Page 13

Joely

There’s something about the dead of night—the way the cold presses up against your windows, making the world feel smaller, quieter, like every secret and longing has nowhere to hide. Maybe that’s why, when the lights in Joely Parnell’s little house burn bright long after midnight, folks in town turn down their TVs and wonder if hope might finally be thawing out an old ache. Around here, everyone roots for their own, even if we pretend not to notice the way two people finally find each other. Maybe that’s just what happens in my houses—sooner or later, the truth gets warm enough to come inside.

Playlist: Like Real People Do by Hozier

Brogan closes the distance between us, slow and careful, like he’s giving me time to stop him.

I’m not going to.

When his hand brushes against mine, my breath catches. When his fingers slide along my jaw, everything else fades. The hum of the old space heater, the ticking clock, the buzz in my head—it all quiets until there’s just the thud of my pulse and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“You sure?” he whispers, close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath against my lips.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And then he kisses me.

It’s not some slow-motion movie scene. It’s a rush—his hands tangled in my hair, my back hitting the door, breath mingling with his as he presses me closer. My dress is caught between us. The world tilts and narrows, all nerves and anticipation. His lips are warm, insistent—hungry like he’s been waiting years for this. My body lights up, every inch of me keyed to him, and I melt into the kiss, heart pounding, skin tingling everywhere he touches.

It’s messy and a little wild, nothing careful about it. There’s a laugh caught in my throat, his fingers skimming the bare skin inside my unzipped dress, and then I’m not thinking about anything but how much I want more.

God, I want to stay right here, tangled up with him, his mouth on mine, the storm outside, for once, not half as loud as what’s happening between us.

By the time we make it to my bedroom, I don’t even remember how we got there. One minute, I’m pressed up against Brogan’s chest, my fingers tangled in the collar of his stupidly perfect dress shirt, and the next, I’m breathless sitting on the edge of my bed, watching him like he might disappear if I blink too hard.

I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had flings. But this is Brogan. My Brogan. The guy I’ve known since we were in braces. The guy who once tackled three boys in middle school for calling me four-eyes. The guy who has no idea he’s been orbiting the center of my heart for longer than I care to admit.

And he’s looking at me like I’m made of fire.

“You’re staring again,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath as I kick off my heels. My knees are still a little shaky, and I brace my hands behind me to stay upright.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, matter-of-factly, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “Like… stupid beautiful. Like why the fuck haven’t I been worshiping you for years beautiful.”

I bark out a laugh, surprised by the raw edge in it. “You’ve seen me hungover with eyeliner smudged halfway to my collarbone and coffee breath that could kill a plant.”

“Yup.” He steps between my knees, cupping the side of my face with his warm, calloused palm. “And even then, I thought you were the best thing in the room.”

My heart stutters.

Because what the hell do I even say to that?

So I don’t say anything. I just lean into his touch, let my lips brush the inside of his wrist where his pulse is going wild, and hope it says everything I can’t.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now.

I nod. “Yeah. I just… I’ve wanted this for so long, Brogan.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, thumb stroking my cheek. “Yeah, well, I guess I just thought you’d always be there, JoJo. Like an idiot, I kept skating right past what mattered. I should’ve staked my claim a long time ago. When Shep came on to you tonight, I wanted to throat punch my best friend. I’m sorry it took me this damn long to get my head on straight.”

Brogan sinks down onto the bed beside me. His forehead drops to mine, and it’s all there—regret, hope, all that bottled-up longing finally spilling loose between us.

That hits somewhere deep. Somewhere soft and sore.

Because I never thought I’d get this. I always figured he’d end up with someone shiny and effortless, like half the girls who scream his name at the arena. Not the girl with a toolbox in her trunk and permanent dry skin from slinging beer and handling fryer baskets.

“You’re not gonna wake up tomorrow and regret this, right?” I ask, my voice barely holding it together.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, then the edge of my jaw. “The only thing I’m gonna regret is not doing it sooner.”

And then his lips find mine again—hungrier this time. Less careful. Like we’ve both realized this moment’s real and neither of us is turning back. He kisses me like he’s starved for it, like he’s been holding back for years and all that restraint snaps. His mouth is hot, urgent, tongue sliding along my lower lip, asking and then demanding entry. I let him in, a gasp catching in my throat as his hands tighten at my waist, pulling me flush against him.

There’s nothing tentative about it now—he tastes me like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s afraid if he lets up for even a second I might slip away. His fingers tangle in my hair, and I answer him kiss for kiss, every part of me catching fire in his hands. There’s laughter in the back of my mind—how did we wait this long?—but mostly there’s just Brogan. Finally here. Finally mine.

His fingers brush the fabric of my dress, and I freeze—not because I don’t want it but because it’s him. This is the moment everything changes.

“Joely,” he breathes, mouth against my cheek, “tell me to stop if this isn’t what you want.”

“It is,” I whisper, threading my fingers into his hair. “God, it is.”

When Brogan pulls it down, slow and reverent, my whole body answers. The moment the dress slips from my shoulders, I swear the silence shifts.

Not the awkward kind. Not the kind that stretches like tension before a storm. No—this one’s thick, heavy, charged like the moment before puck drop when you’re not sure if you’ll score or get slammed into the boards.

I let the fabric fall then I scooch so I can get it all the way off. It pools at my feet, a whisper of black sequins on worn hardwood, and with my heart fluttering in my throat, I’m in front of Brogan wearing nothing but lingerie I had no right buying. Black lace. Matching bra and panties. Stockings. Garters. The whole damn setup like some part of me always hoped this might happen. Like maybe I’ve always been holding my breath, waiting for him to finally see me.

He’s seeing me now.

His lips part, but nothing comes out. His eyes rake over me, slow and stunned, like I’ve knocked the wind clean out of him.

And it’s intoxicating.

Also? Utterly terrifying.

I cross my arms, aware of every inch of skin. “Say something, Brogan.”

“I’m trying to remember how to breathe,” he says, voice rough as gravel.

That earns him a half-smile. “Well, try harder. I’m not calling 9-1-1 while I’m in stockings.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a grin. Just leans forward and cups my cheek with the gentlest hand, like I’m made of something fragile and precious.

“You’ve always been gorgeous, JoJo. But right now?” He shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “You’re… dangerous.”

My breath catches. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip, and I feel it everywhere. “Because you make me want things I don’t even know how to ask for yet.”

God, that does me in.

I’m not used to being wanted like this. I’m not used to him looking at me like this.

“You sure this isn’t just about the stockings?” I tease, trying to cut through the intensity before it swallows me whole.

“Positive.” He presses his mouth to the edge of my jaw. “The stockings are hot, but they don’t make me think about forever.”

My chest squeezes. My breath hitches.

Because forever is what I’ve been dreaming about—quietly, secretly, for years. And now it’s in the room with us. Between us. On the tip of his tongue and the edge of my heart.

He reaches for me like he means it. Like this isn’t just about sex—it’s about everything. And when our mouths meet again, there’s no more teasing. No more laughing. Just hands. Heat. Honesty.

And the ache of wanting something real. Something that might finally be ours.

I’ve had sex before. I’ve had hookups, mistakes, and one long-term relationship that almost that fizzled out before it ever really caught fire. But this? This is different. This is Brogan.

He touches me like he knows what he’s doing—and more than that, like he cares what it means.

There’s no rush. No frantic tugging or rough, distracted kisses. Just slow, reverent hands. His fingers trace the lace on my thighs like it might burn him. Like he’s never seen anything so delicate. Like I’m the delicate thing.

And I can’t stand how much I love it.

He presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then tugs gently at my hips, coaxing me to lie back into the pillows. I melt for him, easing down until I’m propped against the headboard, heart pounding in my chest. Brogan follows, stretching out beside me, one arm slipping under my shoulders, the other hand wandering slow and hungry over my waist.

“Joely,” he whispers, his breath warm against my neck as he peels my bra straps from my shoulders, the cups still clinging over my breasts. “You good?”

I nod, too breathless to speak.

But that’s not enough for him. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m good,” I murmur, then clearer, steadier. “I want this. I want you.”

His eyes flash with something fierce and beautiful—like I just gave him the winning goal in overtime. My heart hammers against my ribs. The way he looks at me, like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar, every inch—it undoes me.

“You’ve been in my head for years, you know that?” he says, fingertips gliding across my stomach.

“No, I didn’t.”

He leans in, his mouth brushing against the edge of my bra, his voice low. “Didn’t want to screw it up. You’ve always meant too much. I always knew you were better than me. That you deserved more.”

My throat tightens. “And now?”

He kisses his way up to my collarbone. “Now, I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

I curl my fingers into his hair and pull him back to my mouth. There’s no more hesitation in me. Not tonight. Not with him.

Brogan’s hands pause at my hips, thumbs tracing the edge of my garter straps as if memorizing every inch. “Jesus, JoJo,” he whispers, voice rough. “You wore all this for me?”

I nod, breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride. He grins—crooked, reverent—and then kneels on the bed, his palms gliding down my thighs, following the lines of the black stockings. He finds the clasp, working it with fingers that tremble just a little. When the first stocking peels down, he chases it with his mouth, lips grazing my newly bare skin, trailing heat from my knee to my ankle. He takes his time with the other leg—slower, pressing kisses along my skin, making me laugh, then moan, then laugh again.

When both stockings are gone, he sits back to look at me, hunger and awe tangled in his eyes. “You’re gonna wreck me, Joely.”

I want to be bold, but my voice comes out shaky. “Maybe I want to.”

Brogan’s smile turns feral. His hands roam up my thighs, sliding over the silk of my garters to the barely-there black thong, thumbs curling under the waistband, pausing—giving me a chance to stop him. I lift my hips in answer. He slides the thong down, slow as a tease, baring me inch by inch. Every time he exposes a new patch of skin, he presses his mouth there, as if worshiping every part he uncovers.

He leans in, kisses the soft skin at my hip, then the curve of my belly, the place just below my navel. “Been dreaming about this,” he murmurs, voice gone ragged. “Fuck, JoJo—I’ve been thinking about getting you naked for years. Since high school. Used to lie in bed and jerk off to the idea of you in nothing but thigh-highs and a smart-ass grin. Never thought I’d actually get to touch you like this. Never thought I’d get to taste you.”

He glances up, eyes dark and hungry, fingers spreading my thighs wider. “Tell me you want it,” he breathes. “Tell me you want me to ruin you just a little.”

I meet his eyes. “Do it, Foster. Been waiting for you to wreck me since you learned how to drive.”

When he finally reaches for my bra, it’s with hands gentler than I’ve ever known. I reach behind me, unclasping it, letting the straps slide down so he can pull it off. He pulls down the cups, freeing me, and for a moment he just stares—totally undone.

He undresses me like he’s unwrapping something breakable—but once I’m bare, there’s a change in the air. Like we both feel it. This isn’t casual. It never was.

“You’re perfect,” he says, rough, like he doesn’t have the words for what he’s feeling. He bends his head, mouth finding my breast, tongue swirling soft and then hungry around my nipple. He doesn’t rush, like he’s determined to burn this into memory. “JoJo, you know I’ve been obsessed with your tits since high school, right? You think you’ve been hiding them, but you haven’t fooled me for a second.”

I arch for him, fingers in his hair, the world shrinking to the heat of his mouth, the scratch of his stubble, the sound of both of us breathing hard and close and hungry. He worships me with his hands, his lips, every part of him saying what words never could. He’s careful, but he’s greedy, too—kissing, sucking, biting just enough to make me gasp, make me remember that this is Brogan, my best friend, the only person who’s ever really seen me.

When he finally rises up to kiss me again, my body is bare and burning, and his eyes are so full of want and wonder I feel almost invincible.

“Jesus, JoJo. I… fuck, I don’t…” His fingers skim the outside of my thighs, up to my hips, hovering like he’s afraid I might vanish. “Never—never thought… you—God, you’re beautiful. All of you.”

I can’t help it—I reach for his jaw, guiding him closer, needing his mouth on me, needing to feel him see me.

He’s still talking, voice barely a whisper, almost frantic. “You’re shaking,” he says, like he can’t believe it’s not just him. “Are you… okay? Is this—”

I nod, breathless. “I want you. Please.”

That’s all it takes. His hands spread my thighs apart, eyes going glassy with hunger. “Fuck. Joely.” His breath is hot against my pussy, and for a second he just stares, like he’s imprinting this memory into the back of his mind. Then he grins, voice low and unsteady. “You have no idea what you do to me. I’ve thought about this a million times—how wet you’d be for me. How good you’d taste. I could look at you like this forever.”

His hands are gentle, reverent as he strokes my hips, thumbs brushing just above where I need him most. Brogan groans, and then his mouth is on me, open-mouthed kisses pressed to the soft skin of my inner thigh, then higher, tongue flicking out to taste, slow and tentative at first, like he’s savoring every reaction.

“Jesus, JoJo, you taste so fucking good.” His voice is wrecked, almost broken with need. “Been thinking about this… but it’s better. You’re better.”

His tongue moves slow at first, then hungry, growing bolder with every gasp and moan he pulls from me, like he’s learning me by heart. He murmurs things against my skin—nonsense, fragments—“So good. So pretty. Can’t believe this is real. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His hands never stop moving, holding me open, worshipping every inch of me.

I can’t process the reality of Brogan—his broad shoulders wedged between my thighs, his hair in my fists, his tongue drawing slow, lazy circles over the most sensitive part of me like he’s got nowhere else to be. It’s patient at first, coaxing, teasing—every flick and swirl making my body arch off the mattress, my breath going sharp and needy.

The world narrows to his mouth and the wet heat of his tongue, the scruff of his jaw scraping my inner thigh, the pressure of his hands holding me open like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go. I’m hypersensitive, every nerve ending lit up and singing for him. I’m trembling, on the edge—more from the way he’s watching me than even what he’s doing with his tongue. Like I’m the most precious, obscene thing he’s ever seen. Every moan feels like a confession. Every gasp is a promise. It’s too much and not enough and exactly what I’ve wanted for years, all at once.

And when I feel the pleasure build—when my thighs are shaking and my hands are buried in his hair—he just looks up, pupils blown wide, mouth wet, and says, “That’s it, JoJo. Let go. Want to feel you come for me. Need it. Need you.”

And when it happens, when I finally let go, his name spills from my lips. Brogan continues to lick me, never letting up, like he’s determined to wring every last bit of pleasure out of this moment, out of me.

When he finally looks up, his grin is crooked and almost shy, lips slick with proof of what he’s done. “Jesus, JoJo… you just soaked my face,” he rasps, voice thick with awe and a cocky pride he can’t hide. “I don’t think I’m ever going to recover from that.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still watching me like he’s half-drunk on the taste of me.

When I finally catch my breath, I tug Brogan closer by the lapels of his tux jacket, his grin dizzy and boyish, still a little dazed. “Off. Now,” I whisper, already slipping my fingers under the smooth fabric. He shrugs out of the jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and I waste no time with his tie—sliding the knot loose, letting it fall away, then working my way down the row of buttons on his crisp white shirt.

Each one gives me another glimpse of him: the muscles I’ve dreamed about, the line of his collarbone, the dusting of hair on his chest. By the time his shirt joins the pile, I have to pause, hands splayed over his warm skin, taking him in—flushed, rough around the edges, absolutely beautiful. All man. All Brogan. All mine.

His breath hitches as I skim my hands down to his belt. “JoJo—what are you—” He can barely get the words out.

I see something flicker in his eyes—like he’s not sure he deserves this, deserves me—but I shut him up with a kiss, slow and sure, because tonight, he does.

“Let me,” I whisper. “Please. I want to see you.”

He swallows hard, letting me work his dress pants open, pushing them and his briefs down in one go. He’s already hard, and the look on his face somewhere between wild pride and utter disbelief almost undoes me. I wrap my hand around him, slow, savoring the weight and heat, loving the way he shudders at my touch.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You—don’t have to…”

I want to laugh. “Brogan, I’ve wanted this forever. Let me have you.”

Before he can argue, I press on his chest, gently urging him back onto the pillows. He goes easily, his eyes locked on mine, breath coming faster now. I kneel beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight, and lean over, my hair brushing his stomach. My hand wraps around his cock, stroking him slow, teasing, drinking in every hitch of his breath.

He props himself up on his elbows, his gaze hungry and reverent all at once. When I lower my mouth, licking a slow stripe up his length, his hips jerk and a broken sound escapes him—a raw, needy groan I’ve only ever dreamed of.

“Damn…” he manages, his voice thick and ragged, “You have no idea…”

I smile, lips slick and wicked, then take him deeper, savoring the taste, the weight, the way his fingers clutch the sheets and his head tips back in pure, desperate pleasure. The power rushes through me, sweet and heady—I get to do this. I get to have him like this, finally, no barriers, no secrets.

Then I lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, teasing him just the way I’ve imagined a thousand times.

His head tips back, a broken sound escaping his throat. “Shit—JoJo, I’m not—gonna last—”

I just hum, tongue swirling around the head, tasting him, savoring the way his thighs tremble under my palms. I take him deeper, just a little, just enough for him to gasp my name and thread his fingers through my hair, gentle but desperate.

He’s shaking, breath coming in ragged bursts. “Baby, please—I need—inside. I need you.”

I give him one last, slow lick, then rise, licking my lips just to see his eyes go dark. “You can have me,” I whisper, and he doesn’t need to be told twice.

He’s still trembling, trying to catch his breath, when I reach into my top dresser drawer and pull out a single, slightly crumpled condom packet. Brogan blinks at it, then at me, eyebrows rising.

“You—uh—always keep one handy?” he asks, voice shaky, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.

Heat flares in my cheeks. “Honestly? I bought it forever ago. Just… you know, for when this finally happened. Not that I thought it actually would, but…” I can’t help the nervous laugh that bubbles up. “I guess I’ve been saving it for you.”

His face softens in a way that makes my whole body ache. “JoJo,” he says, voice thick, “I can’t believe… Shit. You’re gonna kill me.”

I press the condom into his hand, fingers brushing his, my gaze locked on his. “Don’t make me wait any longer, Brogan. Please.”

He grins—crooked, reverent, a little wrecked. “Not a chance.”

He tears open the condom with shaking hands, rolling it on his hard cock while his eyes stay locked on mine, wild and searching. After we lay back down on the bed, he just hovers over me, his body braced on one trembling arm, the other hand tracing my jaw, my collarbone, like he can’t quite believe he gets to touch me this way.

“Joely Parnell,” he breathes, “if this isn’t real, don’t wake me up.”

I hook my legs around his hips, pulling him closer, desperate. “It’s real. I want you. Please, Brogan.”

He leans down, kisses me—deep, slow, tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my whole body arch. And then, instead of rushing, he shifts lower, his hand slipping between us, fingers searching, finding me already slick and aching.

He strokes me—soft, lazy circles over my clit, then firmer, learning exactly what makes me gasp, what makes my thighs tremble. His forehead presses to mine, both of us breathless, laughing a little at the intensity.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice broken. “So fucking wet, JoJo. Is this… all for me?”

“All for you,” I promise, hips rolling into his hand.

He keeps working me, not letting up, watching every reaction, making sure I’m right on the edge. Only when I’m desperate, shaking, practically begging, does he line himself up and start to push in—slow at first, making sure I feel every inch.

The stretch is perfect, so much, almost too much, but he cups my face, kissing me through it, whispering nonsense and my name until he’s buried all the way inside.

He doesn’t move, not at first—just breathes with me, thumb still circling my clit, waiting for my body to adjust, waiting for my eyes to meet his.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“God, yes. Brogan—move. Please.”

The stretch of him, the way he fills me, is overwhelming in the best way. For a second, all I can do is feel every inch of him, every slow heartbeat, the wild, perfect pressure of him deep inside. There’s a flash of disbelief, but this is real, this is Brogan, my Brogan, finally, after all the wanting and wishing and years of hiding in plain sight.

Physically, it’s so good I swear I might shatter, his cock thick and hot, every slow thrust grinding perfectly against that sweet spot, his thumb still working my clit like he wants nothing more than to see me fall apart. Emotionally, I’m wrecked, open, raw. My heart throbs in my throat, eyes stinging with the force of how much I love him, how long I’ve needed this. It’s not just sex—it’s a homecoming.

It’s everything.

Brogan’s thumb never leaves my clit, making sure I unravel all over again just for him. I come hard, right there with him, his name a prayer on my lips, his body shaking as he lets go, face buried in my neck, both of us ruined and remade.

My breath shudders out. My hands grip his back like he’s the only thing tethering me to the planet. His rhythm is steady, slow, deep—like he’s savoring every second. Like he doesn’t want it to end any more than I do.

I whisper his name.

He whispers mine right back.

And in this moment, wrapped up in his body and his warmth and his everything—I finally feel seen.

Like maybe I was never invisible to him after all.

He doesn’t let me go—not even when we’re both spent and breathless. Instead, he pulls me even closer, burying his face in my hair, arms wound tight around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. For the first time in my life, I feel wanted in a way that has nothing to do with how I look or what I do for everyone else. He holds me like I’m the only thing that matters, like he needs me as much as I’ve always needed him.

I’m not one of those girls who cries after sex.

Usually, I roll over, grab some water, and get on with it. But tonight? I’m lying here in Brogan Foster’s arms, and my entire life feels like it just shifted off its axis.

His arm is draped over my stomach, his face buried in my hair like he belongs there, like this is normal. Like this has happened before and it’ll happen again.

But for me? This is a one-way ticket to what the hell did I just do?

My brain starts spinning. Too fast. Too loud.

Because I know Brogan. I’ve known him since the third grade. I know he sucks at texting back. I know he gets lost in hockey season and forgets birthdays—even his own once. I know he’s not a heartbreaker, not intentionally, but he’s also never had mine in his hands before.

Until now.

“Hey,” he murmurs against my shoulder, his voice rough from sleep or sex—or maybe both. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” I lie, plastering on a smile he can’t see.

But of course, he doesn’t buy it.

His fingers stroke my side gently, like he’s trying to coax the truth out. “You sure? Because your body’s relaxed, but your brain’s doing laps.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “You always this observant after getting laid?”

He props himself up on one elbow and meets my eyes, serious now. “Only when it matters.”

Shit.

My heart does this weird little flip, and I hate how easily he can do that. Just a look. Just a sentence. And I’m all mush again.

“I’m just…” I trail off, unsure how much to admit. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Brogan. And now, I don’t know what happens next.”

He nods like he expected that. Like he was bracing for this, too.

“Then let me help you figure it out,” he says. “Because this? What we just did? That’s not casual to me. That’s not a one-time thing.”

My breath catches.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admits, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I know I want to try. And I want it to be with you.”

I blink up at him. “So we’re doing this?”

He grins, slow and crooked and pure Brogan. “Yeah, Joely. We’re doing this.”

He leans down, kissing me again, softer this time, more like a promise than a demand.

And as he pulls me closer, wrapping me up in those strong arms and that steady warmth, I stop spinning.

Because for the first time in years, I’m not just wishing for something.

I have it.

And I’m not letting go.