Archive of Our Own

Is it insulting for your parents to go off on their own for a date night on your so-called family trip? Maybe. But not as insulting as it is for them to essentially stick you with a babysitter. You’re twenty-four, for crying out loud. Granted, you’re in an unfamiliar city well known for its debauchery, but you’ve always been sensible (well… sensible enough) and the people of Amsterdam all seem to speak English better than you do, so you don’t even have to worry about a language barrier. 

It’s not that you don’t know the man your parents left you with - Joel Miller has been a constant presence in your life for as long as you can remember. He was never very talkative with you in your childhood, even less so during your early puberty when you had an embarrassing crush on him. You don’t blame your younger self: his thick chocolate-brown hair would grow in waves when he let it get long enough, always at least one errant lock flopping down over his forehead. You vividly remember the tanned, toned planes of his chest when he joined your family for a beach trip in your early teens, thanking every deity you could think of that your dark sunglasses allowed you to stare at him shamelessly without being caught.

Nowadays, his hair has retained its soft curl at the ends but both it and his scruffy beard boast more than a sprinkling of silver. The crows’ feet and the tiny twin dents between his brows are permanent features, joined by fine lines threading over his rough-hewn face. As for his physique… well. You’ve not seen him without his shirt on in years but you did glimpse his stomach last week at airport security. He had to remove his sweater and his t-shirt rode up just enough for you to catch the softer tan flesh and its dusting of dark hair before you had the good sense to look away. 

Okay, so maybe that crush hadn’t entirely faded.

So maybe that’s why now, when you’re walking in silence through the cobbled streets after dinner, you briefly consider making a break for it. But then it occurs to you that maybe your parents’ intention was for you to look after Joel rather than the other way round. He was a late addition to the trip, your father’s suggestion to invite him coming only two weeks before you boarded the plane. ‘He’s going through a lot right now Tess has gone’, he explained, ‘the divorce has hit him hard and I can’t leave my best friend alone in his time of need’. 

Except Joel’s best friend was enjoying a romantic boat trip on the canals with his wife this evening. So Joel was stuck with the daughter, and you with him.

“The tram stop isn’t far,” you say, staring at your phone for navigation. “Maybe two streets away. Then it’s ten minutes and a short ferry to the film museum.”

He grunts. A man of many words.

You turn down a street under the instruction of your maps app, following the little dotted path. “It’s just down here on the left, apparently, then we should be able to-”

You look up at Joel, except he’s not there. Checking over your shoulder, you see him rooted to the spot about ten feet away, staring at the street in front of you with an unreadable expression. You turn back and properly see your surroundings for the first time.

Shit.

The street is heaving with people. The building directly to your right has an abrasive green neon sign fastened to its dark brick facade with rusted brackets, promising girls, girls, girls. The soft yellow streetlights by the side of the canal are outshone by a commanding scarlet colour that seems to flood from every tall window, long shadows being cast by figures within them. You can hear men leering at the silhouettes, encouraging their friends to join in. The air feels heavier here, the dank smell of canal water overpowered by leather and a tang you don’t want to name.

Of course the most direct route cuts through the Red Light District. Of course.

You feel something touch the small of your back and you jump out of your skin, but then that familiar woodsy scent finds you and the palm flattens over your spine. You look up at Joel for guidance. His eyes are fixed on the street ahead but his fingers contract against the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer to his side protectively.

“I… I didn’t…” you manage to choke out. “I mean, I was just following the route, nothing said it was-”

“C’mon. Nothin’ to be scared of. Keep walkin’.”

He almost has to push you forward before your feet get the memo to move. You traipse along beside Joel, avoiding eye contact with everyone in your path and deliberately refraining from taking a peek at the windows. You’re not a prude, but for both your own sanity and your desire to dilute the number of badly behaved tourists, it feels like the right thing to do.

That is, until Joel slows down. You follow his gaze and see a lean blonde woman wrapped in something silky and red - or is that just the lights? - waving at Joel with a slow ripple of her fingers. When she winks at him, you glance up to see his reaction. You’re not expecting his lips to be quirked upwards, a twinkle in his eye. 

An acidic feeling surges outwards from the center of your chest. You look down at your phone again, if only for something to do that won’t make you want to shrivel up. The film museum is out of the question, you need something and you need it now. You zoom out on the map and find a nearby bar that you hope is decisively not anything more than a watering hole. 

After you get your bearings and look back up, Joel is still watching this woman gyrate in the window.

Fighting this isn't going to end well. Flight it is.

“I’m thirsty,” you mutter, “gonna grab a drink. Enjoy… whatever.”

Before Joel can register what you’ve said, you’re darting down a side street and making a beeline for this bar. You hear him call something after you as you leave, but the crowd swallows him up in seconds and you quicken your pace, still walking but a hair’s breadth away from a light jog. 

You pause about two thirds of the way down the street, leaning against the wall to calm yourself. You’re not embarrassed anymore, you decide quickly. It was a shock to stumble on this area, sure, but you were fully prepared to walk through it without fuss. It was only when you saw that flicker of interest in Joel’s eye that you felt this surge.

With a guilty pang, you quickly realise that swirling, burning emotion refusing to withdraw its claws from your heart is jealousy. You want Joel to look at you like that, his brown eyes twinkling with something unspoken and dangerous.

You hear your name barked sternly from the direction you just came, the steady thud of boots on cobbles echoing off the walls.

“You can’t just run off like that,” Joel grunts as he catches up to you.

You scoff. “I can. I’m not a child.”

“Then don’t go blushin’ when you see adults engagin’ in adult behaviour.”

Your hand flies to your cheek, the heat emanating from your skin confirming you are, in fact, blushing. 

Joel tilts his head. “What’s eatin’ you? Didn’t like the look of that whore back there?”

“What? No! What do you… I mean, you shouldn’t call them that.”

“Whores?” He seems confused. “That's what they are, sweetheart.”

“Sex workers, Joel. They’re sex workers.” Even saying the word sex out loud in front of him makes your stomach clench.

“Whatever,” he waves a hand dismissively. “Point is, your parents trust me to look after you tonight. Don’t want you runnin’ away just cus you’re bothered by some blonde in lingerie makin’ eyes.”

“It’s just… it’s awkward,” you land on.

“Awkward?” He frowns, those dual crescent lines between his brows becoming more pronounced. “Ain’t awkward. Unless…”

Joel’s eyes lock with yours, searching. You panic and try to arrange your features into something resembling normality, but he catches on too quickly.

“You jealous?” His voice is quieter now.

Your forced laugh, on the other hand, rings loudly in the tiny street, bouncing off the tall brick buildings. “Jealous? Why would I be jealous of you getting attention from a wh- from a sex worker?”

Joel raises an eyebrow at your slip-up but doesn't challenge it. He leans against the wall opposite you, irritatingly nonchalant, his arms folded. It takes every gram of your restraint to keep your eyes on his face and not on his biceps.

“That’s what I’m askin’ you,” he continues casually with a shrug, as though he is asking about the weather.

“Why should I care if you get hit on?” You’re mildly aware of the shrill edge to your voice, but struggling to control it. “You’re… not unfortunate-looking… so of course you’re gonna be a prime target.”

His lips twitch but he doesn’t smile. “So,” he begins slowly, “if I’m not unfortunate-lookin’ and o' course those girls want a piece of me, why is it such a big deal to you?”

“Because you’re supposed to be with me!” You snap.

A beat.

“I mean,” you stammer, “um, you can’t leave me by myself while you… have fun with one of those women. You promised my parents you’d look after me tonight.” A flimsy excuse, but it's the best you've got.

“I did,” Joel calmly pushes off the wall and takes a single step towards you. The street is so narrow he’s almost halfway across with just one movement. “And I ain’t a man who breaks a promise. So I can’t very well leave you alone to go have fun with some blonde, can I?”

He plucks those two words from your mouth and slows them right down, highlighting what you already know: you sound downright ridiculous.

“Look, kid, you gotta loosen up,” Joel’s voice lowers and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like it’s a secret this city has pretty loose morals.

“I’m not a kid,” you mumble.

“You’re not. But you gotta stop acting like one. You’re twenty-four damn years old. For starters, don't say have fun with when you really mean fuck.”

The way his lips tense around the word fuck actively fights against your efforts to diffuse this tension. Your spine straightens by a fraction.

He continues. “You got a brain 'tween those ears, I know you do. But you're too damn sensible. If I hadn't promised your daddy I wouldn't let you outta my sight, I'd trust you to stay outta trouble if I wanted to…” He smirks to himself.

Ignoring the flutter between your legs and the acidic resurge of jealousy in your chest is impossible as Joel takes another step forwards. You find your voice. 

“You shouldn’t, though.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

Should you go for the jugular? Probably not. But you do anyway.

“The ink’s not dry on your divorce papers and you’re eyeing up sex w-”

“Enough,” he grunts flatly. “Don’t fuckin’ bring that up out here.”

You stare at the cobbles, regret flushing through you in an instant. “Sorry,” you mumble.

Neither of you say anything for an agonizing few seconds that seem to stretch into the ether. Eventually, you summon the strength from somewhere to break the silence. “Just... don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Joel prompts. “Use your grown up words.”

Your eyes are still fixed on the floor as you murmur, “Don't fuck that sex worker.”

He sighs, sounding genuinely frustrated. “You can do better than that. Grown up words, sweetheart. C’mon.”

It takes you more time than you'd care to admit to figure out what he wants to hear. 

“Don’t fuck that whore,” the words slip from your mouth coated in a honeyed desperation.

You hear the soft exhale through his nose and you risk a look at his face. His eyes meet yours. He smirks again, and in that low, Southern drawl, he murmurs.

“Good girl.”

If you were still on the noisy, bustling road with its melange of red light and dark shadows, you might have gotten away with the gasp falling from your lips, the slight widening of your eyes, the way your chin tilted up by an inch. But not here, not in this secluded side street, not facing each other a few feet apart in the dim orange glow. The unspoken line has been crossed: whether Joel meant what he said in that way or not, you’re still not certain. But your response is indefensible.

Slowly, silently, he takes a final step towards you. You’re a deer in the headlights, unable to look away or even breathe as his eyes bore into yours.

“Not as innocent as you look, are you?” Joel mumbles, almost to himself.

Two ways forward fork out in front of you. The first is the obvious correct path: you should be stepping away, heading back to the hotel and getting an early night. Avoiding this danger like the plague. Being an actual good girl.

So why is it that you choose the second? Maintaining eye contact, you suck your lower lip between your teeth and slowly shake your head.

Joel groans and stumbles backward like he’s been shot. “Fuckin’. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You cock an eyebrow, daring him to be the one to acknowledge the atmospheric shift.

He’s back in your personal space in a flash, gripping your shoulders and pressing you firmly against the cold brick wall, bringing his head level with yours. His voice is firm, his eyes hard. “I’m sayin’ this once and only once. This,” he releases one of your shoulders to gesture between the two of you, “ain’t gonna happen. Got it?”

The hot shame of rejection scalds your heart for a moment. But then you realize just how close his face is to yours - closer than it’s ever been before - and how tightly he’s holding your shoulder. It doesn’t strike you as the behavior of a man who’s uninterested, rather a man asserting control. Testing your theory, you try to lean in closer, but his hand catches you around the jaw.

“Quit it.” Joel growls. “Do I look like I’m playin’?” 

For a torturously long moment, you’re both still, save for the rapid rise and fall of your chests. You’re keenly aware of your pulse racing, and how he must feel it beneath his fingers. When Joel seems satisfied the message has sunk in, he drops you and takes a small step back. 

“We’re headin’ home,” he declares gruffly, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking towards the tram stop, not waiting for you to follow.

It takes a moment for your brain to re-engage. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me, didn’t you?” he calls over his shoulder but doesn’t bother raising his voice. 

You scurry along after him, your heart sinking. “What the fuck? It’s, like, eight o’clock. We can still make it to the film museum before it closes.”

“Don't care.” It’s almost as though you can see his carefully-constructed walls being rebuilt, reinforced. 

“I’m on vacation, I’m not wasting an entire evening at the hotel,” you hiss. 

Joel doesn’t respond. He just keeps the steady rhythm of his boots on the cobbles as you approach the end of the side street. Your surprise quickly festers into irritation and you snatch his forearm, stopping him mid-stride. He slowly turns to face you, not pulling his arm back, but his face is lined with threats, half-illuminated by the bustling road to one side while the other is still shrouded in shadow.

“Careful,” he mutters, barely loud enough to hear over the throngs of people. “If I have to carry you back, I will.”

“I didn’t fly all this way just to watch TV and order room service,” you retort. “Fine. If the museum is out of the question, I just want to soak up the nightlife.”

“You seemed pretty opposed to the nightlife back there, sweetheart,” Joel’s voice drips with sarcasm. 

You drop his arm like it’s a live wire. “You know that’s not what I meant. Bars. Pubs,” you pause, testing the waters. “Coffeeshops.”

“No,” that firm tone returns like a lead weight. 

“Seriously?! Weren’t you just telling me I needed to stop acting like a kid?”

Joel’s jaw tenses. You sense a weakness and dig into it with both hands. 

“Don’t go patronizing me over a bit of weed. You think I don’t smell it when you and dad smoke on the porch? You’re directly under my bedroom window.”

“S’different.”

“You’re right. It is different. It’s legal here.”

His body jerks as though he just had to physically stop himself from moving, his eyes boring into yours and narrowing slightly. There’s a tense silence between you for a few moments.

“M’not getting you high,” he grunts.

“I’m not going back yet, Joel. That’s final.”

He raises an eyebrow and folds his arms over his broad chest. “That so?”

Another loaded silence descends, thick and spiky, before-

“Fine. But no coffeeshops. Just a normal bar. One drink. Got it?”

You take a step towards the side street’s mouth with a triumphant smile curling your lips, not bothering to check that Joel is following. You know he is. 

***

You sidle into the first bar you find, the one you were heading towards when Joel was busy being tempted by the woman in the window. It's heaving with swarms of people in various states of inebriation. Judging by the bunting made of Netherlands flags draped across the ceiling, the frozen garish green Heineken signs, and the signage advising customers they do not accept US dollars, it's a tourist trap. 

Joel slips into the bar behind you. “This place is a tourist trap,” he observes shrewdly. 

“And we're tourists,” you mutter. “Is it such a big deal?”

You know you can't hear him roll his eyes, but for a moment your brain tricks you that you can. 

“C’mon, Joel. You promised me a drink.” You turn to face him. He's closer than you anticipated and you have to tilt your head back to catch his eye. He seems even grumpier than usual after a couple of minutes walk. 

“I said a normal bar.” He grits out. 

You smirk. “Didn't know you were so picky. Maybe this is a normal bar over here?”

Joel frustratedly grumbles your name. “One more dumb comment outta that smart mouth and I swear to God-”

But you're already crossing the room and squeezing in between patrons to prop your elbows on the bar. You attempt to order in the incredibly limited Dutch you tried to learn on the plane: even though you’re mildly embarrassed when the bartender shakes his head and responds in flawless English, you end up with the drinks you wanted. A win is a win, you suppose. 

You turn around with two frothing glasses of beer. Joel snatches one of them from your hand without saying thank you, taking a prolonged gulp that must leave a quarter of the drink gone in one go. Wordlessly, he tugs your forearm and leads you to a small table in the corner of the room that a couple has just vacated, setting you down on one of the low, black leather cubes that pass as stools. 

Joel takes another huge drink. You raise your eyebrows.

“It's not a race, Miller,” you murmur. 

He glowers at you. “Sooner I drink up, sooner we can leave.”

You take a pointedly reserved sip from your glass, licking the foam from your top lip. You swear you caught Joel's eyes flick to your mouth for a second, but he stays silent.

You realize you're really enjoying riling him up. There's something about the way he holds himself when he's mildly pissed: facial muscles taut, biceps straining against his jacket as he sits with his arms crossed, those delicious dual divots pushing into the skin between his brows. You decide to see just how much you can get away with. 

“You know, you could always just go back to the hotel without me,” you suggest. “I'll be fine by myself.”

“How many times?! If trouble finds you when I'm responsible for…”

“Just tell them I ran away,” you shrug.

“You wouldn’t run,” Joel says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, you think you could lose me if you tried? Seriously?”

“Easily,” you respond without missing a beat. “You’re not as young as you used to be”

He scowls at you. “Watch your tone.”

“Oh, he didn’t like that,” you giggle. “What’s the matter, old man? Don’t like being reminded about your lack of stamina?”

You genuinely don’t intend to make the double entendre, but it doesn’t matter. Joel’s eyes harden anyway, drilling into yours, the silence between you deafening. You take another swig of beer without dropping eye contact, pushing just a little further.

“I tell you what. Why not go back to that blonde lady in the window? Bet you’d be finished with her before I’d be finished with my dr-”

Joel’s hand whips out and slams on the table, the beers wobbling precariously. A handful of people glance over with mild curiosity but you don’t dare look away from him as his chest heaves with the deep breaths he is forcing into his lungs. He shifts slightly on the stool, his hips shunting further back and his chest folded over his knees.

“I’m warnin’ you,” he says your name quietly, venomously, “you do not want to test me. Not now.”

The last thing you want is to get in trouble due to Joel’s slippery grip on his composure, so you rein it in, taking another drink to hide your face. But you can’t help but let that thought you had earlier bloom into a certainty: Joel is much more affected by you than he’s letting on but he's deliberately holding back.

You wonder what it’ll take to break him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, crossing your legs and allowing your foot to hover just next to his shin.

Joel snatches his drink from the table like it offended him, draining the amber liquid in a frankly impressive few seconds. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and rises.

“I’ve still got half a beer,” you frown. “I don’t wanna leave yet.”

“Who said we’re leavin’?” Joel grunts. “I’m still thirsty.”

You manage to restrain your joke about his thirst before it can leave your lips. He stalks off to the bar, leaving you with your racing mind at your tiny table. You watch him weave through the crowd, not shoving, but with an undeniable force, as he waves down the bartender.

Your reverie is interrupted by a deep, slightly-accented voice to your right, just beside Joel’s empty seat. “Excuse me, are you alright?”

A tall blond man stares down at you, concern swimming in his hazel-green eyes. He looks about your age, dressed in a form-fitting white t-shirt and baggy grey jeans. 

“I’m fine,” you smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry about him, he’s always like this.”

The man glances at Joel before returning his gaze to you. “He is your father?”

“Family friend,” you correct him, “I’m visiting with my parents and him. He’s an asshole, but he’s a family friend.”

He smiles. He’s quite handsome, really, if you’re into mullets and moustaches. Being honest with yourself, you’ve only ever found the second one irresistible. For some reason.

“Ah, I see,” the man nods slowly. “And you are taking him on vacation like a pet?”

You snort. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Wow. Good luck,” he extends a hand towards you. “Lukas.”

You take his hand and give him your name. He repeats it back, his accent dragging the vowel sounds.

“Where are you from, Lukas?”

He sinks down on the stool beside you. “Germany. Do you know Hamburg?”

You open your mouth to respond but your eyes drift over to Joel. He’s still at the bar but he’s now facing you, looking as though he’s about to explode. You turn back to Lukas, shaking your hair out of your face and taking another sip.

“I’ve never been before but I’ve heard of it,” you flash him a smile. “What brings you to Amsterdam?”

“My cousin. He lives here since five months ago and I came for a visit.”

“Is he with you tonight?”

Lukas shakes his head. “He was with me. He met a girl.”

“I see,” you lean in slightly closer. “So you’re by yourself?”

“Not anymore.”

Smooth motherfucker. You have to admit you’re mildly impressed: you’ve met plenty of native speakers with far less charisma than Lukas, who is now resting his hand on the back of your stool, maybe an inch from your hip.

“So what’s your plan for-”

“Move.”

Joel is standing over the table, glaring at Lukas with dark, menacing eyes. You notice his hands are empty, his second drink either abandoned or already consumed. You assume the latter.

Lukas doesn’t appear phased in the slightest. “I’m sorry, sir. We are just having a chat.” Direct, unapologetic. Entirely the kind of nonchalance you can tell ingrains itself deep under Joel’s skin.

“M’not askin’ twice,” Joel snarls, a vein on his forehead jumping ferociously.

The younger man seems more confused than affronted. “Have I done something to offend you?”

“Yeah. You’re talkin’ back to me. And you’re way too close to her.”

Lukas pauses for an agonizing moment before sighing. “Okay, man. I don’t want trouble.”

He removes his hand from your stool but leans in briefly, his cheek brushing your own as he whispers your name in your ear and adds. “Enjoy your vacation.” He presses his lips to your cheek before pulling back and winking with a practiced ease.

There’s a terrifying moment when you think Joel is about to swing a fist at Lukas, but it never materialises. His dark eyes don’t even follow Lukas as he saunters away. They’re trained on you.

“Joel, what the hell?” You place your hands on your hips. “I was just-”

“You’ve had your fun,” he grunts, practically vibrating. “Time to leave.”

“But I’ve still got some beer left to dr-”

He snatches your drink and downs it in one, slamming it down with more force than necessary - though you suspect this is him holding back, since the glass remained intact. 

“No, you don’t.”

You stand up and stare him down, making your assessment with pinpoint accuracy. “What’s the matter? You jealous?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” his voice is low, laden with a thousand unspoken threats. “We’re leavin’. Now.”

“I don’t want to-”

“I ain’t askin’. You’re comin’ with me.”

“Joel!”

His hand flies to your upper arm, clutching even tighter than he did in the alley. “Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to drag you outta here. Trust me, sweetheart, you don't want that.”

You know it’s no use fighting him, and a darker part of you is secretly finding this utterly thrilling. So you shuffle back around the table and allow him to march you to the exit, your heart racing.

Joel doesn’t release you when the cool night air hits your face. He doesn’t even let go as he hauls you down the road. He’s striding with purpose and you have to break into a jog just to keep pace. 

“Let go,” you try quietly.

“No,” comes the surly reply.

He tugs you off the main street, down another one of those twisting alleys. This one's even narrower: you could easily touch both walls if you stood in the middle of the path. 

“You’re being a dick.”

“You’re bein’ irresponsible. Shoulda known I couldn’t leave ya by yourself for one goddamn minute.”

“Irresponsible?” You shake your arm from his grip. To your surprise, he relents, stilling and turning to face you. 

“Yeah, sweetheart, irresponsible. You can't go round battin’ your eyelashes at the first boy who looks in your direction.”

“Why not?” You probe. 

“Seriously? You need me to explain why you shouldn't trust strangers in bars when we're spittin’ distance from the Red Light District?”

“Stop with the whole stranger danger thing. You're telling me you've never hit on a woman in a bar?”

That shuts him up for a moment. Your lips curl in victory. 

“Well, well, well, Miller. Sounds like I was right. You are jealous.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“No, I think I'll revel in this for a wh-”

His hand slams over your lips, the other bracing against the cold brick behind you. You stumble back instinctively as he cages you in. 

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Joel enunciates each word slowly, as though they all cause him physical pain to say. 

Adrenaline sears through you, your heart beating so fast you wonder whether it's in danger of fracturing your ribs. The cracks in his self-restraint are clear as day, you just need to pry them open to claim your prize.

You part your lips. Before Joel can react, you swipe your tongue across the center of his palm, tasting the sweat. 

He doesn't pull back. Doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. The complete lack of reaction itself tells you everything you need to know. 

You go in again, the tip of your tongue drawing tiny circles on his skin. This time, his hand moves down over your chin, fingers trailing down your throat, cupping it firmly. 

Joel swallows thickly. “Your dad-”

“-isn’t here right now,” you interrupt.

“Don’t matter,” Joel grunts through gritted teeth. “This ain't right. You're basically a kid.”

“I thought you wanted me to stop acting like a kid,” you murmur.

“Stop talkin’.”

“Make me.”

His fingers tighten in warning. He doesn’t make a move, but a muscle in his jaw ticks. Not giving in yet, but decisively not pulling away. 

You try even harder to break him, this time wrapping your hands around his hips and digging your nails in either side of the small of his back. You scrape them upwards and he curses under his breath.

Joel’s spare hand now finds a home in your hair. His face is so close now you can count the greys in his beard and hear his increasingly labored breaths. 

“Tell me to stop,” Joel gasps hoarsely. “For the love of God, tell me to stop.”

It's only then you register the hand in your hair is trembling. 

“You know I can't do that,” you whisper. 

He drags your mouth to his the split second after you speak.

You've never been struck by lightning, but you imagine the sensation is close to this: your heart hammering at your ribcage and your mind overwhelmed as Joel's lips move urgently against your own. The hand gripping your neck slides down your front, pausing to cup your breast before landing on your thigh, pulling it up to rest at his hip. Your own hands quickly snake around his shoulders as he flicks his tongue into your mouth, licking desperately. 

Joel nips at your bottom lip and, as you whimper, he pulls back slightly, choking out your name between ragged breaths. 

“Fuck,” Joel's voice is gravelly, his lips already swollen from kissing you so passionately. 

You dive back in, your tongue sliding alongside his as his grip on your thigh tightens and he grinds himself against your sparking core.

“We shouldn't be doin’ this here, baby,” Joel warns. “We’re in public.”

The effortless yet desperate way he calls you baby makes you shiver. 

“I don't care,” you respond quietly, latching your lips onto his neck and sucking the hot, salty skin. 

You feel his cock twitch against your stomach as a low growl rumbles from his chest. 

“Fuck,” Joel slurs again, “you're a dirty girl, aren't you? You like the risk of people seein' ya like this?”

You're no stranger to a public makeout and you can't deny it's always added a spicy, thrilling edge to things. But it’s always been an inevitability, an inconvenience of circumstance: having to kiss in the park near your dorm because your roommate is home, or letting your hands wander on a crowded dancefloor. You've just not found anyone who seems as excited about it as you are. Until now.

Joel grabs a fistful of your hair at the root and tugs you back from his neck so he can meet your eyes. “Talk to me. You gettin' all worked up f’me out here, sweetheart?”

"Yeah," you whisper. "Fuck, yes."

He kisses you, hard, and you let out a high-pitched moan. Just as footsteps and a low buzz of conversation pass by the mouth of the alley, his hand slides all the way up your thigh to cup your ass. He doesn't stop there, his fingers splaying out and under, creeping towards your center, just catching the inner seam of your jeans with enough friction to make you shudder. 

“Need you,” Joel growls against your lips, “fuckin' need you, dirty girl.”

You need him just as much. The only question is whether you're going to tell him to fuck you right where you stand. His fingers flex at your seam, threatening to erode your last scrap of common sense. 

You wave that scrap like a white flag. “The hotel is twenty minutes by tram, we should head back and-”

Joel shakes his head. “I ain't riskin’ that.”

He's right. Your parents’ hotel room is sandwiched right between yours and Joel’s. The idea of having to keep quiet - and depriving yourself of whatever sounds he makes - as he fucks you is almost as torturous as the idea of not going to bed with him at all.

“What’s the alternative?”

“Don’t play coy with me now,” he croons, “You know what the alternative is.” 

The tips of his fingers travel up and down the seam of your jeans as he speaks, causing you to whine softly, your hips rocking against his touch. 

“Y’know where filthy girls like you fuck, sweetheart?” Joel breathes, nipping your bottom lip again. 

His hand leaves your seam, retreating back over your hip and sliding down, pressing his palm directly onto your clit while his fingers cup your heat through your jeans. 

“Filthy girls get off anywhere. Especially in the damn street.”

You rut against him desperately, your grip on his shoulders tightening. He smirks, satisfaction making his eyes sparkle even in the dark. 

“Joel,” you whimper. 

“Joel, what?” His voice is dark and sweet as molasses, his hand massaging you through two unbearable layers of material. “What does my dirty girl need, hmm?”

“Touch me,” you choke out. “Joel, touch me.”

“Touch you?” Joel sounds almost disappointed. “Sweetheart, I am touchin’ you. You're gonna need to be more specific.”

You groan, unable to form coherent sentences while grinding against his palm. Your hands leave his shoulders to undo your jeans, but you only manage to pop the top button before Joel grabs both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. 

“Your words, baby, use your words.” 

“Fuck!” You groan in frustration. “Joel, touch me. P-put your hand in my pants and touch me.”

The hand between your legs stills. 

“Didn't you ever get taught manners?” Joel mutters, delivering a sharp slap to your aching pussy over your jeans. You yelp in shock, your exhale shaking as he squeezes. “Again.”

“Joel, please, I n-need your hand in my pants.” Your cunt throbs in agreement. 

A low, bassy chuckle vibrates through his chest and onto your own. Without breaking eye contact, his deft fingers find your zipper and yank it just enough. He slips his hand beneath your waistband and ventures downward. 

“This all f’me?” Joel drawls, thumbing the damp fabric and playing with the mess you've already left on your inner thighs and your curls. “Oh, you're soaked. Poor baby."

Your hands clench into fists, straining against his firm grip on your wrists as he teases you.

“You need me to touch you,” he mumbles. It's not a question. 

“Yes! Fuck, please,” you moan softly, your brow furrowing with the overwhelming arousal pulling at your center. 

Joel finally pushes two fingers between your lips, circling your entrance for an aching second before easing them into you with an unexpected gentleness. Your jaw swings open in ecstasy. 

“There you go,” he murmurs, his eyes black, “there you go, dirty girl, that's what you need, ain’t it?”

It doesn't take long for him to find a debilitating combination of movement and tempo that has your back arching off the brick wall, moans of pleasure rolling up your throat in an almost constant stream. 

“Yeah?” Joel growls, his ministrations making obscene noises as he gradually fucks you harder on his fingers, responding to your body like he’s an expert after only a few minutes. “You like that, don't you? You fuckin’ love ridin’ my hand.”

“Don't stop,” you groan, “please, don't stop!”

You should feel embarrassed, being touched like this by a man decades older than you in a back alley in an unfamiliar city. But the only thing you're remotely embarrassed about is how quickly you're racing towards the finish line. 

The boys you've fooled around with before always go faster or harder when you're approaching your release, unintentionally edging you with their inexperience and inattention. Joel, on the other hand, seems to pick up on your physical state without you saying a word of guidance, maintaining a steady pressure and rhythm. 

“I feel you, baby,” he grunts, “I can feel you gettin’ close. You gonna cum on my fingers, hmm?”

You nod frantically, your breaths ragged. 

“That's it, let me see you fall apart.”

Your entire body tenses and stills, your breath stopping in anticipation. He pumps his fingers once, twice more before you're in freefall, clenching around him over and over. Your loud scream takes you by surprise and you quickly muffle it by pressing your mouth into his shoulder. 

Joel releases your wrists and plants his hand on your jaw, dragging your face away from him until the back of your head grazes the wall. 

“Eyes on me, baby. Don't go hidin’ now.”

You whine as the waves of pleasure continue to crash through you, your eyes locked on Joel's. He's watching you with a burning mixture of satisfaction and reverence. When your hips start twitching and the orgasm fully subsides, Joel slips his fingers out of you and draws them to his mouth, sucking obscenely. He hums around them before releasing them with a wet pop. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

This time, when your breath catches, he smirks openly.

Ah, so it was deliberate. 

You go to pull your jeans up your thighs but Joel catches your forearms in his grasp before you get anywhere. 

“You think you're done?” He growls, shaking his head. “Turn around.”

You're still slightly dazed. “W-what?”

Joel spins you with ease, pinning you against the wall with his body weight. “You're boutta find out just how wrong you are about my lack of stamina.”

Your heart jolts. “I didn’t mean-”

He rolls his hips against your ass and you cut yourself off with a small gasp. If he's anywhere near as big as he feels, you're in trouble. 

“You still want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” Joel pants, one hand practically ripping your underwear as he pulls them down your cheeks, the other flat between your shoulder blades. “You gonna make more pretty noises f’me?” You hear the telltale clink of his belt buckle and the zip of his fly. 

You moan wordlessly. You're not about to admit you've dreamt about fucking him for as long as you've dreamt about fucking in general. That's a confession for a time when he's not grinding his dick against you. 

Joel's palm collides with your ass cheek at speed, making you gasp loudly. 

“Asked you a question, dirty girl.”

“P-please, Joel, please fuck me,” you whisper, turning your head to the side to rest your cheek against the cool rough brick. 

Another slap, this time to the other side. You're half-expecting it so your reaction isn't as dramatic, which seems to throw him off. You feel his fingers drag up from the nape of your neck through your scalp, grasping a fistful of hair tightly. 

“This ain't gonna be gentle,” he mumbles breathily, his thick tip nudging at your folds.

“Don't want gentle,” you reply quickly, adjusting your stance to give him better access. 

Joel’s groan goes straight to your cunt, still wet from his fingers and already twitching again at the anticipation of being filled. He kicks your feet further apart and slips a hand between your bodies to align himself. 

“Arch that back, sweetheart,” Joel whispers. 

You oblige. His dick notches onto your entrance and your heart skips a beat. He eases the tip into you with one hand anchored to your hip and your breath stops: you were right, he's thick. Much thicker than any boy you've had in your (admittedly limited) experience. 

“Relax,” Joel's voice rumbles against your ear. “Breathe for me, baby. Lemme in.”

You regain the use of your lungs, sucking in deep breaths as Joel inches into you, stretching you over his cock. When he's halfway seated, he pulls back and thrusts in just a little further. Air hisses out through your teeth. 

“That’s it,” Joel grunts, “don’t hurt yours-”

You push your ass back with a whimper and a searing burn, taking the rest of him in one movement. You're rewarded with a downright sinful groan tearing from his throat that almost sounds like your name. His fingers contract at your scalp and hip. 

“Fuck, baby,” he doesn't give you time to adjust before almost pulling out fully and slamming back in, hard. “So.” thrust “Fuckin'.” thrust “Tight.”

The burning sensation quickly subsides, yielding to devastating pleasure as Joel fucks into you slowly but powerfully. Your arms are braced on the wall, high-pitched moans tumbling from your lips, fingers scrabbling at the brick for purchase.

He tugs your hair. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could turn him down. You twist your head as far round as it will go, locking eyes with Joel over your shoulder. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You look good like this, dirty girl.”

You whine happily, as if he needed any more evidence of your thing for being praised. “Yeah?” You pant, “you feel good like this, you feel s-so fucking good.”

A smirk - or is it one of those rare smiles? - spreads over his face. His eyes glint dangerously. 

“I’m just warmin’ up, baby. Hold onto the wall.”

Before you can even instruct your fingers to dig into the brick, Joel's hips start moving twice as fast as before, but just as powerfully. Your scream of surprise is muffled as the hand in your hair moves to clamp over your mouth. You moan into his fingers desperately, his dick rubbing up against that spot that turns your legs to jelly. 

“Take it,” he growls, “fuckin’ take it.”

Joel releases your hip to rub your clit in maddening circles. Your thighs quake and that salacious heat at your core builds higher and higher, your pussy fluttering around his cock. 

You try to warn him but your desperate words are stifled by his fingers. Not that he needs a warning: you hear him groan as you convulse, the slapping of skin against skin echoing through the alley. 

“Gonna give me one more, dirty girl?” Joel pants, “you gonna cum on my dick?”

You're reduced to nodding eagerly again as the tension between your legs winds tighter and tighter, pulling every muscle to its absolute limit. You feel Joel's hips begin to stutter against you and you can tell he's not far behind. 

Between his deft fingers and his relentless cock, you never stood a chance. You tumble over the edge for a second time, keening into his hand. Behind you, you hear Joel roar his approval. 

“That's it, baby, that's it. Keep those pretty eyes on me. Ride it out.” His voice is strained with the concentration of holding back his own release. He fucks you through your orgasm, making weak grunts that morph into fucking whimpers as his grip on you tightens. You watch the sweat bead on his forehead, droplets trickling down his nose. His mouth hangs open, his lip tensed in such a way that you can see his bottom row of teeth.

“Gonna paint that ass, sweetheart,” he grits out, “gonna paint this perfect ass.”

Joel punctuates his feral promise with another slap to your cheek, digging his fingers into the flesh. You try to formulate a way to tell him no, it’s okay, you have an IUD, stay right where you are, but before you can arrange those thoughts into a coherent sentence, he rips himself out of you. He spills onto your ass, a low groan shredding his throat as he collapses forwards.

The two of you don't move a muscle for a minute while you catch your breath: his forehead resting on your shoulder, his release cooling on your ass cheeks. You wonder who's going to break the silence first. 

Much to your surprise, Joel beats you to it. “You're a fuckin’ bad influence.”

You roll your eyes. “Takes one to know one, Miller.”

He scoffs. That's about as close as you get to making him laugh, so you'll take it. 

Joel tucks himself into his jeans and takes one last look at your ass covered in his release before helping you cover back up. He doesn't clean your cheeks, just tugs your underwear up and lets his cum soak into the fabric - normally, you'd feel uneasy about that, but the sticky sensation is a badge of honor in this particular case. You turn to face him and he cups your jaw in what could have been a tender gesture, if he didn't press his thumb into your mouth to let you taste the drop of cum he swiped from your ass.

“I take back what I said about stamina,” you murmur around his thumb. “That was unreal.”

For what must only be the fourth or fifth time in your whole life, you see Joel Miller's full grin, impish and formidable all at once. 

“Was? Sweetheart, you cannot possibly think I'm done with you tonight."