#im screaming

You had a lot of classes together. He’d copy your history notes with a lazy drawl of ‘ya got the best handwritin’ I’ve ever seen,” and sit behind you in English, whispering dumb jokes until you were biting your lip to keep from laughing.

You truly didn’t think he acknowledged you as more than a classmate, until one day he walked you home after your truck died in the school parking lot after a football rally. He had dust on his boots, and rope burns on his palm and arms when he came up to you, and that blue-eyed smirk had softened into something quieter.

”Don’t want you walkin’ alone,” He’d said, “Town gets too quiet after dark…Wouldn’t want anythin’ happenin’ to you.”

After that day you weren’t able to look at him the same, and you’d been half in love with him ever since.

———————

The both of you stayed in Wabang after graduation. Neither of you left for college–you didn’t find a good enough reason, and Rhett just didn’t have the guts to leave, even when he told you–more than once, usually after a few drinks–that he would.

“I’m not stayin’ in this damn town forever,” He’d mutter, picking at the label of a peer bottle, with the porch swing creaking under the weight of both you bodies. You’d glance sideways at him with a smirk.

”Sure you’re not.”

But you both knew the truth. Wabang had its claws in you. It wasn’t just the land or the quiet or the unspoken expectation that you’d stay and carry on what was already here. It was the comfort of familiarity. The way the roads remembered the tires of your truck, and the way the stars always looked better from the Abbott’s fence line.

The way he was still here…That was enough for you…

You didn’t really talk about your friendship. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could sum up in words. It was just a constant.

It was Rhett knocking on your door at 11 p.m. with a busted knuckle and a lopsided grin, asking if you had any more of that whiskey he liked. It was you handing him a bag of frozen peas without comment, and sitting beside him on the couch while a movie played in the background–neither of you really watching it.

It was you keeping a spare key under the doormat for him–just in case.

It was him fixing the squeak in your truck door without you asking.

It was the dumb inside jokes, and shared music taste, and the way you always knew when he was lying to you because of the way he wrinkled his nose and batted his eyelashes.

You didn’t flirt with him, but the tension was always there, crackling beneath the surface like dry kindling waiting for a match. You called it closeness, his mother called it something else entirely, especially when she would see the both of you in action together, or when she would see you watching him.

Because you went to every single bull riding meet.

It didn’t matter if it was fifteen minutes outside of town or two hours into the next county–you were there, usually wedged between Cecilia and Perry Abbott, with your hands clenched tight around a plastic cup, with your heart hammering through your ribs every time he got thrown.

Rhett always spotted you in the crowd, even with his adrenaline spiked high and dirt caked into his skin, he’d look toward the fence line the moment he climbed off that bull–head tilting just a little, eyes sweeping the stands until they found yours. When you waved, he’d smile, soft and crooked, as if seeing your worried face made things worth it somehow.

Afterward, you’d sneak him away from the crowd and bandage his wrists or ribs in the front seat of your truck, your hands careful, your eyes averted, and your voice scolding but warm.

“Y’know you don’t have to prove anything right?” He would shake his head at you, wincing as you tightened the bandages, before reaching for his painkillers, mumbling.

”Ain’t about provin’–just gotta feel somethin’.” And you understood that on another level.

Then there were the weekends where you and him would go out drinking together, with or without Perry.

Sometimes it was a bonfire at someone’s ranch. Oftentimes, it was the back booth at a random bar, with Rhett’s knee pressed to yours beneath the sticky table as you made fun of the live band or ripped each other a new one about the latest town gossip about one another. Then sometimes you would play darts until your aim got too loose to win.

Sometimes he walked you home, and sometimes you walked him home.

More often than not, you ended up in each other’s living rooms, continuing your drinking on the comfort of a worn couch. You’d pass a bottle back and forth, taking sips and cringing. He’d take off his boots and prop them on your coffee table like he paid rent, and you’d push him and tell him to take them and put them at the front door like a normal person.

Neither of you put labels on what you had, and you never asked for more.

But you were in his life the way sunlight lives in dust–not loud or obvious, just always there.

He called you when his truck broke down, when his favorite horse got colic, when his brother went missing for two days and nobody would say why.

You called him when your water heater flooded the kitchen, when your uncle got sick, when your hand shook too much to open a stubborn jar and you didn’t want to cry alone.

He always showed up.

So did you.

And through it all–years, really–people kept asking.

”Y’all together or what?” You’d laugh, and he would smirk, shaking his head ‘no’.

But sometimes, when the music got low and the lights in your trailer softened to that familiar amber haze–when you were half-drunk on bourbon and closer than two people with no claim had any right to be–you wondered:

Why not?

Why wasn’t it more?

You never asked.

And he never offered.

But the ache settled into your ribs like something permanent. Something sharp and quiet and always humming under your skin.

Then lines were crossed…

——————

The night it happened started like any other time you and Rhett hung out.

A six-pack between you on the coffee table. Two bottles already open and held in your respective hands. The same playlist you always put on when the sky turned indigo and the bugs outside started their midnight song. It was low, something moody and twangy, bleeding softly into the corners of your living room like it knew not to intrude.

Rhett was sprawled across your couch, legs wide, his shoulders sinking into the cushions like he’d been there a hundred times–which, to be fair, he had. That old red flannel he always wore after a long day was clinging to him in the heat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, buttons undone just far enough to show the sweat-shined skin at the base of his throat. His hair was still combed back, only being held by his posture, it he leaned forward tendrils of his light brown locks would certainly fall out of line and get into his eyes.

You were tucked into the far corner of the couch, feet up, knees pulled close to your chest, wearing a faded band tee and your usual cotton sleep shorts–barely-there, worn soft from a thousand washes. No bra. No effort. Just comfort.

Not for him, not really at least.

But still—there was something about the way his eyes kept flicking toward you between sips of beer. Something about the way he lingered, just a second too long, on the exposed stretch of your thigh or the slight sway of your chest when you shifted to grab another bottle.

The air was thick. Summer-heavy. The kind of slow heat that settled into skin and made everything feel a little lazier, a little looser. You were both warm from the drinks, buzzed from the day, and quiet in that way that only ever happened with people who didn’t need to fill silences.

And then he said it.

“I haven’t had sex in a while.”

You blinked, the words falling like a flat rock into the still water between you. He was staring at the beer label, picking at it with his thumbnail like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. But his voice was too casual. Too practiced. The sentence didn’t belong there. Not between that song and the one before it. Not between the rhythm you’d spent years building together.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “Wow…So that’s where we’re at now, huh?”

Rhett huffed a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Guess so.”

You studied him then. Really looking at his expression and his body language. His jaw was tight. His posture was just a little too still for how he normally was. His thumb had stripped the label halfway down the neck of the bottle, and his gaze hadn’t lifted once since he’d said it.

“You tellin’ me that because you think I should know,” You said, “or because you want me to do something about it?” That got his eyes on you. Sharp, and steel blue, and more tired than you expected.

“Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t think maybe you’d…I dunno. Get it.” You shifted in your seat, your heartbeat hitching once, then steadying.

”Get what, exactly? Being celibate?” He shot you a look. The side of his mouth twitched–almost a smile, almost a smirk, but weighed down by something heavier.

“Not what I meant,” He muttered, taking a quick sip from his bottle, “Just figured you might be in the same boat.”

You raised your brows. “So what, we’re comparing dry spells now?”

“I mean,” Rhett leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch like he wasn’t deliberately invading your space, “If you wanna get competitive, I’ll win on stubbornness alone.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “You? Stubborn? No way.”

He grinned for real this time–wide and a little too cocky, like he was trying to climb back into comfortable territory.

You took a sip of your beer. “So let me get this straight. You haven’t had sex in a while, and now you’re sitting here telling me that fact for…What? Sympathy? A medal?”

“Didn’t think I needed a reason,” He drawled. “Just sayin’–sometimes you spend enough nights alone, you start thinkin’ too much.” Your eyes lingered on him. And then you said it–because someone had to.

“Sometimes you start thinking about the wrong people.” The words landed hard. You didn’t mean them to…Or maybe you did.

The air shifted. Heavy, warm, alive with the tension that had been lingering between you for years but had never been close enough to touch like this.

Rhett looked at you again, quieter now.

“You think this would be a mistake?” He asked, voice low.

You held his gaze.

“I think it’d be a mistake we’d both want.”

A beat passed. Then another.

His bottle hit the table with a soft clink. He shifted closer–just a little. Enough for the outside of his knee to touch yours. Enough that you could smell the beer on him.

“We’ve been dancin’ around this for a long time,” He said, almost under his breath.

You nodded once. “Yeah. We have.”

He licked his lips, glancing down at yours. His voice dropped to a murmur, like if he said it louder it might break the spell hanging between you.

“So you’ve thought about it then?”

Your breath caught. “Thought about what?”

He leaned in–slow, deliberate, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.

“Us,” He said softly, “Like this.” His nose brushed against yours, a barely-there drag that left your skin tingling. His lips hovered close—too close. Just far enough that you could still pretend it wasn’t a kiss yet. That it was still a choice.

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your mouth, the sharp tang of beer on it, the way it mixed with that unmistakable Rhett scent–something dusty, sun-warmed, and sweat-slicked, like hayfields and leather and the faintest trace of musky cologne long since faded.

Your chest rose and fell with tight, shallow breaths.

You could see the flecks in his eyes now–the stormy silver threads inside the blue, rimmed dark where his pupils had blown wide. He tilted his head, just slightly, lips brushing your lower one without quite committing.

Then he whispered:

“Bet you’d taste like trouble.”

You made a sound–something between a breath and a hum, your lips parted on instinct.

And then you kissed him.

You moved first, but he met you–his mouth opening the moment yours touched his. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was a little off-center, and a little too much, and so goddamn honest you felt your whole body flinch toward it. His hand was already at your hip, fingers digging into the bare skin just above your waistband. Yours went instinctively to his jaw, thumb dragging along the scruff of his cheekbone as you deepened the kiss. He groaned–low and guttural–like he’d been holding it in for years.

Your beer bottle was still in your other hand, cold and slick with condensation. You didn’t even look–you just reached out beside you and set it on the coffee table blindly, fingers fumbling for a second before it settled with a quiet thud.

Your now-free hand went to his shoulder, then up–curling behind his neck, slipping into the back of his hair. He shuddered against you.

“Fuck,” He breathed out, like it knocked the wind out of him.

His hands moved–one gripping your thigh tight enough to anchor you, while the other slid up beneath your shirt completely now–calloused fingers skimming your ribs, dragging heat in their wake as they climbed higher. You could feel his fingertips hesitate at the swell of your breast. And then–with reverence and hunger in the same breath–he cupped it.

You gasped.

Your nipple was already stiff, so sensitive from the heat and the tension that you whimpered the moment his palm made contact. He groaned again, deep and ragged, lips crashing into yours harder now–needier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was starving.

His thumb flicked over your nipple. You moaned into his mouth, hips shifting instinctively against him, thighs pressing tighter around his.

“Christ,” He muttered against your lips. “You’re gonna ruin me.” He moved fast after that–his hands firm but careful as he grabbed your hips and pulled you across the short distance, settling you right into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs.

Your breath hitched at the feeling of him–solid, strong, and so thick beneath you. Denim rubbed rough against the cotton of your shorts, right where you were already aching, and the sudden friction made your stomach flutter.

You shifted–grinding once, experimentally.

He hissed.

His hands locked down on your hips. “Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my goddamn mind.” You did it again anyways. This time he growled–low and from the chest, one hand sliding up your back, under your shirt, splaying wide between your shoulder blades to keep you close. You buried your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging at the back as you kissed him again–open-mouthed, hungry, teeth scraping, lips plush and pink and bruised with want.

The heat between your bodies was unbearable now. The trailer felt thick with it. Sweat beading at the base of your spine, sticking your shirt to your skin. You could feel Rhett’s thigh muscles flexing beneath you, hard and solid, his jeans taut across them as he rocked up into your core with just enough pressure to make your toes curl.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against his, eyes fluttering shut.

“Bedroom,” You panted heavily, and he didn’t have to be asked twice. He wrapped his arms around your waist–one fluid, grounded motion, strength rolling through his spine as he stood with you in his arms like you weighed nothing.

Your legs locked tight around his hips.

Your breath stuttered as your back bumped gently against the hallway wall. His mouth found your neck–wet, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his teeth catching once on that spot just below your jaw that made your knees go soft. You whimpered. He groaned. The sound he made was pure need.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” He rasped against your throat. “Should’ve known you’d feel this fuckin’ good.”

Then he nudged your bedroom door open with his foot and walked you straight in.

The mattress creaked beneath your combined weight as he set you down gently–but his hands didn’t leave you. His mouth didn’t, either. Not for a second.

He hovered above you, body bracketed between your thighs, and when his hips rolled down again–hard, and slow, with just enough pressure to make you gasp against his lips. The grind of denim against your already-damp cotton was delicious and mean, a friction that bordered on unbearable. Your hands flew to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, breath catching.

Rhett stopped you.

“Let me,” He said, voice wrecked, eyes already dark and heavy with heat.

His fingers curled around the edge of your shirt, slow, deliberate. He peeled it up like it meant something–like unwrapping a gift he didn’t know if he deserved. And when it cleared your head and hit the floor in a soft flutter?

He just looked at you.

His breath hitched. “Jesus.”

Then he lowered himself again–slow. His lips found your collarbone first, the press of his mouth warm and open. His stubble scraped gently against your skin, rough and deliberate, like sandpaper edged in softness. You arched, gasped, fingers threading deeper into his hair as he worked lower.

Down the slope of your chest. Between the soft curve of your breasts.

“You’re burnin’,” He whispered, kissing a path along the swell. “Can feel your heartbeat.”

You moaned as his mouth found your nipple–his tongue wet and warm, his stubble catching just beneath as he sucked you gently into his mouth, tongue flicking slow, then faster.

Your thighs squeezed around his hips. “Rhett–fuck.”

He groaned against your skin.

He kissed lower, trailing fire along your ribs, your stomach, every exposed inch he could reach. His hands never stopped touching–one roaming up to cradle your breast, thumb flicking softly over the one he’d just worshipped with his mouth, the other gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.

You were panting now, nearly writhing under him, and your fingers scrambled at the buttons of his flannel, cursing softly when they wouldn’t come undone fast enough.

Rhett sat back on his knees, catching your hands gently in his. “Let me,” He murmured again.

He popped the buttons open one by one, slow and steady, like he wanted you to watch.

And you did.

You watched as the soft fabric fell open and revealed the toned stretch of his chest–sun-kissed, sweat-slicked, dusted with just a little bit of hair–and there, just over the right side of his chest, was the ink you’d seen a hundred times before but never like this.

The bull rider. The rearing beast, hooves kicked out mid-buck, the rider clinging on, frozen in that impossible eight-second storm.

You swallowed hard. You’d seen it before. But not in this light. Not in this context. Not when he was kneeling between your thighs, flushed and panting, staring at you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” He said, voice a low rasp, “And this ain’t gonna last long.” You reached up, palm flattening over the tattoo, fingers splaying across the hard plane of his chest.

“You look better in this light.” His grin faltered–just for a second. Something moved in his eyes. Something softer than lust. Then it was gone, buried under the groan that tore out of him as he pushed you back down again.

He leaned in, kissed you hard, and whispered–

“Wanna taste you.”

You froze. Your heart skipped.

Then you nodded.

And Rhett wasted no time.

His hands were already at the waistband of your shorts, dragging the cotton slowly down your thighs like he was peeling away something sacred. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he did it, not once. They flicked down only when the fabric passed your knees—just enough to take in the sight of you bare before him.

And when they did?

God, his whole expression changed.

His breath hitched, jaw flexing like he was trying not to say something filthy, and then it softened. You’d never seen him look at anyone like that before–like he was staring at something breakable and holy all at once. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You shifted up the bed slightly, breath coming fast, your back meeting the pillows as you settled deeper into the mattress. The air between your thighs felt electric now, flushed and hot and wanting. Rhett followed–crawling after you like something primal and starved. His palms braced on either side of your hips, shoulders hunched as he ducked his head low.

He kissed your knee first.

Then the curve just below it.

Then your inner thigh.

And then again, higher.

Slow, wet kisses dragging open-mouthed up your leg, the scrape of his stubble leaving heat trails across your skin–just abrasive enough to sting, just soft enough to make your breath catch.

When he reached that sensitive, untouched place where your thighs met, he paused. Pressed his cheek there, the heat of him burning into you.

“Been thinkin’ about this–about you–way longer than I should’ve.”

Then he spread you open.

His hands were firm on your thighs, parting them wider, guiding them over his shoulders until he was fully settled between them, mouth hovering just above your soaked core. You could feel his breath—hot, reverent—ghosting over you.

Then his tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your folds.

You gasped, spine arching, fingers immediately tangling in his hair.

“Rhett–oh my god–”

He groaned like your moan alone had done something to him, like it lit a fire in his gut. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, keeping them steady as he licked you again–slow at first, then firmer, the tip of his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was messy and hungry and a little clumsy–but it was real. Eager. Worshipful.

He moaned into you, mouth slick, tongue relentless, lips pressing wet kisses to your clit between each sweep of his tongue. You felt like you were unraveling–bit by bit, every nerve ending lit up with the heat of his mouth and the press of his stubble, your legs shaking around him.

“Fuck,” He whispered, pulling back for half a second, lips glistening. “You taste like a goddamn dream.” Then he dove back in.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except hold on–fingers curled tight into his hair, head thrown back, mouth open with sounds you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.

He sucked gently at your clit now, tongue flicking fast, and your body jolted.

“Oh, fuck, right there–don’t stop–”

His hands came up to your hips again, holding you down as your thighs threatened to close around him. His name fell from your lips like a prayer–again and again–and he just kept going, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was drunk on the taste of you, the feel of you squirming beneath his mouth.

When your orgasm hit, it hit like wildfire.

Hot, blinding, breath-stealing. Your whole body arched off the bed, a cry ripped from your chest as your hands gripped his hair and your thighs trembled around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. Just kept licking you through it, slower now, more deliberate–like he was helping you ride it out, tasting every bit of it.

Only when your body went limp against the mattress, your fingers slack in his hair, did he finally lift his head.

His lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with something darker than lust. He kissed your thigh once more, slower this time. Then he looked up at you.

“You good?” He asked, voice thick, rough-edged from use.

You stared at him, dazed. “You just…Jesus, Rhett.”

He grinned, cocky and sheepishly all at once.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” He said, crawling back up your body like a man with a mission, “We’re just gettin’ started.”You laughed, breath still uneven, your skin flushed and damp beneath him. “You sure you don’t need a break?” you teased, brushing sweat-matted hair back from his forehead.

Rhett huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a growl. “Darlin’, if you think I’m done after one taste, you don’t know me at all.”

His mouth found yours again—hot, slick with your arousal, and unapologetically greedy. You moaned into the kiss, your fingers dragging along the ridges of his spine, nails scratching lightly just to feel him shudder.

When he rocked against you again, still fully clothed from the waist down, the friction of denim made you both groan. You reached down without thinking, tugging at his belt buckle with quick, practiced fingers. His breath stuttered as he pulled back just enough to watch you.

“Impatient, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with that rough drawl, eyes flickering dark.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you whispered back.

He didn’t argue.

You popped the button on his jeans, dragged the zipper down slow, and slipped your hand past the waistband to cup him through his boxers. The groan he let out sounded like it came from the center of the earth.

“Fuck–” He rasped, head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You smirked and gave him one last squeeze before helping him shimmy out of his jeans. He kicked them off the bed with a grunt, then slid his boxers down in one quick motion, tossing them somewhere behind him to even the playing field.

And then you saw him.

Hard, flushed, heavy–his erection curved slightly up toward his stomach, the tip already wet and glistening. He was thick enough to make your breath hitch, veins prominent along the shaft, the base dusted with soft, light-brown hair that was trimmed but not overly neat–natural, just like the rest of him. Masculine. Raw. Beautiful.

You stared a little too long.

He caught your gaze, saw the way your lips parted–and he smirked, wicked and self-conscious all at once.

“Like what you see?” He asked, accent thick, almost shy in the corners of it.

“I knew you’d be big,” You whispered, licking your lips. “Didn’t think you’d be this pretty.”

That made him flush–the redness high in his cheeks. His cock twitched against his stomach, and he groaned like you’d physically touched him.

“Jesus,” He muttered, hand bracing beside your head, voice dipping low. “Do I need a condom?” You shook your head slowly, eyes locked on his.

“As long as you’ve got a clean bill of health and no STD’s I somehow don’t know about…”

He raised both hands in surrender, playful but sincere.

“Healthy as a horse, darlin’,” He said, drawl thick, words hot against your mouth as he kissed you again, “But I gotta warn you–I ride real hard.”

You laughed–giddy, breathless–and wrapped your legs around his hips to pull him close.

“Then quit stalling, cowboy,” You whispered, “And show me what all that riding has done for you.” Rhett laughed–low and warm and breathless–as he shifted forward, his chest brushing yours, the heat of his skin pressing close.

“Quit stallin’, she says,” He muttered, mouth hovering just above yours, “Like you ain’t been teasin’ me with those damn eyes all night.”

You felt the blunt head of him brush against your soaked folds, your breath catching immediately at the pressure. He rolled his hips once–just enough for the thick ridge of him to drag slick and slow through your arousal, not quite entering, just testing. Your thighs twitched around him.

“Rhett,” You gasped, fingernails curling against the nape of his neck, “Please.”

His jaw flexed. His hand found your thigh and gripped tight, grounding himself before he finally, finally pushed in—slow, careful, inch by inch.

Your mouth fell open. A cry caught at the back of your throat.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groaned, voice cracking in half. “You’re so damn tight—fuck.”

The stretch was overwhelming. Not painful, just full—full in a way that made your whole body arch beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your nails scratched across sweat-slick muscle. He paused when he was about halfway in, panting against your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered, kissing your temple. His voice was shredded, barely holding on.

You nodded fast, but your breath was still broken. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Just…big. Just need a sec.”

Rhett’s hand slid up and down your side in slow, grounding strokes, his forehead pressed to yours. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no rush.”

You clenched around him, and he swore—soft and low and filthy.

After a few more seconds, you shifted under him, rolling your hips a little—testing. Adjusting.

“I’m good,” you whispered, voice steadier now. “Rhett…move.”

He obeyed.

Slowly, reverently, he sank in the rest of the way—grinding his hips down until he was buried fully, seated deep and pulsing against your walls. Both of you moaned in tandem, loud and shameless, the sound tangled with sweat and need and every year you’d spent pretending this wouldn’t happen.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “You were made for this.”

Then he started moving.

His thrusts were slow at first, deep and deliberate, dragging along every sensitive nerve ending inside of you like he was memorizing the exact way to break you apart. His jaw was tight with restraint, eyes squeezed shut, the muscles in his neck pulled taut from the effort of not losing control.

You clung to him—arms around his back, lips on his shoulder, whimpering every time he bottomed out.

Then he shifted—sat back just a bit, bracing one hand beside your head and the other slowly dragging down your stomach until it rested just above your pubic bone. He pressed down lightly.

Your vision whited out.

“Oh–fuck–Rhett–what the–”

He grinned, wicked and lazy, watching your eyes go glassy with pleasure as his hand held you down while he rocked up into you again, hitting deeper.

“You feel that?” He rasped, a small bead of sweat glistening down his jaw. “That’s me hittin’ right where you need it. Got this little trick from a girl back in high school–don’t worry though,” His thumb stroked the skin of your stomach, “You’re already screamin’ way louder than she ever did.”

Your hips jerked beneath him and you cried out, body caught between overstimulation and need, your thighs shaking on either side of his waist.

He growled low in his throat and leaned down again, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “Told you I ride hard…Hope you got stamina.” You could only moan, helpless under him as he kept you open and trembling, his thrusts still steady but picking up pace, your nails dragging down his back in desperation. Every time he rocked into you with that pressure on your belly, it felt like a bolt of lightning shot through your spine. Rhett’s gaze never left your face.

He watched you fall apart beneath him–watched the way your lips parted, the way your brows drew together like you couldn’t make sense of the pleasure surging through your body. He watched your chest rise and fall in uneven little gasps, your skin flushed and dewy in the soft light of your bedroom.

He grinned–that same cocky little smirk that drove you crazy when he used it in bars or before bull rides, except now it was darker. Hungrier. Wrecked.

“Goddamn,” He rasped, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, his thrusts still deep, still slow–but sharper now, more precise, “You’re makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ faces right now.”

You whimpered, your legs tightening around his waist, and he groaned–like the sound alone made him twitch inside you.

“Could watch you like this all night,” He murmured, voice rough in your ear. “Eyes all glassy, mouth open… You keep squeezin’ me like that and I ain’t gonna last.”

Then, without warning, he dipped his head and bit into the soft spot between your neck and shoulder–just hard enough to make your whole body jolt.

You cried out, hands flying to his back, nails dragging down instinctively. He soothed the bite a second later with his tongue, warm and slow, lips pressing there with something tender that made your chest ache.

“You’re so wet for me,” He whispered against your skin, hips grinding in deep and holding, just to let you feel it. “You’ve been so fuckin’ wet this whole time. Can feel it runnin’ down me every time I slide in.”

You let out a broken sound–half a moan, half a sob–and he shuddered above you, thrusting again. Harder this time. And again. And again.

The headboard started hitting the wall–soft at first, then louder as he picked up speed. A steady rhythm, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, your moans, his groans, and the creak of the bed springs beneath you.

Your hands were everywhere–on his back, in his hair, clutching his shoulders like he was the only solid thing left in the world. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could do was feel–feel him, thick and hot and buried so deep it was dizzying, feel his sweat slicking against yours, feel the way your body was building again, tighter and tighter like a storm winding itself up from the inside.

“Come on, baby,” Rhett grunted, his voice catching with every thrust now, like he was chasing the edge of his own pleasure just behind yours. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You did.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train–sharp and fast and blinding, your whole body locking up and shaking under him. You screamed his name, voice ragged and high, your nails raking down his back so hard you knew you’d leave marks.

“Fuck–” He choked out, hips jerking once, then again, deeper, harder. “Fuck, I’m gonna–shit…” He buried himself to the hilt, body trembling above you as he let out a raw, guttural sound against your neck. You could feel every pulse of it inside you, hot and thick and perfect.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

The only sounds left were the ragged gasps of your breathing, the thump of your heart in your ears, and the soft whimper Rhett let out as he collapsed on top of you–still buried deep, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and wrecked.

He didn’t move. Just wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your neck like he needed to stay there, skin to skin, where it was safe.

You were still trembling.

He felt it.

He kissed your neck once–soft this time. Then again. Then he whispered:

“Still think it was a mistake?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No definitely not…I think it should…It should happen more often.”

———————

After that night, it wasn’t just a one-time lapse. It became something else–something raw and frequent and borderline unmanageable.

You and Rhett started sleeping together like your bodies had been waiting for permission and now couldn’t get enough of it. Like something old had snapped and neither of you knew how to put it back. There was no declaration, no sit-down conversation about what it meant. Just a shared, wordless agreement that this was a thing now. A thing that happened often. A thing you both needed like air.

He’d show up late some nights, boots dusty from the barn or the bar, a tired smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. You’d let him in without a word. Sometimes you were already in bed, sometimes he’d catch you in the kitchen still finishing a drink. The routine was always the same: a kiss before the door was fully shut, clothes in a trail to your bedroom, soft groans swallowed against skin as you dragged each other down into the sheets like you were starving.

And he never stayed.

That part was clear from the beginning. He always made a point to wrap himself around you for a while afterward, breath still ragged, one hand splayed against your bare stomach like he needed to feel it rise and fall. He’d press his mouth to your shoulder, sometimes your neck, and hold you like he meant it.

But he always left before morning.

Sometimes he had early chores. Sometimes Perry needed help with something on the ranch. Sometimes he just didn’t say. And you never asked.

You told yourself it was fine. It was what you signed up for. You respected the rules. No staying over. No sleepovers. No falling asleep in each other’s arms.

It didn’t mean it didn’t sting a little every time the sheets cooled beside you.

You didn’t go to his place much–not since you both agreed it’d be weird sneaking around with his dad or his brother still milling around the property. So you didn’t push. You didn’t ask for more. You didn’t press into the soft ache that bloomed every time his truck door shut and the gravel cracked beneath his tires at 2 a.m.

Instead, you adjusted.

The hookups came fast and varied–sometimes drawn out over hours in your bed, all heat and filth and tangled limbs. Other times they were desperate things done in the back of his truck or the passenger seat of your car, fogging up windows and whispering each other’s names like it was a secret that burned too hot to speak aloud.

One night it was on the hood of his truck just off the road behind the rodeo grounds–your back against warm metal, his mouth between your thighs with stars spinning overhead and his hat hanging low on his head.

Another time it was in your laundry room, barely making it through the door before he bent you over the dryer and fucked you with his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from moaning loud enough for the neighbors.

He never said no when you reached for him. Never hesitated when your shirt came off. But afterward? When your legs were still trembling and his forehead was pressed against yours like maybe he was breathing you in?

That’s when he always started pulling away.

Always with that soft kiss to your shoulder.

Always with a low, muttered, “Gotta go, darlin’,” like he didn’t want to.

And maybe he didn’t.

But he did anyway.

And you let him.

Because friends with benefits didn’t ask for more. They didn’t ask why he always left or why he never let you fall asleep in his arms or why he sometimes looked at you like you were something he couldn’t hold on to for long.

They didn’t ask.

And you didn’t either.

But it was all eating away at you…And it came to a head one night.

It was late when it happened.

Later than usual, even for you two. The town was quiet, half-asleep, shadows stretching long across the pavement as Rhett pulled his truck down a gravel backroad and parked at the far end of a field you both knew well–an open patch behind the Miller place that hadn’t been tended to in years. No one would see. No one ever came back here.

The night was thick with summer, and the windows fogged fast.

He kissed you before the engine was even off–one hand tugging you over the console and into his lap, your thighs straddling him, the other already palming the back of your neck like he was afraid you’d disappear. His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue sliding into yours like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance. Your hands were on his shirt, pushing it up, exposing warm, sweat-damp skin that tasted like salt and beer and him.

It escalated like wildfire.

Your shorts were pushed aside, his zipper dragged down rough and quick, the head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance before you even fully realized you were grinding down against him like your life depended on it.

“Jesus Christ–” He rasped, arms wrapping tight around your back as you slowly sank onto him, both of you groaning in unison, low and filthy. His head tipped back against the seat, throat bare, jaw clenched like the stretch of you around him was something sacred and brutal all at once.

“Always so tight for me hmm?” he grunted, voice thick, hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Fuckin’ hell, Y/N…”

You rolled your hips, slow and deep, the sound of your bodies slick and obscene in the quiet truck. The windows had gone fully opaque, the only light spilling in from the moon, catching faint on the sheen of sweat gathering at his collarbones, the curve of your bare thighs grinding down against him. Your hands cupped his face, holding him steady–thumbs brushing the ridge of his cheekbones, your foreheads pressed together.

His eyes were wide and dark and unfocused, his breath a ragged pant. He looked ruined already.

“You feel too good,” He muttered, almost dazed. “Too fuckin’ good.”

You kissed him again–messy, open-mouthed, your moan swallowed by the groan in his throat as you rocked faster. Your hands slipped into his hair, fingers gripping tight, tugging, and he whined. He actually whined.

The sound did something to you–flipped a switch.

You leaned in close, your breath heavy against his mouth, and spit into it.

Not aggressive. Not calculated. Just…Natural. Intimate. A little filthy. A fully primal.

His lips parted instinctively to take it in, and something in him snapped.

Rhett’s growl was sharp and guttural, his hand shooting up to wrap around your throat–not hard, not painful, but firm. Possessive. Like he didn’t even know he’d done it until your breath caught and your pupils blew wide with heat.

“You dirty fuckin’ girl,” He rasped, voice shaking. “You knew what that would do to me.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he started fucking up into you with force, the truck seat creaking beneath you, the angle tight and punishing. His hand held your throat like a command, thumb resting right over your pulse point as his other arm anchored you down hard to his lap.

The sound of skin against skin echoed off the fogged glass. Wet. Furious. Desperate.

You were both sweating, trembling, completely gone.

“You like me chokin’ you while you ride me?” he panted, eyes wild, face flushed. “Like when I’m deep enough you feel me here–” He pressed his palm lower, flat against your abdomen where the head of his cock hit deep. “That what you want?”

Your head fell back, a moan tearing from your throat as he fucked up into that spot over and over again. “Yes–yes–right there, please–”

He was growling now, “Gonna come on me, Y/N? Right here in the fuckin’ truck where anybody could see if they tried hard enough?”

Your whole body tightened.

Rhett bit down against your neck, sucking hard at the skin there, and the pressure, the stretch, the grip on your throat–

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train–wracking your body, your hands shaking, thighs squeezing around his hips like a vice. You sobbed out his name, head tucked into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his back.

He came seconds after, hips stuttering, choking out a gasp of your name like it was a confession and a sin all at once. His cock twitched deep inside you, spilling hot and thick, his arm locked tight around your back as he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, shaking.

Neither of you moved for a while.

The only sound was the ragged pant of breath and the faint hum of the cicadas outside, still singing like the night hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

Eventually, Rhett’s hand eased off your throat—replaced with a soft, reverent touch along your jaw.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked.

You nodded into his shoulder, chest still heaving. “Yeah…Yeah.”

He kissed the side of your head softly. You stayed curled against him, breath finally slowing, your body still trembling from aftershocks and overstimulation. Rhett’s arm was around your back, hand splayed warm and wide across your spine. His other hand had drifted down to your thigh, thumb tracing soft circles in a rhythm that didn’t match the frantic one from minutes ago.

Eventually, you shifted. He did too. Just enough to kiss your shoulder again before helping you carefully off his lap and back into the passenger seat. You winced a little, tugging your shorts up over your hips while Rhett tucked himself back in and adjusted the hem of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke until he reached forward to twist the key in the ignition, the old engine rumbling to life beneath you. The AC kicked in, pushing out sticky warmth, and the windows slowly started to defog as he pulled out of the field and back onto the gravel road.

Your hair was a mess. His collar was damp. You didn’t bother fixing either.

The silence was comfortable. Familiar. Until Rhett’s hand dropped from the gearshift back to your thigh and stayed there. You glanced down at it–at the way his fingers spread, slow and easy, like they belonged there, even though it wasn’t anything to be read into.

“You doin’ anything this weekend?” He asked eventually, his voice still a little hoarse.

You turned your head toward him. “What kind of ‘doing’ are we talking? The biblical kind, or the regular?”

He cracked a grin, that familiar boyish smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the bar. Saturday. Me, some of the boys…Y’know the usual.” You shifted a bit in your seat.

“Yeah, I’m in,” You said, “But fair warning–you’re drivin’ us there, not back. Because I fully plan on matching you drink for drink and I will end up dancing on someone’s table.”

Rhett huffed a laugh through his nose, patting your thigh affectionately. “That right?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I don’t mind walkin’ back to your place,” he said, glancing over at you. “Would just have to be prepared for the second trek back to my place.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You say that like it ain’t something you do every time anyway.”

His smirk faltered.

You leaned your head against the window, voice casual. “You ever think about staying? Just once?”

That landed heavier than you meant it to. Rhett’s hand went still on your leg. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, jaw shifting tight for a second like he was grinding molars behind closed lips.

“I mean—” you added, trying to sound breezy, “Not a demand or anything. Just a question.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I think about it.”

You blinked.

His fingers resumed moving, brushing lightly now, thoughtful. “More than I should, probably.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. His expression was unreadable–serious, but not cold. Distant, but not cruel. Like he was wading through something heavier than the question itself.

“So why don’t you?” You asked softly.

Rhett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than you’d expected. “Because I don’t know how to make it mean less.”

You stared at him.

He glanced your way. “Stayin’ over, I mean. That ain’t just sleepin’. Not for me.”

You nodded, slowly. “So what is it then?”

He didn’t answer.

Just kept his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin as the truck rolled on, headlights stretching into the dark.

You didn’t say anything else.

And neither did he.

The silence didn’t feel quite like comfort anymore.

Not this time.

———————

The bar was already halfway full by the time you and Rhett walked in, the familiar pulse of country rock vibrating through the wooden floorboards, neon signs buzzing quietly above the heads of locals hunched over whiskey and worn conversation.

You were both a few drinks in by the time it started.

Nothing serious–just beer, a round of tequila shots with the boys, and the hazy sort of warmth that settled into your limbs the way a summer night always did after a long day. Rhett had his arm slung casually along the back of your barstool, his body close but not touching, eyes half-lidded as he nursed a beer and laughed at something one of his buddies said.

And then the guy approached you.

Not from town. Definitely not one of Rhett’s people. He had a clean look about him–more polished than usual for Wabang. Collared shirt. Straight teeth. That too-easy charm of someone who knew they were decent-looking and had never been told otherwise.

You could feel Rhett tense before he even spoke.

The guy leaned against the bar beside you, grinning like he had time to kill and no one to kill it with.

“Hey,” He said, eyeing the bottle in your hand. “That what I think it is?”

You looked down. “A beer?”

“Not just any beer. That’s a Lone Star. You don’t strike me as a Lone Star girl.”

You smirked, humoring him. “Then what kind of girl do I strike you as?”

The man’s grin widened. Rhett went quiet beside you, the fingers wrapped around his bottle flexing just slightly.

The guy kept talking. You flirted back, just a little. Nothing serious. A tilt of your chin. A cocked eyebrow. A laugh that was more out of habit than real amusement.

Rhett didn’t say anything–but he moved. Sat up straighter. Pulled his arm back from behind your chair. His knee knocked into yours once, not accidental, and you felt it. That shift. That heat.

When the guy reached out to brush his hand against your arm–a soft touch, not gross, but bold enough–Rhett stood up.

“Gonna hit the head,” He muttered to no one in particular. But his eyes flicked toward you when he passed, and they didn’t hold that usual warmth. There was something sharp in them now. Hurt, maybe. Something darker.

He disappeared into the back hallway, and your gut twisted a little.

The guy leaned in. “That your boyfriend?”

You gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”

He looked disappointed. “Shame.”

You didn’t respond. Just slipped off the barstool and made your way toward the hallway.

You found Rhett by the back exit door, hands in his pockets, staring at the dusty floor like it had personally offended him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice low.

He shook his head without looking at you. “Nothin’.”

“Rhett.”

Still nothing. Just the dull hum of the jukebox spilling in from the main room, laughter echoing down the corridor behind you.

You stepped closer. “You sure about that?”

His jaw tensed. “Yeah. Just…Tired.”

It didn’t sound like the truth. But you let it slide.

Eventually, the night pulled you both back to the bar. More drinks. Another round of shots. You ended up on the dance floor for a bit, swaying together, laughing when Rhett pretended to be too drunk to spin you. But he never fully relaxed–not the way he usually did. Not the way he always had with you.

When the bartender rang the last call bell, the room had thinned. Most people had filtered out already, and your feet ached from the boots you regretted putting on.

Rhett threw down enough cash to cover both your tabs and stood.

“C’mon. Leave the truck. I’ll get Perry to help me pick it up tomorrow.”

You nodded, following him out into the warm night, the buzz of alcohol still humming beneath your skin.

The walk back to your trailer was quiet. The gravel underfoot crackled in rhythm with your steps, the stars wheeling silently overhead. You walked close enough for your arms to brush, but neither of you reached for the other.

Not yet.

Not after that.

You didn’t ask again what was wrong.

And Rhett didn’t offer.

But whatever it was–it was still there. In the silence. In the sting of it.

And it wasn’t going away.

The trailer creaked softly as you both stepped inside, the screen door groaning a little before it clicked shut behind you. The air was warm–still holding the heat from the day–and smelled faintly like lavender from the aromatherapy humidifier. Rhett toed off his boots near the door, silent, and you locked up behind him.

He didn’t follow you into the kitchen right away.

You moved on instinct–tossing your keys onto the counter, flicking the dim overhead light on low. The soft hum of the fridge filled the silence as you pulled it open and reached for the Tupperware you’d stacked there earlier.

“I got some leftovers from last night,” you offered gently, glancing over your shoulder. “That stew I told you about–still good cold, but I can heat it up if you want.” Rhett didn’t answer right away. He hovered near the small table, one hand resting on the back of the chair, eyes downcast. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but inside his own head.

You set the container on the counter and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “Or just some water, if you’re feelin’ it.”

He let out a soft exhale through his nose and finally sat down. “Water’s good.”

You filled both glasses and brought them over, sliding one in front of him before taking the seat across. He took a sip, then held it in his hands like it might anchor him.

He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Okay,” you said softly, careful not to make it sound like a demand. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

Rhett blinked. His jaw flexed. But he didn’t look angry. Just…Tired. Off-kilter. Like whatever was eating at him wasn’t done chewing.

“You’re not usually like this,” You added, resting your forearms on the table. “You’ve been quiet all night. That wasn’t just the beer.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours–and they held something in them you couldn’t quite name. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

He shook his head once, slow. “I dunno,” He muttered. “Feels like somethin’s slippin. And I can’t… Grab onto it.”

You leaned in slightly. “You mean us?”

He looked away again, jaw working. “I dunno what I mean.”

“You’re allowed to say if something hurts, y’know,” You said, voice soft but steady. “You don’t always have to act like everything’s fine just ‘cause that’s what we agreed to.”

There was a pause.

Then: “It wasn’t just the flirting,” He said, so quietly you almost missed it.

You waited.

Rhett’s eyes found yours again, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“It was seein’ you smile like that,” He said. “With someone else. Like maybe… Maybe I ain’t the only one you do that for.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“That’s not fair,” You said gently. “You’ve never asked me to not entertain anyone else. And I haven’t until tonight.”

“I know,” He said. “That’s the thing. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” You watched the way his hand gripped the glass. The tension in his fingers. The way his knee bounced slightly beneath the table, betraying nerves he was too proud to name.

“Rhett,” You said, quieter now. “Were you jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Just sat there, in the dim light of your trailer, with his jaw clenched and his eyes shadowed, the silence stretching so thin between you that it almost hummed.

You rose from your chair slowly, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Rhett’s eyes didn’t follow. His stare stayed fixed on the table, as though whatever lived in the grain of the wood was easier to face than you.

But you didn’t let that stand.

You stepped in front of him, and he still didn’t look up. Not until your hand reached forward–two fingers tilting his chin up gently.

“Look at me,” You said, softly.

His eyes lifted, wary and wide, the blue of them darker in the dim light. He looked vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed–like he wasn’t just holding his breath, but his heart too, trapped in his chest, unsure if it was about to break or leap.

You leaned in, hands rising to cradle his face between your palms, your thumbs grazing the bristle along his jaw. His breath caught. The angle of your touch forced him to keep his head tilted up, eyes locked with yours. There was nowhere to look but you.

“Were you jealous?” You asked again, quieter this time.

He didn’t blink. Just swallowed hard. His lips parted, then closed. Opened again.

And finally, he said it. Barely a whisper.

“Of course I was.”

Your breath stuttered softly. You could feel it—that subtle shift in the air between you. Like something sacred was about to be said. Or undone.

Your hands didn’t leave his face.

“Because you want me to be yours…” Your voice dropped, a breath more than a whisper, “And yours only?”

His lashes fluttered like he hadn’t expected you to say it aloud.

There was a long pause.

Then, a quiver in his bottom lip. His mouth opened. No sound. He closed it again. Tried once more.

“…Yeah.” It came out rough. Unsteady. Real.

Your heart gave a slow, traitorous ache in your chest. His eyes were glassy, like something too honest had cracked open and spilled out of him. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking over his face. You could feel the heat rising in your own cheeks. Something low in your belly tightened at the way he was looking at you now–like you were something holy he hadn’t meant to touch, but couldn’t stop reaching for.

You leaned in closer. Your hands slid down to his neck, your forehead nearly brushing his, and your lips ghosted the space beside his mouth.

“Then claim me for real, Rhett,” You whispered, barely audible. “Not just in the dark. Not just when it’s easy. Claim me as yours.”

Rhett didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His mouth crashed into yours like it was instinct—like he was answering the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t rough like the others, not rushed or desperate. This kiss was slow. Deep. Laced with something that burned hotter than anything he’d ever let show. Like he wanted you to feel what he hadn’t had the words to say. Like he wanted to taste every part of the ache he’d been trying to bury.

You moaned softly against his lips, and his hands rose to your waist, gripping tight like he was grounding himself. Your body leaned into his, and he stood—just like that, lifting you as easily as breathing.

You didn’t even have to think–your legs wrapped around his waist like they’d been waiting for that cue all night. Like it was reflex. Clockwork.

The kiss didn’t break as he turned, carrying you toward the bedroom. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently at the roots, and he groaned low into your mouth, that sound vibrating straight down your spine.

By the time your back hit the mattress, both of you were already breathing hard. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands smoothing along your thighs, bunching your dress up higher and higher until it pooled at your hips. His gaze drank you in like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“Goddamn,” He muttered, running a hand down your bare leg like he was reverent. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached up, grabbing the collar of his shirt to yank him back down. “Then prove it.”

And he did.

His mouth met yours again–hotter this time, wetter. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing. It was messy and full of spit and hunger and the kind of kiss that left you both panting. You felt his hand slip between your legs, fingers stroking through the slick already gathering there, and you gasped into his mouth.

”Always so wet…All for me…” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak against your lips. “Fuck.”

You didn’t have the breath to answer–not when he was dragging his fingers up and down your slit, teasing the edges of your clit before dipping into your entrance. Not when he curled two fingers inside you and started fucking you slow and deep, eyes locked to your face like he couldn’t bear to look away.

You moaned–loud and shameless–and he swallowed it in another kiss, his free hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place while his fingers worked you open.

The sound of it was filthy. Wet and obscene and echoing faintly in the room.

He moved with purpose, curling his fingers just right, stroking that spot inside you while kissing you so thoroughly it felt like your bones might dissolve. His mouth broke away only to trail down your jaw, then your neck, biting gently, licking the spot after.

“Want you to come like this,” He rasped, voice ragged. “Wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand before I even get inside you.”

Your hips bucked up helplessly. You couldn’t help it. The pressure was coiling fast–faster than you expected. It was the look in his eyes. The rough sweetness of it all. Like he wanted to ruin you just enough to keep you his.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat starting to gather along his brow. “Come for me, Y/N. Just like this…Just on my fingers.” You whimpered, legs trembling as your release built sharp and tight, and then–

It hit.

Your back arched and you cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other digging into his shoulder as you came with a shuddering gasp. He held you through it, fingers slowing just enough to milk every last tremor, his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” He whispered. “All mine.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Rhett was on you again.

There was nothing slow about the way he pulled your dress over your head—nothing neat, nothing gentle. It caught on your arms for half a second before he tugged it free and tossed it somewhere across the room. His hands were back on you immediately, rough palms sliding up your stomach, over your chest, thumbing the soft weight of your breasts like he’d been starving for the feel of you.

You arched into his touch, mouth parting on a gasp, and reached for the hem of his shirt in turn. He helped you, pulling it over his head with a growl caught low in his throat, like he couldn’t stand another second of skin between you. And once it was gone–thrown blindly behind him–his mouth was everywhere–neck, collarbone, the soft rise of your breast–kissing, biting, licking, like he was trying to memorize you through taste. He pulled one nipple into his mouth with a groan, tongue swirling slow and wet, while his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to feel you under his palms, needed to know you were real.

And then he was tugging at your panties, the fabric sliding down your legs with a quiet, desperate sound. You kicked them off without thinking, letting them land somewhere in the mess already forming around the bed. His belt was next–your hands fumbling with the buckle, too frantic to be graceful. Rhett cursed softly against your chest, helping you, pushing his jeans down with a rough jerk of his hips until they were halfway down his thighs.

He didn’t stop to take them off.

Didn’t need to.

Because his body was already pressing into yours–hot, heavy, solid–and you could feel every hard inch of him, thick and aching, dragging against your slick folds like it was killing him not to be inside you.

He leaned over you, one hand bracing against the mattress beside your head, and with the other–he reached for your hand. Intertwined your fingers with his and pinned them down beside your head, palm to palm, knuckles grazing the pillow.

His eyes searched yours for a beat. Just one.

Then his hips surged forward.

The stretch made you gasp, made your back arch, made your fingers squeeze his tighter as he filled you in one deep, unrelenting thrust. You felt the tremble in his arm, the strain in his breath, and when he bottomed out, he groaned–low and filthy–his forehead pressing to yours again.

“Fuck,” He breathed, voice shaking. “You always feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

Your free hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in for something to hold onto. He started moving–slow at first, but deep. Every thrust hit that spot inside you that made your eyes flutter, that made your thighs fall wider open, welcoming every inch of him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” He rasped, voice pitched low against your mouth. “That dress. That smile. The way you looked at him…”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him.

“You wanted me jealous, didn’t you?” He growled, dragging his hips back and slamming forward again. The bed creaked. The headboard thumped once. “Wanted me to lose it.”

“No,” you gasped, breath catching. “I wanted to be yours for real….”

His grip on your hand tightened–possessive. And he fucked into you harder then, still deep, but more urgent now. Less rhythm, more need.

“Mine,” He said, grunting with the hard thrust he gave you. “You hear me? Mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody gets to feel how fuckin’ tight you get for me.”

Your body shook with every thrust, with every word.

“Say it,” He demanded, hips snapping harder, “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” You moaned, eyes fluttering. “Fuck, Rhett–You. Only you.”

That broke something in him.

His mouth was on yours again, kissing you like it hurt, like he was drowning in it. His thrusts turned frantic–still deep, still dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips, but now he was desperate too. Desperate to make you feel it.

He reached between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, and your legs shook again.

“I want you to come around me,” He groaned, burying his face in your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, “I want it to be messy, darlin’. Wanna feel it…I need it.” You were already there–so close, the coil pulling tight, the pressure unbearable with the way he was working your clit and pounding into that sweet, swollen spot deep inside.

And then it hit–white-hot, sweeping through your entire body like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. You cried out, clenching around him as your orgasm shattered through you, trembling so hard your hand almost slipped from his.

Rhett groaned like he felt it in his soul.

“Goddamn…That’s it, Y/N…Just like that–fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so fucking tight.” He thrusted once, twice–then he was spilling into you with a broken, guttural moan. His hips stuttered and he stayed buried deep, pressing down so hard you could feel his heartbeat in the way his cock pulsed inside you.

His hand was still gripping yours. Tight. Like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to.

When it was over, he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just rested his weight over you, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, lips brushing your temple.

“You wreck me,” He whispered, voice wrecked and ruined. “Every fuckin’ time.”

You smiled–soft, dazed–and turned your head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“And you still come back for more.”

He let out a soft laugh, one that warmed against your skin. His grip on your hand loosened just enough for your fingers to thread tighter, more secure.