances?" Joel asks.

I don't answer.

I don't even flinch.

My eyes are glued to the screen, but my heart... it's somewhere else.

The way the Duke looks at her–like she's the only person in the room. The only person that's ever mattered.

The way he holds her–gentle, but firm. Steady. Safe.

The way he kisses her, like it's the first and last time he ever wants to breathe.

I clutch my chest without even realizing it.

It hurts. Not like a heartbreak—worse.

Like an ache that lives under your ribs and reminds you of everything you can't have.

That's how I want to be looked at. How I want to be kissed. How Joel kissed me this morning, before it all unraveled. Before it was a mistake, again. Before silence became our default.

And now, I sit here next to him–two feet apart, a thousand miles between us–watching someone else live the life I want with the man who won't even look at me.

It's not until a moan escapes Daphne's mouth that my face flushes red. I hadn't planned on finishing this episode with company, but Joel doesn't leave. He stays. He watches, just like I do.

Their lips crash together on screen, and I try to breathe normally, to act like this isn't doing anything to me. But I can feel it–the way my chest rises and falls faster than it should. The heat is blooming across my cheeks.

And I can feel him watching me.

From the corner of my eye, I see him turn his head. Joel isn't paying attention to the show anymore. He's focused on me–on the way I react to them touching each other.

And like a fucking fool, my body gives me away.

The panting.

The flushed skin.

The way his hand is gripping the couch cushion so tightly, like letting go would mean falling apart.

'Saylor," Joel says, his voice soft and thick with regret. "I'm so sorry."

Joel scoots closer, and my breath catches in my throat.

"Unless you're going to make me feel like that," I say, nodding toward the tv, "then don't fucking apologize."

He doesn't respond. Instead, he reaches for the remote and pauses the scene mid-moan. Of course he does.

It's like his goddamn superpower is denying me of orgasms–whether in bed or on the screen. With just a flick of his fingers, he kills the mood.

I'm seething.

"Saylor," he says–in that voice.

The one he used when he saw me in the kitchen, half naked in a robe. The one he had when he was seconds away from tearing off my clothes this morning.

It's low. Tense. Desperate.

"Please," he murmurs, his voice almost a whine. "Turn this off. I can't watch this with you."

I snatch the remote from his hand and press play.

"Then go to bed." I say without looking at him.

Joel narrows his brows, and for the first time, I see it—he's actually pissed.

"You're such a fucking brat." he snaps. "A spoiled, fucking brat."

I laugh.

Not a chuckle, not a scoff–a real laugh. One that bubbles out of me like it's been dying to escape.

"Then do something about it." I say, my grin dripping with challenge. "Exactly. You're a fucking coward. You'll kiss me, whisper all the filthy things you want to do to me, but the second it gets real? You freeze. All because I'm a virgin."

Joel rises to his feet without a word.

Honestly? I was expecting more. A sharp fuck you, maybe even a go to hell. But no–true to form, he says nothing. Just stands, stiff and silent, then heads for the stairs.

"Exactly." I mutter, turning my attention back to the screen.

But then I hear it–-him, muttering something under his breath.

"What was that?" I ask, eyes locked on the back of his head. "Do you have something to say?"

He pauses–one foot on the third step, the other on the second. His head is bowed, shoulders rising and falling with every heavy breath. I've finally gotten under his skin.

It should feel like a win.

But then he turns.

He marches back toward me.

Joel's brows are furrowed, jaw tight, and those eyes–sharp, dangerous, locked onto mine like a man on a mission. There's a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and suddenly, I know.

I'm in trouble.

The kind I've been begging for.

"I said stand up," he commands, voice low and cutting. "Let's see how much of a pussy I really am, huh?"

I finch, just slightly–but I recover fast.

"Just move," I say cooly, folding my arms. "We both know you're not going to do anything."

Joel lets out a laugh–deep, dark, and humorless. Then he steps directly in front of the tv, his broad frame blocking the screen like a wall.

I sigh, hit pause, and toss the remote onto the couch with a thud. Standing, I walk right up to him, eyes locked on his, my chin lifted.

"I'm up." I say, defiant. "Is that what you wanted, Mr. Miller?"

He draws in a deep breath, eyes closing as he tips his head back–like he's trying to wrestle with something inside. I almost smile. Almost. But I buried it. He doesn't need to know how much I'm enjoying this.

"You have no fucking idea what you've started, Saylor." He says, his voice more gravel than air. "There's not a single toy in that drawer of yours that comes close to the real thing."

I let out a laugh–mocking, sharp.

"You think this is funny?" he growls, stepping closer until there's barely a breath between us.

Then his voice drops to a near whisper.

"On your knees, Saylor."

Heat floods my cheeks. Every nerve lights up with anticipation, but I fight to keep my expression neutral. I know Joel. I know this game. The moment my knees hit the cold hardwood floor, he'll backpedal–say something like this isn't right or you deserve better. He'll look away, clench his jaw, and leave me aching all over again.

Not this time.

"Down here?" I ask, gripping his legs, feeling every taut muscle as I slowly slower myself to the floor. "Is this good, Mr. Miller?" Joel groans when I look up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Is this what you want?"

He swallows hard, then bends down and threads his fingers through my hair, giving a gentle tug. A moan slips from my lips as his hands trail down his chest to the button of his jeans.

"I'm sure you're used to dildos," He says, voice low and rough. "But I want you to understand why I don't want to take your virginity." With two fingers, he unbuttons his pants and eases the zipper down. "Take them off, Saylor."

So I do. I grab the waistband and tug his jeans down his thighs. It's not until I glance up that I notice the massive bulge in his underwear–thick, straining, like the fabric itself is struggling to contain him. His cock is pushed down the length of his thigh, and for a second, it looks dangerously close to reaching his knee.

There's no way in hell that thing is going to fit inside me.

"Keep going," he groans, voice heavy with need. My hands tremble as I reach up. "Don't get nervous now, Saylor." he laughs, low and rough.

"I'm not." I lie.

But the truth is, I'm completely and utterly terrified. Joel is so much bigger than I ever imagined. Maybe he's right–no dildo on earth could've prepared me for this.

Still, I hook my fingers into the waistband of his underwear and slide them down. They join his jeans in a heap on the floor.

I keep my eyes on the ground, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. Slowly, cautiously, I lift my gaze–and there it is.

His cock stands thick and proud, curving up toward his belly button, and all I can do is stare.

"I hope it's not wrong to assume you've never sucked a dick before." He says, voice laced with that smug, knowing edge.

He's not wrong. I haven't–but I want to. God, do I want to. I'm excited, yeah, but also a little terrified. What if I'm bad at it? What if it doesn't feel good for him? I've watched enough porn to fake confidence, but none of that ever showed how real this feels—how intense it is to actually be here, about to take Joel Miller into my mouth.

I just shake my head.

Joel grins, tugging gently at my hair. "Open your mouth," he says, low and commanding. "I'll guide you."

I hesitate for a beat. Then I do it—lips parting, eyes fluttering shut as he brings my head forward.

The tip slides between my lips, and immediately I have to open wider, adjusting to his size. I hadn't realized how thick he was—not really. My jaw strains to take him, and even with my mouth stretched as wide as it can go, there's still too much of him left.

"Shit," he hisses through gritted teeth.

Joel keeps easing deeper into my mouth, slow but relentless. My hands grip the backs of his thighs, nails digging in as I try to steady myself.

My eyes stay squeezed shut, but the pressure's building–my throat tight, my jaw aching. I can already feel the sting of tears collecting behind my lids. I know I'm nowhere near halfway down his cock, and yet he's already brushing the back of my throat. A stifled gag escapes me as he pushes in further, and fight the urge to pull back.

"Open your eyes, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with heat. "Watch me."

The taste of skin and something faintly sweet dances across my tongue as he slowly pulls out of my mouth. When the tip drags across my lips, I finally open my eyes–and look up.

He looks wrecked. Pained. So fucking sexy it hurts.

Joel slides back between my lips, slower this time, and I watch as his head tilts back and his eyes roll shut. That deep, guttural groan punches straight through me, and I swear I can feel it between my legs.

"Goddamn, Saylor."

My name in that voice makes my heart stutter. I moan around him–instinctively, needy–and his whole body stiffens at the sensation.

Unable to resist any longer, I slip one hand between my legs, rubbing my clothed pussy, desperate for relief. Every moan I let out sends a vibration through him, and with each one, he bucks just a little deeper into my mouth.

"Oh, that feels so fucking good, baby," he growls. "Now take that smart little mouth, that witty tongue of yours—and use it. Wrap it around my cock."

His words are filthy–vulgar in the worst kind of way–but fuck, they sound so good coming from him. Like they were made to be said in that voice. They slide off his tongue like honey laced with venom, and it does something sinister to me. My cunt aches, throbbing for him, and no matter how hard I press, the friction just isn't enough.

But I do exactly what he tells me–circling the tip of his cock with my tongue every time he pulls back, wrapping him in warmth and spit. I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard as he thrusts forward, each stroke pushing me further, testing the limits of what I can take.

The sound he legs out is devil-made. Raw, dark, addictive. Like I could live off that groan—play it in my head on loop until I fall asleep.

"You're a natural, honey." He pants, his hips picking up pace. "So fucking good, you know that?"

Then he pulls back—and slams into me, the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat with force. I gag hard, the sound wet and loud and completely humiliating.

And he loves it.

"But fuck, you're so goddamn cocky," he growls. "Calling me a pussy? That was fucked, Saylor." He drives into me again. Another brutal hit to the back of my throat, another gag tearing from me. "Is this something a pussy would do?" He sneers. "God, you look fucking pathetic right now—and I love it. You're so fucking pretty on your knees.."

He leans down, voice a low rasp.

"It's just sad you can't talk your shit with my dick down your throat."

Spit drips down my chin as he keeps fucking my mouth, relentless and raw. My breathing turns shallow, ragged, and every muscle in my body trembles—aching for him. I need him inside of me. I need more.

It hurts. God, it hurts. But it feels so fucking good I don't care. I want the ache. I want the stretch, the sting, the wreckage. And just as I start to adjust—just as the rhythm becomes something I can take—Joel yanks his cock from my throat and grabs me by the hair, dragging me up.

I'm gasping when I finally stand, my jaw slack, aching. But Joel doesn't pause. He doesn't let me catch my breath. His mouth crashes into mine like he's starving. His tongue slips between mine, claiming mine—sucking my tongue into his mouth like he owns it.

The kiss is dizzying. Or maybe that's just the lack of oxygen. Either way, I couldn't fucking care less. I want him. I've never wanted anything like I want him.

"Listen to me, Saylor." he growls between kisses, voice tight and fraying. "Take off all your clothes. And get on the couch."

Joel releases me with a final tug to my hair, then grabs his underwear and jeans, yanking them back up his waist. He doesn't bother buttoning them. His eyes flick to mine one last time—smoldering and unreadable—before he turns and heads upstairs.

I'm still catching my breath, head spinning, lips swollen, spit still drying on my chin. But I don't waste a second.

My clothes hit the floor piece by piece, and in seconds, I'm stretched out across the couch–the deep cushions swallowing my body, my skin flushed and bare and waiting.

It doesn't take him long to come back.

Joel descends the stairs with my duffel bag in his hand. The bag I keep hidden.

"What are you doing with those?" I ask, propping myself up on my elbows. "Those are–"

"For your videos. I know." He cuts me off, calm, unbothered. "Just lay down, Saylor."

My breath hitches. How the hell did he even know where I kept them?

No one's ever seen that bag—not since I started my collection. The toys are for specific vids, most of them gifts, some of them custom. They were mine. Private. Tucked in the back of my closest like a secret stash.

Joel walks over like he's done this a hundred times. Like he owns the room. I can see the thick imprint of his cock through his jeans—still hard, still ready. He sits at the edge of the couch, right at my feet, and unzips the bag like it's his.

His hand rummages through the toys, eyes scanning, searching — not for what he wants, but for what he already knows he's going to use. And when he finds it, his grin is nothing short of feral.

A vibrator. A six-inch dildo. Nipple clamps.

Fuck.

"Before we go any further," Joel says, looking at me — really looking — his voice low, his expression suddenly softer. "I need you to tell me you're ready for this." There's no smirk now. No teasing. "If you want this to stop — anytime — you tell me. Got it?"

"Joel, please... keep fucking going." I breathe, barely able to get the words out.

He grins like I just handed him the key to heaven. "Thank God." He mutters.

Joel grabs the vibrator and adds a generous pump of lube to the want, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. When there's extra slick on his fingers, he drags it across my clit — and I jolt. His touch is so careful it hurts, like my body can't even handle softness right now.

He clicks through the settings, testing vibrations until he lands on one that's somewhere between maddening and merciful. Then, he starts rubbing my thighs, easing them apart wider — until I'm fully open beneath him.

His eyes stay locked between my legs, dark and heavy with hunger. When he licks his lips, I see it — that glint. That barely-contained restraint. But it's the way he dips a single finger inside me, slow and smooth, that makes me lose my breath.

"You're so fucking wet, sweetheart." he growls, voice low and wrecked. "I can't wait to fuck you."

He doesn't give me time to respond. Joel presses the vibrator to my clit — and my whole body arches off the couch.

A moan rips out of me, loud and helpless. Joel groans in response, gripping my thighs tighter, holding me still as I squirm beneath him.

He doesn't pull back. Don't let up. Joel keeps the pressure steady, watching every twitch, every buck of my hips like it's the most mesmerizing thing he's ever seen.

"Oh my god." I gasp.

Joel leans in and kisses the inside of my thigh — a slow, reverent press of his lips that makes me shiver. The wand's still buzzing against me when I feel it: a sudden shift in intensity.

He's changed the setting. Again.

The new speed wrecks me.

Mu hips jerk, and now my pussy is right there — inches from his mouth. Joel exhales against me, warm breath washing over my soaked cunt, and I shake.

He holds the vibrator firm against my clit, his hand unrelenting as my legs start to tremble.

"Joel!" I cry out, voice cracking under the pressure.

"Oh, god." he groans, sinking his teeth into my thigh. The bite makes me gasp — sharp and primal — as he grinds the vibrator harder into my clit, dragging friction out of every twitch between my legs. "Come for me, baby."

And I do.

Or maybe I don't — not yet, but it's there, building behind my clit like a tidal wave I can't outrun. My body's tingling, burning, and I start to buck up, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation.

But Joel doesn't let me go.

He holds me down like it's nothing, strong and steady as my legs begin to shake uncontrollably beneath him.

"That's it, babe." he murmurs, his voice all grit and heat. "Relax, baby... I'm gonna take good care of you."

And then I shatter.

The orgasm tears through me, fast and feral, turning my limbs to jelly as my body spasms beneath his grip. I can't even breathe — I'm just gone, boneless and twitching, my pussy pulsing so hard it hurts. Joel watches it all, soaking in the sight of me falling apart.

"Don't tire out now, Saylor." He says, his grin sharp and dangerous. "We're just getting started."

I barely have a second to blink before he's clipping the nipple clamps onto me. My skin's so raw, so sensitive, everything feels electric. Jole kisses along my stomach and chest like an apology he doesn't mean — and then he grabs the dildo.

When he rubs it across my clit, my hips jerk like I've been shocked. The sudden movement tugs the clamps, sending a sharp sting through my nipples — and I cry out, caught between pain and pleasure and everything in between.

Joel just laughs, smug and wrecked.

"Good thing your dad isn't here," he says, voice low and wicked. "Wouldn't want his perfect princess getting caught with his best friend."

Without warning, Joel thrusts the dildo deep into my soaked entrance.

A sound I've never made before rips from my throat — raw and involuntary. It's not pretty. It's not controlled. It's just need.

Joel shows no mercy. He pulls the silicone cock out with a slick, wet sound, then slams it back in, harder. Rougher. Again and again.

"Still think I'm a pussy, Saylor?" he growls, voice dark and razor-edged. "You think a pussy would do this to you?"

"N-No." I gasp, voice cracking. "God—no."

"Didn't think so."

Joel fucks me ruthlessly, the toy pounding into me at a brutal pace. My moans blur together into one long, shaking sob. My legs won't stop trembling. Every nerve in my body is lit up, overloaded, completely at his mercy — and he knows it. He wants it.

Joel watches, eyes burning with hunger, as I jerk and twitch beneath his grip.

"This is nothing." He mutters, voice like gravel. He leans in, inches from my ear. "Just wait until it's my cock inside you."

Joel's words crawl through my body, but it's the way he slams the dildo into me again that leaves me speechless.

No witty comeback.

No teasing grin.

No thought in my goddamn brain.

Just static — white-hot and all-consuming. My vision blurs, my back arches, and his name rips from my throat as my orgasm crashes over me like a goddamn tidal wave.

"Fuck." He groans. "Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look when you're this helpless?" He pauses — then laughs. "Oh right... you're a goddamn virgin."

He slides the toy out of me with a slick sound and drops it onto the table beside the vibrator, both of them glistening.

"So pure. So innocent. Yeah... fucking right." He laughs.

Joel stands, looming above me now, and begins to unbutton his flannel — sloe, deliberate. I can't take my eyes off him. Every inch of skin he reveals makes my pulse jump. His torso is dusted with dark hair, his chest broad and solid. Joel is unreal like this — confident, cocky, and carved from sin.

He doesn't waste time. Stripping fast, like he's just as desperate to get inside of me as I am to have him. My heart slams against my ribs as he climbs over me, cock thick and heavy, resting against my sock pussy. My breath catches.

Then, he leans down, presses a kiss to my lips — gentle, intimate.

"Remember," he murmurs against my mouth. "If you want me to stop, you tell me."

I nod, dazed, but he doesn't let it slide.

His brows crease. He kisses me again, slower this time, then pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes.

"Use your words, baby."

"I understand," I whisper. " If I want you to stop... I'll tell you."

He smiles — that soft, dangerous grin that says I've just handed him every piece of myself.

"Good girl," he coos, and kisses me again — this time deeper, darker. A kiss that promises ruin.

Joel presses the head of his cock against my entrance, slow and steady, letting the pressure build.

There's a sharp sting as he breaches me — quick, biting — but I breathe through it, refusing to let it shake me. My eyes squeeze shut as I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in.

He groans low, deep in his chest, as just the tip pushes inside.

"Goddamn, you're so fucking tight, Saylor." he growls, voice cracking at the edges.

He doesn't thrust. Joel doesn't move. He just waits. Hands gripping my hips, letting me adjust, letting me decide.

My chest rises and falls with slow, shaky breaths. Every nerve ending is lit up, fire under my skin, but I want this. I need this.

I tighten my legs around him, guiding him deeper. Inch by inch, the stretch builds — sharp at first, then achingly full. The pain bleeds into pleasure, and I let out a breathy moan as I take more of him.

Joel shudders above me, jaw clenched tight. "Jesus, baby... You feel like fucking heaven."

He still doesn't move. He's giving me the reins — all the power, all that size, his entire fucking self — and waiting for me to take it.

And fuck, I want it all.

"Joel," I moan, voice catching in my throat, "you're too—"

"Take it." He growls. "You can take it, baby. Isn't this what you wanted?"

I nod, biting down on my lip just as he thrusts, hard and deep.

He bottoms out.

A cry rips from my chest — loud, sharp, desperate. Joel stills immediately, holding himself inside of me while my body clenches around him, adjusting.

"I've got you," He murmurs against my skin. "I'll take care of you. You can take it, baby. You're such a good girl. You can take my cock."

He pulls out slowly, leaving just the tip inside, and then slams back in with force that knocks the breath out of me. Another cry escapes, this one soaked in pleasure.

Joel doesn't let go — his arms tighten around me as he scatters kisses across my face, my jaw, my neck, like he's worshipping every inch. He starts to move again, slow thrusts that drag out the stretch, the fullness, the aching need.

My legs fall from his waist, trembling and useless. Joel doesn't miss a beat. He hooks one leg up over his shoulder, holding the other at his waist with a firm grip as he angles his hips and slides deeper inside me.

My pussy clenches around him, finally adjusting to the size, the rhythm, the stretch of him completely filling me.

He picks up the pace.

A low groan rumbles from his chest. "Mmm—fuck, baby." He moans, quiet and ragged. "You feel so fucking good."

Every thought I have? Gone. Just fucking gone.

My mind's a void — blank, buzzing, obliterated. The pain's long gone, replaced by this searing, overwhelming pleasure. Joel's cock rocks into me over and over, and it's so intense I can't think, can't breathe — I can only feel.

There's no orgasm building. No steady rise. Just pure, blinding ecstasy.

Joel lifts my other leg, hooking it high, and the shift in angle knocks the air out of my lungs. He hits something inside of me — a spot I've never felt before — and my whole body jolts. My back arches, mouth falling open in a soundless cry.

The pressure, the stretch, the way he fills me — it's taking over. I'm throbbing everywhere, and it's so fucking good I could cry.

"Is this what you wanted?" Joel pants, voice wrecked. "Is this everything you fucking hoped for?"

I nod, helpless. That's all I can do. Words are useless now — just moans and broken sobs falling from my lips as he keeps driving into me.

The room's thick with the wet, obscene sound of his cock plunging into my soaked cunt — slick, filthy, relentless. He's gliding in and out of me so easily, but every thrust still lands hard. It sounds like waves crashing, loud and messy and unrelenting.

My eyes are closed, but I can feel Joel watching me. I know he sees everything — the way my mouth hangs open, moans slipping out with no shame, the way my brows are pinched in pleasure. He sees how my tits bounce with every deep thrust, how my body reacts like it was made for this.

I want to look at him, to watch the way his cock stretches me, fills me, makes me his — but I can't. My body's too overwhelmed, too wrecked. So I keep my eyes shut and imagine it. I picture the way his dick twitches inside me, the way his head falls back when it feels too good, mouth parted in the ruined, breathless kind of bliss.

"This feels so good." I moan, voice cracking on the edge of desperation.

"Is that right?" Joel asks, tone all smug and low.

"Yes." I whimper, pathetic and honest. "It's so good... so much better than the dildo."

Joel lets out a dark laugh, and then — fuck — he pulls out completely and slams back into me.

I gasp, sucking in a breath. The sharp flash of pain melts into dizzying pleasure.

"Open your eyes, Saylor." Joel growls. "Look at me... or I stop."

My whole body tenses. Fuck no, that's the last thing I want.

I force my eyes open, blinking through the haze of lust and sweat. And when I see him — I really see him — my heart nearly stops.

Sweat drips down from his hairline, catching in the scruff of his jaw. His eyes are hooded, wild, but underneath the hunger is something softer.

He's looking at me like sacred. Like he can't fucking believe this is real.

"Good," he coos. "Now look down. Watch as I fuck you."

I lift myself on my elbows, shaky but determined. Joel leans back just enough for me to see everything. And fuck — the sight of him, cock slick and glistening with my arousal, so hard it looks painful — I almost lose it right then.

He moves slowly. Painfully slow. I watch, mesmerized, as the tip disappears into my needy cunt, stretching me open all over again. Inch by inch, his cock sinks deeper, and I swear my body welcomes it. No resistance. No pain. Just pure, desperate want.

"See how well you take me?" His voice is low and gravel-worn. "Look how fucking perfect your pussy looks with my cock buried inside you. If only you knew how good this feels to me."

His hips start to move faster, harder. The wet slap of skin-on-skin fills the room, and my moans come in short, breathless gasps. I can't stop watching. It's burned into my brain — the way he fills me, the way I take it. I'll replay this moment forever.

But just when I feel the heat tightening, building, Joel stops.

"Wait—" I whimper, but he's already pulling out.

He grabs my hips, manhandling me like I weigh nothing.

"I'm gonna turn you over." he says, voice thick with lust. "Keep your hips up."

I nod, too far gone to argue. In a blink, I'm face-down in the throw pillows, ass up, legs spread wide. Joel's hand slides under me, wraps around my waist. The other grabs my thigh, spreading me further, holding me open like a gift just for him.

Then — fuck — he presses his fingers to my clit. No rubbing, no teasing. Just firm, possessive pressure.

I moan, loud and needy.

"Tell me what you want. "Joel growls behind me.

But I can't speak. Not a single goddamn word. Every syllable, every thought I've ever known has been fucked out of my body and scattered across this room like ashes in the wind. I can't catch my breath long enough to gather one.

And Joel knows. Of course he knows. He's torn every part of me down and rebuilt it into something that belongs to him.

"Joel—I..." It's all I manage. Just his name, breathy and broken, falling off my tongue like some pathetic pornstar virgin who doesn't know how to bed properly yet.

"Oh, pretty girl." he murmurs, and I feel it — the smug praise in his voice, thick and warm. He pressed down harder, fingers trapping my clit between them and squeezing. My body jerks, sharp and helpless, nipple clamps tugging at me with every twitch. The pleasure cuts liek glass, and I love it.

"Too much for you?" he taunts, voices all dark velvet.

My limbs go weak, and I start to fold forward — but he catches me by the neck, arm strong and sure about my throat, dragging me back into him until my spine presses against the hard of his chest.

"You're such a good, strong girl, Saylor." Joel breathes, low and possessive. "You can take my cock. You were made to take it."

Then he starts to pinch — slow, cruel pinches to my clit that makes my hips jolt back into him, desperate for more. I'm spiraling, bucking, legs trembling like a newborn deer. It's so fucking good it hurts — hurts so fucking good — and just when I'm about to come, he stops. Everything stops.

His hand leaves my cunt. The grip on my throat loosens.

And then he leans in, mouth to my ear, "Saylor, I mean every word I say. There is no fucking toy on this planet that could ever make you feel like this. You get that? There's nothing like me. Understand?" He whispers.

I nod, barely, my whole body shivering with need. I don't ask him to stop. I can't. I won't.

"Such a good little pornstar," he hums, satisfied. "Now lay down. Arch that pretty back like you do in your videos."

"Yes... yes, sir," I stammer.

Once I'm in position — back arched, ass high, legs shaking — Joel grabs my hips with both hands, rough and certain. I can feel the heat radiating off him as he lines his cock up to my entrance. My body shivers the second his tip presses into me again, like it remembers exactly what's coming.

Joel's cock stretches me wide, filling every inch of space and somehow still demanding more. He's so fucking thick, and yet he sinks in like he owns me — because he does. My walls squeeze around him involuntarily as he bottoms out, and the groan he lets out is long and drawn out. Like the sound of a man who's waited too fucking long to lose control.

This angle lets him fuck me deeper. Harder. Meaner.

I grip the couch like it's the only thing anchoring me to earth as he pulls out and slams back in. My face buried in the cushions as a scream rips from me — loud, raw, and involuntary.

Joel laughs. Actually laughs.

"Let this be a reminder," he grits out between thrust, "that I'll fuck every goddamn word out of your mouth." Another brutal, delicious snap of his hips. "All this because you're a brat. My spoiled little brat."

His rhythm turns merciless — thrust fast, deep, perfect. He hits something inside me that sends stars across my vision. My fingers claw at the fabric beneath me. My body is trembling, breaking. My moans become chants, desperate and holy, a litany of his name and nothing else.

"You're doing so good," Joel coos, voice suddenly sweet — too sweet, like poison in honey. "Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock."

Tears roll freely down my cheeks, silent and hot, as his name leaves my mouth like a prayer. My whole body tenses, and the orgasm explodes through me like a snapped wire — a violent, unstoppable surge that sends me spiraling. I jerk, then collapse, trembling into the couch cushions, my limbs too weak to hold me up, breathe coming in short, panicked bursts.

But Joel's not done.

He flips me over like I'm weightless, wrecked and pliable beneath him. His cock rests heavy across my stomach, hot against my skin, and he strokes himself — slow and deliberate — like he wants to make a point.

"See what you do to me, Saylor?" he growls, "You make me fucking feral."

His hand moves faster, and then with a few stifled groans, he spills — thick, hot, a mess that lands across my stomach in a shuddering stream. His hips twitch as he rides it out, breath shallow, chest heaving.

Then, silence. Just the aftermath.

Joel disappears upstairs. I hear his footsteps, but I don't ask where he's going. I can't. My body is limp, useless. My chest rises and falls in erratic bursts. My muscles are burning, twitching, and my vision's still fuzzy at the edges. I close my eyes.

Joel comes back with a towel, and when I look at him — really look — his eyes aren't full of hunger anymore. They're soft. Regretful, maybe. Or something close. Something that feels too big and too fragile for the man who just wrecked me six ways to Sunday.

He places the warm towel over my stomach, wiping me clean with gentle, practiced hands. Then a second towel — warm, damp — pressed between my legs. I gasp at the sensation, a rush of relief almost as overwhelming as the orgasm itself.

Joel kneels beside the couch and rubs my thighs, working the tension from my sore muscles with soft circles of his thumps.

"I ran a bath," he murmurs. "I put in epsom salts to help you relax. The heat will help the soreness — trust me, you're gonna feel it tomorrow."

His voice is so different now. Not sharp. Not smug. Just quiet. Like he's giving me something real in the wreckage. Like this part matters just as much.

And it does.

"I don't need to rest." I say. "I'm fine."

Joel tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Do you really think it's a good idea to talk back to me right now, Saylor?"

I've got nothing. No sass, no comeback. Just limp limbs and a heartbeat that's still tripping over itself from everything he just did to me. He's right — another round would wreck me. And I'd still ask for it.

"I'll carry you upstairs," he says.

And he does. Strong arms under me, cradling me with the same intense care that he fucks with. He lowers me into the steaming bath, and the moment my skin hits the water, my muscles practically melt. It hurts, but in that perfect way — like everything he broke is healing.

"You okay?" Joel asks, voice softer than it's been all night.

"Yes." I breathe. I meet his eyes, and suddenly the air changes. It's the look — that look. Like the world narrowed to just me. My chest tightens, heart skipping so hard it echoes in my ears. "I'm perfect. It was perfect."

Joel's lips twitch into a smirk, but his eyes don't lose that first. "Glad you enjoyed yourself," he murmurs. "But we're just getting started, Saylor. These next three days — you're all mine."

I reach for his hand, just barely grazing his fingers. "Promise you won't push me away?"

He doesn't flinch. Joel doesn't look away. "After tonight?" His thumb brushes over my knuckles. "I don't think I could."

Joel leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead — not demanding, not possessive. Just real. Then he grabs the loofah, lathers it with my favorite scent, and kneels beside the tub like I'm something precious.

"Let's get you cleaned up." He says.

And God help me, we're just getting started.