Work Text:
"Gooood morning, Austin," the radio host says in a cheerful tone. "Temperatures continue to rise today with this new heat wave comin' in, well…hot!"
Joel reaches for the knob since his truck's engine rumbles loud enough to muffle the host's other news and newest raffle prize, and turns it up a notch. Mainly just for the sound of someone speaking.
"Who knows? Today may be your lucky day, fellow listener. If you don't take your chance…you might just miss it!"
Chances are too fleeting for Joel to care for them. A guarantee, like the job he's on his way to, is something he can bet his money on. And has, by the kitchen parts and tile replacements ready in the truck bed. Tha is what he's most focused on.
But the host continues, and Joel listens, looking out at the neighborhood he's only been to once before. Weeks ago when he came to revise, measure, and give his quote.
Every house is distinctly built, surely individually designed, and painted in different colors. And they all have their own charm that helps them stand out among the tall, luscious trees on their front yards. Unlike the other neighborhoods he's worked in, people here are willing to wait a little longer for jobs to be completed, and are inclined to give a higher pay, too. All for the sake of preserving their affluent environment.
He'd be lying if the prospect of getting recommended, and working more jobs around this parts, wouldn't be of great benefit to his and his brother's rocky business. Perhaps that is a chance he's willing to place his hopes on.
He spots the grand house and starts to slow down. Then, he pulls into the drive way to park right beside the car left there. Just as his employer, Mr. Harris, had asked him to do over the phone.
Just as Joel pull his keys from the ignition, the man's booming voice comes in from the front door. Walking outside, holding his wife's hand.
"Joel Miller," he calls, chuckling deeply like greeting an old friend. "You came just in time."
Joel hops out of his car with his polite smile already put on, and shakes their hands. All firm and professional. "Just like we agreed on over the phone," he says
"Yeah, yeah. Listen, my wife and I are headin' over to brunch with some ol' friends. Mind if you close up behind you when you leave? My kid sure won't."
"Uhh…" Joel's never liked the pressure of closing up, especially in a neighborhood like this one.
"The plans came up so last minute," Mrs. Harris says, hoping to convince him, but clearly only in a rush to get on their way as soon as possible.
"Sure," Joel says, in a very unsure tone, "it's just that—"
"Thanks, Miller. Won't be like this everyday, promise," he cuts him of before he can finish his thought, putting the house keys in his hand. And without a care, the couple walks back to their car.
""Kay…but yer kid…?"
"Upstairs, probably won't even see 'er," he nonchalantly says over his shoulder.
You watch from your bedroom window as your parents drive away, and leave Joel dumbfounded in the drive way. Paying close attention to how his shoulders hunch and his chest starts to rise rapidly. Almost like he's more angry than disappointed. Which you find intriguing because…he seemed like such a polite old man when you eavesdropped the calls he made on the fixed line.
And, no less importantly, you're also interested on the sculpture-like angles of his face and body. Especially those shoulders struggling to be confined in that awfully tight flannel he's got on.
You think about how much better it'd be if he would just take it off.
"Hello," Joel grunts as he slams the front door shut. No longer worried about the pleasantries since he's practically alone, safe for the kid who must be busy playing upstairs. And not waiting for anybody to answer either.
So, he heads to the kitchen right away, knowing exactly what needs fixing before he can start replacing the floor and tiles—which he'll do with Tommy when the time comes—and starts working on what he can do on his own. As of now, that consists of fixing any leaky plumbing and replacing the old parts he'd brought with him.
Even though he has high hopes for the job, it's a pretty simple one, after all. It's the kind of job he started doing when his contracting business opened up, so it's almost mindless to him.
So routinary in fact, that he never heard the sound of your footsteps when you came down the steps. Or when you walked into the kitchen.
"Hello, Mr. Miller," you chirp. Startling him, and making him hit his head on the sink.
"Fuck!"
You giggle, biting your lip to not fully laugh. "'M sorry, did I scare you?"
He turns his head to the side and finds your dainty toes on the cold floor, wiggling toes with perfectly painted nails greeting him. And as his gaze slowly rakes up your body, his pain shiver turns into a more heated crawling down his spine.
You calmly shift you weight from one foot to the other, showing off your pretty legs in those tiny lounge shorts you're wearing, and watching as his lips part the further up his eyes travel. Taking into account your figure, and the low cut top you've got on.
"Hi, Mr. Miller," you giggle again, making him finally meet your eyes, and see the devilish grin you've got plastered on your face. "Nice to meet you."
It had been hell ever since that first day.
For him, at least. Because you seemed to enjoy it.
Like when you spent all day sitting on the stool, watching him work, and biting your lip. Saying, "you're just so sexy," in that sickly sweet tone of yours when he asked what the hell you even wanted.
OR when he pulled his shirt up to wipe his sweat off, leaving his belly in full display. He didn't know you were around until he heard your loud "MROOW!" like a cat, followed by your signature laugh. Which only made it worse because you sound so innocent, so lovely. And yet, he knows you're anything but.
But the worst of all, is when he'd put all of his tools in their box, and find your daily notes. The ones that always ended up plaguing his mind until the next one arrived. Where you said things like:
'I couldn't stop looking at your lips today. They look so pretty and soft.'
'I really like listening to your voice. I bet you can sing really well.'
'I think I wanna marry you, Mr. Miller.'
'Mr. Miller, I'll be really quiet if you want me to be. Sneak into my bedroom, please.'
They were always decorated with glittery pens and stickers, with the colors you thought he'd like best, and always prettier than the last.
But he promised. No, he fucking vowed not to touch the girl right upstairs, in the second bedroom to the right. Because he knew you surely just enjoyed the thrill of flirting with an old and gray man who hasn't had any excitement in the last thirty years. And if he were to fall for your trap, you'd laugh in his face and get him fired.
He didn't even last a full week.
You were just too pretty, too kind, too perfect for him to resist. And when he broke his vow of rectitude, he started to wonder if a life without sin was a life worth living, after all. Surely not, with how you grip him so perfectly when he bends you over the freshly polished kitchen island. Or with how your clit jumps into his mouth as soon as he hovers a centimeter above it, like it knows just where home is. Those, he's settled, are needs.
It's a Saturday morning when he comes in for the last time.
He's got his toolbox in hand as he knocks on the door. With no replacements or tiles, only a few pieces of sanding paper inside to complete the final touches.
And, in reality, he's only thinking about where you'll want to do it at next. Will it be your bedroom again? Maybe your father's study, where you ruined the velour couch. Or perhaps in the garage, where he ate you out on top of your mother's vintage Mercedes.
You open the door for him, in a dress he hasn't had the pleasure of taking off of you just yet, and greet him with a soft smile. "Hi, Mr. Miller."
"Hi, miss," he says with his rugged gri. Walking in like he owns the place, with his hand on your waist as he pulls you in closer.
You're a giggly mess as press yourself to his chest, already getting on your tippy toes for when he finally kisses you.
"How do you know we're alone?" you tease with an impish smile.
"Stop that," he chuckles and boops the tip of your nose. "Made sure my brother won't come just to be with you, sweet girl," he says as he leans in to hover over your lips. "Don't want any interruptions."
And he gets just what he wanted.
You, spread out on the living room carpet, completely bare for him to relish in the warmth of your skin against his.
He drives into you as he so expertly does, feeling you accommodate to his shape and hug him tightly, just before he begins to snap his hips to yours until all you can hear is that, and your moans.
"Joel—" you gasp when he finds a new angle, making your breath come in, in quick pants. "Right there, Joel!"
He's everywhere. Grunting in your ear, his chest hair rubbing against your nipples, and his hips snapping to yours with some loud claps. It's almost too much.
"F-fuck, Joel. I—ah—I can't. Please, I can't," you whimper beneath him. "Baby, please."
When he hears your broken voice, his hips immediately still, and his soft eyes gaze down to yours with something that looks almost like guilt, swimming in them. "Hey, hey," he pants and cups your cheeks. "You alright? Did I hurt ya', baby girl?"
"Mm-mm," you shake your head. "I…I got a little overwhelmed, I think. You were going so hard and fast."
He twitches inside you at the sound of it, but knows he went too far. He's just to eager to please you, to show you he could be so good for you if you only gave him a chance. And another one after that.
"I know," he says, and lowers his forehead to meet yours. "I know—fuck—'m sorry."
"It's okay," you say softly, and give a quick peck to his lips. Featherlight. "I was really excited, too. But…I like when we cum together…when you go all slow and…yeah. That feels really good."
Joel chuckles as you blush at your own words, "Yeah, I like that, too. Hm…how 'bout we switch?"
Before you can ask him what he means, he gently switches your positions, to have you on top. And then he sits up with you, with his hands on your hips so that he never slips out.
You feel a little nervous sitting on Joel's lap since he's never asked you to be on top before, and you don't have much experience with previous partners, but you're willing to give it a try if its what he likes.
"Like this?" you say, sheepishly grinding your hips back and forth to rub yourself on his thick thatch of hair.
"No, baby. Like this," he says, gripping your hips and lifting you up, only to slam you back down.
"Oh!" you yelp, feeling your cunt clench, just before he does it again. "Oh," you moan this time.
"Yeaaah…" he says, slowly lifting you off, and then pulling you back down when you start to whine and wiggle. "Just. Like. That."
You can only hold onto his shoulders as he easily bounces you up and down his cock, as if you weigh no more than a tiny screw. Head tilted back to sing open mouthed moans to the ceiling, all incoherent and mumbled.
"Cum—Feel—Nghh—I wanna—Joel, I gotta—"
He watches, completely mesmerized by the sweat dripping down your temples, and the way your eyes roll back every time he hits your sweet spot just right. With his lip tucked in between his teeth, he tries as hard as he can to stay quiet, to only listen to you, but the velvety feel of you makes him whimper and groan like he's in heat. Gripping you so tight that it'll surely bruise, he makes sure you come apart with his name in your mouth.
The warm fuzzy feeling runs from your core down to the tips of your toes, making your whole body tense up as the current continues to pulse. Then, when it's passed, you slump forward into his heaving chest, panting like it'd been you who had done all the work.
He continues to rut into you. Now with his arms around your waist, he groans into your ear as he chases his own climax.
You give his neck soft kisses of encouragement, holding back your overstimulated whimpers, until he finally jerks his hips up one last time as he brokenly says your name.
"That was so good," you giggle breathlessly, looking up to meet his beautiful tired eyes.
"Yeah," he pants back with a subtle tug at the corner of his lips.
"When can we do it again? Not here anymore, obviously. But…maybe your place?"
The simple question makes his breath hitch, because he thought this would be your goodbye, the last time he ever got to touch you and see you at your most vulnerable state. He never allowed himself to believe that, past your exciting escapades, you'd seek his company again.
But noticing the glimmer in your eyes, the innocent hope in them of continuing this immoral 'romance' you two have, he begins to think that maybe—just maybe—he was finally getting lucky.