The trouble started when he showed up in that damn denim jacket. You were sure of it.

Dust on his boots, sun in his eyes, and a quiet sort of drawl that made every word feel heavier than it had any right to. You hadn’t seen Joel Miller in years—not since you were a teenager and he used to ruffle your hair and call you “kid.” But that’s not what he calls you now.

Not when it’s past midnight and you’re pressed up against the kitchen counter, breathing in the scent of cedarwood and sweat as his calloused hand slides up the back of your neck.

No—now he murmurs your name like it’s a secret. Soft. Dark. Like a warning.

It started with glances. You thought maybe you were imagining it—that flicker of something when your fingertips brushed as he passed you the wrench. The way his gaze lingered too long when you came down to breakfast in your little sleep shorts, pretending not to notice the way his jaw flexed.

Then it was touches. Subtle. Intentional. His hand at your waist to move you aside in the barn. The press of his palm against the small of your back when no one was looking. Sometimes, they were accidents—at least, that’s what he’d say.

But they weren’t. And neither were the nights.

Nights where he finds you in the hayloft, or you find him on the porch after a long day, quiet and hurting and needing. Nights where he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s trying to erase the guilt with the way his mouth fits against your skin.

In the daylight, he’s just Joel—your dad’s oldest friend. Grumbling about fences and oil changes, drinking sweet tea like he’s not got your panties in his pocket from the night before. He plays the part real well. So do you.

You knew it was a bad idea—a selfishly, foolish decision to rile him up, push his buttons especially when he was working so hard.

*You’d purposefully made it a long day.

Not the kind that wore him out—but the kind that made him watch you all damn afternoon, simmering in silence as you tested him, teased him, pushed every boundary he never said you could.

Tight shorts. Mouthy tone. That little huff you gave when he told you to be careful around the horses. The way you rolled your eyes and walked off when he called your name. You were practically begging.

And now, here you were—draped over his knee in the quiet of the barn, the sky outside dipped in gold, your hair falling like ribbons down your back. Your panties were around your thighs, shorts following suit, and Joel, Joel was warm against your stomach, strong arm wrapped around your middle to hold you steady.

“You wanna act like a brat all day, baby?” he muttered, voice low and steady. “You can take what comes with it.”

He ran a hand over your ass—big, slow, deliberate. Almost like a warning. Like he was letting you feel the size of it before he used it. The first smack landed with a crack, sharp and mean—but the pain was sweet, blooming warm beneath your skin.

“Count em.”