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My Favourite Game

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Inexperienced!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You haven’t had much luck when it comes to dating and sex which has inadvertently placed you in a position of being wholly inexperienced with the whole scene in general. But when your long time friend Rhett Abbott offers you a way to experiment safely to figure out what to do, you immediately jump at the opportunity–desperate to learn and get more experience.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers? Hell yeah! Reader is inexperienced and actually has a safe space to actually experiment. The dynamics between Rhett and Reader are extremely comfortable (they talk about a lot of personal things), They’ve been friends for a while (high school acquaintances turned adult friends), Mentions of Violence (kind of vague as well), Rhett is Mentioned to be Protective

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all…), Oral Sex (fem! And male! Receiving), Fingering, Biting (leaving marks), Dirty Talk, Hickeys and Love Bites, Cum Play, Swallowing, Hair Pulling, Choking, Overstimulation, Semi–Public Sex (Truck Sex y’all wahoooo lol), Handjobs, Riding, Making Out, Thigh Riding, Praising/WorshippingTeasing (physically), Begging, Reader is described as being inexperienced they have had sex though, just really bad sex, Very Soft Dom and Sub dynamics that switches, Finger Sucking, Gagging (very brief moment, nothing extreme), Good Girl is used.

Author’s Note: Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of smut warnings lol. I loved writing this, I buy into the friends to lovers trope so much, but I also enjoy the ‘I’m teaching you new things about yourself and we’re slowly falling for each other’ trope lol. Did I go off on this and have to change my keyboard midway through because the A, D, F and G keys break? Yep. But holy hell did I enjoy writing this new segment of RAF and I’m so excited to keep writing for this man!

Word Count: 13,962

It was painfully evident that you didn’t have much luck with men. You used to think maybe the first one was just a fluke–that one high school boyfriend who didn’t know the first thing about tenderness and treated you like a friend more than a lover. But as the years went on and the faces changed–first dates, flings, those awkward two-month situationships that ended with unread messages or cold shoulders–it became harder and harder to ignore a simple, infuriating truth:

You attracted a certain type of guy, and unfortunately, that type of guy brought on heaps of trouble to you.

Rhett had told you as much–in different ways, tones, and situations.

”I can tell just by lookin’ at ‘em,” He’d mutter over his beer, eyes narrowed at whoever was looking at you, or whoever had come to pick you up from his ranch when you would hang out, “Ain’t no way that one’s gonna treat you right.” But you never listened to him. You had told him–and yourself–multiple times that he was just being overprotective, and looking too deeply into things.

But the truth was, he was right, you weren’t being treated right. Not even close.

In bed, it was glaringly worse. You didn’t come first–literally or metaphorically. The guys you saw acted like just showing up was enough, like their presence alone should’ve sent you spiraling into pure ecstasy–like you were supposed to be grateful that they were blessing you with the experience of having them between your legs.

You definitely weren’t. Not even once.

You could actually count on one hand how many times you’d almost felt an orgasm building. And the only time someone even offered to go down on you–and even then, he was half-assing the job, and made it feel like a formality rather than something he actually wanted to do. You barely felt his mouth. But you pretended it was good, just so it wouldn’t be another disappointment.

For a long time, you thought maybe something was wrong with you, that maybe your body was broken or maybe you were just one of those people who didn’t get much pleasure from these types of things and needed simpler acts to truly experience something even close to sexual pleasure. So. You stopped trying, stopped dating, and stopped chasing what felt more like punishment than passion.

And within the quiet that followed your dating celibacy, you had found yourself spending more time with Rhett.

Neither of you were truly close with each other before that.

Sure, you’d gone to the same high school, crossed paths in hallways, shared the occasional class where you’d borrow a pencil or flash him a smirk when he got caught nodding off mid-lecture. But he ran with the rodeo kids, and you–well, you drifted between circles, kept mostly to yourself, caught up in extracurriculars and jobs and the kind of boys Rhett always ended up warning you about years later.

It wasn’t until a spur-of-the-moment decision–one boring Friday and a reckless text to your old classmate–that you ended up at one of his circuits. You hadn’t seen him ride since high school, and you figured, why not?

You didn’t expect much.

But then you saw him in the dirt and the dust, bronzed under the stadium lights, laughing with his hat tipped back and his knuckles split open. And something shifted.

You stayed longer than you meant to that night. Helped him limp back to his truck. Got late-night fries together. Talked about everything and nothing, just like people who didn’t know yet that they were about to become each other’s person.

After that, it became a routine. A quiet, natural rhythm. The two of you set aside one day a week for bar hopping–usually Tuesdays, when the crowds were thin and the drinks were cheap. But when you gave up on dating for a while, something in that rhythm expanded.

You weren’t just hanging out once a week anymore. You were showing up at circuits again, slapping the rusted fence rails as he rode past, grinning like you were seventeen again and seeing him for the first time. You started meeting his friends. Familiarized yourself with his family again–Amy’s quiet greetings, Perry’s tired but kind nods, Cecilia’s slightly surprised but not unwelcome smiles when you appeared in their kitchen one Sunday morning, still rubbing sleep from your eyes in Rhett’s oversized hoodie, and Royal’s glares that he shot at Rhett.

You became a fixture in his life. A known presence.

Especially after long nights of drinking, where you’d inevitably end up back at his place, curled up on his bed groaning because a headache was already brewing.

And with that bond that grew came something that bloomed slowly but powerfully: his protectiveness.

It had always been there–coiled beneath the surface, stitched into the way he watched you, waited for you, walked you to your door even when he was half-asleep himself. But when he started to piece together the kind of experiences you’d had–the disappointments, the lack of care, the way men made you feel like an afterthought–it shifted.

It changed the way he looked at you. Like you were fragile, but not weak. Like he wanted to wrap his hands around every bad memory and crush it.

He never said much when you opened up about it. Didn’t need to. The silence was heavy enough.

”You don’t deserve that,” He said once, soft as gravel, not looking at you. It had hit you harder than you expected. Not because of the words–but because of how he said them.

When you broke it to him that you were taking a break from dating, he didn’t even hesitate before saying “Me too.” You hadn’t expected that. You had laughed, asked him why– saying you’re Rhett Abbott, don’t you have girls throwing themselves at you every other week?–but he just shrugged, scratched the back of his neck, and muttered something about solidarity.

What you didn’t know though was that Rhett Abbott was relieved by this news.

It meant peace. No more stepping in between you and men who didn’t deserve to speak your name. No more black eyes or busted knuckles or security dragging him out of bars with the same tired “Abbott, we warned you.” No more cold rage coiled in his chest when you came to him with a new dating story.

But more than all of that–it meant he had more of your time again, and that you were his once more.

Not in the traditional sense. But in the quiet, easy way where he got to have you beside him. In his truck. At his kitchen table. Laughing on his porch. Falling asleep in his living room. Talking to him about things you didn’t tell anyone else.

He got to watch you laugh with his family. Got to listen to you hum in the passenger seat. Got to see you when you weren’t trying anymore–when you were just being you.

And lately, Rhett had been thinking about things. Dangerous things.

About what it would feel like to be the one to show you what good could be. About how his hands would never treat you like an obligation. About how he’d never rush you, never expect anything, never make you fake a damn thing.

He’d been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t. Imagining things he wasn’t proud of. But he never said it. Never crossed that line.

Not until you did.

——————————

The bar was louder than usual, the kind of noise that sank into your bones, all thudding boots and clinking glasses and low country twang pouring from speakers that surrounded the walls of the drinking areas. You and Rhett were squished together in a booth that barely had enough space for one of his thighs, let alone two. He was pressed against your side, the warmth of his arm brushing yours every time either of you reached for the second pitcher of beer you’d ordered.

You’d been sipping slowly at first–well, pretending to–but somewhere between your third and fourth shared laugh, the drinks started going down faster. Something about being shoulder-to-shoulder with Rhett always loosened you up. Maybe it was the way he leaned in when he talked. Or the way his voice dropped just slightly in the middle of a crowd, like everything else was just noise unless you were listening.

By the time the second pitcher was empty, your head was spinning, your cheeks hot, and Rhett was nudging you with his knee.

“Guessin’ it’s time we call Perry?”He suggested, raising an eyebrow and pushing his light brown hair out of his face. You groaned.

”Can’t we just sleep in your truck?” And he let out a small laugh, shaking his head slowly.

”You’re too pretty to get eaten by coyotes, sweetheart. C’mon, I’m sure my place is more comfy than the leather seats of the truck.” He teased, as he pulled out his phone.

You both slurred your way through the call–Rhett taking the lead while you giggled beside him, repeating his name like a chant until Perry muttered, “Jesus Christ, I’m on my way.”

The drive back to the ranch was a blur. You’d nodded off on Rhett’s shoulder. He smelled like leather and dust and whatever cologne he always swiped across his throat before circuits. He didn’t say much on the way home, but his hand never left your thigh–more because in his drunken stupor, all he wanted to do was feel your skin against his, even if it was seen as an accident.

When Perry’s truck pulled up to the house, it was as if your bodies had already memorized the path inside.

You and Rhett stumbled up the steps, bumping into one another in the narrow hallway, muffling your laughter behind lazy hands and hushed voices. His hand settled low on your back, fingertips resting just under the hem of your top, warm and heavy with quiet intention–though he played it off like it was nothing. Like he always did.

His legs bumped into the frame of the hallway table and he cursed softly, grabbing onto your arm to steady himself.

“Shh,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “You’re gonna wake your parents.” He waved his hand.

”It’s okay,” He murmured, his breath brushing your hair slightly, “I’m sure they’re used to it by now.” You reached his room like it was second nature–your bodies moving together in a practiced rhythm, like you’d done this dance before. And you had, in bits and pieces. Just not like this. Not with this kind of tension buzzing just beneath your skin.

You practically fell through the doorway first, catching yourself on the edge of his bed with a half-giggled groan. Rhett followed close behind, his shoulder knocking lightly into the doorframe before he caught himself and dragged it shut behind him with a soft click.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight bleeding in through the slatted blinds. Familiar shadows painted across the floorboards and the messy sprawl of his clothes on the chair. The scent of him clung to the room–warm skin, worn flannel, the faint tang of sawdust and leather.

You kicked off your boots, one thudding softly against the wall, the other tumbling onto its side. He mirrored your movements, stepping out of his own boots with less precision, letting out a groan of relief as he did so. You tossed your clutch onto the side table–just beside the lamp he never used–and sank onto the edge of his bed with a quiet sigh.

“Here,” Rhett said, reaching for the top drawer of his dresser, “Take these.” He tossed a soft, well-worn T-shirt your way–gray with faded black lettering you didn’t bother reading–and a pair of boxer shorts that still held the shape of his body in their fabric. You caught them against your chest, fingers curling over the cotton, the residual warmth of his drawer somehow sinking into your skin.

”I’m gonna go grab some water,” He added, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice low, but clearer now–more focused, or sobered up, “You get changed.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, the sound of his footsteps padding softly away as the door swung gently shut behind him.

You sat in the quiet for a moment, the distant hum of the house settling around you. Your pulse felt louder than it should’ve. Your fingers trembled slightly as you peeled off your tank top, the material catching on your shoulder before slipping free. You dropped it beside your clutch, then shimmied out of your jean shorts–tight and damp from the heat of the night, catching slightly on your thighs before falling to the floor.

The air kissed your bare skin, cool in contrast to the heat that had begun to build in your chest.

You tugged Rhett’s shirt over your head. It was too big, the hem falling just below your hips, the neckline gaping enough that the slope of your collarbone peeked out. You ran your fingers down the faded cotton, breathing in the faint scent of him lingering in the fabric–clean, woodsy, unmistakably him.

The boxers came next, soft and worn from a thousand washes. You slid them up your legs, the waistband resting low on your hips, baggy and comfortable in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once. You folded your other clothes neatly into a pile beside the bed, then sat back on the mattress just as the door creaked open again.

Rhett stepped in with two glasses of water, his knuckles curled tightly around the rims to keep them steady.

He paused when he saw you.

There was nothing particularly sexy about it, nothing overt or posed. Just you sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and his old shirt, legs bare, hair a little messy, your lips parted slightly as you took in a few deep breaths from the buzzing that tingled over your skin, and the shift in energy that floated through the room.

But something in his expression changed. His jaw flexed, and his eyes softened–the tension in his brow melting away the more he looked at you.

”Got you some water,” His voice was quieter now, more rough. You reached for one of the glasses, your fingers brushing his as you took it, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

”Thanks.” You took a sip of the water, the coolness of it sliding down your throat and settling somewhere just above your ribs. You sighed through the swallow, then leaned back slightly on one hand, blinking slowly at the ceiling as your head gave the first warning pulses of what would no doubt be a brutal morning.

“Jesus,” You muttered, placing the glass on the floor beside the bed, “I can tell I’m gonna have such a bad hangover in the morning…My head is already pounding.” Rhett hummed in agreement, moving toward his dresser again.

”Wouldn’t doubt it,” He mumbled, “I feel it too.” You watched him open the top drawer, his back partially turned to you. He didn’t say anything else–just reached in for another t-shirt. Then, without warning or hesitation, he grabbed the collar of the one he was wearing and tugged it off in one smooth motion.

And just like that, your breath caught.

You’d seen Rhett shirtless before. Once, maybe twice–at the lake, when his whole family had piled into trucks and driven down with coolers and towels and floating chairs. But those times had been quick, and you’d always looked away out of caution. Too many watchful eyes, too much risk of your gaze being caught. Too much danger in what you might feel if you stared too long.

But now?

Now there was no one watching.

No one except him.

And he wasn’t looking at you.

He stood a few feet from the bed, half in shadow, and your eyes swept over the length of his bare back, over the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the slight arch of his spine as he leaned forward into the drawer. You barely breathed.

His skin was pale where the sun hadn’t kissed it, but scattered across his chest and along his ribs were bruises–real ones. Deep and blooming like brushstrokes of ink and wine. Purple that melted into faded yellow. Green along the edges. Some were new, still fresh and angry. Others had already begun to fade, ghosting into the gentle gold of healing. They streaked across his ribs in uneven patterns, coiling beneath the planes of lean muscle, dipping into the shadows of his collarbones and clinging to his hips like the remnants of a war.

It was violent. And somehow, beautiful.

Because it was him.

It was the proof of everything he did, everything he gave. The risk. The pain. The stubborn pride that kept him getting back on the bull even after it had thrown him into the dirt. You’d heard the groans he swallowed, watched him limp back to the chute with blood on his jeans and dirt on his teeth, but you hadn’t seen this. Not up close.

Not in the quiet.

Your eyes traced the line of one particularly stark bruise that stretched from the edge of his left pectoral down to his ribs. The skin there was darker, tight. Raw. And still, your gaze followed it like your fingers wanted to.

And God the urge to touch him was burning through you.

You wanted to trace every edge, every mark, every scrape and wound. You wanted to know if his skin was as warm as it looked. If his chest would rise faster beneath your palm. If he’d shiver when you pressed your lips to that bruise just below his ribs.

Your thighs pressed together slightly, feeling your stomach tighten as you began to flush under the confines of your own thoughts.

Rhett tugged the fresh shirt over his head and ran a hand through his light brown hair, slicking it back out of his face before finally turning back to you. His eyes flicked up–just for a second–and he caught your transfixed gaze.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice thick. You cleared your throat, heat climbing up your neck as you dropped your gaze for a moment, pretending you hadn’t just been caught practically devouring him with your eyes.

“Yeah…Totally fine,” You muttered, fingers fumbling for the glass on the floor, bringing it back up to your lips. You took a long sip–longer than necessary–as if the coolness of it might extinguish the warmth that was flooding your chest. Or the way your thighs were still shifting together beneath his boxer shorts like they had a mind of their own.

Rhett didn’t move, and didn’t say anything for a second, his blue irises scanning over you for a moment, seeing the little movement that your thighs were making, a little tell that he had seen before from other women. He licked his lips slowly, like he could still taste your gaze on him. His voice dropped just a little as he said it–casual on the surface, but thick beneath. Heavy with the kind of tension that had been building between the two of you for months.

“You were starin’.” Your breath caught in your throat, and you looked down instinctively, the corner of your lip twitching with something between embarrassment and defense. Still, you shrugged like you could play it off.

“Well…It’s kind of hard not to when you’re all bruised up from the bull,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone light. “Didn’t know they were that bad.” He hummed at that–low and dry, like he didn’t quite believe your answer.

“You’ve seen ’em before,” He said, voice gravel-thick, head tipping slightly. “Shouldn’t be a surprise to you at this point.” You lifted your glass again to stall, sipped slower this time, letting the water cool the heat that was quickly rushing to your cheeks. Then you glanced at him again and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“I think you’re making it a bigger deal than it actually is, Rhett. I think the beer is getting to you.” That made something shift behind his eyes. He tilted his head a fraction, just enough to cast a slanted shadow along his cheekbone.

“Really now?” He murmured as he stepped closer, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. “You’re gonna tell me that I’m not seein’ straight?” He asked, pointing at himself. You nodded, your laugh shaky but still defiant.

”That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rhett.” He didn’t reply right away. He just stared down at you, long and quiet. Then, wordlessly, he stepped the rest of the way to the bed and placed his fist down–slowly, deliberately–on the mattress beside your thigh.

He didn’t touch you.

But the air between you shifted.

His knuckles were close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his arm. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes followed the shape of his forearm, the way the muscles tensed beneath the skin, until they traced up to meet his face again.

You tilted your head up to look at him, and he was already there–already watching you.

His gaze locked with yours, blue eyes shadowed and steady, but flickering with something sharp, something knowing. Your stare skimmed over the details of his face–so close now, you could count the flecks of gold in his irises. The stubble along his jaw. The faint creases near the corners of his eyes that deepened when he laughed. The way his bottom lip jutted out just a little more than the top one, wet from where he’d just licked it.

“You’re a little liar,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a slow, crooked smirk. “I can see it in your eyes.”

The words hit low in your stomach.

You wanted to deny it–wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, tell him he was being ridiculous–but all you could do was hold his gaze and feel the heat crawling higher in your cheeks.

Still, you stayed composed. Barely.

“I think you need to sleep off your drunken stupor, Rhett,” You commented, chin tilting upward in subtle challenge. “You’ve got beer goggles on, and you really are seeing things now.”

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he leaned in closer. Slowly. Deliberately.

His face hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm and smelling faintly of beer and mint as it fanned over your lips. Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t move. Not even when your breath caught slightly in your throat.

You just kept your eyes on him.

“…Guess I really do need some sleep,” He murmured after a beat, his voice quieter now. Rougher. But when he pulled back, he was grinning.

Cocky.

Like he knew you weren’t as unaffected as you were pretending to be.

Then he straightened, turned slightly toward the dresser again, and asked casually, “You stayin’ in the bed with me? Or you movin’ to the spare room?”

Your lashes fluttered quickly, and you swallowed hard before clearing your throat.

“I’ll stay here,” You said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though your entire body was still tense from how close he’d just been. “Probably won’t make it to the spare if I get up.” He nodded once, like that was the answer he expected, then reached for his belt buckle

“Alright,” He replied. You quickly looked away as his fingers moved to undo his belt, the subtle clink of the buckle sending another unwanted jolt of heat through your chest. Before your mind could wander any further–before you could accidentally lock eyes with the line of his hips or the way his thumb hooked into the waistband of his jeans–you padded toward the head of the bed.

You placed your water glass beside your clutch on the nightstand with a soft clink, keeping your movements slow, and controlled. Like that would help rein in the sudden buzz running beneath your skin.

The sheets were cool as you slipped under them, the scent of his laundry soap mingling with the lingering smell of him on the pillow. You shimmied slightly to get comfortable, dragging the duvet up to your waist and tucking one arm beneath your head, the other laid loosely across your stomach. You stared up at the ceiling.

Behind you, the sounds of him undressing were harder to ignore than you’d hoped.

A soft rustle of denim. The unmistakable swish of fabric sliding down over skin. A low breath–just a little ragged, like maybe even he was feeling the same pressure you were. You swallowed.

Then the mattress shifted.

He moved carefully, like he didn’t want to jostle you, but you felt him all the same. The bed dipped slightly with his weight, and the warmth of his body immediately spread beneath the covers, replacing the cold air you’d just tucked yourself into.

He settled on his side–close, but not touching. Or at least, not exactly. His arm stayed to himself, his shoulders turned slightly away, but your legs…Your legs brushed.

Bare skin to bare skin. Just barely.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. Not anymore. It was full of tension, sure–but there was something else in it too. Something gentle. Something known.

“G’night,” He murmured, voice low and sleepy, already starting to sink into the mattress.

You turned your head a little, just enough to look at the back of his shoulder, then whispered, “Night.”

Your eyes lingered there for a moment. On the curve of his neck, and the slow rise and fall of his breath.

And maybe you were imagining it–but his leg seemed to press a little firmer into yours.

A quiet, tentative contact.

And neither of you pulled away.

——————————

You woke up to your alarm going off like a goddamn air raid siren, the high-pitched chime echoing through the quiet room like it had been waiting to give you a heart attack.

Your eyes shot open.

A groan ripped from your throat as you reached blindly for your clutch, limbs still tangled in the sheets and your brain pulsing with a headache that had already staked its claim behind your eyes. The light from the phone screen stung, but you silenced the alarm with a few taps, your movements sluggish and mechanical.

From behind you, Rhett let out a muffled groan of his own.

“Who the hell sets an alarm on a Saturday?” He mumbled, voice gravelled and sleep-heavy.

You ignored the ache in your skull long enough to fish out the familiar blister pack from the depths of your clutch, thumb already popping the next pill loose. You brought it to your lips and dropped it onto your tongue, reaching lazily for the lukewarm water glass on the nightstand.

“It wasn’t to wake us up,” You muttered, taking a small sip and swallowing. “It’s my birth control reminder.” The bed shifted behind you. A soft rustle. A new weight.

“Birth control?” Rhett’s voice had sobered slightly, still low, but laced with something else now. Confusion, maybe.

You placed the glass back on the table and rolled onto your side, glancing over your shoulder–and promptly noted two things: one, he’d taken his shirt off during the night, and two, he was looking right at you.

His eyes were a little narrowed. Brow furrowed. His hair was a mess, and his voice hoarse.

“Yeah…Birth control,” You replied slowly, letting the words hang in the air as you watched his expression closely. “You know…The thing that women take to help their periods and prevent pregnancy?” He rolled his eyes, though the motion lacked bite.

You raised a brow. “So what’s with the third-degree, Abbott?”

He shrugged lazily and turned onto his back, his arm behind his head, jaw tight. “Didn’t think you were on it, that’s all. Never seen you take it before.”

You smirked. “Well, I’m usually out of your house by this time. Or I’m in the bathroom and take it there.”

And that was all it took.

That one sentence cracked something open in his chest and sent his thoughts freefalling.

You were on birth control.

The implications settled into him like wildfire. No condom. No consequences. Just skin to skin, you wrapped around him, begging, whispering–he could come inside you and not think twice, could bury himself so deep you’d feel it for hours. He could grab your hips and pull you down hard against him, his hands splayed over your stomach as he fucked you slow and steady until you were begging him to finish. No pulling out. No holding back. No guilt.

He wanted to kiss your thighs open, drag his tongue along your folds, taste every part of you while you whimpered into his pillow. He wanted to hear your breath hitch when he whispered let me do it right this time, to watch your expression when he sank in–slow and thick and deep–and told you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he’d dreamt of this.

He wanted to mark you up. Leave bruises on your neck, your hips, your thighs. Paint you with proof that someone finally gave a damn.

He’d be quiet about it, though. You’d both have to be quiet.

His parents were probably still in their room. Hell, Perry might be awake. So you’d press your mouth to his shoulder, muffle your moans against his skin, and Rhett would whisper filth in your ear with every lazy roll of his hips, voice ragged and barely restrained, telling you not to stop squeezing him like that. Not unless you wanted him to come right then and there.

His cock twitched against his thigh–sudden and sharp under the weight of his boxers.

Shit.

He shifted slightly under the blanket, adjusting himself, trying not to groan at how sensitive he suddenly felt. But the mattress wasn’t forgiving, and the movement wasn’t subtle.

“You alright?” Your voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. Curious. Careful. “You’re all red.”

He cleared his throat. A little too quickly.

“Mhm. I’m okay.”

You turned toward him more fully, propping yourself up slightly on one elbow, your hair flattened on one side from where you had slept on it. Your eyes narrowed, playful. Familiar.

And then–your voice softened to a whisper, full of teasing promise. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were staring at me.”

He blinked.

You were close. Too close. Your face inches from his, lips parted slightly, breath warm against his cheek. It mirrored what he’d done to you last night, except now the tables were turned–and he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking.

But you didn’t back off.

You just tilted your head slightly, and then–without meaning to–your thigh brushed his, and you felt something.

You stilled.

Your breath caught.

And your eyes went wide.

“…Oh,” You breathed, heat crawling up your neck.

“Sorry,” You whispered a second later, but your voice was breathy and full of implication.

Rhett swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at the ceiling. “It’s alright,” He said, quietly. Voice a little higher now. Tight.

The tension between you thickened like syrup, slow and sticky and impossible to ignore.

Neither of you looked at each other at first. It was safer that way. Eyes stayed on the ceiling, the far wall, anywhere but the quiet place in the middle of the bed where everything had shifted. Where your thighs had brushed, where your breath had caught, where Rhett was still hard and trying to will himself down with a silent prayer and clenched jaw.

But then you shifted again.

Not a lot. Just enough that the blankets rustled and your voice came out–low, almost shy.

“Do…Do you want some help with that?”

His eyes snapped to you like a whip. His entire body went rigid.

“W-What?” The word cracked in the middle, like it hit the back of his throat too fast to smooth out. His brows pinched together, mouth parted, lips dry as hell.

You sighed–soft and nervous–and pushed yourself up a little more, bracing your weight on your elbow so you could look him in the eye.

“I said,” You repeated, quieter now, more deliberate, “Do you want some help with that?” Rhett sat up a little too–mirroring you without realizing it, like his body needed to be closer. His face hovered just inches from yours now, the tension rolling off him like heat off pavement.

“Are you bein’ serious?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded slowly, searching his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His gaze darted away for the briefest second, scanning the room like it might offer him a better answer than the one sitting right in front of him. But when he looked back, his expression was tight. Unreadable. Barely holding something back.

“Well, I mean…We’re friends…”

You raised your brows, your face still close, voice low but firm. “And we haven’t really been going out with other people. And sexual frustration is a thing, Rhett.”

He squinted slightly, more in thought than judgment. “You’re the one that said you wanted to take a hiatus from dating and stuff. I thought that meant physical things too.”

You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That was more meant for me because I really don’t feel much when…Y’know…Things are happening.”

Rhett stilled.

His lips parted just slightly, his breath hitching. Then his jaw flexed and he leaned in even closer, until the space between your mouths was damn near nonexistent.

“You what?” He asked, barely above a whisper. His voice sounded gutted–like it hurt him to even imagine it.

You swallowed thickly, heart rattling inside your chest. “I…I don’t feel much when I’m being intimate with someone.” There. It was out. A truth you rarely admitted out loud, even more rarely to a man.

Rhett’s jaw tensed. His throat bobbed. Something wild flickered in his eyes–something that looked a lot like heartbreak, but deeper. Protective. Personal.

“…How about I make you a deal,” He said suddenly, his voice husky and serious.

You tilted your head slightly, cautious. “What kind of deal?”

“Let me try somethin’,” He murmured, watching your expression with unshakable intensity. “And then you can do whatever you want to me after. Or nothin’ at all. You don’t owe me a thing.”

Your lips parted. “W-What do you want to do?” He reached up slowly–like he was afraid to spook you–and let his fingertips brush beneath your chin, giving you the softest touch he could with the calloused pads of his fingers.

”Lay back,” He whispered, “And I’ll show you.” You stared at him for one long, charged heartbeat–your skin prickling, your thighs already pressing closer, the ache in your core blooming slow and warm at the tone in his voice.

Your face burned as soon as the word left your lips.

“Okay.”

It was soft, nearly swallowed by the quiet tension in the room–but Rhett heard it. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. His hand drifted from your chin to your shoulder, then eased you gently back onto the pillow. The mattress dipped beneath the shift of your weight, the sheets cool against your skin–but Rhett’s hand never stopped touching you. He moved with patience. With care.

And then he did something unexpected.

He slipped his arm under your neck–not in a way that caged you in, but cradled you. Like he wanted to hold your head up, protect it. His fingers curled gently into your hair, and his thumb brushed over your cheek. Slowly.

His voice came next, low and laced with something close to a smile.

“Remember that time…In high school, when we ended up kissing in Marley’s closet during seven minutes in heaven?”

Your stomach flipped violently, a swarm of butterflies bursting awake.

You narrowed your eyes. “You said you’d never bring that up.”

He chuckled, soft and rough. “It’s been long enough that I think I’m allowed to bring it up.” His thumb grazed your cheek again, and you swore it soothed something in you you hadn’t known was wound tight. “But anyways…Remember when you said you were nervous? Because you didn’t know what to do?”

You nodded slowly, your voice nearly a whisper. “Yeah…”

“And I told you to just breathe. Don’t even think about what was happenin’. Just breathe.” Your lips parted a little, your heart thudding louder.

“Yeah,” You whispered again.

His gaze held yours, warm and steady. “Well… Just do that again, alright? Just breathe. Think about something else. Got it?”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“Rhett…Are you sure you want to do this? It’s going to be a waste of your time.” Your voice cracked near the end, thick with embarrassment and doubt you’d carried for too long.

His expression shifted. Not angry. Just…Struck.

He leaned down slowly, and before you could say anything else–before you could panic or second-guess–he kissed you.

It was soft. Just lips brushing lips. But it stunned you all the same.

You gasped faintly into the contact, breath hitching, body going still under the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours. He lingered for only a second before pulling back, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours again.

“I’m positive,” He murmured, voice low and resolute. “Now just relax, okay?” You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. You let your hands rest by your sides, fists curled lightly in the sheets as Rhett shifted closer, keeping his arm under your neck, still holding you, still touching your cheek.

His other hand drifted down. Slow.

He didn’t go for the obvious. Didn’t grab. Didn’t grope. Instead, his fingertips brushed along the hem of the shirt you wore–his shirt–lifting it just a few inches before slipping beneath. You shivered instantly, the cool air meeting your heated skin, and then–

His fingertips touched your stomach.

Barely there. Like the ghost of a thought.

They dragged gently across your skin, dipping just beneath your ribs, pausing, then continuing downward. Featherlight. Reverent. You sucked in a breath as goosebumps erupted along your arms and legs, your thighs pressing closer together as he traced the soft curve of your waist with maddening patience.

“Still alright?” He asked, his voice low, lips brushing your temple now. You nodded quickly, breath stuttering. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

His hand moved again–back up first, over the flat of your stomach, the pads of his fingers gliding like silk. He circled your navel once, slow and hypnotic, then dropped lower again.

And lower.

Until he reached the waistband of the boxer shorts.

His fingertips paused there, resting lightly on the elastic band.

He kissed your temple. Then murmured against your skin: “Can you lift your hips for me?”

You did–slowly, your legs tensing slightly as you pushed up just enough. Your breath hitched as the cool air rushed between the fabric and your skin when Rhett tugged them down, slow and smooth, watching your face the entire time. Your body sank back down onto the mattress as he pulled the boxers down your thighs, past your knees, until they slipped off entirely.

Rhett paused for just a second, the boxer shorts now discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed, the room still and warm as his gaze settled on you—completely bare in the soft hush of the early morning light.

His eyes traveled up your legs, over the subtle dip of your hips, and down again to the place between your thighs–and the air left his lungs like he’d taken a punch to the gut.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes still locked with his, every inch of you humming beneath the heat of his gaze. The sincerity in his tone–thick, reverent, gutted–made your breath catch.

Then, slowly, Rhett reached out. One of his hands cradled your knee, coaxing your leg outward, and he shifted down the bed as he gently murmured, “Spread your legs for me, Y/N.”

Your heart thudded. You hesitated—but only for a beat. Then, you nodded, slowly letting your legs fall open, nerves twisting in your stomach like warm thread as cool air hit you, followed almost immediately by the heat of his body slotting between your thighs.

His skin was warm against the inside of your legs—his shoulders wide and strong, his bare chest brushing the backs of your thighs as he settled in. You saw his eyes trail up your body again—slow, careful, like he was trying to memorize you. Then he looked up.

You’d closed your eyes.

Breathing slowly. Deeply.

Trying not to shake.

“Hey,” Rhett said softly, and you felt the mattress shift as he reached for you. His hand found yours where it lay clenched beside your hip. He interlaced his fingers with yours carefully and held on tight.

Your eyes fluttered open just as he leaned forward–and kissed the inside of your thigh.

A soft press. Then another. And another. Working slowly upward, like every inch of your skin deserved a proper hello. His breath was warm, his mouth even warmer, and every brush of his lips sent a new wave of heat coiling through your stomach.

By the time his mouth reached the top of your thigh, you were barely breathing.

Then–he tilted his head.

And he kissed you right against your core, and your whole body jerked.

Your hips twitched against the bed, your hand tightening in his, a quiet gasp slipping out of your mouth. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line through your folds–like he was savoring you already. Like he was trying to learn what made you shake.

He kissed you again. Then again. Languid, like he wasn’t in any hurry. Like this wasn’t something to get over with–it was something to cherish.

His tongue moved with devastating patience, lapping and sucking gently, drawing shapes that made your thighs clench around his head. His hand gripped yours tighter.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, the words barely audible. Your back arched slightly, and you felt Rhett moan into you—actually moan—like your pleasure was feeding his. The vibration of it sent another jolt of electricity straight through your spine.

Then—his mouth didn’t leave—but you felt his fingers press gently against your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Just teased. Traced. His tongue circled your clit once more—slow and wet—and then his finger slipped inside.

Your breath hitched, a sharp little gasp escaping you as your hips rocked upward without thinking.

Rhett stopped instantly, lifting his head slightly. His mouth was shining.

“You alright?” he asked gently, his voice low and rough and just a little breathless.

You looked down at him with wide, wild eyes and nodded quickly. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice cracking with need. “Oh my god, Rhett…yes.”

His mouth pulled into a crooked smile, his eyes still locked on yours. “Feel somethin’ now?” he murmured, teasing, affectionate.

You reached out and threaded your free hand through his hair–fisting it lightly at the crown, your hips rising up just slightly. “It’s witchcraft,” You whispered shakily, overwhelmed and already trembling.

Rhett laughed quietly, the sound sending shivers across your skin. “Nah,” He said, leaning in again, voice warm and sinful against your core. “It’s actually just me wantin’ to feel you come on my tongue, sweetheart.”

And then he dove back in.

This time, with more pressure. More hunger.

His tongue flattened against your clit, slow and firm. His finger curled inside you—and then he added another, stretching you just enough to make your breath come in shallow, frantic bursts. His pace increased, mouth and fingers working in tandem—sensual, focused, a little rough now.

Your thighs began to shake.

Your hips lifted and he pressed his arm across your waist to pin you gently down, grounding you while he devoured you like a man starved.

The noises he made—low, greedy groans—only made the tension build faster. Like your pleasure was his. Like getting you to break apart in his mouth was the only thing he cared about.

“Rhett,” You whimpered, barely able to breathe.

And then–he curled his fingers just right.

Your whole body seized. You let out a strangled moan, your mouth falling open against the pillow, your hand clutching his hair, the other tightening in his grip so hard you felt the tremor run down his arm.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train. Sudden, shaking, relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head and your hips bucked up into his mouth–and he didn’t stop. Not for a second.

He kept licking, groaning against you, working you through every last second until your legs twitched and your body slumped, utterly spent.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were swollen, his chin slick. He looked completely wrecked–and proud of it.

His hand slipped out from between your legs, fingers soaked with your arousal as he licked them clean, before brushing his wet fingers against your trembling thigh. You were still panting, still half-blind with aftershocks. And he leaned over you again, eyes wild but soft.

”You alright, darlin’?” He asked, bringing his mouth to your cheek. You laughed–half a breath, half a sob–and nodded.

”Fuck, Rhett…Let me try and return the favour please…That was so fucking good.” He blinked down at you like he hadn’t expected it, like your voice alone could unravel him all over again. Then he let out a slow, ragged breath and leaned down, kissing you–soft, slow, indulgent. A thank you, a yes, a prayer.

“Okay,” He murmured against your lips, voice husky, “Yeah…okay.”

He eased onto his back beside you. The sheets shifted around you both as you rolled onto your side and slid your hand across his stomach, your fingertips brushing the light trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers.

He watched you carefully, gaze gentle but burning. “You don’t have to, you know,” he said softly. “You already gave me enough just by lettin’ me–”

“I want to,” You cut in, voice quiet but certain. That stopped him. His jaw flexed slightly, his breath caught, and his hand reached up to cup the side of your face for just a second–his thumb brushing your cheek in a quiet, gentle pass. You kissed him again before shifting down the bed, your heart pounding as your thighs pressed together beneath the oversized shirt. You settled between his legs, your hands sliding up the tops of his thighs as he let out a low, shaky exhale. His skin was warm and soft beneath your palms, his muscles tense beneath the surface.

You hesitated just a little, fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers.

Rhett’s hand came down gently, resting over yours. His voice was low, coaxing.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. You’re doin’ fine.”

You pulled the fabric down slowly, watching as his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already hard from the weight of everything he’d just felt and everything you were about to do. You swallowed nervously, staring for a second too long.

Rhett noticed.

“Here,” he said softly, sitting up just slightly. He wrapped his hand around himself first, guiding yours over his. “Just like this. Nice and slow.” His fingers slid away, letting yours take over, his breath catching the second you squeezed him.

You started slow, pumping gently from the base to the tip. The skin was hot under your palm, smooth and taut, and you watched in fascination as he twitched beneath your touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow with a thud, a low groan tumbling from his throat.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “That’s it. Just like that.”

You tightened your grip a little, experimenting, and Rhett’s hips lifted off the bed slightly. He let out a quiet, broken moan. “Fuck, darlin’–you’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Emboldened by his reaction, you leaned forward, licking a slow, uncertain stripe up the underside of his shaft. He hissed between his teeth, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing–just holding. Anchoring.

“You sure?” He asked, voice tight.

You nodded, lips brushing the tip. “I’m sure.”

Then you took him into your mouth.

Just the head at first–soft and careful. The taste was salty and clean, a little musky, faintly bitter, but not bad. Just…Him.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, feeling his thighs tense under your hands, and then took him a little deeper, bobbing your head slowly, finding a rhythm.

Rhett cursed under his breath, his grip tightening in your hair.

“Jesus, Y/N,” He rasped. “You feel so good…So fuckin’ good.”

You kept going, learning by the way he moaned, by how his legs twitched, by the way he tugged at the sheets. You tried to take him deeper–and gagged, just slightly, your throat tightening around him. You pulled off, coughing softly, lips slick and eyes watering.

Rhett sat up a little too fast.

“Hey, hey–Y/N, you don’t have to do that,” He murmured, pushing your hair back, “Take it easy on yourself, alright? You ain’t gotta prove anythin’.”

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m okay,” You whispered, voice breathy but determined.

And then you went back down.

This time slower. More confident. You pumped with one hand and sucked gently, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Rhett’s breath went ragged again, his voice wrecked.

“Fuck, you’re–goddamn, you’re so good at this,” He groaned, hips twitching against your hand.

It didn’t take long after that.

You felt his thighs start to tremble, the hand in your hair tightening as he gasped, “Shit–I’m gonna come–“ It was more of a warning than anything, but you didn’t pull away. You just kept going.

His climax hit with a low, drawn-out moan. His hips stuttered and you felt his warmth spill over your tongue–salty, thick, slightly bitter with a sharp edge that made your throat clench. You swallowed instinctively, slow, letting it slide down, feeling him shudder beneath you.

When you pulled off, your lips were slick, your eyes glassy.

You licked your lips once and blinked up at him.

“…Did I do good?” You asked softly.

Rhett stared at you like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.

Then he sat up, grabbed your face with both hands–his touch tender but firm–and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue massaging yours, tasting himself on you and you on him. He pulled back breathless.

”You were fucking perfect…So fucking perfect.” You collapsed back onto the mattress with a soft, stunned laugh, breath still coming in shaky waves as you wiped at your lips with the back of your hand. Rhett was beside you in a heartbeat, his strong arms already tugging you toward him like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of space between you anymore.

You let him pull you into his chest–his skin still warm, heartbeat steady but strong beneath your cheek. His arm draped low over your waist, the other curling behind your shoulders like he was trying to wrap around as much of you as he could.

There was no tension now. No nerves. Just the quiet intimacy of skin on skin and breath against breath.

Rhett sighed softly into your hair, his mouth grazing your forehead before murmuring, lazy and fond, “We should do this more often…”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle against his collarbone, your voice soft. “Yeah… I completely agree.”

There was a pause. The kind that felt full–not empty. Like something was waiting behind it.

You lifted your hand slowly, tracing a fingertip along his chest without looking at him. Then, voice smaller, more vulnerable:”You’re so…Safe.” Rhett went still beneath you.

Not tense. Just…Quiet. Like your words had caught him off guard and gone somewhere deep.

Then he smirked–soft and slow, the kind of smile you’d only seen a handful of times before. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, barely more than a brush of lips against skin, but it made you shiver.

“We can do whatever you want together,” He murmured, his voice like warm honey. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

That–his reassurance, his promise–settled something in your chest. Something that had been unsettled for a long, long time.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. Your nose nudged his jaw, and your lips were still curved when you whispered “You really mean it?”

“Of course I do.” He said simply. You couldn’t help the smile that rose up then, soft and wide and honest. It spread slowly, uncontainable, tugging at your cheeks as your hand splayed over his chest and you cuddled in closer.

Rhett exhaled against your hair, one hand trailing up and down your back in soothing strokes.

“You know what?” You whispered, voice thick with something more than just affection now–something raw and real and aching to be spoken aloud. “I think this is the first time I’ve felt like…Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe I’m not the broken one.”

His fingers stilled. Then tightened gently at your waist.

“It was never you,” He said, quiet but firm. “They just didn’t know how to do things.” Your eyes welled unexpectedly. But you didn’t look away.

And Rhett didn’t look away from you either–not even when you whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?” He asked.

“For…For showing me what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Rhett’s brow creased slightly, and he leaned forward, brushing his lips against your forehead again, like he was sealing the moment there.

Then, against your skin, he murmured, “Ain’t even gotten started yet, darlin’.”

————————

You and Rhett made an effort to see each other every other day after that morning.

It wasn’t always planned. Sometimes it was just a lazy drive that ended in a shared milkshake and quiet conversation. Other times it was louder–pool hall banter, bar games, him showing up at your place just to fix the damn sink he swore wasn’t level. But no matter what it started as, it always ended the same:

With your bodies pressed together. With your hands on his chest. With his lips parting against yours like he’d been starving all day.

The first time it happened again was at the drive-in.

You wore cutoff shorts and one of his flannels tied loose at your waist, and you didn’t even make it halfway through the previews before your legs found his lap. The movie faded behind you like static. His palm settled low on your back, and your mouth found his in the kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your fingers curl in his shirt.

You didn’t even remember what was playing. All you remembered was the sound of your breathing turning into gasps when his hand slid between your thighs, his voice rough against your ear.

“You gonna let me feel how worked up you are already?”

You reached down, grabbed his wrist, and guided him to the apex of your thighs–slow, sure. His fingertips pressed against the damp heat soaking through your thin cotton panties, and Rhett exhaled like he’d been punched.

“Jesus,” He murmured, his forehead tipping against yours as his fingers flexed, just barely moving. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded, breath already hitching as you shifted slightly in his lap, grinding your hips forward just a touch. The thick muscle of his denim-clad thigh was already pressing against your core in the most devastating way.

“I wanna try something,” You whispered.

His eyes flicked up. Searching. Heated. Still trying to catch up with this version of you—bold, direct, knowing what you wanted and how you wanted it.

“I’ve always wanted to do it,” You admitted, your voice breathy but firm. “Especially with you.”

His lips parted. His chest rose.

And then he smirked.

“Okay,” He said simply. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

That’s all it took.

You adjusted your knees on either side of his lap, straddling him completely, your hands pressed to his shoulders for balance as you positioned yourself just right. His thigh was firm beneath you–years of riding and wrangling muscle. And you sank down onto it slowly, the seam of his jeans dragging perfectly against your soaked panties.

A quiet gasp escaped your throat.

Rhett groaned, hands rising to grip your hips–gentle, grounding, but not controlling. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles over your waist as he watched your eyes flutter, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“You good, sweetheart?” He murmured.

You nodded, barely able to breathe. “So good.”

You started slow. Grinding gently against him in small, slow circles–testing pressure, building friction. The thick denim created just enough resistance to drive you mad, the fabric catching on your clit with every pass.

You rolled your hips again. And again. Shakier each time.

Rhett’s grip tightened, guiding you just slightly–his hands molding to your curves like he was born to hold them. “That’s it,” He breathed, voice almost reverent. “Just like that… Goddamn, you’re beautiful.”

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck for a moment as the sensations built, wave after wave, hot and pulsing and slow. Your hands curled into the flannel on his chest, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering.

Then you pulled back just enough to kiss him.

Hard.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, encouraging your movements, letting you use him–letting you take your pleasure from him like he wanted nothing more. Your hips began to rock faster, your thighs trembling, the damp patch growing darker on his jeans with every pass of your soaked panties.

“Fuck, darlin’,” He gasped, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna come just like this?”

You nodded, dizzy, breathless. “I can’t stop…Rhett–I’m gonna–”

He kissed you again–slow this time, anchoring you as your hips faltered and your whole body seized up.

You came on his thigh with a broken sob of his name, shaking hard against him, every nerve burning, clenching around nothing as your hips twitched one last time and stilled.

Rhett held you through it, murmuring sweet things against your temple as you slumped forward, boneless and buzzing.

“That was…” You panted, barely able to form a sentence.

“Yeah,” Rhett said, his own breath shaky as he kissed the side of your head. “It was fuckin’ perfect.”

From that moment on, it was like you couldn’t stop.

The next week, he was driving you home, windows cracked, your hand resting on his thigh like it was second nature now. And somewhere between a curve in the road and a long silence, you leaned over, unzipped his jeans, and slipped your hand inside.

He choked on a breath. “Jesus, Y/N–what are you doin’?”

“Helping,” You said, voice teasing and low as your fingers wrapped around him.

You stroked him slow, lazy, while he tried to keep his eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. When he came–hot and fast–you licked it off your hand and the skin of his stomach without hesitation.

Rhett nearly crashed the damn truck.

Another time, you just climbed into his lap without warning. No teasing. No warm-up. You just needed him–needed the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, the security of his hands cupping the back of your neck like if he let go, you’d vanish.

You kissed him like you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tighter.

And he did.

Every time, he did.

He was addicted to you.

And you were addicted to him.

Yet somehow, you still hadn’t had sex.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because you kept finishing each other off before either of you could think straight.

It was chaotic. It was messy. It was you and Rhett–tangled in passion, steeped in something deeper neither of you had put into words yet.

Until one quiet evening when the summer air hung low and warm, and you turned to him and said:

“Wanna look at the stars with me?”

He blinked. Smirked. “Like, right now?”

“Right now,” You said, already sliding your shoes on. “Bring pillows and a blanket for the truck bed.” Rhett raised a brow, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curving into something crooked and full of knowing.

“Oh,” He drawled, slinging an arm around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “You’re plannin’ somethin’.”

You only grinned as you wiggled out of his arms, walking out ahead of him before calling over your shoulder:

“Damn right I am.”

———————————

You and Rhett had a specific place you would go to when you wanted to look at the stars.

It was a lookout you had both found randomly one night, years ago, when you’d gotten lost coming back from a circuit. The GPS cut out somewhere along a winding dirt road, and the two of you had been bickering about turns when the trees finally gave way to a clearing so wide and open it looked like the sky had cracked open just for you. The ridge overlooked a valley, endless and quiet, the stars so close it felt like you could pluck them from the sky if you reached high enough.

That was the place he drove to tonight.

His hand was on your bare thigh, squeezing gently, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of your shorts. The low hum of the truck’s engine mingled with an old country song playing through the speakers–something slow and warm, full of steel guitar and dusty longing. The cool summer air flowed through the open windows, tousling your hair, raising goosebumps on your arms. But Rhett’s palm was warm and steady against your skin, his thumb tracing little circles lazily.

You shifted slightly in your seat, thighs parting just a little more, and he immediately took notice.

His fingers drifted inward–just a little. Just enough to make your stomach clench.

Then he started tracing letters.

Soft. Slow. One at a time, with the very tip of his finger, like he was spelling a secret across your skin.

“What’s that one?” He murmured, not taking his eyes off the road.

You blinked. Swallowed. “Uh… An S?”

“Wrong,” He smirked, squeezing your thigh.

“An E?”

“Nope.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “Then what was it?”

“Not tellin’,” He said, dragging another letter right after it, slower this time. “Guess again.”

You stared down at his hand, heat blooming low in your belly. “D?”

“That one was,” He said, a low chuckle caught in his throat. “But not the one before it.”

Your cheeks burned. You knew what he was spelling now.

He leaned closer, his voice thick. “Want me to keep goin’?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah…Keep going.”

He traced another letter.

And another.

You were just about to reach for him–just about to say screw the stargazing and climb into his lap right there in the cab–when the headlights hit the edge of the clearing, and the trees broke apart.

You both went still.

The lookout was exactly how you remembered it: tall grass, wildflowers curling in the moonlight, and the stars above glowing like soft embers in an old fireplace. The valley stretched below, dark and quiet, and the only sound was the breeze rustling through the open windows and the soft creak of the truck tires crunching over gravel.

Rhett cut the engine.

The music died.

Silence swelled between you, not heavy–just full. Like both of you were thinking the same thing and neither of you wanted to ruin it by saying it out loud.

Then Rhett opened his door and climbed out. You followed, your legs shaky as you stepped onto the grass, the air cool against your thighs. The tension was still simmering in your veins, but now it had space to breathe.

You grabbed the first blanket from the backseat while Rhett grabbed the pillows and the top blanket.

The two of you worked in an unspoken rhythm.

You laid the first blanket down flat across the truck bed, smoothing the edges with your palms. The metal beneath was still faintly warm from the earlier sun. Rhett climbed in beside you, placing the pillows near the cab, his knee brushing yours as he tossed the second blanket over your shoulders.

You didn’t speak as you climbed under it together.

You didn’t have to.

His body curved naturally around yours as you settled onto your sides, facing each other, the warmth of the blanket sealed around your bodies like a cocoon. Your foreheads almost touched. Your breath did.

Rhett’s hand found your waist under the blanket. His palm spread slow and deliberate, thumb grazing your hip, before lazily dragging across your stomach, the pads of his fingers skimming your skin like he was reading a prayer written in braille. You reached up and brushed his hair back gently, smoothing the strands that always stuck up in crooked directions. He sighed—low, content, eyes fluttering shut like your touch alone could unravel him.

His fingers slipped higher beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly, carefully. He tugged it up until you sat up and peeled it over your head. The night air kissed your bare chest, nipples tightening instantly under the sudden exposure—but you weren’t cold. Not with the way Rhett looked at you.

He stared like he was witnessing something sacred.

Then he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to drag across your collarbone before his teeth sank in—not too hard, just enough to make you gasp.

“Painful?” he murmured against your skin.

You shook your head, your breath shaky. “Stings a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He smirked—something soft and sinful—and lowered his mouth again, kissing just beneath the mark he’d left behind. His tongue laved the spot slowly, like an apology and a promise all at once.

Then, his voice was velvet-wrapped gravel against your skin.

“Is there anything else you want to do with me? Any ideas you’ve got in mind?”

You shook your head slowly, eyes locking with his in the low, starlit dark. “I just want you to fuck me.”

He stilled. Just for a beat. Then smiled against your chest—slow and deep and pleased.

“Yeah?” he rasped, lifting his head to look you in the eye. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nodded, your heart pounding.

He leaned toward your jaw, kissing a soft trail until his lips brushed your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, “Beg for it.”

You bit your bottom lip, breath catching, heart stuttering at the sheer weight of the way he said it. There was no mocking in it. No arrogance. Just pure, overwhelming need–controlled only by the thin thread of his patience.

His eyes shimmered in the moonlight, pale blue burning like lightning behind clouds. You leaned in and kissed him–soft, needy–and whispered against his lips, “Please…Fuck me…”

He shook his head, grinning with that maddening, slow confidence. “Gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.” You kissed him again–more desperate now–and as you pulled back, his hand came up to your face. He cradled your cheek like you were breakable, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your bottom lip.

“Open up,” He murmured.

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and he slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad against the back of your tongue. Instantly, your mouth watered, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him gently. His eyes darkened, watching you like he could come undone just from this.

He pulled his thumb out slowly, a glistening trail connecting your lips to the pad of his finger, then dragged it down–past your chin, your chest–until it disappeared beneath the waistband of your shorts.

His soaked thumb found your clit in one perfect stroke.

You gasped. Bucked.

“C’mon, Y/N…” He coaxed, voice a rasp as he rubbed slow, tight circles. “You want it, right?”

“Yes,” You whimpered, your hips grinding helplessly into his hand. “God, Rhett–yes–please–I need you–”

He groaned at the sound of your voice, fucked-out and pleading, and pressed his thumb harder.

“Keep talkin’,” He muttered, eyes flicking down to where his hand moved beneath your waistband. “Want to hear you beg while I’ve got you all worked up like this.”

“I want you to fuck me,” You gasped, your palm reaching for his lap now, squeezing his cock through his jeans. He was already hard–thick and burning hot under your touch. “I want you inside me–I want to feel it, Rhett. All of you. I want you to ruin me slow.”

He swore under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

You kept rubbing, palming him harder now, feeling him twitch and grow impossibly harder.

“I want you to come inside me,” You whispered, eyes glassy. “I want to feel you finish deep. I want you to fill me up until I’m sore. Until I’m dripping with it.”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, his breath shuddered–and his thumb didn’t stop moving. Every nerve in your body was locked on the delicious, unrelenting drag of his thumb over your clit–your underwear now utterly ruined, soaked straight through, clinging to your folds in the most humiliating, erotic way.

Rhett kissed you again–hotter this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your breath catch. His tongue slid past your lips, curling against yours with growing desperation, and when he finally pulled back, he did so only far enough to breathe against your mouth:

“Take off your shorts,” He rasped, voice wrecked. “And get on top.”

You nodded so fast it almost hurt, fumbling to shimmy them down. Your panties peeled off with them, sticky and wet between your thighs. You didn’t even try to hide the way they dropped to the side of the bed. Not with the way Rhett was watching you. Not with how he was already ripping open his jeans and pushing them down with his boxers in one rough, desperate tug.

His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, the moonlight catching on the slick sheen of it.

Your whole body ached as you climbed into his lap and straddled his waist, your knees bracing against the warm metal bed of the truck, the soft blanket bunched beneath them. You sank down slightly–not to take him in just yet, but to rub your soaked core along the full length of him.

The heat of him–thick and pulsing against you–dragged across your folds, every ridge and vein grinding right where you needed it. You tilted your head back with a breathless moan, your hips moving in slow, teasing circles, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck,” Rhett groaned, his hands flying to your hips, holding you there, letting you grind against him like he was made for it. His eyes trailed up your body, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. Then he reached up and cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples.

“You look so fuckin’ beautiful up there,” He rasped, voice trembling with restraint. “You like that? Like rubbin’ yourself on me like a good girl?”

You nodded frantically, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Fuck, Rhett…You already feel so good. I can’t wait any longer.”

He gave your nipples a teasing pinch, and you nearly came undone right there.

“You don’t have to wait anymore,” He murmured, voice thick with care and gentleness. “Take what you need from me, Y/N.” You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, and guided him through your folds once more–wet and slow–coating him thoroughly before lifting your hips.

Then you aligned him with your entrance, and with one long, shaky breath…You sank down.

The head of his cock stretched you open, dragging against your walls in a way that made your whole body lock up. Your gasp cracked through the night air as you grabbed onto his wrist with both hands, using it as leverage while your head tilted back and your mouth dropped open.

“Shit,” You whimpered, your voice trembling. “So big…”

“Fuck,” Rhett gritted out beneath you, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips. “You’re tight, sweetheart…Jesus Christ, I can feel every part of you.” You kept lowering yourself slowly, inch by inch, your inner walls gripping him like a vice as you took him in deeper, stretching around his girth with a burn that made your eyes flutter.

“Rhett–” Your voice cracked, pleasure blooming slow and low in your belly, “–Feels so full… So deep…”

He looked absolutely wrecked beneath you. His head tipped back for a second, the cords of his neck flexing, jaw clenched as he tried not to buck up into you too soon. His hands left your hips only to return to your chest, massaging your breasts again with wide, reverent palms, his thumbs brushing your nipples in slow circles.

“God, you’re perfect,” He rasped, his voice shaking now. You whimpered again as you bottomed out, the base of him pressed flush against you, the stretch relentless. Your thighs were trembling already.

Then his hand came up–slow, gentle–and wrapped lightly around your neck.

Not choking. Not restraining.

Just holding you there, grounding you, letting his thumb graze your jawline.

“You okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, lips parted, barely able to get the words out. “So okay,” You breathed. “You feel so fucking good inside me, Rhett.”

He groaned again, like your words alone could push him over the edge. His fingers curled slightly around your neck, just enough pressure to make your walls flutter around him.

“That’s it,” He whispered, eyes burning into yours. “Take me. Use me. Fuckin’ ride me Y/N. I’m yours.” He watched you with something close to awe–his pupils wide, breath ragged as your hips rolled in that uneven, desperate rhythm, your thighs quivering from how much you were feeling, from the stretch and heat and weight of him pulsing deep inside you.

“Fuck, Y/N…” Rhett groaned, his voice strained and reverent, one of his hands gripping your hip as you moved. “You’re so fuckin’ tight like this…Every time you come back down, I feel your pussy clutch me like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your breath hitched.

You whimpered again, high and shaky, your hands splayed on his chest for balance as you tried to keep going, but your rhythm faltered, hips stuttering with every twitch of your muscles. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls made you cry out a little louder.

That’s when his hands slid lower.

“Let me show you somethin’,” Rhett murmured, voice gravel-smooth as he sat up slightly and wrapped both hands around your waist. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was grounding you–like he was giving you something to fall apart against.

He pulled your hips forward, grinding you down slow, dragging your clit along the thick patch of hair above his cock.

You gasped, your eyes flying wide, hands bracing hard against his shoulders.

“Jesus fucking Christ–Rhett,” You gasped, your head falling back as your thighs quaked around him. “Oh my fucking god–”

“That’s it,” he breathed, dragging you again, slower now, more deliberate. “Feel that? Right there? That’s where I want you. Grind on me, sweetheart. Just like that.”

Your whimpers melted into full-bodied moans as he kept your hips moving in that rhythm–circling and dragging until you were damn near sobbing against his mouth, your clit raw and throbbing with every glide across the coarse hair and the thick base of his cock.

He didn’t stop until he felt your hips start moving in sync on their own. He let his hands slip back up to your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples again as you rocked into him like you were losing your mind.

“Good girl,” He groaned, voice deeper now. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect. Soaked for me…Riding me just the way I like.”

Your breath hitched, your hands tangling in his hair as he leaned in, kissing up your throat–sloppy, hungry, and hot.

Then–suddenly–he sat up fully, his hands grabbing your ass and pulling you closer, forcing you to stay pressed tight against him as his mouth found your neck.

He gripped your hair and yanked it gently, exposing the smooth column of your throat.

And he started kissing. Licking. Biting.

Not enough to hurt–just enough to make you whine.

“Bet none of those assholes ever touched you like this,” He growled into your neck, rutting up into you now–slow at first, but deep. “Bet none of ‘em knew how to fuck you right.”

You gasped as he hit that spot again, your nails digging into his shoulders. “They didn’t,” You whimpered. “Fuck, Rhett–they didn’t. You’re the only one who’s ever–”

“Damn right I am,” He snapped, his teeth grazing your throat. “You hear that? That’s what you sound like when someone actually gives a shit about makin’ you feel good.”

He slammed into you again, this time rougher–deep and hard and relentless–and your whole body jolted forward, your nails dragging down his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He groaned at the sting. “Mark me up, Y/N. Let me feel it.” You were crying out now, your rhythm breaking down into messy, frantic movements, grinding and bouncing as best you could with how hard he was gripping your waist, how deep he was rutting up into you.

“Gonna come, Rhett–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Come for me,” He rasped, slamming into you harder. “Soak me. Make a goddamn mess, sweetheart.”

Your vision blurred.

Your body locked up.

And then everything broke open.

You screamed his name as your orgasm ripped through you–wet and loud and overwhelming. You trembled violently, your whole body twitching as you felt yourself gush around him, soaking his lap and thighs, your slick coating every inch of him.

“Goddamn,” Rhett growled, his breath breaking into ragged pants. “Fuck–Y/N, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight–shit, I’m gonna–”

Then his hands flew to your hips.

He slammed you down against him one final time, holding you there with a bruising grip, his voice guttural and feral as he cried out:

“Fuck, I’m gonna come inside you–fill you up–gonna stuff you full of it, darlin’, so you’ll still feel me dripping out of you tomorrow–Jesus Christ–”

You gasped as you felt it.

The twitch. The pulse. Every thick, hot rope of cum flooding you so deep it made you clench again. He buried himself as far as he could go, his hips bucking wildly against you as he spilled every last drop.

You scratched your nails down his back again–hard.

He didn’t stop you. If anything, he moaned louder.

“Fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

You collapsed forward, breath shaking, your chest pressed to his, your bodies fused together–hot and slick and shaking.

And he held you.

Tight.

Like you were the only thing tethering him to this goddamn earth.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Just heavy breathing. Soft trembling. The sound of your heart pounding where it pressed against his.

Then–barely audible–Rhett whispered against your ear:

“Guess what I’m writing?” Your breath was still ragged. Shallow. The tremors hadn’t stopped yet, and your chest was still rising and falling in uneven waves as you lay sprawled over him, your body warm and slick against his, your heart pounding so hard you swore it was echoing in his chest too.

“…Okay,” You whispered hoarsely, your voice barely carrying above the rasp in your throat.

Rhett didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled. One of those slow, crooked, half-cocky ones he couldn’t control when he was too soft to be smug and too smitten to pretend he wasn’t.

Then you felt it.

The gentle press of his fingertip against your outer thigh–bare, slick with sweat and still trembling slightly from aftershocks.

He dragged a slow line into your skin.

“I,” You breathed, voice soft and cautious.

He nodded, the tip of his nose brushing your jaw as he traced another.

“L,” You murmured, and he smirked faintly.

“Yeah,” He whispered against your cheek, his lips grazing your skin.

You didn’t breathe as he drew the next one–round and smooth.

“O.”

Another nod. His smile grew, quiet and reverent, the kind he only ever gave you when you were laughing in his passenger seat or half-asleep in his flannel.

And then he traced the last letter. Angled. Sharp. Deliberate.

“V,” you whispered. And this time, you stilled.

You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Just met your gaze with those wide, ocean-blue eyes–like he was terrified and relieved and stunned that he’d said it at all.

Your thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth, your fingers curling gently along his jaw.

And your smile–God, your smile–was soft and sure and finally at peace as you leaned in just close enough for him to hear you when you said:

“I love you too, Rhett.”

The air shifted.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it forever, his brows twitching with something emotional and overwhelmed, and then he leaned up, kissing you–soft and slow and messy with gratitude.

When he pulled back, his voice cracked.

“You’re so good, Y/N…”

You smiled again, barely able to speak as your hands continued to caress his cheeks, your fingertips memorizing every inch of him like a prayer.

“You’re perfect, Rhett,” You whispered. “I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be in my life.”

And this time–neither of you said anything after.

Because everything that needed to be said had already been written across your skin.