Don't know

His wife answers the door a few minutes after knocking, the cold biting your bare legs as you run in for warmth, completely missing her scowl at your lack of kicking the mat with your dirty boots.

Mr. Badgley offers you a warm smile, hair combed perfectly, sweater ironed and pants straight like every weekend. His eyes always look a little empty when you come. His wife jingles her keys around her finger as she readjusts the baby on her hip

"I'm going out, be done when I'm home" the same line. Every week. You smile her way but she doesn't pay mind to it, leaving you and her husband to play. you turn to Mr. Badgley but he's already walking to the connecting living room of the tiny house, sitting on the worn bench as he slides the fallboard up.

You sit next to him as he wears an excited smile, when he's like this, playing with you, it doesn't seem orchestrated by his wife. Every move he makes is analyzed by her, except this. The only reason he's allowed to do this is because they needed the extra money.

"Let's start where we left off last week, yes?" he asked and you nodded, you inhaled the mixture of musk and old books that surrounded the pianist as he began the background cords. his eyes are on you, they shine as his spine relaxes into the music and you begin your part. fingers dancing over keys as you try to remember the pattern

Your eyes squeezed shut once you messed the keys up. He smiles softly and lets a laugh out of his nose at your reaction

"Like this," his larger palm rests on top of yours as he guides your fingers, you nod and try again.

Soon enough an hour passes and you both rise from the bench and you dig into your purse for the fifty bucks you crumpled into it this morning, but, warm hands slide on top of your shoulder and the older man shakes his head.

"No need" he grins and tries to send you off but you insist, grabbing the money but he pushes you out the door.

"I will not have you pay for something that I enjoy just as much, Y/n, have a lovely week" The door softly shuts and you're left stunned.

.

You roll around your dorm bed, restless as the man's words keep ringing in your head. Why didn't he let you pay?

Maybe you're being dramatic. But it isn't like the Badgleys are set either.

You shut your eyes in a huff, suffocating yourself in the pillow under you as you replay the keys in an attempt to lull you asleep

But it isn't just the keys you're thinking about...

It's how his hand guided yours, it's how he looked at you when it was your part to play, it's his scent, it's his being. It's driving you mad.

You arch your back slowly, fingers sliding down your body until you get to your aching core. slick-filled fingers rubbing yourself at the thought of your teacher's hands touching you, grabbing you, loving you.

You moan into the pillow, legs shaking as you cream around your fingers, the thought of him drives you wild.

So just how will you act the next time you see him?

.

Before you know it, it's Sunday and you're back at the Badgleys, with his wife announcing her departure and the formal greetings of you and your teacher, you're back at that bench, side by side.

He starts the cords, and you follow trying to calm your shaking legs as you think about what fueled you that night. You couldn't even look him in the eyes this session.

His hand softly squeezes your bare thigh and you look back at the man.

"You're completely off" he informs you and you don't think your face could get redder.

"I-I'm so sorry...let's try again" you panic but his thumb rubs loving circles on your flesh.

"You usually think the world ends when you mess up, but you kept playing this time, you're mind is somewhere else Ms. Y/n."

"Sorry Mr. Badgley" you murmur

"Talk to me, get it off your chest so we can get back to playing" he smiles and you nod slowly

"...Why didn't you let me pay last time?" you ask, he stops for a moment as the hand on your thigh now rests on his face as he thinks for a moment.

"I just feel like, something so pleasurable shouldn't be bought," he says above a whisper and you feel your entire face glow, and he must have noticed with how he laughs.

"Not those pleasures, Ms. Y/n" he smiles and you don't think you've ever been so embarrassed. But when his laughter stops, his eyes swirl softly into something darker, in that moment you feel exposed to every thought as he eyes you.

He stands, hands finding your shoulders

"Keep playing"

You take a shaky breath as your thighs begin to shake once more, fingers finding the keys as you start the song

"Good," he whispers, his scents overwhelming you now as you feel almost dizzy while playing, you barely notice how he slips under the piano.

"Mr. Badgley, what are you doing?" you gasp as his dark brown eyes gaze up at you

"Keep.playing" he says sternly, and with a swallow, you keep going

He kisses your knees and you feel yourself sticking to your panties as he spreads them apart.

He has a wife. He has a kid. What are you doing?

"You're doing great" he huffs, kissing your thighs, you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment as his fingers dance up to your panties.

He pulls them down slowly, your wetness sticking to the fabric before they are lost in his pockets

Your bare pussy is in front of your teacher's face as he rubs up and down your thighs taking a shaky breath in

You slam the keys as his tongue licks up your pussy, he moans into you before forcing you to scoot closer into his face, his hands wrapping around your ass as he slurps and moans at your cunt.

"Mr.- fuck" you cry, hands climbing to try and stop your moans as your hips buck up to hump his face

"You taste so so good" he groans, making out with your pussy as he sucks at your clit just to tongue fuck your hole

Hot tears flow down your face as he stares up at you, watching you come undone for him.

You shake around him, orgasm approaching closer with every lick, he sucks on your slit before adding a long finger to your hole. You throw your head back as he fingers you, flicking his tongue relentlessly as his finger curls inside you.

You feel him whine and moan against your pussy, and when you look down you see him gripping and grabbing at his hard-on as he eats you out. You cry as that sends you over and you cum around his finger

You're panting as he curls his fingers a few more times before shoving it into his mouth and licking you clean, you're shaking and wide-eyed as hair sticks to your face and he crawls out from under the piano

Right, weren't you two supposed to be playing right now? Isn't his wife about to be home and he's sucking his fingers because they still taste like you?

He helps you off the bench and you stare into the stained cushion but he turns your chin to him before kissing you deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue before breaking it off with a simple

"My wife is on her way...see you in our next session Ms. Y/n"

And you can't wait for next Sunday.

Admittedly, the hotel name was a little on the nose. The Anthology of Athens felt—too touristy.

But then again, you were a tourist and the hotel was a five-star, within walking distance of about a thousand activities. There was no choice but to unplug.

You had officially traded your corner office for a relaxing week by the Mediterranean Sea in your room that had a balcony with a perfect view of the Temple of Zeus. It was the most incredible spot to people watch. You entered your temporary home with a plan: unpack, make a to-do list for the week and squeeze in free time for naps and other things normal humans do to relax.

A couple hours later, you woke up and it was dark. You slept for five hours on accident, months of living on Vietnamese coffee and bite-sized snacks you kept in your bag had suddenly caught up. And the jet lag settled in faster than you had time to process.

Now though, it was 3 in the morning, your time, which meant it was 5PM the previous day at home. You checked your email out of habit and texted your mom that you’d arrived safely. She texted back a red heart and told you to remember to actually be on vacation, almost like she knew what you were up to.

The laptop was closed and shoved back in its spot after that and you turned the tv on, hoping to distract yourself from the fact that you’d impulsively booked this trip in a foreign country on your own without speaking the language. Luckily, you were still a little buzzed from the rosé you had on the flight to think too hard about your decision.

Breakfast the next morning was a feast. An omelet folded to perfection, fresh fruit that tasted like it had just been picked off a tree, and Moustokouloura, a pastry so rich and sweet you understood why it was a Greek staple. Day one was spent as a travel recovery day, complimentary meals and drinks delivered to your door by staff who seemed to relish in the guests’ authentic experience with local flavors. You tried Greek yogurt from the source, which surprisingly was more of a custard consistency, topped with honey and some sort of crunchy cinnamon crumble.

You indulged in a mani-pedi, choosing the vibrant shade of lilac that felt fitting for your stay. Everything was brighter here—and smelled better. There was a constant wave of lemon and some sort of mint that followed you everywhere you went as you continued to explore the hotel, without the scent being too much.

Centuries of history lived in these restored walls, from the rooftop pool to Hadrian’s library where you found yourself entranced by the diverse collection. There were books on wellness and the room was carefully curated to maximize a quiet opportunity to get lost in the pages. You would have had it not been for the activities bulletin board tagging the latest opportunities for adventure in the next few days.

That’s how you found the glass blowing class.

You arrived at the small brick studio ten minutes before class was set to begin and found an available seat at a table near the center of the room. A man walked in a few minutes later, scanning the room quickly before grabbing the last available seat, which happened to be right next to you.

Of course the stranger had a sharp jawline and a slight tan, making his light brown hair look almost golden in certain angles. Tearing your eyes away from the handsome man well over 6-feet tall, not that you noticed. He had to duck a little to enter the doorway. You reminded yourself to focus.

It’s Europe. Naturally, the men would be better looking here.

The second thing you noticed was his clothes. He was wearing a faded purple T-shirt and a bucket hat with flowers on it. You liked the casual look. And the shorts were just unfair.

You reminded yourself to look away again. This was going to be a very long class.

“Welcome couples!” The instructor begins. “Thank you all so much for joining us today. I'm Antonia, the studio owner. I will show you all a demonstration of the basic technique and when you all split up to create your pieces we will walk around and guide you through the process. Any questions before we begin?”

A couples class. You almost laughed to yourself, taking a quick glance around, realizing that everyone else was in fact with their partner. Must’ve missed the letters in the fine print when you signed up for the class.

The broad shouldered stranger actually did laugh under his breath. “So...do we date or tell the truth?”

“Oh, you mean like explain to a bunch of strangers that both of us accidentally signed up for an intimate glass blowing class in a room full of lovers?”

“Did you just say ‘lovers?’” He chuckles again, watching you nod. “You are something else.”

“And your name is boyfriend for the next,” you glanced toward the clock, “74 minutes.”

The man thinks about his new temporary reality for approximately one minute before he shrugs his shoulders, “what the hell, it’s only an hour. I'm Joe.”

“Nice to meet you Joe.” You let yourself laugh this time, giving him your actual name.

You watched the demonstration intently, but not nearly as much as Joe did. There was a certain elevated processing in the way he watched the instructor wield the instrument and mold the molten glass. Like he was used to rapid recall at a rate the average person wouldn't be able to comprehend. Something pulled you towards trusting him when the time came to start. Antonia guided you all to the back of the studio and the heat from the furnaces immediately turned the room into a large oven, not a super uncomfortable heat, but a space that was lived in and smelled like shared experience.

Petros, your one-on-two guide, helped you choose your piece, a flower vase with a long stem. “Didn't really peg you for a flower guy but,” you nodded towards his bucket hat, noting the smiley faced white petaled character on the front.

“What? Flowers are cool.” He says calmly, letting Petros walk him step by step to the beginning. Joe’s hand hovers over yours, whispering “is this okay?” Before his long fingers wrapped around yours, guiding you to the furnace where you spun the stone as many times as you were told. There was a dark scar on the side of his hand, likely a surgery of some kind. You wondered where it came from but didn’t want to pry. Not this soon into your fake date with your fake boyfriend and his stupidly steady hand and the amused look on his face watching you blow into the tool. You chose the color together, a shade of dark purple and you held the flattening block as he spun the glass and Petros came in periodically to help shape the flower.

Petros mentions Okio, a Michelin star restaurant in the area as a lunch recommendation. “I heard about that place,” you speak up first, a tad disappointed, “it’s been completely booked for months though. Maybe next time.”

Joe doesn’t say anything, too busy visualizing his and your future masterpiece.

“This is actually turning out the way it’s supposed to.” You noted, tilting your head to admire the progress so far.

Petros pulled on the piece to create a smooth stem as Joe held the glass without any sudden movements. “He’s literally holding our hands through this like we’re five,” he jokes. The glass blowing expert laughs and pulls the piece off the tool, finishing it off with a flame and let you two know that it would need a few hours to cool down and he’d add a shatter resistant spray to prevent cracking. The piece would be ready for pickup at the end of the day.

You thanked him and thanked Antonia for the course, walking so close to Joe that your hands were nearly touching.

“How long have you two been together?” She asked with a bright smile on her face.

“Oh um—”

“A year,” Joe says automatically. “This is our anniversary trip.” He looks at you with a gaze bathed in tenderness, almost like he genuinely believes what he’s saying for a second. His baby blue eyes are warm in the studio light, pulling you in and you can’t force yourself to look away.

“Iv’e had couples come in here that have been together for years and they weren’t even half as in sync as you two,” Antonia says calmly but you don’t even really register she’s speaking with Joe’s hand now finding its way to your lower back for good measure. “Do you guys have big plans the rest of the day?”

“I’m kinda hungry,” Joe says. “We’ll probably grab lunch.”

“I could eat.”

Antonia gives you a few recommendations and lets you know the studio will be closing at 9 o’clock that night so the piece would need to be picked up before then. You thank her again and head out of the building towards the stone steps. “Well, that was fun.”

“It was.”

“And you said you were hungry, so I guess I’ll let you go. You can keep the vase, you put in a lot of work.”

Joe crosses his arms and turns to face you. “If I get to keep the bowl, then it’s only fair for me to give you something. Relationships are supposed to be 50-50. Even the ones that are an hour long."

You folded your arms while staring at him, waiting to see where this is headed. “Look, I don’t know what you and your other fake girlfriends have gotten into—”

“I mean Okio,” he laughs. Something about his laugh seemed familiar but you couldn’t put a finger on why. “The restaurant you were talking about earlier, my assistant got me a reservation for two. It’s not a weird coincidence, they don’t take kindly to lone reservations so she just booked it for two people. I was gonna lie and say my plus one got sick but now…It’s only fair that we unwind from our date with tiny plates that look like paintings.”

“Well I have been wanting to go…” you tell him, continuing down the rugged street path, “it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good fake anniversary.”

He presses his lips together, stopping himself from giggling before pulling out his phone to get directions. “Alright, I’ll take that as a yes. I think it's just up this street.”

Plaka was just like the TikTok videos described now that you got to experience it in person. The neighborhood was a collection of some of the most beautiful brick buildings, an array of restaurants with uniquely placed outdoor seating. The air carried the mingling scents of fresh pita, grilling souvlaki, and blooming jasmine. Laughter and snippets of conversation floated from café tables spilling onto the sidewalks, where diners lingered over plates of mezes and glasses of ouzo. Okio sat at the top of the hill and looked like an art exhibit had just exploded. Velvet blue seats, platinum sculptures draping the walls like a New York penthouse. Joe gave the hostess his reservation name and the two of you were walked to a private room for an immersive dining experience with the entire tasting menu.

Turns out, Joe can eat.

“What is that?” You nodded toward the third course.

“It’s,” he picks up the tiny place card and reads, “Cod fish, nori seaweed, celeriac root, champagne sauce and...herring eggs.”

“Herring?”

“Yeah I don't know,” he takes a bite, “it’s good though.”

“I’m really glad I got the chicken.”

Joe shakes his head and takes his fork and digs into the plate again. “You wanted the Michelin experience, you gotta try the egg.”

“I do not.”

“You do too.” He says flatly.

“Joseph...”

“Government name already? Scary. Just try the fish.” He holds out his fork and you take a whiff, pleasantly surprised that it doesn’t smell like dirt.

He happily watches you chew, knowing the signs of a person trying their hardest not to show they’re enjoying themselves. He liked the way your eyebrows scrunched together as you decided whether or not you liked what you were eating. The smug look on his face kind of makes you want to spit the food out and you would—had it not been the most delicious bite of food you’d ever put in your body. “The cod’s fine.”

“It’s better than the chicken isn’t it?”

Joe didn’t wait for you to answer, sliding his plate over and asking for another identical plate.

“So...” you took another bite off his plate, grinning like it was the most natural thing, “now that we’re sharing food and co-parenting a fragile glass baby, I feel like I should know more about you.”

“I was in Santorini for a few days, mostly hung out in my room all day. Today’s my last day in Greece actually. Figured I’d do Athens for the day before I fly out in the morning seemed fitting since I’m from Athens…Ohio.” He looked at you fondly and you rolled your eyes at the sentiment as he kept talking. “Wanted to see the city, look at cool buildings, maybe swim. I don’t know. I don’t usually do things without a plan so I guess it’s wherever the day takes me. It’s worked out for me so far. What about you?”

“This is my first day exploring actually. Flew in and crashed all day yesterday and today’s the first day I feel like I’m alive. I was gonna make a to-do list with a bunch of bucket list items but that seemed a little too on brand for me. I’m thinking the best plan is...no plan.” You trace the rim of your water glass. “And since we both have no set plans, maybe we can explore the rest of the day together? At least until our vase is ready? Seems inefficient to split up now.”

“Yeah. I think we can manage that,” he reaches for the check and realizes it’s all together.

“They didn’t split it, did they?”

“No they didn’t. But I got it. I’m glad you wanted to come here too, this was great.” He slides his card into the bill presenter. “Where to next?”

The little gift shop down the street called your name as the two of you walked off your meal. For a Michelin star restaurant the portions were a lot less tiny than you’d expected. Tourist books lined the stand near the entryway, Greek dictionaries in various sizes, tiny mugs you assumed were for coffee and a plethora of souvenir items that you'd definitely be looking at before you left.

“Are you a candle guy?”

“I’m a workaholic who spends a lot of time in rooms with sweaty men.” He pauses. “That sounded less crazy in my head. It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise. I do like candles.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you spent quality time with someone and not talked about science or technology and inevitably, some mixture of the two. He opened the jars with ease, the pomegranate smelled fresh and the lemon one was so intense it probably burned off all of his nose hairs. Laughter came easy, you could tell he was relaxed around you and relished in the fact that you felt the same with him. There were no deadlines, no meetings, you hadn’t even thought about checking your phone or email. You even got matching evil eye souvenirs.

He chose a bag charm and you got a keychain. It felt so domestic it was almost scary. You even bought him the charm for good measure, felt like a fair exchange after he bought lunch.

Joe shook his head slowly, admiring you while you paid, silently cursing himself at the fact that he chartered a plane to leave early the next morning. He almost pulled out his phone and changed his flight after catching another glance as you thanked the cashier. But he didn’t.

Then you asked if he wanted to get on a boat to a nearby island.

“I’m not really a boat guy.” He sipped on the matcha he’d just bought. You chose a blueberry smoothie.

You almost laughed until you realized he was being serious. “Joe, we’re in Greece. It’s probably against the law to not be on the water. Come on,” you nudged him, “carpe diem.”

“Carpet—what?”

“Carpe Diem. It’s Latin for seize the day.” You playfully nudged him and walked to the port and let him help you hop onto the small boat to Aegina.

The ride was only 40 minutes but each time there was an inkling that the boat was rocking, you felt him tense. Your hand made its way to his thigh, feeling the muscles clench like the waves were threatening to tip him over. He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, but the way his leg leaned ever so slightly into your touch sent a warmth through you that lingered long after. Aegina’s coastline unfolded before you, the white-washed buildings glowing under the sun, expansive trees swaying in the breeze. You stepped into a local shop and grabbed swimsuits before heading to a local resort with a private beach.

Your uber driver was kind, an older gentleman with olive skin and a black cap with a bright orange “B” on the front. Joe slid in behind you and was quiet most of the ride.

“Are you actually gonna get in or are you one of those dip your feet in people?”

He sighs, glancing out the window and admiring the island view. Santorini was beautiful but this place was next level scenery. “I’m definitely getting in.” His voice was softer. You could tell he was more reserved now that there was an audience.

You also noticed the driver stealing glances at Joe in the rearview mirror, his hands tightening on the wheel like he was holding back words. The silence stretched until finally—“I’m sorry, man. I just gotta say…” he finally utters out, "I've been a Bengals fan since I was 8. And I woke up at ungodly hours to watch you play every week. Huge, huge fan man."

The pieces of the puzzle being put together. You’d seen highlight reels and press conferences of this very man all over social media. Your best friend had even sent you a thirst trap, or two. All of your focus had been on the day, spending every waking minute together and you didn't even fully process why he looked familiar because the odds of that just sounded too insane to be real. Joe managed a polite smile, his usual ease replaced with a flicker of discomfort. You glanced at him, watching his jaw tighten just slightly as he signed the hat after you were dropped off, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks.

Did he worry you’d see him differently now that the truth was out?

He was pretty quiet on the way inside, the tires rolling on the stone street were the only sound you could really focus on until you reached the front desk. Joe gave them his name and put his card down and the associate manager walked you to the pool house to get dressed. You came out in your swimsuit and found him sitting in a chair with his tiny swim trunks.

“The Cartier shades should’ve been my first clue.” You joked as you glanced at the drink menu. “This doesn’t—I don’t care what you do. You’ll always just be the guy who introduced me to herring eggs.”

Joe’s shoulders shake as a giggle bursts from his chest. A full belly laugh you wanna bottle up and take home with you. It echoes off the stone walls of the pool house, unguarded and bright, nothing like the polite smile he’d given the driver ten minutes earlier. That sound might’ve been the best thing you’d heard in a while. Not that you’d say it out loud.

“Thank you for that.”

His voice is softer now, closer to you than it had been all afternoon. For a second neither of you move, the air between you devoid of the car ride’s tension and replaced with warmth that you desperately need to counteract with a swim.

“I do have one question though, if you don’t mind.” You stood to head into the water to cool down and he followed, his footsteps a beat behind yours.

“Oh boy.”

The water from the pool was a shade of blue that only existed in movies, sunlight casting perfectly along the tiny ripples, turning the surface into a shimmery paradise. You eased yourself in slowly, the temperature cool against sun-warmed skin, and he followed without hesitation. The water settled just below your ribcage. He stood close enough that you could feel the heat from him when he stepped nearer, far enough that you could pretend it wasn’t on purpose.

“Does it ever get exhausting? Having to censor yourself?”

He exhales through his nose, eyes drifting out toward the horizon before coming back to you.

“Sometimes.” He says honestly. “Fame is…weird. People think they know you and the support from them is great but then they want things from you. Whether it’s your time or your opinion. It’s hard to navigate being a public figure while being a private person. I wanna perform on the field, not in real life.”

The water laps softly between you. You move a little closer without thinking, the space narrowing until your arms brush beneath the surface.

“Yeah, I get that.” You trace the scar on his hand, your thumb grazing the raised edge before you realize how intimate the gesture is. His fingers still instinctively at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. “I just ask because obviously it’s on a much lesser scale in terms of public exposure by any means. It’s just—my job sometimes feels like I’m performing. And I don’t wanna lose myself in that. I’m good at my job and I want to be good at my job but I don’t want my job to be my identity, you know?”

Now that you’ve started your rant, you can’t stop.

He turns his hand slightly so your fingers settle more naturally against his palm, water shifting around your wrists.

“Believe me, I do. I keep thinking about how my life revolves around working out and rehabbing injuries and always coming back from something. I forget to just exist. Kind of why I came here. I’ve been so focused on coming back from things I forgot to enjoy anything. To enjoy how far I’ve come, to enjoy how much I still have to look forward to.”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Not an ounce of performance. Just him.

“Same. This trip was supposed to be my reset. A reminder that I’m more than my deadlines and my title. My boss once called me at 11 p.m. on a Sunday, and I didn’t even blink before picking up. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that’s all I am.”

For a moment, the only sound is the soft hum of distant conversation somewhere inside. He looks at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle and also memorize the way your face looks when it’s glowing in the sun.

Joe sits and thinks about your words, looking you in the eyes, “think we’re doing a pretty good job of unplugging today.”

A server comes out with two drinks and sets the tray on the floor next to where you’re standing, breaking whatever fragile thing had settled between you. The liquid inside jiggles softly as they’re placed down.

He reaches for them, water streaming down his arm, and hands you one. His fingers brush yours this time, lingering for half a second longer than necessary.

“Cheers to being happy.”

You let your cup clink against his, condensation cool against your knuckles. His gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“Cheers to figuring this whole adulting thing out.”

The glasses meet with a soft, hollow sound, and neither of you move right away. You talk about his flight time in the morning and what your plans should be for dinner. Nothing is set in stone and your hands are turning into raisins.

“Alright, history nerd,” you say, pushing away from the pool edge. “You wanted cool buildings. There’s a temple up the road.”

He squints at you.

“You googled this, didn’t you?”

“I may or may not have taken a look during the car ride here.”

Joe shook his head, a bit surprised at the fact that you remembered his throwaway comment from lunch.

You’re dropped off at the bottom of the trail, nothing strenuous but definitely a trek to the top of the cliff.

“Were you a Greek mythology fan growing up?” you asked, looking at the ground so you didn’t dive face first into the rocks.

He grimaced. “I was more of a SpongeBob and Star Wars guy.”

“That tracks.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” you turned slowly toward him, “this looks like it would be the perfect setting for a desert battle. You know. Dramatic duel. Capes flying. Lightsabers making that weird sound. Emotional monologues.”

He immediately pointed at a broken column. “That’s where Obi-Wan would stand.”

“You would absolutely think you’re Obi-Wan.”

“Anakin, thank you.” He corrects.

“Doesn’t he become the villain?”

“Exactly.”

You pulled out your phone. “Okay, stand over there. I need a picture of you pretending to hold up the temple. It’s in the tourist constitution somewhere, trust me.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You absolutely are.”

He sighed dramatically but moved into position anyway, placing his hands flat against the stone like he was single-handedly preventing collapse.

“Little higher,” you instructed.

He adjusted.

“More intensity.”

“I am literally saving civilization.”

You snapped the photo, laughing. “This is going straight to my imaginary scrapbook.”

He walked back toward you, peering over your shoulder. “You’re not posting that.”

“Relax, the last thing I need is TMZ on my back asking for an exclusive on whether or not you’re happy with where the Bengals are headed. I have enough on my plate. This is just for me. To remind myself that today was real. And I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

He paused, expression softening into a light grin. “It’s okay. I’ll take one of you too.”

Once the photo shoot was finished, you continued the climb, traced the columns with your fingertips as Joe had his eyes set on the top of the mountain. The faint carvings in the stone depicted stories of Aphaia.

“She went from a local protector to a literal goddess, that’s pretty badass.” Joe notes as he reads while you continued on.

“Wow,” you breathed, stepping forward until your toes nearly hung over the low stone wall. “You can see the whole island from here. Feels very…Olympus.”

Joe came up beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. “Feels like we’re on top of the world. No wonder they built a temple here.”

The hill dropped sharply to reveal the entire eastern side of Aegina unfolding below: distant villages hugging the coast, olive groves and pine forests rolling down to turquoise water, the Saronic Gulf flowing all the way to the mainland. On a clear day like this, you could almost make out the distant shimmer of Athens itself. Breathtaking didn’t do the view justice and you found yourself looping your pinky around Joe’s as a way to ground yourself. His finger tightened around yours like he’d done this a thousand times.

Everything felt so huge and tiny at the same time. The sun was beginning to set on a day that began with so much promise and opened the door to experiences beyond your comprehension.

“Thanks for bringing us up here. When I said cool buildings, I didn’t think about all this. This is so much better than anything I could’ve found.”

“I’m really happy this mini hike was worth it,” you pulled out your phone to look at the time as the sun really started to go down. “We should probably go look for a boat ride back. Our flower vase needs to be picked up in a couple hours.”

“Yeah,” he starts down the path, pinkies still interlocked. He casually wraps his hand around yours moving down the steps and back towards the mainland to ensure you don’t fall. He doesn’t let go. Neither of you comment on it the entire ride back to the dock.

The ride back to Athens comes via boat with food options. You’ve cleared your plates, settled inside the small cabin space, free from the wind and any prying ears. “I can’t believe we spent the entire day together. And I didn’t have to be anyone else today, I got to be—Joe. I’ve had a lot of good days but this? This one might be up there.”

“Today’s been great for me too,” you sigh, glancing at him. “Not a bad first day out.” Your leg brushes against his. You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten until you could feel the heat of his arm against yours, his breath soft and warm on your cheek. His eyes dropped to your lips, like he was silently asking for permission. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath just a whisper away, as his hand hovered near your cheek. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a spark through you, and for a moment, you thought he might pull you in.

You couldn't allow yourself to go there. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not like this—but the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, made it hard to think clearly. As much as you wanted this, to feel him close, to taste the sweetness of that kiss, the weight of knowing how fleeting it all was crushed down on you. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything you were afraid to want, a piece of yourself that you couldn’t let slip away so easily. If you kissed him, this wouldn’t just be a good day anymore. It would be something you’d measure other days against. And that felt dangerous.

“We can’t” you whisper, watching him drop his hand that had just been lightly caressing your cheek. “You’re gonna leave tomorrow and I’m gonna be thinking about this kiss for a long time. And I can’t,” your voice remains steady. “This was supposed to be just today. One irresponsible, no plan, very good day. I don’t wanna ruin that, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t—don’t apologize. I get it.” He still hadn’t scooted back, biting his lip to keep his emotions at a safe distance. “You’re right. This stays here.”

The boat carried you the rest of the way in a quiet that felt more like longing than awkwardness or anger. His hand rests beside yours on the bench, close but not touching.

You stepped out before he could reach for you again, clearing your throat once you were close enough to the studio, the street now dark and empty. “You should probably go grab the vase.”

He studies you for a long moment. You think to yourself this is probably how he studied his opponents looking for any weakness. Joe could probably see how close you were to cracking and kissing him so he didn’t push. “Are you okay heading back to your hotel on your own?”

“Yeah, I think I could use the fresh air. It’s not far.”

“Guess this is it then.”

“Guess so.”

You hesitantly took two steps forward and wrapped him in a hug. You held on tighter than you meant to, silently begging him to stay for a few more days. His grip on you was just as strong, his heartbeat thumping rapidly against your body.

Everything in you wanted to say you were going to miss him, to miss this day.

“Bye Joe.” That was it. That was all you could manage.

He turned and went down the steps to the glass blowing place and you watched him walk away. He didn’t look back.

And when you walked away towards your hotel, you didn’t look back either.

After the jam packed day you had, sleep felt like a necessity. You were exhausted beyond belief, barely making it to your room and changing into clean clothes before laying on your back in the middle of the bed. You tried to get comfortable under the soft blankets and plush pillows that felt brand new but perfectly molded to your form like it had been crafted for you specifically.

None of that was enough to get you out of your head long enough to sleep. Your eyes were closed but your mind would wander back to the boat or the pool or the restaurant. The extra pair of glasses he kept in that seatbelt bag he refused to take off, the random jokes delivered in a dry tone that was so dry sometimes you couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. His comeback stories about his wrist, then his toe and all the times he saw his career flashing before his eyes. All the times he came back even better than he was before. And all the times it didn't matter because their team wasn’t good enough. You thought about what it felt like to be a professional, to be expected to be at your best and not always wanting to be the face, to be front and center and having to answer questions and make life altering decisions not only for yourself but for the entire future of the company.

You weren’t a franchise quarterback but you understood expectations. You understood pressure. And today had relieved you of all of it.

For the day you were a tourist, carefree, happy, weightless.

The morning came sooner than you were prepared for. You’d finally gotten to a state of deep sleep when the bright sunshine woke you up and you checked the time. Joe was supposed to leave in two hours. Against your better judgement, and the fact that you’d curved him the night before, you googled the resort he was staying at and called the front desk, providing them with the room number and the reservation name, hoping they’d put you through. Last night felt like a half-assed goodbye. Both of you deserved more.

“I’m so sorry ma’am, he checked out early this morning. I think he had a very early flight to catch.”

“Oh, no worries. Thank you so much.” You hung up with a sigh. That was that, the sign you needed to know you had made the right decision by walking away. Pursuing whatever yesterday was just didn't seem rational. Or realistic.

You had lunch at the MS Rooftop, a restaurant lined with floral arrangements and lanterns with shaded outdoor seating and a rooftop view. The city was so vibrant, bursting with hues of pinks and yellows and the water on the horizon. In hindsight this would be the solo trip of your dreams, calm energy, relaxing vibes, great food. But you ordered one drink at the bar and felt a pang in your chest. Yesterday, everything came in twos. Couples walked by hand in hand, laughing about inside jokes and you watched fondly, thinking about how much Joe would’ve liked this place because it had two essentials: flowers and fresh air. Then you thought about how exposed this place was compared to everywhere you went with him yesterday.

The glass blowing class was in a small studio—it was you, Joe and three couples. Everyone was too focused on their dates to really notice him. Aegina was also pretty isolated, private beach that happened to be empty because the place he chose had three others, the boat rides were just the two of you and the driver. The only place that really had a slip up was a random Uber driver and even then, he was super respectful. Here, out in the open in the middle of the day you realized how many people were around and thought about if someone recognized him or if there were any American football fans in the room that would try to sneak a picture. He’d probably be paranoid and looking over his shoulder, unable to really enjoy himself.

Then you thought about how ridiculous you were being. You’d spent one day with the guy and here you were fantasizing about security measures and hypothetical situations to make sure he’d be at ease if he were with you. Even though he left the country hours ago. This is why you hadn’t kissed him. If you had, you’d be doing more than thinking critically, you’d be full on fantasizing in the middle of the day on a stunning, well deserved vacation.

You finished your drink and headed to your next activity, a spa day had your name written all over it. Deep tissue massage on a beautiful wooden boardwalk overlooking a lazy river which you took part in after your trip to the sauna and steam room. It was two and a half hours of self care and every single minute was worth the time.

When you woke up from a nap, back in your room there was a notification on your phone.

An Instagram DM request that contained two words: Carpe Diem.

You looked at the message twice. Before you could fully put together what was happening, your thumb hovered over the power button.

Then you unlocked your phone to look at his profile.

Verified.

It was him.

You locked your phone again and put it face down on the bed. With a hand over your mouth, you exhaled out a small laugh, half shocked, mostly relieved that he did decide to reach out. The DM stayed in your requests for the time being. He hadn’t left whatever happened alone either.

The first time he gave you a key, he expected – reasonably - that you would treat it like a responsibility.

You treated it like an invitation.

He was halfway through something in the kitchen when he heard the door open, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of you - movement, noise, presence, all of it clattering in at once.

“I brought stuff,” you called out, already inside.

When he stepped into the hallway, you were there with a bag over your shoulder, another in your hand, and a plant tucked under your arm like it had insisted on coming with you.

He looked at it, then at you.

“That’s new.”

You glanced down at it as if you’d forgotten it was there. “Yeah. I just thought the place could use a bit of life.”

“It has life,” he replied, somewhat defensively.

You didn’t answer straight away. Just looked past him, taking in the clean lines, the neutral tones, the shelves arranged with quiet, almost stubborn precision.

“Mm,” you said eventually, unconvinced, and slipped past him.

By the end of the week, there were more plants.

They didn’t match. They weren’t arranged. One leaned too far toward the window, while another seemed permanently undecided about whether to exist or give up entirely.

You crouched beside one of them one afternoon, brushing your fingers over a curling leaf.

“This one’s dramatic,” you said.

“It’s dying.”

You glanced up at him. “That feels like a strong opinion.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

You turned the pot slightly, like that might help. “No, he just needs a bit more attention.”

Later, when you weren’t looking, he looked up the species online and adjusted where it sat.

Not enough to be obvious.

Just enough.

It wasn’t one big change.

It was hundreds of small ones.

A dish appeared by the door. It filled itself slowly with things that you decided matter - a button, some coins, crumpled receipts, and a bead you’re saving “just in case.”

“It’s a collection,” you insist.

“Of what?”

“Things.”

“…right.”

It makes no sense.

None.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, he finds himself pausing when he gets home, turning whatever’s in his pocket over in his hand before dropping it in with the rest.

Not because he understands it.

Because you do.

There are mugs now, too.

Too many, objectively.

They don’t coordinate. They were never meant to. Some are chipped, some are too small to be practical, one is slightly too wide at the base, and never quite sits properly on the shelf.

You bring them in without ceremony.

Sometimes you show him - “Look at this one” - holding it up like it’s something rare and worth admiring.

Other times they just… appear.

He tries, at first, to keep them organised. To make them fit like a game of ceramic Tetris.

One evening, he takes them all out, sets them on the counter, and studies them like there might be a solution he’s just not seeing yet.

That’s when he finds the one you made.

It’s uneven. The glaze shifts slightly where it settled incorrectly. The handle curves in a way that wasn’t entirely intentional.

“It doesn’t sit flat,” he says, inspecting it.

From the other room, you answer easily, “It’s not supposed to be perfect.”

“It wobbles.”

“It has personality.”

You pause, then continue with a softer - “I like it.”

He moves it to the front.

Now, it’s the one he uses.

Even when you’re not there. Especially when you’re not there.

Somewhere along the way, his evenings stopped belonging entirely to him.

Not because you took them but because you filled them.

You are a night owl in the most unapologetic sense.

Where he winds down, you wake up.

Where he settles, you spark.

He’ll put something on - something informative about deep-sea ecosystems or historical events - and you’ll last all of five minutes.

“Wait, no - why would they do that?”

“It’s explained - ”

“But that doesn’t make sense if - ”

You’re already turning toward him. Already talking. Already pulling his attention away from the screen, as if it was never going to win.

You end up leaning right against him, hands waving, talking in half-formed theories and soft tangents.

It becomes second nature. For you, at least.

For him, it becomes something else entirely.

He used to follow things through to the end.

Now he has no idea how most of them finish.

Because somewhere between your questions, your commentary, and the way your voice softens when you get sleepy -

He stops paying attention to anything else.

There’s a night - somewhere in the middle of all of this - where he pulls out a puzzle.

A quiet activity he uses to relax. Something structured. Contained. Logical.

A beginning. A process. An end.

He opens the box, neatly sorts the pieces, and flips them all right-side up with efficient precision.

You watch for approximately thirty seconds.

Then -

“What are you doing?”

“Starting with the edges.”

“Why?”

“It’s the most efficient method.”

You consider this.

“…Or we could just find pieces that look fun.”

He doesn’t look up. “That is not a method.”

“It’s a better method.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

A pause.

You start making piles.

He has one pile.

Edges. Clean. Organized. Progressing steadily.

You have four.

Colours. Vibes. “This one feels like sky.” “These are definitely part of a house.” “I just like these ones.”

None of them are particularly helpful.

He fits two edge pieces together with a soft, satisfying click.

You gasp from across the table.

“Oh my god, wait – wait - this one fits here.”

He glances over. It does not.

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

You press the pieces together harder.

“They want to fit.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

“They physically don’t.”

You squint at it, adjusting the angle like determination alone will change reality.

“You’re not believing in it enough.”

“I’m believing in the laws of physics.”

A beat.

You push harder.

The cardboard bends slightly.

He reaches over immediately, steady but firm, stopping you before you can force it.

“Don’t.”

“They were so close.”

“They weren’t.”

“They had potential.”

“They had nothing.”

You huff, dropping them back into one of your completely unhelpful piles.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m effective.”

“That’s worse.”

A few minutes pass.

He’s built most of the frame.

You’re… rearranging.

And then -

“Wait.”

He pauses.

You lean forward, holding up two pieces, suspiciously aligned.

“Wait – no - this one actually - ”

He watches as you press them together.

They click.

Perfectly.

You freeze.

Then look up at him, eyes wide, like you’ve just discovered something groundbreaking.

“I told you.”

A pause.

He studies the pieces.

Then you.

“…Statistical anomaly.”

You grin, insufferably pleased.

“Skill.”

“Luck.”

“Talent.”

“Coincidence.”

You slide the connected pieces into the middle of the table like a trophy.

“You’re just mad I didn’t need your system.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat.

He reaches over, adjusts one of your piles slightly so it’s less chaotic, more usable.

“I’m… adapting.”

You watch him, amused.

“You like this,” you say.

“I like finishing the puzzle.”

You lean back in the chair, completely unconvinced.

“You like me making it harder.”

A pause.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just fits another piece into place, calm and precise.

“…I like that you’re here while I do it,” he says finally.

That makes you soften for half a second -

Before you immediately go back to jamming two completely unrelated pieces together.

“I think these go.”

“They don’t.”

“They could.”

“They can’t.”

“They will.”

He exhales, but there’s something quieter in it now. Warmer.

And when you inevitably get distracted halfway through -

He reaches over, pulling the half-formed, chaotic little sections a bit closer to his side of the table.

Just to make sure none of your pieces gets lost.

Later, much later, when the puzzle is still unfinished, and the table is a mess of half-formed sections -

You’re standing in the bathroom, lining up bottles like it’s a ritual.

He pauses in the doorway, watching.

“that’s… a lot of steps.”

“It’s a process,” you say, already halfway through it.

“You’ve been in here ten minutes.”

“It’s not about time, it’s about care.”

He leans against the frame. “I just wash my face.”

“With what?”

“…water.”

You slowly turn to look at him.

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

You stare at him as if you’ve just discovered something deeply concerning.

“Get in here.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your poor skin is just… surviving.”

“My skin is fine.”

“It could be thriving.”

A pause.

He considers leaving.

He doesn’t.

A few minutes later, he’s standing next to you, slightly damp, mildly inconvenienced.

“What is this one?”

“Cleanser.”

“And this?”

“Cleanser.”

He looks at you. “Why are there two?”

“Different purposes.”

“…of course.”

You smile, stepping closer, gently pressing your fingers against his jaw to tilt his face toward you.

“Stop talking.”

“I wasn’t - ”

“Shh.”

He lets you.

Of course he does.

Later still, in bed -

You are, as always, completely incapable of staying on your side.

At some point in the night, you shift - half asleep, entirely unaware - and end up draped across him like it’s instinct.

He exhales softly.

“Babe.”

You make a sleepy noise against his chest.

“This is my side.”

“No, it’s not,” you mumble.

“It is.”

“It’s ours.”

He stops, then adjusts the blanket instead of arguing.

Your leg hooks over his. Your hand curls into his shirt.

You settle.

He stays like that.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t fix it.

Just lets you take what you need.

It wasn't just home life either. You changed everything.

Joe has never been someone who liked being watched.

That was the thing.

His life – because of who he is and what he does - came with attention he never asked for nor wanted. So, he learned early how to keep things separate. What was his stayed his.

No explanations. No displays. No unnecessary exposure.

You never asked him to change that.

You never asked for more.

But one day you just… reached for him.

In public, absentmindedly, like it was nothing.

Your hand finds his without hesitation. Leaning into him mid-conversation. Smiling up at him like there wasn’t an audience, even when there was.

At first, he was aware of everything.

The space. The people. The possibility of being seen. Cameras and whispers.

You noticed him noticing.

But you didn’t pull away.

Didn’t push either.

Just stayed - warm, steady, patient.

Letting him decide.

The first time he reached for you, it wasn’t a moment.

No build-up. No announcement.

Just instinct.

Your hand grazes his as you walk, and his fingers close around yours before you can even think about it.

You glanced at him.

He didn’t look back.

Just kept walking, like it was nothing.

Like it hadn’t taken him everything to get there.

It happens again, in smaller ways.

A hand at your waist. A quiet pull closer. His thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles like he’s forgotten where he is.

He hasn’t.

He just doesn’t care as much anymore.

The post comes later.

Not planned.

Definitely not announced.

It’s just a photo.

One of those that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else.

But to the people watching - to the ones who have followed him long enough to understand what he doesn’t share -

It’s loud.

You’re not even fully in it.

Just there.

A reflection. A blur. Still unmistakably you.

It’s enough.

And somewhere between all of that -

the plants, the mugs, the unfinished puzzle, the nights that don’t go to plan -

His life stops feeling like something he needs to keep in order.

Because now it has you in it.

Loud, messy, warm.

Everywhere.

And he doesn’t fix it.

Doesn’t pull it back into something neater, quieter, easier to manage.

He lets it stay.

Let’s you stay.

One night, when you’re half-asleep beside him, still talking about something that doesn’t quite make sense, your hand lazily tangled in his hair -

He realises, distantly, that the documentary he put on hours ago is still playing.

Unfinished.

Again.

He doesn’t reach for the remote.

Just turns slightly, pressing his mouth to your hair instead.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs.

You hum in protest.

He smiles.

Let’s you keep talking anyway.

And just like that -

He toed off his boots in the entryway, the leather thudding softly against the baseboard, still warm as if it was infused with the sun’s own fire. Dust and a few stray strands of hay puffed up in a small cloud, settling on the scarred hardwood. His Stetson followed, being flicked onto the couch with a causal arc; it teeter on the cushion’s edge, threatening to tumble, but Rhett’s mind was already elsewhere, pulled by an instinct that was sharper than hunger. With a rough swipe, he pushed back his light brown hair–the strands damp and unruly, curling at the nap where sweat had gathered–smoothing it away from his forehead to clear the path for his observant blue eyes to scan his surroundings.

The house simmered in its own quiet inferno, the air conditioner a silent casualty in the corner, its compressor long since seized in defeat. The both of you had been waiting on the repairman for what felt like an eternity, your calls going unanswered amid the summer rush. Rhett had attempted his own fixes, but it had seemed to only make it worse, and now that Wabang decided to turn into a sweltering hot pot of steam, it seemed like the universe was punishing him for trying to be a handyman.

Every window was gaped wide, the screens buzzing faintly with the occasional moth that would visit, admitting sluggish gusts that carried the invigorating perfume of Wabang’s wild expanse–warmed honeysuckle, drying hay, smokiness from barbecues that wafted over to the house, and dry, dusty soil from the baked earth mixing with the grassiness of the fields surrounding your land. It was a cocktail of smells that Rhett savoured even as it warred with the prickling promise of a sunburn that bloomed across his face and arms. It was the season’s double-edged gift: unrelenting in its demands, yet alive with scents that grounded him, reminding him why he even decided to stay rooted to this land.

From the kitchen came the rhythmic thunk of a knife snapping on wood, a steady cadence that drew him like a lodestar almost instantly. He moved down the hall with the calculated grace of an apex predator stalking through tall grass, his socked feet whispering over the time-worn planks, deftly sidestepping the notorious creaks that betrayed heavier treads–the house’s secrets were his, mapped in memory from countless quiet evenings, and he wielded them now like a weapon, intent on preserving the element of surprise. 

At the archway diving the hall from the kitchen, he lingered just out of sight, one shoulder brushing the thick elm frame, its grain rough under his palm like the rough bark of the old trees that dotted the acreage. HIs gaze fixed on you, framed in the golden haze of the descending sun, clad in one of his discarded white t-shirts he didn’t use anymore–a relief from his ranching days, too stained with stubborn mud flecks along the hem despite your valiant scrubs in the laundry sink, the fabric now softened to a near-transparent veil that suited you far better than it ever had him. 

Paired with simple black cotton briefs, the ensemble sculpted your form with unwitting allure: the underwear clinging to the generous curve of your ass, nipping in at the hips with a precision that accentuated every subtle shift, the shirt’s edge grazing just high enough to tease glimpses of your skin below.

It was a vision that ignited a slow burn in his core, his mouth flooding with saliva as if you were a feast, the appetizer to an indulgence he planned to savour bite by deliberate bite. He watched in silence, his pulse quickening at the way the material adhered faintly to the damp hollow at the small of your back, a patch of sweat blooming there like dew on fresh flower petals–his mind conjured the urge to drop to his knees, to press his face against that moistened spot and draw in the raw, elemental bouquet of your exertion mingled with the lingering whisper of jasmine from your morning shower, a clean floral undercurrent that would only heighten the primal pull. But he restrained himself, basking in the tension that built within him, knowing that his patience would only amplify the reward when he finally claimed it.

The window before you bathed the room in a warm amber wash, your silhouette stretching long across the sun-faded wallpaper, a dance of light and shadow that played over the counters cluttered with the dinner preparations you were working on. The sun’s rays caught the delicate gloss of perspiration on your arms–not a drenching torrent, but a fine, ethereal mist that shimmered like frost, enough to make him swallow hard against the rush of saliva that filled his mouth again, imagining the salty tang bursting on his tongue as he traced those glistening paths. 

You swayed with an unhurried rhythm, hips tilting to a melody audible only to you–he spotted the thin white cords of your earbuds snaking from your ears, confirming his hunch that there was a barrier that sealed you in your own serene bubble that fixed him this golden window of opportunity he wouldn’t be able to pass up.

He crossed the threshold on soft steps, his focus narrowing to the hypnotic roll of your body until the very last instant, when his arm–taut and straining with the day’s labours, and slick with a sheen of fresh sweat–locked around your waist in a firm embrace.

You startled against him with a visceral jolt, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as every muscle in your being tensed against him, whirling in his hold to confront the threat, only to lock eyes with his, where amusement danced in his vivid blue depths, his lips curving into a roguish smile that crinkled his sun-freckled skin at the corners.

Your gaze widened in that split-second of recognition, taking in the fresh flush staining his cheeks and throat, a rosy overlay on his already golden tan that made the constellation of caramel freckles scattered across his nose brighten in a way.

Hurriedly, you plucked out your earbuds, letting them dangle like forgotten pendants against your collarbone, your chest heaving as your heart thundered in your ears, a wild drumbeat echoing the adrenaline that the scare had shot through you.

“Jesus Christ, Rhett! Are you nuts?! I have a knife in my hand.” You exclaimed, your voice a breathless blend of shock and reluctant mirth, gesturing emphatically toward the gleaming blade as you pivoted back to your task, even though you were still trembling faintly.

He released a soft, rumbling laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back, the sound warm and unapologetic as he lowered his head, his chin slotting gently on your shoulder. He inhaled deeply, savouring the allure of your skin’s dew–a clean, invigorating haze of sweat that whispered rather than shouted, attuned as he was to your every nuance, a craving that simmered low and constant in his veins. 

His eyes followed your movements as you selected another celery stalk,  drawing it across the scarred wooden board, leaving glistening trails of water that darkened the grain. Aligning it with precision, you sliced a neat crescent, then lifted it between your thumb and forefinger, raising it up toward him in a wordless gesture of absolution.

Rhett inclined forward, his teeth capturing the piece with a gentle tug, your fingertips brushing the plush warmth of his lips in a fleeting caress that sent a spark racing up your arm. He crunched through it swiftly, the vegetable’s fresh, verdant essence–a grassy whisper laced with faint herbal notes–blooming on his palate as his hands glided downward, palms splaying across your belly in soothing, exploratory stroked through the thin barrier of fabric that hid the soft flesh he truly wanted to feel.

His touch carried the captured blaze of the afternoon, skin radiating a furnace-like warmth that seeped into you as he drew you nearer, his sweat-dampened shift melding to your back in a stick union, the cool bite of his belt buckle–a simple oval of tarnished silver, etched with the patina of daily wear–imprinting against the dip of your spine. It should’ve felt uncomfortable considering the sweltering heat that choked you, but you found yourself relishing in the feeling nevertheless. Your eyes drifted to his exposed arms, noting the fresh layer of crimson tint overlaying his skin, a testament to the sun’s relentless kiss accumulating on his enduring collection of outdoor scars.

You drew in a deliberate breath, filling your lungs with him–the sharpness of mown grass clinging to his clothes, intertwined with the golden aroma of sun-dried hay, all underpinned by his innate musk, a heady, enveloping fog that invaded your senses like the summer squall. Traces of his deodorant lingered faintly, a crisp alpine note, but the day’s exertions had cleaved through it, unveiling the raw, unfiltered essence you found utterly intoxicating–Rhett in his purest form, unmasked and potent. 

There was an inexplicable allure to that post-labour aroma, fresh from the fields or yard, that set every synapse alight, nerves humming like taut wires in a gale. Perhaps it was biology, his pheromones weaving an ancient spell of attraction, but it delved deeper, into realms words struggled to capture–a profound, unspoken connection that simply existed, defying articulation, stitched into the very fabric of your shared existence. 

“Sorry about scarin’ you, darlin’,” He murmured, his voice a low, gravelly timbre softened by affection, swallowing the last of the celery with a quick flex of his throat before nuzzling his nose into the soft hollow of your shoulder. “I just couldn’t resist sneakin’ up on you…The opportunity was just so temptin’.” He punctuated the words with a tender press of his lips to the curve of your neck, sampling the salty gloss there in a teasing lick, his damp hair trailing a cool, tickling path across your skin. You hummed in response, shaking your head gently while your focus clung to the knife’s rhythmic descent, carving the stalk into precise, emerald slivers like you had done a million times before.

“You’re lucky my mind was elsewhere, cause I would’ve stabbed you if I was on high alert,” You retorted. He responded with a deep, throaty laugh that resonated like a low growl, as one hand ventured lower to toy with the hem of your shirt, his fingertips grazing the heated softness of your thigh in featherlight sweeps that ignited goosebumps in their wake. You arched back into him, your body surrendering to the gravitational draw of him, even as you battled to maintain your vigil over dinner prep–but the resolve was fraying with each passing second, eroded by the insistent press of his form.

“Elsewhere, huh? What were you thinkin’ about that had you so distracted?” He inquired, his words muffled against the fabric of your shoulder, where he buried his face to inhale you once more, drawing you into him like you were his life source.

“Wasn’t thinking about anything, I just had a great view of you working…” You replied, a mischievous smile curling our lips, as if the sight replayed in your mind in vivid technicolour: him striding through the sun-drenched fields, denim hugging the powerful lines of his thighs, flexing with each purposeful bend as he hefted bales of hay with effortless might.

“Oh really? I didn’t know I had an audience…If I did I would’ve given you a better show,” He mumbled, as his fingers danced along your bikini line, tracing the sensitive boundary with deliberate slowness, encountering the warmth and faint moisture there. He was so close to where you wanted him to touch you that you felt like moving your hips around to coax him exactly where you wanted his hands to be–touching your growing arousal that was slowly saturating the fabric of your briefs.

“It’s better when you’re unaware,” You commented, because in those unguarded moments, he became a living portrait of the shared life the two of you had built brick by sun-baked brick. 

“Well, I guess you’d be happy to know that I was also distracted all day too…” He teased, his fingertip hovering at the edge of temptation, nearly dipping beneath the elastic of your briefs to skin the tender skin of your pubic bone. 

“Yeah?” You questioned, your voice breath now as you nudged the sliced celery aside to mingle with the vibrant orange coins of carrots that you had already cut, your hand pausing mid-reach for the next stalk, feeling the tightening of his muscles against your back, which made you pause.

“Mhm…Was thinkin’ about this exact moment actually,” He confessed, finally slipped his calloused, sweat-slicked hand under the hem of your shirt to caress the front of your briefs before ascending to the bare, heated plane of your stomach. He felt the quiver in your breath, watching as your lower lip caught between your teeth, your eyelids fluttering shut at the contact, while your senses narrowed to the electric point where his touch met your skin, “

You took in a deep breath, letting Rhett’s scent fill your lungs again, as you settled the knife down on the cutting board with a gentle clink, the blade glistening with the sheen of celery sap. Your focus was so broken at that point that the task of simple preparations for dinner were pushed out of your head almost immediately, and replaced with the stomach turning sensations of Rhett’s touch on your body, something that never failed to drive you crazy. 

His calloused fingers tickled along the sensitive dip of your navel, taking lazy circles that made your knees buckle, before they slid just beneath the waistband of your briefs. The motion was unhurried, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you and relishing in it, knowing damn well that you were putty in his hands at this point. 

Then, before you could say anything, before you could ask him to do something other than tease you, he pivoted you body around by the hips, your body yielding to his guidance until you faced him fully, trapped in the intimate cage formed by his sweat dampened frame and the firm edge of the counter pressing into the small of your back. 

His vivid blue eyes, glistening from the setting sun shining through the window, roamed over you with a hunger that was almost palpable, drinking in every detail of your body, seeing the way your chest was rising and falling in small pulls of air, like you were trying to breathe him in while manage the way your heart was racing. His gaze drew down further, noticing your nipples straining against the clinging fabric of your t-shirt, the peaks hardened into taut buds by the waves of shivers that his proximity and touch had unleashed on you. 

A pleased smile tugged at the corners of his pink lips, softening the rugged lines of his jaw where a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his skin, and he lifted one hand to cup the side of your breast. His thumb swept over the sensitive nub in slow, circling caresses, the soft texture of the shirt’s weave rubbing against it in a featherlight friction that drew a soft gasp from your throat, and made your body arch into him. The tease was maddening, as your eyes fluttered closed in an attempt to focus on what he was giving you, feeling an inferno blooming low in your belly that pooled and spread like honey the was heated under the sun.

“Y’know…I think we should give the stove a break for the night and order in...” He suggested, as he drew his body closer to yours, the damp heat of him enveloping you and wetting through your shirt, his touch leaving your breast to come down to rest on your hip, allowing his chest to press flush against yours. You could’ve sworn you felt the laboured beats of his heart thumping against yours, like your souls had synced up instantly in this position.

“Yeah…Yeah we could do that.” You whispered, the words escaping on a sigh as you tilted your head back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to him, surrendering to the abrupt shift in plans without a flicker of resistance. He smirked at how easily you yielded, the expression crinkling the fine lines around his eyes, before leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your jaw, his lips warm and slightly chapped from the wind-whipped day. The contact elicited a short, involuntary breath from you, and it took all your willpower to hold a moan back, so much so that it was almost painful–but you couldn’t give him the satisfaction just yet, even when your body was practically a dashboard of warning lights, screaming for more without words.

“Perfect…’Cause I’ve got the best idea of what we can do with the free time we have now…” He drawled, his stubble rasping against your skin as he trailed downward to the column of your neck, taking deep intentional breaths, filling his lungs with the intoxicating essence of you, as if he was drawing sustenance from your very aura. Your hands reached for his sides, fingers curling into the damp fabric that clung to his torso, feeling the sweat squeezing out onto your palms as you balled up your fists to anchor yourself against the rising euphoria that shot through your system. 

“Oh ye-yeah? What did you have in mind?” You asked, your voice threading through the lustful haze that was beginning to envelop you like a silken fog, even as you fought to keep the conversation afloat amid the swirling currents of need. His fingers dug into your hips, pressing himself harder into you until the rigid evidence of his arousal that was straining against the zipper of his jeans rested against your abdomen. 

Rhett was a simple man at heart, and just the mere presence of you–your warmth, your curves, the way your body seemed to hum and signal to his–could ignited a fire in him that no summer blaze could rival. But when that essence mingled with the heady and delicate alchemy of your skin, it transformed into something divine, a cocktail crafted by god himself, and his body displayed how much control it had on him every time without fail. You shifted your thighs together at the thought, in a desperate, futile bid for friction, the subtle clench sending a shiver through your core as the dampness of your own arousal slicked the skin there.

“How about you come with me and I’ll show you…” He teased, placing one final kiss against your fluttering pulse before drawing back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes moldering with a mix of mischief and raw need. He reached for one of your hands, gently pulling it off his shirt, and enfolding it in his larger palm, tugging you along with him toward the hall, leaving the half-prepared vegetables to wilt forgotten in the oppressive swelter. 

You matched his quick strides, your bare feet tapping along the floorboards the creaked faintly under the urgency of your passage and his heavier, purposeful steps, each sound echoing in the quiet house. It didn’t take long for the two of you to reach your bedroom, and he pushed the door open quickly, hearing the hinges sighing in quiet surrender as the two of you stepped inside together. 

The room enveloped you in a gentle reprieve, thankfully a touch cooler than the stifling embrace of the rest of the house, though it did little to quench the inferno trapped beneath your skin. Sunlight poured in through the wide-open French doors that framed the space like a living painting, their glass panes flung apart to invite the outdoors in, with the sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the warm breeze. Beyond them stretched a small wooden deck, their weather planks leading to an area that overlooked the rolling fields dotted with wildflowers and shadowed by the sprawling branches of the massive oak tree that was a mere few feet away, its leaves rustling slightly with each gust of air. Potted greenery perched on the nightstands beside the bed, tendrils of ivy and ferns spilling over like verdant waterfalls, infusing the air with a fresh, loamy vitality that mingled with the scent of freshly cut grass wafting in from the yard, and the sweet, blooming notes of honeysuckle climbing the deck’s edges.

The bed itself sat unmade in inviting disarray–its crisp white sheets rumpled form the morning’s hast, and the thin summer blanket thrown carelessly on the floor in a soft puddle–as if it had anticipated this very moment, and was completely at the ready to consume you whole. The two of you paused there for a second, allowing the moment to swell and expand until it pulsed, a silent crescendo that mirrored the rhythmic rise and fall of your breaths. Rhett’s thumb ran over your knuckles, grounding you even as the world seemed to tilt on the axis of his gaze, his eyes holding yours with a depth that spoke volumes without a single word.

Then, as if some invisible tether snapped, he pulled you toward him with an insistent tug, closing the scant distance in an instant, his mouth finding yours in a searing kiss that felt like the worlds were colliding together. His lips parted immediately to deepen the connection, tasting the shared saltiness of sweat that clung to your skin–a briny essence laced with a faint sweetness, mingling on your tongues like forbidden wine. It was as if the change in scenery had unleashed something primal within him, the cooler sanctuary of the room fanning the flames of his hunger rather than quenching them, his tongue sweeping in bold coaxing strokes that enticed yours into a rhythmic tangle, allowing you to savour him fully. 

Your fingers sought purchase in the damp fabric of his grey t-shirt once more, clutching at the sweat-soaked material as if to fuse him to you, ensuring he couldn’t pull away even an inch, the cloth yielding under your grip with a soft, wet squelch that only heightened the sensory overload. His hands roamed with absentminded fervour, callouses whispering promises as they slid beneath the hem of your shirt to caress the damp, heated expanse of your bare back, fingertips tracing the subtle curve of your spine with sharp focused precision, mapping the terrain of your body like he had countless times before.

The touch dipped lower, palms cupping the plush fullness of your ass firmly, kneading the flesh through the barrier of your briefs as he pulled you even closer, your bodies aligning in a heated press, the rigid length of his arousal grinding against your hip. 

The contact was pure electricity incarnate, a jolt that arced from his hands to your core, leaving you dizzy and delightfully off-balance, your knees threatening to Bucky as you leaned into him for support, the world narrowing to the intoxicating friction of skin on skin, and fabric on fabric. He let out a little grunt against your lips before his hands slid from your ass, trailing fire down to the undersides of your thighs. 

With effortless strength, he lifted you as if you weighed no more than a feather, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, thighs clamping tight around the hard planes of his hips while he carried you towards the bed. The world tilted in the haze of your desire, a dizzying whirl of sunlight-dappled curtains and the scent of honeysuckle, before he lowered you onto the semi-cooled sheets with a controlled tenderness, the fabric puffing out around your weight and clinging to your arms with a cool, silken embrace that contrasted sharply with the feverish heat radiating from your body.

He stood up then, straightening to his full height and toeing over you for a breath-stealing moment, his hair tousled and catching the golden light in gilded strands that framed his face like a halo forged in the setting sun, his eyes darkening to sapphire depths flecked with molten desire as he drank in the sight of you–sprawled there in wanton invitation, writhing at the sudden loss of his warmth, your body arching in a silent, eloquent plea for reunion, while a frustrated whine escaped your throat like a tune of pent-up longing, or like a cat in heat. 

He loved seeing you like this, so utterly desperate for his touch, for the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, for his lips to chart heated paths along the canvas of your flesh, mapping every curve and hollow with devotion; the noises you made–those soft, needy sounds–only egged him on further, a wicked thrill coursing through him as he savoured the power to draw out this halt of passion, letting it stretch until it threatened to snap.

“For god sake Rhett, I thought you were going to show me your damn idea, not tease me even more,” You commented, pushing yourself up slightly on your elbows to glare up at him, though the fire in your eyes betrayed the depth of your craving, a storm of frustration and desire swirling in their depths, all misty and dazed. He reached for your calves, squeezing them gently with hands that trembled ever so slightly from the effort of restraint, thumbs pressing into the supple muscle in soothing, circular motions before smoothing upward to your knees, the glide of his palms igniting fresh trails of goosebumps in their wake. 

“I wouldn’t have followed you if this was what you were going to do,” You added, shifting your legs around in a playful attempt to evade his grasp, twisting with mock defiance, but his fingers held firm, keeping you in place without any real effort.

“I thought you had said before that you liked when I took my time with you…” He quipped jokingly, leaning down just enough to brush his lips over the tops of your knees one by one, planting soft kisses that seared like brands, his breath warm and humid against your skin. Still, he maintained that distance, denying you the chance to wrap your legs around him and reel him back down, his body a shadowed silhouette against the sunlit French doors, the light outlining the sweat-dampened contours of his shoulders and the flex of his biceps. You let out a groan, rolling your eyes as his tongue darted out to lick the flesh he had just kisses, a slow swipe that left a glistening trail cooling in the breeze, the salty tang of your skin blooming on his palate like a forbidden fruit. 

“I do…But right now I’d prefer skipping all the build up, our foreplay already happened in the kitchen,” You countered, as your fingers clenched the rumpled sheets, feeling the ache in your core intensifying to an insistent throb that demanded relief. He let out a little laugh, shaking his head just enough for a few strands of hair to fall loose across his forehead, framing his eyes with boyish charm even as his gaze held such a predatory gleam.

“If you call that foreplay I think I’ve been doin’ somethin’ wrong…” He stated, his eyes glancing up to lock with yours as he dragged his teeth along the sensitive inner curve of your knee, countering the heat of his breath with the rasp of his stubble the left a burning sensation in its wake, each sensation layering upon the last. You brought your hands up to thread through his hair, your fingers weaving into the sweat-dampened strands with a possessive tug, pushing them back out of his face to reveal the full intensity of his expression as you held him there.

“Or you’ve been doing something right because I’m already wet and you haven’t even touched me properly yet,” You confessed, your body arching toward him in a sinuous curve that was both an invitation and silent coaxing, as if daring him to verify the slick evidence of your desire for himself. He hummed low in his throat, a resonant vibration that echoed through his chest, and slowly, he pushed your knees apart, the calloused pads of his thumbs pressing into the tender inner flesh, spreading you open beneath him. HIs gaze dropped to the intimate valley between your legs, fixating on the telltale wet patch staining the guest of your briefs–a darkened bloom of arousal displaying the depth of your need for him glistening faintly in the golden light. A slow smile unfurled across his lips, as he brought himself closer, his breath ghosting over your thighs in heated puffs.

“You weren’t kiddin’…” He murmured, his tone a gravelly caress wrapped in awe, bringing his hands up to ruck your t-shirt higher, the fabric bunching just beneath your breasts, his palms settling possessively on the quivering expanse of your lower belly, fingers splaying wide to feel the subtle tremor of your muscles beneath the heated silk of your flesh, “I’m surprised I can drive you this crazy with just a few simple kisses and cuddles…Maybe I should start takin’ advantage of that more often.”

The mere suggestion ignited another shift within you, your hips squirming involuntarily as vivid flashes invaded your mind–him cornering you in the barn amid the scent of fresh hay and leather, or pressing you against the truck’s sun-warmed hood after a long drive, his touches calculated to unravel you at the most inconvenient moments, knowing your body would betray you with this exact, inevitable surrender, a flush of heat blooming across your chest at the wicked potential that he would take advantage of at any time, only to pull back and leave you turned on and frustrated.

He inched closer still, his broad shoulders eclipsing the light as he dipped his head, his lips brushing the insides of your thighs in a trail of open-mouthed kisses, his tongue lapping at the sticky sheen there with unhurried reverence, savouring the faint sweetness of your arousal intermingled with the salty dew of sweat that had gathered there. It was a blend that tasted like pure nectar to him, and he drank it down like it was water.

He let out a moan of approval, the sound muffling against your flesh and vibrating through you as he continued his ascent, alternating from one thigh to the other in a deliberate zigzag motion–biting gently with his teeth that grazed just enough to sting, nipping at the sensitive crease right where your thigh ended, and licking broad, flat strokes that left cooling trails in their wake, absorbing every nuance of your essence until your skin was glistening with his saliva.

Finally, he reached the edge of your brief, pausing to glance up at you through the veil of his lashes, his pupils blown wide with hunger as he took in the accelerated cadence of your breathing, the hypnotic rise and fall of your chest that made your breasts strain against the thin fabric, nipples pebbled and begging for attention. With a deep inhale, he pressed his nose into he damp spot of your underwear, drawing in your musky scent, filling his lungs completely until it saturated his senses, an elixir that made his erection twitch in his jeans.

He exhaled through his mouth in a slow, heated gust that seeped through the cotton, warming your core further, before pushing his face even deeper into the fabric, shifting his body onto the mattress so he nestled comfortably between your thighs, his shoulders wedging them wider as he moved his hands to the outsides, pressing them together around his head like velvet vices, as if he yearned to suffocate in the enveloping depths of you, lost in the inebriating cocoon of your warmth and scent.

His breath permeated the barrier, and he let out a guttural grunt before dragging his tongue against the damp spot in languid, insistent laps, the rough texture of the fabric adding a friction that tore a whimper from your throat. You leaned up on your elbows to look down at him, your fingers tightening in his hair, twisting the damp strands around your knuckles in a desperate bid for control amid the swirling vortex of intermingled sensations.

He continued to lap at the spot with unabashed enthusiasm, tasting the tang of you seeping through the cotton, his saliva soaking the material until it clung to your folds, enjoying himself far more than you anticipated, his movements growing more fervent as he pushed his face deeper, the bridge of his nose bumping rhythmically against your covered clit with each shift. 

Your thighs tightened around his head, muscles quivering against his cheeks, as his fingers dug into the plush outer flesh, holding you captive in this superlative limbo as he rubbed his face against you with complete abandon, stubble scraping along your skin, like he was intent on imprinting your scent onto every inch of his face–hoping the musky essence would linger on his flesh long into the night.

You shifted beneath him, hips undulating in restless arcs, the desperation of more shooting through your veins, screaming for relief, for anything that would give you what you needed. The material of your briefs was now a sodden barrier that molded right against your pulsing core, as it clenched around the aching emptiness, craving the unfiltered heat of his mouth and fingers. You pulled on his hair again, the tug eliciting a deep moan that vibrated through the fabric on your clit, where you needed him most, intensifying the coil of tension winding tighter in your belly.

“God Rhett, please…Take my fucking underwear off. I need to feel your mouth on me–fuck! Please, baby…Please,” You begged, your voice cracking on the edge of unshed tears, raw with the overwhelming surge of need that blurred the line between plea and command, feeling your chest aching, and the frustration mounting even further, to the point where you were desperate to do anything to feel more.

Rhett pulled back from the sodden cotton with a reluctant sigh, his lips glistening with a mix of saliva and your arousal, his cheeks flushed a deeper crimson beneath the burn he acquired from the days labour, eyes hooded and gleaming with satisfaction at having reduced you to this quivering state without having to touch your flesh. There was such a desperate look in your eyes that he nearly sidelined having his mouth on you, skipping straight to taking you right then and there, but once again, he controlled himself, knowing that it would come to him in due time.

“Alright…Lift your hips, sweetheart,” He instructed, seeing the relief that washed over your features. Immediately, you complied to him, arching your hips off the bed in eager obedience, the sheets whispering beneath you as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, the elastic snapping faintly against your skin as he peeled them down your legs with agonizing slowness, revealing your glistening core to the warmth of the room’s air–a sight that never failed to make his mouth water, his breath catching in his throat at the sheer perfection before him, slick folds flushed and swollen, and dripping from you like a heavenly fountain.

Nothing in the world compared to this unveiling, and nothing could replicate the beauty of your arousal laid bare for him alone. His cock twitched again within the confines of his jeans, hardening even further to the point where he would soon need relief, though you…Always came first. That was his rule, and he stood by it no matter how crazy he felt while doing it.

He brought the discarded briefs up to his face one last time, inhaling the concentrated scent with a shuddering breath, his tongue flicking out to lap at the wetness clinging to the inner panel, moaning low at the unaltered taste–the heady nectar of salt and sweetness–before tossing them aside with casual disregard, the fabric landing in a forgotten heap on the floor.

“Take your shirt off too,” He said roughly, his command laced with a dominant edge that brooked no argument, watching with rapt attention as you sat up quickly, grasping the hem of the t-shirt and lifting it over your head in a fluid motion, discarding it off the side of the bed to join the growing pile of shed barriers.

His eyes immediately caught on the lucky horseshoe necklace he had gifted you for your second anniversary–a gleaming silver pendant that nestled between your breasts–and he reached out to touch it, the cool metal warming under his fingers as he pressed it gently into the soft valley of your sternum, guiding you back down onto the mattress with a firm yet careful push, your body sinking into the rumpled sheets like an offering on an altar, ready for the devotion he was about to lavish. 

His fingertips trailed over the supple swell of your breast, the roughened pads facing a lazy path that ignited sparks along your nerve endings, circling your areola before flicking across your nipple with a featherlight touch that made it pebble even tighter under his touch. He mirrored the motion on the other side, his thumb and forefinger pinching gently at first, then rolling the sensitive peak between them, watching with hooded intensity as your lips parted on a short ragged breath. 

Your eyes glanced up at him, hazy with need, before drifting back down to his hand, mesmerized by the way he cupped and squeezed, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin, drawing a small, involuntary gasp from deep in your throat–a breathy hitch that only drew another pool of liquid heat between your thighs.

You reached up to encircle his wrist with your fingers, the corded muscles there flexing under your grasp as you began guiding his hand lower, pushing it down the plane of your belly, over the subtle rise of your pubic bone, your touch insistent yet trembling from the adrenaline rushing through your bloodstream. A low, amused laugh escaped him, vibrated through his chest like the purr of a contented predatory, his eyes gleaming with a dominant spark as he allowed you to lead, though you both knew he could reclaim control in an instant.

“Is this what you want, hmm? You want my fingers?” He murmured, his drawl laced with a teasing challenge, leaning forward to press a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the soft expanse of your belly, his breath hot as he blew gently on the damp spots left by his lips, the cool contrast sending shivers racing across your skin. You nodded fervently, your pulse thundering in your ears as you watched him, the golden light casting shadows that accentuated the strong lines of his jaw and the dusting of freckles on his nose.

“So say it then…” He whispered against your flesh, his words a silken command that ghosted over your heated skin, teasing his fingers down to your slick folds, lightly tracing the outer edges with maddening restraint, purposely skirting the throbbing ache of your clit and the quivering entrance that begged for intrusion.

“Want your fingers…Need them so fucking bad,” You breathed, your hips canting upward in a futile attempt to press your pulsing heat against him, only for his free hand to splay across your abdomen, his weight shifting to pin you firmly into the mattress, the pressure eliciting a high-pitched whine from your throat, a sound of pure frustration wrapped in aching need. 

“Fuck…Rhett pl-oh fuck!” The plea shattered mid-sentence as his fingers finally yielded, running along your tight, weeping slit with a slow, exploratory glide, rubbing gently to part the folds before dragging his slick-coated digits up to your clit, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in a slow, rhythmic motion, applying just enough pressure to make your body squirm beneath him, muscles clenching and releasing in involuntary spasms as pleasure bloomed like wildfire through your veins.

His tongue slipped out once more, sliding along the salted curve of your stomach in a broad, savouring stroke, moaning softly at the briny tang that burst on his palate, before he kissed his way downward, each press of his lips leaving your skin tingling with every point of contact. 

He cushioned himself fully between your thighs, the broad expanse of his shoulders nudging them wider as he draped your legs over them, your heels pressing into the firm muscles of his back, effectively trapping you with no avenue for escape, knowing full well he’d soon have you squirming and writhing in ecstasy beneath his unrelenting attention. He adjusted his position against the mattress, the bed frame groaning, before sliding his fingers off your clit with a final teasing swirl, using them instead to spread you open wide, exposing every glistening inch to his ravenous gaze–a close-up feast of quivering flesh, every subtle pulse and clench laid bare, the slick arousal trickling slowly from your entrance like justice form a ripened fruit, beckoning his tongue to claim it.

He granted you no reprieve to protest the sudden loss, replacing his fingers with his mouth in a seamless dive, his lips enveloping your swollen clit in a warm, sucking embrace that pulled a sharp, guttural gasp from your lung, the sensation a lightning strike of pleasure that arched your spine off the bed. His tongue flicked in perfect rhythm with his greedy sucks, the wet, obscene sounds of his devouring filling the room–slurping laps and soft smacks that intertwined with your escalating whimpers, each one a breathless crescendo building in your throat. He slid his arm over your belly like an iron bar, holding your bucking hips down, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you splayed as he nuzzled deeper, the stubble of his jaw scraping deliciously against your folds, adding a rough, textured friction that heightened every lick and pull.

Your hands instinctively moved down to comb through his tousled hair, fingers tangling in the damp waves for anchorage as your head lulled to the side, eyes fluttering closed in surrender to the overwhelming bliss, the world narrowing to the velvety heat of his mouth and the insistent throb radiating from your core. Rhett never eased into this act; he dove in with the ferocity of a man starved, the earlier tortuous buildup only fuelling his urgency, and now he feasted like a devotee at a sacred rite, his tongue a relentless force that swirled and probed without mercy. 

He nuzzled his face into you, sucking hard at your clit until it pulsed against his lips, then released it with a lewd pop that echoed softly, the cool air rushing in to tease the sensitized nub before he shifted lower, running his tongue along your soaked core in broad, hungry strokes, burrowing the soft muscle into your slit to feel your walls quiver and contract around it. The intimate intrusion drew a sharp, keening breath from you as your hands tightened into fists in his hair, nails dragging along his scalp in rhythmic scratches that elicited a deep, approving groan from him, the vibration humming straight through your folds like an electric current.

He slipped his tongue out reluctantly, pressing his entire face into your core with a fervent grind, his nose rubbing against your clit in firm, circling nudges that sent fresh spark exploding behind your eyelids, lapping greedily at the arousal that kept spilling form you like an unending spring, the slick sounds of his consumption–wet laps and contented hums–mingling with your moans, each one a fractured plea that spurred him on further. Pulling back just slightly, his breath fanned hot over your glistening skin, the brief respite a torment in itself.

“God, Y/N…You taste so good…Been thinkin’ about havin’ you like this all day,” He murmured, his words a throaty vibration that pulsed through your oversensitive flesh, before plunging his tongue inside you once more, pushing in with gentle insistence to savour you straight from the source, relishing the way your inner walls clenched around the intrusion, the intimate flutter drawing a sigh from him.

“Christ Rh-Rhett…” The words dissolved into incoherence in your mouth, your brain short-circuiting amid the suctioning heat of his lips and the possessive press of his arm anchoring you in place, as the pleasure continued to mount and build in relentless layers, a tidal wave that crested from within you.

He withdrew his tongue with a final curl, dragging his mouth back up to latch onto your clit once more, sucking it between his lips again, bringing his fingers up to your entrance. He rounded the slick opening slowly, coating them in your abundant arousal, the slippery glide a teasing prelude before sliding two thick digits inside with effortless ease, the sudden fullness tearing a gasp from your lips, your heels digging into his back as you absorbed the delicious stretch, feeling them curl upward to stroke the hidden ridge inside of you.

“Fuck! Rhett…Please!” You cried out, the plea a shattered wail as you pulled on his hair, the sharp tug only encouraging his rhythm, his fingers pumping in and out with increasing tempo, taking in the obscene, wet squelches that accompanied each thrust, your thighs tightening around his head like a vice, while your core pulsed and squeezed in frantic response. He matched your body’s urgency, his tongue flicking relentlessly at your clit in sync with the curl of his fingers, interpreting every twitch and jolt like a secret language, the intimate dance building to an inexorable peak.

One hand untangled from his hair to clutch at his arm, nails biting into the sun-kissed skin as the muscles in your stomach knotted, the coil within burning hot and taut, feeling lava flooding your veins in a scorching rush. Rhett accelerated his movements, thrusting his fingers faster and deeper, the slick friction and his unyielding sucks pushing you to the brink, until the tight wire of your pleasure snapped with a violent shudder.

A whine ripped from your throat as you gushed around his fingers in pulsing waves, soaking them and the sheets beneath in a warm flood, his tongue persisting in its hungry flicks against your clit while he moaned against you, the vibration stretching your ecstasy, your body writhing and shaking in convulsive bliss beneath his mouth. Through the haze, you could’ve sworn you felt his lips curve into a satisfied smile as he pulled off the swollen bundle with a final, tender kiss, his fingers slowing to gentle strokes along your fluttering walls.

“That…Was fuckin’ perfect,” He complimented, his voice a roughened whisper of admiration, continuing to pet you from the inside with small curls, drawing out the aftershocks that made your body twitch uncontrollably.

“Rhett…Too much,” You warned, the words a breathless plea amid the overwhelming sensitivity that washed over you. It felt like every nerve in your body was set alight and singing a siren song just for him, a symphony of electric pulses that wove through your veins like threads of molten gold, binding your sensations to his in an invisible tapestry of shared ecstasy–as if the afterglow radiating from your core had seeped into his very bones, syncing the erratic thrum of your heartbeat with the steady cadence of his own. The air between you hummed, the faint scent of your release mingling with the earthy musk of his sweat, creating a heady atmosphere that clung to your skin.

The two of you were so in sync that it wouldn’t have surprised you if your thoughts had bled into one another, but regardless, he heeded your words with a tender obedience, easing his fingers out of you with a slow withdrawal that made your inner walls clench around the retreating digits, the slick glide accompanied by a soft, absence squelch that echoed in the room. 

He brought them up to his mouth, and sucked your release off of them with unhurried appreciation, his tongue swirling around each knuckle to capture every glossy trace, the salty-sweet tang bursting on his palate like a forbidden vintage, drawing a low hum from deep in his throat.

He moved his arm off your belly then, the sudden release of pressure allowing a rush of cool air to kiss your heated skin, granting you the freedom to look down at him fully–to drink in the beautiful, debauched sight of his face glistening with your essence, a sheen that coated his cheeks in a dewy glow, painted his reddened lips like gloss, and even dotted the tip of his nose, every inch of him was marked like you had painted him with a brush. You had practically anointed him, and the raw triumph gleaming in his eyes, a feral spark beneath the affection, sent a fresh wave of satisfaction curling through you, knowing you had unravelled him just as surely as he had undone you.

He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a wet, audible pop, the sound sharp and indecent in the hushed space, letting out a contented sigh that fanned across your thighs.

“God really blessed you with the best tastin’ pussy in the entire world…If you would let me, I’d stay between your thighs forever…Would be your little play thing for the rest of my god damn life if I could,” He murmured, his words tumbling out in a jumbled haze, slurred by the fog of his own raging arousal, though the sincerity burned through him–you knew he meant every syllable, his voice roughened to gravel from the strain of holding back.

You took in a shaky breath, the inhale ragged and even as your chest rose and fell, reaching down to frame his face with your hands, your palms cupping his jaw, thumbs swiping along the damp rasp of his stubble in gentle arcs, feeling the faint prickle against your skin as he turned his head into your touch, his tongue darting out to lick at the salty crevices of your palms with a hungry flick, groaning low at the fresh sheen of sweat that had gathered there from your earlier grip, the briny flavour mingling with the lingering notes of your release on his lips. 

He shifted your legs off his shoulders with careful hands, the muscles in his back flexing under your heels as he placed a few chaste kisses on the quivering insides of your thighs. His mouth was soft and wet, licking away the remnants of your climax with slow, savouring strokes. 

He trailed those kisses upward, mapping the soft terrain of your belly with his lips, each press a caress that ignited fresh embers low in your abdomen, then ascending to the valley between your breasts, his tongue running along the skin there, moaning at the clean, salted warmth that bloomed on his taste buds. He captured the horseshoe pendent between his teeth, sucking on the warmed silver with a playful tug, the metallic tang blending with the faint residue on your skin, his eyes locking on your all the while–darkened pools of blue that held you captive, conveying the depth of devotion that made your pulse stutter anew–before releasing it with a gentle drop, the chain settling back against your chest, now slick with his saliva.

“Wish summer lasted year round so I could taste your fuckin’ sweat every night like this…Maybe we should call the repair man and tell him to cancel our request to fix the AC,” He suggested quietly, his voice etched with mischievous intent, kissing his way up the column of your neck, his lips latching onto your pulse point with a suck that coaxed the fluttering rhythm beneath to quicken, his tongue swirling over the spot until a faint bloom of colour rose under the skin, pulling off to admire the mark with a satisfied hum.

“You better not…Been suffering from the heat,” You murmured in response, your words drifting out in a dazed haze, utterly fogged by the overwhelming cascade of affections he showered upon you, each lick and kiss sending your heart into erratic flutters, a staccato beat that echoed the tremors in your limbs.

Now that he was so close, you could inhale the full potency of his sweat–the musky, masculine odour that you had caught a peek of in the kitchen, that wrapped around you like a primal shroud, invading your nostrils with notes of sun-baked earth and raw exertion, which only made you squirm beneath him in restless need, your hands sliding to his shoulder, fingers pawing at the damp fabric as you strained toward him, craving a deeper draw of that intoxicating scent, wanting to bury your face into his body. But he tilted to the side, angling himself just out of reach, forcing you to arch further, the denial heightening the ache.

He moved his lips along the sharp line of your jaw, each one a press that savoured your salt-kissed skin, before finally reaching your lips and devouring your breaths in an all consuming kiss, drawn you into his lungs like you were the only thing keeping him alive. His mouth coaxed yours open, tongue slipping gin to tangle with yours, letting you taste the mingled flavours of yourself on him, as you sucked greedily on the soft muscle with a low growl. He pressed his body flush against yours, the solid weight of him grounding you, as one hand reached up to cradle your cheek, the calloused fingers brushing over the flushed skin there in featherlight stroke, while he shifted his hips, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against your bare core in a deliberate grind, feeling the warm, hard ridge of his erection straining through the fabric.

You whimpered into his mouth, a muffled plea swallowed by the kiss, your hands sliding off his shoulders to grab at his shirt along his torso, your nails scratching lightly over the sweat-dampened hollows of his ribs through the cloth, the sensation drawing a small grunt from him that rumbled against your lips, prompting him to roll his hips again with more intent, the denim’s coarse weave teasing your oversensitive folds, letting your arousal stain it.

You pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, your lungs burning for air, feeling the slick coat of his saliva on your swollen lips, your tongue darting out to lick it away.

“You’re wearing too much, Rhett…” You breathed urgently, your gaze tracing the sweat-streaked contours of his chest that was visible through the grey fabric, seeing a knowing smile bloom on his face, his chest heaving against yours in laboured rises, the shared rhythm of your breaths intertwining with one another.

“Well…I better change that then, hmm?” He teased, pressing one more kiss to your lips–an open-mouthed claim that stole the last fragments of your breath–before shifting off you slowly, crawling backward across the rumpled sheets until he rose at the foot of the bed, unfolding to his full height in a deliberate motion that pure every honed line of his body on full display. 

The setting sun that streamed through the French doors, bathed him in molten orange and coral pink, softening the rugged contours of his frame, turning the faint sheen of sweat across his face into liquid gold, each droplet catching the light like scattered jewels on sun-warmed stone.

You pushed up onto your elbows, your gaze drifting downward with unabashed hunger to the unmistakable bulge straining against the front of his dark denim jeans. The fabric was taut, the zipper a silver seam barely containing him, and there–glistening in the light–a dark, damp smear from your release soaked him.

He reached for the hem of his t-shirt, fingers curling into the sweat-soaked fabric, and drew it upward with agonizing slowness, the material peeling away from his torso like a second skin reluctant to release its claim. Inch by inch, he revealed the lean, corded muscle beneath: the subtle rites of his abdomen where sweat had gathered in the shallow valleys, the faint dusting of freckles across his chest, the black ink work of his bull rider tattoo, and the sharp cut of his collarbones. It was a sight to behold, and you appreciated every second of it. 

He balled the shirt in one fist and tossed it toward you with a knowing flick of his wrist, the damp fabric landing softly against your chest as if he already knew the craving that burned in your veins. 

You picked it up, fingers sinking into the warm, yielding cotton, and brought it straight to your face without hesitation, burying your nose into the fabric’s heart where his scent was strongest. You drew in deep, greedy lungfuls–through your mouth and nose alike–letting the rich, primal musk flood your senses: sun-baked hay and mown grass, the sharp tang of honest labour, and underneath it all, the raw, masculine essence of him that made your head swim and your thighs press together. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from your throat as you nuzzled deeper, the damp cloth cool against your flushed cheeks, and you couldn’t resist darting your tongue out to lick a slow stripe along the collar, chasing the faint salt that hugged the memory of his skin. Only then did you let the shirt fall aside, discarded to the floor with yours in a careless heap.

Rhett watched the entire ritual with a slow grin spreading across his kiss-bitten lips, his chest rising and falling in heavy rhythm, the muscles there flexing with each breath. You shifted onto your knees then, crawling across the bed–toward him–on all fours, the motion sinuous, your hips swaying like a pendulum in the golden light, ass lifted high and round, the curve of it catching the sun’s last rays until it glowed. His teeth sank into his lower lip at the sight, a low rumble vibrating in his throat as you reached the edge of the mattress and straightened, knees sinking into the sheets, calves tucked beneath you so you sat perched like an offering, hands reaching out to steady yourself on the firm planes of his hips.

He looked down at you, drinking in the pure, unfiltered lust that burned in your gaze–the way your pupils had blown out, the subtle part of your lips, the quick dart of your tongue as if you could already taste him on the air. You were ravenous, every inch of you screaming it, a living flame that only he could extinguish.

You broke eye contact first, letting your stare roam over the bare expense of his change like a map you intended to memorize with your mouth. The sheen of sweat gleamed across the muscles, highlighting every dip and swell, the bull rider tattoo stark against the flushed gold of his skin. Your mouth watered at the sight, but you took your time, letting the anticipation coil tighter, knowing exactly where this path would lead and how gloriously long you would make the journey.

Rhett’s hand settled on the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair–not pushing, simply holding–as you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inked bull rider, lips lingering over the raised lines before drifting sideways to the warm hollow of his armpit. You nuzzled your nose into the sweat-lacquered skin there, inhaling deeply, letting the potent, heady musk flood every corner of your senses until your head spun and a small, needy moan vibrated against his flesh.

“Mmm, I don’t understand how you smell so fucking good after being on the ranch all day…But fuck…I love it so much,” You whispered, your voice muffling into his skin, as his fingers tightened in your hair, a possessive flex that sent sparks racing down your spine.

“Just chemistry, I guess…I get the same way with you,” He replied, the words a low, smoke-rough drawl. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes glossy and unfocused, pupils blown wide like you were drunk on the very air you had been breathing, utterly possessed by the need to map every inch of him with your mouth, your tongue, and your hands.

Your palms slid to the sides of his torso, fingers spreading wide over the fevered plane of muscle, feeling the faint tremor that ran beneath his skin as you adjusted your weight on your knees. The crevices between his abs had become secret reservoirs, tiny glittering pools of sweat that gathered in the shallow valleys–each drop a liquid diamond catching the dying light, trembling with every breath he took. 

You looked up at him through the fan of your lashes, tongue slipping out to trace a deliberate path from the cleft of his sternum downward, gathering the day’s labour in one long, savouring stroke. The taste bloomed instantly across your tongue–sharp, clean salt, mingled with the faint sweetness of sun-warmed skin and the earthy undertones of a heady leather, a flavour that was so uniquely him that it made your core clench around nothing. His lips parted on a quiet exhale, a satisfied grin carving itself into the corners of his mouth.

“My god…Look at you…Cleanin’ me up like the good girl you are, huh?” The praise rolled off his tongue simply, and you swallowed hard around the sudden tightness in your throat, nodding slowly while holding his gaze, the connection between you crackling like summer lightning.

You drifted lower without, tongue dragging a wet line along the taut plane of his navel, then tracing the faint trail of hair that arrowed downward like an invitation, leaving a glistening ribbon of your own saliva that shimmered in the low light. The salt of him coated your lips, your tongue, and every slow lap pulled a fresh, involuntary clench from deep in your belly.

“Can’t let it go to waste…It would be a sin,” You murmured, the words vibrating into the muscles of his abdomen, your breath heating where your mouth had been. His hand shifted from the back of your head, sliding down to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye as you continued to lap at his stomach with devoted thoroughness–replacing every bead of sweat with the warm glide of your spit, smearing it across the ridges and valleys until his skin gleamed. He closed his eyes, head tilting back on a low groan, the column of his throat working as your teeth grazed the sensitive sides of his belly, nipping gently, just enough to leave faint pink crescents that bloomed over his skin.

Your hands slid lower, palms pressing over the front of his jeans where the heavy bulge strained against the denim. You squeezed gently, offering the barest hint of relief, massaging the rigid length through the rough fabric until he rolled his hips forward into your touch with a sharp inhale. A small, secret smile curved your lips against his skin–he could feel it, the soft press of satisfaction, of pride–and then you pulled your mouth away, your fingers already working the buckle of his belt.

The metal clinked softly, a bright, anticipatory note that cut through the rhythm of your breathing, your hands trembling as you freed the button, and dragged the zipper down with a slow rasping sound, pushing the denim down his powerful, bull rider thighs.

The tight black boxers beneath were already marked with a dark, glistening wet spot blooming at the front where his precum had soaked through, the outline of him thick and insistent against the cotton. Your throat tightened at the sight, a fresh rush of heat flooding between your thighs, and almost instantly you leaned forward, pressing your face into the soft, heated fabric. You nuzzled your nose against the damp patch, inhaling deeply, letting the raw, intimate musk of him–salt and skin, and pure masculine need–flood every sense until your head spun. Your tongue darted out, licking a slow stripe over the stained cotton, tasting the faint bitter tang of his arousal through the barrier, feeling the thick length twitch and jump beneath your mouth. 

A deep groan tore from his chest, his fingers digging lightly into your cheek as you mouthed at him with open hunger, sucking gently at the fabric, teasing the sensitive head until the material clung to him. No matter the thin cotton between you, the sensation was devastating–you could feel every ridge, every heavy throb, the way he pulsed against your lips–and the knowledge that you could unravel him this way made you even wetter. 

He slipped his hand beneath your chin, fingers gentle yet commanding, tilting your face upward until your eyes met his. The sudden loss of contact drew a desperate little whine from your throat, as confusion and frustration flickered across your features, lips parted and glistening, silently begging him for you to continue.

“I need you to lay back for me so I can fuck you…Can’t take it any longer,” He whispered, his thumb sweeping along the line of your jaw with a touch that soothed himself. You nodded immediately, the motion eager, and you tilted your head to press a soft kiss to the centre of his palm, your wet lips lingering against the warm, calloused skin. “Okay,” You replied, your voice barely more than a breath, your hands sliding reluctantly from his body as you shifted backward across the sheets. The loss of his warmth left a cool ghost along your skin, yet you moved with liquid grace, settling into the middle of the wide mattress so there was space to shift around, though you didn’t lie back fully. Instead you remained propped on your elbows, the position lifting your breasts and arching your spine in unconscious invitation, eyes fixed on him with rapt hunger as he began to strip himself bare for you. 

He pushed his jeans and boxers down his thighs with a careless shove, the heavy denim and cotton pooling at his ankles before he kicked them aside, the fabric sliding in a forgotten heap beside the bed. The motion revealed the stark tan line that framed his narrow hips, the pale skin beneath contrasting sharply with the golden hue of the rest of him, and the neatly groom thatch of dark hair crowning the heavy, flushed length of his cock.

It hung thick and swollen between his legs, the head a deep, angry red, glistening with a steady bead of precum that clung to the slit and threatened to drip. You swallowed hard, mouth flooding with fresh saliva at the sight–every inch of him was so achingly perfect, so blatantly aroused, that the thought of mouthing him through his boxers only edged with disappointment that you hadn’t tasted him properly when you had the chance. 

Slowly, you parted your thighs for him, knees falling open like the petals of a night-blooming flower, offering yourself completely–an invitation laid bare beneath the last rays spilling through the open doors. He crawled up onto the bed without hesitation, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, the wooden frame giving a low creak as he settled his body over yours, the solid heat of him pressing you deeper into the sheets.

Your pebbled nipples brushed against the damp plane of his chest, sending sparks racing across your skin, and he captured your lips in a heated, open-mouthed kiss, one large hand sliding up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb stroking the fluttering pulse there, memorizing its frantic rhythm.

His hips rolled against yours in a slow grind, the thick, velvet length of his cock dragging through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal while he adjusted himself–thighs sliding beneath yours, lifting and cradling your legs so your knees bent and hooked around his hips, creating the perfect cradle for what was to come. His free hand roamed downward, palming the soft swell of your breast with a rough squeeze that made you arch into him, then trailing lower, fingers splaying over your belly before slipping between your bodies. 

He gripped himself, giving his cock a few firm, slow strokes that made the vein along the underside pulse in his palm, before sliding the swollen head through your weeping slit, teasing it up and down, circling your clit with the slick tip until the two of you were breathing raggedly into the kiss, exchanging saliva and desperate little sounds. It was messy, hungry, the kind of molding of mouths that left your lips swollen and shining, the desire between you brewing like a living, buzzing thing that seemed to fill the entire room with its heat.

You reached for his shoulders, nails digging into the sweat-slick muscles, a sharp whine escaping as he continued to smear his warm precum over your clit and entrance, the friction maddening, and perfect, until finally–finally–he notched the broad head at your entrance and pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite, a slow, burning fullness that parted your walls around his thick tip, drawing a gasp from your lips that he swallowed against the kiss. He pulled back just enough to watch your face, eyes dark with lust as your lashes fluttered and your head tipped back against the mattress, lips parted on a silent cry of pure bliss.

No matter how many times he had taken you, the first moment of penetration always felt like coming home–his size filling you so completely, stretching you open in that perfect, aching way that made every nerve sing. He was the biggest you had ever had, and your body welcomed him like it had been made for this, your walls fluttering and clenching around every thick inch as he sank deeper.  “You okay, baby?” He asked, the words vibrating against your mouth as he held himself still, the heavy weight of him pressing snug against your body. You nodded, sliding one hand up to comb your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently.

“I’m good…Keep going,” You whispered, the words barely audible, lost in the haze of fullness and heat. He brought his hips forward again, pushing deeper until his pelvis meet yours in a slow, grinding press, the coarse hair at the base of his cock dragging deliciously over your clit, buried to the hilt. He gave you a moment–lips brushing soft, reverent kisses across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth–before he began to move in short, testing thrusts, each one careful, checking the give of your body, the way you opened for him like a flower to the sun. 

When you hooked your ankles tighter behind his back and arched up to meet him, he knew that he could let go–picking up on the silent language you had always shared during moments like these. 

Slowly at first, then with building hunger, he rocked into you, the slick drag of his cock filling you completely on every thrust, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin and the obscene slide of him inside your soaked heat filling the room. You met every movement, rolling your hips up to take him deeper, dragging your swollen clit against the base of him until sparks burst behind your eyes. 

He grunted low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your as he picked up the pace, the thrusts growing harder, and deeper, the heat of his cock kissing your cervix with every powerful drive. 

Your nailed raked down his back, leaving thin red lines that burned sweetly against his damp skin. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive spot as the world narrowed to the relentless rhythm of his hips, the heavy slap of skin on skin, the wet glide of him stretching you open again and again. Your head fell back into the mattress, a desperate whine tearing from your throat as he changed the angle, the thick head of his cock dragging perfectly over that rigid spot inside you with every thrust, reaching up with both hands to grip the sheets above your head, fisting them tightly, sending pleasure crashing through you in bright, relentless waves.

“Rh-Rhe…” You tried to say his name, but it fractured on your tongue, lost to the overwhelming sensations that crowded and drowned you. He lifted his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and ragged.

“I know, baby…I know. I got you. Don’t hold back from me…” The low, sultry reassurance poured over you like warm honey, threading straight through the pulsing heat where you were joined, and your walls clenched hard around him in response. He groaned again, his rhythm thrown by the grip.

“You’re close, aren’t you? You gonna cum on my cock? Gonna let me feel you soak me?” He asked, his voice rasping against your ear, the words slicing through the haze as he drove into you harder, hips snapping forward with all the power he could muster, the thick length of his cock dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you, your walls fluttering wildly around him as if they were trying to hold him.

You could only whine in response, a broken, needy sound that cracked on the edge of desperation, your head tossing against the mattress as you nodded frantically, eyes squeezing shut against the overwhelming surge. He shook his head, a wicked smile curving his lips even as sweat dripped from his brow onto your flesh.

“Say it…Say you’re gonna cum on my cock…” He purred, each syllable punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust that pressed the base of him flush against your swollen clit again, his hair rasping over the slick, sensitive nub.

“I’m…I’m gonna cum on your cock…” You spluttered, the confession tearing from your throat in a shattered gasp.

“Good girl…That’s my fuckin’ good girl,” He cooed, the praise wrapping around you like silken chains, and something inside you snapped at the sound of it, like a pavlovian response. He picked up his rhythm, hips snapping faster now, each thrust harder, deeper, the wet slap filling the room again. He ground against you on every down stroke, sending sparks of white-hot pleasure shooting up your spine. 

Your nails dug into his back, raking long stinging lines down the sweat-slick muscle, and you could’ve sworn you drew blood, but neither of you cared. You pulled at the damp strands of hair that threaded through your fingers, and your thighs tightened like a vice around his hips, heels digging into the firm curve of his ass as you met every powerful drive with your own desperate roll. 

The coil in your belly wound tighter, hotter, pulsing with every wet slide of him inside you, until you cried out–back arching off the mattress, ankles locked behind him, body seizing in a shattering release.

Your walls clamped down around him in rhythmic, fluttering pulses, gushing hot and slick around his cock, soaking his length and the sheets beneath you in a warm, glistening flood. The wet sounds grew obscene, the smooth drag of him through your release only spurring him on, his rhythm faltering as the heat and pressure became almost too much. He was so close he could feel the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes, every muscle in his body drawn taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

His fists tightened in the sheets above your head, knuckles whitening, and he bit down hard on the curve of your shoulder, teeth sinking into the soft flesh with a possessive growl that vibrated straight through you. The sharp sting bloomed into liquid heat, and with one final, brutal thrust he buried himself to the hilt, hips grinding deep as his cock twitched and pulsed inside you.

Thick ropes of cum jetted hot and heavy against your walls, filling every crevice until you were overflowing, the excess spilling out around his thick base in warm, sticky rivulets that mingled with your own release and dripped onto the ruined sheets.

He stayed buried deep, savouring the way your walls continued to flutter around him, milking every last drop, before he slowly released the bite. His tongue laved over the indentations of his teeth, soothing the tender mark with gentle, apologetic strokes, the metallic tang of your skin mixing with the salt of his own sweat that dripped onto you on his tongue.

“Fuck…You take my cum so well,” He praised, the words rumbling against your neck as he finally lifted his head.

Only then did he notice the tears streaming silently down your temples, catching in the sunset room, like tiny shards of glass. Instant concern over took his features, clouding over the euphoria of his orgasm as he searched your face.

“Y/N? Baby, are you alright?” He asked softly, one hand coming down to cup your cheek, his thumb swiping tenderly over the wet tracks. You opened your eyes, a breathless, watery laugh escaping you as you nuzzled into his palm, the smile on your lips soft and satiated. 

“I’m amazing, Rhett…That was so fucking good.” Your voice was hoard, cracked from the cried he had pulled from you, but warm with genuine wonder, “You always know exactly how to please me.” He exhaled a shaky laugh of his own, the tension draining from his shoulder.

“Didn’t think I could bring you to tears just by fuckin’ you though…” He murmured, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and sweet, tasting the salt of your tears. You hummed against his mouth, rubbing slow circles over the scratched expanse of his back, feeling the raised lines you had left like badges of honour beneath your palms.

“I didn’t think you could either, but there’s a first time for everything, I guess,” You upped, the smirk on your lips playful even as your body trembled with aftershocks. He sighed contentedly, shifting to the side without pulling out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in–sex and sweat and that faint trace of jasmine that clung to your skin for dear life.

His heavy body, dripping with perspiration, slumped against yours, weighing you into the mattress, the two of you reeking of raw, spent passion, the thick, heady scent of it wrapping around you both like an intoxicating cloud you never wanted to leave.

“I could stay like this forever…Y’know that, right?” He mumbled into your shoulder, voice muffled and drowsy with exhaustion, his lips brushing your skin with every word. You nodded, massaging the back of his scalp with your fingers.

“I could too…But I’ll be the voice of reason and say we should shower off and eat. All this sex has made me hungry.” He let out a gruff, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your bodies, the sound warm and fond as he pulled back just enough to look down at you, blue eyes soft with affection despite that haze of lust within them.

“Are you sayin’ you’re open to a round two durin’ clean up? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you if we’re in the shower together.” You shrugged, the motion small and teasing, a playful spark returning to your gaze.

“When have I ever said no to that?” A big boyish smile broke across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he leaned down to pepper your face with an array of soft kisses–your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose that he gave a little nip to.

ABOUT THIS BLOG:

This is a roleplay/ask blog for Jud Duplenticy from Wake Up Dead Man! I (mod) will answer asks as Jud and operate the blog like he would in-universe after the events of Knives Out 3.

I'm going to limit OOC posts so I don't break the immersion or anything. If you need to talk to me OOC, feel free to DM me!

RULES FOR INTERACTION:

No homophobia/transphobia/bigotry of any kind.

Keep NSFW to a minimum.

Comedic third-wall breaking is funny but keep that to a minimum too.

That was the thing about Joe. He was always reading the room. Always tracking the undercurrents, cataloging the shifts, noticing what you didn’t say as loudly as what you did.

But tonight, he wasn’t reading you. He was just enjoying you. Guard down, shoulders loose, one hand sliding up your back under your shirt like he had all the time in the world.

He had no idea what was coming.

And you—you were kissing him back with your whole body while your mind turned over every quiet, unguarded thing he’d ever let slip. The things he said when his filter was thinnest. Late nights. After. When he was too honest or too wrecked or too far away to catch the words before they left his mouth.

The way his voice changed sometimes during sex. How it would drop into something lower, rougher—commanding in a way that made your whole body tighten. He’d tell you exactly what he wanted in a tone that left no room for questions, and for a few seconds, he’d be right there, fully, completely himself. And then he’d catch it. Pull back. Soften the next thing he said or redirect with his hands instead of his words, like he’d gotten a glimpse of something and decided it was too much.

You noticed every time.

And the things he said when he didn’t know he was saying them. Half-asleep after sex, his mouth against your shoulder, words barely more than breath: I wish I could keep you like this. Said so quietly you almost missed it. He probably didn’t even remember. He’d drifted off seconds later, arm heavy around your waist, and by morning it was just another thing he’d let slip and buried.

But you kept it. Held it in the same place you held everything else he gave you without meaning to.

And then there was the FaceTime call. Two weeks ago. Road trip—late, both of you wrecked, that hazy, guard-down space after you’d gotten each other off where neither of you had the energy to pretend. The room on his end was dark. You could barely see him, just the outline of his jaw, the glint of his eyes in the light from his phone. And he’d said it—quiet, rough, like the thought had been sitting in his chest all night and he was too tired to hold it down anymore.

“I just want to be able to look at you. When I’m not there.”

And then he’d cleared his throat. Changed the subject. Asked if you’d eaten that day. Moved on like he hadn’t just cracked himself open in a dark hotel room two thousand miles away.

He thought you’d let it go.

You didn’t.

You’d been stitching it together for weeks. Not just those moments, but the pattern underneath them—the voice he pulled back from, the want he kept editing out, the way he described the absence when he was on the road in terms that told you exactly what would fill it. He’d never asked for it. Not once. Not directly. Because asking would mean naming it, and naming it would mean admitting he wanted something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

But you heard him. Every time. You’d been paying attention with the same precision he paid attention to everything about you. Filing it away. Building a picture of what lived underneath his filter.

He had no idea you’d been doing it. That was the part that made your chest ache. Joe—who noticed everything, who cataloged every shift in your mood and every crack in your voice—genuinely did not know that someone had been doing it back to him. Not because he was arrogant. Because it had never occurred to him that he was readable. He’d spent his whole life making sure he wasn’t.

Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest. You pulled back from the kiss.

Joe’s mouth chased yours for half a second, instinctively, before he registered the shift. His hands stilled on your hips. A smile started to form—the easy, slightly smug one he wore when he thought you were teasing him.

Then he saw your face.

The smile faded. Not into concern—into focus. That quiet click behind his eyes when something caught his attention. The observer switching on.

But he was too late. You were already ahead of him.

“I want to tell you something.”

Your voice didn’t come out as smooth as you wanted. Your hands were still on his shoulders, fingers pressing in a little too hard.

He waited. Watching you the way he watched everything—quiet, still, giving you space to get there.

“Your voice,” you started. Swallowed. “When we’re together. Sometimes it… changes. It gets lower, and you’re—you’re telling me what you want, like actually telling me, and it’s—” You exhaled. “It’s so good, Joe. And then you stop. Every time. You pull back like you caught yourself doing something wrong.”

His brow shifted. Just barely.

“And you said something to me once.” Quieter now. “After. You were half-asleep, and you probably don’t even remember.” You held his gaze. “You said, ‘I wish I could keep you like this.’”

Something moved across his face. Quick. Unguarded. Like he’d been hit somewhere he didn’t have armor.

“And two weeks ago. On FaceTime.” Your thumb traced his collarbone, a nervous habit you couldn’t stop. “You told me you wanted to be able to look at me. When you’re not there.” You watched his jaw tighten. He remembered. You could see the exact moment it landed. “And then you changed the subject like it was nothing.”

The room was quiet. Just your breathing and his. His thumbs had stopped moving on your hips. His eyes hadn’t left yours, but there was something behind them now that looked like freefall.

You reached over to the nightstand. His phone. You didn’t break eye contact as your fingers closed around it. You picked it up, placed it in his hand, and curled his fingers around it.

You didn’t explain. The gesture was the explanation.

Joe looked down at the phone in his hand. Then back at you. You could see it—the deflection forming behind his eyes. The almost-joke. The instinct to make it lighter, easier, smaller. You watched it rise and die in real time. His jaw worked. He swallowed.

Then, rough and low:

“You sure?”

Not about the sex. About all of it. About whether you understood what you were handing him. Whether you knew you’d just told him you’d been watching him—in the moments he thought he was invisible—and you wanted what you found.

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a moment. The phone sat in his palm like it weighed something. His other hand was still on your hip, and you felt his fingers press in—not pulling, just holding on. Grounding himself.

“I didn’t want to be too much,” he said.

Five words. That was it. But they carried the weight of every pulled-back command, every softened tone, every half-sentence he’d let slip and then buried. The fear underneath the filter wasn’t shame. It wasn’t about kink or desire. It was simpler than that, and worse: the fear that who he was—unedited, unfiltered, wanting—was more than someone would choose to stay for.

You took his face in your hands. Thumbs along his jaw. Close enough that your next breath was his.

“You’re not too much.” Your voice was shaking, but the words weren’t. “You’re not even close. And I don’t want the version you think I can handle. I want the one you’ve been hiding.”

You kissed him.

And everything changed.

His mouth was different against yours before you even registered the shift. Not harder—slower. More deliberate. Like something had loosened in him the moment you said those words, and what replaced the tension wasn’t intensity.

It was ease.

That was the thing that got you first. You’d expected him to ramp up. To grip tighter, move faster, flip some switch into something more aggressive. But Joe didn’t tense. He relaxed. His shoulders dropped. His hands slowed on your body, moving with a calm authority that was entirely new. Like something in him had finally unclenched.

Because the restraint had been the effort. You understood that now, feeling it in the difference of his touch. The pulling back, the self-editing, the catching himself—that was what cost him energy. The control wasn’t a gear he had to shift into. It was where he lived. And you’d just given him permission to stop leaving.

His hands moved up your thighs with a patience that made your breath stutter. Not teasing. Not building. Just savoring. Taking his time because he could. Because no one was editing this.

“Stand up.”

Quiet. Almost conversational. Said with the same ease as if he’d asked you to hand him a glass of water. But it wasn’t a question, and both of you knew it.

You stood. Your legs weren’t ready for it, but he didn’t seem concerned about that. He stayed where he was—sitting against the headboard, looking up at you with an expression you’d only gotten in flashes before. Unhurried. Like he could see exactly what he wanted and had all the time in the world to take it.

“Take your shirt off.”

Same tone. Low, warm. No urgency. You pulled it over your head and let it fall, and his eyes moved over you the way they moved over film—missing nothing, cataloging everything, giving nothing away except the faintest tightening at the corner of his jaw.

“Now the rest.”

You undressed for him piece by piece, and he watched every second of it with that quiet, focused calm. Not leaning forward. Not reaching for you. Just watching. And somehow that was more devastating than if he’d torn everything off you himself—the patience, the stillness, the way he didn’t need to raise his voice to make your hands shake.

When you were bare in front of him, he let the silence hold for a moment. Then he reached for your wrist—gentle, unhurried—and pulled you back down to him.

“Come here.”

You settled back into his lap, skin against skin now, and the sound he made—low, quiet, almost involuntary—was the first crack in his composure. Not a break. Just a fissure. A reminder that underneath all that control, he was feeling this just as much as you were.

His hands mapped you with new authority. Not exploring—claiming. The curve of your waist. The dip of your spine. The soft skin at the inside of your thigh. He touched you like he was memorizing it, and maybe he was. His mouth found your neck, and the words he pressed into your skin were quiet and specific and nothing like the softened versions he’d been giving you before.

You shuddered and felt him smile against your throat.

He took his time with you. Unhurried. Thorough. His fingers between your legs were patient and precise and devastating in how well he knew you, like he’d already mapped what would wreck you and was choosing exactly when to use it. And you let him—let him take you apart slowly, let him learn what he sounded like without the filter, let the sounds you made fall into the quiet room unedited because that’s what tonight was about.

Both of you. Unedited.

When he finally pulled you down onto him, the breath punched out of you both. Your forehead dropped to his. His hands gripped your hips—firm, sure, exactly where he wanted you. And the sound he made as you sank all the way down was the most honest thing you’d ever heard from him. Low and rough and completely unguarded, like he couldn’t have held it back if he tried.

You moved together. Slow. His hands guided your rhythm—not controlling it, just shaping it, like he was conducting something only he could hear. His eyes stayed on you. Not your body—you. Your face. Your expression. The way your lips parted when he hit deep. The way your brow furrowed when the pleasure got sharp.

That’s when his hand found the phone.

Not a dramatic moment. Not a pause. His eyes didn’t even leave yours at first. His fingers just found it where it had been resting on the sheets beside him—forgotten until now—and closed around it the same way they’d been closing around your skin all night. Easy. Like breathing.

Because he was inside you, and you were looking at him like that, and the thought that moved through him wasn’t a decision. It was an impulse he’d been killing for months, finally allowed to live.

I need to keep this.

He raised the phone. And he paused—just for a second. Not asking permission again, but registering the weight of it. That this was real. That you’d meant it.

Your eyes met his over the top of the screen. You didn’t stop moving. Didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze with something open and sure, and that was all the answer he needed.

The first thing he captured was your face.

Not your body. Not the explicit angle. Your face. The way you looked at him while he was inside you. Lips parted, eyes heavy, flushed and bare and completely his. That was what he wanted. That was what he’d been trying to reconstruct from memory in hotel rooms at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, missing you in a way that felt physical.

Now he’d have it.

“Look at me,” he said, and it was the voice—the real one, the one he’d been pulling back from for months. Low, direct, and warm with an authority that didn’t need to be loud. “Just like that. Don’t look away.”

You didn’t.

He filmed you while you moved on him. Not constantly—he’d set the phone down when he needed both hands on you, pick it back up when something caught him. Your head tipping back. The arch of your spine. The sound you made when his hips drove up into you harder than before. He captured it the way he noticed things—selectively, precisely, keeping only what mattered.

And the things he said while the camera ran—quiet, rough, meant for both you and the recording—weren’t scripted. Weren’t performance. Just short, devastating truths in that low, unhurried tone.

“This is what I think about,” he murmured, thumb tracing your bottom lip while the phone framed your face. “Every road game. Every hotel room. This is what I see when I close my eyes.”

Your breath caught. Because it wasn’t dirty talk. It was a confession. And the phone in his hand wasn’t about power or possession. It was about a man who spent half his life in places that didn’t feel like home, trying to hold onto the one thing that did.

He shifted beneath you. Hands on your hips, lifting you off him with a strength that still caught you off guard, no matter how many times you’d felt it. He guided you off his lap and moved you—not urgently, not roughly. With the same calm, unhurried intent he’d carried all night.

When your back met his chest, and you felt him press against you from behind, your eyes found the mirror on instinct.

The bedroom mirror. Just a mirror. It had always been there—leaning against the wall at a slight angle, nothing special, nothing staged. You’d stood in front of it a hundred times getting dressed. It had never been anything more than furniture.

But Joe had put you in front of it. And now, in the reflection, you could see everything. Both of you. His chest against your back. His hands are at your waist. His jaw tight, his eyes dark, his body curved around yours like he was trying to hold you and watch you and be inside you all at the same time.

This was the thing he’d been hiding. Not the voice. Not the phone. This. The wanting to see. To see you, to see himself with you, to see proof that this version of him existed somewhere outside his own head.

He pushed into you slowly. The breath left your body in a rush, and you watched it happen—watched your own mouth fall open, watched his arm tighten around your waist, watched his brow furrow like it cost him something to go this slow.

“Watch,” he said against your ear. One word. That’s all.

His phone was still in his hand. He raised it—angled at the mirror now, capturing the reflection. Not you alone anymore. Both of you, together. His hand on your throat. Your body arching against his. The way you looked tangled and flushed and real in the glass.

And he moved. Deep, unhurried—the same rhythm he’d carried all night, but now you could see it. See his hands gripping your hips. See the way his jaw clenched when you tightened around him. See the exact expression on his face—wrecked, awed, barely holding together—that he always buried in your neck or your shoulder or the dark.

You’d never seen him like this. Not because he’d never been like this, but because he’d always hidden it. Turned his face. Closed his eyes. And now the mirror wouldn’t let him. Now you could see everything he’d been feeling, written across his face in the reflection, impossible to take back.

“You see that?” he said, voice rougher now. His eyes met yours in the glass. “That’s what you do to me.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The mirror showed you everything—his body moving against yours, the phone in his hand recording the reflection, his eyes locked onto yours through two layers of glass and screen. The intensity of being seen that completely, from that many angles, was almost unbearable.

His pace shifted. Deeper. His free hand slid up your stomach, your chest, and came to rest at the base of your throat—not squeezing, just there. Possessive and reverent at once. In the mirror, the image was devastating: his hand at your neck, his body pressed to yours, the phone holding all of it.

“This is mine,” he said, low and rough. Not about your body. About the moment. About what the camera was holding. “This is what I’m taking with me.”

And then it broke.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. The composure that had held all night—the calm, the ease, the quiet authority—cracked the way ice cracks. Slowly, then everything.

The phone got set down. Carefully—placed, not tossed—because what was on it mattered. And then both hands were on you, and something shifted in him that was bigger than desire.

His rhythm lost its patience. His breath broke against your shoulder in rough, open bursts. The commands stopped. The quiet control dissolved into something more desperate, more honest—not a man in charge but a man overwhelmed by what it felt like to finally stop hiding.

His forehead dropped to the curve of your neck. His arms locked around you like he was holding onto something that went beyond the physical. And the sound he made—low, rough, pulled from somewhere deep—wasn’t a command or a confession.

It was your name.

Said like it meant everything. Said like it was the only word he had left.

You came first. Hard, sudden, the kind that started in your chest and pulled everything inward before it shattered outward. His arms tightened around you, holding you through it, his mouth at your ear whispering something you couldn’t hear over the roar of your own pulse.

He followed seconds later. Buried deep, arms locked, his whole body going rigid against yours before the tension released in a wave that you felt everywhere. A sound broke out of him—raw, unmasked, nothing like the controlled man the rest of the world got to see.

This was the version he’d been hiding.

And you held him through every second of it.

Quiet.

The room settled around you both like dust after something that shook the walls. Just breathing. Just the slow return of feeling—his hands going gentle where they’d been firm, his mouth pressing soft against your shoulder where his teeth had grazed. The careful, instinctive undoing of every rough thing, replaced with a tenderness that didn’t need to be asked for.

He pulled out slowly. Pulled you against him. You ended up on your side, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist, and his face in your hair. His breathing was still catching—not quite even, not quite back.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The quiet wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of everything that had just passed between you. The trust in it. The weight.

His thumb traced slow circles on your stomach. His heartbeat was loud against your back, gradually slowing from something frantic into something calm. You felt the moment his breathing finally evened out—the last piece of him coming back from wherever he’d gone.

He pressed a kiss to the spot behind your ear. Lingered there.

And then, low and rough and barely there—said into your skin because some things were still easier for him that way—

“Thank you for seeing me.”

Five words. That’s all. But they carried the same weight as the five he’d given you earlier—I didn’t want to be too much—and you understood what they cost him. The admission that he’d been hiding. The gratitude that you’d found him anyway.

You didn’t make it bigger than it was. Didn’t turn it into a conversation or tell him everything you were feeling. You just found his hand, threaded your fingers through his, and held on.

Because you knew what he needed. Not words. Not reassurance. Just you, staying. The way you always did. The way he’d learned to trust that you would.

His arm tightened around you. His breath went slow against your neck. And in the quiet—in the staying—something settled between you that hadn’t been there before. Not new, exactly. Just finally, fully named.

A door that neither of you was closing.