Summary: On one fateful morning Calvin receives a life changing letter.
Warnings: Angst (self doubt, denial), Fluff, Reader and Calvin live together and are in an established relationship.
Authors Note: I loved this idea and I’m glad I was able to get around to doing it! I hope it’s what you were looking for @sentrys-shadow . It’s so hard sometimes to jump from character to character for Lewis so hopefully I was able to slip back into writing for Calvin well! (It’s been a while)…Also SURPRISE ITS A CALVIN UPDATE LOL
Word Count: 3,305
The envelope was nondescript when it arrived at the house that morning. It was stark white, with no real indications as to where it was coming from or what kind of journey it had to get to your mailbox. It was as if it was designed to be forgettable in a way. And for a few precious seconds, it was to Calvin.
It was just a thicker-than-average rectangle that was tucked among junk mail, flyers, and a university newsletter, all bound in a rubber band and damp from the morning fog. Calvin had plucked it from the pile with one distracted glance, giving it a once over before pausing and bringing it closer to his face to read the small typed font on the top left corner of the envelope.
Stockholm. It said Stockholm.
A frown appeared on his face as he read a line below the address information. It wasn’t a journal or publisher, it certainly wasn’t a grant committee. The next line read in bold letters: Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences.
Calvin felt like he was choking on air just seeing it, and instantly it was like his palms became puddles of sweat. He felt like his mouth had gone completely dry, and he needed water. He dropped the letter onto the table like it had burned him, the corner catching on the rim of a coaster and spinning once before settling–quiet and ominous. His pulse throbbed in his ears, a quick, high-pitched rush of sound that made everything else go muffled.
He stumbled toward the fridge with the urgency of someone running from a raging fire. The door swung open harder than necessary, the magnets rattling loose from their place on the outside of it, a few photos of you and Calvin falling onto the ground in the process. He didn’t seem to notice though, he was too distracted by the sudden thirst that plagued his throat. His hand reached for the glass pitcher of water you’d refilled the night before–cold, mercifully cold, with condensation slicking down its sides like a breath of air in a locked room. He pulled it out and retrieved a cup, pouring with a slight tremble in his wrist, water sloshing over the rim of the glass and dripping onto the floor.
Then he drank like a man who hadn’t tasted water in decades. Deep gulps. One after another. But it didn’t help. His throat still felt tight, like fear had formed its own shape there, lodged between muscle and windpipe, expanding slowly. It was the kind of feeling that mocked him, the feeling that said: something is about to change in your life and it's already been decided for you, and you have no choice but to roll with it.
He turned back to the table, staring at the envelope, feeling his stomach twist.
There were only two things that could be contained in that letter. A Nobel Prize nomination–which he had gotten plenty of times. Or worse–an actual award. A win.
And that thought alone made his knees weak.
Because Calvin wasn’t the kind of man who collected these accolades like baseball cards. He never pursued his work with the mindset that he would be celebrated or he would get additional prestige or ceremonies would be had for his discoveries. No. He pursued his work because it made sense when the rest of the world didn’t–because the lab was quiet, controlled, and indifferent to anything but the truth and his own thoughts. Because the research he was doing didn’t lie to him, and because the chemicals didn’t expect him to be charming or brave or brilliant on cue. And because science, unlike people, never asked him to perform for a crowd.
But this? This letter felt like it might demand exactly that, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Calvin was spiraling so hard that he didn’t even hear you come into the kitchen.
“Cal? You okay?” Your voice was soft, and gentle–raspy from sleep–and yet it startled him like a dropped beaker. He turned, slowly, like a man waking from a dream. Or a nightmare–he wasn’t so sure which one yet. His eyes found yours, and for a second he didn’t speak. He just looked at you–jaw tense, empty glass still in hand, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. You took a few steps closer, tugging your robe across your body, letting it hug you just a little bit tighter, as your expression shifted from curious to concerned.
”Calvin…What’s wrong? What happened?” He glanced at the table, at the envelope lying there like a ghost on the dark mahogany wood.
“There’s a letter,” He spoke finally, his voice dry and cracking, “From Stockholm.” Your eyebrows lifted slowly, gaze flicking from the envelope on the table then back to Calvin’s face. He looked wrecked–absolutely gutted in a way you had only seen a handful of times in all the years you had loved him. His skin was pale, almost ashen, like he might pass out or vomit or both. His breathing was shallow and fast, chest rising in clipped, anxious swells, like he had just finished a run, but there was no evidence of it. You licked your bottom lip.
”The Stockholm?” He didn’t answer right away, he just turned back toward the fridge, as if the only safety left in the room lived in that cold silver box. He opened it and poured himself another glass of water–hands shaking still.
“From the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences,” He muttered, his voice brittle and faraway. You exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm for him even though your own pulse had quickened in absolute excitement for your partner.
“Jesus, Calvin…” He nodded absently, still not looking at you. He brought the glass to his lips again, but didn’t drink this time. He just held it there, perching his teeth onto the rim. You stepped closer to him, moving into his line of sight until he had no choice but to meet your eyes. The moment his gaze locked with yours–those glass blue irises stormy with dread–you reached out and gently pried the glass from his hand. He didn’t resist. You set it behind him on the counter with a soft clink, then closed the space between you.
Your arms slipped around his waist, warm and grounding, your hands settling at the small of his back. You rubbed slow, soothing circles there, feeling the stiffness in his spine begin to ease–just barely. He exhaled through his nose, a shaky, uneven sound, and let his hands hover awkwardly at his sides before finally resting them on your hips, giving the flesh there a light squeeze.
“What did it say?” You asked quietly, lifting your head to look at him, “Have you even opened it.” His eyes dropped, and he shook his head.
”No…” You shifted your weight, resting your chin gently against his chest, the soft cotton of his shift brushing against your throat.
”So,” You started, your voice tender but just a little teasing, “You don’t even know what they’re writing to you for?” He blinked, clearly caught off guard by the softness of your tone. His hands gripped your hips just a little tighter, like he needed to support himself to keep him from drifting further into the worry that was running through his mind.
”I know exactly what it is,” He replied, but there was no conviction behind it.
”You think you know,” You countered gently, “But realistically it could be anything. You could be panicking about absolutely nothing.” Calvin huffed out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, or a scoff.
”They don’t just send letters like this unless it’s something big.” You tilted your head, brushing your cheek against his chest, listening to the frantic drum of his heart beneath your ear.
”Maybe…But don’t you think you should be sure before you panic like this?” He let out a breath–slow and heavy, like it had been lodged in his chest for far too long. His chin dipped toward the crown of your head, but he didn’t speak. He just stood there, holding you, grounding himself in the soft drag of your fingertips as they moved up and down his shirt. Your nails made these little scratching sounds, rhythmic and quiet, and you could feel his body slowly begin to respond–sure he was still tense, but it seemed like his breathing had evened out.
The silence stretched just long enough to become a question of its own. And then you asked.
”Do you want me to open it for you?” He didn’t answer immediately. But then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your waist, his eyes darting over your face like he was searching for something–permission, safety, and strength he couldn’t summon on his own.
”Will you?” He asked, quietly. Almost sheepish. You smiled up at him, soft and sure.
”If that’s what you want, I’ll do it for you. I just don’t want you having a heart attack on our kitchen floor…So if there’s any way to prevent that…I will absolutely take one for the team.” That coaxed the smallest laugh from him. Just a puff of breath, a reluctant smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looked like he needed it–like it cracked open just enough space for him to truly breathe.
”Okay…” He murmured. You gave him one last squeeze, then unwrapped your arms from his waist, stepping back slowly, deliberately, like you didn’t want to jolt the moment. You padded barefoot across the kitchen, toward the table where the envelope still sat like it had weight beyond its size. Calvin didn’t follow immediately, but you could feel him behind you–watching, waiting, standing with his arms now crossed tightly over his chest.
You picked it up carefully, delicately, like it was something sacred. You didn’t rip into it. You couldn’t. Calvin had always been meticulous, precise–he would want to keep every crease, every fold, every inch of the letter neat and intact.
So you turned it in your hands, broke the seal with the edge of your nail, and gently peeled it open. The paper inside was thick, cream-colored, the kind that costs more than you’d ever willingly spend on stationery. You slid it out and unfolded it. The font was elegant–old-fashioned, serifed, the kind of script that reminded you of old university diplomas and symphony programs. Black ink, perfectly aligned. Formal, restrained. There was a royal crest at the top–embossed in gold, catching the morning light that now poured through the kitchen window in soft slants. A quiet gleam against the white noise of the world shifting beneath your feet.
You read the letter silently, your heart skipping as you did:
To Dr. Calvin Evans,
It is with the highest honor and great admiration that we inform you that you have been awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry for your work in the field of Abiogenesis. Your contributions have not only advanced the frontiers of modern science but have open pathways previously believed to be theoretical impossibilities.
Please find enclosed the formal itinerary of your invitation to Stockholm this December for the ceremony and associated events. We extend our heartfelt congratulations and look forward to honoring you in person.
On behalf of the Nobel Committee and the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences–
With sincere respect.
You stared at the final line for a moment, heart in your throat. The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet–like even the refrigerator had stopped humming to give this moment the silence it deserved.
From the counter, you could hear Calvin shifting on his feet, restless with anticipation. You glanced up at him, seeing him biting the side of his thumb gently.
“So…What is it?” You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your lips, slow and bright and full of stunned awe.
”Calvin…” You stared, your voice catching slightly, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface, “You won a Nobel Prize.” His brow furrowed. He shook his head once, hard, like he could physically jostle the idea out of his skull.
“No… No, that–there must be a mistake,” He murmured, his voice almost breaking, thick with disbelief. “I didn’t even get a letter about being nominated for one…Are you sure the letter doesn’t say nominated?” You let out a soft huff of breath, then crossed the space between you, turning the letter around, and holding it up to his eye level, your fingers careful on the thick edges.
”You. Won.” You repeated, deliberately, watching the color drain from his face and then rush back in waves, his skin heating and turning a bright red as he stared down the page. His eyes darted across the lines of text, frantically scanning like he might spot a typo or loophole that would undo it all–his name misspelled, an incorrect address, something…But the words were there. Clear. Unmistakable. He took in a shaky breath.
”The Swedes must've made a mistake.” He mumbled, and immediately you laughed at that, shaking your head at him.
“You think a whole panel of world-renowned scientists made a mistake?” You asked, eyebrows raised, voice somewhere between fond and incredulous as you watched him grapple with the impossible. Calvin opened his mouth, but no words came out. He paused, gulping–his throat visible tightening around the weight of everything that hadn’t sunk in yet. You tilted your head, softening just a little as you moved the letter out of the way, placing it on the counter before stepping closer to him, “You think that makes more sense than you actually winning something for all your hard work?” You added. His eyes closed for a brief second, lashes brushing his cheeks. He shook his head, his light brown hair shimmying slightly with the movement.
”I don’t think you understand what this means…” He whispered, looking down at you, something vulnerable flashing behind his eyes, “It means I–“
”It means you get to shake hands with some of the most sought-after scientists in the world…And it means you’re getting the recognition you absolutely deserve and earned, Calvin.” You cut him off gently, reaching up to cup his cheeks between your palms, holding him steady as if he might somehow drift away. Your thumbs traced gentle, grounding arcs along his cheekbones, while your fingers curled just behind his ears. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the remaining tension that was still stitched into his body. His wide, glassy blue eyes searched yours slowly.
”You’ve done so much Calvin,” You stared softly, voice trembling just a little with the admiration you could no longer keep tucked neatly beneath the surface, “You’ve dedicated years to this. You’ve spent nights chasing answers no one else could see. You’ve missed holidays, birthdays, anniversaries…You’ve lost so much sleep trying to get this right.” He swallowed thickly, eyes darting between yours, and for a moment he looked younger somehow. Not boyish–but vulnerable. Unsteady. Like someone who had given every part of himself to something and had never expected it to give anything back. You stepped closer, bridging that final inch of space between you by pressing your forehead to his.
”And now…You’re being recognized with one of the biggest awards you could possibly get in your lifetime, Calvin. You should be proud of yourself…” He sighed, long and low, pressing his forehead harder against yours like he was trying to meld into the stillness of you–to absorb your steadiness, your warmth, and your quiet certainty when his own was faltering.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up from all the nerves,” He murmured, the words falling into the space between your mouths like a confession. You smiled gently, not pulling away.
”Well, if you do, aim for the sink please.” That earned you a soft laugh–barely a puff of air, but real. It cracked through the tension in his body just enough for you to feel the shift: the way his shoulders lost some of their rigid slope, the way his arms finally moved, wrapping fully around your back, tugging you in. He pressed his nose to the curve of your neck, burrowing into the skin there like it was safer than anything he could ever think of, or conjure up in his head.
You felt the warmth of his breath fan out across your collarbone as he mumbled, voice half-muffled, “I should throw up all over you because you’re the catalyst that inflates my ego.” You snorted, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, twisting it up into your palms.
”I’m actually the person who brings your ego up to the level it should be at. Get it straight, science boy.” That made him laugh again–louder this time, more certain. It vibrated through his chest and into yours, the sound thrumming against your sternum like the quietest victory bell. His hair tickled your neck, soft and a little messy, still sleep-ruffled from his pillow. He didn’t pull away, and you certainly didn’t make him.
”You always know what to say,” He whispered into your skin, giving your collarbone a little wet kiss of appreciation.
“That’s because I know the solution to your formula.” You replied, tilting your head a bit more to award him with more space as your eyes prickled with the weight of the moment vibrating between you, “It’s mostly patience. Some love. And a dash of sarcasm and jokes when appropriate.” Calvin pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands lightly pressing into you.
“You know you’re my constant…Right?” You nodded, reaching up to brush your knuckles along the curve of his jaw, watching as he chased your touch.
”And you’re my favourite variable,” You teased gently, your thumb smoothing over his bottom lip. Then you leaned up and kissed him.
It was soft–undeniably so. A kiss that didn’t demand or rush, but offered. Something slow and certain and grounding. Your lips brushed against his, the barest pressure at first, but enough to draw a low, involuntary hum from the back of Calvin’s throat. A sound of surrender. He melted into it instantly…Into you instantly.
His hands slid along your waist, like he couldn’t help but draw you closer, tilting his head just slightly, deepening the kiss not with hunger, but with something far more dangerous: vulnerability. Gratitude. Love so sharp and pointed it nearly broke through his chest and shook his composure all over again.
When you finally pulled away, it was only by a breath, your noses still touching, and the scent of him–warmed skin and salt–filled your senses. Your lips curved up slowly.
”Now…” You whispered, voice low and lilting, “Can I say congratulations now that you’re in better spirits?” Calvin blinked once, slowly, dazed and quiet, then he smiled. Really smiled.
Not the crooked, hesitant one he wore when he was trying to hide behind his thoughts, or the forced one he used when someone complimented his work and didn’t know what to say. No. This one was full and slightly uneven, and it made his dimples crease and his eyes crinkle and his breath catch slightly.
“You can,” He replied, his words warming against your lips, “But only if you keep kissing me afterward.” You laughed, pressing your forehead against his again, the sound muffled by the closeness, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.
Summary: During a rodeo after party, Rhett witnesses you getting hit on by one of the new hot shot riders and he can’t help but get jealous.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Jealous Rhett, Angst, Rhett and Reader are in a Friends with Benefits relationship (but of course there’s feelings there, because why wouldn’t there be?) Rhett is kind of emotionally constipated in this, and he’s possessive :D
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Semi-Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Little bit of begging, A little bit of crying during sex (from overstimulation), Biting, Marking, Scratching, Nipple/Breast Play, Use of ‘Good Girl’ and ‘Good Boy’
Author’s Note: Mmm we like jealous and possessive Rhett. Wanna give that cowboy a sweet lil kiss on the forehead lol. Anyways! Hope y’all enjoy this RAF update <3 (I finished this on my phone because I’m performing with my band tonight and tomorrow, sorry the update is so late!)
Word Count: 13,042
Rhett was enamoured by the baby blue dress you were wearing.
It was soft-looking–silky, almost translucent when the dashboard light hit it just right–and the color reminded him of the sweet summer skies that happened just before the sun started to set. It clung to you like a second skin, hugging the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, and the swell of your chest. The hem was criminal–dangerously short–flirting with the tops of your thighs every time you shifted in the leather seat, and riding up higher each time you crossed or uncrossed your legs like the fabric had a mind of its own.
The neckline was just low enough to tease. A gentle dip that cradled the round swell of your breasts, offering the kind of view that made his throat tighten and his grip on the steering wheel go white-knuckled. With every bump in the road, they bounced softly under the fabric, unsupported and free, and Rhett swore under his breath more than once as he tried not to stare–and tried not to crash the damn truck.
The dress was sweet and sultry and it rode the sharp edge of trouble and you knew exactly what it did to your favourite cowboy.
You had pulled it from your bag without so much as a warning, your voice lazy and sweet as you said “Think I’ll change before we get there,” like it was no big deal. Like it didn’t mean stripping down in his truck while he was driving the both of you from the circuit to the after-party one of the riders was throwing.
He didn’t stop you, nor did he tell you to wait. He just nodded, eyes darting to the road, pretending he didn’t feel his pulse strike at the plan you had. He’d seen you naked more times than he could count by now. Skin pressed to skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth dragging down your stomach until he buried his face between your thighs. You moaning his name into the crook of his neck while you begged for more. That was your arrangement. Friends who knew each other too well. Who couldn’t keep their hands off one another when the sun dipped low and the adrenaline of the day buzzed under their skin.
You had been hooking up for months at this point, and he had watched you get dressed and undressed countless times, in a variety of places. But this–watching you getting undressed in the low flickering light of his truck–was very different.
It started with your shirt–faded and baggy, lifted slowly over your head as you shifted in your seat, the fabric brushing your face before it was tossed in the back. His jaw clenched, and he caught a glimpse of your bare breasts, soft and high, your nipples peaked from the cool of the A/C. Then your jeans were next, unbuttoned and shimmed down those smooth, buttery soft legs of yours, inch by inch. His peripheral vision was lit up with temptation, and he swore he almost veered off the road when you arched your back just enough to tug them down your hips–reminding him of the way you looked when he would bend you over on his bed.
You were left in nothing but lacy black panties–thin, and delicate, the kind with those tiny sheer panels and scalloped edges that left little to the imagination. You didn’t make a show of it, and you didn’t say a word during this, you just grabbed your dress and slipped it over your head like it was part of your routine.
For Rhett though…It was pure torture.
His eyes flicked between the empty road and you in quick, hungry glances–trying to memorize the curve of your bare waist as it disappeared beneath the fabric, the shift of your breasts as you smoothed the dress down over them. You looked down at yourself and adjusted the bodice with your hands, cupping each breast and lifting them slightly to make sure everything sat just right–round and perky and perfect.
Rhett sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth, his eyes returning to the road quickly as you let out a soft giggle.
“Fuckin’ hell,” He muttered under his breath, gripping the steering wheel harder, his dirt stained jeans growing tighter from the show you were putting on for him.
He wanted to drag you across the console and pull you onto his lap, so he could hike the dress up to your waist and shove his hands between your thighs while you leaned back against the steering wheel, panting his name with your eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to kiss his way down your throat and over your collarbone, to leave bruises on that spotless skin–marks you said he couldn’t give you, because that was part of the deal the both of you agreed to. No evidence. No questions. No feelings. Just friendship and sex.
But every inch of him ached to make you his officially, because that’s what you felt like when you were writhing under him, clawing at his back like you needed him to breathe. He wanted you so bad but all he could do was submit to the idea that he would never be able to call you his.
So, he pressed his boot down harder on the gas and stared hard at the road, trying to shake the heat crawling down his spine, trying to ignore the heavy throb between his legs as the image of you adjusting your breasts played on loop behind his eyes.
And then–
Click
His ears prickled at the soft sound of your seatbelt unlatching, his gaze turning just in time to see you shift in your spot again, your dress riding high up your thighs as your hands disappeared beneath the hem. You leaned back against the space between the seat and the door, giving your hips a soft wiggle, biting your bottom lip in concentration as you dragged the black lace down the length of your legs.
He could feel his mouth go dry as he flicked his eyes between the winding road and the slow, sensual movements of your hands. You moved like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Exactly what kind of pressure it put on a man like Rhett to stay in his lane, keep the truck steady, and not slam on the brakes and pull you right into his lap. You loved the control you had on him, like you were the only person that had access to his metaphorical light switch…
The black lace slipped off your ankles in one fluid motion, your fingers curling around the delicate fabric as you shifted toward him slightly–your bare thigh brushing against the curve of the seat with a whisper-soft sound that made his entire body tense. You balled up the panties, holding them in your fist for a moment, before leaning closer to him with a smile that was far too innocent for the sinful little display you had just put on for him.
And then you shoved the balled up lace right into the front pocket of his jeans. Your fingers grazed his aching length just enough to make his hips jerk subtly against the air, just enough to make him bite down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted the coppery flavour of his blood coating his tongue. The smell of your perfume clouded his senses in that moment–the sickeningly sweet caramel and vanilla mist you always sprayed on yourself that drove Rhett crazy.
“I don’t want anyone seeing these through my dress,” You said, voice soft and teasing, saccharine–sweet with a wicked little undertone, “So I hope they’ll be safe with you for the night.” You added, leaning into his space just a little more, your breath grazing over his cheek, as your hand rested on the nape of his neck, just below his sweaty strands of light brown hair that was slicked back beneath his signature Stetson he always wore. Your lips brushed just below his jaw–barely there–and then you pressed a soft, maddening kiss to the sharp edge of stubble that had grown in over the course of the day. It was the kind of kiss that made his breath catch and his knuckles flex over the steering wheel. You didn’t linger. Just a single, grazing touch, enough for your scent to cling to his skin and make his throat tighten.
And then you leaned back like nothing happened, slow and poised, your dress riding up again before you smoothed it down and buckled your seatbelt.
Rhett let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, jaw working tight as he stared out at the road like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He didn’t dare look at you. Nor did he look down at the very real tent in his jeans where your lace panties now rested close with just a bit of fabric separating them, or at your bare thigh, or the way your lips were slightly parted in the corner of his vision like you were enjoying watching him come undone.
His fingers twitched over the steering wheel–rough, calloused, desperate to hold onto something.
And you must’ve sensed it, must’ve known just how far you’d pushed him, because a moment later, your hand reached across the console again. Gentle. Unbothered. Like you were easing into something familiar.
You curled your fingers around his wrist and pulled his hand off the wheel, guiding it down to your thigh. You placed it there–firmly–your skin cool and smooth beneath his burning palm. The contrast made his breath hitch. His fingers clenched instinctively, digging into the plush flesh like he needed to hold you in place. Like he didn’t trust himself not to go further.
And for a second, neither of you said a word. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the sharp thud of his pulse against his ribs.
His fingers flexed again. This time, slower. More deliberate. Thumb brushing against the inside of your thigh–close enough to make your breath catch, not quite enough to give you what you really wanted.
You glanced sideways at him, lips tugging into that half-smirk he both loved and hated.
Rhett swallowed hard, his voice gravel-rough when he finally spoke. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, Y/N…” Your hand stayed over his, warm and steady. You could feel the way his fingers twitched. The way his palm threatened to slide higher and higher.
“You think I won’t pull over?” He asked, low and deadly soft, his blue eyes finally flicking toward you–dark with heat, with hunger, with a possessiveness he couldn’t even pretend to hide anymore.
You bit your bottom lip, feigning innocence. “Who says we need to pull over, Rhett?”
His jaw locked.
Fuck.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looked back at the road, his grip tightening on your thigh again–this time with a desperation that made your stomach flutter.
Then he began to drag his hand higher, going straight towards your core, feeling your slick heat brushing against his fingertips. He dragged them along your wetness, letting out a long breath.
”Wow…You want my fingers that bad, hmm? Already soaked for me and I didn’t even have to say anything or touch you.” He teased lowly, his voice coated in the tension that tightened his throat. You let out a soft gasp as he slid a finger through your folds–your hips instinctively rocking into his touch, as you tried to regain your composure a bit. A little smirk came up onto your lips.
”Can’t control it…You were eyeing me down with those hazy blue irises of yours while I was changing…” He let out a shaky breath, barely holding back the growl that trembled in his chest. His fingers stroked you again, this time deliberately slow, dragging through your folds like he was savoring the feel of you. The truck jolted slightly with a bump in the road, but he didn’t even flinch.
“You’re so desperate for me you can’t wait till tonight, huh?” He muttered, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to make you bite your lip hard.
”It’s to take the edge off,” You replied, trying to stay serious even though your voice was a little breathless “You know how I get at parties.” He scoffed, shaking his head with a humorless little huff.
“What a poor excuse,” He commented, the pad of his finger sliding down and circling your entrance like a threat, “Just admit you like it when I fuck you with my fingers.” Your teeth grazed your bottom lip again, this time to hide the way your mouth wanted to drop open at the heat in his voice.
“I can’t give you that satisfaction,” You teased, blinking slowly at him. “Would be too easy.” A low hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly pulled his hand away, dragging his wet fingers along the inside of your thigh as he retreated. You bit back a noise of protest, legs twitching.
“Suit yourself then,” He murmured, smirking just enough for it to sting. “We’re almost there anyways…Wouldn’t be the best idea to get you all riled up. The boys there won’t stand a chance.” You huffed at him, crossing your arms and shifting your thigh away.
”You don’t even stand a chance most of the time. Look at yourself right now…You got hard just by watching me change.” He let out a little groan, tightening his hand on the steering wheel.
”Yeah, ‘cause you were teasin’ me,” He said, glancing over at you with that dangerously boyish look–the kind that made your stomach flip, “If you were changin’ like a normal person, I wouldn’t be hard. I’ve been able to manage myself perfectly fine before, y’know.” He added squeezing your thigh and tracing circles along your skin. You rolled your eyes, swiping his hand off, grinning when his brows pulled together in a faux pout.
”Don’t look at me like that, Cowboy. You said it yourself, it’s best not to get me riled up, so quit touching me.”
”Hey!” He barked in mock offense, reaching back out to you like a petulant child denied his favourite toy. But you leaned back, out of reach pressing yourself up against the door, raising your chin in triumph.
”I mean it, Rhett.” His eyes narrowed, lips twitching. Then, quicker than you expected, he darted his hand under your thigh, fingers curling around the sensitive skin there.
“Don’t you dare–!” You gasped, but it was too late.
He tickled the back of your thigh mercilessly, fingers teasing and dancing just under the hem of your dress. A surprised laugh burst from your mouth and you squirmed in your seat, kicking lightly toward the console and batting his arm away, as he continued to pay attention to the road.
”Rhett, I swear to god…” You warned.
”You started it,” He grinned, a little crooked and full of smugness. “Now look at you, all flustered.” Rhett kept tickling, and you kept laughing–loud and breathless, legs twitching and thighs squeezing around his wrist in a poor attempt to block him. The sexual tension dissolved into something warmer, lighter. That was what you liked about this strange little arrangement you had with him. It wasn’t always intense and feral and soaked in sweat and lust. Sometimes it was just this–easy and teasing and sharp with laughter. You could push each other to the brink and still pull back before things boiled over into an all out sexual detour.
You both had your switches. And right now, they were finally flicked off. Back to ‘friend mode’ as you liked to say.
Your giggles softened as he finally retreated, pulling his hand away with a dramatic little sigh like you had exhausted him.
“Alirght,” Rhett said, voice low but tinged with surrender, “Fix yourself before we pull into the driveway…Don’t want to raise any suspicions.” He added jokingly. You nodded, breathless, grinning as you smoothed your dress down your thighs and wiped the sweat off your brow.
“Better do the same for yourself, Cowboy,” You shot back, letting your eyes flick pointedly toward the front of his jeans, “And don’t lose those underwear either…” You said, leaning closer with a wicked glint in your eye, “…They’re my favourite pair.” He let out a little laugh.
”Yeah?” He asked, his eyebrow raising slightly, “Well…I guess I’ll have to guard ‘em with my life then.”
As he turned onto the long gravel driveway that led toward the back of the property, the warm glow of the party came into view. There were strings of soft yellow lights looped around the fencing posts, swaying slightly in the night breeze. A bonfire crackled near the edge of the clearing, its flames dancing tall and orange, casting long flickering shadows across the packed crowd.
The yard was full of people scattered everywhere in their own clusters–some you recognized from the circuits, others not so much. There was laughter and the twinge of guitar strings that filled the air, and the hum of an old speaker playing a generic Spotify playlist that buzzed from a nearby table. Someone had thrown hay bales around the fire for makeshift seating, and a couple of folks were already posted up there with beers in hand. There were coolers open, boots scuffed and stomping on dirt as people clinked bottles and howled at tonight’s events.
The scent of burning wood mixed with cheap beer and the lingering musk of sweat and leather. You could see familiar faces and fresh ones–locals and new riders who had joined the circuit recently. A few guys leaned against the fence near the area, sipping from Solo cups and scanning the crowd like they were looking for a girl to charm.
Rhett’s hands tightened on the wheel as he drove past them, jaw ticking slightly, almost like he was trying to intimidate them with just a look, even though they weren’t paying attention to him at all.
He pulled the truck in beside a cluster of other dusty pickups and killed the engine. The headlights dimmer, but the glow of the bonfire still reached the windshield, casting shadows across both of your faces. He let out a small sigh, before bringing his hand down to his belt, unbuckling it. The clink of the metal echoed softly in the cab, followed by the low pop of his jeans being unbuttoned. He slipped his hand beneath the waistband, adjusting his aching erection with the kind of casual, almost lazy precision that made you stare without even meaning to. His hat tipped forward as he shifted, casting the shadow of his jawline in a sharp slant of darkness. You watched him in silence, the motion oddly hypnotic–half out of amusement, half out of admiration.
There was no hesitation, no apology. Just Rhett being Rhett–shameless and rugged and impossibly attractive even when he was just fixing his hard-on before stepping into a party.
He pulled his hand out and buttoned his jeans back up, cinching his belt tight around his waist. His white tee had creased slightly, so he tugged it flat before adjusting the green flannel he wore open over it. He ran his fingers through the strands of light brown hair that had fallen loose under the brim of his hat, then looked over at you with a quick nod.
“Ready?” You tilted your head slightly, smiling as you reached for your seatbelt.
”Ready as I’ll ever be.” You popped the lock and opened your door, the creak of the hinges blending into the distant laughter and music drifting from the party. The warm scent of burning wood and crushed grass spilled into the cab.
But before your boots even hit the dirt, Rhett’s voice cut through the dark.
“Hey–“ He said, voice low but firm, grabbing your attention once more, with your brow raised. He was still seated, one hand on the wheel, the other braced on the driver-side door that he was going to open in a moment, “Let’s keep the drinkin’ down to a minimum tonight, alright? I had to sleep with you on your bathroom floor the last time you drank to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit, and I don’t want to wake up with that ungodly back ache again.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, giving a small huff of a laugh.
”And here I thought you enjoyed taking care of me,” You teased, flashing him a toothy grin, “Guess I’ll have to find a replacement for you.” His jaw ticked slightly at your comment.
A replacement.
The word hit harder than he wanted it to, latching into the back of his mind like a burr caught in denim. It wasn’t just the idea of someone else taking care of you–it was the thought of someone else touching you, kissing you, hearing those soft little moans you made when you were tipsy and clingy. Someone else holding you against their chest while you whispered half-drunken secrets into their skin the way you had with him that night on your bathroom floor.
He felt it coil in his stomach, tight and sharp. Bile rose to the back of his throat, hot and bitter, but he swallowed it down hard. This was supposed to be casual. Fun. No strings.
But fuck if it didn’t feel like you’d wrapped one around his neck and started tugging.
He shook his head, trying to keep the playful tone in his voice, but it cracked just a little.
“You just try,” He shot back, looking over at you with a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “They’ll never be as good at handlin’ you as me though…” You leaned against the door, lips curling, biting the inside of your cheek like you were holding back a smirk.
“Hm. Maybe.” You let the silence stretch for a second, then flicked your chin toward the party, “Now are you coming out or not? You’re sitting there doing nothing when we could’ve been drinking by now.” He sighed, long and dramatic, and opened his door, the creak blending with the distant sounds of boots against dirt and laughter in the distance. You had already slammed your door shut by the time he did the same, and the two of you rounded the truck to meet near the bed.
There was no touch, no whisper, no lingering gaze–just a casual pace as you began walking together toward the crowd. You kept a bit of distance between you, a few feet of air that felt wider than it should’ve, your steps matching only out of habit. It was strange–how quickly the air between you could shift. How quickly he could go from knuckles white with desire to walking beside you like you were just a friend. Not the girl who just slipped her panties into his pocket with a look that could undo a lesser man.
You split at the edge of the crowd–your path drifting toward a row of coolers stacked with bottles and ice, while Rhett moved toward the knot of bull riders gathered around a battered wooden table playing poker with ripped cards and spare change.
He nodded to a few familiar faces–Leon, Ben, Caleb–and they clapped him on the back, tossed him a bottle of beer, started talking about the night’s rides and the new hot shot rider who had joined from out east.
But Rhett didn’t hear much of it.
Because the moment his eyes slid across the firelight haze and landed on you–standing by the cooler, laughing at something one of your friends had said, your baby blue dress lit up in gold like a flame–he saw someone else walking toward you. And his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.
He didn’t recognize the guy. Tall, sharp jaw, clean-cut. New. He had to be one of the transfer riders everyone was talking about–the ones who were looking to make a name for themselves. His blonde hair was tied back, and he had a red solo cup in one hand while the other was tucked into his back pocket like he was trying to look effortless. Like he wasn’t actively locking in on the prettiest girl at the party…
You smiled–soft, pretty, that same one you used when you were being polite but curious. Rhett knew it too well. You opened up your can of beer, and said something he couldn’t hear over the music and chatter, but the guy laughed. A real, deep-belly laugh. Leaning in closer to you. Rhett could see your bottom lip slip between your teeth, and his jaw ticked so hard it ached. You were leaning in closer now, just slightly, enough that your shoulder grazed the new guy’s chest as he dipped his head to speak low into your ear. You shifted on your heels, angling your body toward him, and nodded at whatever he said. Then–Rhett saw it–you smiled.
That same damn smile you gave him when he dragged you into his bed, breathless and laughing, calling him trouble like it was a compliment.
And then you glanced toward him.
Just a flicker of your eyes over the bonfire and through the crowd. Just long enough for your gaze to catch his from across the distance. Just long enough for Rhett to feel it like a goddamn punch in the chest. Your eyes were bright in the firelight, a little glassy from the beer, and your lips were still curved in that gentle, unreadable expression. You brought your can to your lips, took a slow sip, then turned back to the blonde rider.
“Abbott, are you even listening?” Ben asked beside him, cutting through the blood pounding in his ears. Rhett blinked and turned, catching the impatient look from Ben and the amused ones from Leon and Caleb.
“Huh? Sorry, I was–”
“Watching your girlfriend?” Leon quipped, voice sharp with teasing. Rhett scoffed, but the heat rushed up the back of his neck. His ears burned under his hat.
“No. Just curious who the new guy is.” Caleb chuckled around a swig of his beer, nodding in the direction of the blonde man now brushing his fingers along your arm like he had the right to.
“Name’s Tommy. Came up from Arizona, I think. Pretty sweet kid. Definitely a Casanova though. I mean, look at him go.” Rhett’s eyes zeroed in on the way Tommy’s fingers drifted down your bicep–slow, careful, practiced. He watched the way you tilted your head as you spoke, your mouth moving in soft curves, and your body swaying slightly. And when Tommy laughed again, Rhett nearly snapped his beer bottle in half. He tried to laugh it off, and tried to remind himself that you weren’t his, and that it was his own damn fault for never saying what he really felt. But it didn’t stop the bitter heat from crawling up his chest or the cold, sharp ache from gnawing at his gut.
“I think Rhett’s gettin’ a little green-eyed over here.” Ben commented. The guys around him laughed, all of them too buzzed or too blind to realize that it wasn’t just jealousy in Rhett’s eyes–it was heartbreak, frustration, and the kind of possessiveness that made him want to walk over, grab your wrist, and pull you away from every other set of eyes like a damn caveman. He forced a dry smirk and shook his head.
”Ain’t nothin’ to be jealous of,” He muttered, even though his eyes were glued to the scene across the clearing. His chest burned. His skin itched. And the worst part? You weren’t doing anything wrong. You weren’t grinding on Tommy or laughing too loud or flirting too hard. No–you were doing that thing you always did when someone was being overly charming. You gave them just enough to be polite, enough to be kind, and then you’d find a way to let them down easy.
And Rhett saw it happen right in front of him.
You laid your hand on Tommy’s stomach–a soft, gentle push–and shook your head. He laughed, nodded, and stepped back. You didn’t look uncomfortable. You didn’t look annoyed. Just…Graceful. In control. Even when Tommy reached into the cooler beside you, cracked another beer, and tapped it against your can with a smile, you just offered a nod, nothing more. No flirting, no promises. Just a clean close.
You turned slightly after that, drawing your attention back to the friend you were speaking to moments before Tommy had interrupted, your laughter hitting his ears once more. Rhett felt his shoulders drop, just slightly. That tight, choking knot in his chest loosened–not gone, not even close, but…Less.
Caleb shook his head with a low grin, and muttered, “Another one shot down.”
Ben let out a snort and added, “It’s alright, he seems like a persistent kid. Bet he’ll come back around for round two once the beer really kicks in.”
Leon groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I hope not. Rhett might blow an artery and die on the spot if he has to see somethin’ like that again.”
“Fuck off,” Rhett muttered, raising his bottle to his lips, taking a long pull like it might wash the jealousy off his tongue.
But they weren’t wrong.
He had felt his blood pressure spike just watching Tommy’s hand drift along your arm. He had felt every cell in his body scream when your lips curved into that soft smile, even if it wasn’t real. It didn’t matter that you turned the guy down. What mattered was that someone else thought they had a shot with you in the first place. That someone else got to see you smile like that. Stand close like that.
That someone else might end up with the version of you Rhett saw in the quiet hours between dusk and dawn, bare and laughing in his sheets, drunk off moonlight and whispered jokes.
“You know you got it bad, right?” Caleb said, voice lower now, gentler. His shoulder bumped into Rhett’s. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the fire as it crackled and spit glowing embers into the dark. He took another swig of beer, but it didn’t do shit to calm him down.
“I don’t got anything,” He mumbled eventually, eyes flicking over to where you stood, head tilted back in laughter, can of beer pressed to your mouth. “That’s kinda the problem.”
————————
You had managed to only have two and a half beers, which was perfect–just enough for a light buzz that settled beneath your skin like warm honey, but not enough to tip you into the realm of sloppy or sentimental. You had paced yourself on purpose. You wanted to be sharp and to be in control. Wanted to remember every second of the way Rhett had looked at you across the firelight–because he had been watching, even if he pretended not to.
But he hadn’t said much. Barely looked at you. And that quiet space between you, the one that used to be filled with inside jokes and long stares, felt impossibly loud tonight.
So when the clock hit 2:00 A.M. and the fire had burned down to soft orange embers, you wandered back over to where he was leaned against the tailgate, beer hanging loose in his hand, and asked, “Ready to go?”
His jaw flexed. Just once. But he nodded, tipping his bottle back to finish the last of it before setting it on the bumper. He turned to his friends, muttered a few goodbyes, and you followed suit, offering a small wave and smile before the two of you drifted away from the warmth and noise of the party.
The walk to the truck was quiet. The kind of quiet that had weight to it. Like it stretched between your shoulders and settled into your spine. You could smell the faint smoke from the fire in your hair, feel the grit of dirt clinging to your calves, and hear the soft crunch of gravel beneath your boots.
Rhett didn’t say a word. Not even a joke. Not even a “nice night” or “you have fun?”
And you didn’t push.
Because you knew him.
Knew that little wrinkle between his brows, the way his jaw worked when he was stewing on something. Knew that his silence didn’t mean he had nothing to say. It meant he had too much–and he hadn’t figured out how to say any of it without it coming out wrong.
You stepped into the cab of the truck, the door creaking as it closed behind you with a dull thunk. The cab smelled faintly of pine from the air freshener hanging limp from the rearview, smoke from the bonfire clinging to both your clothes and your skin, and a trace of vanilla and sweat–the same notes that had been driving Rhett half-wild all night.
He got in beside you with a grunt, the seat bouncing slightly under his weight. He sighed as he reached up and pulled off his hat, setting it carefully between the two of you on the bench seat. His fingers raked back through his sweat-dampened hair, jaw working a little as he pulled the keys from his pocket–not the one where your panties still sat like a taunt against his thigh–and jammed them into the ignition.
The truck grumbled to life. The headlights lit up the dust ahead in a soft, yellow wash, bouncing faintly as he backed out of the makeshift parking space, tires crunching softly over the gravel.
You glanced at him, voice a little too casual when you said, “That was fun, eh?”
He didn’t look over. Just nodded once and gave a clipped, noncommittal, “Yep.”
You swallowed. The tension sat heavy again, coiled in the air like a storm cloud. It hadn’t dissipated. Hadn’t cracked or rolled away with the party noise. It had only thickened with the silence. He pulled the truck onto the gravel driveway, the wheels slipping slightly before catching hold again. The hum of the engine filled the cab.
You shifted in your seat, angling toward him a bit. “We still going back to my place?”
His hand was resting on the shifter, but his thumb started rubbing the worn leather there. He exhaled through his nose, rubbed his bottom lip with the side of his finger, then he finally said, “Yeah. If you want.”
You tilted your head, voice a little softer now. “Course I do.”
His jaw clenched again, just for a second. And then he nodded–barely perceptible–but said nothing more. You stared at him for a moment longer. The shadows of the cab played across his features, cutting sharp along his cheekbones, highlighting the edge of his throat, the curve of his bicep where the flannel had slid back. He looked like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
You reached over slowly, let your fingers drift across the crown of his hat where it sat between you, almost like a buffer. He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t look at you either. Your eyes lingered on him for a second longer before you leaned back against the seat, sighing as you turned to look out the passenger window. The stars blurred by the dirty glass, and your reflection–barely visible–looked as tired and tense as you felt.
“What’s going on with you?” You asked, voice soft but firm. “Looks like you’ve got something to say.”
His hands tightened on the wheel.
There was a beat of silence. Then another.
He swallowed hard.
Shook his head, some of that sweat-dampened hair falling down across his forehead. He pushed it back with one hand, slow and distracted, before settling it back on the wheel.
“Got nothin’ to say,” He mumbled, barely above the growl of the engine. “Just…Focusin’ on the road.”
You didn’t reply right away.
Just stared at the passing fenceposts and the long stretch of gravel unfolding ahead like it might lead anywhere but where you actually were—tense, aching, held in that maddening limbo between what you both felt and what neither of you would admit.
You felt your jaw tick, the muscles twitching beneath your skin. And then you said, quieter this time, but not without edge–
“Alright then…Don’t say I didn’t ask you.”
The silence that followed was colder than before.
He felt it, too. You knew he did.
Because his hands flexed on the steering wheel again. Because his boot tapped a little heavier against the floor mat. Because he glanced at you, just once, from the corner of his eye–like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.
Like he didn’t know how to turn the damn wheel back around before it drove the two of you straight into regret.
You didn’t press again. You just let the silence stretch. Let it hang thick between you like dust in the headlight beams, visible and inescapable.
The rest of the drive was exactly that–silent and taut, like a rope pulled so tight it might snap with the wrong word. Every gravel crunch beneath the tires felt louder than it should’ve. The occasional blink of a streetlight through the window cast fleeting glimmers across the dashboard, catching on the curve of Rhett’s jaw, the stiff set of his mouth, the muscle that kept ticking in his cheek like a second hand on a clock. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at him again.
When the truck finally rolled to a stop in front of your little bungalow, the tension followed you out of the cab like a shadow that refused to be shaken.
The automatic porch lights clicked on, bathing the small, tidy front of your house in a warm, soft glow. The bungalow sat nestled in a quiet corner of town–half-hidden behind a row of overgrown hedges and a lean wooden fence that had seen better days. The porch was small but homey, with two mismatched rocking chairs on either side of a crate-turned-side-table, an old horseshoe nailed to one of the beams for luck, and a wind chime hanging from the overhang that tinkled softly in the breeze.
You moved toward the door, your boots crunching over the walkway gravel, Rhett a few steps behind you. Distant. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure whether he was walking into a place he was still welcome.
You reached into your bag and pulled out your keys, sliding them into the lock with muscle memory born of long nights and routine. The door gave with a quiet creak, and the familiar warmth of your home spilled out to greet you.
Rhett stepped inside behind you, silent, his presence large but hesitant–like he didn’t know where to put himself anymore.
Your bungalow smelled like cedar and lavender. There was the faintest hint of vanilla from a candle you had blown out before leaving the house. You dropped your bag on the bench beside the door and tossed your keys onto the small side table with a muted clatter. The soft thud of Rhett’s boots followed behind, but he still didn’t speak.
Your home was lived-in and soft around the edges.
To the left, the living room spread out in gentle warmth–faded rugs layered over hardwood floors, a worn brown leather couch piled with mismatched pillows, and a crocheted blanket your aunt had made draped over the back. A few books were stacked on the coffee table alongside an ashtray with a few stubbed-out cigarettes and a mostly empty glass of wine from the night before. The walls were lined with photos–some framed, others thumbtacked crookedly into place. You and your grandma. You and your dog that passed two summers ago. You with your arm slung over Rhett’s shoulder, laughing at something off-camera–back when things were simpler. When everything still felt like a joke waiting to be told.
To the right, the kitchen hummed in stillness. The light above the stove buzzed faintly, casting golden warmth over the counter lined with half-used groceries. A pot still sat on the stove, crusted over with the remnants of mac and cheese you hadn’t had time to clean. The table in the corner was cluttered with unopened mail, coasters, and a few empty LaCroix cans. A pair of boots sat tucked beneath one of the chairs–his, from a different night. Forgotten or left behind on purpose. You weren’t sure anymore.
Down the short hallway, the glow from your bedroom light bled beneath the crack in the door, casting a faint line across the floor. Familiar. Intimate. Inviting in a way that made your chest ache.
”Want some water?” You asked, voice light but already edging into something firmer, something that carried weight, as you kicked off your boots with a soft thump and padded across the floor.
The bottom of your dress swayed with every step you took toward the kitchen, catching the soft breeze from the open window and trailing like smoke behind you. Rhett lingered in the entryway, unmoving at first, like the warmth of your house unsettled him.
He finally replied, “No, I’m okay,” And followed you closely.
You didn’t turn. Just opened the fridge and grabbed a chilled bottle of water. The cap gave a quiet pop as you twisted it free, and you tilted your head back to drink. Cool water slid down your throat and your eyes fluttered shut for just a second, like you were trying to find some calm.
When you pulled the bottle away, your lips were damp, and you ran your tongue slowly over the bottom one–wiping the moisture, but also giving him something to look at. Something he should’ve reacted to.
But Rhett didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
And that pissed you off more than it should’ve.
You turned, planting the bottle on the counter with a dull clack and crossing your arms tight over your chest, the swell of your breasts pressing slightly against the neckline of that damned dress that had started this whole mess.
“Mind telling me what’s going on with you now that you’ve had the drive to think about it?” Your voice was sharper now. Tired. Tense. “Because you’ve been stewing all night. And you haven’t said much to me since the party.” Rhett’s jaw ticked. His arms stayed at his sides, fingers twitching once.
“I already told you,” He muttered, “Nothin’ is goin’ on.” You let out a short breath–more of a scoff–and pushed off the counter with your hip, stepping closer.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve never seen you act like this before, Rhett. So cut the crap and spill it.” His eyes flicked to yours then, and there it was: the storm behind them. Blue and burning and barely held back. You could see the way his throat bobbed with a hard swallow, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides like he needed to hold himself together.
”You flirted with that blonde pretty boy, and you acted like I didn’t exist all night until you wanted to leave.” Your eyebrows shot up. You blinked at him in stunned disbelief, then let out a dry, humorless laugh as you stepped forward even more now, the hem of your dress swishing around your thighs.
“So that’s what this whole thing is about?” You asked, your voice sharp enough to slice clean through the thick tension. “You being jealous of the fact that a guy came up to me and flirted–and I outright rejected him?” Rhett said nothing. His jaw flexed again, like he was grinding his molars to dust.
You didn’t stop.
”Also, newsflash, I was looking at you almost all fucking night. You were the one who wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t even acknowledge me. So let’s not go there.” His nostrils flared, but he still didn’t speak, still didn’t defend himself. Just stood there with his fists clenched and that haunted, infuriating look in his eyes. You threw your hands up, pacing a short step away and then turning back to him.
“Get your head on straight, Rhett. You’re mad because someone else saw me for a second. Because someone else had the nerve to walk over and try his luck while you stood across the yard pretending I didn’t mean a damn thing to you.” He looked away then. Eyes cut to the side. Shoulders rigid. You saw the twitch in his jaw before he finally snapped back, voice low and tight. “He touched you.”
“So?” You asked, “You touch me all the time, and I’m not yours. Or did you forget that?” That landed like a slap. You saw it. Felt it. He inhaled sharply through his nose, chest rising hard beneath his shirt. For a second, you thought maybe he’d storm out. Maybe he’d throw your words back in your face. But he didn’t. He stepped closer, shortening the gap between you. His voice dropped, quiet but harsh–like gravel soaked in honey.
”You think I don’t want you to be mine?” You held your ground, heart pounding, your arms crossed tighter now.
“I think,” You said evenly, “You want me when it’s convenient. When it’s easy. When no one else is looking.” His chest brushed against yours now. You had to tilt your chin up slightly to hold his stare. Rhett shook his head slowly, his chest heaving with a silent breath as he stared down at you. His eyes were burning now–blue flame under tension, desperate and raw.
“You know that’s not true,” He replied, voice low and tight, like it cost him to say it. “Deep down inside we both know it too.” You squinted up at him, your arms still crossed over your chest, your heart slamming hard against your ribs.
“Oh really?” You shot back, voice cracking under the weight of all the things you hadn’t said for months. “Then why haven’t you broken the rules you made for this arrangement, Rhett? Why haven’t you taken the steps to show me you actually want me to be your fucking girl then, huh?” He flinched. Not visibly, not with a jerk or a recoil–but something in his face crumpled, just for a moment. A quiet devastation in the furrow of his brow. In the flicker of regret that passed behind his eyes.
Then–quietly, so quietly you barely caught it–
“Because you’ve never told me that’s what you wanted.”
Your jaw went slack.
For a second, you didn’t speak. Just blinked at him, mouth parting like the air had been punched out of you.
“You’re joking,” You said, voice low, stunned. “You have to be fucking joking.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
And that made you angrier than anything else.
You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, your tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek as your eyes shimmered–not from sadness, not yet, but from something hotter. More volatile.
“I’ve given you signs,” You started, voice shaking now, “Plenty of them, Rhett. Don’t you dare stand in my kitchen and pretend like I haven’t. I’ve been dropping hints for months. I’ve stayed the night even when we said we wouldn’t. I’ve taken care of you when you’ve been beat to hell. I call you when shit goes wrong. I let you hold me when I’m upset, I’ve worn your shirts, I’ve kissed your goddamn forehead like a girlfriend would. And you–” your voice cracked, “You’ve never said a thing.” He stepped forward again, closer, until you were pushed back against the counter and the space between you was nothing but heat and history and every unsaid word that had been boiling over for months.
“I didn’t say anything,” He rasped, “Because I thought if I did, you’d pull away. Because I thought if I asked for more, you’d walk. Because this–this little thing we had–it was the closest to happy I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time, and I didn’t wanna lose it by pushing you into something, or guilting you into it.” His voice broke at the end, soft and strangled. Your throat went tight, and your eyes shimmered.
“I’ve been in love with you for months,” You said, quietly, like it was a sin. “And you’ve been pretending like I’m just another girl you get to hold until you’re bored. You don’t get to do that anymore, Rhett. You don’t get to tell me you’re scared to lose me if you’ve never even tried to have me.” His blue eyes softened. The kind of soft that came right before something broke open. And when he looked at you now, it wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t cloaked in jealousy or bruised pride.
It was wide open.
“I ain’t bored…” He stated, his voice quiet–raw enough to scrape. “I ain’t ever been bored of you.” His hand came up slowly–carefully–as though he thought you might flinch. But you didn’t. You held still, breath caught in your throat as his calloused fingers brushed the side of your face, settling at your neck. His palm cradled the space just under your jaw, rough thumb stroking along the edge like he was trying to memorize the feel of you.
“You drive me goddamn crazy. You’re the only person who’s ever known how to pull me apart and make me feel like I can breathe at the same time.”
Your lips parted, trembling slightly, but you said nothing. Couldn’t.
“And you’ve destroyed me…” He went on, quieter now, like a confession. “In all the best fuckin’ ways.” His thumb slid over your bottom lip, a breath trembling out of his chest.
“I’ve been in love with you since the day we met,” He said, finally, finally breaking open. “And I’ve wasted time tryin’ to convince myself otherwise–doin’ stupid shit like this. These arrangements. This ‘no strings’ bullshit. Tryin’ to get the love I wanted from you without admitting my true feelin’s…Just so I could keep you close.”
You stared up at him, throat aching, eyes shining.
“I didn’t think you’d ever want someone like me in that way,” He murmured, pressing his forehead against yours.
“You idiot,” You whispered, voice breaking, your hands gripping the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the flannel like you needed something to hold you upright. “You fucking idiot.” He let out a quiet, shaky laugh against your skin.
“I know,” He breathed. “I know.” Your eyes fluttered shut, your nose brushing his. He was so close, close in a way that had nothing to do with sex, nothing to do with desperation or adrenaline or fleeting release. He was just there. Honest and broken and entirely yours.
Your breath caught as you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his–hard, aching, desperate.
Rhett groaned into the kiss, like he’d been starved for it. Like he’d been holding this in for far too long. His lips slanted against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. One of your hands fisted in the fabric of his flannel, yanking him impossibly closer, while the other curled against the back of his neck, holding him in place like you’d never let him go again.
He pushed you back a little more, enough that your hips bumped into the edge of the counter. Then, without a single word, he gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted you–effortless and firm. You gasped against his mouth, hands tightening in his shirt, as he placed you on the counter with a solid thud. The cool surface kissed the back of your thighs, and your legs instinctively parted, cradling him between them.
Now you had to tilt your head down slightly to keep kissing him, your fingers already in his hair, dragging through the sweaty strands at the base of his skull. You tugged gently, just enough to make him groan again–a low, ragged sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated between your lips. He kissed like a man drowning. Like he was finally giving in to everything he’d tried to hold back for months. Like he was terrified this might be the last time.
When he pulled back, both of you were breathless. Your lips were kiss-bitten and tingling, your lungs burning with the need to breathe. His chest rose and fell hard, his eyes blown wide with heat. Rhett let out a low, breathless sigh and shook his head, like he couldn’t believe himself. His voice dropped to a gravel-rich growl as his hand slid slow and possessive up your thigh.
“I’m gonna ruin you right here on this fuckin’ counter…” He muttered, fingers tightening on your skin, “and then I’m gonna take you to your room and ruin you there all over again.”
Your breath hitched at his words–at the promise in them, at the heat rolling off him in waves. You leaned forward, kissed him softly–briefly–and whispered against his mouth, “Then what are you waiting for, Cowboy?” He dipped his head to your neck, kissing hot and wet along the sensitive skin. He didn’t start soft. No teasing. No buildup. Just hungry, open-mouthed kisses that dragged up the column of your throat–nipping and biting, tongue licking over the marks he left. You gasped, hands clutching the flannel on his back, arching toward him as his teeth scraped your pulse point and made your breath stutter. His hands came up, calloused fingers tugging at the thin straps of your dress. You let them slip from your shoulders, the silky fabric pooling just enough to reveal your chest to the cool air–and to him. Rhett sucked in a shaky breath and let out a low, reverent groan like he was witnessing something sacred.
“Fuckin’ love seeing these, I couldn’t stop starin’ at them when we were driving to the party.” He dipped his head, mouth latching onto one nipple like he couldn’t hold back a second longer. He sucked hard–hungry, messy–his tongue flicking and swirling over the sensitive peak. You gasped his name, fingers flying into his hair, scratching hard at his scalp as you arched into his mouth.
“Rhett…Fuck–” He grunted against your skin, switching to the other breast, sucking even harder this time, like he was claiming you with his mouth. His hands were everywhere–one gripping your thigh tight, the other cradling your back as he devoured you. Your skin prickled with heat, your body trembling beneath his.
“Your skin always tastes so good,” He growled, voice muffled as he dragged his tongue across your chest. Your nails scraped down his back as your head fell back against the cupboard, thighs clenching around his hips. You were already soaked, throbbing, breathless–and he hadn’t even touched you where you needed him most.
He pulled back, lips wet, chest heaving. His eyes were wild, blue and burning, locked on you like you were the only thing in the world.
“You’re mine,” He muttered, pressing a kiss between your breasts. “All mine.” His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he pushed your dress up–slow, reverent, but with purpose–until the hem bunched around your hips, exposing everything he’d been aching for all night. You felt the cool air kiss your bare heat, the contrast making you shiver, thighs twitching where they bracketed his ribs. The room was quiet except for your shallow breathing and the faint hum of the fridge behind you, but everything else faded into static when he dropped to his knees in front of the counter.
And then he looked up at you.
Face level with your soaked, puffy core, his breath ghosted over your sensitive skin–and those eyes, god, those impossibly blue eyes, they shimmered in the golden kitchen light. They caught on your skin like firelight on silk, glowing with a kind of adoration that made your breath catch.
You reached for him instinctively, cradling his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing along the stubble that scratched at your palms. He closed his eyes at the contact, leaning into it, and then turned his head just enough to kiss your palm–slow, soft, like he was savoring the taste of you on the pads of his lips. He didn’t pull away, not immediately. Instead, he trailed a kiss from your hand to the inside of your thigh, then another, then another–closer, wetter, hungrier.
“Been waitin’ to taste you all fuckin’ night,” He whispered against your skin, his voice thick and gravelly, filled with something feral and sweet. His hands tightened around your thighs, spreading them wider, his shoulders pushing between them until there was no room for anything but him. You gasped, your head falling back slightly as you balanced yourself on the edge of the counter, thighs parted, body trembling.
“Please,” You begged, voice cracking under the weight of want. “Rhett, please–”
He didn’t make you beg again.
He leaned in and buried his face in you with a growl–low, deep, hungry. His tongue dragged through your folds in one long, devastating stroke, and your thighs clamped around his head before you could stop yourself. Your back arched as a moan tore from your throat, hands flying back to tangle in his hair, anchoring him where you needed him most.
“Shit–” You gasped, barely able to breathe. “Rhett–”
He moaned into you, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core. He was slow at first–leisurely, almost taunting–his tongue curling around your clit, teasing it with soft, wet laps until your legs were trembling. And then he flattened his tongue and licked you deeper, harder, messier. Like a man possessed. Like he had been starving for you.
His stubble scratched at the tender skin of your inner thighs, his nose pressed against your mound as he licked you like you were his only salvation. He slipped one hand under your ass to tilt your hips closer to his mouth, the other splayed over your stomach, holding you down when you started to squirm. You were so wet already, and he didn’t let a drop go to waste–licking up everything, moaning into you like he couldn’t get enough.
“Goddamn, you taste so good,” He mumbled, voice muffled against your soaked folds. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever had on my tongue…Like fresh fuckin’ honey.” He pulled back just enough to blow cool air over your clit, watching the way you twitched, feeling the way your nails dug into his hair, your thighs trying to stay wide open even as they trembled from the stimulation. His lips were slick with you, chin glistening in the golden kitchen light as he looked up at you with that crooked, filthy smile that always meant trouble.
“You want my fingers to fill you up?” He rasped, voice low, thick with hunger. One of his calloused hands slid up your trembling thigh, hot and firm, until it settled just shy of where you needed him. “Want me to fuck this pretty pussy with ‘em?” You let out a shaky breath, hips rolling toward him like your body was answering before your mouth could. Your back arched slightly against the counter, and your fingers curled tighter in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
“Use your words,” He growled, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Tell me you want me to fill you up with my fingers.” Your breath caught in your throat. The demand, the look in his eyes–like he’d been starving for this and wouldn’t settle for anything less than full submission–sent a hot shiver down your spine.
“Rhett…” You breathed, your voice wrecked, desperate. “Please…Please fill me up with your fingers. I need them so fucking bad.” He moaned, the sound vibrating between your thighs, and nipped at the soft skin of your inner thigh hard enough to make you jump. You gasped, hands flying to the edge of the counter to brace yourself, your legs already trembling. His mouth found your clit again with no warning, tongue sliding flat and firm across it as his hand finally moved between your folds.
“Fuck—!” you cried, body jerking forward as the stretch caught you off guard, the sudden fullness making your eyes flutter shut. Rhett groaned into your cunt, the sound muffled and greedy, like the taste of you was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
His fingers curled as they plunged deep, slow at first, dragging against your walls while his mouth latched onto your clit. He sucked hard, tongue flicking mercilessly, his hand cradling your hip to hold you in place while his other worked you open.
“Jesus Christ, Rhett…” you gasped, your head falling back, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice. Your fingers yanked at his hair, hard this time, dragging a sharp groan from his throat.
“You’re such a good boy…” You whispered between ragged breaths, your voice cracking at the edges. “Fuck…Just like that, you’re makin’ me feel so good…”
He moaned into you again–desperate, wrecked–and shook his head back and forth against your clit, spreading your slick across his cheeks, smearing it across the scruff on his jaw. His fingers picked up speed, driving into you harder now, knuckles brushing the base of your heat with every stroke. You could hear how wet you were, obscene and messy, every thrust sending hot pulses of pleasure straight through your belly.
“Rhett–” You whimpered, your voice high and broken, “Don’t stop, don’t stop–God, I’m so close–”
He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down.
He growled again, deeper this time, his nose pressed against your mound, tongue flicking rapidly as his fingers pounded into you with a steady, punishing rhythm. His hand twisted slightly, angling just right, and you cried out–loud, helpless–as your body jerked forward and your orgasm began to climb.
You were shaking, legs trembling violently, your vision blurring as you looked down at him. His blue eyes were nearly black now, pupils blown wide with heat, locked on you as if he could feel every twitch of your body.
“I can feel you clenchin’ around me,” He murmured between strokes of his tongue, his voice dark and reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ close, aren’t you?”
You nodded, frantic, a sob bubbling up in your chest. “I…Rhett, I’m gonna–”
“Do it,” He growled, teeth grazing your clit as he thrust his fingers deeper, faster. “Cum for me, darlin’. Make a fuckin’ mess on my hand.”
And with one final curl of his fingers and a sharp flick of his tongue–
You shattered.
You came with a cry, back arching hard, your hands scrambling for anything to hold on to as you pulsed around his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his head and your mouth dropped open in a silent scream, body shaking with the force of it. Rhett didn’t stop–he kept his mouth on you, licking through your release like he was trying to drink you down, groaning and rutting his hips against the air like tasting you made him lose control.
“Fuck…Fuck, Rhett!” You sobbed, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. He pulled his mouth away slowly, dragging his tongue up your folds before kissing your clit one more time–gentle now, almost sweet. His fingers eased out of you, glistening, dripping. He looked wrecked. Wild. His lips were swollen, chin drenched in you, eyes blown wide.
Then he stood, towering over you once more, and held his slick fingers up between you.
“Look at what you did,” He murmured, dragging them into his mouth with a groan. “Tastes even better than I remembered…”
You whimpered, still shaking, thighs sticky and spread, dress bunched around your waist.
He leaned down, kissed you slow, deep–feeding you your own taste from his tongue as he pressed his hard length against your core through his jeans.
“You ready for round two in that bedroom of yours?” He rasped, biting your bottom lip gently.
“Take me there,” You breathed, voice trembling with need. “Now.” He slipped his hands under your thighs, lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing to him. You let out a soft gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms curling around his shoulders. Your pulse fluttered in your throat as he turned on his heel and carried you down the hall. You trailed kisses along the side of his neck, nibbling gently at his salty skin, tasting sweat and firelight and him. His scent clung to you–leather, cedar, and musk–and your hips rolled against his stomach with every step he took.
Your bedroom door was already cracked, golden light spilling onto the floor from the bedside lamp you’d left on earlier, and Rhett didn’t bother to slow down.
He kicked the door open with the toe of his boot. The wood smacked gently against the wall, and then he was inside, crossing the room in long, purposeful strides. You barely had time to inhale before he threw you down onto the mattress with a grunt.
You bounced once–softly, breathlessly–letting out a little surprised gasp as you landed. The bed creaked beneath you, and the air shifted with the sudden motion, the scent of fresh laundry and the faintest trace of lavender rising around you.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair falling wild around your face as you looked up at him.
Rhett was standing at the foot of the bed, chest heaving, eyes burning. He shrugged the worn green fabric off his shoulders, tossing it to the floor in one fluid motion. Then came his white t-shirt–damp with sweat, clinging to his chest in all the right places. He peeled it off slow, dragging it over his head, revealing golden skin dusted with a constellation of freckles that made your chest ache. He was sun-kissed and sweat-slicked and absolutely flawless. He wasn’t just handsome. He was rugged and real and raw. The kind of man who didn’t try to hide his scars or smooth out his edges. The kind of man who looked like summer heat and rodeo dust and aching, bone-deep need.
Your eyes drank him in–the defined muscles of his stomach, the dip of his hips, the faint trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Your lips parted as your gaze roamed, a smile curving against your face.
”Always look fucking amazing Rhett.” His lips curved into a crooked smirk, but there was heat behind it. Need. Adoration.
“This is all yours, darlin’,” He rasped, voice low and full of promise. “Always has been.”
You sat up slowly, the silk of your dress shifting against your skin as you reached for the hem. You pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, the fabric slipping from your body. You let the dress fall beside the bed, letting your thighs spread slightly, your body glowing under the soft lamp light. You watched him watching you, eyes tracing every inch of your naked form, and you saw the way his throat bobbed, the way his chest rose like he was struggling to keep from falling to his knees again.
He held himself together just long enough to unbuckle his belt, the soft clink of metal echoing through the warm bedroom like a promise. His fingers moved with quiet urgency–undoing the button of his jeans, pushing both denim and boxers down his thick bull rider thighs in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, already aching for the place it belonged most. You swallowed hard at the sight of it–thick and glistening at the tip, veins prominent, twitching slightly with every heartbeat.
Rhett braced his knees on the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight, and the way he looked at you–like a starving man about to sink his teeth into a feast–made your entire body tighten with anticipation.
“Turn over for me, darlin’,” He rasped, his voice rough with desire. “Wanna see that ass of yours.” You licked your lips and obeyed without hesitation, rolling onto your stomach, the sheets cool against your heated skin. You shifted slowly, arching your hips, pressing your chest down to the mattress as your knees slid apart to make room for him. Your breath caught as you felt the air on your slick, swollen folds, and your spine tingled with every inch you exposed to him.
Rhett groaned behind you, deep and guttural, like the sight of you was too much to take.
“Fuckin’ hell…” He muttered, and then you felt his rough hands on you–calloused palms kneading at your ass, massaging the soft flesh with reverence and need. He squeezed, spreading your cheeks apart just to look, just to watch how you pulsed around nothing.
”God you’re so fuckin’ soaked,” He whispered, leaning forward, his breath hot on your lower back. His thumbs dipped just below your folds, spreading you open even further, and you gasped when the air touched your dripping entrance. His lips pressed to your skin, and you shivered at the feel of him kissing a slow, open trail across your back–tongue dragging along your spine, stubble scratching faintly as he worshipped his way down.
“You’ve got no idea what this does to me,” He moaned between licks. “Seein’ you like this…Spread out, waitin’ for me.” You pressed your cheek against the sheets, hands curling into the covers.
Then finally you felt the hot, hard weight of his cock nudge between your thighs. The head dragged slowly through your folds, catching on your clit before slipping down, spreading your slick across his length as he rutted against you with lazy, teasing strokes. You tried to push back, tried to angle your hips to take him inside, but Rhett gripped your waist with both hands and stilled you with a low, warning growl.
“Uh uh,” He muttered, his voice close to a snarl. “You’re gonna take it slow, baby. You’re gonna feel every inch.” He rubbed the thick head of his cock against your entrance, pressing just barely inside, enough to stretch you open but not fill you.
You whimpered, hips twitching. “Please, Rhett…”
He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening.
“That’s it,” He murmured, “Beg for it. You were teasin’ me all night in that little dress, flashin’ those breasts, leavin’ me hard in the truck with your panties in my goddamn pocket.” He pushed in deeper–just a little–and your mouth dropped open with a sharp gasp. You were so wet he slid in with a slow, obscene glide, and still, he stopped halfway.
“Tell me whose pussy this is,” He growled, voice rough and tight with restraint. “Tell me who makes you feel this fuckin’ good.”
“You, Rhett,” You moaned, eyes squeezing shut, tears prickling from the fullness. “It’s yours. Always been yours.” And then–with a low groan–he sank in all the way, until his hips pressed flush against your ass. Your back arched, your legs trembling as the stretch overwhelmed your senses. He was thick and hot and so deep you could feel him in your stomach.
“Fuck, you take me so good,” He gritted out, stilling inside you, letting you adjust. His hands caressed your hips, then slid up your sides, fingertips dancing along your ribs. You whimpered into the sheets, your body trembling from the stretch, and Rhett leaned down to kiss the curve of your spine again.
”You’re such a good girl,” He whispered against your skin, “You take me so fuckin’ well.” And then he pulled out slowly, dragging along your walls, before thrusting back in with a deep, satisfying grind that made you cry out–
“Rhett…Oh my god–”
“I got you,” He growled, hands tightening on your waist. “Ain’t lettin’ go now.” Rhett’s hips rolled with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust thick and unrelenting, pressing so deep you swore you could feel him in your throat. The head of his cock kissed your cervix with every grind, dragging a loud moan out of your chest as your cheek pressed harder into the sheets. He moaned low behind you, the sound feral and full of heat, like he couldn’t help himself–like the grip of your pussy around him was sending him straight out of his mind.
“That’s it, baby,” He rasped, voice thick and husky, “Goddamn, you’re so tight…Fuckin’ squeezin’ me…” You moaned, dizzy, hips rolling back into him on instinct, chasing the friction with everything you had. The drag of his cock through your soaked heat was overwhelming–too much, not enough, perfect–and you could barely breathe around it.
“Rhett–” You whimpered, fingers curling tight into the sheets. “Feels so fucking good–I can’t–”
He leaned over you then, chest pressed to your back, his sweat-slick skin burning hot against yours. One hand slid beneath your body, gripping your forearm just as your own reached back, clinging to him like you’d fall apart if you didn’t anchor yourself to his body. His mouth brushed your ear, voice dark and ragged.
“You feel that, darlin’? That’s me fuckin’ you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” His other hand gripped your hip, bruising in its strength, dragging your ass back onto every slow, brutal thrust. The sound of your bodies–wet, filthy, loud–echoed through the room, joined by your soft, desperate cries and the deep, growling grunts from Rhett’s chest.
You turned your head on the mattress, your cheek dragging against the fabric, eyes glazed as they found his over your shoulder. The fire in them–pure, blue, blown wide–nearly stole your breath.
“Look at me,” he ordered, thrusting deep again, holding it, grinding just enough to make your stomach clench. “Wanna see your face when I ruin you.”
You moaned brokenly, your free hand shooting back to grab at his wrist again. “Fuck…Rhett…please–” He was smiling now–hungry and possessive and glowing with sweat, the tendons in his neck taut with restraint.
“Yeah, that’s it. Show me that pretty face when I fuck you stupid.” Then he pulled out slow…All the way to the tip…And slammed back in hard enough to jolt a cry from your lungs.
“Rhett!” You gasped, overwhelmed, eyes fluttering, tears stinging as your thighs trembled.
“You gonna cum again on my cock, sweetheart?” He panted, slamming into you again, the rhythm now faster, messier, the sound of your slick louder, wetter. “Gonna soak me while I fill you up?”
“Yes…Fuck…Yes, I’m gonna cum…”
“Then turn over,” He growled, voice guttural as he pulled out of you with a wet, sinful sound. “Turn over for me, baby–wanna see that face when you finish around my cock.” You rolled without hesitation, back hitting the mattress, hair fanned wild around you. Your chest heaved with every breath, breasts flushed and glistening, your thighs still trembling as you spread them wide for him again, raw and wanting.
Rhett climbed over you, eyes blazing, and when he guided his cock back to your entrance, he didn’t waste time. He pushed in deep with a groan, bottoming out inside you in one smooth stroke that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.
His hands gripped your thighs and pushed them up, bending you in half, the new angle perfect–too perfect. You sobbed his name as his hips snapped into you, every thrust now hitting a spot that made your toes curl.
“That’s my girl,” He panted, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his hairline onto your chest. “This pussy’s mine, ain’t it?”
“Yes!” You cried, fingernails digging into his arms. “Fuck–it’s yours, Rhett, it’s all yours–”
“Say it again,” He growled, fucking you harder now, faster, the headboard slamming faintly into the wall. “Say it while I’m deep inside you–say it while I fill you up.”
“It’s yours…Yours…Fuck, Rhett, please cum inside me, I want it–need it–”
He snarled something low and incoherent, and then grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers and pinning it above your head.
You watched his face–the way it twisted in pleasure, the way his eyes fluttered shut just for a second before locking back on yours, hungry and vulnerable all at once.
Then he leaned down, kissed you hard, and fucked you so deep and fast you saw stars.
“Gonna fill this pussy with all of my cum…” He whispered against your lips, voice thick and trembling. “Wanna see it dripping down your thighs when I’m done.” You whimpered, back arching, and that was it–that was what tipped you over the edge.
Your orgasm tore through you like wildfire, your walls clenching tight, soaking him as you sobbed into his kiss, body thrashing beneath his. Rhett cursed–loud and filthy–and then with a final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, hips shaking as he came deep inside you with a broken moan, his hot cum filling you up in multiple streaks.
“Fuck…Fuck…baby–”
You held him through it, clinging to his arms, to his back, to anything you could reach. He stayed buried inside you, trembling, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.
His forehead dropped to yours, and all he could muster to say was “I love you so fuckin’ much Y/N.”
You reached up and cupped his face, dragging your nails along his scalp.
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