Story Summary: Six years ago, Rhett Abbott got into a catastrophic accident that left him teetering on the brink of death and nobody has seen him since. His name is one that haunts Wabang and slips into conversations at bars and circuits, with conspiracies running wild about what truly happened to him that night. His family has kept everything hush regarding his whereabouts, saying that he went away to some place better, and that he would want the town to move on from him. The truth of the matter though is that Rhett Abbott is still very much alive and still resides on his family's ranch…He is just not the man that he was before and he refuses to be a risk to people–choosing isolation over acclimatization.
But what happens when a newcomer to town discovers the Abbott family secret? Will all be revealed or will divine intervention prevent the unraveling?
Chapter One Summary: Rhett reminisces on the past, and an unexpected visitor shows up to the Abbott ranch.
Story Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut (warnings to follow), Fluff, Angst (a lot of it), Mentions and Descriptions of Blood, Scars, and Harming of oneself (Rhett feeds off himself and in turn causes himself pain), Descriptions of the Taste of Blood, Descriptions of Medical Treatments/Mentions of Death and Lifesaving Measures, Rhett absolutely goes through it (he’s depressed, he’s isolated, he’s literally a vampire so think of all the angst), Mentions of Throwing Up, Supernatural/Folklore Themes are present in this (evidently), Reader has their own little chicken coop and they sell eggs (the Abbots order from her due to…Circumstances), Mentions of Animal Death (there are no descriptions!) Rhett becomes obsessed with reader (and there are stalking scenes here and there)
Author’s Note: Ahhhhhhhh! It’s finally here, and I’m so excited to start this off and I hope it meets expectations. I've been planning this for a while now and truly sunk into this story so quickly, and I couldn’t be more happier with how it turned out! I hope you all enjoy <3 This is a very long fic so I’m splitting it into four or five parts (because I keep getting more and more details into this, and the lore is thick just like the backstory…Haven’t even delved into that yet)
Word Count: 9,433
Next Part
The porch swing groaned beneath Rhett Abbott’s weight, its chains creaking like bones in the stillness of the night. He sat swaddled in blankets thick enough to suit December, though the Wyoming air pulsed with the oppressive heat of July, heavy and unmoving as breath held too long. Sweat clung to the world around him–the gravel lot, the warped porch boards, the fields that shimmered with fireflies and leftover daylight–yet he shook as if he was trapped in midwinter, his body rattling by a chill no season could thaw. The cold was endless. It lived under his skin, coiled in his marrow, and burrowed into his veins until it felt as if his blood itself had turned to ice. He drew the blankets higher around his shoulders, trying to cage the shivers in, but they broke free anyway, trembling through his hands, rattling in his jaw, and clacking his teeth together like a dying man’s final convulsion. He could smell the rust bleeding from the porch railing, the sharp reek of gasoline clinging to Perry’s truck, the faint musk of livestock sweating in their pens. Every cricket’s shrill chirp scraped his skull raw. Even the house’s symphony of heartbeats carried to him, steady and sure–one-two, one-two–ticking like an unbearable metronome of life. A song that Rhett no longer belonged to.
Sometimes Rhett imagined what it would look like to anyone passing by–a man bundled on a porch in the dog days of summer, shaking like frostbite had claimed him. Wabang summers were merciless, sweltering, and yet here he was, displaying a living contradiction. They would probably think something was wrong, maybe fever-sick or delirious. But no headlights came down this road anymore, and no curious eyes came to remark on the ghost that was left to rot in the Abbott house because six years had passed since the town last laid eyes on him. His family had told people that he had moved away, but the rumours had run rampant anyways–ones that usually consisted of him drinking himself to death, or vanishing across state lines to chase the next bull riding championship. The truth was way worse than anyone could comprehend though, because Rhett Abbott had been buried in plain sight, condemned to nights like this, waiting for the sun to go down just so he could breathe fresh air without dying right when he stepped outside.
From behind him, he could hear the familiar shuffle of Perry’s boots scuffing the wooden floorboards, steady but weighted, almost like he was limping. Rhett didn’t need to look up; he could already feel the scrutiny pressing against him, sensing his brother staring at him, cataloguing everything he could–the way his skin had grown thin and pale, the ink-dark veins that ran under it like poisoned rivers, and the hollows that were etched beneath his eyes. Perry gave a knock on the frame of the door for Rhett to look at him so he could immediately confirm his suspicions, because his once-bright irises, that were as blue as the sky he hadn’t seen in years, were rimmed with a faint bruised red, a hunger-ring only visible if you stood close or stared long enough.
”Want me to stop at the butcher on my way home from the bar?” Perry asked, casual in tone but anticipating the answer and bracing himself. Rhett dragged his eyes away from his brother's face resting his gaze on the open gravel drive in front of him.
“I’m starvin’…So yeah that would be good. Take anythin’ they have I don’t care what type of blood they’ve got, and just…Make sure to get me a few containers of it and that he doesn’t skimp this time, cause I don’t think dad’s gonna be transporting any cattle this week, so it’ll need to last me for a bit.” He explained, the words scraping low and raw from his aching throat, carrying both shame and desperation in tone. He couldn’t stop the way his lips trembled while he spoke, as he tried to hide a chill that shook through him by curling even further into the folds of his blanket. The thought of that copper-sweet blood sent a pang through him as sharp as a wire cutting through butter. It was a craving not even he was able to get used to still, and it only left him missing how easily accessible real food was when he used to be able to eat it.
His mother, Cecilia, had tried in the first few months of his turning to fold blood into his food for him: marinades, sauces, soups, anything to keep him at the table with them. He had forced down every attempt, sick with hope, until his body just absolutely revolted. Human food became soured in his gut, and it was rejected violently, followed by a week's worth of pain as his body tried to reset itself. That’s when he had given in, and started drinking pure animal blood from reusable water bottles, just to be able to feel like he was less of a monster than he already was.
“Will do. I’ll get your five big ones so it’ll last you the week at the very least…I’ll be back soon with it.” Rhett gave a faint nod, his mouth and throat too dry to actually form a response. Perry’s hand came down on his shoulder in a brief pat–steady, and grounding–but the weight of it vanished as soon as it had landed. The floorboards creaked under his retreating boots, the crunch of gravel trailing after him until the slam of the truck door reverberated like thunder through the quietness of the night. Headlights swept across the porch, bleaching Rhett’s pale skin in their glare, as he watched them disappear down the road, hearing the sound of the engine dwindling while it was swallowed whole by the darkness of the night.
The second Perry’s headlights went out of Rhett’s line of sight, the hunger pains erupted. It clawed through Rhett’s body like a wildfire. His stomach cinched, a hollow drum of ache, but it was his throat that bore the worst of it–burning as though someone had poured molten lava down it, searing until every breath felt like it scorched the lining raw. His vocal cords themselves seemed to fry alive, shriveling under an invisible brand, so that every swallow scraped like splintered glass. He clutched his throat once, reflexively, but there was no soothing the inferno.
He forced his arm from the cocoon of blankets, pale and trembling, and turned it over in the dimmed yellow porch light. The sight before him was grotesque. Scars crisscrossed the meat of his forearm, ragged crescents and pits where he had to practically rip himself off his own flesh. Some sank deep, indented valleys that refused to smooth over. Others rose pale and ridged like ropes beneath the skin. Between them, his veins stretched black and swollen, pulsing faintly–as if they were ink-filled rivulets, poisoned rivers writhing beneath translucent parchment. In the lamplight, they shimmered like something inhuman. Something broken.
When the thirst was at its worst, when it hollowed him until he shook apart, Rhett pressed his lips tight against his own flesh to muffle the sounds, sank his teeth in, and sucked until he felt something like blood fill his mouth. He had found out by accident that he could do it when he was delirious one night with hunger, biting down just to quiet the ache. Now it was just a habit–awful and shameful, but necessary.
It was always agony. His own blood never tasted clean. It was bitter, tainted, thick on his tongue like the stagnant water of a rotting sponge. It lacked the copper-bright fire of fresh blood, but it still carried what he needed. Enough to dull the hunger’s edge. Enough to remind him that he still bled, and in those moments, he clung to that one shred of humanity.
It was better than the alternative. Better than the potential frenzy that he was always on the brink of falling into–the one that he had only experienced once.
The memory hit him in the chest like a thrown stone.
The night he lost control.
The thirst had consumed him, left him blind and ravenous. He’d torn through the ranch like a beast, splintering gates with strength he hadn’t known he had, staggering into the pens where the cattle cried out in terror. Their fear thickened the air–sharp, electric–and then he was on them. His teeth sank deep, his hands tore through hide, and hot copper flooded his mouth, his chest, his very skin. Blood spattered his shirt, painted his arms to the elbows, ran in rivulets down his neck. He gorged himself, deaf to the bellowing animals, blind to everything but red.
Until Perry’s voice broke through.
Until his brother stood before him, face pale, body trembling but steady, calling his name again and again until the fog cracked. Rhett came back to himself kneeling in the dirt, his hands dripping, his shirt soaked, the stench of slaughter filling his nose. He looked around and saw what he had done. And the horror had nearly killed him. That was when the truth carved itself deep: he wasn’t a man anymore. He was a monster.
And tonight, he felt like he was on that brink again. His throat cinched tighter, folding in on itself as though it were collapsing, begging him for release. His body shook so violently the swing’s chains rattled against the porch beams.
With a groan, Rhett leaned forward, bracing his arm against his knee, and let his fangs drop. They slid long and sharp from his gums, gleaming like knives in the porch light. He didn’t hesitate. He drove them into the meat of his forearm.
The slide was obscene–smooth as butter at first, then grinding into resistance as they sank into hard muscle. The burn was instant. White fire shot through him, searing his nerves until his entire arm spasmed. His eyes watered, teeth grinding into the wound deeper, chasing the pulse. Hot blood welled into his mouth, metallic and sour, and he groaned low, muffled against his own skin.
Still, he drank.
Each swallow ripped down his throat like knives, worsening the burn even as it fed him. His chest heaved. His body jolted in waves, shuddering with the pain. He clung harder, sucking until blackness flickered at the edges of his vision. Stars burst behind his eyes. He could feel himself beginning to faint, but the craving inside him was louder than reason. It always was.
He shook with tears streaking hot against his cheeks and temples, until finally–finally–he tore himself free.
His head snapped back, mouth slick with blood, with his chest heaving in ragged breaths. The world swam in dizzy halos, the porch light bleeding into black. Blood ran down his arm in thin rivulets, staining his blanket, streaking his palm. Reflex took over. He swiped the mess with the back of his hand, then licked it, swallowing again even as his stomach twisted in protest.
Relief came in the smallest, cruelest measure. The hunger dulled, but the grief roared in to replace it.
Rhett slumped back against the swing, arm clutched close, blankets tangled around him like burial cloth. His head lolled back, eyes slipping up to the starless sky, as his mind filled with the mourning that always followed a feed.
He dreamed of sunlight. He tried to recall its heat, its warmth, but the memory was almost gone, reduced to a phantom press against skin that no longer lived. He dreamed of the rodeo–the grit of dirt under his boots, the violent lurch of a bull beneath his thighs, the roar of a crowd lifting him high. He dreamed of the bar, of easy laughter and beer, of strangers who looked at him and saw a man, not a shadow.
And he dreamed of women.
That longing gnawed deeper than hunger. He remembered the press of soft bodies grinding against him, the taste of mouths opening under his, the rasp of fingernails raking down his back. He remembered the tilt of throats when they moaned his name, the musk of perfume on sweat-slicked skin, the sacred praise whispered in the quiet afterward when they lay warm and trembling in his arms. That desire had never left him. It was etched into his marrow, as vital as thirst, as damning as blood. But it was gone now, as unreachable as the sun. No woman would ever press against him again. No lover would ever thread fingers through his hair or trace his face in the dark. He was too cold. Too cursed.
His chest spasmed suddenly, pain lancing beneath his ribs like a blade. It stole his breath, sharp and cruel. Once, those pangs had terrified him, convinced him he was dying. Now he knew better. It wasn’t his heart failing. It was the emptiness screaming inside him, clawing to get out.
Rhett thought that over the years it would get easier–that he might learn to live with the isolation, to settle into a life of shadows with only his family for company. But nights like these proved him wrong. Nights like these dragged him into a wormhole of what-ifs. What if he’d never climbed into his truck that night, what if the accident hadn’t happened, what if he’d been allowed to live as himself. The list was endless. And it was suffocating.
There were so many things he never got to do. So many things he would never do. It left him wondering what there was to even stay around for. Once his family was gone, he would truly have no one.
And he would never damn them to this sort of life. They hadn’t done anything to deserve such suffering. Neither had he…But it was just bad luck.
He drew his blankets tighter, tucking his bitten arm beneath the fold, and let his head sag forward. Blood still clung to the corners of his mouth, drying tacky, and he licked it absently, the taste bitter, hollow. The hunger still sat like embers in his throat, raw and searing, when the screen door creaked open behind him. Rhett didn’t need to turn–he knew the rhythm of that step, softer than Perry’s but still weighted with decades of ranch life. His mother. He could feel her before he saw her, the air shifting with the warmth of her presence, her heartbeat steady and slow in the dark housecoat she wore.
It was a sound he could never escape: the rush of blood through her veins, the slow cadence of her heart keeping time. To anyone else, it was silence. To Rhett, it was deafening. A song he’d learned to live alongside, one of the few he could bear without tearing himself apart. He’d practiced, trained, endured nights of temptation and clawing hunger until her scent became part of him–safe, familiar, something he could never harm. His family’s blood was different; it didn’t call to him with the same razor-edged demand. It was home, not prey. Their scents were written into him, dulled by memory and years of willpower, the one fragile grace he clung to that kept him from becoming the monster he feared.
Cecilia’s outline appeared in the porch light, housecoat wrapped tight against the night’s heat, an extra blanket folded in her hands. She crossed to him with a kind of quiet purpose, the kind only a mother could carry, and held it out.
“I warmed it up for you,” She said softly, her voice lined with fatigue and tenderness. “I could practically hear you shakin’ from the living room.” Rhett managed the faintest curve of his lips–a ghost of a smile, but the most he could muster. He reached out with trembling fingers, careful not to brush her skin more than he had to, and accepted the blanket.
“Thanks, Ma…” His voice cracked low, words rasping like brittle wood. He unfolded the fabric with shaking hands and spread it over himself, the warmth bleeding into his bones, though the shivers still racked through him as if nothing could ever thaw the winter he carried.
Cecilia didn’t leave right away though. Instead, she reached out, her hand smoothing back the strands of his light brown hair, her touch gentle as a summer wind. In the yellow glow, the flecks of grey threaded through his hair glinted faintly–grey that always surfaced when he was starving, a strange cruel quirk of whatever curse gripped him, fading back to brown only once his hunger was sated. Her fingers lingered, then slipped down to cup his cheek.
“My sweet boy…” She whispered, her thumb brushing against the hollow beneath his eye, the skin too thin, too bruised. “I wish I could help you more than this…” The words fractured something in him, because he knew they were true. Six years, and she still carried the same raw grief. She had watched him unravel night after night, and still she hadn’t stopped mourning. To her, he was both alive and buried, a son stolen and yet sitting right before her.
It hurt her every time, even though habit should have dulled it by now. But when Cecilia allowed herself to truly look at him, to truly remember, a pit hollowed her stomach all over again. The memory of that night never loosened its grip–the call she got from the hospital, the urgency of the way Royal drove, swerving in and out of traffic to make sure that they would get to Rhett safely but fast, and the way she had nearly torn herself apart in the emergency room begging the doctors to do anything, absolutely anything, to save her boy. She had screamed until her throat was raw, bargained with God and the medical team alike. And they had saved him, but not in the way she’d wanted.
If she had known the cost, if she had known what they would bring him back as, she wasn’t sure she would’ve made the same choice. That thought poisoned her, and lived under her ribs like a splinter that never worked free. She thought about it every day. And Rhett–Rhett felt the weight of it humming in her even when she didn’t speak it. He’d long since learned to tune out her thoughts, to spare her the shame of knowing he could feel the guilt she bled, but sometimes it was evident just in the looks he gave her that he knew what was going on inside her head.
He let out a weary breath, closing his eyes against the sting of her thumb tracing the hollows of his face.
“Ma…” He murmured, voice raw with something softer than the hunger that still burned through him. “You’ve done everythin’ you could. I’m fine. Perry’s gonna bring me back some blood and I’ll be good as new.” She shook her head faintly, eyes wet, but nodded anyway, because what else could she do?
“You know I’ll always be worryin’ about you,” She said, her voice thin with a sad smile. “It’s just what a mother does.” From the cocoon of blankets, Rhett pushed one trembling hand free and reached out. His palm came to rest gently against her elbow, the pressure weak but deliberate, a small squeeze meant to comfort her more than himself.
“You should get some sleep,” He suggested softly. “I’ll be fine out here for the night.” Cecilia sighed, the sound heavy with reluctance.
“Okay…We’re going to be goin’ out in the mornin’, so you’ll have the place to yourself. Thought I’d mention that, just in case you go through one of your blackouts.” Rhett nodded, eyes still closed, his head tilted back against the swing.
“Thank you for tellin’ me…” His words were quiet, trailing into the night. For a long moment, she lingered, as though her presence alone might shield him from the cold gnawing at his insides. Finally, she leaned down, pressing her lips softly to his clammy forehead. The kiss was warm, and achingly human.
“Goodnight, Rhett,” She whispered against his skin, letting her hand linger against his cheek, trembling faintly, before giving him one last pat. But it wasn’t like her prior touches. This one landed heavy, weighted with everything she couldn’t say aloud. In that touch, he felt her sorrow seep straight into him–the grief so strong it spilled past her skin and into his own. It burned cold like his skin, a tide rushing through marrow, threading down into every hollow place inside him. He had long since realized that when emotions swelled too sharp in people, they leapt from people's flesh and into him like sparks jumping from flame, and this was just one of those times that he was absorbing whatever his mother had been harbouring.
”Goodnight, Ma…” He rasped, his voice catching like gravel in his throat.
And then she slipped away, retreating back into the house without another word.
The blankets clung damp to his clammy skin, and he burrowed deeper into them, but the heat his mother had gifted him fled within minutes, leaving only that marrow-deep cold that no fire could thaw. He sighed low, breath rattling, and tilted his head back into the porch swing’s chains.
Rhett’s eyes dragged upward, fixing on the swollen white disc of the moon. To anyone else, it was pale and ordinary, but to him, it was a cruel substitute for the sun he hadn’t felt in six years. Cold light in place of warmth. A reflection in place of the real thing. Still, it was all he had, and he clung to it the way drowning men clung to driftwood–his anchor in an endless night. He let his gaze linger there, ignoring the fire in his throat, ignoring the pulse of pain threading through his veins like barbed wire pulled taut–his last excuse for a feed was wearing off. The burn rose and fell in waves, a tide of hunger breaking against him, demanding. But he refused it. For now.
His ears betrayed him though. Off in the distance, he heard the muted shuffle of hooves in the barn, the soft exhale of cattle, the rustling of bodies shifting against straw. The noises were quiet, ordinary, but to Rhett they struck like gunshots. Every low groan of the animals, every twitch of movement, came to him sharpened, thickened by the scent of blood hidden beneath their hides. His jaw clenched. His fangs ached. His chest tightened.
The temptation was growing–louder, sharper. The barn was close. Too close. He could already picture the wooden latch, how easy it would be to slip it open because Royal refused to lock it–trying to display that he still trusted his son. He could see himself stalking through the rows, shadows stretching, the animals stiffening in terror before he even touched them because they would know what was coming, and he could smell it–hot copper flooding the air, dripping down his chin, searing his tongue.
He closed his eyes tightly, lids pinched until white sparks bloomed behind them, trying to exile the visions clawing through his mind. His hunger writhed inside him like a living thing, twisting and clawing for attention, pulsing deep in his stomach, boiling up into his chest until bile seared his throat. Every swallow was a burn, every breath a reminder of what he lacked.
No matter how easy it would be, he wasn’t going to do it. He couldn’t.
Instead, he clung to a single fragile hope: that Perry would hurry up and end his night quickly and come rattling back up the drive with the crate from the butcher. That crate was salvation. He could already see it in his mind, stacked with heavy containers full of blood, condensation slicking the lids. He pictured the first one warm in his hand, the seal tearing free. He wouldn’t even bother with a cup tonight–what was the point of civility when his body was unraveling? No, he’d rip the lid off and drink until it was empty or until the beast inside him finally curled quiet in its cage.
He swallowed hard at the thought, Adam’s apple jerking painfully, the taste of phantom copper already scratching his tongue. A low sigh leaked out of him, frayed and shaking.
And then–mercifully–his ears tuned to something other than the barn.
The low, familiar rumble of Perry’s truck rolled through the night, tires chewing over gravel, the sound rising with every heartbeat. Rhett’s head snapped up, eyes widening with raw relief.
“Thank God…” He muttered, voice cracked, hoarse, nothing but bone-deep desperation. He pushed up from the swing at once, blankets pooling at his feet like shed skin. His body trembled so hard his knees nearly buckled, but adrenaline pushed him forward. He stood taut, at the ready, every nerve wound tight for the moment the truck pulled in.
Headlights swept across the porch, bleaching his hollow face in white for a fleeting instant before cutting off. The engine died. Silence fell, broken only by the slam of the door and the heavy scrape of boots. Perry emerged from the cab, green milk crate in hand, the containers inside clinking together with their weight.
Rhett was on him before Perry even had the chance to draw a steady breath. He darted across the yard in a blur, so fast and sudden that his brother startled, nearly dropping the crate.
“Christ, Rhett–” Perry choked out, heart stuttering hard in his chest.
But he didn’t hear him.
He had already ripped one of the pints free, fingers fumbling the lid with frantic strength until it cracked open. In the next heartbeat, the rim of it was at his mouth.
The first swallow was perfection. Warm, thick, and alive in a way his own blood could never be, it hit his tongue with a copper-sweet sting sharp as pennies. It carried a gamey edge, musky and wild, tasting of grass and soil and sweat and life lived under open skies. It was rich, almost cloying, sweet and metallic in a marriage that burned down his throat like molten honey laced with iron. Nothing like the bitter, stagnant sludge he siphoned from his own veins. This was fire. This was salvation.
A guttural moan tore from him as his throat worked hard, gulp after gulp, the sound thick and obscene in the quiet night. He tilted the container back, chugging like a man downing beer after a twelve-hour shift, but with far more desperation. The blood coated his mouth, smeared his lips, spilled in rivulets down his chin to soak into his white shirt. He didn’t pause to wipe it; he didn’t care. Each swallow drowned the hunger in his throat, each gulp seared into his veins like a hot brand cooling to embers.
“Don’t–” Perry barked, panic flashing through his voice. “Rhett, slow down, you’ll–” But Perry stopped himself as Rhett’s hand lifted, a single finger raised in a silent plea–wait. His brother’s eyes were still closed, throat working in desperate gulps, but the gesture was clear enough: let him finish. Perry stood frozen, boots rooted in gravel, listening to the hollow sound of swallowing, thick and wet, each gulp dragged from somewhere deep inside.
Rhett tilted the container higher, draining the last crimson mouthfuls, then pulled it away from his lips with a shuddering breath. His tongue swept over the rim, catching every trace, unwilling to surrender even a drop. Blood gleamed at the corners of his mouth, glistening dark against his pallid skin. He licked it away, slow and deliberate, as though savoring it.
“Don’t worry, Per,” Rhett rasped, voice cracked but steadier now, that faint dry humor clinging stubbornly to his words. “I’m not goin’ to throw it up…I’m a bit too hungry for all of that.” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing red across his knuckles, then he bent his head and licked the stain clean. Perry’s stomach clenched at the sight–not from disgust, but from the sheer reminder of how far his brother had been dragged from the world of the living.
Perry exhaled sharply, raising his brows and nodding toward the green crate still heavy in his grip. “I don’t know how the hell these are goin’ to last you all week if you’ve already chugged one.” Rhett gave a faint shrug.
“Well, I was starvin’ just a few minutes ago. Now that I’m all balanced out again, I think I’ll be able to survive on two cups a day.”
Perry let out a small, dry laugh, though it carried no true ease–just a brittle attempt at normalcy. “I’ll hold you to those words…”
——————
The next morning, everyone had emptied out of the house, leaving together in chaos. Doors slammed, voices overlapped, boots clattered across the porch. The roar of trucks pulling away rattled the old glass panes until the noise dwindled into nothing, swallowed by the Wyoming distance. Silence was sudden and heavy, settling like dust after a stampede.
Rhett had retreated to his room after chugging down the pint of blood, and he hadn’t moved much since. He stretched out across his bed, head tilted toward the boarded-up window, with music whispering faintly through the battered headphones that curled crooked around his ears. A steel guitar hummed low through the static, notes rising and falling in the quiet, though his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling as if he was staring through it, seeing nothing at all.
His bedroom looked less like the space of a young man and more like a mausoleum for a life paused mid-breath. A television sat squat on a dresser opposite his bed, the screen clouded with dust, long unused. Beside it, his record player rested, needle still sharp, the turntable scarred but working. Stacks of vinyl leaned against the wall—country greats, outlaw crooners, a few Springsteen and Mellencamp sleeves worn soft at the edges, spines cracked from years of handling. Books littered every surface, paperbacks splayed open on the nightstand, piled uneven on the floor where buckles and trophies once held pride of place. Those sat now in shadowed corners, dulled with dust, half-forgotten–small glimmers of a man he no longer recognized.
And the window–his only glimpse of the outside world–was sealed shut with thick boards, nailed down in overlapping layers. The cracks between them glowed faintly, where sunlight clawed in, thin and bright, filtered to nothing by the heavy curtains pinned overtop. He sometimes let himself imagine what it would feel like to pull those curtains back, to pry up one board and steal a single look at the morning. Just one look at the wide-open fields burning gold. But he knew it would be futile, and reckless. The sun was no longer his. It would kill him before he even had the chance to marvel.
With a groan, he shoved the tangled blanket aside and pushed himself up, bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. His body still felt hollow, but steadier than the night before–the blood in his veins quieting the hunger for now. He crossed the room in slow strides and pressed his hand to the doorframe before pulling it open.
The living room greeted him, shadowed and silent, but not abandoned. His family had been careful, the way they always were when they left him behind. The removable boards had been slotted into the windows, covering every last inch of glass, sealing out the sun completely. The familiar sight hit him square in the chest–not just protection, but consideration. They did this for him, every time. If they were going to be gone, they made sure the house was dark enough that he could roam without fear.
A few lamps had been left burning, their light dim but golden, throwing small pools of warmth across the space. One on the side table beside the sagging couch. Another in the kitchen beyond, its glow catching on the chrome of the sink and the wood grain of the cabinets. The house carried its age in every line and sound. The wide living room still had its rough pine beams stretching low overhead, wood darkened by years of smoke and weather. A patterned rug lay beneath the coffee table, threadbare in patches from decades of boots. The furniture was sturdy but tired, each piece bearing the weight of generations.
From the living room, the kitchen was visible through the wide archway–open, homey, cluttered in ways that spoke of daily use. Countertops lined in worn laminate were scattered with yesterday’s dishes drying on a towel. The cabinets were simple, pale wood with the varnish rubbed soft at the handles. The old gas stove sat against the far wall, blackened slightly at the edges from years of family meals. Above it, pots hung from a rack Royal had built himself. The air still smelled faintly of coffee, bacon grease, and bread–morning clinging to the rafters even though everyone had left to do their own errands.
Rhett let out a low sigh that rasped through his chest, shoulders sagging as he shuffled toward the fridge. The linoleum beneath his bare feet was cool, each step making him feel heavier, as though the hunger inside him was anchoring him deeper into the earth. He gripped the handle and pulled, the rubbery suction of the seal breaking with a faint pop. The faint chill wafted out, brushing his clammy skin.
He stared into the shelves like a ghost visiting his own grave. Leftovers filled every container—last night’s pot roast, smothered carrots slick with butter, mashed potatoes whipped pale and light. He could almost taste them on his tongue, the memory vivid: fat melting against his teeth, salt blooming in his mouth, the warm, heavy comfort of meat and bread. His stomach clenched in phantom hunger, a trick of memory. Six years gone, and the craving still hadn’t faded. It mocked him. He knew exactly how it would end if he gave in—pain, convulsions, days of his body rejecting it with violent rage. His curse left no room for indulgence.
So, with the dull resignation of ritual, he reached past it all and pulled out one of the butcher’s pints. Condensation slicked the plastic, the liquid inside thick and sluggish, catching the light. He set it onto the counter with a muted thud, fingers already fumbling for the lid.
And then–
A knock.
It was firm, yet polite at the same time. It echoed through the quiet, startling him so sharply that his entire body went rigid, and his spine straightened like it had been yanked by an invisible wire. His hand froze above the container as the veins in his forearms pulsed beneath his skin.
“Mrs. Abbott?”
The voice floated in–clear, sweet, and laced with a summer warmth that cut straight through the airless hush of the room. Rhett’s breath hitched. His chest clenched so suddenly it hurt, a violent squeeze right beneath his ribs, like his heart itself had forgotten how to beat. The sound of you–it was angelic, a tone that shimmered with ease and kindness, so alive it bordered on painful to him. He pressed his palm against his chest at once, rubbing over the ache like he could ease it away.
“I know I’m a little early with your egg delivery this week, but I have an oversupply and thought it would be okay to drop this batch off for you!” Each syllable rolled through him like light pouring into a cave. His throat burned hotter at the sound, hunger flaring sharp and sudden. He could already taste the copper that wasn’t there yet, could imagine the heat of it sliding over his tongue–because you were human, untouched, and alive.
“God damn it,” Rhett muttered under his breath, frustration rough against his teeth. His family’s absence pressed harder on him now. He couldn’t leave the eggs outside–not in the merciless Wabang sun, where they’d spoil before anyone could return home. Royal would curse him for wasting food, and Cecilia would sigh with that quiet disappointment that gutted him worse than anger. He couldn’t let the eggs rot because of what he was.
But what choice did he have?
The door stood between him and annihilation. To open it fully, to step out even an inch into the sunlight, would mean scorching alive where he stood. His scars still remembered the agony of that mistake once before–the sear of flesh, the way he had collapsed, screaming, while Perry and Royal dragged him from the fields not knowing what was happening. He would never survive that pain again now that he was fully aware of it.
Still, he had to move, there was no choice…
He let out a sharp exhale, jaw tightening as he crossed to the door. His hand hovered on the knob for a moment, trembling faintly, before he turned it and eased it open, slow enough to move with it and slip behind it. He pressed himself flat to its shadow, using the wood as a shield to cover him completely.
The sun poured in along the floorboards in a long, blinding sweep. It hit the wood like molten gold, spilling across the grain until every groove gleamed as though the house itself had been set alight. Dust motes rose and spun in the sudden blaze, suspended in the air like tiny stars adrift in their own private constellation. Rhett’s breath caught ragged in his throat. He couldn’t feel it on his skin, couldn’t risk even a kiss of its heat without burning alive, but looking at it was enough to make his heart seize.
And in the middle of it–your shadow.
It cut through the sunlight like a dark etching, clean and perfect. The slope of your shoulders, the gentle line of your waist, the tilt of your head–they were enough to make him dizzy. Even your outline was pretty, beautiful in ways that made his throat close. He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek just to find his voice.
“Put the eggs…Just off to the side,” He rasped from behind the door, forcing the words through his cracked throat. “Beside the frame. That way I can shut the door without…Crushin’ ‘em.” He made his instructions clear and easy to follow, and you obeyed them, stepping carefully over the threshold as though you were being mindful of some sort of invisible boundary that was between his world and yours. The cartons shifted in your arms with a dull cardboard scrape shifted against the fabric of the dress you were wearing, and you crouched to set them down where he asked–neat and precise.
And that was when it hit him.
The smell.
It shattered him like glass, a tidal wave breaking through every wall he had built. For six years he had trained himself to dull his senses around his family, to numb the sharpened edges that made the world unbearable–but the second you entered that doorway, all of it broke loose. His lungs flared, his body seizing as your scent filled him whole.
Honey and oat soap clung faintly to your skin, warm and clean. Beneath it, citrus lotion bloomed, tart and bright like summer itself. But those were only the surface notes, the soft distractions. Underneath, threaded deep, came the truth of you–the heat of your blood coursing through your veins, copper-rich and unbearably alive. He could smell it as though your skin were translucent, smell the way it pulsed under the delicate surface of your wrists, your throat, and your thighs.
You sang to him in ways no one else would ever hear. The musk of pheromones whispered sharp against the sweetness of your sweat, a heady edge that told him exactly what your own body displayed–you were ovulating. Fertile. Ripe. The knowledge struck him like a fist to the gut, dragging hunger into something feral, carnal. He hadn’t been near a woman in six years. Six years starved of touch, of intimacy, of heat. Now his senses drowned in it–your hormones blooming like a second perfume in the air, his every nerve sparking with a need so sharp it bordered on agony.
It was like his body tuned into every system you carried inside you. Rhett could hear it all, as though your skin were glass and every hidden function laid bare for him. The steady push of your heart worked like a piston, pumping life through you with mechanical precision. Each contraction sent warmth flooding down into your arms, threading into your palms, surging into your legs until it curled in your toes. He could track it–the blood rushing like a river through your carotid, the delicate flutter along your wrist, the full-bodied pulse that pooled low in your abdomen.
Every breath you took fanned that rhythm, lungs drawing in summer air only to press oxygen into the flow, brightening it, heightening it, feeding your body like coal feeding a furnace. You weren’t just standing there–you were a living engine, copper and iron spinning through tubes of flesh. Rhett felt every gear turning, every chamber firing.
And it terrified him. Because he knew what it meant: you were nervous. Your heart was running just a little too fast, not the calm cadence of someone at ease but the jittery clip of someone who didn’t quite trust the situation. He heard the stumble in your thoughts, quick and anxious. That’s not Royal. Not Perry. Whose voice is that? Your suspicion rang through him, sharp as if you’d spoken it aloud.
The sheer weight of it all hit him like a flash bang. Light and sound and scent detonated at once, and for a heartbeat, he was drowning in you–your pulse, your scent, your thoughts, your voice, your warmth, your soul, and it swallowed him whole.
His throat cinched at once, clamping down like a vice. The craving lit inside him like a struck match, flaring so hot it scorched his windpipe raw. He had never tasted human blood–not once. Not unless he counted the ruinous swallows he dragged from his own veins when the hunger broke him. But that had always been a corrupted thing: foul, stagnant, bitter as mold. Nothing like this. Nothing like what was standing only a few feet from him, warm and unspoiled. The idea of the real thing–your blood, hot and coursing–made his chest constrict until every breath rasped like sandpaper.
He coughed hard, low in his chest, as if the force of it might jar the thought loose. But the burn only worsened. It licked up his esophagus like molten tar, thick and merciless. The carnal urge rose sharp and undeniable, every nerve screaming at him to drag you inside, slam the door shut, and sink his teeth into the tender curve of your throat. His body painted the picture for him without his consent: the snap of your breath, the gush of heat flooding his mouth, your pulse hammering once, twice, then dissolving into him. He could drink until the ache finally stilled. Until he was full. Until silence reigned inside him again.
Maybe she’d be okay with it, some stray, wicked thought whispered. Maybe you’d tilt your head back and let him. Maybe you’d sigh and surrender. The fantasy ripped through him so violently he had to press his forehead against the door to keep himself grounded. No. No, she wouldn’t be okay with it. She’d scream. You’d ruin her. You’d ruin yourself.
Through the hairline crack at the hinge of the door, his eyes sought you, and the sight nearly killed him.
You were an angel. That was the only word that came to him that could describe you. Sunlit, soft, achingly alive. Your features glowed in the spill of daylight like they were carved from warmth itself. The light green dress you wore clung delicate against your frame, straps thin as thread, fabric patterned with little flowers that seemed to bloom brighter just for you. The cotton skimmed your skin in a way that made his mouth water–shoulders bared, collarbones gleaming, the tender stretch of your throat pulsing with life. Every curve, every inch of exposed flesh sang to him like a hymn of access.
It was too much.
His gaze flicked lower and caught on the glint of silver at your chest. A crucifix. Tiny, polished, suspended on a fine chain that hugged the hollow of your throat. The sunlight struck it and nearly blinded him, a flare of white against skin he already ached for. It should have driven him back. Should have seared through his hunger like salt in a wound. But it didn’t. It only made him reel harder, stomach lurching, something close to awe tightening his chest.
Purity. That was what it looked like, a brand of innocence resting over the very place he longed to bite. The cross wasn’t repelling him–it was drawing him in. Making him sick with the idea of desecration, of tearing into what was sacred. He hated himself for how much more it enthralled him, how much more the gleam of silver against the line of your pulse made his fangs ache.
Easy access, his mind whispered, venomous. He wouldn’t even need to hunt. No searching, no fumbling. Every vein he could want was already offered up in plain sight. He could be fast. He could be thorough. He could make it neat. And he could hide it. He knew how to keep secrets. His family didn’t have to find out. This could be his, his alone.
The fantasy swelled so sharp that his stomach turned. He clenched his eyes shut, teeth grinding until his jaw pulsed with ache. Stop. Snap out of it. You’re not a monster. You’re not a fucking monster. Go drink your animal blood, you fiend. He scolded.
But his body didn’t listen. His thoughts drifted anyway. Drifted to you. To the heat of your flesh under the dress, to the warmth of your veins thrumming beneath, to the faint glisten of sweat he swore he could smell even though your skin looked untouched, flawless. His imagination betrayed him–how hot you’d feel beneath his hands, how soft your throat would give, how sweet your pulse would taste when it burst over his tongue.
His throat squeezed until he nearly gagged on air.
And then you spoke again.
“Sorry, but…Do you happen to have the payment as well? It’s usually fifteen dollars.” Your voice was gentle, almost shy when asking, and it ripped him clean out of his spiral. Reality slammed into him–mundane, human, utterly ordinary. Payment. Money. His heart staggered, his head dropping against the doorframe with a dull thud. Fuck. The payment.
He dragged a shaking hand across his forehead, trying to think through the static.
“Yeah…Just give me a second, okay?” His voice came out cracked, “I’m going to close the door for a moment, I promise I’ll be back. I just need to grab the money.” He could sense the hesitation instantly–the way your heart picked up a nervous clip, stuttering against your ribs like a trapped sparrow. He could hear it. He could feel it. The sound ran through him like a drumbeat, echoing sharp inside his skull, each thud pushing him closer to the edge. Your thoughts brushed against him too, jittery and suspicious, tumbling over themselves in staccato bursts. Cecilia never mentioned another man lived at the house…Who the hell am I speaking to?
The words stabbed at him, more painful than he wanted to admit. Because you were right–Cecilia never mentioned him. No one in this town even knew he still existed. He was a secret rotting behind boarded windows, a ghost with a pulse, and that was just how he needed to be.
“Oh…Okay.” You replied softly. Through the slim hairline crack he was peeking through, he saw the movement of your face as you bit the inside of your cheek–a tiny, nervous gesture, but it lit him up like a brand. His vision tunneled on that small indentation in your skin. The fragile flesh giving way beneath your teeth. The possibility–however slight–that you might pierce through and draw blood.
If she does, you’re toast, he hissed at himself, throat tightening so hard it felt like rope. One drop. One taste of copper, and he wouldn’t have the strength to keep himself behind the door.
Panic snapped his control into motion. He shut the door quickly–too quickly, maybe, the wood slamming against the frame with more force than he’d meant. He didn’t give himself time to dwell on your startled inhale. His body already carried him across the dim kitchen, movements sharp, desperate. He reached high, hands trembling as he grabbed the egg money jar from the top of the fridge. Glass clinked, coins rattling. His fingers dove inside, fishing out a folded twenty-dollar bill.
He clutched it tight enough to crumple it, then rushed back to the door, chest heaving as though he had sprinted miles. His throat burned like he had swallowed fire. With one hand, he fumbled the bill onto the top of the cartons stacked by the frame. Only then did he risk pulling the door open again, slipping back behind its shadow like a sinner ducking beneath a confessional’s screen.
He could hear your heart lurch slightly at the sight of the bill, a little misstep in rhythm that sounded deafening to him, like a cymbal crash in the hush of the house. Then came the shift of fabric, the faint slide of leather straps as your hand moved toward the crossbody bag at your hip. He could picture it without seeing: your fingers working at the zipper, fumbling inside for bills or coins, the small metallic clink of change waiting to fall into your palm.
“You can keep the difference,” He rasped, forcing the words out quick and hard, a blade of sound through the crack.
He heard you pause. A beat of silence that felt like forever. Then your voice, soft and almost startled:
“Oh…It’s no trouble, I can get you the change.”
Rhett’s throat screamed. It was more than a burn now–it was a roar, a wildfire trying to claw its way out of him. His body shook with it, every muscle taut with restraint. He could see it in his mind–your hand extending into the threshold again, your veins so close he could lean forward and tear in before you had time to gasp, he’d risk getting burned by the sun to taste you.
“It’s okay!” He blurted, louder than he meant, voice cracking, frantic. “It’s for your troubles.”
The silence that followed nearly killed him. He could hear your heartbeat galloping faster, the nervous flutter making your pulse stammer like a frightened bird’s wings. And then–God help him–he saw it through the hairline crack. The way your lips pressed tight, teeth catching on the soft swell of your lower lip. A nervous habit, innocent and human, but it lit him up like a brand. He imagined the faint sting you must have felt, the way blood might bloom beneath the skin if you bit too hard.
“Okay…Well…Thank you, that’s very kind.” Your voice cut the air, calm but carrying that careful edge of nerves. He watched you bend down, saw your hand reach in and pluck the folded bill from atop the cartons with a featherlight touch. You tucked it away, your movements precise, deliberate. “I hope you have a good day.”
The words nearly unmade him. Simple, ordinary, but warm–so warm he almost believed them.
“You as well…” Rhett croaked, the words scraping like gravel from his throat. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, ruined and desperate.
Before he could think twice, he slammed the door. The wood cracked shut, the lock sliding home in a sharp metallic click. Safe. Contained. He braced against it for a second, forehead pressed to the panel, chest heaving like he had just outrun something that hunted him.
The eggs stayed abandoned by the frame, untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to move them–not yet. He couldn’t prolong this. Not even by a heartbeat.
The hunger snapped loose inside him like a whip, vicious and demanding. He staggered across the kitchen, feet dragging, chest hitching with ragged breaths. His hands fumbled at the counter, seizing one of the butcher’s containers with such force the lid almost cracked under his grip. He tore it open, plastic whining, and pressed it to his mouth.
The first gulp was fire.
Thick, coagulated, metallic, and sharp with iron, it rushed down his throat like molten copper, searing, burning, but soothing in its cruelty. He drank hard, gulp after gulp, throat convulsing around the flood. Each swallow was loud, obscene, echoing in the quiet house. Blood smeared his lips, dripped from the corners of his mouth, streaked his chin. He didn’t stop to wipe it. He couldn’t stop at all.
He tipped the container higher, throat working with greedy, guttural pulls until air caught between swallows, until his chest heaved like bellows. He moaned low, rough, almost broken, as though the act of drinking itself hurt even as it healed. His hand shook around the plastic, knuckles bone-white, but he drained it down, not daring to waste a single drop.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
Because you lingered.
Even as he leaned against the counter, panting, the container limp in his hand, he could still smell you. The soap, the lotion, the bright copper of your pulse. It threaded through the kitchen air like smoke, curling in his lungs until it was all he could taste, even over the blood.
He could still hear your voice, bright and soft, replaying like a hymn in the cavern of his skull. He could still feel the phantom of your heartbeat, rattling like a drum against his bones. He could still taste the imagined sweetness of you, warm and alive, a taste he had never had but now knew he would crave until it destroyed him.
Outside, your truck engine turned over, a low hum that cut through the silence. He heard it roll back down the gravel, the sound fading with distance. You were gone. And yet somehow–somehow–he could still smell you. Still feel you. And still hear you.
Welcome to the master page of "Your Disease" starring Aaron Taylor -Johnson and Lewis Pullman. If you like to be tagged in this series, please leave a comment or a message in the ask box.
Summary: Rhett can’t feed off of anyone else but you.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Reader and Rhett are in a relationship, Some Vampire Lore here and there (but not a lot), Descriptions of Blood and Drinking Blood, You feel high when Rhett drinks from you (it is described as a euphoric state), Reader is described to have bite mark scars all over their body in a variety shapes and it’s mentioned that Rhett has torn skin, Odd Vampire Lore (he can see himself in the mirror 😨)
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Biting, Scratching, Hair Pulling, Slightly Rough Sex, Rhett Gets A Little Feral, Praise Kink, Breast/Nipple Play, Rhett drinks from you during sex, Things Get Extremely Messy, Cock Warming (brief), Mentions of Pregnancy (extremely brief, and it’s not a breeding kink or anything like that), Aftercare.
Author’s Note: Oh Vampire Rhett, how I’ve missed writing you so much, we love a yearning, feral vampire just trying to make it through eternal damnation lol. This is also pure smut basically, but I hope y’all enjoy <3 And HAPPY NEW YEAR BTW!
Word Count: 22,066
“You left your window unlocked…” Rhett announced, his voice a low, resonant murmur that cut through the steady patter of running water from your bathroom sink, distant yet audible, like a secret whispered in the dead of night. He slipped through the open frame with ethereal grace, given the unspoken permission for him to come in, his boots touching down on the worn wooden floorboards of your bedroom with a soft, deliberate thud. The planks creaked under his weight, a familiar groan that sent a vibration rippling through the soles of your bare feet, as the cool evening breeze followed him in, carrying hints of pine and dirt from the world outside.
You had left it open on purpose, that silent beckoning–a sliver of vulnerability etched against the dark glass, visible from the gravel driveway where his footsteps had crunched like brittle bones underfoot. The night air had nipped at his perpetually chilled skin, a futile caress against the undead frost that clung to him, but it was nothing compared to the fire that ignited within when he spotted the warm glow spilling from your room.
You were awake and waiting, your heartbeat a rhythmic lure thrumming in his ears, that steady squeeze and release, the rush of blood pulsing through your veins like a siren’s song drawing him upward. He had scaled the side of the house with predatory ease, his fingers gripping the trellis vines that twisted like veins themselves, all for the promise of you–the beacon, the warmth, and the essence that sustained him.
Even from afar, your scent enveloped him, unadorned and pure, just as he preferred it. No lotions or perfumes masked it; you knew how deeply he craved the natural bloom of your skin, that delicate orris note evoking fields of wild violets crushed underfoot after a spring rain, earth and floral, soft yet intoxicating. It was a fragrance he could bury himself in, licking along the curve of your neck, nuzzling into the hollows where your pulse fluttered, inhaling so profoundly that it seared into his lungs, a phantom trace lingering long after he’d slipped away at dawn.
Often, in the haze of post-feeding bliss, he’d press his body against yours, rubbing skin on skin, or he would insist you wear his clothes, so that he could carry that violet-kissed essence back into the shadows with him. Your blood was his nectar, sweet and vital, but your presence? That was the one thing that kept him grounded, a craving that transcended hunger, and weaving you into the fabric of his cursed existence was all he needed.
You had been counting the nights, marking them on a mental calendar like notches in a bedpost–the stretch of time since his last visit, the growing ache in your own chest mirroring his starvation. You knew he’d come soon, driven by that insatiable need, and only one soul in this forsaken world would dare climb to your window under the moon’s indifferent gaze. So when his voice echoed softly, no fear stirred in you; only anticipation, a warm flutter low in your belly.
You turned off the water and peeked around the bathroom door, catching sight of him framed by the window, a silhouette etched in moonlight and the dim amber haze from your bedside lamp. He brushed at his blue-and-black flannel plaid shirt and the white undershirt beneath with the back of one calloused hand, dislodging flecks of dried leaves that fluttered to the floor like scattered ashes from a dying ember. His belt buckle caught the dim glow, a silver glint that accentuated the lean power of his form–the muscular thighs straining against faded denim, the firm curve of his ass that you had admired countless times before this. You drank him in piecemeal, savouring the details: the sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, the high cheekbones that gave his face a rugged, almost haunted nobility, his thin lips parted slightly almost like he was so used to his human tendencies that he didn’t hide them. His light brown hair fell in dark strands across his forehead, stuck to his skin by the faint sheen of cold sweat that had broken over it, and even though it was messy, all you wanted to do was go over to him and dig your nose into the softness to breathe it all in.
From your vantage, the veins in his neck stood out in stark relief against his pallid, ashen skin–thick, darkened lines snaking like rivers of shadow, a visceral sign of his torment, the self-imposed famine he endured until the pull became unbearable. A crimson ring encircled his irises, like blood diffusing in water, turning the vibrant blue–that always left you spell bound–to a murky, gleaming sapphire that shimmered under the low light. The colour was only amplified by the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, hollows that spoke of endless nights of starvation, all for the sake of sparing you and your body.
You cleared your throat deliberately, a soft cough that snapped his gaze to you in an instant, his head turning with inhuman swiftness–because if a human were to twist their neck that fast it would’ve possibly snapped–his eyes settling on you fully. You stood, clad in a blush-pink nightgown, a whisper of silk and lace that clung to your curves and that showed no mercy. He took an itinerary of all the details; the thin delicate straps perched on your shoulders, the intricate lace trim edging the deep V-neckline where it plunged to reveal the swell of your breasts, the fabric being sheer enough in the warm lamplight to hint at the silhouette beneath–your hips’ gentle flare, the softness of your waist, the perky peaks of your nipples pressing and aching against the thin bodice. It flowed asymmetrically, one side draping longer in soft, ethereal layers of chiffon that swayed even with the slightest movement, exposing tantalizing glimpses of your thigh and the scars that adorned it.
Rhett couldn’t help but feel his throat tighten as he turned his body to face you more fully, a slow pivot that brought the full weight of his starved gaze crashing over you like a tidal wave held at bay for too long. His eyes roamed with unabashed hunger across every inch of exposed skin, tracing the map of his own making: the constellation of scars that bloomed across your body like brutal love letters etched in flesh. They were not delicate punctures, no neat twin pricks healed to faint filler lines. No, these were raw, ragged testaments to his loss of control–jagged tears where his fangs had ripped free in the throes of ecstasy, crescent-shaped gashes from where he’d worried the skin like a beast too frantic to be gentle, puckered ridges of scar tissue that spoke of nights when the sweetness of your blood had driven him feral, his mouth latched and sucking with desperate, guttural pulls until the skin gave way beneath his teeth.
There, at the tender curve where your neck melted into your shoulder, a cluster of overlapping bites formed a mottled mark of healed-over violence, the skin raised and textured like weathered leather. Lower, along the slight ridge of your collarbone, shimmering lines crisscrossed like lightning strikes frozen in time. The swell of your breasts bore their fair share too–faint, circular indents at the tops where he’d buried his face in the soft give of them, and deeper, more vicious marks peeking just above the lace trim of your nightgown, reminders of how he’d torn the fabric aside in his need, leaving scratches in its wake. Your thigh, those inviting expanses, were a battlefield: the inner portions were scarred with long, dragging tears from where he had spread you wide and feasted slowly, leaving marks trailing all the way up to your core; the outer curves were dotted with sharper, impulsive bites taken in the heat of passion. Even your arms–the soft undersides of your biceps, the delicate inner elbow ditches–carried his brand, rough and unapologetic.
If you spun for him now, he’d glimpse the valley of your spine: a trail of marks would be found there, descending like a ladder of possession, each one deeper toward the base of it where he’d bent you over furniture, tables, the hood of his truck under starless skies, sinking in from behind with a growl that vibrated through your bones. The back of your shoulder held one of his favourite scars–a deep, torn crescent where blood had spilled hot and sticky down your arm, pooling in the crook of your elbow while he rutted into you, lost to the rhythm of the feed and the thrusting of his hips. He would lick you clean, asking after every other lap whether you were okay, and you would just nod in your blissed out high, before he healed you, stopping the bleeding and holding you until the high ceased.
He cringed inwardly at the sight, a sharp twist in his gut that warred with the fire roaring in his veins. How many times had he stared at these marks in the mirror of his own mind, hating the monster who’d mauled your perfect skin? Yet every remorseful thought shattered the moment you’d arch into him, whispering breathless pleas for more–harder, Rhett, deeper, don’t stop–your body yielding not in pain but in that exquisite surrender, the euphoric high that flooded you when his fangs pierced true. It was no mere sting for you; it was transcendence, a rush like molten lava surging through your bloodstream, synapses firing in blissful overload until the world blurred into pure sensation. In those moments, you felt him inside you in ways beyond the physical–his hunger syncing with your pulse, his ancient loneliness bleeding into your warmth, tattooing his essence into your very marrow. You became one organism, heightened and burning, every nerve singing with the intimacy of it, as if he were rewriting your souls with each draw of blood.
After these long feeds, Rhett always insisted on granting you precious time to replenish, a reprieve etched into the rhythm of your union. If he didn’t he knew with bone-deep certainty that he’d bleed you dry within a day or two–your essence siphoned away in greedy, unrelenting draws until nothing remained but a hollow shell. And the most harrowing part? He feared you wouldn’t care if it happened, that in the throes of that shared ecstasy, you’d surrender everything to him without a whisper of regret.
He was far too addicted to your taste, an obsession that clawed at his undead core: the honeyed sweetness of your blood, thick and velvety, coating his tongue like molten ambrosia, smearing across his lips in crimson streaks as his fangs sank into the buttery smoothness of your flesh. Each puncture was a symphony of surrender–the initial resistance giving way to a warm gush, the metallic tang blooming into floral notes that danced on his palate, evoking sun-ripened berries crushed against wild violets, he had told you it was the closest he would get to seeing and feeling the sun again.
It was painful, excruciating even, to stay away from you for those stretched-out intervals, his body wracked with phantom hunger pangs that twisted like knives in his empty gut, but the reunions…Oh, they made it all achingly worthwhile. The moment he crossed your threshold, the world realigned, colours sharpening, senses igniting as if you’d breathed life back into his cursed form.
When Rhett’s visits grew more frequent in those early, desperate months, he’d gently recommended–insisted, really–that you start taking B12 supplements, those little light pink capsules that would bolster your body’s resilience against the toll of his feeds. They helped replenish the blood loss, keeping your energy from dipping into that foggy, leaden exhaustion he’d seen creep over you once or twice. Under their influence, your veins seemed to transform into a boundless wellspring for him, your blood flowing richer, more vibrant, like a river swollen after a storm, or an aged wine.
But more often than not, you’d forget a dose here or there amid the chaos of daily life, a slip that didn’t derail things in the grand scheme, though it gnawed at him regardless, a quiet worry etching lines into his already shadowed brow. That’s why he enforced those self-imposed exiles–a week, sometimes two–of holding himself back, chains of willpower forged in the fires of his love for you. He needed to be utterly certain you had recovered, your skin regaining its warmth and suppleness, your pulse steadying back to that strong, inviting cadence. The risk of causing you excessive pain loomed like a specter otherwise, a nightmare vision of you wincing under his touch, your high fracturing into agony. So even though separation was absolute torture–night spent pacing the Abbott ranch’s desolate barns, the scent of hay and manure a poor substitute for your violet-laced warmth, with his mind replaying the curve of your smile like a talisman–he endured it all for you. Every aching second was a testament to his devotion, a silent vow whispered into the void: he’d starve himself into oblivion before letting harm befall you.
Ever since that fateful first taste, when Rhett had fed on your blood in a moment of raw desperation, he couldn’t keep anything else down. It was as if your essence had rewritten his very biology., tuning his withered stomach–what remnants lingers of that mortal organ–to crave only you. He’d tried, god he really did, in those initial weeks of denial: stalking deer through the dewy Wyoming woods, fangs sinking into furred throats only to retch up the bitter, gamey sludge moments later; pilfering donation bags from Perry’s shady connections at the local blood clinic, the cold, congealed plasma sliding down like oily regret before his body rebelled in violent spasms; even resorting to the ranch’s cattle under cover of night, their lowing protests echoing as he drained them, only for the thick, iron-heavy blood to churn and expel itself in agonizing heaves.
Nothing stayed, nothing satisfied–his insides twisting in revolt, a perpetual nausea that left him weakened and feral. That’s what drove him back to you time and time again, that inexorable pull forging the fragile arrangement you shared: stolen nights of feeding and sex, laced with the unspoken longing for more. You yearned to see him far more often, your texts and whispered voice messages during daylight hours, a siren's call he had to steel himself against.
Of course, he dreamed of it too–of feeding from you until you had nothing left to give, claiming you wholly in a frenzy of possession–but the thought of inflicting that pain, of watching your light dim under his greed, shattered him. So he savoured what he could: the slow drag of his tongue over your wounds, the way your body arched into his, and in return, he poured everything into you–tenderness, protection, the fragments of his fractured soul.
“I was expecting a visitor,” You commented, your voice a soft, teasing lilt that wrapped around him like silk as you made your way over, the nightgown whispering against your skin with each step. He watched, transfixed, his lashes fluttering involuntarily at the sight–the delicate chiffon grazing your scarred thighs, the sound a faint, silken scrape that echoed the rasp of his own uneven, unnatural breaths. He gulped loudly, the burning lump in his throat–an ache from his eternal thirst–stinging sharper as your scent intensified, bursting through his mind like a high speed train. Your heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless drumbeat slamming against his heightened senses, each pulse a tantalizing promise of the warmth he craved–hearing your blood sloshing through your veins and heating up every inch of your skin.
“I could tell, darlin’…I don’t think you’d be dressin’ up like this for anyone else but me…But I’ve already told you how dangerous it is to keep the window open, though,” He replied, his voice a gravelly murmur laced with concern. He reached out slowly, his cold hand settling on the mesh fabric at your side, his calloused fingers curling against the curve of your torso. The chill of his touch seeped through the thin material, igniting an array of shivers that climbed your skin like frost blooming on glass. You brought your hand down to wrap around his wrist, your thumb tracing the inner curve where no pulse thrummed–a void you’d grown accustomed to, yet one that still tugged at your heart with a quiet ache. You stroked it anyways, a ritual of hope, as if one day you might coax life back into his veins.
”Well, nobody else is going to scale my house to slip through my window, so I don’t think you have to keep warning me about how dangerous it is to leave it open…” You explained playfully. He pulled you closer with a gentle insistence, your body yielding to his gravity as you rested your hand on the buckle of his belt, your fingers splaying against the cool metal like you were trying to anchor yourself amid the intoxicating pull he exerted. Your gaze locked on his, drinking in the way his pupils pulsed–dilating and constricting in erratic waves, the crimson ring bleeding inward like ink in water, veining through the sapphire blue until it threatened to consume it entirely. He swallowed hard again, the motion rippling down his throat, and brought his forehead to rest against yours, a small sigh escaping his lips–cool and faintly metallic, like the scent of burning copper.
”Always need to argue with me, hmm?” He asked, swaying back and forth, feeling the material of your nightgown dragging against him. You let out a little huff of a laugh and nodded, your nose lightly bumping his in the intimate press.
”Of course, what fun would it be if I just gave in all the time?” You teased, and he groaned, a sound that resonated deep in his chest like a thunderclap. He shifted his arms, wrapping them around you in a possessive embrace, engulfing your body and pressing you into him even more. His cold skin seeped through the fabric like ice melting into warmth, a stark contrast that made your breath hitch. He could feel your nipple pebbling against his chest, hardening further at the sudden drop in temperature, the friction sending sparks through both of you.
“I guess you’re right…” He murmured, his words ghosting over your lips. Your hot breath invaded his mouth with each soft puff, carrying that intoxicating sweetness–even your exhalations tasted divine to him, a tease of the nectar within your body. It drove him wild, this yearning to have you everywhere, infused into his very being, woven into the fabric of his eternal damnation. He wished desperately for some way to merge your sounds beyond these stolen moments, to claim you not just in body but in perpetuity. The despair of it clawed at his mind–the impossible dream of a normal life with you, sunlit mornings tangled in the sheets, stolen moments where he could watch you sleep and see the peace on your face, when he could hold you and caress you until you woke up, when laughter would echo through your shared home instead of having these nocturnal trysts that left the both of you aching for more.
Rhett loved you with a ferocity that burned brighter than any mortal flame, a consuming blaze that scorched through the icy void of his existence, illuminating the shadows where his soul had long ago withered. It was a love born of desperation and reverence, one that made him ache with the weight of what he could never fully claim. Yet the thought of dooming you to the eternity he endured–turning you into something like him, a creature bound to the night, forever hungering, forever damned–twisted his gut like a rusted blade, churning nausea through his core until he felt the phantom urge to retch.
He wanted to pursue an eternity with you, and he knew you craved it too–he could see it in the way your gaze lingered on him during those quiet post-feed moments, your fingers tracing the jagged scars on his own skin, whispering dreams of forever in hushed tones that made his resolve waver like a flame in the wind. But Rhett couldn’t pull himself to curse you with this limbo he navigated, an existence where every sunrise was an exile and every hunger pang was a reminder of his monstrosity. He would rather walk into the sun and dissolve into nothingness, his body crumbling to dust carried away on the Wyoming breeze, than ruin the fragile beauty of your mortality–the way you were flushed with heat every time he touched you, the subtle rhythm of your breaths when you slept, the glow on your skin that he could only envy from afar. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, even though you’d brought him perilously close to the edge, teetering on the precipice of surrender more than once.
It was a night scorched into the recesses of his memory like a brand pressed to bare skin, the kind of evening where the wind howled outside your window like a chorus of lost souls, rattling the panes as if it was jealous of the heat building within. You had been beneath him on the tangled mess of your sheets, the cotton damp with sweat and the faint metallic tang of spilled blood, your body a pliant, writing canvas as he rutted into you with a rhythm born of primal need–deep, unrelenting thrusts that filled the air with the slick slap of skin against skin, each one sending tremors through your frame that echoed in his own bones. His teeth had sunk into the supple column of your neck, fangs piercing with a sharp, intimate give that released a hot, viscous flood over his tongue, the vein he’d caught pulsing like a captured heartbeat against his lips. His tongue lapped greedily at the crimson spill, savouring the way it bloomed across his palate in waves of honeyed warmth, thick and indulgent, mingling with the salt of your skin as your nails dug into the broad expanse of his back, carving fiery crescents that broke through his chilled flesh and drew beads of his own dark, sluggish blood.
You had held him close in that fevered grip you always had with him–clutching and clawing, and holding–your legs wrapped around his waist like vines claiming an ancient tree, pulling him deeper as if to merge your essences beyond the physical. Your voice had been a fractured whine then, high and breathless, babbling pleas that tore at the edges of his control–begging him to change you, to cross that irrevocable threshold and bind you to his world.
”I can picture it,” You’d gasped, your words tumbling out in a rush between moans, “A life together, forever…I’d choose you over anything, over everyone Rhett…I love you so much it hurts when you’re gone–it’s like I’m missing half my soul without you.” The raw ache in your tone had sliced through him like a silver blade, the hot sting of your tears trailing down your cheeks to press against his own, cooling on his skin like rain on marble, each drop a testament to the depth of your longing.
It had killed him, that vulnerability laid bare amid the ecstasy, feeling the quiver of your sobs vibrate through his chest as he fed and fucked in tandem, grunting and moaning into you, your heartbeat stuttering in wild, erratic spikes that mirrored the turmoil in your voice. He had been so close to making the decision right then and there, teetering on the knife’s edge of surrender–to deepen the bite, to drain you to that hazy brink where mortality frayed, and then offer his own tainted blood in return for you to feed off of, igniting the transformation that would weave your fates into an unbreakable knot. The temptation had burned like venom in his veins, visions flashing of you awakening with eyes rimmed in crimson, your skin matching his eternal frost, the two of you roaming endless nights hand in hand, free from the cruel separations imposed by dawn.
But he just couldn’t do it. You had so much life yet unlived–the simple joys of sun-warmed afternoons strolling through Wabang’s dusty streets, the laughter shared with friends over coffee in the local diner, the dreams you chased under open skies that he could only glimpse through your stories. He couldn’t bear to take that away from you, not when his own mortal life had been ended like that–snuffed out in a blur of violence during a moonless cattle drive, fangs ripping into him without warning, leaving him to wake in a grave of dirt and despair, forever altered.
With a guttural snarl of self-restraint that reverberating through your joined bodies, he had pried himself off your neck, the wet, reluctant tear of fangs from flesh echoing like a profane whisper in the room, blood trickling in lazy rivulets down your collarbone to stain the sheets below. He had talked you down from the haze then, his voice low and soothing amid the euphoric storm clouding your mind–the saliva from his tongue amplifying every sensation into a dizzying high.
”I know…I know but you need to take it easy, darlin’,” He’d murmured, cradling your face in his blood-smeared hands, thumbs brushing away the salty tracks of your tears as he pressed gentle kisses to your fluttering eyelids, coaxing you back to clarity with patient words and tender touches until the fog lifted from your gaze. And once he finally had you back under control, your breaths steadying to a soft cadence, you had apologized to him, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, feeling horrible for trying to push him toward that forbidden brink, especially knowing how much he wanted to be with you like that.
Since that night, the memory had been seared into his mind, flickering to life in unguarded moments to torment him with its vivid replay–the desperate clutch of your body, the heartbreaking sincerity in your pleas, the look in your eyes that screamed for him. And in these intimate breaths shared now, with his forehead pressed to yours in a cool, grounding touch, the faint scrape of your skin against his sending subtle sparks through the nerves that still remained in him, and with you wrapped up in his arms like a living flame against his eternal chill, the impending feed loomed over him like a velvet shroud, heavy with promise and peril. He wanted nothing more than to be with you forever, to shatter the barriers of time and the curse that kept you apart, but the cost gnawed at him, a shadow he couldn’t outrun.
He took in a deep breath then, drawing your essence into the hollow depths of his lungs like a parched wanderer gulping from a hidden spring, filling every shadowed crevice with the heady bloom of your scent–those violets, now laced with the musky undercurrent of your growing arousal, a subtle spice that made his fangs ache with anticipation because it only made you taste all the more sweeter to him. He swallowed the delicate puff of air escaping your lips, letting it swirl in his mouth like a forbidden elixir, its warmth contrasting the metallic coolness of his own breath as he wrenched his mind from the seductive phantoms. Instead, he sharpened his focus on the tangible you, the vibrant orchestration unfolding before him–your entire body thrumming with anticipation, a symphony of sensations that called out to his very being: the rapid flutter of your pulse echoing in his ears like the butterfly wings, the subtle quiver of your muscles under his encircling arms, the faint heat radiating from your core where your thighs pressed together in unspoken need, silently begging for him to feed, to pierce, to unite in that transcendent ritual you’ve been waiting for…
“Did you eat well tonight?” He asked, his voice softening into a velvet hush, with an undercurrent of concern that always made your chest tighten. He was forever vigilant, his immortal instincts honed to detect even the slightest falter in your vitality, unwilling to risk drawing from you if it meant pushing your body beyond its limits. His fingers began to trace idle, swirling patterns along the small of your back, the cool pads scratching lightly against the gossamer fabric of your nightgown, sending faint ripples of sensation up your spine. He pulled back just enough to tilt his head down, his crimson-rimmed eyes locking onto yours with piercing intensity, searching for any flicker of deception in your expression–he knew you too well, knew how you’d sometimes downplay your fatigue just to pull him closer sooner.
Your own hand slid up to rest against his chest, your palm flattening over the soft, worn cotton of his undershirt, right atop the firm swell of muscle beneath. It was an instinctive gesture, as if by stroking there you could physically soothe the knot of worry twisting in his mind, easing the tension that coiled through him like rusted wire. Your fingers lingered, feeling the unnatural stillness where a heartbeat should’ve thrummed, a void that once unsettled you but now felt like home–a quiet reminder of the man he was and the creature he’d become.
“Ate as much as I could, even followed one of those recipes you gave to me…” You reassured him, your thumb rubbing slow circles along his pectoral, feeling the subtle twitch of muscle beneath your touch, a faint echo of responsiveness in his otherwise chilled form. His eyes roamed over you then, drinking in the curve of your smile, the way it lit your features, and the quiet joy radiating from you as you caressed him. It was in these moments that he seemed almost human again, the feral gleam in his gaze softening to something tender, vulnerable. You wished you knew him before this, before the curse, you wondered how he looked in the sun with the golden glow gleaming over his skin, but you would never get that chance, so you took what you could get in those little glimpses.
Along with the B12 supplements he had pressed upon you like sacred relics, Rhett had painstakingly composed a small, leather-bound booklet of recipes–simple, hearty meals scribbled in his looping, messy handwriting, drawn from faded memories of his mortal days on the ranch and augmented with whatever scraps of nutritional lore he’d gleaned from his mother who had told him all he needed to know. Things like iron-rich stews simmered with beets and spinach, or nutty porridges laced with molasses and dried fruits, each one nutrient-dense enough to make you feel satiated and fortified, the flavours grounding you in the earthiness of life while accelerating the replenishment of your blood. You’d taken to using it almost daily, not just for the practical boost but because preparing those meals felt like a quiet ritual of connection to him–stirring pots under the kitchen light, imagining his broad hands guiding yours with his chin resting on your shoulder.
“Good girl,” He whispered, the praise rumbling low against your palm, sending a shiver of delight skittering through your nervous system. You slid your hand higher, cradling the side of his neck, the tips of your fingers brushing over the bulging vein there–squishy and filled with the dark sludge that was his blood, cool and unyielding like a riverbed stone worn smooth by endless currents. The contact grounded you, a reminder of his duality: the man who whispered endearments and the predator who craved everything that made you.
“Now that we’re done with the pleasantries…Can I please kiss you? I’ve missed your lips so much, I don’t think I can bear another second without feeling them.” The despair in your voice cracked like fragile ice underfoot, a raw edge that displayed the hollow ache of his absences, making Rhett’s entire body seize up in response. His hands stilled their gentle caresses along the flowing chiffon of your nightgown, fingers freezing mid-stroke as if your words had woven a spell of momentary paralysis. His brows raised slightly, etching faint lines across his forehead, surprise flickering in those crimson-veined eyes like moonlight glancing off of rippled water–almost as if he couldn’t fathom why you’d ever doubt your claim on him.
”You never have to ask me somethin’ like that sweetheart…It’s always a yes…You know that.” He replied, his voice wrapped in unwavering certainty, one hand rising to cup your cheek with a tenderness that belied his feral nature. The chill of his fingers seeped into your skin, a delicious contrast that made your eyes flutter closed involuntarily, lashes brushing your cheeks as you leaned into the touch, savouring the way it ignited tiny sparks through your mind.
His other hand dragged downward with languid intent, slipping under the asymmetrical hem of your gown, the calloused pads tracing over one of the ragged scars on the back of your thigh–a deep, uneven gash he’d left in his frenzy of need weeks ago, the textured ridge rising under his fingertips like braille telling tales of passion’s wreckage. He could’ve sworn he felt every mark his teeth had etched into your skin, each one a pulse of memory that drew a soft sigh from his throat, heavy with equal parts regret and absolute admiration, before he leaned down and captured your lips with his.
The contact was electric, a spark that ignited the air between you, making your hand tighten around the buckle of his belt in a reflexive grip, tugging sharply to draw yourself closer to him as if proximity could erase the nights spent apart. You parted your lips immediately, sucking gently on his bottom one with a teasing pull that coaxed a low rumble from his chest, the kiss deepening slowly–tongues meeting in a tentative glide that built to fervent rediscovery. His mouth was cool, tasting faintly of iron and earth, a copper undercurrent that mingled with your warmth in an intoxicating alchemy. Meanwhile, his hand ventured higher under the gown, his large palm settling possessively on the plush softness of your ass, fingers splaying wide to knead the flesh, his thumb sneaking under the delicate lace hem of your panties, teasing the elastic with featherlight strokes that sent anticipatory tingles racing up your inner thighs, your core clenching in eager response, pulsing in excitement.
You wanted to crawl into his skin, to dissolve every barrier until your warmth invaded his eternal cold, putting your heart into his chest and breathing into one seamless existence–but you knew you had to settle for this exquisite nearness, the way his body molded to yours like shadow to light. Your fingers twitched against the corded tension of his neck, savouring the subtle give of muscle beneath the chilled flesh, before sliding down to the collar of his flannel, pushing insistently at the rough plaid–a silent, urgent plea for more of him, unhindered by layers. He broke the kiss with a reluctant inhale, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, cool exhalations mingling with your heated ones, and withdrew his hand from under your gown just long enough to shrug off the flannel. The garment whispered to the floor in a careless heap, the sound muffled by the creak of floorboards under his shifting weight, revealing the white undershirt clinging to his torso like mist on mountain peaks, the fabric taut over the ridges of his chest and shoulders.
The moment the flannel was gone, you surged back in, your hands roaming greedily over the newly exposed expanse–fingers tracing the sharp, angular lines of his shoulders where sinew met bone, dipping into the subtle hollows of his collarbones, chasing the unnatural coolness of his skin that bled through the thin cotton. Rhett’s breath hitched, a ragged, uneven sound that vibrated against your mouth, as he reclaimed your lips with renewed fervor, the kiss turning hungry, almost bruising in its intensity–teeth grazing, tongues clashing in a rhythm that mirrored the pounding of your heart.
His free hand found the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck with a firm tug that sent a pleasurable sting across your scalp, tilting your head back to expose the elegant, vulnerable line of your throat–a move that made your pulse thunder louder in his ears, the intricate network of veins fluttering like trapped birds beneath your skin, beckoning him to chase and capture them with his mouth. The other hand returned to your ass, squeezing, pulling you up onto your tiptoes so the front of your pelvis pressed against the growing hardness straining in his jeans, the rough denim and rigid zipper creating a friction that sent jolts of pleasure radiating through you both, your arousal blooming hotter, slicker.
A low moan escaped you, muffled against his mouth in a breathy vibration, as his tongue delved deeper–mapping every sensitive ridge and curve until you were trembling in his arms, your craving for him expanding like wildfire through dry grass, consuming every thought. The scent of him enveloped you now–faint traces of mud caked on his boots from his travels to you, and pine resin from his climb, all mingling with the underlying almond-cherry essence of his skin, almost similar to the sharp, chemical tang of embalming fluid that lingered from his undead state, uniquely Rhett, intoxicating and addictive.
He broke the kiss briefly to trail his lips along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there with blunt teeth that sent pinpricks of goosebumps dancing down your neck, careful not to pierce yet, though his fangs ached with the restraint, the sharpened tips teasing the plushness without breaking through. You arched toward his mouth, your pulse points screaming for attention, and he shielded his teeth from you with a deliberate press, laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss there instead, staining your skin with his cold saliva.
”God…Baby,” He sighed, his hand squeezing your ass again, kneading the plump flesh with rhythmic pressure that made your hips buck towards him, rubbing against his evergrowing bulge, “I’ve missed you so much…So fucking much.” He grumbled, his words vibrating against your neck and rippling down your spine like echoes in a cavern, pooling as liquid head between your thighs, the night air from the open window slipping beneath the fluttering fabric of your nightgown and chilling the arousal that soaked the lace covering your core, heightening the sensation to an exquisite edge.
“I missed you too…I always do, Rhett…” You admitted, your voice a breathless confession laced with the same aching longing, and with a fluid motion born of his superhuman strength and raw need, he scooped you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist in primal harmony as he carried you toward your unmade bed. The nightgown rode up in the movement, the chiffon bunching around your hips to expose more of your scarred skin to his touch–both hands cupping your ass fully now, holding it with a grip that was supportive and claiming all the same, pressing your core flush against the heaviness in his jeans, the coarse fabric and cold metal of his belt buckle grazing your heated flesh in a tantalizing scrape that drew a gasp from your lips.
“I know…I can feel it.” He said, a sad undertone glazing his voice, because he felt you in everything, and you knew he did, you could sense it in the subtle tremor of his hold, and the way his fingers dug in just a fraction tighter. He laid you down on your mattress with surprising gentleness, the cool white sheets immediately enveloping you like a silken embrace, a stark relief against the blazing heat of your skin, as if you were a roaring fire and they were the soothing extinguisher, whispering against your thighs and back in soft, billowing waves. He kept his hands on the outsides of your thighs, holding them with a possessive splay, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs that traced the raised and bumpy skin of your scars–each ridge and valley a story etched by his own fangs, evoking memories that made his crimson eyes darken further. His touch ascended gradually, cool palms gliding upward until they reached the waistband of your panties, stopping there so he could run his thumbs over the intricate lace, the delicate threads catching on his callouses in a teasing friction that made your breath catch, your hips lifting subtly in silent invitation for more.
Rhett loved when you wore such dainty materials, fabrics that amplified your inherent softness, turning you into something ethereal and fragile–like a glass doll wrapped in gossamer, begging to be handled with care yet tempting him to shatter the illusion completely. Pieces like this nightgown, with its whisper-thin chiffon and intricate lace, ignited a primal urge in him: the desire to tear them apart with his teeth and hands, ripping the seams with a satisfying shred that echoed his unraveling control. Yet he always tried his best to restrain himself, not wanting to reduce these delicate confections to ruins after just one night–he craved seeing you in them again and again, the way they draped over your curves and the specific feeling of them. But inevitably, his restraint would falter; more often than not, the garments ended up in a heaping pile of frayed threads on the floor, victims of his feral impulses.
He would apologize afterward, his voice roughened by the grunts and moans he had let out during the course of his feed, and you would joke lightly, assuring him you had a plethora of nightgowns and matching panties stashed away just for him to destroy if the mood struck–that you didn’t care one bit, as long as it meant having him like this. Those words always eased the knot of guilt in his chest instantly, replacing it with a thrill that made him want to climb on top of you just to take you all over again.
But instead of tearing off the panties and ravishing you right then and there, succumbing to the beast clawing at his insides, he hovered over your body for a suspended moment, his weight braced on his knees that sank into the mattress, creating dips in the sheets like craters under his mass. His gaze raked down your form with unbridled hunger, a burning lust that scorched through his crimson-rimmed eyes, mingled with pure, aching desire–the kind that made his throat constrict and his fingers flex involuntarily. The gown was utterly disheveled now, one strap having slipped entirely off your shoulder, revealing the full curve of your breast, the top of your areola peeking coyly from the loosened neckline like a forbidden fruit half-unveiled. The asymmetrical hem had twisted askew, bunching higher on one side to expose the scarred expanse of your hip, the lace trim rumpled and askew, hinting at the damp heat beneath. He had to swallow the drool that pooled thick and viscous in his mouth, the tang of his own anticipation coating his tongue as he let out a sigh of raw admiration, the sound escaping like a reverent exhale from a devotee before an altar.
You stared up at him in that suspended breath, captivated by the play of light and shadow across his features-the warm amber glow from the bedside lamp casting golden highlights into his tousled light brown hair, gilding the messy strands like threads of sunlight he’d never feel again, while deepening the bruised hollows beneath his eyes into cavernous pools of exhaustion and need. The crimson ring in his irises glowed brightly under the illumination, like dying embers stirring in a forge, pulsing with the rhythm of your heart as they drank you in.
He was in his rightful spot perched above you, a predator poised yet achingly tender, and you couldn’t resist reaching out to settle your hands against the lower part of his abdomen, the firm plane just above his belt where muscle tensed under your palms like coiled springs. You pressed the tips of your fingers into the unyielding ridges there, feeling the subtle give beneath the cotton, before sliding under the hem of his undershirt to run your hands over his scarred skin–cool and textured like marble veined with faint, silvery lines from his turning, the contact sending a frisson of contrast through your heated fingertips as you traced upward, aiming to ease the tension building in his from the way he held himself up, shoulders broadening with effort.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispered, the words a husky benediction that vibrated through the air between you, his fingers twitching against the elastic edge of your panties as if debating whether to snap it off you completely or to savour the tease. Before you could respond, he leaned down, pressing a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the tops of your breasts, his cool lips mapping the soft swells with worshipful precision. His tongue darted out, licking at the faint sheen of sweat that lingered on your skin, the salty essence enveloping his palate and mingling with the natural muskiness of you, drawing a low, appreciative hum from deep in his chest. The edges of his fangs nipped ever so lightly at the scarred tissue there–raised ridges that puckered under the scrape, creating fresh, temporary welts that warmed up immediately, the sensation an exquisite blend of sting and spark that radiated outward, making your breath hitch and your back arch into his mouth, chasing him.
“Can I take off the gown?” He asked, his words muffled against your flesh, the vibration of his voice sending all the heat in your body southward, straight to your core as his breath ghosted cool over the damp trails he had left, heightening the sensitivity of every nerve.
”You don’t have to ask, Rhett…” You breathed, your response an air whisper laced with affection and impatience, as he moaned against you–a deep resonant sound that thrummed through your skin like a bass note plucked from his tightening throat. At your words, you gently scratched your nails along the skin just below his navel, feeling the light dusting of hair there standing on edge under your touch, the texture a tantalizing contrast to the rest of his body, eliciting a subtle shiver from him that you felt ripple through his abdomen.
”Just tryin’ to be respectful…Gives me time to think about my actions before I completely lose control.” He stated, his tone a gravelly admission edged with self-deprecating humour, earning a small, breathless laugh from you that bubbled up into the air, light and effervescent amid the building sexual tension. While you shimmied beneath him, aiding the removal with subtle shifts of your hips, he pulled back just enough to grip the hem of the gown, his cool fingers brushing your thighs in a featherlight graze that sent fresh goosebumps blooming across your skin. He pushed the fabric upward slowly at first, the chiffon sliding over your body, revealing inch after inch of scarred, heated flesh–the dip of your navel, your stomach, your sternum, then your breasts–until you took over with an impatient tug, lifting it over your head and tossing it off to the side in a fluttering arc, where it joined his crumpled flannel in a tangled heap on the floor, the lace and plaid mingling like forbidden lovers.
Now that you were completely exposed to him–clad only in the tight white lace panties that hugged your hips like a fragile, teasing barrier, the delicate weave rendered translucent by the slick evidence of your arousal, revealing the swollen contours of your aching core beneath in a hazy, provocative outline–he immediately shifted into autopilot, the dam of his long-restrained desires shattering under the weight of your bare form. His crimson-rimmed eyes glazed with a feral intensity, every undead sense sharpening to a razor’s edge as the flood of cravings surged through him, a chaotic torrent of impulses clashing.
He didn’t know where to start–he never did, the sheer expanse of you a labyrinth of temptations that left him momentarily paralyzed: the scarred valleys of your thighs begging for his fangs, the gentle rise of your abdomen inviting exploratory caresses, the vulnerable hollows of your neck pulsing with the siren call of your blood. Sometimes, the beast in him demanded he leap forward, stripping away that last scrap of lace in one savage tear to lay you utterly bare for unchecked exploration, his mouth and hands devouring without mercy.
But tonight, a deeper, more calculated hunger prevailed–he wanted you suspended in this state of partial unveiling for as long as his fraying willpower could endure, the lace a maddening veil that amplified every whisper of air against your skin, every heated glance, stoking the flames until they roared into an inferno. He craved to draw out his starvation to an excruciating peak, layering sensation upon sensation until the tension snapped, so that when he finally yielded and sank his fangs into your flesh, the euphoric rush would propel you instantly over the edge, your climax erupting in a blinding, immediate cascade.
He envisioned your pleas fracturing into sobs, your nails raking desperate trails down his back, your body contorting in frantic, undulating waves beneath him until he was compelled to surrender completely, quenching every raw, unspoken need. And he knew, with the predatory certainty etched into his bones, that he would extract exactly that from you–the exquisite unraveling he orchestrated like a dark symphony.
Your nipples tightened into firm peaks under the cool caress of the night breeze slipping through the open window and the scorching intensity of his gaze, the surrounding skin prickling with heightened sensitivity as blood surged beneath, making your breasts feel heavy, swollen, and unbearably tender, each subtle draft sending fresh ripples of need radiating outward like echoes from a struck bell. They strained toward him in silent entreaty, an irresistible summons for his mouth to descend, to envelop and suck away the throbbing ache, but he deliberately bypassed them, a calculated withholding that twisted the desire into something sharper, more insistent, your chest heaving with frustrated breaths as the denial amplified the electric hum in your nerves.
Instead, he leaned forward with torturous languor, pressing gentle, lingering kisses along the elegant column of your neck–his cool lips charting the well-trodden path, lingering on the graceful arch where your pulse hammered against the fragile barrier of skin just below your jaw, then dipping into the shadowed hollow at the base where your collarbones converged. Each contact was firm yet unhurried, a cool imprint that seeped into your overheated flesh, his breath ghosting across in chilled, feathery exhales that clashed with the inferno brewing inside you, igniting fresh clusters of goosebumps. His fangs grazed with featherlight precision, the honed tips trailing along the surface without breaching, sending jolts of electric anticipation zipping down your spine like sparks along a live wire, your hands instinctively pressing harder into the firm expanse of his stomach, fingers splaying wide to ground yourself as your core clenched in rhythmic spasms, fresh waves of slick heat seeping against the lace, the fabric now a sodden, clinging torment that heightened every subtle shift of your hips.
He inhaled deeply there, burying his nose into the tender crook with a low, primal growl that resonated through your ribcage, savoring the frantic flutter of your vein beneath his lips–the vital essence calling to him with an insistent, hypnotic rhythm, the whoosh and surge of your blood audible to his heightened senses like a rushing river just beyond reach, tempting him to plunge in. Yet he resisted, the self-denial an exquisite agony that made his own body quiver, opting to seal a final, lingering kiss over the pulsing spot–a cool, possessive press that left your skin tingling with residual chill, drawing a needy whimper from your throat as the frustration coiled tighter, your body arching instinctively toward him in wordless supplication.
“Fuck, Rhett…What are you doing? Bite me!” You said desperately, your voice fracturing on the edge of a plea, hands scrambling upward to grasp his shoulders, nails biting into the chilled muscle as if to drag him down, to compel the piercing relief your veins screamed for. He shook his head with measured defiance, the motion brushing his stubbled cheek against your throat in a rough, tantalizing scrape, before forging onward down your body, scattering a trail of peppered kisses along the heated path of your sternum and upper chest, his eyes flicking upward to capture yours–smoldering with crimson-veined mischief–as his lips quirked into a sly, predatory smirk that bared just a hint of fang.
“Patience, sweetheart, we’ll get there. We don’t have to rush head first into it all the time…Lemme enjoy you,” He cooed, his voice a silken murmur laced with teasing warmth, as he registered the drift of your hands, your fingers insistently pulling up the fabric of his undershirt, bunching the soft cotton higher to bare more of his scarred, chilled torso to your exploring palms and the room’s circulating air–the faint draft weaving through the open window raising subtle prickles on his skin, a rare tactile echo that drew a soft, appreciative rumble from his chest.
“Suddenly you’re the star pupil of taking your time,” You mumbled under your breath, the words laced with a hint of playful accusation, your hips twitching restlessly beneath him as the prolonged tease wound your nerves to a feverish pitch, every untouched expanse of your body aching for escalation. The remark elicited a small huff of a laugh from him, the sound light and genuine, carrying a warmth that belied his eternal frost, vibrating against your skin as he pulled back slightly to meet your gaze, your eyes drawn to the mesmerizing gleam of lamplight dancing off the polished tips of his fangs like moonlight on sharpened blades.
“Maybe I wanna change it up,” He countered, his drawl infused with sultry challenge, before descending once more to the plush swell of your breast with deliberate sensuality, his cool lips encircling the peaked bud in a ring of teasing kisses–brushing the sensitive perimeter without claiming the center, his tongue emerging in exploratory swirls that traced the outer areola with featherlight precision, the cool, slick muscle gliding in slow, hypnotic patterns that built the anticipation to a quivering edge. He adjusted his position then, shifting his weight with fluid grace so that his body settled more firmly between your thighs, preventing you from closing your legs to seek any self-provided friction–the rough denim of his jeans now pressing directly against the soaked lace of your panties, the coarse texture creating a delicious, grinding pressure that sent fresh bolts of pleasure radiating through your core with every subtle rock of his hips. His broad hands slid upward to cradle the sides of your breasts, fingers splaying possessively to knead the soft flesh with rhythmic squeezes, thumbs brushing the undersides in soothing arcs as he finally parted his lips wider and drew the nipple into the welcoming chill of his mouth.
The enveloping pull elicited a deep, throaty sigh from you, dissolving into a desperate moan as the sensation amplified, your nails sinking deeper into the firm meat of his shoulder blade. You arched upward in a fluid, insistent curve, pressing more of your breast into his devouring mouth in a silent, fervent plea, your body trembling with the escalating need for him to consume you further–to bite, to claim, to shatter the exquisite limbo. He obliged with teasing fervor, sucking harder to accommodate, his tongue now lapping rhythmically at the captured bud within the vacuum of his mouth–circling the tight peak in broad, insistent laps that alternated with firm, flattening presses and playful flicks at the tip, the cool wetness amplifying every ridge and texture until your vision blurred with overwhelming bliss.
As the suction deepened, you felt the thrilling pinpricks of his fangs dimpling the surrounding skin–light, deliberate impressions that teased without piercing, the sharpened tips pressing just enough to send sparks of vulnerable ecstasy racing through your nerves, no blood drawn but the promise hovering like a storm on the horizon. You felt yourself surrendering to the rhythm, his low grunts sinking into your breast like echoes from a cavernous depth, each vibration resonating through your flesh and amplifying the molten heat pooling in your veins, making your skin flush hotter. With your free hand, you reached up to tangle your fingers in the tousled waves of his light brown hair, the strands cool and slightly damp, gripping firmly to tug him even closer, urging him to devour more as your thighs clenched involuntarily around his hips. The motion coaxed him into a slow, deliberate grind against you, the rough denim dragging languidly over your soaked lace in a teasing friction that sent sparks of frustrated ecstasy radiating through your core, drawing out desperate moans that spilled from your lips like fractured pleas–high and breathy. There was not an inch of remorse in his actions; he reveled in this power, and wanted you exactly like this–clawing at him with raw need, your body seeking out every possible point of contact, hips bucking subtly to chase the elusive relief he dangled just out of reach. He loved this exquisite torment, the way it transformed you into a creature of pure want, mirroring the feral hunger he battled within himself.
He pulled off your nipple with a loud, wet pop that reverberated through the quiet room, the sudden release sending a shockwave of cool air rushing over the saliva-slicked bud, hardening it further into an aching point that throbbed in protest. A faint string of his cool saliva connected his lips to your skin for a fleeting moment before snapping, the sensation leaving your breast glistening and hypersensitive. He hovered there briefly, his crimson-veined eyes locking onto yours with a smoldering intensity, before dipping back down to use the tip of his tongue in quick, playful flicks against the sore, swollen peak–light and teasing, stoking the fire without quenching it. Then, with a seamless shift, he moved to the neglected breast, mirroring the exact ritual he’d lavished on the first: encircling it with possessive kisses before drawing the nipple deep into his mouth with firm, rhythmic suction. He found a perfect cadence–sucks alternating with laps and gentle nips–that granted you fragments of relief, waves of pleasure crashing through your chest and downward, but never enough to fully satiate the gnawing void building in your core, leaving you teetering on the brink, body arching and twisting in a silent symphony of desperation.
There was a deeper, more voracious hunger in the way his mouth worked this other breast, his movements growing slightly more insistent, saliva pooling from the corners of his lips and spilling over to wet your skin in cool, glistening trails that trickled down the swell like rivulets of liquid silver under the lamplight. His erection strained achingly against the restrictive denim, swelling harder with each deliberate drag he made against your core, the friction sending subtle tremors through his own frame as he focused on the symphony of your veins–every pulse screaming beneath your skin, a tantalizing undercurrent to the feast of sensations. As he sucked with renewed fervor, trying to attune himself to the way your blood surged in frantic response to each draw, you slipped your hands down between your bodies, fingers burrowing toward the cool metal of his belt buckle with urgent determination.
The sudden intrusion drew a loud, guttural grunt from him, his body shifting instinctively as he pulled off your breast with a reluctant release, moving back completely to grant you access, his eyes darkening to near-obsidian, the blue ceasing to exist, as he watched you undo the buckle with swift, trembling fingers. Your gaze caught the dark, wet patch your arousal had left blooming on the denim–a stark testament to your need that sent a fleeting flush of embarrassment onto your face, but you shook it off in an instant, unbuttoning the jeans with a single-minded focus, the zipper rasping down.
“Take them off…” You instructed, a bid to reclaim some dominion over the spiraling intensity. He granted it without hesitation, rising off you in one fluid motion to stand at the end of the bed, the mattress rebounding slightly from the loss of his weight. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, the sheets whispering against your back as you watched him, your breath catching at the sight of his long, calloused fingers working the denim down his muscular bullrider thighs with effortless grace, the fabric pooling at his ankles before he stepped out and kicked it aside, the slide muffled against the floorboards.
“And I want the shirt off too…” You added, your eyes tracing the way his black boxer briefs clung to him, the stretchy material outlining the impressive strain of his erection, the outline thick and insistent, a vein subtly visible through the fabric under the low light. The urge to pounce on him surged through you–a wild, animalistic impulse to tackle him and claim what your body craved, what you both craved actually–but you knew the attempt would be futile; his strength would simplify overpower you, and you would find yourself pinned beneath him once more with that tender dominance you secretly adored when he wasn’t teasing you like this. So you remained propped there, devouring him with your gaze, the anticipation thickening the air like incense in a church.
His fingers reached for the hem of his undershirt without a word, peeling it upward in a slow reveal that exposed the chiseled planes of his abdomen inch by inch, the fabric whispering over his skin before he tugged it over his head and let it fall forgotten to the floor. Completely bared to you now, he stood like a sculpted apparition under the amber glow–his pale torso a canvas of faded scars from that fateful night of his turning, jagged lines crisscrossing his ribs and chest like lightning frozen in marble, remnants of the violent attack that had cursed him to this eternal twilight. Over the expanse of his ashen skin, you couldn’t help but trace the greying freckles that dotted his shoulders, upper arms, and framed his bull rider tattoo, once sun-kissed and warm from ranch days under Wyoming’s relentless sky, now muted to ghostly echoes by his sun-deprived existence. In these moments, a pang of wistful curiosity always stirred–you wished you’d known him before the change, to see him bathed in golden light, his skin flushed with mortal vitality–but it faded quickly, replaced by a fierce affection for this version, the one you’d claimed as yours, eternal chill and all, because this was the Rhett who held you through the nights, the one whose darkness complemented your light in ways that felt destined.
“I should make you spin for me…But I need you too much right now…” You joked, your voice breathy with a mix of humor and raw hunger, motioning for him to return with a subtle tilt of your head. He obliged immediately, closing the space in two strides, his presence filling the room like a shadow reclaiming its form as he settled back over you, the mattress dipping under his weight while you shifted backward to center yourself, ensuring he wouldn’t teeter on the edge.
He didn’t restart from your neck this time, granting you that small mercy–instead, he pressed his mouth directly to the soft expanse of your abdomen, his cool lips mapping the gentle rise and fall with unhurried reverence, each kiss a deliberate imprint. His tongue emerged, laving broad paths across the heated skin, circling your navel with teasing precision–the cool, wet tip dipping into the shallow indent before swirling around it in hypnotic loops, tasting the faint salt of your arousal-slicked sweat mingled with your natural essence, drawing a deep, contented sigh from his throat that vibrated against you like a purr from some ancient beast. His large hands settled on your hips, fingers digging into the plush flesh with possessive firmness, anchoring you as the sensations coiled tighter, your muscles quivering under his touch like strings plucked to a rising crescendo.
Finally, his path descended to the waistband of your panties, his cool breath puffing out in deliberate gusts against the lace, chilling the damp fabric and heightening the throb of your core beneath, each exhale a tantalizing prelude that made your hips twitch in anticipation. With a low growl rumbling in his chest, he shifted back slightly, hooking his fingers beneath the elastic with rough urgency, the calluses scraping your skin as he tugged them down your legs in one swift, insistent pull–you lifted your hips to aid him, the lace whispering over your thighs before sliding free, your legs falling open in instinctive surrender, exposing your glistening core to the cool air and his ravenous gaze.
He paused then, holding the sodden panties in his grasp, his eyes darkening to abyssal depths as he brought them to his lips without hesitation, his tongue darting out to lap at the translucent fabric where your arousal had soaked through deepest. The taste bloomed on his palate like a forbidden elixir–rich and musky, a heady nectar of salted honey laced with the floral undercurrent of your skin’s violet bloom, thick and velvety as it coated his tongue, evoking the sun-warmed essence of wild berries crushed in dew-kissed meadows, so intoxicating it nearly rivaled the ambrosial sweetness of your blood. You watched, transfixed and breathless, as he lapped methodically, not missing a single saturated spot, his fangs glinting faintly as his tongue worked the lace with deliberate thoroughness, savoring every trace until the fabric glistened anew with his saliva. Only then did he toss them aside in a careless flick, the lace fluttering to the floor like a discarded veil.
With a predatory grace, he grasped your thighs, pushing them upward toward your belly with firm insistence, spreading you even wider in a vulnerable display that left your pulsing entrance fully exposed–weeping and glistening under the lamplight, the slick folds flushed and swollen, clenching faintly around nothing as cool air kissed the heated wetness, sending fresh shivers cascading through you. He leaned down then, his breath ghosting over the sensitive inner curve of your thigh in a cool prelude, before pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses along the scarred expanse–his lips mapping the textured ridges, each press a reclaiming of his territory. His hand snaked around to settle on the outside of your thigh, fingers splaying wide to hold you still with unyielding strength, pinning you open.
Immediately, you knew what he was going to do–he was finally going to give in to the primal urge that had simmered between the both of you, the muscle in your thigh twitching, an anticipatory spasm, your pulse quickening to a frantic beat he could surely hear like a war drum in his ears. His fangs grazed the scarred tissue over and over again, the sharpened ivory tips tracing the textured ridges with excruciating slowness–light, deliberate drags that dimpled the sensitive skin without breaking it, each pass igniting pinpricks of electric tension that radiated outward, building the ache to an unbearable crescendo, your breath hitching in shallow, ragged gasps as your hips strained against his unyielding grip, silently begging for the release only his bite could grant. Then, with a low, shuddering exhale that vibrated against your flesh, he surrendered–his jaw parting wider as he sank his fangs deep into the plush inner thigh with a sharp, intimate pierce, the initial taut resistance of skin giving way in a blissful rupture that unleashed a hot, viscous torrent flooding his mouth in an instant, the flow an absolute rush of liquid velvet he had to drink down greedily to keep pace, gulping in rhythmic pulls that echoed the thunderous beat of your heart.
The taste exploded across his palate like divine nectar unearthed from forbidden depths–honeyed and opulent, a thick symphony laced with a subtle metallic bloom that deepened into floral ambrosia, warm and inviting, coating his tongue in silken layers that seared through his undead veins like liquid sunlight he could never truly know, each swallow igniting a euphoric fire that chased away the hollow starvation gnawing at his core. Your head tilted back against the mattress in instinctive surrender, a long, languorous exhale escaping your lips like steam from a simmering pot, the world blurring at the edges as the saliva from his bite mingled with your bloodstream, igniting an instant head rush that clouded your mind in swirling mists of bliss, euphoria pulsing through every inch of you in radiant waves–synapses firing in ecstatic overload, nerves alight with molten pleasure that made colors sharpen behind your closed eyelids and your skin hum with heightened sensitivity.
“Mmm, Rhett…” You whimpered, the sound a breathy melody laced with awe and need, your hand drifting down to caress the back of his head, fingers weaving through the cool, tousled strands to hold him firmly in place, anchoring him so he couldn’t pull away even if the world crumbled around you. You could feel the sticky droplets overflowing from the corners of his mouth, warm rivulets trailing down the curve of your thigh in lazy, meandering paths to soak into the sheets beneath, staining the crisp white cotton in crimson blooms that spread like ink on parchment–but you couldn’t care less, the mess was a distant irrelevance as your gaze fixed on the mesmerizing sight of him feeding: his broad shoulders hunched in focused intensity, eyes half-lidded in rapturous surrender, the subtle flex of his jaw with each deep draw, the way his throat worked in visible swallows, utterly lost to the sustenance only you could provide.
The intoxicating fusion of your blood’s floral richness mingling with the heady, musky scent of your arousal wafting upward made him feel like his entire body was on the verge of rending itself apart from the inside–a feral storm brewing in his chest, veins thrumming with renewed vigor as the warmth seeped into his chilled form, awakening phantom echoes of mortality that clawed at his control. He grunted loudly against your skin, primal and unrestrained, the sound muffled yet resonant as he licked greedily at the puncture, his tongue laving the torn edges in broad, insistent strokes to capture every escaping drop before adjusting his angle with a subtle tilt, biting even deeper–his fangs sinking into a thicker swath of flesh, the give of muscle and vein yielding in a fresh gush that flooded his senses anew, the deeper flow a torrent he drank with harder pulls, his body pressing into the mattress beneath him.
He lost himself completely in the feed, drinking you down in greedy, rhythmic gulps that filled the room with soft, wet sounds interspersed by his deep, feral grunts–raw and animalistic, vibrating from his throat, each one sending subtle tremors through your thigh as he rutted against the bed, the friction of sheets against his straining erection a poor substitute for the heat he craved but enough to stoke the fire raging in his core.
You watched him in a pure state of entrancement, the euphoric haze wrapping your mind in velvet clouds, loving the raw vulnerability of the sight before you: this powerful, cursed creature reduced to a being of pure instinct at your vein, his tousled hair falling over his forehead, brows furrowed in blissful concentration, the crimson smears beginning to stain his lips like war paint, every draw pulling you deeper into shared ecstasy, your body floating on waves of transcendent pleasure that made the world narrow to just him and the intimate connection binding you.
It took every ounce of his sheer willpower to pull off, the separation a torturous wrench that left him gasping for unneeded breath, his chest heaving as if he’d run a marathon through Wyoming’s rugged plains, his mouth smeared with your bright red blood–vivid crimson painting his parted lips in glossy streaks, dripping down his chin in lazy rivulets that caught the lamplight like rubies, even dotting the tip of his nose in a smudge that lent him a wild, almost savage allure, fangs still extended and glistening with residual essence.
“You’ve really been takin’ those supplements…” He breathed, his voice a ragged whisper laced with awe and gratitude at your quiet discipline, the words ghosting over the torn spot as he leaned back in to kiss it tenderly, his cool lips sealing against the ragged wound in a soothing press, tongue darting out to lick up the residual blood that wept in slow beads, the metallic floral tang lingering on his palate like a cherished aftertaste. He continued upward then, trailing a path of wet, sloppy kisses along the inner curve of your thigh–each one a cool imprint that contrasted the lingering sting, his hands sliding higher to cradle your hips as he murmured against your skin, “Your blood’s so sweet…It’s almost as sweet as this pussy.” He added, his tone dropping to a gravelly purr edged with hunger, as he slipped his hands up further to spread you open, thumbs parting your slick folds to expose your swollen clit and aching core fully to his gaze, the sight drawing a slow, predatory smile to his blood-smeared lips before he delved in without preamble–not teasing with licks through your folds but shoving his tongue right into your entrance, the cool, insistent muscle plunging deep to coat itself in your honey-like arousal, swallowing the thick, musky nectar with a guttural hum that vibrated through you, the flavors mingling on his tongue in an intoxicating alchemy of floral blood and salted sweetness that clouded his senses further.
In this euphoric state, every sensation was amplified to exquisite heights–your skin hypersensitive, nerves singing like live wires as his tongue fucked into you with rhythmic thrusts, the cool intrusion stretching and filling you in teasing pulses that made your walls clench greedily around it, pulling him deeper as you whimpered, your hands flying to his hair to tug and press his face harder against you, the stubble scraping your inner thighs in a delicious friction that bordered on pain. He wiggled his tongue inside you with playful insistence, twisting and curling to explore every slick ridge, the motion sending fresh jolts of bliss through you before he withdrew slowly, dragging upward in a broad, languid lick to your clit–circling the swollen bud once with the flat of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth with firm, enveloping pressure, the cool vacuum making your hips buck wildly as he played with it, alternating between gentle rolls and sharp flicks from the tip of his tongue that ignited fireworks behind your eyelids.
He was absolutely ravenous in his devotion, burrowing deeper with feral intensity, the wetness of your arousal staining his cheeks in glistening sheens that dampened the drying crimson smears on his skin, turning them into a smeared mosaic of red and thick glossiness, his grunts muffled against you as he devoured with unrestrained passion, nose pressing into your mound to inhale the heady musk that drove him wilder.
“Oh fuck, Rhett, more, please give me more,” You begged, your voice a fractured plea, your free hand coming up to hold onto your breast, squeezing the soft swell rhythmically, your hips bucking upward toward his unrelenting mouth, the motion grinding your core against his face in sinful undulations. He grunted in affirmative response, the sound a deep vibration that hummed through your folds, as he brought two fingers to your entrance–rubbing the slick opening in slow, teasing circles that made your muscles quiver before slipping them inside with a deliberate push, the stretch a delicious burn that caused your back to arch slightly off the bed, a little moan escaping like a sigh from deep within.
All you could feel was him–his probing tongue, his curling fingers scissoring gently to stretch you further, his broad shoulders pressing firmly against the backs of your thighs to keep you splayed open, it was all-consuming, a whirlwind of sensation that enveloped you like a tornado, exactly how you liked it, your world narrowing to the exquisite torment he wrought. Your walls clenched around his fingers in rhythmic spasms as he curled them upward, hooking into that sensitive swell of tissue deep inside and beginning to pump in a steady, escalating rhythm that made the slick sounds of your wetness echo through the room like a lewd symphony, each thrust squelching audibly against his knuckles. He wanted to feel you shatter around his fingers, loved the way you soaked his skin in your essence, adored when you drowned him in your release, and tonight was no different–his mouth working tirelessly against your clit, sucking with varying pressures and flicking in rapid bursts, burrowing his face deeper into your heat, stubble rasping the tender insides of your thighs in raw, reddening friction that added layers of stinging pleasure, it was all to get to one end goal.
He could sense you teetering on the edge, your body writhing beneath him in quivering waves, shaking like a leaf in a gale as you fought the cresting tide, but it only spurred him harder–adding a third finger to fill you completely, the added girth stretching you to a breathless fullness that made your heart stop. He picked up the speed then, his fingers pistoning in relentless curls that hammered that soft, spongy swell inside you over and over, dragging high-pitched whines from your throat that escalated into keening cries, your free hand abandoning your breast to push at his head in instinctive overload–a tell-tale sign you were perilously close, the pleasure bordering on too much, which only urged him onward with savage determination.
“Ah! Rhett! Oh…Oh my god,” You gasped, tears brimming and spilling over your lashes in hot trails down your cheeks as your thighs shook uncontrollably and clamped around his head like a vise, your body curving upward in a taut arc until you were nearly sitting on the mattress, the orgasm crushing through you in a shattering wave that released in a gush over his face and fingers, your essence mingling with the lingering bloodstains on the sheets in a messy, crimson-tinged pool. He growled deeply in triumph, the sound a feral rumble that vibrated through your core as he pressed his face even deeper, refusing to let you escape his devouring mouth until he’d wrung every last tremor from you–not until he was done, your body convulsing in aftershocks, hands pulling desperately at his hair.
He could hear the wild staccato of your heart beating off the charts, a thunderous rhythm that fueled his own frenzy, as he finally pulled his fingers free with a wet, reluctant slide, lapping greedily at your aching core to drink up your release–tongue delving in broad, insistent strokes until every glistening drop coated his tastebuds or smeared across his face in a slick sheen. Only then did he pull back, panting heavily with a satisfied, blood-and-arousal-smeared grin stretching onto his lips, his eyes gleaming with fulfillment as he gazed up at you from between your trembling thighs.
“God, darlin’…That was probably one of the best orgasms you’ve had with me…Holy shit…” He complimented, the words laced with satisfied pride, as he pressed a trail of featherlight kisses along the quivering, sensitive flesh of your inner thighs–his cool lips brushing the heated skin in soothing caresses that contrasted the lingering aftershocks still rippling through your core. His tongue darted out intermittently, laving broad, gentle strokes over the bloody puncture wounds he’d left, the cool muscle tracing the edges to chase the metallic remnants without latching back on, the action both tender and teasing, prolonging the euphoric haze that wrapped your mind in silken veils.
Your head fell back against the mattress with a soft thud, the cool sheets cradling your neck, and you let out a shaky breath that trembled from your lips, carrying the remnants of your cries as you tried to anchor yourself amid the swirling bliss. Your hand combed through his hair in lazy, affectionate strokes, fingers flattening the tousled waves that curled rebelliously over his forehead, the strands cool and slightly damp under your touch, grounding you as your chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms.
“It’s the best orgasm…I’ve had in my life…” you corrected, your words emerging in a breathless whisper, trying to steady your ragged breathing, to coax your erratic pulse back from its thunderous gallop before it burst free from your chest. Rhett let out a small, genuine laugh then–a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his frame and into yours, warm despite his chill, as he pulled away from your skin with a reluctant drag, lifting his head to look up at you. The crimson ring encircling his irises had faded noticeably, retreating like receding tides to reveal the glistening sapphire blue peeking through, vibrant and clear, as if the edge of his hunger had been blunted by the feast of your release–but you knew he still craved more, the feral glint lingering in the depths like embers banked but not extinguished, far from satiated.
He brought his fingers–still glistening with the slick evidence of your climax–up to his mouth, the digits hovering briefly before he sucked them in, his cheeks hollowing as his tongue swirled around them, lapping at the nectar-like sheen with a deep, appreciative moan that resonated from his throat, the sound raw and primal, eyes fluttering half-closed in evident pleasure at the musky-sweet flavor coating his senses.
Your hand slid down from his hair to caress his cheek, palm cupping the sharp angle of his jaw where stubble rasped against your skin like fine sandpaper, feeling the subtle flex and hollow beneath your touch as he continued to clean every trace of you from his fingers, his lashes fluttering shut in a moment of pure indulgence, the gesture intimate and vulnerable amid the charged air.
Once he was satisfied, having savored every lingering drop, he pulled his fingers free with a soft, wet pop and a contented sigh, his gaze flicking up to meet yours–darkened still, but softened at the edges with something deeper, more profound than mere hunger.
“You know you’ve got this spell on me, sweetheart…” He started, his voice cracking with a desperate rawness, shaking his head slowly as if to dispel the words forming on his tongue, each syllable emerging like a confession dragged from the depths of his cursed soul, enveloped in pure yearning–the want, the need for you consuming him utterly, a tidal wave that drowned every rational thought. He nuzzled against your hand then, his cool cheek pressing into your warm palm, lips brushing your skin in a featherlight graze, “I feel like my entire bein’ belongs to you, and you’re constantly on my mind…I see you everywhere…I taste you on my tongue long after these nights together…I just can’t get enough of you.” The admission hung in the air, thick with the ache of his eternal longing.
“I love you so much,” He whispered, the words a reverent vow, before pressing a lingering kiss to the center of your palm–his lips sticking slightly to your skin from the dried blood smeared there, the faint metallic tang transferring in a subtle, intimate exchange that sent a shiver skittering up your arm. He shifted then, his mouth trailing downward in a slow descent, pressing a soft, adoring kiss to the gentle mound of your pubic bone, the cool pressure against the sensitive rise making your breath hitch, a fresh wave of warmth blooming low in your belly, the coil reigniting.
“I love this pussy because it takes me so well and it makes me feel alive again…” He murmured against the tender skin, his voice a gravelly caress that vibrated through you, before his teeth grazed the curve of your hip in a teasing nip–sinking just deep enough to draw a small stream of blood from the plush flesh.
“I love these beautiful hips, because when I hold them you follow my guidance…” He continued, his tongue tracing the thin droplets that wept from the small punctures in soothing strokes, the cool wetness contrasting the faint sting as his mouth moved upward to your belly, lips mapping the soft, yielding expanse with worshipful presses.
“I love your stomach, because all I can picture is it swollen with my child,” He breathed, the words laced with a poignant longing that tugged at your heart, his teeth scraping jagged lines across the supple skin in deliberate, shallow drags that raised faint welts without breaking through, before his tongue followed, laving the textured paths with broad, indulgent strokes that wet your skin in glistening trails, the sensation a delicious blend of scrape and soothe that made your muscles quiver beneath him. He shifted higher then, his mouth reaching the undersides of your breasts–sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh there with controlled precision, sucking gently to draw blood to the surface in blooming bruises, the faint coppery warmth seeping just enough for him to savor the sweetness, doing the same to the other side with mirrored devotion, each pull sending sparks of mingled pain and pleasure cascading through your chest.
“I love your breasts, how they feel in my hands, and how perky your nipples get when I…” He paused deliberately, his breath exhaling in a chilled gust across the already taut bud, the cool air making you shiver against him, the peak hardening further into an aching point that throbbed with need, “Blow on them.” He finished with a smirk, his teeth gleaming with a faint sheen of red under the lamplight, his eyes hazy and half-lidded as if intoxicated by the finest vintage wines anyone could’ve given him, the crimson in them softened to a mere glow amid the sapphire depths.
He continued his ascent, kissing up to your collarbone with lingering presses, nipping at the delicate ridge there to elicit a gasp from you, before reaching the elegant curve of your neck–his body settling fully atop yours now, the solid weight of him pinning you in place as his straining erection pressed against your slick folds through the thin barrier of his boxer briefs, the fabric already damp with precum that seeped through in a warm, sticky tease. You let out a shaky breath, the intimate pressure sending fresh waves of desire pulsing through you, your hips shifting upward instinctively to meet his, rubbing against the rigid ridge of his clothed tip in a slow, teasing grind that drew a low groan from his throat. He pulled back slightly from the crook of your neck to gaze down at you, his expression a storm of tenderness and hunger, before bringing his wet fingers–still faintly glistening from your earlier release–up to your mouth, tracing the plump curve of your lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
“I love your lips, because the words that leave them are always filled with adoration for me…” You parted them willingly, taking his thumb into the warm cavern of your mouth, sucking gently with a greedy pull that made his breath hitch, your tongue swirling around the digit to taste the faint remnants of yourself mingled with his skin. He slipped it out slowly, dragging the tip across your tongue in a deliberate slide that gathered saliva on it before smearing the wetness down to your chin in a glistening trail, before capturing your mouth in a brief, searing kiss–the plushness of your lips yielding against his with a softness that made him hum in approval, savoring the warmth against his eternal chill.
“I also love how they wrap around my cock…And how they kiss me like they’re tryin’ to suck the remnants of what little life I have out of my body,” He added, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper thick with desire, before pressing his lips to yours again in a deeper claim, nipping your bottom one with a gentle tug as he pulled back, the faint sting blooming into a pleasurable throb. He shifted against you then, his hand moving to the waistband of his boxer briefs with urgent intent, pushing them down his hips in one fluid motion to release his erection from its confines–the hard, throbbing length springing free to rest heavily between you, the flushed tip smearing a warm trail of precum along the soft plane of your lower belly.
You could feel the prominent veins running along the underside of his erection, thick ridges pulsing with restrained need as his hips instinctively rutted against the plush, yielding softness of your stomach, the cool length sliding in languid drags that savored the heated friction of your skin against his. You let out a little moan, the sound escaping as a breathy vibration that hummed through your chest, and leaned your head up to kiss him again, your lips crashing into his with a desperate fervor, tasting the mingled coppery sweetness of your blood and the musky tang of your arousal still coating his mouth. Your hands roamed the broad expanse of his back, palms flattening against the cool, scarred planes of muscle that flexed beneath your touch, tracing the faint ridges. You bent your knees and brought your legs up so they cradled the sides of his torso, your inner thighs pressing flush against his hips, marking him with droplets of blood that still flowed in warm, sluggish rivulets from the punctures he had made earlier, the crimson beads transferring to his skin in smeared streaks that cooled quickly against his eternal chill.
You coaxed his mouth to open wider, massaging your lips against his in a slow, insistent rhythm until they parted fully, allowing your tongue to delve into the cool cavern of his, exploring the sharpened edges of his fangs with careful curiosity, tasting the heady cocktail of your blood and arousal, and his saliva, swallowing it down like water. His hands roamed up your sides then, calloused fingers trailing along the curves of your ribs and waist, his nails scratching down in light, deliberate drags that raised faint welts on your heated flesh, the subtle sting blooming into a pleasurable warmth that radiated outward, contrasting the coolness of his touch. They settled finally on your hips, gripping with possessive firmness, thumbs pressing into the soft give just above your bones to anchor you as the kiss deepened, growing messier with each pass.
You could feel the spit pooling at the corners of your mouths, warm and slick, trailing down your chin in thin threads until he pulled away reluctantly to let you breathe, his crimson-rimmed eyes locking onto yours with a gaze that burned through the euphoric haze still clouding your mind. Your eyes roamed his face, tracing the sharp angles softened by smears of your blood–crimson streaks drying to a matte sheen on his chin and cheeks, his lips swollen and glistening–until you shifted beneath him, your legs hooking behind his thighs in a firm lock, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to pull back completely even if he wanted to, your body a willing cage for his feral desires.
“Fuck, Rhett…After saying all of that…I need you to fuck me until I can’t think straight…To feed off of me until I’m light headed.” You whispered, your voice a fractured plea, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as the high from his earlier bite pulsed through your veins like liquid starlight, making your skin tingle and your core ache. He nudged his nose against yours in a tender nuzzle, the gesture intimate amid the building storm, nodding slowly as if sealing a sacred promise, before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek–his cool lips leaving a faint imprint of blood there.
“Anythin’ you want…I’ll make it happen.” He reassured as he slid one hand off your hip with deliberate slowness, the cool palm trailing a path of goosebumps down your thigh before wrapping around the base of his cock, fingers curling firmly around the throbbing length. He adjusted above you with a subtle shift of his weight, his knees sinking deeper into the mattress as he guided the tip between your legs, slipping it through your slick folds in a teasing glide that parted the swollen lips with ease, coating himself in your warmth. He watched intently as your mouth parted on a quiet gasp, your body arching instinctively to press into him more, chasing the pressure, but he didn’t give in—not yet. He savored the image of his cum mixing with yours in his mind’s eye, the way it would pulse out of you in the aftermath of your ravenous lovemaking, the slick and mingling warmth sticking to your inner thighs and dripping down to the sheets beneath in viscous trails; often times he’d lick it up afterward, tongue delving greedily to taste the two of you together, the salty-bitter essence of his release blending with your honeyed sweetness in an addictive fusion that made his senses reel. And right now there was no difference, just the feel of your folds parting for him, wetting the veined skin of his cock in glistening layers, the friction building a low hum of tension in his core that worked him up all the same, his breath hitching in ragged bursts.
He nudged your clit with the flushed tip, smearing his precum and your arousal against the sensitive bundle in slow, deliberate circles that made it throb under the attention, before slipping down and notching himself at your entrance, the broad head pressing just enough to tease the stretch without breaching. He glanced at you then, his eyes darkened pools of sapphire and crimson, seeing the way your gaze roamed his face in silent pleading, your expression a tapestry of need and trust as you turned your head to the side, exposing the elegant curve of your neck in blatant invitation–the veins there fluttering visibly beneath the scarred skin, a siren call that he was now allowed to follow and chase after.
He swallowed hard, leaning down to press his lips against the pulsing vein in a gentle kiss, his tongue emerging to lick along the delicate line with a broad, savoring stroke, finding the buttery smooth spot that he had sunk into time and time again. He tilted his head slightly, scraping the sharp tips of his fangs against it in a teasing drag that dimpled the flesh without piercing, building the anticipation to a feverish edge, before biting down with a swift, precise plunge and bringing his hips forward to slip inside of you, the both of you letting out these breathless noises–his; a grunt that got caught in his throat as your blood filled his mouth in a hot, velvety rush, exploding across his palate, and yours; a shaky moan that made your hands fly to his back to hold onto him, nails digging into the cool muscle in desperate anchors.
The stretch was always something that took time to adjust to, he was well endowed, so much so that it always felt like he wasn’t going to fit fully, the girth parting your walls in a delicious burn that bordered on overwhelming, but he took his time with you, slowly inching forward with measured restraint, distracting you by sucking at your flesh with rhythmic pulls, drinking you in greedy swallows that made his throat work visibly against your skin, and holding your hip with one hand, his fingers digging in with bruising pressure to ground you amid the dual invasions. He couldn’t drink fast enough for the amount of blood that poured from the vein he punctured, the excess spilling in warm rivulets down the curve of your neck and shoulder, searing against your flesh in sticky paths that cooled to a tacky glaze, the sensation like someone had rubbed glue on you in haphazard streaks, as you strained your neck even more, granting him additional space to feed deeper.
He let go of himself when his cock was halfway inside you, the shaft throbbing with the effort of restraint, bringing his arm up to slide it beneath your head so you had his forearm as a cushion, the cool muscle flexing under your nape as he sucked even harder now, pulling waves of ecstasy through your bloodstream, amplifying every inch of his advance until his hips met yours in a flush press, the tip of his cock nestling right against your cervix in a deep, insistent nudge that sent a jolt of mingled pressure and pleasure radiating through your core.
He grunted against your flesh, the vibration humming into your vein like a bass note, your nails digging into his shoulders with sharper intensity, carving crescent indents that broke through his chilled skin in faint scratches, drawing sluggish beads of his dark blood that smeared under your fingertips. Your head turned slightly to look at how deeply engrossed he was in his feed–the way his lashes fluttered against his cheeks, his jaw working in steady, hypnotic motions, the crimson smears renewing on his lips as he drank with abandon. The bags under his eyes were gone, retreating like shadows at dawn, and the veins that had shadowed his neck barely existed now, fading to faint whispers beneath his pallid skin, the blood you were giving finally taking hold and restoring him in visible waves; you felt rewarded by the sight, a quiet triumph blooming amid the haze, knowing your essence was weaving a sign of life into his form.
“Rhett…Baby…” You couldn’t finish the sentence because he knew exactly what you were going to ask of him as he inched out of you until the tip only remained inside, the sudden emptiness making your walls clench greedily around it in protest, before sinking back in with one fluid thrust, earning a small ‘oh’ from you–a breathy exclamation that dissolved into the air as your hips canted towards him instinctively, your clit rubbing against his pubic bone in a grinding press, the coarse hairs there sticking against the wetness in a featherlight tickle that added a teasing friction, like delicate bristles brushing over hypersensitive nerves. He grunted again, the sound muffled against your neck as he sank his teeth in deeper, a little sting burning in the vein he was paying attention to like a spark igniting dry tinder, sucking harder with fervent pulls that made fresh blood spill in hotter surges, your back bowing toward him in an involuntary arch that lifted your chest flush against his.
He took this as an opportunity to slide his hand off your hip, snaking it through the space the arch created between your back and the sheets, his palm splaying wide to hold you in that bowed position with unyielding strength, fingers digging into the small of your back as his thrusts began to find a pace the both of you craved–slow at first, deliberate drags that savored every inch of your slick heat gripping him, before building to a relentless rhythm, his skin slapping against yours in wet, echoing smacks that filled the room, the muscles in his shoulders tensing beneath your touch, twitching when your nails dragged down his back in long. You could feel his tongue lapping at the spot he was attached to with frantic urgency, panting like he was losing all sense of control, like he was slipping into a frenzy of feasting on you–the cool breaths puffing against your neck in ragged bursts, his body shuddering with each deep draw–but you felt nothing more than pure ecstasy, the euphoric thickness of his saliva flooding your system in radiant pulses that blurred pain into bliss, every nerve alight.
The noises he made were animalistic, grunts and moans and whimpers mixing all into one, a cacophony of sounds that only made you clench around his cock even more, your walls fluttering in rhythmic spasms that milked him deeper, the friction building to an exquisite burn as he rutted into you with increasing ferocity.
“Closer…I…I need more of you.” You managed to say, the words fracturing on a gasp amid the haze, which snapped him out of his trance like a whipcrack, his jaw slackening so he didn’t tear your flesh as he removed his fangs from your neck with a wet, reluctant pop, letting the blood trail down your skin in hot, meandering droplets that dripped down your shoulder and down to the front of your chest, the warmth cooling to a sticky glade that mingled with your sweat. You whined at the sudden loss, a needy keen escaping your throat as you craved his mouth back on you, the emptiness of the wound throbbing in protest, but before you could say anything, before you could complain, he lifted you up in one smooth, effortless motion–his muscles coiling as he pulled you upright, so you were sitting on his thighs, impaling yourself on his cock now.
The change in position only made him sink deeper into you, the tip pressing and molding against the soft tissue of your cervix, almost like it was begging to be let through so it could be right inside your womb. The tasteful thickness of his cock was overwhelming as it stretched you to your limits, the pressure bordering on transcendent overload.
With you perched on him like a queen claiming your throne, your bodies fused in this intimate upright tangle, you felt your head spinning from both the blood loss and the immense pleasure that filled every inch of your body, flooding all your senses with a blurred film of euphoria–colours sharpening at the edges of your vision, sounds amplifying to a symphonic hum, your skin hypersensitive to every brush of air and every press of his flesh against yours.
Rhett’s arms locked around you, holding you as close as you could get, not wanting even a slight gap between your bodies, his biceps flexing against you in a protective wrap that made you squirm and clench around him, as he nudged your chin with his nose, exposing the untouched area of your neck–the side where he hadn’t bitten, wanting to give the other vein that he had been feeding off of a rest.
He mirrored the same ritual, trailing his tongue over the scarred tissue, tracing the ridges, before he dug in with a swift plunge. You felt your body tense up at the contact, every sinew and fiber locking in an exquisite spasm as his fangs breached the fresh vein with that sharp, intimate rupture–the cool ivory tips sliding through the resistant barrier of skin and muscle like silk parting under a blade, unleashing a fresh cascade of your blood. Your entire frame shivered and shook against him, involuntary quakes rippling from the epicenter of the bite outward, your mind clouding once more in that intoxicating fog of euphoria, thoughts dissolving into fragmented bursts of pure feeling: the wet seal of his lips around the puncture, the rhythmic tug of his swallows pulling at your very life force, the faint, coppery warmth seeping into the air, Your walls clenched around his cock over and over again, pulsing in a desperate, fluttering rhythm that gripped him with velvet insistence, each contraction molding to the thick ridges and veins of his length as if your body were trying to fuse with his, drawing a muffled growl from him that vibrated through your throat and down into your core like a deep, resonant chord struck on a hidden string.
His hips bucked up into you with raw, primal urgency, the motion lifting you slightly on his thighs in a jolt that made your breath catch, gravity then pulling you back down to impale you deeper. His hands splayed along your sides, large palms spanning the flare of your ribs with possessive command–fingers flexing to dig into the soft give of your waist–as he began to guide your body into a pattern that matched his thrusts from beneath: undulating rolls that synced with his upward drives, ensuring he could plunge as deep as possible, the broad head of his cock carving through your slick depths in deliberate, claiming strokes that brushed every hidden cluster of nerves, making you writhe in his lap like a captive flame twisting in the wind. Sweet, innocent little whines escaped your lips in staccato bursts, high and breathless, each one a melodic plea that only spurred him on, his breaths coming in heavier, ragged puffs against your neck as he fed, the dual cadence of his hips and mouth weaving into a hypnotic frenzy that blurred sustenance into ecstasy.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders in a frantic clutch, fingers threading into the cool, sweat-damp waves of his hair to tug at the roots with desperate pulls that bordered on savage, your nails scraping his scalp in erratic, tingling trails, grounding you amid the overwhelming maelstrom. He guided your hips to grind against him with insistent pressure, his hands flexing to tilt you at just the right angle, the friction of your swollen clit dragging against the coarse trail of hair at his base sending jagged bolts of pleasure radiating through your pelvis, the mess between you growing exponentially–blood now trickling from both sides of your neck in warm, meandering rivulets that painted your skin in glistening crimson paths, some droplets weaving between your pressed bodies to stick flesh to flesh in tacky, intimate bonds where sweat-slicked warmth met undead chill, others mingling with the fresh slicks of your arousal that coated his thighs and dripped in viscous threads with each upward thrust.
You imagined the sheets beneath you in those hazy, fevered moments, how they must be utterly ruined, drenched in irregular blooms of deep crimson that seeped outward, interspersed with translucent pools of your combined essence gathering in the creases formed by your shifting weights–and yet, the vision evaporated like dew under morning sun, your mind too ensnared by the primal torrent to muster even a flicker of concern for the wreckage.
Rhett sucked in hard, rhythmic pulls that tugged at your essence with voracious hunger, each draw sending fresh waves of dizzying vertigo through you, your vision swimming with little pinpricks of black that danced at the peripheries like fleeting shadows, but you fought against it with tenacious will, blinking them away to refocus on the anchors of him: the unyielding wrap of his arms cradling your back, the heavy panting of his breaths fanning across your neck in erratic gusts that chilled the sticky blood trails, the unrelenting pierce of his fangs draining you in measured sips that made your pulse stutter in delicious surrender, and the silken tangle of his hair slipping between your fingers like cool strands of midnight silk. His tongue lapped at the wound between swallows with urgent, swirling strokes, the cool muscle delving into the punctures to capture every escaping bead before it could trail too far, his cock throbbing inside you with each one–thickening and pulsing in perfect harmony with the rush of your blood down his throat, as if the floral warmth was infusing his veins with a borrowed vitality that amplified his desire, drawing him perilously closer to the brink, his body quivering with the overload like a bowstring drawn taut.
You felt his fangs slip out of your skin then, retracting with a subtle, wet glide that left the punctures throbbing in their wake, a faint ache blooming like embers cooling in the night air, his mouth now doing all the work in sucking on the holes he had created–lips forming a firm, enveloping seal around them in an insistent vacuum that coaxed the flow without tearing further, the sensation shifting from piercing intensity to a soothing, pulsating draw that prolonged the euphoric hum coursing through your limbs.
“You’re my fuckin’ godsend…I’d be fuckin’ dead if it wasn’t for you and all the things you do for me…I love you so much…So fuckin’ much.” He whimpered like he was on the brink of tears, his voice fracturing into a raw, vulnerable keen against your skin, laced with a desperation that clawed at your heartstrings and sent fresh tears prickling at your own eyes, letting out a whine against your flesh that vibrated through you like a plaintive melody from a wounded animal, his hips snapping up into you with unbridled ferocity now–driving upward in a punishing rhythm that made your breasts press and slide against his chest in soft, rhythmic collisions, the friction of your hardened nipples against his cool torso igniting fresh sparks that cascaded downward to pool in your core, his arms locking you into place with ironclad resolve so he could do all the work, every thrust a deep, claiming surge that filled you utterly, the world contracting to the exquisite pressure of him owning you from within.
“I…I…” You tried to form a sentence but your brain couldn’t manage the task, the overwhelming layers of sensation clouding every cognitive function, rendering you totally speechless apart from the high whines and whimpers that escaped your throat in fractured harmonies, your voice breaking on each note as you pulled on his hair harder, clutching the strands for a semblance of stability amid the whirlwind, your nails now raking down to his nape in erratic lines that left faint, tingling welts blooming on his chilled flesh.
“I’m almost there, darlin’…You’re bein’ such a good fuckin’ girl for me.” He praised, the affirmation wrapping around you like a silken caress that pulled you tighter into the spiral, his tongue delving into the punctures to lick as much as he could off your skin, the cool sweeps gathering the crimson essence in broad, indulgent strokes that left your neck glistening. He fucked up into you even harder then, his pace escalating to a brutal, unyielding cadence–each thrust rolling upward with savage precision, the broad head grazing your cervix in deep, insistent nudges that sent shockwaves of mingled ache and ecstasy radiating through your core, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every hilt-deep plung, the coarse friction teasing the swollen bundle in rhythmic presses that amplified the building crest like kindling to a blaze.
Tears began to fall down your face in hot streaks, carving salty paths through the smeared blood and gloss on your cheeks, as your nails dug into his scalp with desperate fervor, and you whimpered and shook against him, your body turning weightless in the euphoric tide, relying entirely on Rhett’s unyielding embrace to hold you up–his arms a steadfast cage that kept you from floating away–as your walls pulsed and clenched around him in frantic spasms, milking his length with velvet insistence and soaking him further in your arousal, the slick heat dripping in warm rivulets down his shaft to coat his base and thighs.
He unwrapped one of his arms from around you then, the sudden shift making you keen in protest at the loss of that full enclosure, but his free hand slipped between your sweat-slicked bodies with purposeful intent, fingers finding your clit amid the chaotic mess and rubbing firm, insistent circles around it–calloused pads gliding in tight, varying pressures that matched the frenzy of his hips, the added stimulation a lightning strike that shattered your remaining restraint. Finally, you leaned forward and bit down on his shoulder in a primal anchor, your teeth sinking into the cool, unyielding muscle there–not piercing as his fangs did, but clamping hard enough to muffle your cries as you let yourself go around him completely, your release crashing over you in a cataclysmic wave that gushed in hot, pulsing floods, soaking his cock and the juncture where you fused in a glossy torrent that dripped out around him, the excess pooling on the sheets in translucent beads that mingled with the crimson stains.
He chased after your release, his pace faltering into erratic, desperate snaps as the vise of your climax gripped him, his teeth scraping against the flesh of your neck in grazing drags that teased without breaching, until finally he let out these little pants and moans–breathless, fractured sounds that dissolved into whimpers against your skin–biting down as hard as he could with a feral plunge that reopened another scar in a fresh burst of coppery warmth, thick ropes of his cum filling you in surging pulses that coated your walls and cervix in creamy heat, his cock twitching inside you with each spurt, the excess mingling with yours to drip out around his base in viscous trails, a sight that proved just how full you were, the mingled essence seeping in warm rivulets down your inner thighs to stain the sheets further in a testament to your shared surrender.
As the aftershocks rippled through your entwined bodies, Rhett shifted with deliberate tenderness, his arms tightening around you in a protective cradle as he leaned forward, guiding you both back down onto the mattress. He kept himself buried deep inside you, the lingering fullness a comforting anchor amid the haze, his fangs still embedded in the tender curve of your neck, drawing out the last sluggish pulses of your blood in gentle, savoring sips. The sheets yielded beneath your combined weight with a soft, damp crinkle, the fabric clinging to your sweat-slicked skin like a second, ruined layer. You both panted in ragged unison–your breaths hot and erratic against his cool shoulder, his own unnecessary inhalations coming in deep, shuddering draws that mimicked mortal exhaustion, his chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythmic press that smeared the mingled fluids between you further. Sweat beaded on your temples and trickled down the valley of your spine, while sticky remnants of blood and arousal painted your thighs and his hips in glistening, tacky streaks, the metallic scent mingling with the musky earthiness of your shared release to create a heady, intimate fog that enveloped the room.
Your hands threaded through his damp hair again, fingers combing the tousled waves with slow, affectionate strokes, feeling the cool strands slip like silk between your palms, grounding you as you traced the subtle contours of his scalp. In return, his own hands roamed your naked torso–one palm flattening against the soft swell of your abdomen, thumb circling your navel in lazy, soothing spirals, while the other skimmed up your side, fingers splaying over the curve of your ribcage to feel the rapid flutter of your heartbeat beneath the scarred skin. The strokes were mutual balms, a silent language of comfort that eased the lingering tremors, your bodies gradually unwinding into a languid repose, pressed together in a tangle of limbs and warmth. The euphoric haze that had clouded your mind began to lift like morning mist burning off under the sun, leaving behind a radiant afterglow–the solid shield of his body draped over yours like a protective veil, his eternal chill now tempered by the borrowed heat of your blood, creating a cocoon of shared serenity where the world beyond ceased to exist.
When he finally unlatched himself from your neck, his fangs retracting with a subtle, wet glide that sent a faint shiver through your oversensitive nerves, he pulled away with a low, reluctant grunt. The punctures throbbed faintly, but as he lifted his head, his expression shifted to one of quiet assessment, his sapphire eyes–now vibrant and clear, the crimson ring faded to a mere whisper–scanning the map of your body with a mix of awe and concern. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other encounters you’d shared, those frenzied nights when his control had frayed to threads and left you marked in deeper, more ragged ways; this time, the bites were precise, the tears minimal, and he felt a surge of quiet gratitude for that restraint, even as the evidence of his hunger stared back at him.
The sheets beneath you both were utterly destroyed–a battlefield of deep crimson blooms where blood had seeped and pooled in irregular splotches, interspersed with translucent streaks of his cum and your arousal that glistened under the lamplight like dew on ravaged petals, the fabrics soaked through to the mattress cover below, carrying the mingled scents of iron, salt, and raw intimacy that clung to the air.
You could hear him swallow loudly, the sound thick and audible in the quiet room, a lump of remorse catching in his throat as his gaze lingered on the carnage. Immediately, your eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and still hazy, taking him in fully–the blood smeared across his lips and cheeks in glossy, drying streaks that gave him a wild, almost ethereal beauty, like a warrior painted in the spoils of battle. You admired the mess he’d made of himself while feeding, the crimson crusting at the corners of his mouth, the faint splatters dotting his chin and jaw, before your gaze followed his downward, tracing the chaotic artistry on the linens and your own skin.
“God…I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean to…” He started, but you let out a sigh.
“Rhett…It’s fine.” You reassured, reaching up to cup his stubbly cheek, the rough bristles scraping against your palm in a familiar, grounding rasp as you ran your thumb along the puffy skin beneath his eye. It had more firmness to it now, the hollows filled out with a subtle plumpness, and far more color blooming in his pallid complexion–a faint, rosy undertone seeping through, evidence of how well-fed he was, your blood weaving vitality into his veins. You could feel the tackiness of the blood sticking to your skin, the warm residue transferring to your fingers in sticky smudges that cooled quickly.
“I don’t care about the sheets, you’re the only person seeing them anyways.” You joked, which earned a small laugh from him as he rubbed his face against your hand, tilting his head slightly so he could kiss your palm, staining it with a faint imprint of blood in the shape of his lips, the cool press lingering like a brand before he leaned down to kiss the center of your chest to leave a similar mark there as well.
“I’ll order some new ones for you…I don’t want you sleepin’ on blood soaked linens.” You hummed, adjusting your position, your hands leaving his face, wrapping your arms around his neck, slipping your fingers into his hair, feeling the dampness from his sweat against your palms, as he licked the blood stain off your skin.
“I would sleep on anything as long as you’re there with me…” You murmured, as he nipped at your skin between the valley of your breasts, earning a little gasp from you.
“Even a bed of nails?” He joked, looking up at you from his nuzzled position, the blood now totally smeared and crusting. You let out a little sigh, untangling one hand from his soft hair to run your fingertips along his mouth.
“Yes, even a bed of nails, you little freak.” His lips quirked into a smile and he let out a little laugh, his tongue poking out to lick the digits, lapping at them and wetting them until they were glistening with his saliva.
“I’m gonna pull out, get you all nice and healed, then I’m gonna get a washcloth and wipe every single inch of your body…How does that sound?” He asked, kissing the tips of fingers.
“Sounds perfect to me…” You replied. He pulled out slowly then, his movements unhurried and tender, the slick drag of his softening length withdrawing inch by inch, leaving behind a hollow ache that made your core clench involuntarily around the emptiness. As he emerged fully, he looked down at your core, his gaze darkening with a mix of reverence and raw hunger–the folds pulsing gently in the aftermath, the swollen entrance quivering as it pushed out the mingled remnants of your releases in thick, creamy rivulets, the viscous blend spilling down onto the already ruined sheets in slow, glistening trails that added to the chaotic mosaic of stains, the warmth cooling against the fabric in tacky pools. He rubbed your knee with his thumb in soothing circles, the calloused pad tracing the soft skin there, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the inside of it, his cool lips lingering on the sensitive curve in a whisper of adoration.
“Love seein’ you do that.” He murmured, before bringing his finger up to his fang, pressing it against the sharp edge, separating the flesh and drawing out the thick, almost black blood from the wound, bringing it to the bite mark on your inner thigh, smearing it until the holes closed. There was no pain in the process–just a faint, warming tingle that spread outward, the punctures knitting seamlessly under the alchemical touch of his essence, leaving only faint, silvery scars in their wake. You watched him work with heavy-lidded fascination, his focus intent as he moved methodically along all the marks he’d left on you–smearing the dark blood over the jagged crescents on your hips, the deeper gashes along your breasts, the trailing scratches on your abdomen–closing them one by one with precise, reverent strokes, the cool slickness of his blood absorbing into your skin like a healing balm, until he reached the final gash on your neck, his fingers lingering there in a gentle press that sealed the wound with a subtle shimmer.
“Much better…” He whispered, before leaning down and kissing your lips a few times, wetting them with each peck, until he sighed, “I’ll go grab those washcloths now.” You nodded, feeling him pulling back, his hands reaching down to pull his boxer briefs back up, the waistband snapping against his hips as he slipped off the bed and moved towards the bathroom, your eyes following his form, his muscles flexing under your gaze as he disappeared from your sight.
You heard the water turn on, the faucet sputtering to life with a faint metallic groan before settling into a steady, rhythmic gush that echoed off the tiled walls, a soothing white noise that filled the quiet void left by his absence. The sound was accompanied by the soft clatter of him rummaging through your towel closet–the wooden door creaking open on its hinges, the muffled rustle of folded linens being shifted aside, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft stacks in search of the perfect cloths. There was a brief moment where you just heard splashing, the water sloshing gently as he dipped the fabrics in, followed by the deliberate twist and wring of material, the droplets pattering back into the sink like light rain on a windowpane, until silence overtook the room again, broken only by the distant hum of the night breeze stirring the curtains. He returned moments later, his bare feet padding softly across the worn floorboards with that predatory quietude, holding a little stack of damp dark blue cloths in his hand, the steam rising faintly from them like ethereal wisps in the lamplight, carrying the clean, subtle scent of your unscented soap–neutral and pure, just as he preferred everything about you.
You smiled at him, noticing how he had washed his face off in the interim, the crimson smears and glossy remnants of your shared passion now rinsed away, leaving his skin pale and pristine once more, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones highlighted by the faint sheen of water that clung to his stubble. A few errant droplets trailed down his neck, carving cool paths over the faded scars there, and his light brown hair was slightly damp at the ends where he’d splashed himself, curling rebelliously against his forehead. He climbed back onto the mattress with fluid grace, the bed dipping under his weight in a familiar creak, his knees sinking into the ruined sheets as he nudged your legs apart gently, his cool hands settling on your inner thighs with a tenderness that contrasted the feral intensity of moments before.
The cloth was warm against your core as he wiped your releases off your folds with gentle strokes–soft, unhurried passes that glided over the hypersensitive skin like a lover’s whisper, the terry fabric absorbing the sticky mingling of cum and arousal with absorbent ease, the warmth seeping into your tissues and easing the faint ache left by his earlier possession. He paid close attention to your reactions, his sapphire eyes flicking up to yours intermittently, watching for any flicker of discomfort, not wanting to cause you even the slightest twinge of pain in this vulnerable aftermath, his touch as reverent as a healer tending to sacred wounds.
When he was done he discarded the cloth to the side with a careless toss, the damp bundle landing on the floor with a soft thud amid the pile of discarded garments. Grabbing a fresh one from the stack, he began to wipe at the insides of your thighs, rubbing at the slightly caked blood with methodical care–the warm cloth dissolving the dried crimson flakes in gentle swirls, his fingernail occasionally scraping lightly at stubborn spots with precise delicacy, lifting the tacky residue without abrading your skin, the sensation a soothing contrast to the raw heat still lingering there, like a balm applied to sun-kissed earth after a storm. He worked upward slowly, his movements expanding to encompass the rest of your body with languid thoroughness–trailing the cloth over the curve of your hips where faint bruises bloomed like shadowed petals, then along the soft plane of your abdomen, circling the indent of your navel to erase the salty sheen of sweat that had gathered there, the warmth of the fabric drawing out a subtle sigh from you as it chased away the chill of drying fluids. He continued to your sides, the cloth gliding over your ribcage in broad, sweeping arcs that tickled faintly at the edges, making your muscles twitch involuntarily under the tender pressure, before ascending to your breasts–the warm terry cupping each swell wiping away the lingering smears of blood and saliva from the undersides and peaks, the gentle friction reigniting faint sparks in your nerves without overwhelming them.
During this intimate ritual, you reached out instinctively, settling your hand on his chest–the cool, firm expanse rising and falling in those mimicked breaths, your palm flattening over the spot where a heartbeat should have thrummed. Your fingers traced the subtle ridges of his pectoral muscles, feeling the faint give beneath the scarred skin, the contact grounding you further as he continued his ministrations, his free hand occasionally brushing yours in a fleeting caress that sent tiny shivers up your arm. He moved to your arms next, the cloth enveloping each one in turn, wiping from shoulder to wrist with slow, downward strokes that followed the contours of your limbs, easing the tension from your biceps and forearms where your earlier grips had left subtle aches. Then upward to your collarbones and neck, the warm fabric dabbing delicately at the healed punctures, absorbing the last traces of blood with absorbent care, the pressure light enough to soothe without irritating the fresh scars, the faint herbal scent of the soap mingling with the lingering metallic tang in the air. Finally, he attended to your face, the cloth folding softly against your cheeks and forehead, erasing the tear tracks and smeared gloss with featherlight pats that felt like whispered apologies, his eyes softening as he met yours in quiet communion.
He threw that final cloth off to the side as well, the damp fabric joining its companions in a haphazard heap, and sighed–a deep, contented exhale that ruffled the stray hairs framing your face, his body shifting back slightly to look down at you, his gaze roaming with meticulous care to ensure he hadn’t missed a single spot, the lamplight casting golden highlights over your now-clean skin, making it glow with a renewed, ethereal luminosity.
“All clear?” You asked, teasingly, your voice a soft lilt laced with affection, a small smile curving your lips as you watched the faint crease of concentration ease from his brow.
“All clear.” He replied simply, before reaching behind him and grabbing the edge of the duvet–the thick, down-filled comforter rumpled at the foot of the bed–pulling it up with a gentle tug so it could cascade over your bodies in a soft, enveloping wave, the fabric settling like a warm cloud that trapped the lingering heat between you, warding off the encroaching chill from the open window. He settled in beside you then, his body aligning with yours in a seamless fit, the cool length of him pressing against your side as you found your rightful spot on his chest–your cheek nestling against the firm swell of muscle there, the unnatural stillness beneath a familiar lullaby that soothed rather than unsettled, your arm draping over his torso in a possessive arc, fingers splaying wide to feel the subtle ridges of his ribs under your palm. He wrapped his arms around you in return, pulling you impossibly close with a firm yet tender hold, one hand settling at the small of your back to trace idle patterns along your spine, the other cradling the nape of your neck, his fingers weaving into the roots of your hair with gentle tugs that sent pleasant tingles cascading down your scalp.
Your hands traced the scars along his ribcage and the front of his abdomen, the cool texture smooth under your fingertips as you mapped them with reverent curiosity, the quiet exploration a wordless affirmation of acceptance for all that he was. The two of you basked in the silence for a few moments, the only sounds the distant chirp of crickets beyond the window and the subtle rustle of the duvet shifting with your breaths, the afterglow wrapping you both in a cocoon of contentment where time stretched languidly, the earlier frenzy now a warm ember glowing in your cores. Until you cleared your throat softly, the sound a gentle interruption in the serene hush.
“Can you wake me up before you leave so I can say goodbye?” You asked, your voice a murmur laced with quiet vulnerability, the words carrying the ache of impending separation even as you nestled closer, inhaling the faint almond-cherry essence of his skin mingled with the clean soap from his wash.
“Of course I can…But for now…You need to rest.” He instructed, smoothing his hand along your back in long strokes that eased the last remnants of tension from your muscles, his touch a cool anchor that lulled you toward slumber.
“Alright…” You whispered, placing a kiss against his pectoral muscle–the cool flesh yielding slightly under your lips, the faint salt of his skin lingering on your tongue as you pressed the tender gesture there, a seal of your devotion.
“I love you, Rhett…” A little smile appeared on his lips, the curve subtle but genuine, his eyes softening in the dim light as he held you tighter.
“I love you too…Forever and always, darlin’…Wouldn’t change it for the world.”
