RHETT ANYTHING PLEASE!!! RHETT ARMPIT RHETT AND PREACHER’S DAUGHTER RHETT ANYTHING (that’s my request)
“You think you smart?” Rhett grapples you, hands bruising into your upper arms as he hauls you into the house. The screen door slams behind you, followed by the heavy solid oak inside door, blocking out the humid night air. “You think you fuckin’ smart, huh?”
You messed up. You know you messed up. But- “Rhett,”
“You keep your mouth shut!” He shouts, shoving you down onto the couch. He stands over you, snatching the hat off his head and tossing it onto the coffee table. “You got any idea what coulda happened to you tonight? Do you?”
His accent is nice and thick when he’s worked up like this.
“Rhett,” You say again, softer.
“You ain’t got no idea.” Rhett seethes. “No clue. You wanted your fun, riling me up after a ride, haha. You cannot walk up into the bar lookin’ like- like this. You brat.”
In your defense, it’s an undeniably good outfit. The shortest black shorts you could possibly find and a low cut blouse to match with a little bow on the front. The white lace of your panties hovers just above the waistband of your shorts. There’s worn cowboy boots on your feet, stretching up to your calves.
You’re hot. And that’s Rhett’s issue.
“Had everyone lookin’ at you,” Rhett says quietly, gazing down at you with dark eyes. “Thinkin’ about you. God knows what.”
And that does it. Rhett’s on you in seconds, shoving heavy, calloused, hot hands under blouse and up your sides over your ribs, yanking your bra down your stomach. His mouth is on yours, on your cheek, your neck, down to the too-much-skin showing of your breasts. You’re plush now. Chubby, even, soft around the edges. Rhett has been feeding you too good.
Rhett’s on your thighs. Thick and soft. He’s hard in his stupid starched jeans, tenting the fabric in harsh shadows.
“You are mine,” He promises into your skin. “Lemme show you.”
And, well, that’s enough for you.
