My Only Ghost
Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!
Summary: After not talking to you for a few weeks, Rhett randomly shows up at your door asking if you can patch him up.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Jealous (light)/Protective Rhett, Mentions/Descriptions of Bruises, Cuts, and Blood, Reader patches Rhett up (Cleans off his wounds), Mentions of Parental Loss (Brief), Emotionally Tense. Reader and Rhett are Friends, A few Derogatory Comments made by a male character (not Rhett) about Reader
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Face Grinding, Breast/Nipple Play, Biting, Scratching, Licking, Light Choking, Finger Sucking, Spit and Drool, Hair Pulling, Messy Sex? Emotional Sex? Sensual Sex? Yes, Yes, and Yeeeeessss. Overstimulation, Aftercare, Dirty Talk
Author’s Note: Y’all I love protective Rhett and writing that side of him is fun as hell. Anyways! I hope you enjoyed it <3 HAPPY (LATE) RAF :D (got delayed cause life happened, but! Glad to get this out :))
Word Count: 13,550
The Districts · You Know I'm Not Going Anywhere · Song · 2020
You were in your trailer watching television, though nothing on the screen was truly registering with you. The low blue glow cast flickered shadows across the narrow living room, bathing the walls in quiet movement. Some late-night rerun of a cooking show hummed in the background–muted, and forgotten. It was a show that you’d seen a hundred times but left on just to feel like you weren’t completely alone.
It was late. Past one in the morning at least. Time had started to bleed together recently, the days blurring into nights with little distinction beyond the change in light. You sat curled up on the worn corner of your couch in a robe, with just a pair of underwear underneath. Your legs were tucked beneath you and a half-finished cup of tea was cooling on the windowsill beside you. The steam had long since faded, leaving behind nothing but a bitter scent of over-steeped chamomile and peppermint.
Your paperwork was spilled out across the coffee table like an avalanche–receipts, ledgers, invoices, all creased and stained from too many cups of coffee being set down on them. You had been bringing your work home for weeks now, trying to juggle the impossible balance between running the storefront, managing inventory, keeping the lights on, and remembering to eat more than a granola bar before bed, and you had found a new appreciation for how your father was able to run things on his own until he passed away. The stress clung to you like humidity–thick and inescapable, pressing into your chest, robbing you of rest. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain kept churning through numbers and to-do lists, and it was like all you could see were bright stick notes with your chicken scratch handwriting scrawled across it. Sleep wasn’t rest anymore–it was a negotiation. One you continuously lost.
And without anyone to talk to, you had turned inward. Become a recluse. You hadn’t stepped foot inside a bar in nearly a month, hadn’t gotten a text from anyone that wasn’t related to work or bills. The silence in your trailer had grown into something bigger than space. It was a constant presence now. Something that sat beside you at your kitchen table and climbed into bed with you when the lights went off.
You were alone.
And that has always been your greatest fear. Not spiders, not failure–just that one aching truth
Being alone. Being without your people.
Or more accurately–now that both your parents are gone–being without your person.
Because Rhett Abbott, without warning or explanation, had decided weeks ago that he didn’t want to talk to you anymore. He had not ghosted you so much as completely vanished. One day he was there–half-laughing at his own dumb joke with a beer in one hand and his other arm slung around the back of your couch, the scent of dust, and saddle soap clinging to his clothes–and then the next…He was gone. No text. No call. No drunken voicemail asking if you were still up. No late-night truck in your driveway with a bag of takeout and that crooked smirk like he hadn’t just made your chest feel too tight for its bones.
It had all just…Stopped.
You had gone over the last day you saw him like it was a crime scene. Playing it back in your head on repeat, searching for the metaphorical bloodstains, cracks, and warnings. Was there something off about his expression that morning? Something strange in the way he lingered at your door, or the way he avoided looking you in the eye when he said see you later? Did you say something too sharp? Too honest? Too serious?
Was it all your fault?
That question had dug its claws in and refused to let go. Every little memory of Rhett over the past few months had taken on new, sharper edges. You tried to remember the warmth, but all you found were shadows of what once was.
Your eyes drifted to your phone resting face down on the arm of the couch. Still. Quiet. Not a single notification. You had not realized how long you’d been waiting for it to buzz until that moment. Like some part of you still hoped his name might light up the screen. But it hadn’t.
And then–
Three hard knocks echoed on your trailer door.
Your head snapped toward the sound, spine going stiff as your eyes locked on the door. Tuning into the sound of gravel. The crunch of it under boots. Faint and retreating. Of someone backing away.
You stood slowly, tightening the sash of your robe with a jerk and instinctively hugging it closer to your body. Your bare legs prickled in the chilled air as you crept toward the narrow window right beside the couch, peeking through the blinds with your heart in your throat, already halfway between panic and absolute terror, then the person came into your line of sight.
”What the fuck,” You whispered, before you even had time to process it.
You stormed over to the door and yanked it open so hard it banged against your wall, the rusted hinges squealing in protest, You stepped barefoot onto the warped wood of your makeshift porch, the cold biting into your toes, but you didn’t feel it.
You were too busy staring down at him.
Because Rhett Abbott had moved off the porch like he didn’t deserve to stand on it. Like he had come all this way just to keep his distance.
He stood on the gravel, a little hunched, arms hanging loose at his sides. His red and black flannel was torn at the shoulder, sleeves rolled halfway up to reveal the stark white of the shirt beneath–white that was now soaked through with dull red stains, deepening at the wrists. His knuckles were split open, swollen and scraped raw. You could tell he had tried to make fists, maybe out of habit, maybe from the nerves that wracked his body, but he couldn’t fully close them. The skin was too busted, too painful.
There were bruises forming on his cheekbones and there was a smear of dried blood caking at the corner of his mouth. His bottom lip was split open, puffed and cracked. Someone had gotten a few good hits in. You weren’t sure if he gave worse than he took, but judging by the defensive wounds, you had a good guess.
He wasn’t wearing a hat. That struck you more than it should’ve.
His hair–light brown and usually slicked back with some effort–was a mess. Disheveled. Like he had run his hands through it over and over, clawed at it while pacing or fighting or falling apart in some parking lot with a girl clinging to him. It curled slightly at the ends from sweat and dirt, catching the light like static.
And then there were his eyes.
Dark blue in the limited lighting. Tired. Fixed on you with an expression you couldn’t name. Not guilt exactly, not regret either. But something knotted and desperate that he had buried within his chest. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he had been running for hours with no destination–just the ache of some invisible thing chasing after him.
And now, here he was.
You stood at the top of the steps, arms crossed tight over your chest. Holding yourself together. Making sure you didn’t fold just because he finally showed up. His gaze dropped for a second–at your bare feet, the edge of your robe brushing your thighs, then quickly returned back up to you. His jaw flexed, and he winced at the sharp pain that jolted through the bone, before he spoke.
”Hey…” He rasped. His voice was almost unrecognizable. Dry. Guttural. Like it had been scraped raw from shouting or swallowed down over and over again until it hurt to speak. He gulped, but it didn’t help. You could see it–his Adam’s apple bobbing like his throat was made of sandpaper.
His eyes flicked up to yours again, lingering a second too long, and then dipped to the robe wrapped around your frame like linens from your bed. He felt almost ashamed for noticing, but the thought had already crossed his mind, the burning question of if you were wearing anything under it.
He blinked hard, and chased the thought out of his head like a moth in a room full of candles. But then he saw your face and whatever ghost of want had flickered in his chest was crushed by the look you were giving him. The anger. The rage. The bitterness you’d been holding onto for weeks that had come rising to the surface; from the unanswered questions, to the sleepless nights, born from the silence he had left you in.
And it twisted your expression into something he didn’t have the right to be wounded by…But it hit him anyways.
”What the fuck are you doing here, Rhett?” Your voice came out more levelled than you expected, smooth and tight like a wire pulled taut between two stubborn hands. But it didn’t hide the way your chest rose and fell, too fast, like your lungs were trying to catch up with the sight in front of you. The wind cut low and suddenly through the clearing, curling up the hem of your robe and brushing against your thighs. You shivered, teeth clenching as goosebumps prickled along your skin–but you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. You just kept your arms locked across yourself, hoping the ache in your sternum wouldn’t be detected.
Rhett’s face immediately twisted into a look of guilt, the kind that came from realizing he might’ve broken something he couldn’t fix. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his boots grinding against the sand and gravel in a nervous rhythm.
“Got into a bar fight,” He muttered, voice cracking halfway through, “Then I walked here.” You stared at him, jaw tense, eyes locking onto his face. Depending on which bar he had this fight at, the walk was definitely more than half an hour. Your trailer wasn’t really near much, so that meant he trekked through the pitch black streets to make it to you, only lit by passing headlights of cars. A part of you hated how much you felt for him in that moment, but you held your ground.
Rhett’s fingers rose to his mouth as a fresh droplet of blood slid from the corner of his lip. He caught it with the pads of them, smearing it absently over his freckled, sun-kissed cheek like it was an afterthought. It stood out against his skin like ink on a page.
”Figured you could put that first aid trainin’ to good use and patch me up,” He added with a weak half-smile–like it might soften the blow. Like the joke could erase the last three weeks.
But you didn’t laugh, nor did you crack a smirk.
Instead, your eyes narrowed, and your arms pressed tighter to your body, the cotton of your robe twisting at your elbows like you needed something to hold onto just to keep from shaking, or from adding to the bruises with a smack.
”What makes you think I want to help you after you’ve been radio silent for weeks and pretending I don’t exist when you pass me in town?” You asked, voice low and sharp. There was venom in your words, the kind that built quietly under your tongue, waiting for the moment it could finally spit itself out. Rhett cleared his throat.
“Because deep down…You still care ‘bout me and my wellbein’. And ‘cause…” He gestured to himself with one battered hand, half-lifting it before grimacing at the pain, “I don’t think I can walk back to the bar in this condition.” You stared at him. That same tight wire of emotion hummed low in your chest–rage, hurt, disbelief–but threaded beneath it, almost painfully, was the truth. Because he was right. Some dark, stubborn part of you still cared. Still ached. Still couldn’t stand the sight of him bleeding. You let out a huff.
”Well. I guess you better get used to sleeping on gravel then,” You snapped, spinning on your heel, “Cause I’m not letting you in.” You grabbed for the doorknob, the cold metal stinging against your fingers–but before you could twist it, his voice came again, quieter this time. Raw and ragged with something close to regret.
”Those three weeks were hard for me too, y’know…” Your spine went rigid, “Not a…” He swallowed hard to try and cure the dryness in his throat, “Not a day went by where I wasn’t thinkin’ of you, Y/N.” You froze. The wind picked up again, slicing through you with cold that had nothing on the heat blooming under your skin. You turned back toward him sharply, your voice trembling–not with weakness, but with pressure. With fury that had been corked too long.
”So why the fuck did you do it then, Rhett?” Your voice rising like the storm you’d been holding back for weeks, “Why did you leave me like that when you knew what I was going through?! When you knew I had no one left?!” Your throat burned. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart felt like it was trying to tear free of your ribs. Rhett looked like he’d just been punched again. He winced–not from the pain in his ribs or his split lip, but from you. From your words. From the truth in them. He dropped his gaze, jaw tight, then shook his head slowly. Not to deny you. Not to run again. But because he knew.
”There’s no excuse,” He said finally, voice hoarse, “None.” His eyes lifted again, locking with yours. For the first time all night, they weren’t guarded. They weren’t darting around or shadowed or cast to the floor.
They were bare.
”But I can give you an explanation,” He continued, “It may not fix it…But maybe it’ll make you understand.” He stepped forward once–just one pace closer to your porch, staying outside the boundary–but close enough now that you could see the cracks. Not just the ones on his knuckles or his face. But the ones in him.
”Please just let me in, Y/N,” He said, voice breaking on your name, “I promise, I’ll tell you everythin’.” The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at him. At his ruined hands. The bruises blooming across his cheeks. The blood that was still drying at the corner of his mouth, and that slipped from his busted lip. At the man who disappeared without a word and then showed up like this–wrecked and wrecking you all over again.
Part of you wanted to scream. Part of you wanted to slam the door in his face and let the gravel teach him a lesson. But an even bigger part–the one that had gone quiet lately, the part that missed the sound of his laugh in your trailer and the way his boots used to creak on your floorboards–wanted to drag him inside and hold him until he fucking shattered. To embrace him and his warmth–the thing you truly missed the most.
You inhaled slowly, the cold night air burning the back of your throat.
Then you opened the door again.
Wider this time.
You didn’t say anything.
You didn’t have to.
Because Rhett stepped forward, climbing the steps, slow and careful, like crossing into the threshold of your trailer meant crossing into something holy. Something he didn’t deserve–but was praying he could still touch.
He stepped inside, bloodied and broken, and the door closed softly behind him.
The warmth of your trailer wrapped around Rhett the second he entered, soft and heavy like a wool blanket that was left too long by the heater. It clung to him with a quiet intimacy, starkly different from the sharp night wind he had dragged in on his shoulders. His body sagged the moment the tension began to bleed from it–boots thudding as he kicked them off, one after the other, using the faded paneling of your wall for balance. He leaned his weight there for a second, just to breathe.
The trailer wasn’t big, but it held you in every crevice. That was the first thing Rhett felt again, because you lived in the details of everything: the pair of worn cowboy boots by the door, the chipped enamel mug by the sink, the crooked magnet with the Wabang Rodeo Logo on the fridge, all your photos with your mother and father, and with his family as well. The linoleum was peeling near the corners, but the space was warm, scented faintly of the peppermint and chamomile tea that Rhett always made for you when he came over, fabric softener, and something so distinctly you it almost knocked him over–the smell of strawberry fields, or sweet summer air when the ground cooled down after a long day of burning beneath the sun.
The overhead light flickered when you stepped into the kitchen, casting a soft amber glow across the space. It was one of those old, yellowed incandescents that made everything look like a memory. The bulb buzzed slightly, just under the hum of the refrigerator.
Rhett watched you move.
You didn’t say a word when you reached for the first aid kit beneath the sink. You just placed it on the scarred wood of the kitchen table and pulled out one of the mismatched chairs–old, dark-stained, and creaking with use. You motioned to it, not looking at him.
”Sit down,” You muttered, voice low, “Let me get you a bag of peas for your face.” He nodded once, sheepish and sore, and crossed the trailer in stiff steps. His back curved slightly as he lowered himself onto the chair, hissing quietly when the pain lit up his spine–like hot embers sizzling on an open flame. The kitchen table groaned under his weight, and his hands braced the edge for a moment, knuckles raw and trembling.
You bent toward the old freezer chest in the corner–one of those blocky white ones that had probably been here since the early 2000s–and popped it open with your hip. The cold air fogged around your thighs as you reached inside. Rhett’s eyes followed the curve of your robe, the tension in your shoulders as you grabbed the first thing you touched. The bag of frozen green peas.
The lid shut with a soft thud.
You turned and walked back over, pressing the bag into his calloused hand. His fingers curled around it on instinct.
“Ice it,” You instructed, your tone clipped, motioning to his face. You dropped into the chair beside him at the head of the table, close–but not close enough for comfort. Your arms crossed again over your chest. Your jaw locked tight. You didn’t look at him right away. Just watched the grain of the wood.
He brought the frozen bag to his cheek, the coldness kissing the heat that bloomed on his skin. It made him flinch, and a sharp reluctant hiss slipped past his teeth as the chill sank into the swelling. You didn’t say anything, you just watched him from the corner of your eye, the muscles in his face flinching when he adjusted the bag to try and cover more surface area. He noticed, and felt your stare like a wire tightening across his neck.
“I don’t know where to start…” You finally said, “I have a lot of questions.” Rhett lowered the bag an inch and turned his head, blue eyes glancing toward yours. They were a little glassy now. Not from pain. From the weight of what was coming.
“Maybe we start simple,” He muttered, voice hoarse, but steady for once. “Then go from there.” You gave a small nod, bouncing your leg beneath the table out of nervousness, the fridge rattling from how fast it was moving.
”Why did you stop talking to me?” You asked, flat and simple, keeping your voice in check, making sure it was sturdy. You could see the way Rhett clenched his jaw. He inhaled deeply, slow and steady, and shifted the bag of peas from one cheek to the other. The muscles in his arm tensed when the cold made contact again, and he closed his eyes tightly for a moment, breathing through the ache. When they opened again, they landed on you–and they didn’t waver this time.
“I stopped talkin’ to you,” He began, voice gravel-soft, “Because I saw you at the bar…With David Fairvale.” The name landed like a stone in your gut. You blinked, your brows furrowing slightly as your throat dried. You hadn’t expected that.
Your brain reeled at the mentioning of his name, automatically being taken to the night in question. You had deliberately chosen a different bar than the usual ones Rhett frequented, thinking it was safer that way. It had been a one-off. A maybe-date. A shot in the dark you hadn’t even mentioned to your best friend because you didn’t want to jinx it. Because deep down, even then, it hadn’t felt real. David was someone you met at your store, a regular your father always used to mention in good spirits, continuously hinting that he would be a great guy for you, a perfect match–even though he was oftentimes gunning for Rhett. You never batted an eye at him until he asked you to have a drink with him at a bar of your choice, and because all you had was your fathers voice in your head, you wanted to give it a try–do something that you hadn’t done for him when he was still alive…
“I saw you laughing with him,” Rhett continued, quieter now, eyes lowered to the table like he couldn’t bear to meet yours, “You were holdin’ his arm. You looked…Happy.” There was something agonizing in the way he said that last word. Like it wounded him just to recall it, “Happier than you’d been in a while. And I didn’t wanna ruin that for you. Didn’t wanna be the reason you couldn’t have that.” You didn’t say anything, and you stayed frozen in your spot. But your heart cracked, right down the center. Rhett turned his face to the side, almost ashamed.
“Every time you’ve gotten yourself a boyfriend, it always ends with you breakin’ up because of me. And I thought maybe this time–maybe you’d finally get somethin’ good. Somethin’ easy. Somethin’ I couldn’t fuck up just by bein’ in your life…” Your hands curled tightly into the fabric of your robe in your lap. He wasn’t wrong. You had ended more than one relationship over him. But not because of anything he did–not directly. Your partners hated him, resented him, didn’t understand why you always dropped things to go see Rhett when he called, didn’t get why you let him into your trailer at one in the morning, or why you laughed harder with him than with anyone else. They didn’t get that Rhett wasn’t just another guy. He was…Everything.
He had always been your person. Even when he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.
”I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t think it would even become something,” You explained, “And evidently it didn’t cause I only went on one other date with him and ended it…But you didn’t even give me a chance to explain that. You just left without a word and ignored me.” You added, voice trembling out of hurt.
“I know.” He dropped the bag of peas onto the table with a soft thud and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hands were curled in front of him, raw and trembling from the tension the bruises created. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I saw you smilin’ like that and I just…Panicked. I felt like I’d overstayed my welcome in your life. Like maybe I’d been selfish for holdin’ onto you for so long and bein’ dead weight.” You shook your head slowly, heart hammering in your chest
”Rhett…” You started, voice cracking on his name, “You’re not dead weight. Christ–you’re not even close to that. You’ve been there for me through thick and thin, and you’ve seen me at my rock bottom. How could you possibly think that way?” He shifted in the chair, looking small for the first time in his life. His shoulders slumped like the words landed heavier than any punch he’d taken earlier. His voice came quieter this time, raw and vulnerable.
“I…I don’t know. It was just a feelin’ I got…” You bit the inside of your cheek and looked down at your lap, blinking away the sting in your eyes.
“Well…Your feelings were wrong,” You whispered. “And you ended up hurting me in the process of your overthinking.” He nodded, slow and solemn, his head bowing until he was staring at the blood-streaked denim of his jeans. You could see the tension still working along the curve of his neck, the same one you used to rest your head against during late-night movies and slow drives down country roads. Now it just looked heavy–like his shame had sunk into his spine.
”And I’m sorry for that, Y/N,” He said, “And I’m going to be tryin’ to make it up to you for a long time…” Your lashes fluttered. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone anywhere, but it had shifted. Softened slightly. Just enough to let breath in. You glanced down at his hands, at the trembling fingers and busted knuckles, bruises blooming dark along the ridge of each bone like flowers in rot.
There was a silence, intimate and pulsing, before you let out a breath and leaned forward. You opened your first aid kit with practiced hands, snapping the latch and lifting the lid. The contents were familiar–cotton swabs, gauze rolls, butterfly closures, antiseptic spray, tape, a dull pair of scissors, a tube of numbing cream tucked into the corner. You looked back at Rhett.
”Let me see them.” His head rose slightly, blinking like he didn’t expect the shift in the tone in your voice. You motioned towards his hands, “I’ve got some numbing cream that might help ease the pain a bit…First I gotta clean them though.” He hesitated, then offered you his right hand first, stiff and slow like lifting it hurt. His fingers were curled slightly inward, the joints swollen, the skin cracked and bloodied. You took it carefully, turning it palm up in your own hands, cradling it like something fragile.
The calluses were still there, still solid beneath the bruises–ranch boy hands. Familiar hands. You ran your thumb gently over his wrist, just to steady him before you reached for the antiseptic.
“This might sting,” You warned.
“I think I can take it,” He rasped.
You met his eyes, and something flickered there–just a spark of the old Rhett, stubborn and proud. It made your heart twist.
You soaked a cotton pad and began to dab the worst of the cuts. He flinched at first, then relaxed beneath your touch, exhaling slowly as your fingers worked with gentle care. The trailer was quiet save for the rustle of gauze, and Rhett’s quiet breaths. Each touch lingered longer than necessary–your thumb smoothing down the side of his wrist, the back of your fingers brushing his palm as you adjusted the angle.
When you finished cleaning the worst of the wounds, you reached for the numbing cream and unscrewed the cap. The scent was faintly medicinal, clean and cool, minty even. You squeezed a small dollop onto your fingers and gently began to work it into his knuckles, rubbing in slow, circular motions.
His breath hitched. Not in pain.
In something else…Something close to relief.
“So…Are you going to tell me how this all happened?” Rhett hummed low in his throat, leaning back slightly as you took his other hand into yours. It was just as bad–if not worse. The knuckles looked more raw, and there was a patch of gravel embedded near the base of his thumb that would need careful attention. You reached for a fresh cotton pad, letting your thumb brush over the ridge of his palm, grounding him.
“It’s…A very long story,” He muttered, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your voice steady despite the tremor it carried. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon…So enlighten me.” He let out a sigh.
”Okay…” He whispered.
————————
Rhett had gone to The Hollow looking to take his mind off of you. This had been a normal occurrence for the past three weeks since he had stopped talking to you.
Alcohol gave him a way to fill the emptiness–the gaping hole that your absence left within him. Three weeks of drowning in silence, in guilt, in the ache of not knowing if he had done the right thing by stepping back and knowing it was a stupid decision.
When he arrived he wasn’t looking for trouble. Just something to make the night pass easier. A few quiet drinks. Maybe some polite small talk with the waitress, maybe not. He was planning to people-watch from a corner booth until closing time, then he would call Perry to come haul his sorry ass home.
But then he walked up to the bar, and he saw him.
David Fairvale.
The face he wasn’t expecting to see. He was posted up with two of his friends, leaning against the bar like he owned the place. His dark brown hair was slicked back under a sweat-stained ball cap, a scruffy beard patching his jaw unevenly. His nose was sharp and a little crooked–probably broken once and left to set wrong–and his cheekbones jutted out under tanned, leather like skin. His eyes were a deep rich brown, but there was something behind them, behind the fake kindness. And when he smiled, a few crooked teeth peeked out.
He was all bark. All ignorance. And an absolute fraud, because his true personality was out tonight.
Rhett kept his head low, ordered his beer in a little muttered voice, and tried to pretend that David wasn’t three stools down from him.
But then he heard it.
That voice. Too loud. Too sure of itself. Laced with drunken confidence and ugly cruelty.
”A bitch in grief is also a bitch in heat. She lost her Daddy, meanin’ she was in search of a replacement, am I right?’ Rhett stopped breathing and time seemed to stretch and warp around him, the buzzing lights of the bar dimming behind a white-hot haze of rage. Because he knew that David was talking about you.
Almost instantly, Rhett made his way over to where he sat, and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him off balance so hard that the barstool clattered to the floor behind him. The room jerked with sudden energy–pool cues stilled mid-stroke, conversation fizzled like a flame snuffed out, and all that remained was the sharp scrape of boots across old wood and the low growl that left Rhett’s throat as he slammed David’s back into the edge of the bar.
The impact echoed. A hollow, painful sound that reverberated off the walls and quieted even the jukebox in the back.
David’s friends flinched, eyes wide, half-stepping forward like they might intervene–then immediately backed off when Rhett turned his glare on them. There was something in his eyes, in the feral tightness of his jaw, that made them hesitate. He was burning. Rage smoldering through him like kindling had been soaked in gasoline and struck with a match.
David, to his credit–or maybe to his idiocy–smirked.
“Abbott,” he croaked, lips curling around the blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth, from where his teeth had sunk into his own skin when he was slammed into the edge of the bar, “Fancy seein’ you here.” He shifted slightly in Rhett’s grip, boots barely touching the floor, body pinned tight between him and the bar.
“Seems like you wanna stand up for your little fuckin’ Buckle Bunny now, huh?” His voice was slick with venom, a taunt coiled in every syllable. “You wasted her time stringin’ her along like some sad bastard and she got sick and tired of waitin’ around for your sorry ass and came to little old me.”
Rhett’s grip tightened.
David grinned wider, even as his windpipe strained against the pressure.
“And now you wanna be all macho?” he rasped. “Now you give a shit? It’s too fuckin’ late, cowboy. Fuckin’ pussy.”Rhett’s lips peeled back from his teeth, his nose practically brushing David’s. His voice came low. Lethal. Unmoving.
“You say one more fuckin’ thing about her,” He snarled, “and I will break your fuckin’ face, Fairvale. I’ll catch a charge. You just say the words.”
David laughed. Short. Nasty. Blood and whiskey already staining his breath.
“She came cryin’ to me,” He spat. “When you ghosted her like a coward. Beggin’ for my attention on her hands and knees like a fuckin’ dog…” He smirked, slow and mean. “You trained her well, Abbott.”
And that’s when Rhett snapped.
He slammed David into the bar again, hard enough to make the bottles behind it rattle like a warning. Then his fist reared back and crashed into David’s jaw—once, twice—knuckles splitting open against bone. Blood sprayed from David’s mouth as his head snapped back, but Rhett didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was just fury. Just instinct.
David threw a wild punch in return, but it glanced off Rhett’s ribs, barely phasing him. Rhett hit him again, lower this time, right in the stomach, and David doubled over with a grunt, breath punched out of him.
That’s when his friends stepped in.
One of them grabbed Rhett by the shoulders from behind, trying to yank him off. Another took a swing at his ribs–a hard, blind hit that made Rhett stumble for half a second, breath catching sharp in his lungs, getting a few additional punches in. But even then, even surrounded and bleeding, he didn’t let up. Adrenaline was burning hot through his bloodstream, hotter than rage. It drowned out the pain. The ache in his knuckles. The splitting fire in his lip. The bruises that were forming somewhere in his side, and on his face.
All he could hear were those words. That voice. That smug, cruel smirk behind every syllable David had spit out.
So Rhett kept swinging.
His fist caught one of the friends square in the jaw–sent him stumbling back into a table that screeched across the floor. Another came at him from the side, but Rhett threw an elbow without looking, catching the guy in the shoulder. It was chaos. An eruption. Bottles falling, chairs scraping, voices shouting in the blur of fists and bodies.
He wasn’t sure how long it lasted.
All he remembered was the weight. The pressure of bodies pushing into him. The taste of blood at the back of his tongue. The way every muscle screamed but still moved. His body was bruising with every second, but his fists didn’t stop–not until someone finally grabbed him in a chokehold from behind and dragged him off David, arms locked around his throat like a vice.
That’s when it all broke apart.
Voices yelling. Hands hauling him toward the exit. The barkeep shouting over the chaos. Other patrons finally stepping in, trying to separate the mess of limbs and blood and broken glass.
Rhett’s boots scraped the floor as they threw him out.
He landed hard on the steps outside, stumbling to his knees in the dirt. His ribs lit up in pain. His palms scraped against the gravel. He tasted blood, and his head was ringing, but none of that mattered.
Because the second he was on his feet, limping and disoriented, he knew exactly where he needed to go, and who he needed to see…
And that was you.
He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t care that it was late. That it was past midnight. That his face was a mess and his shirt was ruined and his hands were shaking with adrenaline and shame and something far deeper, darker.
He just started walking.
Down long, quiet roads. Past gas stations and shuttered storefronts and flickering signs. The cold pressed into the sweat on his skin, soaked through the blood staining his shirt. His whole body ached, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The thought of you sitting alone in your trailer, thinking he didn’t care, thinking he had just left and didn’t want you anymore–he couldn’t take it.
He needed to explain.
He needed to see your face, even if it meant seeing the hurt in your eyes.
He needed to tell you everything–even if you never forgave him.
Because you were his person.
———————
Once the story was laid out in front of you, all you could possibly do was sit in your seat in absolute shock. Your hand was still wrapped around Rhett’s as he finished, your fingertips resting against his bruised knuckles, but you’d long since stopped tending to the wound. The antiseptic pad had gone limp in your other hand, forgotten. The moment he mentioned David’s voice in that bar–those words about your father, about you on your knees, begging–your pulse had spiked so violently it made your ears ring.
Your chest was burning.
But not from grief. Not just from rage.
It was something else entirely.
Some kind of heat you couldn’t name–a bloom of blistering vindication and raw, bone-deep affection that tangled itself around the pain in your throat and wouldn’t let go.
You stared at Rhett, his words still echoing in the low hum of the trailer. Your eyes flicked down to his hand again, to the split skin across his knuckles, the torn edge of a callus that hadn’t had time to heal, the slight tremor still running through his fingers. Your thumb brushed gently across the ridge of a bruise.
”Thank you for defending me…” You whispered, Rhett’s hand flinched in yours like instinct–like he might lace your fingers together if he didn’t stop himself first. He hesitated halfway through the motion, then let his hand settle against your palm again, the tremble still there. Like a heartbeat. His eyes flicked to yours–deep, bruised blue beneath lashes darker than usual from dried blood and shadow. Rhett’s throat bobbed with a swallow.
”You don’t have to thank me,” He murmured, voice thick and worn, “You know I’d do anythin’ for you…” The air in the kitchen shifted, warm and unbearably still. That simple truth lingered between you like smoke. Like something half-buried in ash and memory that could still catch fire if you so much as breathed too close. You held his stare for a moment too long. Long enough to feel the heat creep up your neck. Long enough to feel his hand twitch again…So you pulled back gently, clearing your throat.
”Let me get a cloth so we can wash your face…” Rhett nodded, his jaw tense, his lips parted just slightly as though he’d say something else–but didn’t.
You stood and walked to the kitchen sink, opening the drawer beside it to grab a clean cloth. The faucet creaked when you turned it on, the pipes clanking faintly behind the walls. The trailer always sounded louder in the quiet. You let the water run warm before soaking the cloth, wringing it out until it was damp but not dripping. The warmth settled into the fabric, steaming faintly as you carried it back to the table. You pulled your chair closer to his this time–closer than you had before. Not out of necessity. Just because.
You could hear his breath catch for a moment, before he slowly exhaled.
You were in his space now. His knee brushed yours and he didn’t move it. Didn’t flinch. The moment you leaned in, your scent hit him–vanilla and maple, the lotion you always used. Familiar. Soft. It wrapped around him like the comfort of old memories and things he thought he’d lost when he decided to stop speaking to you.
He didn’t look away. Not once.
Your eyes were focused on his face as you lifted the cloth. Carefully, you dabbed at the blood dried along his jaw. You worked your way upward, across the gash near his temple, down the bridge of his nose. You were gentle, even when the cloth brushed the cut on his lip that made him wince, even when your hand trembled ever so slightly.
“I still have some of your clothes in my room…” You said, voice soft but steady as you lowered the cloth, “If you want to get changed.”He blinked, as if pulled from a trance, nodding.
”That’d be nice…Don’t really want to be in these anymore.” You set the cloth down on the table and stood again, reaching out without thinking–both hands offered, palms up. Rhett looked down at them, then slowly slid his fingers into yours. His grip was weak, awkward with the bruises, but the warmth of his hands still felt like the same old Rhett.
You helped him to his feet, his balance faltering for a moment. His body leaned into yours slightly, a faint grunt of pain escaping him as he stood too fast. You let him steady himself, your hands still on his. Your fingers were hooked around the inside of his wrists now, grounding him. Your eyes met his again, closer now than they had been at the table. His breath hitched faintly.
“Come on,” You said gently. “I’ll help you.”
And with his hands tucked in yours, you led him down the narrow hallway of your trailer, toward your bedroom.
You slowly pushed open the door, the familiar creak of the hinges followed by the soft click of your thumb brushing the dresser light to life. A low, red glow washed across the space–warm and dusky like a sunset caught in a bottle. The bulb in that little salt lamp had always tinted the room like this, casting a sleepy haze across the walls and deepening every shadow. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to see well in.
Your room looked exactly the same as the last time Rhett had been here.
The bed was still made in that haphazard way you always left it after rushing through the morning–one side neat, the other just a little more lived-in. Your pillow slightly flatter than the rest, the top comforter kicked askew at the corner. The window above your headboard had a scarf draped over the curtain rod to dim the early sun when you wanted to sleep in. It fluttered slightly now in the breeze from the cracked pane, casting soft patterns of lacework shadows on the floorboards.
Across from the bed, your dresser bore the clutter of memories. A small frame with a picture of you and your father leaning against his old truck at the county fair–his arm slung proudly around your shoulders. Another with you and Rhett at the Wabang Rodeo, your cheeks smudged with dirt, his arm hooked around your waist, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as you held up the buckle he had just won. The same buckle that now sat atop your bookshelf, nestled between dusty paperbacks and a small collection of rodeo souvenirs–frayed wristbands, old drink tokens, a cracked clay horse figurine you’d bought on a whim together.
You crossed the room slowly, bare feet soft against the worn rug beside your bed. Your robe shifted as you moved, brushing the backs of your thighs and rising just a fraction when you reached up to open your closet door. Inside, the scent of cedar and lavender sachets wafted out, and you reached to the top shelf without thinking–fingers brushing over the folded fabric until you found what you were looking for.
A soft pair of plaid pajama pants and the old faded t-shirt Rhett had left behind months ago. It still smelled faintly of him. Of salt and dust and leathery cologne. You set the bundle carefully at the edge of the bed, your hands resting on your hips as you turned toward him again.
“You need me to help you?”
Rhett had been standing just inside the doorway, quiet and still, but the second your voice cut through the hush, he looked up. His jaw clenched softly–maybe from pain, maybe from the intimacy of it all. He gave you a sheepish, lopsided little smile.
“Maybe just…Stay in the room? I don't want to fall over and make more of a damn mess of myself.” A small smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth.
“Fair enough.”
Rhett nodded and stepped toward the bed, slow and careful, fingers fumbling with his torn flannel shirt–he winced as he peeled it off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor with a rustle. The white long sleeve beneath clung to his torso, stained and damp, torn slightly at the hem where someone must have grabbed him during the fight. He moved his hands up, grimacing as he reached for the collar.
“Here,” You murmured, stepping in without hesitation. “I’ll help you with this.”
He froze. Then slowly turned to face you, his body inches from yours in the low red light. Your hands reached out, fingers brushing lightly over the hem of the shirt. He was warm. Too warm. Like every inch of him was radiating with something just beneath the surface–heat, pain, adrenaline, grief.
You began to lift the shirt carefully, inching it up his lean torso, careful not to catch the edges on any of his bruises. His skin revealed itself slowly–flush with color, mottled in places with dark bruises already forming across his ribs and beneath his arms. You heard him exhale through gritted teeth when you reached the midpoint, the faintest groan slipping from his lips as you helped tug the shirt over his head.
His hair fell in front of his face, framing it slightly, as you let the top fall to the floor beside the flannel.
Your eyes roamed over his body. The bruises and the strength etched into his chest. The way his shoulders curved and flexed with every breath. The fine, sun-warmed freckles scattered across his collarbones. The inked shape of the bull rider tattoo over his chest–something about it still looked defiant even now, surrounded by the aftermath of violence. Bruised, yes, but not broken.
You lifted your eyes again, only to find his already on you. Unmoving. Steady. Oddly clear in the red-tinted glow of the room. There was something raw there. Unspoken. The kind of look that landed heavy between your ribs and stayed there.
For a moment, neither of you said a word.
You weren’t sure who was going to break the silence first. You weren’t even sure if you wanted it broken.
Because the air between you had grown thick–thick with all the things you hadn’t said, with all the time you’d spent apart, with the weight of him standing here in your room again, shirtless and bruised and looking at you like maybe you were the only steady thing in his whole damn world.
Rhett’s lips parted slightly as he let out a shaky breath, the air between you trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. His fingers moved slowly–tentative, trembling–as he reached up and cupped your cheeks, rough knuckles brushing along your jaw with the care of someone holding a memory. His thumbs traced the delicate skin beneath your eyes, and your lashes fluttered closed at the contact–unable to stop the way your body leaned into it, into him.
His palms were warm and his touch was featherlight.
You exhaled softly, and your hands rose without thinking–wrapping gently around his wrists. The beat of his pulse was strong beneath your fingertips, thudding in a frantic rhythm, fast and anxious and alive. You held him there, as if grounding him in your touch would calm the way his pulse bounded.
Then you opened your eyes again.
His gaze was already on your–dilated, molten blue in the glow of the salt lamp. And when you took a step closer, your chest brushed against his. Bare skin to cotton. Warmth seeped through the thin fabric of your robe, and his breath caught audibly between you.
Neither of you spoke.
You could feel it. His body coiled like a wire beneath your hands, but steadying. Waiting. Wanting.
He tilted your chin up just slightly, the pad of his thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw, and leaned in–just enough for his lips to ghost over yours. Barely there. Soft as the breath between two heartbeats. He was gauging you, giving you an out. His mouth hovered, trembling.
But you didn’t move away.
Instead, you gave the tiniest smile–crooked and knowing–and whispered, “You gonna kiss me or just breathe on me all night?”
That did it.
Rhett let out a low, broken exhale–half laugh, half moan–and finally leaned forward, closing the sliver of space between you. His lips met yours with aching tenderness. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was everything you wanted and needed it to be.
It was a kiss that tasted like an apology. Like longing. Like everything he had been trying to bury for so long and couldn’t anymore.
You could taste blood on his lips–the faint copper that lined the gash on his lip–but you didn't care. You kissed him like it didn’t matter. Like nothing did except for the way his mouth moved against yours, slow and careful, his breath warm against your cheek. Your hands slid from his wrists and ghosted over his bare sides, fingers splaying gently across his torso, careful not to brush too hard against the bruises that bloomed at his ribs.
His body trembled under your touch.
Your lips parted slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make his breath catch again. His hands slipped back along your jaw, fingers grabbing your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you infinitesimally closer. You pressed into him, soft and slow, your heart thundering against your chest.
He pulled back a fraction, breathless, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with your own in the quiet, charged space between. His hands–still trembling from adrenaline, exhaustion, and something deeper–held the base of your neck like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, just one heartbeat of stillness, and when he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen. Vulnerable in a way that reached somewhere deeper than bone. Somewhere sacred.
“You’ve been in my head since we met during my first circuit…And Every damn time I tried to push it down, to pretend I didn’t feel what I felt, it just got worse. Louder. Meaner. I’d see you smile and it’d ruin me, because I knew I’d never deserve that smile, but God, I still wanted it more than breath.” Your throat burned with the weight of it. He shook his head softly, eyes glossy but bright.
“I missed you so much it made me sick. I kept tryin’ to convince myself that you’d be better off…But I realized that I ain’t better off without you. I’m a fuckin’ mess without you.” A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. Rhett’s thumb brushed it away like he’d done it a thousand times before. So gentle it made your ribs ache.
“I-I love you, Y/N…” He whispered, “I’ve loved you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.” You felt your lip tremble.
“I love you too, Rhett…” You breathed, eyes locked to his, “I think I always have. I just didn’t know how to say it…” His breath hitched. A sound so soft, so wrecked, it cut through you like silk tearing.
He kissed you again.
This time it wasn’t cautious or tentative. It was tender but full of heat, the desperation tangible and absolutely palpable in that moment. His lips moved against yours with more urgency, more pressure. Still slow, still careful with your mouth like it was something he cherished, but now his hands were moving too–sliding from your jaw to your hips, pulling you closer. You felt him everywhere. His warmth. His ache.
And when he broke the kiss, gasping softly against your mouth, his hands lowered to your waist, and he guided you gently backward, easing you down until you were sitting on the edge of your bed.
The mattress dipped beneath your weight. The hem of your robe brushed your thighs. Rhett’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, his lips parted, chest heaving with the weight of everything he was feeling.
And then you reached forward.
Your fingers moved to the worn leather of his belt, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate care. His jeans were already riding low on his hips, stained and battered from the night–but you took your time with the button, the zipper. You watched his expression the whole time. He didn’t look away, didn’t stop you. His breathing grew heavier, his hands flexed at his sides.
You pulled the jeans down over his hips and thighs, easing them past his legs until they pooled at his feet. He stepped out of them, now left in only a pair of snug black boxer briefs that clung to his frame like a second skin.
Your gaze flicked down–he was hard already, tenting the front of the briefs–but what made your pulse spike was the look on his face when you looked back up at him through hooded lashes, the scorching want that burned through him.
He reached forward.
Slow, steady fingers found the knot of your robe, and with a quiet exhale, he tugged the sash loose. The fabric parted softly around you, fluttering open.
You weren’t wearing a bra. Just a pair of black underwear, simple and soft–but Rhett’s breath caught in his throat like it was the most devastating thing he’d ever seen.
His eyes trailed down your body with aching slowness. Over your bare collarbones. Your breasts. The curve of your waist. Every inch of exposed skin lit by the red hush of your lamp.
And then he sank to his knees in front of you.
Like gravity pulled him there.
His hands rose carefully, and cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly across your nipples. You gasped at the contact, your back arching slightly, hips shifting toward the edge of the bed. Rhett leaned in without a word, his lips brushing over your sternum, your collarbone, then lower.
He kissed the curve of one breast first. Just a soft, wet kiss. Then another. His breath ghosted across your skin before his mouth opened fully, tongue sliding out to lick a stripe slowly over your nipple. You whimpered. He groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut as he wrapped his lips around you, sucking gently. The sensation sent a wave of heat through your entire body.
You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged lightly. He moaned against your chest, the vibrations shooting straight through you. You shifted again, scooting forward until your thighs framed his hips, until your breasts were fully pressed to his face and he welcomed it, burying himself in you.
His tongue circled, then flattened, then flicked–slow and sensual, like he was learning you by taste alone. His free hand massaged your other breast, palm warm and solid, fingers curling and squeezing as his mouth continued its worship.
You gasped again, clutching his hair tighter, and he growled–a low, broken sound–as if the pressure, the closeness, undid him.
He pulled back for just a second, lips slick with spit, and looked up at you, his eyes shimmering, glistening with lust, with pure desire.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice cracking. “About you like this. About bein’ here. Touched you in my sleep more times than I can count, thinkin’ it’d never happen for real.” Rhett’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and hazy, pupils blown wide with want as his breath ghosted hot across your chest. He kissed the slope of your breast again, tongue flicking against the swell, and then he leaned in–slowly, deliberately–and sucked your nipple into his mouth.
He moaned against it like it was the first real taste of you he’d been starving for.
His tongue lapped at the sensitive peak, slow at first, then deeper, wetter. The suction was gentle but persistent, his mouth working in rhythmic pulses, the scrape of his stubble igniting every nerve it brushed. You gasped, head falling back, spine arching as your fingers clenched tighter in his hair.
“Rhett…” You whimpered, breath catching in your throat.
He pulled back, lips glistening, then leaned toward the other breast, kissing a wet trail between them before taking the second nipple into his mouth. This one he sucked harder, tongue swirling in steady circles, teasing you until your thighs shifted around him restlessly. The warmth of his palm covered the breast he’d just left, squeezing softly in tandem with the slow pull of his mouth.
“I’ve thought of you doing this to me for so long…” You whispered, voice barely audible through your breathless panting. “I should’ve told you…Sooner.”
Rhett let out a throaty moan around your nipple before pulling off with a soft pop, his lips swollen, jaw slack, breath hot. He nuzzled against your breast, the tip of his nose brushing tenderly along the curve.
“Love hearin’ that,” He rasped. “Love hearin’ that you were thinkin’ about me like this…While I was layin’ in my bed, picturin’ this exact moment with my hand down my boxers.” He kissed the underside of both breasts now–one, then the other–his stubble brushing across the sensitive skin, trailing fire behind it. Then he pressed his palm flat between them, against the thud of your heartbeat.
“Lay back for me,” He murmured, voice low and heavy, his thumb stroking just above your sternum. “Want to fulfill another one of my fantasies.”
You obeyed without a word.
Your back met the mattress, shoulders sinking into the sheets, and the robe pooled around your sides like a fallen curtain. The air felt thicker now, scented with your arousal and his breath, heat rolling off your skin as Rhett’s hands trailed slowly down your sides–fingertips grazing your ribs, your waist, the dip of your hips. He reached the waistband of your underwear and hooked his fingers beneath the soft fabric.
Then he paused–just long enough to look you in the eye again.
You nodded.
That was all he needed.
He tugged them down, watching every inch of skin reveal itself with a kind of hunger that bordered on reverence. The underwear slid down your thighs, past your knees, your ankles, and then they were gone—tossed somewhere off to the side, forgotten. He exhaled shakily, eyes dragging back up your now-bare body, and when his gaze landed between your thighs, his lips parted in awe.
“Jesus Christ…” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re perfect.”
He reached forward and gently pushed your knees apart, spreading you open with careful hands until your legs were draped over either side of his shoulders. He adjusted his position on the floor, kneeling at the edge of the bed like a worshipper at an altar.
Then he dove in.
His tongue was hot and slick the moment it touched you, licking a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit. You cried out, hands flying to his hair, back arching. He groaned into you, burying his face even deeper, nose nuzzling your clit as his tongue lapped again, slow and filthy.
It was messy.
Obscene.
His spit mixed with your arousal, coating his chin as he devoured you with the kind of hunger that came from too many nights left wanting. His arms curled around your hips and over your stomach, pinning you down as you started to grind against his mouth. The motion sent his nose bumping your clit again and again, the friction enough to make your thighs quake.
“Fuck…Rhett…” You gasped, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his forearm. “You feel so fucking good…Don’t stop–”
He didn’t.
His tongue circled your clit, then flicked it, then flattened against it with slow, dragging pressure. He moaned again–loud this time–and the vibrations sent a jolt through your core.
“Could eat this sweet pussy all damn night,” he growled against you, breath ragged, lips glossy. “You taste better than anythin’ I ever put in my mouth.” You whimpered, legs trembling around his shoulders. The pressure in your belly coiled tighter, sharp and white-hot, and you couldn’t stop the way you moved–grinding into his face like your life depended on it. Rhett loved it. You could feel it in the way he groaned, in the way he held you firmer, as if he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.
“Used to jerk off in my truck thinkin’ about spreadin’ you open just like this–watchin’ you come undone on my tongue…” Then one of his arms slipped off your waist. You didn’t have time to ask why before you felt his hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling your entrance. And then slowly he pushed them in.
You cried out, hips jerking.
His mouth stayed on your clit, lips sucking, tongue flicking, while his fingers curled inside you, working in tandem with every grind of your hips. The heel of his hand pressed to your mound, anchoring you while he pumped into you, slick and strong and hot.
“You’re so tight,” He panted against you, voice strained, “so wet for me—fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me already.”
Your head rolled back. You were gone. Completely lost in the rhythm, in the way his nose nudged your clit every time you rocked forward, in the way his fingers stroked deep inside you, hitting every spot that made your legs tremble.
“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?” He asked, voice rough, desperate. “Gonna soak my fuckin’ face? Want you to–wanna taste all of you. Want it messy. Wanna see what I’ve been missin’…Want my first fix so I can become addicted to you.”
You let out a strangled cry, fingers tightening in his hair as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your whole body seized and shuddered, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, sharp and blinding and wet. Rhett groaned deep in his throat, licking through it, his fingers slowing as you pulsed around them. He didn’t stop until you whimpered from the sensitivity, hips twitching from overstimulation. Only then did he finally ease back, dragging his mouth away with one final slow lick, his lips and chin completely soaked, hair wild between your fingers.
He looked up at you from between your thighs–wrecked, panting, and pupils fully blown out and dilated. His mouth lingered where your climax had soaked his skin, his lips brushing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along the trembling insides of your thighs. His breath was still ragged, warm and uneven against the slick sheen of your skin, and every time he pressed another kiss to your flesh–soft, tender, almost worshipful–the heat inside you only swelled higher. Like you hadn’t just come undone. Like your body was still chasing more.
The wetness on his lips smeared faintly along your skin as he mouthed at the soft skin of your legs–slow and indulgent, as if he wanted to mark you with it, wanted to brand every inch of you in the scent of your own pleasure. Your breath caught when he sucked at the skin just above your knee, then dragged the flat of his tongue along the crease where your thigh met your hip. His eyes flicked up to yours as he moved, dark and hazy, pupils blown wide and locked on your face.
And then, with a slow exhale, he finally let his fingers slip free from inside you. Your body twitched at the absence–empty and aching already. But you barely had time to process the loss before Rhett was rising, pushing himself up to his full height. He loomed above you, a silhouette of bruised muscle and heat, the red glow from your salt lamp casting flickering shadows along his bare torso. The muscles in his stomach flexed with each breath, and for a moment, he just stood there, watching you. Drinking you in.
Then he brought his soaked fingers to your mouth.
His hand moved slowly, almost trembling. Two fingers, slick and glistening with your arousal, hovered near your lips. The scent of antiseptic clung faintly beneath the raw sweetness of your release, and when he traced them gently across your bottom lip, your breath hitched.
“Open for me,” He whispered.
You did.
Without a word, you let your lips part, tongue flicking out to meet him. Rhett’s pupils dilated even further, a groan catching low in his throat as you sucked his fingers into your mouth. The taste was strange–clean and sharp, tinged with the tang of latex antiseptic, and copper–but underneath it all, unmistakably you. Sweet and earthy and intoxicating.
You hollowed your cheeks around them, letting your tongue swirl and press along each digit. He watched every second like it was the most sinful thing he’d ever witnessed. Like it might kill him to see it again, but he’d beg for the honor.
“Fuck…” He hissed, voice ragged. “You got no idea what that does to me.”
You moaned around his fingers just to drive him mad.
He slipped them out slowly, wet and glistening with your saliva now, and trailed them down your chin, letting the mix of fluids smear slightly across your skin. He followed the line with his mouth, licking and kissing down your jaw, then finally caught your lips in another kiss–hot, open, tongue sliding against yours without restraint. You tasted yourself on him. He groaned against your mouth, his hand slipping into your hair again, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to take more.
The kiss turned feverish.
Sloppy.
Messy.
Your lips moved against his with a kind of shared desperation, mouths parting and meeting again in a wet, gasping rhythm. His teeth grazed your bottom lip. Your nails scratched along his hips. And then–just as the friction between your thighs returned like fire licking up your spine–he shifted.
Still kissing you, Rhett moved one hand to your side and gently pushed, easing you further back on the bed. You went willingly, lips breaking just long enough for a shared breath, then he followed you onto the mattress, crawling on with that same predatory reverence.
He settled between your legs, then slowly sat back on his haunches, your thighs draped across either side of his narrow waist. His rough hands slid up your legs, holding you open, palms flat to your skin as he took in the sight of you again–your flushed chest, your damp skin, your glistening folds still twitching from the aftermath of his mouth.
And then…he reached for the waistband of his boxer briefs.
The fabric strained against the hard outline beneath, the front soaked through with precum. His cock was aching against the cotton–thick and hard and heavy–and when he hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband, he did it slowly. Like he knew the moment he revealed himself would change everything.
He pushed the briefs down.
And your breath caught.
Rhett’s cock sprang free, long and flushed, the tip angry red and glistening with precum. A thick vein traced along the underside, curving up toward the broad head. He was already fully hard, his length bobbing slightly as it met the open air, thick and gorgeous and absolutely dripping for you. His skin was mottled with heat, dusky at the tip, his shaft thick enough that your mouth watered at the mere sight of it.
You felt your cunt pulse at the visual–tight and aching again, already greedy for him. Rhett wrapped a hand around the base of himself and stroked once, slow and languid, letting his thumb brush over the slick head.
“You see what you do to me, sweetheart?” He asked, voice hoarse, “Haven’t even been inside you yet and I’m already about to fuckin’ lose it.”
You whimpered.
Your back arched faintly every time he rocked forward, the base of his cock rubbing against your slick folds, teasing you with just enough friction to make your breath catch, but not enough to ease the ache. He was grinding into you with slow, delicious pressure, the tip of him catching against your clit every few strokes, making your thighs twitch and your hands fist the sheets beside you.
Rhett braced himself above you again, arms planted beside your head, the length of his body warm and strong against yours. His cock pressed between your thighs, trapped against your folds, grinding slow and steady as his mouth found yours again in another searing kiss. The drag of him was maddening. It was everything.
“Feel that?” He asked against your mouth. “That’s how bad I want you. That’s how fuckin’ long I’ve been dreamin’ of this.”
You nodded, gasping, your hips lifting into him.
“I need you inside me,” You whispered, voice cracked with need. “Please, Rhett…”
He groaned, deep and wrecked, grinding into you harder now, his cock sliding slick against your entrance. You could feel how wet you were. How close you already were again, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.
“I got you, darlin’,” He rasped, “I’m gonna give it to you…Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days. Just keep lookin’ at me, alright?” And with that, he adjusted his hips–lined himself up at your entrance–and began to press inside.
The head of his cock slipped past the slight resistance at your core with a stretch so perfect it made your mouth fall open on a soundless gasp. Your back arched immediately, breath caught between your ribs like it was snagged on barbed wire.
“God—Rhett…” you whimpered, eyes fluttering.
His gaze was locked to yours, unwavering, dark and wide and burning with something that felt older than your bones. He paused halfway in, jaw clenched, his arms trembling slightly from the restraint it took not to rut into you all at once.
“Shh, baby,” He murmured, voice cracked and reverent. “I know… I know it’s a lot. You’re so tight–fuck, but you’re takin’ me so damn good already…” His hands framed your hips, holding them steady, thumbs brushing your skin as he gave you time to adjust. You blinked at him, your mouth parted, chest heaving as he began to sink deeper–inch by inch–until he was fully buried inside you.
The stretch was dizzying. He filled you in a way no one else ever had, thick and hard and perfect, the weight of him pressing right against every place you needed. The sensation made you dig your nails into his thighs without thinking, clawing gently into the muscle like it might help you hold on to sanity.
“You’re soaked…And so fuckin’ warm. You’re heavenly.” He groaned, feeling you shift under him as your legs slowly wrapped around his waist.
”Can’t believe you’re inside me….It feels…So fucking good Rhett.” He looked down at you, completely wrecked by the sight–his cock sheathed to the hilt inside your dripping core, your lips parted, your body open and trembling for him.
”I know…And You’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight, so fucking good.” And then he began to move. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep, shallow thrusts that let you feel every drag of his cock inside you. His hips pressed low, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. Each stroke made your mouth fall open wider, your hands skimming up his bruised ribs and onto his chest, fingers splaying over the heat of his skin like you were trying to memorize it.
“You so fuckin’ good baby…” Rhett groaned, voice cracking at the end. “Better than I imagined–better than every fuckin’ fantasy, every late-night dream…Everythin’.” He leaned down, bracing his forearms beside your head, and started to kiss your neck. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that dragged along your pulse point, trailing down to the hollow between your collarbones. He nipped at your skin gently, moaning every time you clenched around him. His thrusts became a little faster. A little more desperate.
“Can’t believe I almost let this go,” He rasped. “Can’t believe I walked away from the best fuckin’ thing in my life…”
You felt your own eyes burning now. The pleasure was too much. Too intense. You tugged at his hair, fingers sliding through the sweaty strands and pulling hard, just to hear the sound he made.
It worked.
He groaned–loud and ragged–thrusting harder as his body chased the friction, the rhythm of your hips matching his perfectly. Your other hand slid down his back, nails dragging hard enough to leave raised lines in his skin. He gasped at the sensation, his whole body jerking.
“Fuuuck–yeah, scratch me, sweetheart… Mark me up… I want it–I want every part of you on me…” The sound of skin slapping filled the room, wet and filthy, mingled with your cries and his ragged moans. Your bed creaked beneath you, rocking with every deep thrust. Rhett buried his face in your neck again, groaning so loudly you could feel it in your chest.
“Gonna cum…” You whimpered, the words a broken sound from the back of your throat. “Rhett…I’m gonna…”
“I’m right behind you, baby…” He groaned, voice raw with strain. “Keep lookin’ at me–wanna see your face when you fall apart on my cock…”
You barely made it.
Your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing to shore–sharp, hot, and overwhelming. You cried out his name as your entire body clenched around him, legs locking tight around his waist as your back arched off the bed.
“Fuck…Fuck, I’m cumming.” You sobbed, nails digging into his flesh. Rhett growled–deep and hoarse–and with one final thrust, he spilled inside you, hips jerking as he moaned loud and unfiltered against your skin.
And before you knew it, you felt the heat of his release flood inside you–warm and thick, dripping already from how hard he had slammed into you. But even through the sensitivity, even as your body trembled from overstimulation, he didn’t stop.
He kept moving.
Slow, dragging thrusts as he fucked his cum deeper into you, moaning softly with every pass of his cock through your twitching walls.
“That’s it…” He whispered, dazed and reverent. “Take it all–let me give you everything, sweetheart…”Your body trembled beneath him, overstimulated and wet and gasping for breath as another orgasm began to build–too fast, too much, but so goddamn perfect you didn’t care.
You whimpered, legs shaking, and he grabbed your hand.
His bruised, battered hand found yours, and he laced your fingers together.
“Come with me again, darlin’,” He whispered against your mouth. “Wanna feel you cum on me one more time–show me how good I make you feel…” Your bodies shuddered together, and when you came again–harder, messier, wetter than before–you clutched his hand like a lifeline, sobbing softly against his neck as he groaned into your shoulder.
Your name left his lips like a prayer, like something sacred.
And then finally, finally, he stilled. Breathing hard. Face buried in your neck. His whole body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and something deeper than both.
You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together. Slick with sweat. Rhett slowly, gently, lowered himself onto your chest. His arms curled beneath you, and you wrapped your limbs around him in return–legs still draped around his waist, your fingers finding his hair again, soothing now instead of tugging.
“You are so good, Rhett…” You whispered, voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “Just fucking amazing…”He turned his face to your throat and kissed it softly. Once. Twice. Then nibbled gently, like he couldn’t help himself. He pulled back just far enough to whisper against your skin.
“Well…Now I’m truly addicted…” He said, voice low and thick with reverence. “And I couldn’t have wished for anything better than that.” Rhett stayed inside you as long as he could–so long it started to ache in the best way, a deep throb softened only by the slow drag of his cock against your oversensitive walls. Every twitch of his hips sent another aftershock rolling through you, your body limp beneath his, breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Eventually, he softened just enough to slip free, and the moment he did, you whimpered at the sudden emptiness.
“Shhh,” He whispered, brushing sweat-damp hair away from your face. His voice was thick, low, still raw from all the moaning and gasping. “I got you. Just breathe, baby. You did so good…”
You didn’t have the words to answer. You could only nod as he pressed a slow kiss to your jaw–then your cheekbone–then your forehead. Each one grounding. Each one full of something wordless and tender.
Your thighs were sticky, soaked, your inner muscles still fluttering with aftershocks. Cum leaked slowly from your entrance, warm and thick and messy between your legs. Rhett sat up slightly to look, biting his lower lip at the sight of it, the gash on it stinging from the sharpness of his teeth.
“Shit…Look at you…” He admired, brushed two fingers through the slick that glistened between your thighs, collecting the mess he’d left inside you, then slowly brought them to your mouth.
“Wanna taste us?” He asked, gaze dark and heavy-lidded. You opened your mouth for him without a word, and he pressed the fingers gently past your lips. The taste was salt and sweat and something heady–his breath caught watching you suck them clean.
“Jesus,” He rasped, “You’re gonna kill me…”
You smiled faintly, spent and dazed. “Not before I get cleaned up…”
He chuckled softly and leaned down to kiss your mouth again–slow, open, unhurried. It tasted like everything that had just happened, like everything you hadn’t said yet. His tongue flicked yours gently before he pulled back and whispered:
“Stay here. I’ll get a towel.”
You watched him rise from the bed–naked, flushed, the muscles in his back flexing as he moved. His ass was covered in faint scratches from your nails, and his thighs were trembling slightly as he crossed to the bathroom. He left the door open, and you heard the sink running, then the soft patter of a washcloth being wrung out. He returned a minute later, crouching down between your legs with such care it made your chest ache.
“Let me,” He said gently.
And he did.
He cleaned you up with reverent slowness, the warm cloth moving in soft circles. He murmured apologies every time you flinched from sensitivity, but his touch was steady, gentle, and full of quiet devotion. When he was done, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, right over a bruise he hadn’t meant to leave.
You reached for him, fingers brushing the side of his face. “Come back to bed,” you whispered.
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
Rhett climbed back beside you, helping you get under the duvet of your bed as he nestled in close to you, One arm slid beneath your shoulders, the other wrapped tight around your waist, his fingers finding the dip of your spine and resting there like he never wanted to let go.
You shifted to face him, tucking your head under his chin, pressing your body along his until there was no space left between you. He smelled like sweat and sex, and a hint of his leathery soap.
For a long time, neither of you said anything.
Your fingertips traced slow patterns on his chest. His heart beat steady beneath your palm, and his breathing had begun to slow, his lashes fluttering low over his flushed cheeks.
But then, quietly–like he’d been holding it in for hours–he whispered:
“Thank you for forgiving me…”
