itlswhatltls

[itlswhatltls]

the legend of the great wizard bobernius | r.b.f. x reader

a/n: I would like to thank @roosterforme and @honeyedspace and the discord girlies (gn) for enabling me in my horny fantasies and @attapullman for creating International Bob Floyd Fucks Month, which I will be celebrating every January from here on out. This work is unsuitable for minors, 18+ ONLY THIS IS LITERALLY FILTH. As always, likes are nice, but comments and reblogs make the world go around. Do not repost my work. Yada yada yada frittata

summary: Bob Floyd likes D&D and fucking his girlfriend

warnings: Bob Floyd, bad d&d jokes, smut: oral, fingering, teasing, orgasm denial, pussy spanking, unprotected p-i-v

Bob trudged down the hall towards your shared apartment, weary down to the bone. Spending the day at Comic Con with Fanboy was an incredible, unforgettable experience. But now he was so tired and so late. And his phone died so he couldn't even call to let you know when he might be home.

Something smelled absolutely divine as he neared the door, making his stomach growl in earnest. He fumbled for his keys. He totally didn't spend far too much money on merch and materials for his and Fanboy’s D&D campaign. And of course, a few things for you. He dropped his keys, heaving a sigh when they clattered loudly on the hardwood floor. He wished he'd worn regular clothes instead of his wizard gear. Fanboy even dressed as Han Solo. But no. He wanted to be his D&D character; the great wizard Bobernius. Which was perfectly fine for most of the day. But now his arms were loaded down with everything he bought, his wizard robes were too hot and honestly a little itchy, his feet ached from walking all over downtown and the convention center in uncomfortable shoes, and he was just plain tired and hungry. 

Just as he was about to drop everything and pick up his keys, the door creaked open. You stood before him with a wry smile, wearing one of his faded Navy tees and basketball shorts, holding a glass of wine. 

“The great wizard Bobernius? To what do I owe this pleasure?” You teased, opening the door wider so he could shuffle inside. You'd helped him with his character sheet and often supplied refreshments when the campaign met at your apartment. The name ‘Bobernius’ was your idea.

“Hi, honey.” Bob grinned and kissed your cheek as he passed. He placed his bags on the coffee table and rolled out his shoulders. He then grabbed his keys, hung them on the hall tree, and closed the door. 

“There's some soup left on the stove for you.”

“Are you an angel?” he asked, genuine gratefulness shining in his pretty blue eyes. 

You hummed in response, shrugging your shoulders, “Mickey called. Said your phone died.” 

“He might be an angel, too.” Bob said, walking over and sliding an arm around your waist to pull you in for a kiss, “but I'd rather worship you.”

You melted into his arms. His kisses always had that effect on you. Even before you started dating and knew what it was like to be kissed by Bob Floyd, when you'd catch his eye in the mess hall and he smiled at you, your heart would flutter. Just like it was now. 

“My, Bobernius,” you batted your lashes when he pulled away, “Aren't you forward?” 

“Forgive me, fair maiden, I was overcome with gratitude.”

“Eat.” You nudged him towards the stove where a pot of his favorite soup simmered. “Restore your strength. Perhaps then you can show me how grateful you are.”

You wiggled your eyebrows suggestively and Bob nearly choked on his laughter. 

“What did you buy?” You asked him, observing the bags strewn across the coffee table. 

“You can take a peak if I can have you for dessert.”

“I don't know.” You teased, examining a set of starry night themed dice he purchased earlier that day, “Might have to roll for initiative.”

Bob groaned and hid his reddening face behind his hands. You chucked the quilted d-20 pillow you made for his birthday last year at his head but he blocked it easily, knocking it to the floor. 

“Whaddya know?” He mused, “Natural 20.”

You stuck out your tongue and blew a raspberry.

It was sinful, really. The way such a soft, sweet, shy man became a beast when it came to sex. 

When you first started dating he'd been hesitant to initiate sex; terrified of coming on too strong or hurting you. It took weeks of inviting him to stay the night, changing in front of him, and finally physically putting his hands on your chest for him to get the message. 

And after he stopped blushing and stammering, Bob proved to be the best you would ever have. ‘Generous Lover' was an understatement. He always made sure you finished twice at minimum before he did. And if you didn't and wanted to tap out, he never held it against you; perfectly content to snuggle up and watch a movie or go to sleep instead. 

You hadn't put panties on after your shower, just the shorts and shirt. The groan he'd let out not two minutes ago when he'd put his hand under the waistband to find you bare and already soaked from anticipation? Primal. Animalistic, even. He'd almost knocked you over in his haste to get you out of your clothes but you knew he'd never let you fall. 

Now, with two bowls of soup eaten and the dishes washed and put away, Bob had you perched on the edge of a bar stool, T-shirt bunched around your waist and shorts somewhere on the floor, his head between your thighs with your legs over his shoulders.

He wanted you for dessert, after all. 

“F-fuck, Bobby, oh my god.” you moaned, head tipped back. One hand in his soft blond hair and the other white-knuckling the edge of the counter for balance. He did the most wicked things with his tongue. If not tracing patterns on your clit, then licking into your cunt as far as he could reach while his nose rubbed against your clit and his glasses left imprints on your thighs. 

He groaned, the vibration going straight through your core. You were white-hot and tingling all over and so, so close.

But just before you tipped over the edge of your orgasm, he pulled back and tossed you over his shoulder. He swatted you on the ass and got as far as the sofa before deciding that the chaise side of the sectional was good enough. 

He laid you down carefully, like you were made of glass, peppering kisses all over your face and down your neck. He put a throw pillow under your lower back, massaging your hips with his large warm hands. 

“Bobby…” You whined for his attention. Your legs were still trembling from how close you had been to finishing, your pussy walls clenching around nothing. 

“I know honey, I know.” Bob pushed your shirt up to get his hands on your tits. He massaged the soft flesh, pinching and squeezing and teasing. “I'm gonna help you, don't you worry.”

He lavished hot, open mouthed kisses across your chest and down your stomach until returned to your still soaked cunt. But he didn't go back to eating you out. Instead, he left kisses and love bites all over your thighs and stomach until you were shaking with need and begging for him. 

“Bobby, please. Need you.” 

“I dunno, honey,” Bob mused, stroking through your folds with one hand and attempting to disrobe with the other. He liked his costume. Especially the pieces you helped him make. But there were far too many layers. “Maybe you should roll for persuasion.”

You hated him. You hated him so much. 

No.

You didn't.

Not when he pushed two, long, thick fingers into your center and rubbed your clit with his thumb at the same time. You moaned, arching your back and pressing your hips up into his touch.

He scissored his fingers, stretching you open for his cock. He was aching in his trousers. In hindsight, he should have changed when he got home. 

Somehow he managed to shuck his boots, pants and boxers, leaving him in his tunic and robes. You couldn't help the giggle that escaped your throat at the sight of him hovering over you, his deliciously long and thick cock caught in the hem of his tunic. 

Bob withdrew his fingers and laid a spank to your pussy for laughing. Your legs shook at the harsh contact and you squealed. He gave you one more spank for good measure before going back to fingering you and licking at your clit. 

This time, he let you come, happily humming against your pussy as he lapped up every last drop with slow, flat strokes of his tongue. He brought his hand up to your mouth so you could taste yourself, suckling his fingers clean with a soft moan. 

“Think you're ready, honey?” He asked, chafing his hands along your kiss marked and trembling thighs. You nodded eagerly, pussy clenching in anticipation of what was to come. 

To put it mildly, Bob was hung. Above average length and girth for your well above average boyfriend. He was pretty, veiny, and red at tip, precum staining his tunic. 

He climbed over you on the chaise and adjusted your position to make sure you'd be comfortable. You pulled his tunic up for him, running your hands over his muscled back and chest. You gently scraped your nails over his pecs, making him hiss.  He held himself up by one arm by your head and rubbed the fat head of his cock through your folds, slapping your clit a few times to make you shudder. 

“Just the tip, okay?” He said, distracting you with a searing kiss. Liar. He pushed into you slowly, moaning your name. He kissed you softly when you groaned and scrunched your face at the stretch of him. 

“That's my girl.” Bob murmured, burying his face in the crook of your neck almost the same way his cock was buried in your pussy. He rolled his hips into yours and you choked on a gasp. God, you never felt so full as you did when Bob was inside you. 

“Love this perfect little pussy.” He grunted, “Always so tight for me.”

You clenched at his words. You loved him. You loved him and his fat cock and dirty mouth so much.

Hooking your legs over his arms for the deepest angle without mashing your cervix, Bob started with slow, languid thrusts so you could have more time to adjust. 

“I think,” He said, thrusting a little harder, a little faster, “That the great wizard Bobernius is providing thorough proof of his gratitude. What do you think, honey?”

You can't even speak at this point. He’s overwhelmed your senses with his hand on your breast and his mouth at your neck and his cock splitting you in half in the most delicious way possible. You just nod and manage a soft “uh-huh” between moans. 

“Aww,” Bob teased, “you like the wizard sex, don't you, honey?”

You're not even sure what he asked, but you nod anyway. Anything to keep him going. 

“That's- my- girl-” he accentuated each word with a thrust, each one a little harder than the last. 

You tangle one hand in his hair, tugging his mouth up to yours, the other still holding his tunic out of the way. 

“Touch yourself.” Bob said between kisses. It was a suggestion more than a command, but you obeyed anyway. You slid your hand between your bodies, scraping your nails across his torso as you went until you reached the swollen, aching bundle of nerves between your legs. You tried to concentrate on swiping over your clit, but the way Bob was pounding you into the chaise made it difficult. 

That white-hot tingling feeling was back. Heat rushed through your veins, making you clench, shudder, and shake. The only words you could manage aside from incoherent moans was a soft chant of, “fuck, fuck, fuck,”. 

The combination of Bob's relentless pace, him sucking at your pulse point, and your fingers deftly stroking your clit brought your orgasm crashing down over you so suddenly you choked on air. Hot tears ran down your cheeks as you babbled how good you felt. 

You were floating. 

He slowed, lifting his head to make sure you were alright. He peppered kisses over your face until you were giggling and writhing under him. 

“Don't stop,” you whined, moving your hands to his hips to pull him closer, “Feels good.”

He grinned down at you. Sweaty hair clung to his forehead and his glasses were askew. But he never looked more handsome. He sat back on his haunches and lifted you up with him, holding your hips so tightly as he drove his cock into your pussy you were sure you'd have bruises later. 

All you could do was cling to his shoulders and mouth at his neck. You left little kisses up and down the column of his throat and sucked hickey over his collarbone where his uniform would cover it. 

“Fuck, honey,” He moaned, closing his eyes shut and holding you tight as his hips stuttered a final few thrusts. 

You and Bob stayed like that for a few minutes. Basking in the post-sex high. Giggling and kissing and catching your breath. 

Bob carefully laid you down and pulled out, both of you wincing and hissing at the loss. He wrapped you up in a throw blanket from the back of the couch and helped you stand. 

“I think we might need to have the couch cleaned.” He said, studying the dark, wet splotch left on the cushion.

“What, the great wizard Bobernius doesn't know any cleaning spells?”

“Not that kind.” He shrugged, sliding his arms around your waist and kneading at your lower back. You let out a happy sigh and rested your head against his chest. 

“I think you may need a new tunic. Cum stains don't easily come out of this material.”

“Bobernius needs an armor upgrade anyway. Next week we're going to the Tower of Light.”

“Roll for persuasion and maybe a certain fair maiden can assist.”

“I think I used my action and my bonus action. What if you rolled initiative instead?”

You rolled your eyes, more amused than annoyed. Really, you wouldn't trade your giant nerd boyfriend for anything in the world. 

“I love you.” He said, smudging a kiss to your temple. 

“I know.” You replied. 

[itlswhatltls]

Boys On The Radio

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: During a rodeo after party, Rhett witnesses you getting hit on by one of the new hot shot riders and he can’t help but get jealous.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Jealous Rhett, Angst, Rhett and Reader are in a Friends with Benefits relationship (but of course there’s feelings there, because why wouldn’t there be?) Rhett is kind of emotionally constipated in this, and he’s possessive :D

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Semi-Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Little bit of begging, A little bit of crying during sex (from overstimulation), Biting, Marking, Scratching, Nipple/Breast Play, Use of ‘Good Girl’ and ‘Good Boy’

Author’s Note: Mmm we like jealous and possessive Rhett. Wanna give that cowboy a sweet lil kiss on the forehead lol. Anyways! Hope y’all enjoy this RAF update <3 (I finished this on my phone because I’m performing with my band tonight and tomorrow, sorry the update is so late!)

Word Count: 13,042

Rhett was enamoured by the baby blue dress you were wearing.

It was soft-looking–silky, almost translucent when the dashboard light hit it just right–and the color reminded him of the sweet summer skies that happened just before the sun started to set. It clung to you like a second skin, hugging the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, and the swell of your chest. The hem was criminal–dangerously short–flirting with the tops of your thighs every time you shifted in the leather seat, and riding up higher each time you crossed or uncrossed your legs like the fabric had a mind of its own.

The neckline was just low enough to tease. A gentle dip that cradled the round swell of your breasts, offering the kind of view that made his throat tighten and his grip on the steering wheel go white-knuckled. With every bump in the road, they bounced softly under the fabric, unsupported and free, and Rhett swore under his breath more than once as he tried not to stare–and tried not to crash the damn truck.

The dress was sweet and sultry and it rode the sharp edge of trouble and you knew exactly what it did to your favourite cowboy.

You had pulled it from your bag without so much as a warning, your voice lazy and sweet as you said “Think I’ll change before we get there,” like it was no big deal. Like it didn’t mean stripping down in his truck while he was driving the both of you from the circuit to the after-party one of the riders was throwing.

He didn’t stop you, nor did he tell you to wait. He just nodded, eyes darting to the road, pretending he didn’t feel his pulse strike at the plan you had. He’d seen you naked more times than he could count by now. Skin pressed to skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth dragging down your stomach until he buried his face between your thighs. You moaning his name into the crook of his neck while you begged for more. That was your arrangement. Friends who knew each other too well. Who couldn’t keep their hands off one another when the sun dipped low and the adrenaline of the day buzzed under their skin.

You had been hooking up for months at this point, and he had watched you get dressed and undressed countless times, in a variety of places. But this–watching you getting undressed in the low flickering light of his truck–was very different.

It started with your shirt–faded and baggy, lifted slowly over your head as you shifted in your seat, the fabric brushing your face before it was tossed in the back. His jaw clenched, and he caught a glimpse of your bare breasts, soft and high, your nipples peaked from the cool of the A/C. Then your jeans were next, unbuttoned and shimmed down those smooth, buttery soft legs of yours, inch by inch. His peripheral vision was lit up with temptation, and he swore he almost veered off the road when you arched your back just enough to tug them down your hips–reminding him of the way you looked when he would bend you over on his bed.

You were left in nothing but lacy black panties–thin, and delicate, the kind with those tiny sheer panels and scalloped edges that left little to the imagination. You didn’t make a show of it, and you didn’t say a word during this, you just grabbed your dress and slipped it over your head like it was part of your routine.

For Rhett though…It was pure torture.

His eyes flicked between the empty road and you in quick, hungry glances–trying to memorize the curve of your bare waist as it disappeared beneath the fabric, the shift of your breasts as you smoothed the dress down over them. You looked down at yourself and adjusted the bodice with your hands, cupping each breast and lifting them slightly to make sure everything sat just right–round and perky and perfect.

Rhett sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth, his eyes returning to the road quickly as you let out a soft giggle.

“Fuckin’ hell,” He muttered under his breath, gripping the steering wheel harder, his dirt stained jeans growing tighter from the show you were putting on for him.

He wanted to drag you across the console and pull you onto his lap, so he could hike the dress up to your waist and shove his hands between your thighs while you leaned back against the steering wheel, panting his name with your eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to kiss his way down your throat and over your collarbone, to leave bruises on that spotless skin–marks you said he couldn’t give you, because that was part of the deal the both of you agreed to. No evidence. No questions. No feelings. Just friendship and sex.

But every inch of him ached to make you his officially, because that’s what you felt like when you were writhing under him, clawing at his back like you needed him to breathe. He wanted you so bad but all he could do was submit to the idea that he would never be able to call you his.

So, he pressed his boot down harder on the gas and stared hard at the road, trying to shake the heat crawling down his spine, trying to ignore the heavy throb between his legs as the image of you adjusting your breasts played on loop behind his eyes.

And then–

Click

His ears prickled at the soft sound of your seatbelt unlatching, his gaze turning just in time to see you shift in your spot again, your dress riding high up your thighs as your hands disappeared beneath the hem. You leaned back against the space between the seat and the door, giving your hips a soft wiggle, biting your bottom lip in concentration as you dragged the black lace down the length of your legs.

He could feel his mouth go dry as he flicked his eyes between the winding road and the slow, sensual movements of your hands. You moved like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Exactly what kind of pressure it put on a man like Rhett to stay in his lane, keep the truck steady, and not slam on the brakes and pull you right into his lap. You loved the control you had on him, like you were the only person that had access to his metaphorical light switch…

The black lace slipped off your ankles in one fluid motion, your fingers curling around the delicate fabric as you shifted toward him slightly–your bare thigh brushing against the curve of the seat with a whisper-soft sound that made his entire body tense. You balled up the panties, holding them in your fist for a moment, before leaning closer to him with a smile that was far too innocent for the sinful little display you had just put on for him.

And then you shoved the balled up lace right into the front pocket of his jeans. Your fingers grazed his aching length just enough to make his hips jerk subtly against the air, just enough to make him bite down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted the coppery flavour of his blood coating his tongue. The smell of your perfume clouded his senses in that moment–the sickeningly sweet caramel and vanilla mist you always sprayed on yourself that drove Rhett crazy.

“I don’t want anyone seeing these through my dress,” You said, voice soft and teasing, saccharine–sweet with a wicked little undertone, “So I hope they’ll be safe with you for the night.” You added, leaning into his space just a little more, your breath grazing over his cheek, as your hand rested on the nape of his neck, just below his sweaty strands of light brown hair that was slicked back beneath his signature Stetson he always wore. Your lips brushed just below his jaw–barely there–and then you pressed a soft, maddening kiss to the sharp edge of stubble that had grown in over the course of the day. It was the kind of kiss that made his breath catch and his knuckles flex over the steering wheel. You didn’t linger. Just a single, grazing touch, enough for your scent to cling to his skin and make his throat tighten.

And then you leaned back like nothing happened, slow and poised, your dress riding up again before you smoothed it down and buckled your seatbelt.

Rhett let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, jaw working tight as he stared out at the road like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He didn’t dare look at you. Nor did he look down at the very real tent in his jeans where your lace panties now rested close with just a bit of fabric separating them, or at your bare thigh, or the way your lips were slightly parted in the corner of his vision like you were enjoying watching him come undone.

His fingers twitched over the steering wheel–rough, calloused, desperate to hold onto something.

And you must’ve sensed it, must’ve known just how far you’d pushed him, because a moment later, your hand reached across the console again. Gentle. Unbothered. Like you were easing into something familiar.

You curled your fingers around his wrist and pulled his hand off the wheel, guiding it down to your thigh. You placed it there–firmly–your skin cool and smooth beneath his burning palm. The contrast made his breath hitch. His fingers clenched instinctively, digging into the plush flesh like he needed to hold you in place. Like he didn’t trust himself not to go further.

And for a second, neither of you said a word. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the sharp thud of his pulse against his ribs.

His fingers flexed again. This time, slower. More deliberate. Thumb brushing against the inside of your thigh–close enough to make your breath catch, not quite enough to give you what you really wanted.

You glanced sideways at him, lips tugging into that half-smirk he both loved and hated.

Rhett swallowed hard, his voice gravel-rough when he finally spoke. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, Y/N…” Your hand stayed over his, warm and steady. You could feel the way his fingers twitched. The way his palm threatened to slide higher and higher.

“You think I won’t pull over?” He asked, low and deadly soft, his blue eyes finally flicking toward you–dark with heat, with hunger, with a possessiveness he couldn’t even pretend to hide anymore.

You bit your bottom lip, feigning innocence. “Who says we need to pull over, Rhett?”

His jaw locked.

Fuck.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looked back at the road, his grip tightening on your thigh again–this time with a desperation that made your stomach flutter.

Then he began to drag his hand higher, going straight towards your core, feeling your slick heat brushing against his fingertips. He dragged them along your wetness, letting out a long breath.

”Wow…You want my fingers that bad, hmm? Already soaked for me and I didn’t even have to say anything or touch you.” He teased lowly, his voice coated in the tension that tightened his throat. You let out a soft gasp as he slid a finger through your folds–your hips instinctively rocking into his touch, as you tried to regain your composure a bit. A little smirk came up onto your lips.

”Can’t control it…You were eyeing me down with those hazy blue irises of yours while I was changing…” He let out a shaky breath, barely holding back the growl that trembled in his chest. His fingers stroked you again, this time deliberately slow, dragging through your folds like he was savoring the feel of you. The truck jolted slightly with a bump in the road, but he didn’t even flinch.

“You’re so desperate for me you can’t wait till tonight, huh?” He muttered, his thumb grazing your clit just enough to make you bite your lip hard.

”It’s to take the edge off,” You replied, trying to stay serious even though your voice was a little breathless “You know how I get at parties.” He scoffed, shaking his head with a humorless little huff.

“What a poor excuse,” He commented, the pad of his finger sliding down and circling your entrance like a threat, “Just admit you like it when I fuck you with my fingers.” Your teeth grazed your bottom lip again, this time to hide the way your mouth wanted to drop open at the heat in his voice.

“I can’t give you that satisfaction,” You teased, blinking slowly at him. “Would be too easy.” A low hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly pulled his hand away, dragging his wet fingers along the inside of your thigh as he retreated. You bit back a noise of protest, legs twitching.

“Suit yourself then,” He murmured, smirking just enough for it to sting. “We’re almost there anyways…Wouldn’t be the best idea to get you all riled up. The boys there won’t stand a chance.” You huffed at him, crossing your arms and shifting your thigh away.

”You don’t even stand a chance most of the time. Look at yourself right now…You got hard just by watching me change.” He let out a little groan, tightening his hand on the steering wheel.

”Yeah, ‘cause you were teasin’ me,” He said, glancing over at you with that dangerously boyish look–the kind that made your stomach flip, “If you were changin’ like a normal person, I wouldn’t be hard. I’ve been able to manage myself perfectly fine before, y’know.” He added squeezing your thigh and tracing circles along your skin. You rolled your eyes, swiping his hand off, grinning when his brows pulled together in a faux pout.

”Don’t look at me like that, Cowboy. You said it yourself, it’s best not to get me riled up, so quit touching me.”

”Hey!” He barked in mock offense, reaching back out to you like a petulant child denied his favourite toy. But you leaned back, out of reach pressing yourself up against the door, raising your chin in triumph.

”I mean it, Rhett.” His eyes narrowed, lips twitching. Then, quicker than you expected, he darted his hand under your thigh, fingers curling around the sensitive skin there.

“Don’t you dare–!” You gasped, but it was too late.

He tickled the back of your thigh mercilessly, fingers teasing and dancing just under the hem of your dress. A surprised laugh burst from your mouth and you squirmed in your seat, kicking lightly toward the console and batting his arm away, as he continued to pay attention to the road.

”Rhett, I swear to god…” You warned.

”You started it,” He grinned, a little crooked and full of smugness. “Now look at you, all flustered.” Rhett kept tickling, and you kept laughing–loud and breathless, legs twitching and thighs squeezing around his wrist in a poor attempt to block him. The sexual tension dissolved into something warmer, lighter. That was what you liked about this strange little arrangement you had with him. It wasn’t always intense and feral and soaked in sweat and lust. Sometimes it was just this–easy and teasing and sharp with laughter. You could push each other to the brink and still pull back before things boiled over into an all out sexual detour.

You both had your switches. And right now, they were finally flicked off. Back to ‘friend mode’ as you liked to say.

Your giggles softened as he finally retreated, pulling his hand away with a dramatic little sigh like you had exhausted him.

“Alirght,” Rhett said, voice low but tinged with surrender, “Fix yourself before we pull into the driveway…Don’t want to raise any suspicions.” He added jokingly. You nodded, breathless, grinning as you smoothed your dress down your thighs and wiped the sweat off your brow.

“Better do the same for yourself, Cowboy,” You shot back, letting your eyes flick pointedly toward the front of his jeans, “And don’t lose those underwear either…” You said, leaning closer with a wicked glint in your eye, “…They’re my favourite pair.” He let out a little laugh.

”Yeah?” He asked, his eyebrow raising slightly, “Well…I guess I’ll have to guard ‘em with my life then.”

As he turned onto the long gravel driveway that led toward the back of the property, the warm glow of the party came into view. There were strings of soft yellow lights looped around the fencing posts, swaying slightly in the night breeze. A bonfire crackled near the edge of the clearing, its flames dancing tall and orange, casting long flickering shadows across the packed crowd.

The yard was full of people scattered everywhere in their own clusters–some you recognized from the circuits, others not so much. There was laughter and the twinge of guitar strings that filled the air, and the hum of an old speaker playing a generic Spotify playlist that buzzed from a nearby table. Someone had thrown hay bales around the fire for makeshift seating, and a couple of folks were already posted up there with beers in hand. There were coolers open, boots scuffed and stomping on dirt as people clinked bottles and howled at tonight’s events.

The scent of burning wood mixed with cheap beer and the lingering musk of sweat and leather. You could see familiar faces and fresh ones–locals and new riders who had joined the circuit recently. A few guys leaned against the fence near the area, sipping from Solo cups and scanning the crowd like they were looking for a girl to charm.

Rhett’s hands tightened on the wheel as he drove past them, jaw ticking slightly, almost like he was trying to intimidate them with just a look, even though they weren’t paying attention to him at all.

He pulled the truck in beside a cluster of other dusty pickups and killed the engine. The headlights dimmer, but the glow of the bonfire still reached the windshield, casting shadows across both of your faces. He let out a small sigh, before bringing his hand down to his belt, unbuckling it. The clink of the metal echoed softly in the cab, followed by the low pop of his jeans being unbuttoned. He slipped his hand beneath the waistband, adjusting his aching erection with the kind of casual, almost lazy precision that made you stare without even meaning to. His hat tipped forward as he shifted, casting the shadow of his jawline in a sharp slant of darkness. You watched him in silence, the motion oddly hypnotic–half out of amusement, half out of admiration.

There was no hesitation, no apology. Just Rhett being Rhett–shameless and rugged and impossibly attractive even when he was just fixing his hard-on before stepping into a party.

He pulled his hand out and buttoned his jeans back up, cinching his belt tight around his waist. His white tee had creased slightly, so he tugged it flat before adjusting the green flannel he wore open over it. He ran his fingers through the strands of light brown hair that had fallen loose under the brim of his hat, then looked over at you with a quick nod.

“Ready?” You tilted your head slightly, smiling as you reached for your seatbelt.

”Ready as I’ll ever be.” You popped the lock and opened your door, the creak of the hinges blending into the distant laughter and music drifting from the party. The warm scent of burning wood and crushed grass spilled into the cab.

But before your boots even hit the dirt, Rhett’s voice cut through the dark.

“Hey–“ He said, voice low but firm, grabbing your attention once more, with your brow raised. He was still seated, one hand on the wheel, the other braced on the driver-side door that he was going to open in a moment, “Let’s keep the drinkin’ down to a minimum tonight, alright? I had to sleep with you on your bathroom floor the last time you drank to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit, and I don’t want to wake up with that ungodly back ache again.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, giving a small huff of a laugh.

”And here I thought you enjoyed taking care of me,” You teased, flashing him a toothy grin, “Guess I’ll have to find a replacement for you.” His jaw ticked slightly at your comment.

A replacement.

The word hit harder than he wanted it to, latching into the back of his mind like a burr caught in denim. It wasn’t just the idea of someone else taking care of you–it was the thought of someone else touching you, kissing you, hearing those soft little moans you made when you were tipsy and clingy. Someone else holding you against their chest while you whispered half-drunken secrets into their skin the way you had with him that night on your bathroom floor.

He felt it coil in his stomach, tight and sharp. Bile rose to the back of his throat, hot and bitter, but he swallowed it down hard. This was supposed to be casual. Fun. No strings.

But fuck if it didn’t feel like you’d wrapped one around his neck and started tugging.

He shook his head, trying to keep the playful tone in his voice, but it cracked just a little.

“You just try,” He shot back, looking over at you with a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “They’ll never be as good at handlin’ you as me though…” You leaned against the door, lips curling, biting the inside of your cheek like you were holding back a smirk.

“Hm. Maybe.” You let the silence stretch for a second, then flicked your chin toward the party, “Now are you coming out or not? You’re sitting there doing nothing when we could’ve been drinking by now.” He sighed, long and dramatic, and opened his door, the creak blending with the distant sounds of boots against dirt and laughter in the distance. You had already slammed your door shut by the time he did the same, and the two of you rounded the truck to meet near the bed.

There was no touch, no whisper, no lingering gaze–just a casual pace as you began walking together toward the crowd. You kept a bit of distance between you, a few feet of air that felt wider than it should’ve, your steps matching only out of habit. It was strange–how quickly the air between you could shift. How quickly he could go from knuckles white with desire to walking beside you like you were just a friend. Not the girl who just slipped her panties into his pocket with a look that could undo a lesser man.

You split at the edge of the crowd–your path drifting toward a row of coolers stacked with bottles and ice, while Rhett moved toward the knot of bull riders gathered around a battered wooden table playing poker with ripped cards and spare change.

He nodded to a few familiar faces–Leon, Ben, Caleb–and they clapped him on the back, tossed him a bottle of beer, started talking about the night’s rides and the new hot shot rider who had joined from out east.

But Rhett didn’t hear much of it.

Because the moment his eyes slid across the firelight haze and landed on you–standing by the cooler, laughing at something one of your friends had said, your baby blue dress lit up in gold like a flame–he saw someone else walking toward you. And his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

He didn’t recognize the guy. Tall, sharp jaw, clean-cut. New. He had to be one of the transfer riders everyone was talking about–the ones who were looking to make a name for themselves. His blonde hair was tied back, and he had a red solo cup in one hand while the other was tucked into his back pocket like he was trying to look effortless. Like he wasn’t actively locking in on the prettiest girl at the party…

You smiled–soft, pretty, that same one you used when you were being polite but curious. Rhett knew it too well. You opened up your can of beer, and said something he couldn’t hear over the music and chatter, but the guy laughed. A real, deep-belly laugh. Leaning in closer to you. Rhett could see your bottom lip slip between your teeth, and his jaw ticked so hard it ached. You were leaning in closer now, just slightly, enough that your shoulder grazed the new guy’s chest as he dipped his head to speak low into your ear. You shifted on your heels, angling your body toward him, and nodded at whatever he said. Then–Rhett saw it–you smiled.

That same damn smile you gave him when he dragged you into his bed, breathless and laughing, calling him trouble like it was a compliment.

And then you glanced toward him.

Just a flicker of your eyes over the bonfire and through the crowd. Just long enough for your gaze to catch his from across the distance. Just long enough for Rhett to feel it like a goddamn punch in the chest. Your eyes were bright in the firelight, a little glassy from the beer, and your lips were still curved in that gentle, unreadable expression. You brought your can to your lips, took a slow sip, then turned back to the blonde rider.

“Abbott, are you even listening?” Ben asked beside him, cutting through the blood pounding in his ears. Rhett blinked and turned, catching the impatient look from Ben and the amused ones from Leon and Caleb.

“Huh? Sorry, I was–”

“Watching your girlfriend?” Leon quipped, voice sharp with teasing. Rhett scoffed, but the heat rushed up the back of his neck. His ears burned under his hat.

“No. Just curious who the new guy is.” Caleb chuckled around a swig of his beer, nodding in the direction of the blonde man now brushing his fingers along your arm like he had the right to.

“Name’s Tommy. Came up from Arizona, I think. Pretty sweet kid. Definitely a Casanova though. I mean, look at him go.” Rhett’s eyes zeroed in on the way Tommy’s fingers drifted down your bicep–slow, careful, practiced. He watched the way you tilted your head as you spoke, your mouth moving in soft curves, and your body swaying slightly. And when Tommy laughed again, Rhett nearly snapped his beer bottle in half. He tried to laugh it off, and tried to remind himself that you weren’t his, and that it was his own damn fault for never saying what he really felt. But it didn’t stop the bitter heat from crawling up his chest or the cold, sharp ache from gnawing at his gut.

“I think Rhett’s gettin’ a little green-eyed over here.” Ben commented. The guys around him laughed, all of them too buzzed or too blind to realize that it wasn’t just jealousy in Rhett’s eyes–it was heartbreak, frustration, and the kind of possessiveness that made him want to walk over, grab your wrist, and pull you away from every other set of eyes like a damn caveman. He forced a dry smirk and shook his head.

”Ain’t nothin’ to be jealous of,” He muttered, even though his eyes were glued to the scene across the clearing. His chest burned. His skin itched. And the worst part? You weren’t doing anything wrong. You weren’t grinding on Tommy or laughing too loud or flirting too hard. No–you were doing that thing you always did when someone was being overly charming. You gave them just enough to be polite, enough to be kind, and then you’d find a way to let them down easy.

And Rhett saw it happen right in front of him.

You laid your hand on Tommy’s stomach–a soft, gentle push–and shook your head. He laughed, nodded, and stepped back. You didn’t look uncomfortable. You didn’t look annoyed. Just…Graceful. In control. Even when Tommy reached into the cooler beside you, cracked another beer, and tapped it against your can with a smile, you just offered a nod, nothing more. No flirting, no promises. Just a clean close.

You turned slightly after that, drawing your attention back to the friend you were speaking to moments before Tommy had interrupted, your laughter hitting his ears once more. Rhett felt his shoulders drop, just slightly. That tight, choking knot in his chest loosened–not gone, not even close, but…Less.

Caleb shook his head with a low grin, and muttered, “Another one shot down.”

Ben let out a snort and added, “It’s alright, he seems like a persistent kid. Bet he’ll come back around for round two once the beer really kicks in.”

Leon groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I hope not. Rhett might blow an artery and die on the spot if he has to see somethin’ like that again.”

“Fuck off,” Rhett muttered, raising his bottle to his lips, taking a long pull like it might wash the jealousy off his tongue.

But they weren’t wrong.

He had felt his blood pressure spike just watching Tommy’s hand drift along your arm. He had felt every cell in his body scream when your lips curved into that soft smile, even if it wasn’t real. It didn’t matter that you turned the guy down. What mattered was that someone else thought they had a shot with you in the first place. That someone else got to see you smile like that. Stand close like that.

That someone else might end up with the version of you Rhett saw in the quiet hours between dusk and dawn, bare and laughing in his sheets, drunk off moonlight and whispered jokes.

“You know you got it bad, right?” Caleb said, voice lower now, gentler. His shoulder bumped into Rhett’s. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the fire as it crackled and spit glowing embers into the dark. He took another swig of beer, but it didn’t do shit to calm him down.

“I don’t got anything,” He mumbled eventually, eyes flicking over to where you stood, head tilted back in laughter, can of beer pressed to your mouth. “That’s kinda the problem.”

————————

You had managed to only have two and a half beers, which was perfect–just enough for a light buzz that settled beneath your skin like warm honey, but not enough to tip you into the realm of sloppy or sentimental. You had paced yourself on purpose. You wanted to be sharp and to be in control. Wanted to remember every second of the way Rhett had looked at you across the firelight–because he had been watching, even if he pretended not to.

But he hadn’t said much. Barely looked at you. And that quiet space between you, the one that used to be filled with inside jokes and long stares, felt impossibly loud tonight.

So when the clock hit 2:00 A.M. and the fire had burned down to soft orange embers, you wandered back over to where he was leaned against the tailgate, beer hanging loose in his hand, and asked, “Ready to go?”

His jaw flexed. Just once. But he nodded, tipping his bottle back to finish the last of it before setting it on the bumper. He turned to his friends, muttered a few goodbyes, and you followed suit, offering a small wave and smile before the two of you drifted away from the warmth and noise of the party.

The walk to the truck was quiet. The kind of quiet that had weight to it. Like it stretched between your shoulders and settled into your spine. You could smell the faint smoke from the fire in your hair, feel the grit of dirt clinging to your calves, and hear the soft crunch of gravel beneath your boots.

Rhett didn’t say a word. Not even a joke. Not even a “nice night” or “you have fun?”

And you didn’t push.

Because you knew him.

Knew that little wrinkle between his brows, the way his jaw worked when he was stewing on something. Knew that his silence didn’t mean he had nothing to say. It meant he had too much–and he hadn’t figured out how to say any of it without it coming out wrong.

You stepped into the cab of the truck, the door creaking as it closed behind you with a dull thunk. The cab smelled faintly of pine from the air freshener hanging limp from the rearview, smoke from the bonfire clinging to both your clothes and your skin, and a trace of vanilla and sweat–the same notes that had been driving Rhett half-wild all night.

He got in beside you with a grunt, the seat bouncing slightly under his weight. He sighed as he reached up and pulled off his hat, setting it carefully between the two of you on the bench seat. His fingers raked back through his sweat-dampened hair, jaw working a little as he pulled the keys from his pocket–not the one where your panties still sat like a taunt against his thigh–and jammed them into the ignition.

The truck grumbled to life. The headlights lit up the dust ahead in a soft, yellow wash, bouncing faintly as he backed out of the makeshift parking space, tires crunching softly over the gravel.

You glanced at him, voice a little too casual when you said, “That was fun, eh?”

He didn’t look over. Just nodded once and gave a clipped, noncommittal, “Yep.”

You swallowed. The tension sat heavy again, coiled in the air like a storm cloud. It hadn’t dissipated. Hadn’t cracked or rolled away with the party noise. It had only thickened with the silence. He pulled the truck onto the gravel driveway, the wheels slipping slightly before catching hold again. The hum of the engine filled the cab.

You shifted in your seat, angling toward him a bit. “We still going back to my place?”

His hand was resting on the shifter, but his thumb started rubbing the worn leather there. He exhaled through his nose, rubbed his bottom lip with the side of his finger, then he finally said, “Yeah. If you want.”

You tilted your head, voice a little softer now. “Course I do.”

His jaw clenched again, just for a second. And then he nodded–barely perceptible–but said nothing more. You stared at him for a moment longer. The shadows of the cab played across his features, cutting sharp along his cheekbones, highlighting the edge of his throat, the curve of his bicep where the flannel had slid back. He looked like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

You reached over slowly, let your fingers drift across the crown of his hat where it sat between you, almost like a buffer. He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t look at you either. Your eyes lingered on him for a second longer before you leaned back against the seat, sighing as you turned to look out the passenger window. The stars blurred by the dirty glass, and your reflection–barely visible–looked as tired and tense as you felt.

“What’s going on with you?” You asked, voice soft but firm. “Looks like you’ve got something to say.”

His hands tightened on the wheel.

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

He swallowed hard.

Shook his head, some of that sweat-dampened hair falling down across his forehead. He pushed it back with one hand, slow and distracted, before settling it back on the wheel.

“Got nothin’ to say,” He mumbled, barely above the growl of the engine. “Just…Focusin’ on the road.”

You didn’t reply right away.

Just stared at the passing fenceposts and the long stretch of gravel unfolding ahead like it might lead anywhere but where you actually were—tense, aching, held in that maddening limbo between what you both felt and what neither of you would admit.

You felt your jaw tick, the muscles twitching beneath your skin. And then you said, quieter this time, but not without edge–

“Alright then…Don’t say I didn’t ask you.”

The silence that followed was colder than before.

He felt it, too. You knew he did.

Because his hands flexed on the steering wheel again. Because his boot tapped a little heavier against the floor mat. Because he glanced at you, just once, from the corner of his eye–like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.

Like he didn’t know how to turn the damn wheel back around before it drove the two of you straight into regret.

You didn’t press again. You just let the silence stretch. Let it hang thick between you like dust in the headlight beams, visible and inescapable.

The rest of the drive was exactly that–silent and taut, like a rope pulled so tight it might snap with the wrong word. Every gravel crunch beneath the tires felt louder than it should’ve. The occasional blink of a streetlight through the window cast fleeting glimmers across the dashboard, catching on the curve of Rhett’s jaw, the stiff set of his mouth, the muscle that kept ticking in his cheek like a second hand on a clock. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at him again.

When the truck finally rolled to a stop in front of your little bungalow, the tension followed you out of the cab like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

The automatic porch lights clicked on, bathing the small, tidy front of your house in a warm, soft glow. The bungalow sat nestled in a quiet corner of town–half-hidden behind a row of overgrown hedges and a lean wooden fence that had seen better days. The porch was small but homey, with two mismatched rocking chairs on either side of a crate-turned-side-table, an old horseshoe nailed to one of the beams for luck, and a wind chime hanging from the overhang that tinkled softly in the breeze.

You moved toward the door, your boots crunching over the walkway gravel, Rhett a few steps behind you. Distant. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure whether he was walking into a place he was still welcome.

You reached into your bag and pulled out your keys, sliding them into the lock with muscle memory born of long nights and routine. The door gave with a quiet creak, and the familiar warmth of your home spilled out to greet you.

Rhett stepped inside behind you, silent, his presence large but hesitant–like he didn’t know where to put himself anymore.

Your bungalow smelled like cedar and lavender. There was the faintest hint of vanilla from a candle you had blown out before leaving the house. You dropped your bag on the bench beside the door and tossed your keys onto the small side table with a muted clatter. The soft thud of Rhett’s boots followed behind, but he still didn’t speak.

Your home was lived-in and soft around the edges.

To the left, the living room spread out in gentle warmth–faded rugs layered over hardwood floors, a worn brown leather couch piled with mismatched pillows, and a crocheted blanket your aunt had made draped over the back. A few books were stacked on the coffee table alongside an ashtray with a few stubbed-out cigarettes and a mostly empty glass of wine from the night before. The walls were lined with photos–some framed, others thumbtacked crookedly into place. You and your grandma. You and your dog that passed two summers ago. You with your arm slung over Rhett’s shoulder, laughing at something off-camera–back when things were simpler. When everything still felt like a joke waiting to be told.

To the right, the kitchen hummed in stillness. The light above the stove buzzed faintly, casting golden warmth over the counter lined with half-used groceries. A pot still sat on the stove, crusted over with the remnants of mac and cheese you hadn’t had time to clean. The table in the corner was cluttered with unopened mail, coasters, and a few empty LaCroix cans. A pair of boots sat tucked beneath one of the chairs–his, from a different night. Forgotten or left behind on purpose. You weren’t sure anymore.

Down the short hallway, the glow from your bedroom light bled beneath the crack in the door, casting a faint line across the floor. Familiar. Intimate. Inviting in a way that made your chest ache.

”Want some water?” You asked, voice light but already edging into something firmer, something that carried weight, as you kicked off your boots with a soft thump and padded across the floor.

The bottom of your dress swayed with every step you took toward the kitchen, catching the soft breeze from the open window and trailing like smoke behind you. Rhett lingered in the entryway, unmoving at first, like the warmth of your house unsettled him.

He finally replied, “No, I’m okay,” And followed you closely.

You didn’t turn. Just opened the fridge and grabbed a chilled bottle of water. The cap gave a quiet pop as you twisted it free, and you tilted your head back to drink. Cool water slid down your throat and your eyes fluttered shut for just a second, like you were trying to find some calm.

When you pulled the bottle away, your lips were damp, and you ran your tongue slowly over the bottom one–wiping the moisture, but also giving him something to look at. Something he should’ve reacted to.

But Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

And that pissed you off more than it should’ve.

You turned, planting the bottle on the counter with a dull clack and crossing your arms tight over your chest, the swell of your breasts pressing slightly against the neckline of that damned dress that had started this whole mess.

“Mind telling me what’s going on with you now that you’ve had the drive to think about it?” Your voice was sharper now. Tired. Tense. “Because you’ve been stewing all night. And you haven’t said much to me since the party.” Rhett’s jaw ticked. His arms stayed at his sides, fingers twitching once.

“I already told you,” He muttered, “Nothin’ is goin’ on.” You let out a short breath–more of a scoff–and pushed off the counter with your hip, stepping closer.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve never seen you act like this before, Rhett. So cut the crap and spill it.” His eyes flicked to yours then, and there it was: the storm behind them. Blue and burning and barely held back. You could see the way his throat bobbed with a hard swallow, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides like he needed to hold himself together.

”You flirted with that blonde pretty boy, and you acted like I didn’t exist all night until you wanted to leave.” Your eyebrows shot up. You blinked at him in stunned disbelief, then let out a dry, humorless laugh as you stepped forward even more now, the hem of your dress swishing around your thighs.

“So that’s what this whole thing is about?” You asked, your voice sharp enough to slice clean through the thick tension. “You being jealous of the fact that a guy came up to me and flirted–and I outright rejected him?” Rhett said nothing. His jaw flexed again, like he was grinding his molars to dust.

You didn’t stop.

”Also, newsflash, I was looking at you almost all fucking night. You were the one who wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t even acknowledge me. So let’s not go there.” His nostrils flared, but he still didn’t speak, still didn’t defend himself. Just stood there with his fists clenched and that haunted, infuriating look in his eyes. You threw your hands up, pacing a short step away and then turning back to him.

“Get your head on straight, Rhett. You’re mad because someone else saw me for a second. Because someone else had the nerve to walk over and try his luck while you stood across the yard pretending I didn’t mean a damn thing to you.” He looked away then. Eyes cut to the side. Shoulders rigid. You saw the twitch in his jaw before he finally snapped back, voice low and tight. “He touched you.”

“So?” You asked, “You touch me all the time, and I’m not yours. Or did you forget that?” That landed like a slap. You saw it. Felt it. He inhaled sharply through his nose, chest rising hard beneath his shirt. For a second, you thought maybe he’d storm out. Maybe he’d throw your words back in your face. But he didn’t. He stepped closer, shortening the gap between you. His voice dropped, quiet but harsh–like gravel soaked in honey.

”You think I don’t want you to be mine?” You held your ground, heart pounding, your arms crossed tighter now.

“I think,” You said evenly, “You want me when it’s convenient. When it’s easy. When no one else is looking.” His chest brushed against yours now. You had to tilt your chin up slightly to hold his stare. Rhett shook his head slowly, his chest heaving with a silent breath as he stared down at you. His eyes were burning now–blue flame under tension, desperate and raw.

“You know that’s not true,” He replied, voice low and tight, like it cost him to say it. “Deep down inside we both know it too.” You squinted up at him, your arms still crossed over your chest, your heart slamming hard against your ribs.

“Oh really?” You shot back, voice cracking under the weight of all the things you hadn’t said for months. “Then why haven’t you broken the rules you made for this arrangement, Rhett? Why haven’t you taken the steps to show me you actually want me to be your fucking girl then, huh?” He flinched. Not visibly, not with a jerk or a recoil–but something in his face crumpled, just for a moment. A quiet devastation in the furrow of his brow. In the flicker of regret that passed behind his eyes.

Then–quietly, so quietly you barely caught it–

“Because you’ve never told me that’s what you wanted.”

Your jaw went slack.

For a second, you didn’t speak. Just blinked at him, mouth parting like the air had been punched out of you.

“You’re joking,” You said, voice low, stunned. “You have to be fucking joking.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

And that made you angrier than anything else.

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, your tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek as your eyes shimmered–not from sadness, not yet, but from something hotter. More volatile.

“I’ve given you signs,” You started, voice shaking now, “Plenty of them, Rhett. Don’t you dare stand in my kitchen and pretend like I haven’t. I’ve been dropping hints for months. I’ve stayed the night even when we said we wouldn’t. I’ve taken care of you when you’ve been beat to hell. I call you when shit goes wrong. I let you hold me when I’m upset, I’ve worn your shirts, I’ve kissed your goddamn forehead like a girlfriend would. And you–” your voice cracked, “You’ve never said a thing.” He stepped forward again, closer, until you were pushed back against the counter and the space between you was nothing but heat and history and every unsaid word that had been boiling over for months.

“I didn’t say anything,” He rasped, “Because I thought if I did, you’d pull away. Because I thought if I asked for more, you’d walk. Because this–this little thing we had–it was the closest to happy I’ve been in a long fuckin’ time, and I didn’t wanna lose it by pushing you into something, or guilting you into it.” His voice broke at the end, soft and strangled. Your throat went tight, and your eyes shimmered.

“I’ve been in love with you for months,” You said, quietly, like it was a sin. “And you’ve been pretending like I’m just another girl you get to hold until you’re bored. You don’t get to do that anymore, Rhett. You don’t get to tell me you’re scared to lose me if you’ve never even tried to have me.” His blue eyes softened. The kind of soft that came right before something broke open. And when he looked at you now, it wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t cloaked in jealousy or bruised pride.

It was wide open.

“I ain’t bored…” He stated, his voice quiet–raw enough to scrape. “I ain’t ever been bored of you.” His hand came up slowly–carefully–as though he thought you might flinch. But you didn’t. You held still, breath caught in your throat as his calloused fingers brushed the side of your face, settling at your neck. His palm cradled the space just under your jaw, rough thumb stroking along the edge like he was trying to memorize the feel of you.

“You drive me goddamn crazy. You’re the only person who’s ever known how to pull me apart and make me feel like I can breathe at the same time.”

Your lips parted, trembling slightly, but you said nothing. Couldn’t.

“And you’ve destroyed me…” He went on, quieter now, like a confession. “In all the best fuckin’ ways.” His thumb slid over your bottom lip, a breath trembling out of his chest.

“I’ve been in love with you since the day we met,” He said, finally, finally breaking open. “And I’ve wasted time tryin’ to convince myself otherwise–doin’ stupid shit like this. These arrangements. This ‘no strings’ bullshit. Tryin’ to get the love I wanted from you without admitting my true feelin’s…Just so I could keep you close.”

You stared up at him, throat aching, eyes shining.

“I didn’t think you’d ever want someone like me in that way,” He murmured, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You idiot,” You whispered, voice breaking, your hands gripping the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the flannel like you needed something to hold you upright. “You fucking idiot.” He let out a quiet, shaky laugh against your skin.

“I know,” He breathed. “I know.” Your eyes fluttered shut, your nose brushing his. He was so close, close in a way that had nothing to do with sex, nothing to do with desperation or adrenaline or fleeting release. He was just there. Honest and broken and entirely yours.

Your breath caught as you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his–hard, aching, desperate.

Rhett groaned into the kiss, like he’d been starved for it. Like he’d been holding this in for far too long. His lips slanted against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. One of your hands fisted in the fabric of his flannel, yanking him impossibly closer, while the other curled against the back of his neck, holding him in place like you’d never let him go again.

He pushed you back a little more, enough that your hips bumped into the edge of the counter. Then, without a single word, he gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted you–effortless and firm. You gasped against his mouth, hands tightening in his shirt, as he placed you on the counter with a solid thud. The cool surface kissed the back of your thighs, and your legs instinctively parted, cradling him between them.

Now you had to tilt your head down slightly to keep kissing him, your fingers already in his hair, dragging through the sweaty strands at the base of his skull. You tugged gently, just enough to make him groan again–a low, ragged sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated between your lips. He kissed like a man drowning. Like he was finally giving in to everything he’d tried to hold back for months. Like he was terrified this might be the last time.

When he pulled back, both of you were breathless. Your lips were kiss-bitten and tingling, your lungs burning with the need to breathe. His chest rose and fell hard, his eyes blown wide with heat. Rhett let out a low, breathless sigh and shook his head, like he couldn’t believe himself. His voice dropped to a gravel-rich growl as his hand slid slow and possessive up your thigh.

“I’m gonna ruin you right here on this fuckin’ counter…” He muttered, fingers tightening on your skin, “and then I’m gonna take you to your room and ruin you there all over again.”

Your breath hitched at his words–at the promise in them, at the heat rolling off him in waves. You leaned forward, kissed him softly–briefly–and whispered against his mouth, “Then what are you waiting for, Cowboy?” He dipped his head to your neck, kissing hot and wet along the sensitive skin. He didn’t start soft. No teasing. No buildup. Just hungry, open-mouthed kisses that dragged up the column of your throat–nipping and biting, tongue licking over the marks he left. You gasped, hands clutching the flannel on his back, arching toward him as his teeth scraped your pulse point and made your breath stutter. His hands came up, calloused fingers tugging at the thin straps of your dress. You let them slip from your shoulders, the silky fabric pooling just enough to reveal your chest to the cool air–and to him. Rhett sucked in a shaky breath and let out a low, reverent groan like he was witnessing something sacred.

“Fuckin’ love seeing these, I couldn’t stop starin’ at them when we were driving to the party.” He dipped his head, mouth latching onto one nipple like he couldn’t hold back a second longer. He sucked hard–hungry, messy–his tongue flicking and swirling over the sensitive peak. You gasped his name, fingers flying into his hair, scratching hard at his scalp as you arched into his mouth.

“Rhett…Fuck–” He grunted against your skin, switching to the other breast, sucking even harder this time, like he was claiming you with his mouth. His hands were everywhere–one gripping your thigh tight, the other cradling your back as he devoured you. Your skin prickled with heat, your body trembling beneath his.

“Your skin always tastes so good,” He growled, voice muffled as he dragged his tongue across your chest. Your nails scraped down his back as your head fell back against the cupboard, thighs clenching around his hips. You were already soaked, throbbing, breathless–and he hadn’t even touched you where you needed him most.

He pulled back, lips wet, chest heaving. His eyes were wild, blue and burning, locked on you like you were the only thing in the world.

“You’re mine,” He muttered, pressing a kiss between your breasts. “All mine.” His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he pushed your dress up–slow, reverent, but with purpose–until the hem bunched around your hips, exposing everything he’d been aching for all night. You felt the cool air kiss your bare heat, the contrast making you shiver, thighs twitching where they bracketed his ribs. The room was quiet except for your shallow breathing and the faint hum of the fridge behind you, but everything else faded into static when he dropped to his knees in front of the counter.

And then he looked up at you.

Face level with your soaked, puffy core, his breath ghosted over your sensitive skin–and those eyes, god, those impossibly blue eyes, they shimmered in the golden kitchen light. They caught on your skin like firelight on silk, glowing with a kind of adoration that made your breath catch.

You reached for him instinctively, cradling his face in both hands, your thumbs brushing along the stubble that scratched at your palms. He closed his eyes at the contact, leaning into it, and then turned his head just enough to kiss your palm–slow, soft, like he was savoring the taste of you on the pads of his lips. He didn’t pull away, not immediately. Instead, he trailed a kiss from your hand to the inside of your thigh, then another, then another–closer, wetter, hungrier.

“Been waitin’ to taste you all fuckin’ night,” He whispered against your skin, his voice thick and gravelly, filled with something feral and sweet. His hands tightened around your thighs, spreading them wider, his shoulders pushing between them until there was no room for anything but him. You gasped, your head falling back slightly as you balanced yourself on the edge of the counter, thighs parted, body trembling.

“Please,” You begged, voice cracking under the weight of want. “Rhett, please–”

He didn’t make you beg again.

He leaned in and buried his face in you with a growl–low, deep, hungry. His tongue dragged through your folds in one long, devastating stroke, and your thighs clamped around his head before you could stop yourself. Your back arched as a moan tore from your throat, hands flying back to tangle in his hair, anchoring him where you needed him most.

“Shit–” You gasped, barely able to breathe. “Rhett–”

He moaned into you, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core. He was slow at first–leisurely, almost taunting–his tongue curling around your clit, teasing it with soft, wet laps until your legs were trembling. And then he flattened his tongue and licked you deeper, harder, messier. Like a man possessed. Like he had been starving for you.

His stubble scratched at the tender skin of your inner thighs, his nose pressed against your mound as he licked you like you were his only salvation. He slipped one hand under your ass to tilt your hips closer to his mouth, the other splayed over your stomach, holding you down when you started to squirm. You were so wet already, and he didn’t let a drop go to waste–licking up everything, moaning into you like he couldn’t get enough.

“Goddamn, you taste so good,” He mumbled, voice muffled against your soaked folds. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever had on my tongue…Like fresh fuckin’ honey.” He pulled back just enough to blow cool air over your clit, watching the way you twitched, feeling the way your nails dug into his hair, your thighs trying to stay wide open even as they trembled from the stimulation. His lips were slick with you, chin glistening in the golden kitchen light as he looked up at you with that crooked, filthy smile that always meant trouble.

“You want my fingers to fill you up?” He rasped, voice low, thick with hunger. One of his calloused hands slid up your trembling thigh, hot and firm, until it settled just shy of where you needed him. “Want me to fuck this pretty pussy with ‘em?” You let out a shaky breath, hips rolling toward him like your body was answering before your mouth could. Your back arched slightly against the counter, and your fingers curled tighter in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

“Use your words,” He growled, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Tell me you want me to fill you up with my fingers.” Your breath caught in your throat. The demand, the look in his eyes–like he’d been starving for this and wouldn’t settle for anything less than full submission–sent a hot shiver down your spine.

“Rhett…” You breathed, your voice wrecked, desperate. “Please…Please fill me up with your fingers. I need them so fucking bad.” He moaned, the sound vibrating between your thighs, and nipped at the soft skin of your inner thigh hard enough to make you jump. You gasped, hands flying to the edge of the counter to brace yourself, your legs already trembling. His mouth found your clit again with no warning, tongue sliding flat and firm across it as his hand finally moved between your folds.

Then—without preamble—two thick fingers slid inside you.

“Fuck—!” you cried, body jerking forward as the stretch caught you off guard, the sudden fullness making your eyes flutter shut. Rhett groaned into your cunt, the sound muffled and greedy, like the taste of you was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

His fingers curled as they plunged deep, slow at first, dragging against your walls while his mouth latched onto your clit. He sucked hard, tongue flicking mercilessly, his hand cradling your hip to hold you in place while his other worked you open.

“Jesus Christ, Rhett…” you gasped, your head falling back, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice. Your fingers yanked at his hair, hard this time, dragging a sharp groan from his throat.

“You’re such a good boy…” You whispered between ragged breaths, your voice cracking at the edges. “Fuck…Just like that, you’re makin’ me feel so good…”

He moaned into you again–desperate, wrecked–and shook his head back and forth against your clit, spreading your slick across his cheeks, smearing it across the scruff on his jaw. His fingers picked up speed, driving into you harder now, knuckles brushing the base of your heat with every stroke. You could hear how wet you were, obscene and messy, every thrust sending hot pulses of pleasure straight through your belly.

“Rhett–” You whimpered, your voice high and broken, “Don’t stop, don’t stop–God, I’m so close–”

He didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down.

He growled again, deeper this time, his nose pressed against your mound, tongue flicking rapidly as his fingers pounded into you with a steady, punishing rhythm. His hand twisted slightly, angling just right, and you cried out–loud, helpless–as your body jerked forward and your orgasm began to climb.

You were shaking, legs trembling violently, your vision blurring as you looked down at him. His blue eyes were nearly black now, pupils blown wide with heat, locked on you as if he could feel every twitch of your body.

“I can feel you clenchin’ around me,” He murmured between strokes of his tongue, his voice dark and reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ close, aren’t you?”

You nodded, frantic, a sob bubbling up in your chest. “I…Rhett, I’m gonna–”

“Do it,” He growled, teeth grazing your clit as he thrust his fingers deeper, faster. “Cum for me, darlin’. Make a fuckin’ mess on my hand.”

And with one final curl of his fingers and a sharp flick of his tongue–

You shattered.

You came with a cry, back arching hard, your hands scrambling for anything to hold on to as you pulsed around his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his head and your mouth dropped open in a silent scream, body shaking with the force of it. Rhett didn’t stop–he kept his mouth on you, licking through your release like he was trying to drink you down, groaning and rutting his hips against the air like tasting you made him lose control.

“Fuck…Fuck, Rhett!” You sobbed, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. He pulled his mouth away slowly, dragging his tongue up your folds before kissing your clit one more time–gentle now, almost sweet. His fingers eased out of you, glistening, dripping. He looked wrecked. Wild. His lips were swollen, chin drenched in you, eyes blown wide.

Then he stood, towering over you once more, and held his slick fingers up between you.

“Look at what you did,” He murmured, dragging them into his mouth with a groan. “Tastes even better than I remembered…”

You whimpered, still shaking, thighs sticky and spread, dress bunched around your waist.

He leaned down, kissed you slow, deep–feeding you your own taste from his tongue as he pressed his hard length against your core through his jeans.

“You ready for round two in that bedroom of yours?” He rasped, biting your bottom lip gently.

“Take me there,” You breathed, voice trembling with need. “Now.” He slipped his hands under your thighs, lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing to him. You let out a soft gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms curling around his shoulders. Your pulse fluttered in your throat as he turned on his heel and carried you down the hall. You trailed kisses along the side of his neck, nibbling gently at his salty skin, tasting sweat and firelight and him. His scent clung to you–leather, cedar, and musk–and your hips rolled against his stomach with every step he took.

Your bedroom door was already cracked, golden light spilling onto the floor from the bedside lamp you’d left on earlier, and Rhett didn’t bother to slow down.

He kicked the door open with the toe of his boot. The wood smacked gently against the wall, and then he was inside, crossing the room in long, purposeful strides. You barely had time to inhale before he threw you down onto the mattress with a grunt.

You bounced once–softly, breathlessly–letting out a little surprised gasp as you landed. The bed creaked beneath you, and the air shifted with the sudden motion, the scent of fresh laundry and the faintest trace of lavender rising around you.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair falling wild around your face as you looked up at him.

Rhett was standing at the foot of the bed, chest heaving, eyes burning. He shrugged the worn green fabric off his shoulders, tossing it to the floor in one fluid motion. Then came his white t-shirt–damp with sweat, clinging to his chest in all the right places. He peeled it off slow, dragging it over his head, revealing golden skin dusted with a constellation of freckles that made your chest ache. He was sun-kissed and sweat-slicked and absolutely flawless. He wasn’t just handsome. He was rugged and real and raw. The kind of man who didn’t try to hide his scars or smooth out his edges. The kind of man who looked like summer heat and rodeo dust and aching, bone-deep need.

Your eyes drank him in–the defined muscles of his stomach, the dip of his hips, the faint trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Your lips parted as your gaze roamed, a smile curving against your face.

”Always look fucking amazing Rhett.” His lips curved into a crooked smirk, but there was heat behind it. Need. Adoration.

“This is all yours, darlin’,” He rasped, voice low and full of promise. “Always has been.”

You sat up slowly, the silk of your dress shifting against your skin as you reached for the hem. You pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, the fabric slipping from your body. You let the dress fall beside the bed, letting your thighs spread slightly, your body glowing under the soft lamp light. You watched him watching you, eyes tracing every inch of your naked form, and you saw the way his throat bobbed, the way his chest rose like he was struggling to keep from falling to his knees again.

He held himself together just long enough to unbuckle his belt, the soft clink of metal echoing through the warm bedroom like a promise. His fingers moved with quiet urgency–undoing the button of his jeans, pushing both denim and boxers down his thick bull rider thighs in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, already aching for the place it belonged most. You swallowed hard at the sight of it–thick and glistening at the tip, veins prominent, twitching slightly with every heartbeat.

Rhett braced his knees on the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight, and the way he looked at you–like a starving man about to sink his teeth into a feast–made your entire body tighten with anticipation.

“Turn over for me, darlin’,” He rasped, his voice rough with desire. “Wanna see that ass of yours.” You licked your lips and obeyed without hesitation, rolling onto your stomach, the sheets cool against your heated skin. You shifted slowly, arching your hips, pressing your chest down to the mattress as your knees slid apart to make room for him. Your breath caught as you felt the air on your slick, swollen folds, and your spine tingled with every inch you exposed to him.

Rhett groaned behind you, deep and guttural, like the sight of you was too much to take.

“Fuckin’ hell…” He muttered, and then you felt his rough hands on you–calloused palms kneading at your ass, massaging the soft flesh with reverence and need. He squeezed, spreading your cheeks apart just to look, just to watch how you pulsed around nothing.

”God you’re so fuckin’ soaked,” He whispered, leaning forward, his breath hot on your lower back. His thumbs dipped just below your folds, spreading you open even further, and you gasped when the air touched your dripping entrance. His lips pressed to your skin, and you shivered at the feel of him kissing a slow, open trail across your back–tongue dragging along your spine, stubble scratching faintly as he worshipped his way down.

“You’ve got no idea what this does to me,” He moaned between licks. “Seein’ you like this…Spread out, waitin’ for me.” You pressed your cheek against the sheets, hands curling into the covers.

Then finally you felt the hot, hard weight of his cock nudge between your thighs. The head dragged slowly through your folds, catching on your clit before slipping down, spreading your slick across his length as he rutted against you with lazy, teasing strokes. You tried to push back, tried to angle your hips to take him inside, but Rhett gripped your waist with both hands and stilled you with a low, warning growl.

“Uh uh,” He muttered, his voice close to a snarl. “You’re gonna take it slow, baby. You’re gonna feel every inch.” He rubbed the thick head of his cock against your entrance, pressing just barely inside, enough to stretch you open but not fill you.

You whimpered, hips twitching. “Please, Rhett…”

He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening.

“That’s it,” He murmured, “Beg for it. You were teasin’ me all night in that little dress, flashin’ those breasts, leavin’ me hard in the truck with your panties in my goddamn pocket.” He pushed in deeper–just a little–and your mouth dropped open with a sharp gasp. You were so wet he slid in with a slow, obscene glide, and still, he stopped halfway.

“Tell me whose pussy this is,” He growled, voice rough and tight with restraint. “Tell me who makes you feel this fuckin’ good.”

“You, Rhett,” You moaned, eyes squeezing shut, tears prickling from the fullness. “It’s yours. Always been yours.” And then–with a low groan–he sank in all the way, until his hips pressed flush against your ass. Your back arched, your legs trembling as the stretch overwhelmed your senses. He was thick and hot and so deep you could feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” He gritted out, stilling inside you, letting you adjust. His hands caressed your hips, then slid up your sides, fingertips dancing along your ribs. You whimpered into the sheets, your body trembling from the stretch, and Rhett leaned down to kiss the curve of your spine again.

”You’re such a good girl,” He whispered against your skin, “You take me so fuckin’ well.” And then he pulled out slowly, dragging along your walls, before thrusting back in with a deep, satisfying grind that made you cry out–

“Rhett…Oh my god–”

“I got you,” He growled, hands tightening on your waist. “Ain’t lettin’ go now.” Rhett’s hips rolled with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust thick and unrelenting, pressing so deep you swore you could feel him in your throat. The head of his cock kissed your cervix with every grind, dragging a loud moan out of your chest as your cheek pressed harder into the sheets. He moaned low behind you, the sound feral and full of heat, like he couldn’t help himself–like the grip of your pussy around him was sending him straight out of his mind.

“That’s it, baby,” He rasped, voice thick and husky, “Goddamn, you’re so tight…Fuckin’ squeezin’ me…” You moaned, dizzy, hips rolling back into him on instinct, chasing the friction with everything you had. The drag of his cock through your soaked heat was overwhelming–too much, not enough, perfect–and you could barely breathe around it.

“Rhett–” You whimpered, fingers curling tight into the sheets. “Feels so fucking good–I can’t–”

He leaned over you then, chest pressed to your back, his sweat-slick skin burning hot against yours. One hand slid beneath your body, gripping your forearm just as your own reached back, clinging to him like you’d fall apart if you didn’t anchor yourself to his body. His mouth brushed your ear, voice dark and ragged.

“You feel that, darlin’? That’s me fuckin’ you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” His other hand gripped your hip, bruising in its strength, dragging your ass back onto every slow, brutal thrust. The sound of your bodies–wet, filthy, loud–echoed through the room, joined by your soft, desperate cries and the deep, growling grunts from Rhett’s chest.

You turned your head on the mattress, your cheek dragging against the fabric, eyes glazed as they found his over your shoulder. The fire in them–pure, blue, blown wide–nearly stole your breath.

“Look at me,” he ordered, thrusting deep again, holding it, grinding just enough to make your stomach clench. “Wanna see your face when I ruin you.”

You moaned brokenly, your free hand shooting back to grab at his wrist again. “Fuck…Rhett…please–” He was smiling now–hungry and possessive and glowing with sweat, the tendons in his neck taut with restraint.

“Yeah, that’s it. Show me that pretty face when I fuck you stupid.” Then he pulled out slow…All the way to the tip…And slammed back in hard enough to jolt a cry from your lungs.

“Rhett!” You gasped, overwhelmed, eyes fluttering, tears stinging as your thighs trembled.

“You gonna cum again on my cock, sweetheart?” He panted, slamming into you again, the rhythm now faster, messier, the sound of your slick louder, wetter. “Gonna soak me while I fill you up?”

“Yes…Fuck…Yes, I’m gonna cum…”

“Then turn over,” He growled, voice guttural as he pulled out of you with a wet, sinful sound. “Turn over for me, baby–wanna see that face when you finish around my cock.” You rolled without hesitation, back hitting the mattress, hair fanned wild around you. Your chest heaved with every breath, breasts flushed and glistening, your thighs still trembling as you spread them wide for him again, raw and wanting.

Rhett climbed over you, eyes blazing, and when he guided his cock back to your entrance, he didn’t waste time. He pushed in deep with a groan, bottoming out inside you in one smooth stroke that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

His hands gripped your thighs and pushed them up, bending you in half, the new angle perfect–too perfect. You sobbed his name as his hips snapped into you, every thrust now hitting a spot that made your toes curl.

“That’s my girl,” He panted, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his hairline onto your chest. “This pussy’s mine, ain’t it?”

“Yes!” You cried, fingernails digging into his arms. “Fuck–it’s yours, Rhett, it’s all yours–”

“Say it again,” He growled, fucking you harder now, faster, the headboard slamming faintly into the wall. “Say it while I’m deep inside you–say it while I fill you up.”

“It’s yours…Yours…Fuck, Rhett, please cum inside me, I want it–need it–”

He snarled something low and incoherent, and then grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers and pinning it above your head.

You watched his face–the way it twisted in pleasure, the way his eyes fluttered shut just for a second before locking back on yours, hungry and vulnerable all at once.

Then he leaned down, kissed you hard, and fucked you so deep and fast you saw stars.

“Gonna fill this pussy with all of my cum…” He whispered against your lips, voice thick and trembling. “Wanna see it dripping down your thighs when I’m done.” You whimpered, back arching, and that was it–that was what tipped you over the edge.

Your orgasm tore through you like wildfire, your walls clenching tight, soaking him as you sobbed into his kiss, body thrashing beneath his. Rhett cursed–loud and filthy–and then with a final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, hips shaking as he came deep inside you with a broken moan, his hot cum filling you up in multiple streaks.

“Fuck…Fuck…baby–”

You held him through it, clinging to his arms, to his back, to anything you could reach. He stayed buried inside you, trembling, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

His forehead dropped to yours, and all he could muster to say was “I love you so fuckin’ much Y/N.”

You reached up and cupped his face, dragging your nails along his scalp.

”I love you too Rhett…Fucking love you so much.”

[itlswhatltls]

Clothes Off

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Reader 

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: not beta read, reader is afab, reader is described as shorter than Bob (but I tried to be as vague as possible), reader is a civilian Flight Operations Specialist, likely incorrect descriptions of the Navy, pet names (honey, good girl), descriptions of body insecurities, possibly ooc!Bob, smut under the cut (Minors DNI!!!) – body worship, dirty talk (Bob talks you through it and is the king of consent ofc), praise kink, soft-dom!Bob, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), fingering, overstimulation, spit, handjob, Bob puts his hand on your throat (but no choking!), possibly slight oral fixation(?), unprotected p in v sex (pls use protection irl) – lmk if I missed anything!

AN: I know Bob is typically written as the insecure one in his relationships, but I can’t help but think about how sweet and perfect he would be if his partner felt that way about themself. I had a spell of writers' block and then went completely off the rails lol… I’m definitely going to hell for this.

I’ve got a couple of other fics in progress, but please send in your requests or any constructive feedback!

You met Lieutenant Robert Floyd while he was on special detachment on North Island. You’d encountered your fair share of aviators while working at Top Gun, most of them smug and flirtatious. Not Bob. He was all sweet smiles and polite responses.

He made your job easy, too, always on time for your carefully crafted flight schedule, always keeping updated records of his trainings for your logs, always perfectly within regulation.

You were hesitant to get into a relationship. He was here for a specific mission and would likely return to Lemoore when it was over, but it was difficult to ignore the way you were drawn to him. You adored his modesty despite being considered one of the best of the best, and when he asked you to go on a date with him, you just couldn’t resist.

He was so charming, the way he stood on your doorstep afterward, waiting for you to turn your key in the lock and slip inside safely. You opened the door and turned back to look at him, cheeks flushed, glasses slipping down his nose as he looked at his shoes shyly. 

“I had a great time,” you commented, smiling softly up at him. Bob’s eyes flicked up from the ground, meeting your gaze.

“Me too.” His eyes were sparkling, star-flecked like the night sky. You had never been looked at like that before, and it made your heart swell in your chest. You chanced a glance at his lips, corners lifted in his perfect, lopsided smile, parted slightly like he was itching to kiss you.

“Great.” Your voice was barely above a whisper as you stepped towards him. “Then we should do this again sometime.” 

You desperately wanted to kiss him, but instead, nerves getting the better of you, planted your lips against the smooth skin of his cheek before stepping away, back towards the door. Bob let out a breath through his nose that he seemingly had been holding in at your proximity and simply nodded. 

“Goodnight, Bob,” you said before stepping inside, easing the door closed.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, glued to his spot on your porch.

That was weeks ago. When Bob came home from his mission, the Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island, officially forming a team, and you couldn’t be happier. Given how well things were going, you would’ve done long-distance to continue dating Bob, but this made things significantly easier. 

You spent countless hours with Bob – he’d bring you to The Hard Deck with him or on trips to the beach, and you enjoyed getting to know his friends better, quickly attaching to Natasha. Other times, it’d be just the two of you, going out to a romantic dinner or spending a quiet evening cuddled up on your sofa watching a movie. You enjoyed every second of being with him. No matter how you had spent the day together, each date ended the same: with the two of you locked in a heated make-out session on the couch. 

You straddled his hips, his muscular arms would wrap around your waist, anchoring you against him as you kissed hungrily. Both of you getting worked up, you’d tug on his hair, pulling a low groan from his throat. Just as things intensified, just as it would start to get good, you’d pull away.

“We should stop,” you’d pant into his mouth. 

His fingers brushing across your exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up, Bob would nod obediently, adjust his glasses, and swallow the lump in his throat, shifting beneath you. Carefully, you’d climb off his lap, trying not to notice the prevalent bulge in his jeans. Both of you would sit on the sofa, taking shallow breaths, waiting for the other to break the silence.

“I should go,” he’d rasp, leaning over to you and placing a chaste kiss on your lips. “See you tomorrow, honey.”

You’d follow him sheepishly to the door, leaning against the frame while you watched him walk to his truck. “Goodnight, Bobby,” you’d call out to him.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he’d say with a small wave before climbing into the driver’s seat.

That’s exactly where tonight seemed to be headed – down the same dead-end road.

Bob had come over around mid-afternoon since Maverick let the team go early, and it was your day off. He cleaned up at his place quickly and stopped by the store, appearing on your doorstep with arms full of grocery bags. He kissed you quickly on his way through the door you held open for him, then headed straight for the kitchen.

“Hi, honey,” he murmured against your lips as you came to stand beside him, lifting onto your tiptoes to kiss him again. Then, the two of you started unloading the groceries. “How was your day?”

You let out a small breath of a laugh through your nose at the domesticity of the question coming from him. You thought that the whole scenario must’ve looked like something out of one of those old-timey sitcoms about a husband and wife.

“My day was fine, dear,” you teased, folding the now-empty paper bags in front of you. “What about you?”

Bob reached over, his large palm cupping your jaw, turning your face towards him. His eyes scanned your features, glinting with that look you had come to realize was reserved just for when he looked at you – really looked at you. He had that perfect, lopsided grin on his face, and you melted into his grasp.

“Much better now,” he answered, pulling you in for another kiss. This one was deeper, warming you from the inside out. When Bob pulled away, his glasses slipped down his nose slightly, but he made no move to fix them. His face was still just centimeters from yours, his lips tilting into a smirk. “Hungry?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

You nodded weakly in his hold, and Bob stepped back, his hand falling from your cheek.

“Great,” he said, his smirk softening into something sweet and boyish, like the charged moment hadn’t happened at all. “I’ll get started on dinner.”

Bob hardly let you lift a finger the whole time he was cooking. Other than occasionally asking you to stir something for him, his main instruction to you was to “sit there and look pretty,” which you were more than happy to oblige. Sitting at the bar of the kitchen counter, you watched him work. His arms flexed while he chopped vegetables, rolling his shoulders to alleviate some of the tension from his day. He turned to your spice cabinet, reaching for something on one of the higher shelves, causing his t-shirt to ride up, revealing a sliver of golden skin. Your breath hitched inadvertently at the sight. Bob turned, having found what he was looking for, and caught your stare. 

“You alright there, honey?” Your eyes darted up to his, catching the way they glinted with amusement.

“Mhmm,” you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat that you hadn’t even registered was building. You stood from your spot at the bar, coming around to help him finish with dinner preparations. While he finished cooking, you took down plates and glasses, setting the table.

Dinner was perfect, filled with comfortable conversation. Then, you ended up right where you knew you would. After cleaning up the kitchen, you made your way to the couch. Settling against the cushions, you faced each other, talking idly, pretending that you didn’t know what was coming next.

Bob’s eyes flicked to your lips, just long enough for you to notice, before his hand lifted to cup your jaw.

“C’mere,” he said, pulling you towards him gently.

You followed his hand, allowing him to pull you into his lap. His warm palm stayed on your cheek, and his other came to rest on your waist as you straddled him, anchoring you to him. You wrapped your arms loosely around his shoulders. Bob looked at you intently, studying you, memorizing your features. He swiped the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, parting your lips like he couldn’t help it, like it was involuntary, the action far gentler than its implication. He held the front of your jaw, not rough, just stable, your chin settling into the crook between his pointer finger and thumb. Then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t like his usual kisses. Not like the soft, sweet ones he’d lay on your lips like a whisper. Not even like the hungry kisses he gave you when the two of you got worked up on this very couch. No, this kiss was deeper. It was a prayer, a plea, like you held all the oxygen in the room right there in between your lips. When his tongue slipped into your mouth, it wasn’t hurried or impatient, just slow, languid strokes, tasting every corner of your mouth.

The heat of it spread through you, and your hips jerked against his involuntarily. The friction sent a shiver up your spine, and you whimpered into his mouth. Bob released your chin, his hand moving to mirror his other on your hip to steady you, and you pulled away from his lips, slow, reluctant, breathless.

“Bob,” his name fell softly from your lips. It was a plea, but you didn’t even know what you wanted. “I’m sorry,” you said through a breath, almost like a laugh. Bob’s brows furrowed, his eyes full of confusion and concern. “We should, uh… we should stop.”

“Why?”

The question caught you off guard. Bob had always just unenthusiastically agreed, pulling away and leaving you to the comfort of your solitude, no matter how much you both wanted each other. Still, he wasn’t angry or insistent, just cautiously curious.

“We can stop if you want to,” he clarified, “but that’s not what you said. You always say we should. So why, Y/N?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, lying, and by the look in Bob’s eyes, you knew he could tell. He wouldn’t press if you left it at that, but the thought broke you a little bit, deciding he deserved the truth. “I’m scared of you seeing me,” you said finally.

Bob’s gaze immediately softened. His hands on your hips felt like the only thing keeping you from sinking to the floor, but nevertheless, he looked at you with such reverence. Looking at him, you knew your insecurities were pointless. You had always known that you shouldn’t compare yourself to others, but the thought of Bob seeing you after having been in the Navy for so long and seeing women in much better shape than you was a fear that was constantly nagging at you. The look on his face told you that he understood. 

Bob had faced his own insecurities – it was still a struggle for him to take his shirt off at the beach – but it had never crossed his mind that you’d feel that way about yourself. To him, you were the most beautiful thing in the world, and suddenly, he was determined to prove it to you.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said softly, his voice hoarse with a kind of need that you couldn’t quite name. His hand lifted from your hip to touch your face again. He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, the backs of his fingers just barely ghosting over your skin. His eyes followed where he traced, but yours never left his face, full of concentration. He moved lower, mapping down the side of your neck to the edge of your collarbone that was exposed where your t-shirt had shifted. Then, his eyes flicked back up to yours. “Can I show you?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding blearily, eyes welling up with tears, overwhelmed by the vulnerability of your confession and the tenderness of his touch. 

Without another word, Bob lifted you, his hands shifting beneath your thighs to support you. You yelped softly in surprise at the sudden movement, securing your hold around his shoulders, and Bob smiled.

“I gotcha, honey,” he reassured as he moved to your bedroom. He pushed the door open, and your legs tightened around his waist as he carried you with just one hand.. “Gonna take care of you.”

He laid you on the bed like something delicate, your head lowering to meet the pillows as he stood above you. You watched as he took off his glasses, placing them on your nightstand. Bob looked down at you, then carefully climbed onto the bed. You parted your legs, creating a space for him, and looked up at him, your chest heaving with each breath. Bob ran his hand up your legs as he settled between them, his palms following the outside seams of your jeans from your knees to your hips. When he reached the hem of your t-shirt, he stopped, running the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, looking back up into your eyes.

You hesitated, but finally breathed a quiet, “yes.”

You sat up a little, pressing your elbows into the mattress to support yourself, allowing him to lift the garment from your body. Bob’s hands pushed the shirt up your torso, his palms warm against your sides, gliding upward until his thumbs met the curve of your breasts. You sucked in, attempting to flatten your stomach under his gaze, hating the way it looked from this angle. Bob took note of your reaction and moved to work the shirt off more quickly, tugging it gently over your head and tossing it to the side.

The moment your shirt was gone, Bob leaned forward, kissing your lips and easing you back down against the bed. Your hands tangled in his hair, fingertips gripping the short strands. The kiss was short-lived, as he moved to plant another on the corner of your mouth, then trailed more up your jaw towards your ear. 

“You’re the greatest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered sweetly, his warm breath fanning over your neck.

You let out a sarcastic huff, an insecure, breathy laugh that ripped from your chest before you could stop it. You half expected Bob to stop, to pull away and look into your eyes and insist that you believe him. Instead, he just placed a tender kiss to the sensitive flesh below your ear.

“I mean it,” he mouthed against you, kissing his way down your throat. He kissed across each of your collarbones, stopping just before he reached your shoulders and returning to your sternum. “You’re breathtaking.”

You hadn’t even noticed his palm against your belly until it shifted, too preoccupied with his mouth. Bob didn’t miss the way your stomach clenched beneath him, and he moved his head lower, skipping over your breasts entirely. Locking his eyes on yours, he kissed just below where your bra met the curve of your abdomen, then again, lower and lower towards your belly button. When he reached the top of your jeans, he stopped again.

“I want to kiss every inch of you,” he rasped. You let out a shaky breath. He kissed along the line of your jeans to your hip bone, and his fingers toyed with the button of your pants. “Is this okay?”

You absentmindedly licked your lips and nodded, unable to look away from his ocean blue eyes. They’d darkened with lust and something primal, worshipful.

“You’re gonna have to use your words for me. Okay, honey?” he instructed.

“Yes.” The word fell from your lips without a second thought. “Please, Bobby.”

“Good girl,” he praised, pressing another kiss to your hip as he popped open the button of your jeans. 

You gasped at his words, surprised by their effect on you, as your back arched off the bed instinctively, your head falling back to the pillow. One of your hands moved to grip the sheets below you, the other still tangled in his sandy blonde hair. You could feel the corners of his mouth quirk upwards against you, smirking.

“You like that, Y/N?” Bob asked, lifting an eyebrow, pulling your attention back down to him. “You like bein' my good girl?”

You whimpered, but remembered that he had told you to use your words, so you breathed another desperate “yes,” hoping for some sort of praise in return.

“Jesus, honey,” Bob groaned, sounding just as wrecked as you felt. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He looped his fingers into the waistband of your jeans, slowly peeling them from your legs. His mouth followed, kissing down from your hip until he reached your knee. Then, he turned his head inward, pressing kisses up your inner thigh while he worked your jeans the rest of the way off of you. He copied the path he had made on the other leg, moving from your hip down to your knee and then back up your inner thigh.

It took all of your energy not to squirm, not to move away from the affectionate press of each of his kisses. He made no comment about the way your jeans clung to your thighs, didn’t bat an eye at your stretch marks, just kissed you over and over again.

“Wanna taste you, honey,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your inner thigh just below where you ached for him. “Can I?”

“Please,” you whined, growing more desperate by the second. 

“Good girl,” he praised again, this time knowing the effect of his words. 

He watched as your thighs tensed beneath him, clenching around his shoulders as he hooked his fingers into your underwear. He pulled the thin fabric from your throbbing heat achingly slow, his eyes fixed on the center of you the moment it was revealed. He pressed a kiss to your mound, just above your clit, and you jolted, your body taught like a live wire of nerves. Bob pushed your knees apart with his elbows, one hand moving to rest on your lower belly while the other caressed your inner thigh, working its way upward. Finally reaching your apex, his fingers were impossibly soft against your folds as he used two fingers to spread you open, his eyes darkening even further at the sight of your glossy center.

“Jesus, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he whispered, and a broken moan fell from your lips. Bob looked back up at you, his pupils dilated, irises dark like the night sky. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me all along.”

Your breathing was ragged, each inhale felt more like a gasp for air, and every exhale was shaky and stuttered. Your cheeks were flushed with a heat that spread down your neck and chest, tethered to the burning want between your legs.

“Gonna be a good girl for me, honey?”

You nodded dumbly, unable to form words, but Bob wasn’t satisfied.

“Say it,” he demanded, unmoving, holding you open. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your dripping core, and you knew you wouldn’t get what you wanted unless you did what he said.

“Yes, Bob,” you choked out. “I-I’m you’re good girl.”

Bob’s head dipped between your legs before you’d even finished your sentence, diving into you like a man starved. He placed an open-mouthed kiss on your clit, lips not staying long enough for any real relief, but still, a sob ripped from your throat. He moved lower, his tongue flattening over your entrance and licking a thick stripe through your folds. Your hips canted up, chasing the feeling of him, and his hand on your stomach pressed down, grounding you, while the other moved to grip your thigh, not rough, but firm. 

Bob continued to work you open with just his mouth, his tongue fucking into you as his nose nudged against your clit. Your grip on his hair tightened, tugging at the soft strands, pulling a low moan from him. The vibrations rattled through you like an earthquake, causing your spine to arch off of the bed. You grasped at the sheets with your other hand, trying to anchor yourself somehow, but Bob didn’t let up.

He could feel you tighten, your whole body tensing in pleasure. Your thighs pressed against where he held you open, threatening to clamp around his head and suffocate him – which he thought wouldn’t be a bad way to die. Still, he pushed you into the mattress, feeling you tremble beneath his strong hands.

“Talk to me, honey,” he rasped into you.

You were a mess of broken moans and whimpers; however, you obeyed.

“Feels s’good, Bobby,” you whined, your voice ruined from pleasure. “I’m so – fuck – so close.”

“Then be a good girl and cum for me,” he said against you, his mouth continuing to work you over.

He sealed his lips around your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue over the bundle of nerves relentlessly until you capsized. Waves of pleasure washed over you as you shook, crying out, and Bob didn’t let up. He kept lapping at you, drinking in your juices like you were water and he had been wandering through the desert. Broken pleas fell from your lips, but you weren’t sure what you were asking for.

Bob finally lifted his head when you had calmed down, tugging his hair to stop him from overstimulating your sensitive cunt. He looked up at you, eyes shining, reflecting the soft light of the lamp on your bedside table.

You were both panting, just staring at each other, completely lost in the moment. You thought he would move, crawl up your body, and kiss you, but Bob stayed there between your thighs. He splayed his fingers wider against your stomach, and his other hand twitched on your leg, moving ever so slightly towards your messy center. Your eyes widened, realizing what he was silently asking you, and you swallowed, thick and slow, like it hurt.

“You’re so pretty when you cum, honey,” he whispered like he was trying to convince you. “Wanna see it again.” 

You mewled as his fingers brushed higher, still reactive from the orgasm he had just given you. Nevertheless, you nodded, giving him permission to touch you.

“Such a good girl for me,” he repeated, pulling another helpless moan from you as he brushed just the tips of his fingers through your folds, and you clenched delicately around nothing. “Is this what you want, honey? Need to hear you say it.”

“Mhmm – please, Bobby – want it,” you moan, voice cracking around the words as they formed in your throat.

Bob didn’t hesitate, dipping his middle finger into you. He prodded at your entrance and then pushed in slowly just to the second knuckle. Your head fell back against the pillows again, and Bob smiled at you. When you looked back down at him, he was already watching you, the way your chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the way your eyelashes fluttered as he started to thrust his finger in and out of you. Then, he added another, his ring finger joining the other to work you open. You groaned, low and wrecked, at the stretch of it.

He lowered his head again, sucking and nipping gently at your clit. You cried out his name, the pleasure of it too much. You tugged sharply at his hair, pulling his mouth away from you. A breathy “please” was all you could manage, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes from overstimulation.

“Okay, honey,” he said with a soft smile. He lifted onto one arm, moving up your body until his nose brushed against yours, his fingers never stopping their movement inside of you. 

Instead, they slowed, pressing deeper, curling into that spongy place that you could never reach with your own fingers. You all but screamed in ecstasy, and Bob swallowed the sound, his mouth claiming yours all over again.

You kissed sloppily, tasting yourself on him. Bob took your bottom lip into his mouth, biting it just hard enough to redden it, enough to make it sore, before he soothed it with his tongue. He pulled away, a small string of saliva connecting your mouths. When it snapped, pooling just at the lower edge of your lip, you swiped your tongue over the combined spit and swallowed. Bob groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your heated skin, picking up the pace of his fingers and shifting his thumb to circle your clit. Your whole body jolted under him. “Can you take your bra off for me, honey?” he husked into your shoulder, pulling the strap with his teeth and letting it snap against you.

He lifted from his place in the crook of your neck to give you the space you needed to arch forward enough to reach behind your back and unhook the clasp. Bob watched as you slid the straps down your arms and tossed the bra to the side, instantly forgotten. 

The rhythm of his fingers never faltered, continuing their relentless pace, as he latched onto your nipple. There was no teasing, no trail of kisses to the spot you needed him at – it was immediate, like he had forgotten where he was. Bob suckled at your breast, rolling the hardened bud of your nipple between his teeth, swirling his tongue. He lifted with an obscene pop and moved to the other, giving it the same attention as the first.

Your climax was building, your hips rocking against his hand, chasing it. Bob didn’t stop you, just letting you take what you wanted. He was involuntarily rutting against your mattress, unable to contain himself as he got lost in the feeling of you.

And then, you came. It was like a dam breaking, pleasure flooding your system as your vision blurred. You clawed at his shoulders, clinging to Bob for stability because it felt like the earth was shattering beneath you. His name spilled from your lips, choking on the end of a moan that ripped through your chest, as he worked you through the high. He slowed his movements, but didn’t stop, your walls fluttering around his fingers. His head lifted from your chest, and he kissed you fully, then pulled away, pressing his forehead into yours.

“So good, honey,” he whispered against your lips, the side of his nose nudging yours. “You did so fucking good.”

You panted into each other's mouths, Bob’s fingers stilling inside of you, as you came down from the unbelievable high. A moment passed, his body pressed into yours, before you realized something.

“Bobby,” you breathed, the nickname sweet like honey on your lips. He hummed in response. “I need you to take your clothes off.”

Bob let out a soft, tired laugh from his nose and lifted off of you. He sat back on his heels so you could look at him, still in his t-shirt and jeans, between your trembling legs as you propped yourself up on an elbow. Bob pulled his fingers from your pulsing core, and they glistened with your release. You gawked as he opened his mouth, licking the pads of his fingers before sucking them in completely. It was borderline pornographic when he released them with a quiet pop and wiped away the saliva onto his pant leg, holding your stare the entire time.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered with a smirk before tugging his shirt over his head.

You sat up fully, running your hands down his abs, marveling at the toned muscles. You knew Bob would be fit – he was in the Navy for god’s sake – and you’d seen him without a shirt a time or two, but seeing him like this, in your bed, was a whole different experience. You reached for the button of his jeans, popping it open and dragging the zipper down, when you heard Bob chuckle at you. You looked up at him sheepishly, eyes wide, like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t be.

Bob just smiled at you sweetly, taking your chin between his fingers and pulling you in for a kiss. It was tooth-rotting – the kind of kiss that made your head spin, made you forget what you were doing. When he released your lips, it took you a second to reopen your eyes, savoring the feel of him for just a moment longer. 

One of Bob’s hands covered yours on the waistband of his jeans, tucking your fingers into his boxers as well and helping you to push them down, just enough for his cock to spring out. You inhaled sharply at the sight of him. He was long and thick, flushed from base to tip, with a deep blue vein that trailed the length of him on the underside. Your fingers twitched, aching to touch him, and you looked up at him for permission.

“Go ahead, honey,” he said, giving you that same sticky-sweet smile from before.��

He bit his lip as he watched you, tracing your index finger along the vein until you reached the base of him, then wrapping your hand around him firmly, fingers not quite touching. You jerked him a few times, enjoying the way his breath hitched in his chest, before leaning in and kissing his tip. The precum that had beaded there spread across your lips, and you licked them clean, lifting your gaze back to his tense stare.

“Jesus,” he groaned, watching you intently as you leaned back in to wrap your lips around his tip, never breaking eye contact.

You swirled your tongue around him, taking more of him into your mouth. Bob tangled his hand into your hair, pulling you off of him, to your surprise.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep that up, honey,” he admitted. Before you could protest, Bob moved his hand from your hair to the front of your throat. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t apply any pressure, just placed it there, stopping you. “Lie back,” he instructed.

Bob removed his jeans and underwear fully, then followed you, slotting his hips between your open thighs and settling his chest against yours. He supported his weight on one hand while the other reached down to line himself up with your entrance. He slid between your folds a few times, coating himself in you, his tip catching on your clit, causing you to whimper, a shiver running up your spine.

“You still want this?” he asked, looking into your eyes earnestly, searching for any sign of hesitation or reluctance. 

“More than anything,” you confirmed, the first coherent thought you’d been able to form this whole time. “Wanna be close to you. Wanna be yours.”

Bob couldn’t help but smile, the words simultaneously making his heart flutter and his dick twitch.

“You are mine, honey,” he said against your lips. 

Bob kissed you hard while he slid inside you effortlessly, all of the buildup preparing you for the perfect stretch of his cock. He buried himself in you in one slow thrust, and you gasped into his mouth. Bob was devouring you, taking the opportunity to slip his tongue into your open mouth. It was everything and nothing like you thought it would be. It was hungry and tender and wanton and vulnerable.

He released your mouth and brought his hand back to rest on your throat. It wasn’t possessive – it was like he needed to feel your pulse in his hand just to be sure that you were there, that you were real. His fingers splayed against the soft skin, his thumb moving up and down the side in a caress. Bob looked at you the way he had after your first date, the same look he gave you in the kitchen and every day in between, the one that told you everything you needed to know.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he choked over the words, like they had been torn from his mind and he hadn’t realized he was even speaking. “I’d give you anything you want.”

Your hand moved to his that was braced next to your head, working its way under and intertwining your fingers as you looked up at him, eyes mirroring his. Your other smoothed a path along his shoulder before stopping at the nape of his neck, curling into the soft strands of his hair.

“Bob,” you sighed dreamily before your gaze sharpened ever so slightly. “I want you to fuck me.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost like a snort of a laugh, but still soft.

“Yes, ma’am,” he rasped, latching his mouth back onto yours as he began to thrust in and out of you.

He built speed, finding a rhythm quickly, pounding into you. You were being split open on Bob’s cock and pieced back together by his words. Each powerful thrust was matched with a groaned praise, telling you how perfect you felt around him, how well you were taking him, how good you looked underneath him. It was dizzying.

Before you knew it, you were babbling. Bob’s carefully crafted compliments were cut off by your whimpers and moans and cries. You needed more, it was too much, you couldn’t decide, and Bob could see you spiraling. So he did the one thing he could think of. He shifted his hand up from its place on your throat to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing to the front of your chin and pulling your mouth open. Then, he pressed in. Your lips closed around the tip of his finger, and he pushed it in further, running the pad of his thumb to lay flat on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he praised as you sucked him in.

You clenched around him, and Bob knew you were close. He continued to talk you through it, giving you what you needed to reach your peak. Bob pulled his thumb from your mouth, breathy moans spilling from your lips as he pressed the spit-coated digit to your clit. 

You came around him with a shattered cry, your climax hitting you like a freight train. Your hand on the back of his head moved to grip his shoulder, leaving crescent-shaped divots on his freckled skin. Bob’s name spilled from you again and again as you pulsed around him, milking out his own orgasm. 

“Jesus fuck, honey – I’m gonna – where do you want –?” He was stuttering, unable to finish a sentence.

“Inside,” you moaned, feeling him throb at the thought alone.

Before he could ask again, to make sure he had heard you right, he was cumming. Hard. He collapsed into you, hips still moving against yours, fucking his release deeper, until he couldn’t anymore.

You laid there breathlessly clutching each other, unable to move or speak for a while. Then, slowly, the feeling came back into your body. You stroked Bob’s hair and turned to kiss his temple. He nudged the crook of your neck, where he had buried his face, and kissed you softly. It was quiet except for your collective breathing and the pounding of your heart. Finally, you broke the silence.

“I can’t believe we could’ve been doing that the whole time.”

[itlswhatltls]

Lamine Yamal 🔟

[itlswhatltls]

WE STAY WINNING PEOPLE WE STAY WINNING ROM COM LEWIS

[itlswhatltls]

OH LOOK IT'S TWIN!!

[itlswhatltls]

LEWIS PULLMAN & MONICA BARBARO as BOB & PHEONIX TOP GUN: MAVERICK (2022) dir. Joseph Kosinski

[itlswhatltls]

Top Gun Maverick (2022) >> Bob 14/?

[itlswhatltls]

I already posted these once but I'm...I can't legally discuss what's going on in my head Do not repost without credit

[itlswhatltls]

In The Heat Of The Moment

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a long day of working in the blazing sun, Rhett just wants to come home to you and relax. But you’ve got other plans for him.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Rhett and Reader are in an established relationship and have been living with each other (outside of marriage! Scandalous lol), Alcohol Consumption (not a lot)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (weewoo sex police here to say wrap it up), Is Rhett an absolute feral monster in this? Heck yeah lol, Couch Sex, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Handjob, Heavy Makeouts and Grinding, Breast/Nipple Play, Body Worship, Praise Kink, Biting, Nibbling, Leaving Marks, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Squirting, Teasing, Rhett’s a biiiit rough, Spitting. Use of Good Girl

Author’s Note: Ahhhh happy RAF y’all, this was a nice lil idea and I enjoyed taking it and dashing away with it. Can’t resist some good ol’ domestic smut lol. Anyways! I hope y’all enjoy, because I’m literally working on a tear jerker for Sunday and I’m showering you with happy updates so you can brace yourselves lol.

Word Count: 10,034

For the majority of the afternoon, you had been weaving in and out of the kitchen–barefoot on the cool white tile, hips swaying in rhythm to your cooking playlist that hummed low through the Bluetooth speaker that was perched on the spice rack. The cotton hem of Rhett’s old circuit t-shirt brushed mid-thigh with every step, the fabric sun-faded and worn from years of wear, but still stiff in the shoulders from line-dried sweat and old rodeo dust. It hung loose on your frame, covering your lower half fully, you had rolled the sleeves once yet it had barely clung to your arms even with that. It still smelled faintly like him, like leather, mint, citrus, and the ghost of his cologne that he sprayed on once in a while.

You kept glancing at the time–at the crooked clock above the pantry door and again on your phone–making sure you were keeping everything perfectly aligned. The brisket had to come out to rest in ten minutes. Mac and cheese was already baking to a golden hue in the oven, crusted just right at the edges. The cornbread was cooling near the open window, and the cucumber salad was chilling in the fridge soaking up all the vinegar and dill. You were pacing and stirring and tasting and adjusting, all while making sure Rhett wouldn’t have to wait more than a few minutes when he came home.

Because he wasn’t just going to be tired. He was going to come home absolutely wrecked.

You had seen it plenty of times–how he’d walk through the door with his hat in hand, sweat curling his hair at the nape of his neck, his t-shirt clinging damp to his chest, jeans caked with dirt and sun bleaching his forearms a bright red. He’d be sore, baked through from the heat, and absolutely starving because Rhett had never been one to slow down. Not even for lunch. Not unless you were there to basically force him to stop.

Tonight though you just wanted to take care of him. Not because he asked, not because there was a special reason, but just because you loved him and you could. It was rare to have two full days off in a row, and you wanted this to count. You wanted him to walk in, smell the food, and feel that slow warmth that only came from being truly home with you.

The bungalow had been a fixer-upper from hell when you first bought it together–roof leaks, water stains, cracked linoleum, one working outlet in the kitchen. But you saw the bones beneath the mess. And so did Rhett. Over time, with more elbow grease than money, the both of you had scraped and sanded and painted the place into something beautiful. Something that didn’t just look like home, but felt like the life you were building together.

The kitchen was small, but cozy. The cabinets were mismatched on purpose, salvaged from an antique barn sale you both got sunburned at. The countertops were hand-stained butcher block, the kind Rhett had insisted on sanding himself, even when you had offered to help. The backsplash was a mosaic of uneven, hand-laid tiles you picked out together–terracotta, soft blue, sunflower yellow–and every so often you could spot a crooked edge and remember exactly how he cussed when he ran out of grout halfway through the process.

There was a little window above the sink where the breeze came in, fluttering the linen curtain that was tied off to the side with twine. The white enamel stove that you were using stood proudly against the far wall–temperamental at times but charming nevertheless. The fridge had Polaroids stuck to it with mismatched magnets. Rhett and you at the circuit, An Abbott family photo when you all got together for the Fourth of July weekend–when Rhett had decided to let you meet them–and a blurry shot of the two of you laughing so hard you ended up being out of frame.

You let out a little sigh, and crossed back toward the stove, reaching up to your spice rack and plucking the white pepper and garlic powder down. They were both in little mismatched glass jars–Rhett had offered to label them, but his handwriting was god-awful, so now they just had color-coded stickers instead. You gave each jar a little shake, already planning the order of how you were going to prepare the gravy in your head–pull the brisket, use the drippings, reduce it slowly, add butter and spices at the end.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the familiar ping of your phone–and then, a beat later, the robotic voice from your Bluetooth speaker read it aloud:

“Message from My Cowboy: Leaving the ranch now. See you soon.” You smiled instantly, and dried your hands on a nearby dish towel, padding over to the dining table, fingers quick to unlock your phone and tap out a reply.

You: See you in a bit <3

You set the phone back down and glanced toward the fridge, tempted. With a little hum of indulgence, you opened the door and leaned in, fishing out a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl, popping it into your mouth–cold, crisp, and vinegary-sweet. The fresh dill bloomed on your tongue like a sigh, the salt dancing around it, and you closed your eyes for just a second to enjoy it. You could already picture Rhett digging in, moaning around the first bite, licking the vinegar from his thumb because he always used his hands when he was hungry enough.

Before the thought could settle fully, your phone alarm chimed from across the kitchen–the brisket.

You turned quickly, grabbing your mitts, and opened the oven.

The wave of heat that billowed out was intoxicating. Deep, rich, mouthwatering. The kind of smell that wrapped itself around your senses and made you feel like your stomach had dropped into your knees. You leaned in and carefully pulled the roasting pan out, setting it gently atop the stove.

The brisket was perfect–glistening, caramelized on the edges, its bark crackled with rendered fat and rub. A smoky sweetness filled the room, layered with garlic and brown sugar and paprika. The juices at the bottom of the pan shimmered with gold, thick with promise, the scent alone enough to make your mouth water. Rhett was going to lose his mind.

You didn’t even give yourself a moment to admire it before your oven mitts were back on and you were pulling out the baked mac and cheese. The golden crust on top was blistered just right, the cheese bubbling around the edges where it had crisped into that molten, buttery perfection. You could already hear the little crackle of air pockets collapsing as it cooled, the scent of cheddar and cream and cracked black pepper weaving in with the brisket like a symphony of comfort.

Both dishes sat proudly on the stove, side by side–centerpieces of your quiet, two-person feast. They glistened in the warm late-afternoon light, radiant and steaming, and utterly irresistible. Your stomach gave an eager twist, but you didn’t dare sneak a bite.

You went over and grabbed your gravy pot, delicate but practiced in your movements as you turned on the front burner and began to collect the shimmering drippings from the bottom of the brisket pan. They poured thick and golden into the pot, steam rising up in lazy curls, perfuming the kitchen even more. You stirred with the easy kind of grace that came from repetition and affection both–adding just a few squares of butter, watching it melt and swirl, and then reaching for the white pepper and a touch of flour.

Just as you started to whisk, you heard it–the familiar rumble of Rhett’s truck in the driveway, followed by the satisfying crunch of tires over gravel. Your hand didn’t falter, but your lips curved into a smile that you couldn’t fight. It was automatic at this point. Just the sound of him coming home could undo you a little. You kept your eyes on the gravy, watching it thicken slowly, bubbles rising in steady, even pulses.

The screen door creaked open, then the unmistakable click of the front door unlocking. You could hear him kick off his boots, could hear the deep exhale he always let out when he stepped inside–a signal that he was finally home.

And then came his voice, rough with exhaustion but warm and teasing at the edges, “My goodness…I can recognize that smell from acres away.” You smiled, lips parting slightly, but you didn’t turn. You just kept stirring. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight as he walked toward the kitchen, slow and heavy like he was dragging the heat of the day in with him.

A beat of silence passed, and then he wrapped his arms around your waist, his arms hot and radiating through the fabric of the shirt you wore. You glanced down briefly, catching the angry red flush of his forearms–sun-scorched and dust-speckled, his skin kissed a little too long by the July heat. His chest met your back, firm and damp through the sweat-darkened cotton of his shirt, and you could feel the sheer weight of his exhaustion as he let out a low, guttural moan at the sight–and smell–of the food laid out in front of him.

Then came the soft brush of his wet lips to the side of your neck, his stubble dragging deliciously against your skin, a rasp of heat and grit that made your breath hitch just slightly.

“Mmm, you’re cookin’ for me?” He murmured, voice low and warm, the gravel of his day clinging to every word as he gently swayed you both side to side. You grinned at his words, watching the gravy bubble thick and golden beneath your whisk as you continued to stir.

“No, just cooking for myself, Cowboy,” You teased, tilting your head just enough to let his mouth move down your neck with soft little kisses, “Then I’m gonna make you watch me eat it all.” You added.

He huffed a laugh against your skin, the sound more breath than sound, then peppered a trail of kisses along your clothed shoulder, murmuring between them, “That would be evil… But I know you’re jokin’.” Your own smile deepened, small and fond, as you leaned back just slightly into his chest, letting his warmth anchor you.

“Of course I’m joking,” You whispered, giving the gravy one last stir before lowering the heat. “Made this all for you.” He hummed at that, low and grateful, his arms tightening around your waist as if he could pull you even closer than you already were.

”You’re too good to me…” He whispered against your skin, “A real angel in disguise.” You felt your throat tighten a little at the way he said it–not flirty, not dramatic, just soft-spoken truth. Like he meant every word. You turned the burner off, set the whisk aside, and let your hands rest over his forearms. His skin was hot to the touch, his pulse steady beneath your fingers.

“I hope you’re hungry.” You said, glancing over your shoulder at him, catching a glimpse of his face–tired, flushed, sun-kissed, freckled and beautiful in the way only Rhett ever was to you. There were a few specks of dirt on his cheeks, but it was expected, and it was the norm for him. His deep blue eyes shimmered as they flicked down toward the stove, then back up to you, the corners crinkling a little at the corners with his smile.

”I’m stavin’, darlin’,” He replied with his heavy drawl dripping off the words, “And I can’t wait to dig in.” You hummed, and turned in his arms to face him fully, your hands slipping up to his chest, over the broad plane of his shoulder before you gently brushed his damp, light brown hair back away from his forehead. His lashes fluttered at the touch, and a lazy grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then you rose up onto your toes and kissed him–slow and warm, your lips catching on the slight scrape of his chapped lower lip, your hands sliding around the back of his neck. He kissed you back immediately, mouth parting with a soft exhale, one hand smoothing over your lower back while the other slid unhurriedly down to your ass. He gave it a light squeeze and followed it with a playful love tap, just enough to make you let out a breathy laugh against his lips.

“I’ll grab some wine from our stash,” He murmured against your mouth, his voice sleep-rusted with exhaustion but full of warmth that melted every bone in your body, “Then we’ll have ourselves a feast.” You smirked as you pulled back, hand still cradling the nape of his neck.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” You replied, eyes flicking toward the table before returning to his, “I’ll plate everything up.” He gave your ass one more firm squeeze before leaning in for a quick, sweet peck to your lips. Then he let go, stepping back with a long, low stretch and a satisfied groan, muscles flexing beneath the dust-streaked fabric of his shirt as he headed toward the cabinet where you kept the wine glasses.

You watched him move–slow, heavy, still radiating heat from the day–and felt something soft and blooming open in your chest. This life wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t polished or rich or easy. But it was real. And it was yours. A small kitchen in a crooked little house with the scent of brisket in the air and your tired cowboy grabbing a bottle of red that had been sitting on the counter since last weekend. You turned back to the food, grabbing two plates and beginning to portion everything out carefully–thick slices of brisket, generous scoops of bubbling mac and cheese, warm squares of cornbread slathered with butter that melted instantly into golden puddles. The gravy was silky and thick, and you drizzled it lovingly over the meat, letting it pool just slightly at the base. You even added an extra spoonful of the cucumber salad, knowing damn well he’d end up going back for more.

By the time Rhett had opened up the wine and poured everything out, you’d set the table with napkins and forks and an extra dish of gravy for good measure–taking your seat soon after. He placed the glasses onto the table, one in front of you, and the other in front of him, before giving a low whistle.

“God, this looks perfect.” He pulled out his chair and sat down beside you, the old wood creaking beneath his weight as his knees brushed against yours beneath the table–warm and solid, grounding in a way only Rhett ever was. You took a slow sip of your wine, watching him from the corner of your eye, the rim of the glass cool against your lips as he picked up his fork and knife and cut into the brisket.

He brought the bite to his mouth, chewing once, twice–then his eyes fluttered closed, his head tipped back slightly like the flavor had knocked the air right out of him. He let out a low, reverent groan that echoed deep in his chest.

“Y/N…” He mumbled around the bite, voice full of disbelief. “You’ve outdone yourself. I think I’m seein’ God.” You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up from your chest like sunshine.

“You’re so dramatic,” You said with a grin, but there was a warm flush rising to your cheeks all the same. Still smiling, you cut into your own portion, the bark of the brisket crackling slightly beneath your knife. You popped the piece into your mouth and hummed as you chewed, eyes falling closed for just a second.

It was tender, melt-in-your-mouth good–smoky with a slow-building sweetness, laced with the tang of the drippings and the buttery depth of the gravy. The rub had caramelized into the perfect crust, spicy and rich, and the fat had rendered down into something silken and impossibly indulgent.

You swallowed and nodded, eyes wide with satisfaction.

“Okay,” You whispered, lifting your fork again. “Definitely better than the last time I made it.” Rhett let out another moan, this one louder, dropping his fork to the side and tossing his head back like the meal had struck him straight through the chest.

“Listen,” He started, eyes meeting yours now, sharp with sincerity despite the grin tugging at his lips, “Every time you make somethin’ for me, it’s amazin’. A spiritual experience even.” He nudged your knee with his, voice softening a little. “I’ll love whatever you give me.” Your breath caught slightly. It was simple, really, but the way he said it–the look in his eyes as he did–set off something low and tender in your belly. Your heart was fluttering like a page flipping too quickly in a well-worn book. You looked down at your plate, hiding your smile for a moment before peeking back up.

He raised his wine glass, took a long sip, and then–with his eyes still on you–licked a slow, lazy droplet from the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll definitely have to show you my appreciation for you after this,” He added, his voice dipped low now, slow and full of something thick and promising. You raised a brow, the corners of your mouth tugging into a slow smirk as you took another sip of wine, feeling the warmth of it bloom in your chest.

“Oh yeah?” You asked, pretending to play coy, even as your toes curled against the tile floor. “Is that so, Cowboy?” He nodded once, setting his glass down with a gentle clink.

“Mhm…” Rhett drawled, the corner of his mouth lifting into that lopsided smirk that always made your stomach dip, slow and sure. He leaned in just a little, the table creaking softly as his arm brushed yours. “But I’m not gonna tell you how.” You arched a brow, trying to suppress the grin that tugged at your lips, but it was a losing battle.

“Not even a hint?” You asked, voice all sugar and curiosity, swirling your wine glass lazily in your hand. He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face with that easy, heated confidence he only ever seemed to wear around you–dusty and sun-sore and still managing to look like a damn heartache in motion.

“Nope,” He said, popping the p. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his thighs slightly, that slow-sprawling cowboy ease taking over his whole body. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” You scoffed lightly, stabbing your fork into your mac and cheese with faux indignation.

“Well…Two can play that game.” You shot back. Rhett raised his eyebrows, clearly amused.

”Oh really now?” You nodded, putting the forkful of mac and cheese into your mouth, chewing slowly.

”Y’know I’m always a few steps ahead of you, Cowboy.” That earned you a low, throaty chuckle–the kind that rumbled up from deep in his chest and made your thighs press just a little closer beneath the table. He leaned in again, his elbow resting casually on the table, gaze flicking to your mouth and then back up to your eyes.

“Well now you’ve made me curious,” Rhett said, voice low and amused, his deep blue eyes narrowing just slightly in that way that meant he was trying to read you–like you were a riddle he was determined to solve. You only shrugged, casual as you lifted your wine glass to your lips, letting the cool rim kiss your smile.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait for after dinner…” You paused for effect, letting the words stretch out like warm molasses before adding with a teasing glint in your eye, “And after you take a shower, of course.” That earned you a soft groan–long and genuine and just a little desperate. He tipped his head back and scrubbed a hand down his flushed, sun-worn face.

“Darlin’, now you’re killin’ me,” He muttered. You tried to stifle your laugh behind your glass, but it still slipped out, light and smug.

“You can’t join me?” He asked, hopeful but already knowing the answer, his voice dripping with suggestion as he looked at you from under his lashes. You shook your head slowly, savoring the moment.

”Nope,” You replied, popping the p just like he had, “That’ll really ruin the surprise.” He let out a long, theatrical sigh, tossing his napkin down in his lap like he was genuinely aggrieved

“You are the worst kind of tease,” He stated, though there was zero heat in it–just affection and mounting anticipation. You raised your eyebrows.

”And you love it.” He let out a little huff.

”Unfortunately,” He replied, taking a forkful of cucumber salad onto his fork, shoving it into his mouth and chewing quickly like it might help in distracting him from the thoughts of what your surprise could be. You grinned at him over the rim of your own glass, loving the way his ears flushed pink, the way his jaw tensed as he tried to keep himself composed. But you could see it. That slow unraveling. That hunger that had nothing to do with food.

———————

You and Rhett finished dinner quickly after that, laughter and teasing passed back and forth like honeyed wine between bites. It was warm and slow and good–so good, in fact, that you almost forgot about the promise lingering between your bodies. Almost.

You had decided to take on dish duty as he kissed you on the cheek and went to the ensuite washroom in your bedroom. His lips lingered a little longer than necessary, and his fingers skimmed the small of your back with a silent promise that made your breath catch.

The moment he disappeared down the hall, you turned on the hot water and began the meditative rhythm of cleaning–washing the plates, silverware, pots, and bowls with practiced ease. Your hands moved automatically while your mind replayed the evening: his voice in your ear, the brush of his palm over your hip, the soft groan he let out with that first bite of brisket. You wrapped up the leftovers, stacking containers in the fridge neatly, and wiped down the counters with care.

Surprisingly, Rhett took his time in the shower.

You figured the water was bringing him some kind of relief–soothing the sting of sunburnt skin, rinsing away the ache of heat and dust embedded deep from the long day at the ranch. He didn’t rush. And you didn’t call for him.

Instead, you padded barefoot into the living room and lowered yourself onto the couch, letting out a soft sigh as you sank into the leather cushions.

The room was cozy and lived-in, shaped by time and quiet effort, just like the rest of your little bungalow. The large, weather-worn leather sectional took up most of the space–a deep, rich brown softened by years of use from the owners before, even though there were creases where Rhett’s weight always sank into the same spot. It smelled faintly like saddle oil, like the pinewood of the logs stacked near the hearth, and just a hint of his cologne–spicy, woodsy, faded into the upholstery like a ghost that refused to leave

A thick woven throw blanket was tossed over the back of the couch–navy, burnt orange, and faded cream in a southwestern pattern. The kind of blanket you ended up fighting Rhett over in the winter months, because once he got his hands on it, he rarely gave it back.

Across from the couch stood a dark-stained wooden TV stand, a little scuffed along the bottom from Rhett’s boots. The television sat on top–larger than you needed, but a splurge from last Black Friday that made movie nights feel cinematic. Tucked beside the screen were a couple of candles, a thrifted lamp with a hand-painted base, and a little ceramic bowl that caught loose change and keys like a ritual.

To the right of the TV was a gas fireplace, set into a brick façade you and Rhett had refinished yourselves–scrubbed it down, sealed it, and even added a cedar mantle that still smelled sweet when the room warmed up. You hadn’t had a proper excuse to use it yet, not with summer hanging on in Wabang like it always did–hot, bone-deep, and lingering–but you’d fantasized about cold nights curled up beside it, legs tangled with Rhett’s, the fire flickering low behind the grate.

The coffee table in front of you was sturdy and simple, scarred from Rhett’s belt buckle when he once flopped down too hard, and topped with a few coasters, an old magazine or two, and a candle that had melted slightly crooked in the sun. Beside the couch was a small bookshelf packed with dog-eared paperbacks, a few weathered photo albums, and a handful of trinkets from the circuit–belt buckles Rhett didn’t want to display too proudly, a souvenir mug from some rodeo out in Arizona, a little wooden figurine of a bull that made you smile every time you dusted it.

You turned on the television to some reruns of the most recent sports news, resting your feet on the edge of the coffee table. You tucked the woven blanket across your lap, tried to focus on the low drone of the announcers talking stats and standings–but your attention kept drifting. Because you knew what was coming.

From down the hall, you heard the water shut off. Then the soft shuffle of the sliding glass shower door. You smiled to yourself, shifting slightly in your seat, heart starting to thrum again–not loud, but steady. Like anticipation curling its fingers up your spine. You bit your bottom lip and forced your gaze back to the TV, pretending to care about baseball highlights, but every cell in your body was now tuned to the sound of his footsteps.

They came slow–barefoot, heavy, dragging slightly like he hadn’t yet shaken off the exhaustion of the day. He was following the sound of the television, moving toward you like gravity pulled him to wherever you were.

When he stepped into view, rounding the edge of the couch, your breath caught like it always did.

Rhett was wearing only his blue plaid flannel pyjama pants–hung low on his hips, from the waistband being too loose from too much wear and far too many washes. They clung just enough to leave nothing to the imagination, the fabric still slightly damp in spots where it had met his freshly rinsed skin. His torso was bare and glistening faintly in the dim lamplight, still pink from the heat of the shower. His sunburn was visible–angry and flushed across his chest and shoulders, a shade lighter than the deep red that kissed the tops of his arms from the long day out at the ranch.

The bull rider tattoo along the right side of his chest was inked deep and stark against his skin–its sinewy lines following the rise and fall of each breath he took. You couldn’t help but stare. That tattoo had been a point of fascination from the beginning–bold and sharp and made even more striking by the faint scatter of freckles that dusted his chest, shoulders, and stomach. They weren’t dark, those freckles. Subtle, really. But after two years of being his–tracing every inch of him with your hands, your mouth, your eyes–you knew exactly where they were. The one just below his sternum. The three clustered together on his left shoulder like a crooked little triangle. The faint spray of them across his collarbone, like someone had flicked a paintbrush loaded with sun and softness. You’d kissed them all. Mapped them with your fingertips beneath cotton sheets and low firelight.

His body was pure work. Not gym-toned, but ranch-built–long, lean muscle carved from long days in the saddle, lifting feed bags and throwing ropes, branding calves and gripping bulls with the kind of strength that came from living it every day. His abdomen was cut, but not sharp–just enough definition to draw your eye as he moved. The soft trail of hair below his navel disappeared beneath the low dip of his waistband, and your mouth went a little dry just looking at it.

His hair, usually slicked back with a touch of water, was now wet and tousled from the shower. Darkened at the roots, the strands curled faintly in disobedient waves over his forehead, one lazy curl slipping right down to kiss his brow. He pushed it back with a tired hand, blinking as he caught your gaze.

And Lord, that look. Half-sleepy, half-knowing. Like he’d caught the exact moment your eyes swept the length of him and locked on the dip just above his waistband. Like he knew what kind of thoughts you were having just by the way you tucked your lip between your teeth. He smirked at you.

”You’re lookin’ like you’re gonna pounce on me.” You swallowed hard, fighting the flush creeping up your neck as you grinned, eyes shameless on the pink heat of his chest.

“I wasn’t expecting a show,” You murmured, voice sweet and edged with something hotter, “But I’m not complaining.”

Rhett let out a lazy chuckle at that–low and hoarse from the long day, the kind of sound that sank straight into your bones. He dragged a hand across his sun-pinked chest, fingers skimming over the bold lines of his tattoo like he didn’t even know the effect it had. His eyes never left you as he stepped toward the couch with the kind of slow, heavy swagger that only came from complete exhaustion and knowing he was wanted.

And then–without warning–he flopped his full weight down right across your lap. Your breath left you in a startled laugh.

“Rhett!” You half-gasped, shoving lightly at him, “You’re like a boulder!” He didn’t move, just settled in heavier, the heat of his bare skin pressed to your thighs through the worn fabric of the shirt and the blanket you still wore. His weight was grounding–warm, heavy, solid. One of his arms draped over your stomach, the other curled under his head as he nestled himself in like you were his personal recliner. You gave up protesting with a mock huff, your hands sliding automatically to his back–his sunburned skin warm beneath your fingertips, but not too tender to touch. Unlike his chest, his back was freckled in earnest–dusted in dozens of light brown specks, like the sun had tried to paint a pattern there only you had ever taken the time to memorize. You traced your fingers lightly over the spots, then pressed your palms into the muscle of his shoulders, rubbing slow and careful circles.

Rhett let out a deep groan–half appreciation, half exhaustion–as his body melted further against yours.

“Mmm…You gonna show me my surprise now?” He asked, voice muffled against your stomach. “Or should I put more weight on you?” You burst into laughter, shoulders shaking slightly.

”Well if you put more weight on me, I won’t be able to move to show you the damn surprise.” He tilted his head a bit so the side of his cheek was squished against your lap as he peered up at you through a lazy half-lidded gaze. His eyes twinkled, slow and amused.

“Is it under my shirt?” He asked, hopeful and teasing, one brow quirking up. You smirked and leaned forward, cupping the back of his neck, your fingers curling against the damp edges of his tousled hair.

“Why don’t you get off me and find out?” He stared at you for a beat longer, lips twitching–then groaned like it took every ounce of strength in him to shift. But he did. He peeled himself up with a dramatic sigh, stretching out as he stood, his torso flexing with the motion. You didn’t miss the way his pants slipped just a little lower on his hips as he moved, or the way his gaze darkened slightly when he saw you sit up straighter. You shifted forward slowly, letting the blanket fall off your lap completely. The hem of Rhett’s t-shirt crept up your thighs with the motion, teasing the bare skin beneath–and you caught the exact moment his eyes locked onto the soft curve where fabric met flesh. His breath hitched, just a little, and your heart flipped with it.

Then–deliberate and slow–you hooked your fingers beneath the bottom of the shirt and began to peel it up over your torso. The fabric dragged warm and loose across your skin, catching briefly at your ribs before slipping up and over your head. You tossed it off to the side with a casual flick, the sound of it landing somewhere on the floor muted by the thick silence that followed.

Rhett’s entire body tensed.

His jaw clenched, lips parted slightly. His eyes–already dark with the kind of heat that lingered between long looks and slow kisses–dragged down your body like they were trying to memorize every inch of what they saw. And you could tell exactly where his gaze landed.

The lingerie was brand new. A rosy, delicate pink, soft like a flush across your chest. The bra was sheer lace, unlined, with embroidered flowers blooming over the cups in intricate detail–barely enough to cover you. The underwire lifted your breasts subtly, and thin satin straps curved over your shoulders and across your ribs, one looping just beneath the swell of your bust in a way that only emphasized everything else. It was dainty, but sinful—like innocence with its teeth showing.

The matching panties were high-cut and sat low on your hips, the same lace trailing down the front, nearly translucent in the dim light. A thin strip of scalloped trim hugged your waist, dipping in a perfect V that drew his gaze straight between your thighs. The back–you knew–was even more dangerous. But you hadn’t turned yet.

You didn’t need to.

Because Rhett was already on the verge of unraveling.

He shifted closer, and reached out with one large hand to rest it gently against your thigh–his thumb brushing the edge of the lace there, warm and heavy against your skin. His other hand followed, slower, rough fingertips trailing up from your knee to the hem of your panties. When he touched the lace, it crackled beneath his calloused palm–the faintest rustle of fabric that echoed through the quiet like a spark on dry tinder.

The sensation made you shiver.

“Jesus Christ…” Rhett whispered, his voice a rasp of heat, his eyes dragging slowly over your body again. His hand tightened slightly on your thigh, palm warm and trembling just faintly where it curled over your skin. “What did I do to deserve this wonderful surprise…? You know how much I love it when you dress up for me.”

You smirked, leaning in until your nose brushed his, your voice dipped low with intent. “I wanted tonight to be special.” He hummed at that, pressing a few slow kisses along your jaw–each one firmer than the last, trailing closer to your lips, your cheekbone, the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

“You’re makin’ me think I’m forgettin’ our anniversary or somethin’.” He commented. You let out a laugh–soft and warm, full of fondness.

“Don’t worry,” You murmured against his skin, “You didn’t forget anything.” That earned you another kiss, this time square to your lips–quick and soft, then another, and another, until he was chasing the feel of your mouth with his own like he couldn’t help himself. In between kisses, his voice cracked a little with emotion, low and honest and twined in the threadbare hush of evening.

“Well thank you for wantin’ to make me feel special…” He whispered, lips brushing yours. “But it’s your turn now…” You let out a slow, shuddering sigh at that, your heart tightening in your chest. The tenderness in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were something holy, something breakable and beloved–it undid you. So you kissed him harder.

Your arms slid up and around his neck, hands threading into the still-damp strands of his hair, anchoring yourself there as your lips claimed his with hungry affection. Rhett didn’t hesitate–his hands found your waist, pulling you in with a heat that spoke of aching gratitude and something deeper. When you leaned forward, slipping slowly off the couch, he caught you without effort, cradling you as you shifted, until you straddled his lap. Your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of your bare skin brushing his as you sank down into him. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the tension in his stomach as your weight settled into place. His hands–rough, calloused, familiar–slid up the curve of your hips to rest just beneath the lace at your lower back, fingers splaying across your skin like he was trying to memorize it.

His mouth broke from yours just long enough to look at you–his gaze dark and full of wonder, his breath ragged.

“Jesus, darlin’…” He whispered, one hand lifting to brush his thumb gently beneath the curve of your breast, right where the lace of the bra kissed your skin. “You’re…Fuck, you’re somethin’ else.” You smiled at him–slow and sure–letting your hands trail down from his neck to his shoulders, your fingertips teasing the edge of his sunburnt skin.

“You gonna keep talkin’,” You teased, “Or are you gonna touch me?” His hands tightened instantly on your waist, his breath catching.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He murmured, voice deep and full of that slow-burn want that always started in his chest and spread like fire, “I plan on doin’ both.” Then, with a grunt and a shift, Rhett stood up from the floor, your legs still wrapped loosely around his waist. He turned and lowered you gently onto the couch–your back sinking into the cushions, your head resting against the discarded throw blanket.

His eyes raked over you–laid out for him in soft pink lace, flushed cheeks and bare thighs, lips already swollen from his kisses–and something in him broke a little. He climbed on top of you without hesitation, his body lowering slow and deliberate until he was between your thighs, hips pressed flush to yours, arms braced on either side of your head. The flannel of his pyjama pants was rough against the tender heat of your panties, but neither of you cared. You could already feel how hard he was, how heavy and thick he sat beneath the fabric, and the pressure of it against your lace-covered core made you whimper.

And then he kissed you.

Hot. Heavy. Hungry.

It started deep—his mouth crashing into yours with a need that had been building since he walked in the door, maybe even since he saw your name pop up on his phone earlier. His tongue slid past your lips without waiting for permission, and you moaned into him, your hands flying back into his hair, tugging as your hips rolled up into his. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe through your mouth, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could feed him.

It was messy in the best way. Spit-slicked and desperate. His tongue licked into your mouth again, then again, wet and purposeful. You gasped when he pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over yours, eyes locked on your mouth as he dragged his thumb across your bottom lip–slow and possessive. Then, with the laziest, filthiest smirk you’d ever seen on his sunburnt face, he spat into your mouth. You whimpered–high and breathless–and swallowed it without breaking eye contact. His hips jerked forward instinctively at the sight.

“Jesus fuck,” He muttered low, one hand coming up to grip your jaw. “Look at you, takin’ it like that… You got no idea what you do to me, do you?” He added.

”Show me,” You breathed, your thigh tightening around his hips.

”Oh, I plan to, sweetheart.” He kissed you again—rougher now, his tongue sliding against yours with more intensity, more heat. He licked into you like he needed it, tilting his head and groaning when you sucked on his tongue just to hear him lose control. One hand gripped your hip, the other slipping beneath you to cup your ass, grinding your soaked panties against his hard cock. The friction sent sparks through your spine. You gasped into his mouth as he rutted into you slowly, deliberately.

“You feel that?” He rasped against your lips, dragging his hips forward again. “That’s what you do to me. Just lookin’ at you in that little lace set, fuck…” You moaned as he rocked against you again–slow, deep, grinding pressure that made your back arch.

“You’ve been teasin’ me all night,” He continued, voice thick and low in your ear now, “Walkin’ around the house in my shirt, cookin’ like some kind of fuckin’ dream, smilin’ at me with that little glint in your eye like you didn’t already know what it was doin’ to me.” His teeth grazed your jaw as he kissed the edge of it, trailing heat along your skin.

“And now you’re here…Laid out under me… All soft and warm and so goddamn pretty.” You whimpered at his comment, nails digging into his shoulders, and he pulled back just enough to look at you–lips swollen and glistening, pupils blown wide, flushed and panting beneath him. He leaned down, capturing your mouth again for a kiss that was slower now, but no less intense. His hips never stopped grinding into yours–shallow, teasing thrusts that only left you aching for more.

Then his mouth trailed down.

Down your jaw, to your neck. Open-mouthed kisses, hot and wet. His stubble scraped just enough to make you shiver, to make your toes curl against the couch cushions. He sucked gently beneath your ear, then lower, letting his tongue soothe the sting before nipping softly at your collarbone. You gasped, arching up into him, his hair tangled in your fingers again.

But then–between the press of lips and the drag of teeth–you managed to whisper, “Keep the marks under the collar…We’re going to your parents this weekend, remember?” He paused, his mouth still hot against your skin.

“Shit,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice low and sheepish. “You’re right…”

But he didn’t stop.

No–he just shifted slightly, moved his mouth lower, and pressed a long, slow kiss to the swell of your breast where the lace dipped low. Then another, and another, dragging his tongue along the inside curve, just barely grazing the sensitive skin there before he murmured, “Guess I’ll just have to mark you somewhere only I’ll see.”

Then he kissed even lower, his hands slipping beneath your back to undo the clasp of your bra.

“Starting right here.” The straps slipped from your shoulders, brushing over your arms as he peeled it away, baring your breasts to the low golden light of the room–and to him.

He pulled back just enough to look, and what came out of his mouth wasn’t a word. It was a sound. A slow, low sigh that left him like a man in bewilderment.

“Fuck me,” He breathed, eyes dragging down to your bare chest like he’d just caught a glimpse of heaven and couldn’t look away. His rough hands rose instinctively, cupping your breasts in both palms, his thumbs brushing over the peaks slowly–circling, dragging, watching the way your nipples stiffened beneath his calloused touch.

“So soft…” He murmured, voice hoarse as his thumbs rolled over them again, coaxing another whimper from your throat. Your back arched into him, lips parted as you reached for him, eyes heavy with lust and affection.

“Y’like that, baby?” You whispered, your voice velvet-warm, full of worship. He groaned in response, low and guttural, and leaned in without hesitation–his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across the tops of your breasts.

“I could live right here,” he muttered against your skin, licking a slow stripe along the swell before sucking one deep mark into the curve beneath it. “Let every cowboy in this town think I’ve gone missin’–I’ll be right here, between your fuckin’ breasts.”

“Rhett…” You gasped, one hand flying back into his hair as his lips found a second spot to mark you, harder this time. You could already feel the heat blooming under your skin, the sting of it perfectly balanced by the wet drag of his tongue. “God, you feel so good…” That earned you a growl. His hands squeezed harder, massaging your breasts with slow, deliberate pressure. Then–so suddenly you could hardly breathe–his mouth dropped to one nipple. He licked a lazy circle around it first, teasing, tongue warm and slow. Then he sucked it into his mouth in one smooth motion–deep, wet, filthy–and your head fell back with a soft cry. His tongue flicked against the tip as he sucked, pulling a moan from the base of your throat.

“That’s it,” He rasped between licks, “Give me those sounds, sweetheart…” You moaned, thighs tightening around his hips as his cock ground hard against the soaked lace between your legs. He groaned at the friction, hips rutting forward as he switched sides, giving your other breast the same treatment–tongue swirling, lips latching on, sucking until the heat of his mouth made your back arch and your thighs tremble.

“Fuck, Rhett…” You gasped, fingers curling tight in his hair as he sucked harder. “You make me feel so good, baby. You’re so–Jesus, you’re so good at this.”

He grinned against your skin, lips dragging wetly off your nipple with a pop, leaving it swollen and glistening in the dim light. His hand stayed there, gently rolling it between his fingers again as he looked down at you–breasts covered in spit and love bites, chest heaving.

“I could suck on these all fuckin’ night,” He murmured, voice vibrating through you now, “But I think it’s time I give that sweet little pussy the attention she’s been beggin’ for.” You whimpered, nodding instantly, already breathless from the heat of his mouth, from the drag of his cock against your core.

“Please,” You whispered, voice cracking, needy and desperate, “Please, baby, go down on me–please.” He grinned like a devil in denim, his breath hot and ragged as he began to trail kisses lower–down the valley between your breasts, across your stomach, slow and deliberate. His fingers gripped the waistband of your panties and tugged them down with aching slowness, like unwrapping something he’d been dreaming about for days, even though he had you the night before.

“I’m gonna make you scream,” He murmured, voice dark and thick as honey. “Gonna bury my tongue in you and taste your sweetness right from its source.” Rhett’s mouth trailed lower, his stubble rasping against your skin like sin wrapped in velvet. He kissed the dip of your stomach, then let his lips drift across the softness of your hipbone. He nipped there–just once–his teeth catching on the tender flesh in a way that made you gasp, hips twitching up instinctively. His tongue soothed the bite, tracing the spot in lazy, possessive circles before he whispered against your skin:

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Then–without warning–he hooked his arms beneath your thighs and pushed your legs up, spreading you wide for him. You barely had a second to breathe before you felt the heat of his breath ghost over your soaked core, and then–

He spit.

Warm and deliberate.

A thick, molten strand of it dripped from his mouth, landing with a wet splatter right onto your folds. You gasped–sharp and high–feeling it slip down through your slick, mixing with your arousal.

“Goddamn,” He muttered, voice low and guttural as he stared between your legs, “Look at that. Look at how fuckin’ wet you are for me. Drippin’ like a peach in the sun.”And then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Open. Starving.

He licked up that mess of spit and arousal with one long, slow drag of his tongue–flat and wide–pulling a ragged cry from deep in your chest. His tongue parted you easily, sliding through your folds like he belonged there, and Lord, the sound of it–wet, filthy, indulgent–only made the heat in your gut twist tighter. Rhett groaned against you like he was tasting the best meal of his life. And he didn’t let up. Not for a second. He buried his face deeper, his tongue lapping in slow, reverent strokes—dragging up and down, then circling your clit with maddening precision before flicking it lightly, then sucking it gently into his mouth. Your hips bucked up with a strangled moan, but he only tightened his grip around your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you grounded.

“Sweetheart,” He murmured between licks, voice muffled against your soaked core, “You taste like you were made for me. Like your pussy was crafted by God himself just so I could worship it.” Your whole body trembled. Your hands flew down, one tangling in his damp hair, the other blindly searching until it found his left hand. You grabbed it tight, fingers lacing with his, your grip desperate. His palm was rough, callused, grounding you in the intensity. Rhett squeezed your hand back immediately–like he needed the tether just as badly–and moaned into your pussy like the taste of you was breaking him open.

“Oh my God, Rhett,” You gasped, voice shaky and high, your back arching off the couch, “You’re so fucking good. So fucking good. Eating me like you’re starved.” He pulled back for half a second, his face slick, lips red and glistening, beard wet with you. His eyes were wild with devotion and heat.

“I am starved, darlin’,” He said, breath ragged. “I could eat this sweet little pussy for days and never get full.”

Then he dove back in.

He sucked your clit into his mouth again, harsher now, needier. His tongue flicked and circled, his lips creating that perfect seal. Your thighs clamped around his ears as your hips rutted up into his face, chasing that heat, grinding shamelessly against his mouth.

You squeezed his hand tighter, and he moaned at the feeling–at the connection–like the sound of your pleasure and the feel of your grip were all he needed to survive.

And then–just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore–his right hand slid down, fingers slick with spit and arousal, and he pushed two of them inside you.

“Rhett!” You cried, your walls clenching around the intrusion, the stretch so perfect it bordered on painful.

“Shh, I got you, sweetheart,” He rasped, pressing his mouth to your inner thigh, his fingers curling up inside you with practiced, filthy precision. “So fuckin’ tight…So wet I can feel your slick drippin’ down my wrist…”

His fingers pumped–deep and slow–crooking perfectly to hit that spot inside you that made your whole body tense.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” He murmured, lips returning to your clit, “Let me feel you come on my fingers. Let me taste you break.”

You were already unraveling. Your hips bucked. Your thighs quivered. Your grip on his hand turned bruising as the pressure built impossibly fast–deep in your core, hot and overwhelming and so close you could taste it.

“Fuck, Rhett…I’m gonna–”

“Do it, baby,” He growled, sucking your clit again, curling his fingers with ruthless intent, “Show me. Let go for me.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit like a tidal wave. Your whole body seized, a choked sob leaving your lips as you gushed around his fingers–wet, hot, uncontrollable. Rhett groaned like a man possessed as he felt you soak him, his mouth never leaving your clit as he kept licking through it, driving you higher, deeper, until your voice broke and your legs shook with aftershocks.

You were gasping. Crying out. Trembling as he slowly eased his fingers from you, slick and dripping. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean–his eyes locked on yours, reverent, possessive, wrecked.

“You taste like heaven,” He whined, voice raw and awestruck. “Like fuckin’ honey from the gods.”

And all you could do was nod, lips parted, chest heaving as you stared at him–your cowboy on his knees, mouth slick with your pleasure, eyes full of worship like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“Rhett…” You whispered, still breathless, your thighs twitching from aftershocks. “That was…Holy fuck…” He smirked as he crawled up your body, pressing his soaked hand between your breasts before planting his hands on either side of your head, his chest hovering over yours, warm and trembling with the weight of restraint. He kissed you softly, like he needed to reorient himself. And you kissed him back, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning low into his mouth. When he pulled away, barely an inch, his voice was thick and husky, threaded with reverence and heat.

“Love tastin’ you,” He murmured, nose brushing yours. “But bein’ inside you, darlin’…? That’s even better.” The words lit a fire inside you. You let your hand slip down–under the waistband of his flannel pajama pants–finding his cock with ease, hot and heavy against your palm. He gasped, full-bodied and broken, as your fingers wrapped around him. Hard. Thick. Silken skin stretched over him, already slick at the tip from how much he wanted you.

“Fuck…” He rasped, head dipping as your thumb swiped over the head, smearing the precum and teasing the vein that pulsed along the underside. “You know me so fuckin’ well.” You stroked him slowly, deliberately–watching the way his eyes fluttered closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fought the urge to rut into your hand like an animal. You pumped him from base to tip with slow twists of your wrist, savoring the little whimpers that escaped him, the tremble in his thighs, the way his hips twitched when you dragged your fingers over the head again.

“You feel so good in my hand, Rhett,” You whispered, voice warm and low. “So thick… so hard for me already.” You leaned up and kissed his chest, right over his tattoo, licking sweat and shower water from his flushed skin. “Can’t wait to feel you inside me.” He groaned–raw and guttural–his hips bucking once into your grip.

“Fuck, baby–don’t say shit like that unless you want me to lose control,” He warned, teeth gritted, one hand bracing hard beside your head while the other slid down your thigh.

You stopped stroking him. Let your hand rest over his waistband, palm flat against the throb of his cock. Your gaze lifted to meet his, eyes wide, lips parted.

“I need you to fuck me, Rhett,” You breathed, every word dripping with heat and honesty. “Right now.”

That was all it took.

Rhett moved like he’d been shot. He pushed down his pajama pants in one rough motion, kicking them off as he grunted, cock bobbing hard and flushed between you. Then he hooked his arms under your thighs and pushed your legs up–way up–until your knees were bent over his shoulders. The position made you gasp, your hips canting up, your soaked core on full display.

He lined himself up with a growl, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering slick. He teased your entrance–circling, dipping just barely inside, pulling back with a hiss.

”You’re so fuckin’ wet…So fuckin’ ready…All from my own fingers.” You whimpered, your hands grasping for him–finding his left hand and lacing your fingers through it, pulling him down closer until your foreheads nearly touched. Your voice shook as you whispered–

“Rhett… I want to feel every inch of you. I want you deep. Please.”

He didn’t make you ask again. With one hard, deliberate thrust, Rhett pushed all the way inside.

You cried out–high and breathless–your back arching as he bottomed out, his hips flush to yours, the thick head of his cock pressing hard against your cervix. It was too much. It was perfect. He filled you so completely that you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“Jesus fuck,” He groaned, trembling over you, “So fuckin’ tight, baby…Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You were clinging to him, legs shaking over his shoulders, your hand squeezing his like a lifeline. Your breath caught in your throat as he rocked back and drove forward again–deep, slow, punishing.

“Oh my God–Rhett–” You gasped, your voice catching on the thrust. “You feel so good. You fill me up so fucking much.”

He growled–deep and feral–and leaned down to kiss you, his mouth messy and open, swallowing your cries as he fucked into you with long, deep strokes. His hips slammed forward, each thrust pressing hard against the end of you, and you could feel yourself pulsing around him, already close again.

“You were made for this,” He rasped against your lips, “Made to take me–this pretty little pussy was made to be filled by me…” You moaned, loud and shameless.

”Yes…Fuck…Yes Rhett.” He bit your calf, right where it rested over his shoulder—hard enough to make your whole body jolt. You cried out, the sting melting into pleasure as he fucked you harder, his hand still locked with yours, his thumb brushing along your knuckles in a shocking contrast to how rough he was inside you.

“You like that, don’t you?” He growled. “My good girl…Takin’ me so well.”

“God…Yes I love it baby…Oh fuck.” The couch creaked beneath you, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the living room, wet and hot and frantic. With each thrust, your arousal dripped down further onto the cushions, but neither of you cared. You were far gone now–drunk on him, on the heat and the stretch and the sounds he made just for you.

“I’m close, baby,” He groaned, voice breaking. “I can feel you…Fuck…Clenching around me like that…”

“Cum with me,” You begged, tears pricking your eyes from how full you felt. “Cum inside me…Please, I need it, Rhett, please…”

That broke him.

He slammed into you once, twice–deep, brutal thrusts–and then he cried out, biting down on your calf again as he spilled inside you, thick and hot. You followed seconds later, your orgasm tearing through you like lightning, your walls pulsing around him as you arched beneath him, clinging to his hand like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

The world went white.

When it faded, you were both trembling–sweaty, breathless, entirely unraveled.

Rhett collapsed over you, your legs sliding off his shoulders as he pressed his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours with every gasping breath.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice ragged and reverent. “I love you so fuckin’ much.” You smiled, dazed and glowing, brushing the damp hair back from his temple.

“I know,” You whispered back. “I love you too.” Then you kissed him again–slow, sweet, and full of promise, because the night wasn’t even close to being done yet.

[itlswhatltls]

little lambs and big, bad cowboys | rhett abbott

description: in which you find yourself entirely at his mercy

warnings: STRICTLY 18+, consensual non-consent, corruption kink, kind of predator/prey, fingering, unprotected piv sex, choking, overstimulation, daddy kink, light bondage, squirting, size kink, creampie, subspace, aftercare bc it's important, i think that's everything lol

pairing: rhett abbott x wife!reader (fem pronouns used)

notes: this was so much fun to write. i haven't written much cnc so bear with me here. if you can't handle this sort of thing, don't feel obligated to read! be considerate of your own limits and well-being first and foremost

Your hands were trembling. 

The energy thrumming through you had you on edge, buzzing with excitement. You kept glancing at the clock, counting down the minutes until closing time. 

When the clock struck 5, you would close your quaint little bookshop and eagerly await your husband’s arrival. Except, he was not your husband in this scenario. No, he was simply Rhett Abbott to you, a man whom you’d only encountered a few times.

Together, you had planned out the entire situation. He would walk into your shop right at closing time, under the pretense of finding a specific book. Innocent enough, but what would follow was far from innocent. In fact, it was utterly filthy, and just the thought of it made you clench your thighs together beneath the flowy sundress you wore.

It was his favorite dress of yours, which was specifically why you’d donned it that day. The hem brushed loosely against your mid-thigh, and the neckline plunged only just so, enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of your chest. Modest enough that no one else would really bat an eye, but Rhett would be drawn to it like a fly to honey.

It was ironic, really. In this scenario, you were behaving like the one he’d lured into his sticky, sweet trap, when in reality, it was you who had him wrapped around your finger, to the point where he would willingly try something like this.

You had discussed it in depth before this moment. It was not something you took lightly. You needed Rhett to be on the same page as you, and you took the time to set up very clear boundaries. You could stop at any time. All that needed to be uttered was a single safe word from either of you and the scene would be over instantaneously. 

Rhett’s willingness to participate in this stemmed from his deep trust in you, and yours in him. You both knew you would never do anything to hurt the other, at least not without explicit consent. That was why it was so easy for him to agree to this. He’d never do such a thing with anyone else. Only you, because you made him feel comfortable enough to express his desires and kinks without fear of judgment. 

He made you feel the same, which was why you’d brought it up to him in the first place. And that brought you to the present moment, where you excitedly awaited his arrival through the front door. Your eyes continuously flickered to the clock on the wall, ticking away. Had time started passing slower than normal? It sure felt like it. 

You busied yourself with monotonous tasks. Wiping down the counter. Clearing out the cash register for the night. Tidying up the book display shelves. And finally, at 5:01 p.m., Rhett Abbott walked through the door of your bookshop.

You caught his gaze, and he offered you one of those crooked smiles of his that made you weak in the knees. Out of respect, he took his hat off of his head. “Evenin’, miss. Just need to pick up a book.”

“I-I’m afraid we’re closed, Mister Abbott,” you stammered, already slipping into the part of the timid church mouse you’d pledged to play. 

“Oh I ain’t gon’ be more than a few minutes, I promise. I would’ve come earlier but I was busy.”

“Okay. Just please make it quick, I really should be getting home soon.”

He raised a brow, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Why? Your daddy have you on a curfew?”

“Something like that,” came your whisper.

He gave a single nod, and turned to peruse down the aisles. But you didn’t miss the way he turned and locked the door as he did. It made your heart flip in your chest, and your breath catch in your throat. 

While he searched for whatever book he was looking for, you made your way back to the counter, clasping your hands together when you realized how much they shook. You felt silly, being as giddy as a schoolgirl, but you couldn’t help it. That was the effect Rhett had on you. Always had been.

A few moments later, he appeared at the counter, and his presence made you jump, because you hadn’t even heard him come up. 

“Oh!” You exclaimed. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No ma’am, I didn’t.”

“Do you know the title or author? I could always look it up for you.”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I’m lookin’ for the Encyclopedia of Knots and Ropework.”

Of course he was. Even outside of this roleplay, it was a fitting book for him to be interested in. He was always trying to improve his rope techniques, not only because it was useful for day-to-day, but also because it was useful in the confines of your bedroom.

He held your gaze, his eyes intense and sharp. Had they gotten even bluer, somehow? You didn’t miss how those same eyes shamelessly flickered down to glance at your chest. They widened slightly when he realized what necklace you were wearing. Delicate gold, words small enough that one might not realize what they said unless they looked closely. Daddy’s Girl.

Rhett had gotten it for you as a joke, because you called him daddy within your dynamic. But it had quickly become a turn-on for both of you whenever you wore it. Like now, for instance. He swallowed as his eyes shifted back up to yours. You didn’t miss the bob of his Adam’s apple as he did so.

“Actually, I think I have that book in the back,” you managed to speak up. You were warm with need for him already and you’d barely even begun. “If you’ll just wait right here.”

You turned on your heel, stepping into the back storage room to search for his requested book. Although you’d instructed him to wait outside the room, he followed you anyway, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you. 

You knew he was there, so you purposely moved so your dress rode up, exposing your bare ass beneath it. Rhett gritted his teath at the sight, unable to tear his eyes away. When you bent down again, he caught a glimpse of your pussy, and he couldn’t bite back the groan that rumbled in his chest.

You gasped, whirling around. “M-Mister Abbott, you shouldn’t be back here,” you squeaked.

He smirked, the blue of his eyes darker now. “Sorry, I got impatient. But I couldn’t help but admire how pretty you look. All sweet an’ innocent, like a little lamb.”

“Oh…th-thank you?”

Rhett stepped forward, boots heavy on the floor. “Mm,” he hummed. Another step closer. Instinctively, you stepped back, but he kept coming, until your back hit one of the bookshelves. 

You gasped, eyes widening as you reached back and touched the cool wood. “Mister Abbott, sir, what are you doing?” But you knew full well what he was doing.

“Admirin’ you up close.” He reached a hand up, running his fingers over the cool metal of your necklace. “This little necklace says you’re daddy’s girl. That what you are? You his innocent little girl?”

You shuddered as he nudged a thigh between your legs. “Yes sir.”

“Huh,” he remarked, hand moving to play with the strap of your dress. “It’d be a shame if someone were to come along and ruin his pretty little girl. There’s a lot of bad men out there, y’know.” And I’m one of them.

“I-I don’t think—”

“Shh,” he shushed, pushing his jean-clad thigh further against you. You could feel the rough denim against your cunt. Surely your pooling desire would soak through the fabric. 

The hand that had been playing with your necklace wandered down, skilled fingers toying with the little bow at the neckline of your dress. You watched, chest heaving slightly as he pulled the tie, and the top part of your dress came down, revealing your breasts. 

You whimpered, but quickly remembered you were meant to remain in character, so you lifted your arm to cover your chest. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” you whispered. 

A positively Cheshire grin spread across his face, and you felt very much like a poor, innocent mouse in the clutches of a cat who liked to play with his food before devouring it. “Why not? Nobody’s going to walk in. I locked the front door. So we can do anythin’ you want, sugar.”

Warm fingers brushed over hardening nipples, and you took in a breath, head falling back against the shelf behind you. “N-no one’s ever touched me there before,” came your whimpered confession. 

Rhett made a sound deep in his throat, and he began to lightly pinch and tug at those buds. In the meantime, your hips involuntarily moved against his thigh. He could feel your arousal soaking through, and he growled. 

He was going to corrupt you, this sweet, unassuming lamb that trembled under his touch. 

“I can touch you other places, too,” he lulled, his face so close to yours your noses brushed. A large hand fell from your chest, soon resting over your stomach. Then, he trailed further down, until his fingers curled around the hem of your dress and he lifted it up to reveal your nakedness underneath.

You let out a gasp of surprise and pulled the fabric from his hands. “Mister Abbott!” You scolded.

“Just one little peek, darlin’. It won’t hurt anything.” 

But when he lifted your dress again, you were emboldened, and again, you snatched it out of his grasp. He raised a brow at that, and you jutted your chin out in defiance. 

“Stupid girl.” Then, he took both of your arms in his hold and forced you to turn, your back pressed to his chest as he wrestled you down across the desk beside you. You put up a bit of a fight, but certainly not enough to hurt him or slow him down in any way. He handled you in a great feat of strength, and it sent a jolt of desire through you.

Once he had you pressed into the oak, he yanked your dress up to expose your bare ass. You tried to wriggle out of his hold, but he pressed his weight into you with a grunt. “Hold fuckin’ still.”

“But sir, I-”

Then, he reached around, clamping his hand over your mouth. “Shut your mouth ‘fore I shut it for you.”

Once he was satisfied with your silence, he stepped back, hands gripping your ass so he could fully admire your glistening pussy. His fingers parted your folds, and he hummed, enjoying the view. “S’ pretty. Nobody’s ever touched you like this before, have they?”

“N-no sir. You shouldn’t be touching me there, either.”

Suddenly, he slotted his middle finger into you, and you gasped. Moments later, he added his ring finger to the mix, long digits easily locating that spot inside you that made stars glimmer behind your eyelids. 

You lost yourself for a moment, moaning lowly at the feeling. He knew exactly how to move those fingers to draw the most salacious sounds from you. 

But you remembered you were supposed to be in character. So you reacted like the damsel in distress you were playing. “Mister Abbott, please. This isn’t right. If my daddy finds out about this, he’ll—”

“He’ll what, sweetheart? He’ll beat me to death?” He leaned in close, mouth brushing against the shell of your ear. “You ain’t escaping me, lamb. ‘M gonna have my way with you whether you like it or not.”

His words sent you clenching around his fingers, and he hummed in satisfaction, wicked smile tugging at his mouth. “You like the thought of that, don’t ya? The big, bad cowboy takin’ what he wants?”

“No sir!” You cried. But you did. You loved the idea. Loved that Rhett had agreed to do this with you. 

“The way your pussy’s squeezin’ my fingers tells me otherwise.” He fucked those same fingers into you harder, faster. The sound of your growing wetness was obscene, and it went straight to his cock. 

When you squirmed again, he pressed his weight into you, inhibiting you from moving, from escaping. The fact that you couldn’t see what he was doing behind you made it all the more erotic. You didn’t know what to expect and it sent a thrill through you. 

But he paused for a moment, and suddenly, a warm, gentle hand was pressed against your spine. “Color?” He asked, in a tone that could only be described as your Rhett. 

“Green,” you sighed. His fingers were still inside you and you were in heaven. 

A soft kiss to your shoulder blade, and then it was back to business. Those fingers inside you curled upwards, and you whined, shivering. It was pathetic, really, the way you were literally dripping around those thick digits.

All too soon, he slipped them out of you, and all at once, those same fingers were tapping at your lips. “Clean up your mess,” he gritted.

“No,” you refused, turning your head away. 

He grunted, hauling you up and turning you around. With his clean hand, he gripped your jaw. “I said, clean up your fuckin’ mess, girl.” You let him wrench your jaw open, and he shoved his glistening fingers past your lips, allowing you to taste yourself. 

Once he was satisfied, he removed his fingers from your mouth, proceeding to smear the mix of your cum and spit all over your lips. The gesture almost made you come right then and there. 

Then he kissed you, hand holding the back of your neck, blunt fingernails digging into your skin. When you parted, he spoke again. “Lay down on the desk.”

You almost obeyed immediately, but a positively delicious thought came to mind. Without warning, you dropped your weight quickly, and it surprised him enough to loosen his grasp on you as you went down. As soon as he did, you scrambled to your feet and rushed out of the room. 

Rhett grunted in surprise, and his heavy footfalls could be heard behind you. But you were faster than he was, and you ran up and down a few aisles of bookshelves until you stopped in the middle of one, dead silent as you listened for him. But suddenly, the surrounding area was dead silent, save for your rushed breathing.

It gave you pause. Had he stopped following you? 

Just as you thought you were safe, the creaking of a floorboard got your attention, and you whirled around, just in time to see your cowboy stalking toward you. 

You tried to slip away, but he already had you, hand shooting out to catch you. He was much, much stronger, thanks to upper body strength that was unmatched. Blame it on riding all those bulls and hauling heavy bales of hay. 

“No!” You cried as he wrestled you down to the hardwood. You struggled in his hold and he let out a growl. 

The clink of his belt buckle drew your attention, and he quickly pulled it from its loops, binding your wrists together behind your back. “Woulda brought my fuckin’ rope if I knew you were gon’ try to get away.” He cinched the belt and made sure it would hold. But a moment later, his tone softened. “That ain’t too tight, is it?”

You shook your head. “No, it’s just right.”

So, back into character he slipped. 

You heard the telltale sign of him unzipping his jeans, shoving the rough denim down his thighs. Work roughened fingers were at your slick opening again, and when they brushed over your clit, you jumped. 

“Feels good, huh?”

“No.” Yes. 

“Keep lyin’ to me, girl. I’ll have you creaming all over my cock soon enough.”

You couldn’t help but moan at his words, pushing your ass up toward him. Behind you, he shoved his jeans down far enough to free his hardness, stroking it firmly in his hand before he shoved your legs apart and pulled your hips back. 

“I don’t know if it’ll e’en fit inside you. Wonder if you’ll be able to take the whole thing.”

The plush, pink head was dragged through your dripping wetness, and you whined at the feeling of it catching on your entrance but never quite slipping inside. 

Feebly, you continued your facade, though you were moments away from throwing in the towel and begging your husband to fuck you. “W-we can’t,” you whimpered. “Please, Mister Abbott.”

He lowered himself so his mouth was against your ear again. He seemed so big, hulking above you, and it made you feel helpless in the most thrilling way imaginable. “What? Did’ya really think you were gonna save yourself for someone special? Soon as I fuck you, this pussy belongs to me. You’ll be ruined for any other man.”

“Don’t.” But please, do.

Again, the head of his cock slid over you. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing, and Rhett admired the way you glistened. He could clearly see that this was turning you on to no end. He was in the same boat. He hadn’t realized just how much he would get off on this, but he was enjoying every minute of it. It felt so forbidden, so naughty. And it was thrilling. 

He knew he couldn’t handle teasing you any longer. So, without warning, he pushed his hips forward and filled you in one thrust. The sudden intrusion surprised you, and you cried out, jolting against the floor. 

He was so fucking big, and from this angle, he somehow felt even bigger. His cock was thick, so the stretch was almost uncomfortable, but it felt so good all at once. However, you knew how much he loved making you feel small, so you decided to get him going. 

“I-it barely fits. S’too big,” you squeaked. 

He groaned deep within his chest, jaw going slack. “And you’re gon’ lay there and take every inch of me, lamb.”

He shunted his hips forward again, and you whined, eyes drifting shut. Feebly, you put up a bit of a struggle, trying half-heartedly to pull yourself out of his grasp. But he shoved you back in place. “Fuckin’ take it.”

“No! Get off me!”

A rough hand came up to cover your mouth, and again, he thrust into you, rough and deep. He built a steady rhythm, and it wasn’t long before you were gasping and moaning pathetically against his hand at the feeling. You weren’t sure that you even had it in you to fight against him anymore. It felt too good to pretend you didn’t like it.

Above you, he grunted deeply, and the way he fucked you was almost animalistic. He was heavy against you, overcoming your every sense. 

You could feel him. The bump of his cock against your spongey walls. The roughness of his jeans against the backs of your thighs. The softness of the flannel he wore against your back. You could smell him. That simple cologne he always wore. That heady, natural scent that could only be described as Rhett. And you could hear him. Short groans and sighs. Barely contained growls when you clenched around him. Like he was a wild animal and you were his prey.

He’d finally lowered his hand from your mouth, pressing his palm against the floor to brace himself. It allowed your wild, unbridled moans to spill forth, filling the entirety of your little bookstore. If you got any louder, surely a passerby outside would be able to hear. But neither of you cared. 

Suddenly, his hips slowed, and you felt his hands on your own. “Wanna watch your face while I have my way with you,” he rasped before he undid the belt around your hands, tossing the leather aside. He soothed your wrists with his fingers before he pulled back, leaving you empty.

You whined, but he shushed you as he turned you over onto your back. You were thrumming with the warmth of desire, so much so that it took everything in you to keep up your act as you spoke again. “Mister Abbott, p-please just let me go.” But don’t. Don’t you ever let me go.

When your hands weakly pushed at his chest, he grabbed them, pressing them above your head. His face was hard set in a scowl. He looked so angry, so dominating, and it made you shiver. But as if a switch was flipped, he softened, free hand coming up to brush over your quivering bottom lip. 

“What’s your color, chickadee?”

You hummed. “It’s green. Neon fucking green.”

He couldn’t help but grin at that. “Glad to hear.”

Then the switch was flipped again, and his entire demeanor changed. His jaw was hard-set, brow furrowed. “Don’t e’en bother trying to fight it. You know you want it,” he taunted, and you felt the heat of his cock against you again.

He slipped into you for a second time with ease, pulling your legs around his hips so he could go even deeper. He watched the place where your bodies met, enamored with the way you took all of him. It set something off within him, and he picked up the pace, jarring your entire being as he fucked you.

Then he brought his hand between your thighs, fingers rubbing against your buzzing gathering of nerve endings. Then, he released the hands he held above your head, and wrapped that hand around your throat. 

He knew the exact amount of pressure to apply. His fingertips pressed firmly against either side of your neck, slowing the blood flow and making your head spin. That’s when you lost yourself. Rhett hadn’t been expecting it to happen so soon, but he could clearly see it in the way your eyes rolled back and your body arched off the floor. 

Moments like these made you feel like you were having an out-of-body experience. It was as if you were hovering over yourself, watching the scene unfold. 

It was also a surefire way to make you come. Which, in the heat of the moment, Rhett had forgotten about. You let out a strangled cry, and suddenly you were gasping out, “c-coming! Coming! Daddy, I’m coming!”

That was it for you. Your reluctant facade was gone. The character of the innocent little lamb, as Rhett would say, was forgotten. Now you didn’t even care. You just wanted him to keep going. Wanted him to fuck you until you were incoherent. 

And as you came, your husband watched in awe. Your mouth parted in a silent scream, your eyes locked with his, and you convulsed beneath him. Your cunt tightened around him like a vice, and he let out a determined growl. He wasn’t about to fall apart this early on. 

Instead, he focused on you. As you came down from your unexpected high, he eased his hand off your throat, mindful that you would be a bit dizzy from the rush of blood. 

He’d stopped moving, instead lowering his weight to rest gently on top of you. His lips brushed against your own. “You okay, sweet thing?”

Your eyes, still glossy and unfocused, flickered up to his. “Y-yeah. That was…I didn’t mean to come that fast.” You might’ve been embarrassed, but Rhett gave you no reason to be.

He smiled. “S’okay. I ain’t finished with you yet, anyway.”

Then his lips were on yours in a dizzying kiss, and he slowly built his rhythm back as he rolled his hips into yours. You whined into his mouth, hands fumbling for purchase at his shoulders. All muscle and sinew, strong from hard labor.

He wrapped your legs around him, bringing him impossibly closer. With each press into you, you could feel the coarseness of the neatly kept hair that gathered at the base of his cock, brushing against your oversensitive clit. 

When you caught his gaze, he looked at you in amusement. “Where’d all that fight go, hm? Few minutes ago you were beggin’ me to stop. Now you’re taking it like a good girl should. Decide you like it all of a sudden?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. 

But you couldn’t voice an answer. Your words died in your throat each time he fucked into you. He pulled up to shove your legs up further, knees toward your chest, which gave him a better angle, hitting it impossibly deeper. 

You let out an unabashed wail at the feeling, and Rhett grunted at the feeling if your desire quite literally dripping from you, down the shaft of his cock, and further. 

The sound as he pushed into you was obscene. A filthy, wet squelch that might’ve embarrassed you if you weren’t thrumming with need. 

It only spurred your husband on. He fucked you harder, faster. His fingers applied such delicious pressure on your clit. His mouth nipped at your breasts, tugging on pert nipples. And it wasn’t long before you were catapulting into him, coming unraveled around his dick all over again. 

He watched you, amazed at just how sensitive you were. “Shit, this really got you going, huh?” He breathlessly remarked after you’d come down. 

You smiled, a little dumbly. “Mm,” you squeaked. 

Rhett took a steadying breath, willing himself to last just a little longer. “What do ya need, chickadee? You wanna keep playing? Or do you just need me?”

“N-need you, Daddy. Just you,” came your slurred response. 

He nuzzled into you, nose bumping against yours. “Yeah? Already goin’ small on me?”

But you couldn’t answer. He could tell, though. Your eyes were glassy, almost tearful, and you were pawing at him like a little kitten. So he soothed you, kissing you slowly, tongue delving into your mouth, which you sucked on gently. 

He smiled against your mouth as he broke away. “Here, suck on this instead of my tongue,” he urged, sliding his thumb into your mouth, which you happily accepted, suckling greedily. 

He picked up his pace again, sinking back into your impossibly slick cunt. He was considerably more gentle than he had been. Gone was the rough, mean cowboy who held you down and told you to take it. 

Instead, he was replaced by your tender husband, so attentive to you when you were like this. He always knew how to get you to this state. A small and pliant state of mind, where you’d do anything he asked of you, because you wanted to please him so badly. Wanted to be good for him. 

It hadn’t started out this way. Getting to this point in your dynamic has been a journey. Rhett had struggled with assuming a role of dominance. Not because it didn’t interest him, but because he was afraid. Afraid he couldn’t be what you needed. But you’d worked through those insecurities together as time passed. Now, you shared a healthy relationship and a balanced dominant and submissive dynamic. 

It made you feel safe enough to be like this with him. Vulnerable. Emotional. Raw. 

It all shifted then. There, in the middle of your little book store, sprawled out on the hardwood floor, the desperate, intense fuck melted away into lovemaking. 

Rhett stayed close to you, keeping his movements predictable so you wouldn’t spiral. The feeling of him inside you, filling you in the way that only he could, sent tears springing to your eyes. 

He kissed you again, and whispered words of encouragement. “Takin’ me so well.”

You held tightly to him, arms around his neck, keening with each push and pull of his heavy cock within you. You could feel him pulse and spasm, feel the fullness of his balls pressing into you. God, you wanted all he had to give. Wanted him to spill into you, to leave you full of his cum. 

But you couldn’t find the words to beg for it. All that came out were pathetic whimpers and incoherent babbles. He gave you his fingers to suck on again, pacifying you. 

“Gon’ give you what you want, chickadee. Promise.” He knew what you were whining for. And he was so close. Especially when you clenched around him the way you were, your sensitive walls fluttering in anticipation of another orgasm that would soon wash over you. 

The heat of eroticism surrounded you both, and it felt like the room was engulfed in flames, stoked by the intensity of your oneness. 

You let him take you, let him use your body to chase his own pleasure. And in the midst of it all, your hypersensitive body plummeted over that edge again, soaking him with your release as you wailed brokenly around his fingers, a muffled “Daddy!” bubbling from your hoarse throat. 

And Rhett couldn’t handle it any longer. Buzzing electricity crackled at the base of his spine, as if he’d just been struck by a bolt of white hot lightning. 

His jaw fell slack, and his head dropped to the crook of your shoulder. You moaned, sobbed, pleaded with him to give it all to you. And he did. 

He came with a raw, gravelly moan, hips stilling slightly as he pumped his seed into the very center of your being. You took all he had to give, your hands tangled in his dark locks as he trembled against you. 

A few more pulses of his cock within you and his rapture came to an end. His chest heaved against yours as he caught his breath, and a moment later, he lifted his head to fully look at you. 

“You okay?” He asked, voice wrecked. 

“Mhm,” was all you could muster. Tears were gathering on your lash line, and before you knew it, they were trailing down the sides of your face. 

His face softened with concern. “Oh, sweet thing.”

“‘m okay, Daddy,” you squeaked, “j-just felt really good.”

Carefully, Rhett slid out of you, leaving your aching walls empty. You made a sound of protest, but he shushed you, moving to sit with his back against the bookshelves, and helping you settle against him. 

You ended up straddling him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, your chest pressed to his. You needed this, the intimate closeness after such an intense scenario. 

Rhett’s hand ghosted along your back, grounding you as his fingertips drew patterns. “Did so good for me,” he praised. 

But after a moment, you let out a distressed whimper. “Making a mess,” you despaired as you glanced down, realizing his cum had seeped out of you and onto his thigh. 

He shook his head, guiding your face to look at him. “It’s okay. I brought some stuff to clean up with. Let’s go get it.” He knew you couldn’t bear to be separated from him, and certainly not here, out of the comfort and familiarity of your own home. 

So he helped you stand, pausing only to yank his jeans back up, leaving the top undone. He guided you to the back room, despite the fact that you were walking on the legs of a newborn fawn. 

He helped you take a seat on a spare chair before he began rifling through a bag you hadn’t even realized he’d brought in. Soon enough, he retrieved a pack of gentle wipes. 

Moments later, your legs were parted as he tenderly wiped you clean. He could see how swollen your delicate folds were, so he was as gentle as could be. 

Once he was finished, he grabbed a folded blanket from the bag and wrapped it around your shoulders. “Gon’ get you home in a minute so I can take care of you proper,” he assured you with a squeeze to your thigh. 

You hummed sleepily, watching as he went about gathering everything. He knelt to put your shoes back on your feet, which had been lost in the scuffle, mysteriously. 

Then, he helped you stand and smoothed your dress, adjusting it so you were covered again. The entire time, you were hardly present, fading in and out of a blissful state, allowing your husband to care for you. 

He finished closing up shop for you so you wouldn’t have to worry about it, and then, he led you out to his truck, which he’d parked around back to avoid prying eyes. Sometime during your tryst, the sky had gone dark, and night had fallen. 

Once he had you situated in the passenger side, he came over to his own side, climbing in beside you. Immediately, you scooted across the bench, needing to be closer to him. 

He wrapped an arm around you and kept it there as he drove. You let your eyes drift shut, comfortable and safe, trusting that he’d get you to your distination. 

And he did. He pulled into your driveway, and eased you out of the truck’s cab, guiding you across the front of your property and into the house. 

He looked after you for the rest of the evening. Getting you ready for bed, making you a quick dinner, giving you water so you wouldn’t become dehydrated. And you let him, because it gave you such comfort to be cared for by him. 

By the time you were in bed that night, you were feeling a little more grounded, and able to speak. 

“Thank you,” you said as he climbed into bed beside you. “For taking care of me. For acting out that fantasy with me.”

Rhett’s mouth quirked into a smile, and he lifted one brawny hand to cup your cheek. “‘course. Had a lot of fun with it. More than I was expecting.”

It was your turn to smile. “Me too. I really liked feeling all helpless under you like that. Kind of embarrassing how much it turned me on.”

But he shook his head. “Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. We both enjoyed ourselves, that’s what matters.” He leaned in to kiss you, and you melted into his warmth. 

“So this means we’re definitely trying this again?” You asked as you broke apart, resting your head on his bare chest. 

“Mhm,” he eagerly hummed. “And again. And again.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He shifted to kiss the top of your head. “I ain’t done corrupting my sweet little lamb yet.”

“Well, she’s all yours for the taking, whenever you want.”

He grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

-

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[itlswhatltls]

empty cups

todd stevens x reader

smut MDNI 18+

word count: 2.7k

summary: basically empty cups by charlie puth :)

warnings: oral f!receiving, p in v, spit play, talking ya through it, pet names (baby, sweetness)

a/n: first of many todd stevens fics. more to come! stay tuned! lmk what else you’d like to see- if smut isn’t your thing i’ve got some other stuff planned so pls stay tuned! lmk if you wanna be tagged when i post!

lewis masterlist!

the music was loud enough to make you think your hear was matching the beat of it. you felt it deep in your chest. the empty cups in your hand and scatters around only grew the atmosphere.

you also felt the rough hands of todd stevens on you. every time you lifted your arms, your t shirt would lift just high enough to expose your midriff and todd took advantage of that small window of opportunity.

his rough, calloused hands lightly touching the softness of your hips, waist and moving in front to your belly. his fingertips pushing the boundary between your lower stomach and the waist line of your low rise jeans.

your ass grinding against his front to the music, he felt like he was in heaven. he wasn’t prepared for what was coming.

you turn, his fingertips still stuck between your skin and jeans, now his fingers rest on your lower back just above your ass.

you go on your toes, mouth next to his ear, “wanna go upstairs?” you take his ear lobe between your teeth and pull it slightly before letting it go and go back to your feet to look at him.

his eyes lighting up with amusement and a smirk you wanted to kiss.

his hands raised from your lower back, up your waist and eventually one takes your hand. he nods to the stairs.

he stops to whisper something to a fellow frat, something about making sure no one goes to his room. the frat boy tells another that todd and his girl are going up stairs and not to disturb them.

you smile at the mention of you being todd’s girl.

you and todd started out as friend with benefits and if anyone asks now you’d probably both still say that but you both know it’s something more. i love yous have been thrown around a lot when having sex and the both you have stayed the night wrapped in the others arms and staying for breakfast during the morning. if todd sees you on campus he can’t help but ask to carry your books or walk you to your next class.

neither of you talk to anyone else outside of the other. no other sex, nothing. it’s just him. it’s just you.

reaching todd’s room, he unlocks it only to lock it back when you’re both inside. you both kick off your shoes, then connect quickly. your lips on his and his tongue immediately asking for entrance.

“do you want to turn up some music or the tv so no one will hear,” you ask between feverish kisses.

“nah,” he says, “everyone already knows, so let’s just makes sure they know more,”

it was a good enough answer for you.

his hands go under your tshirt and he grabs the hem of it and lifts it up and over your head, hating that he has to pull back for a moment to take it fully off.

you reach up and take off his backwards cap, tossing it to the side. then reach down at the hem of his shirt and pulls his up and over, tossing it to the corner with your own shirt.

your hands runs down the front of his body, slipping in his jeans and cupping him.

“already hard for me huh?”

“i was hard the moment you started dancing on me,” he tells you, his hands choosing your face holding you close to him.

you pull your hand out, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down, missing his boxers.

“woah woah,” he stops you

you frown with a confused look, “what?”

“tonight it’s you. all about you,” he tells you, slowly unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down, him following suit.

before he’s fully down he’s back up, taking a step back to fully take you in.

“matching set?”

his eyes dart from your bra to your underwear, a deep blue matching set you had gotten just for him, though he didn’t need to know that.

the bra unbuckled in the front and the panties you had on was a thong. easy access at both places.

“do you like it?” you ask him faking shyness.

“you’re fucking beautiful,” his voice is low almost a growl.

his hand places itself on your lower back easing you down onto the bed. little groans coming from his mouth and he kisses you all the way down.

his lips move from yours to your cheek, jaw, sucking the pressure point at your neck, earning a moan and a back arch from you.

“you sound pretty,” he whispers into your neck.

“stop- stop teasing,”

“it’s gonna be a long night pretty,” he tells you, kissing down your neck, to your chest. he reaches a hand between your breasts, unhooking the strap with his one hand. the wet spot on your underwear growing as his breath sends shivers down your body.

his tongue sticking out, going up your right breast and circling your already hard, sensitive nipple. his mouth envelopes it, sucking lightly while his other hand cups your left breast. he pinches your left nipple in his fingers, earning him another roman from your pretty mouth.

his left thigh lightly moving along your core. the lightest touch to your clit , making you arch again.

he groans against your breast, rutting against your thigh. he moves his mouth over giving your other nipple the same attention as the right.

his right hand under your right breast, his touch ghosting the underneath of your breast. goosebumps flood your skin and you hiss as his teeth bare down on your nipple.

“t-todd please,”

his left hand slips down your body, into your panties, past your mound to your folds. you’re already slick, the cloth of your underwear wet.

he drags a finger slowly from your entrance up to your clit and lightly circling it. no pressure just soft, agonizingly slow circles.

“toddy…” you whimper.

“alright, alright,” he murmurs with a satisfied smile, kissing your lips one more time before moving down. he hooks his fingers on the sides of your underwear and he slides them down slowly, savoring all of you. soaking in your body with his eyes.

he puts his hands under your knees and drags you to the end of the bed, he kneels before you, starring at your core like he’s never seen it before. like he’s been starved for years and this is the first time he gets to taste you.

he never gets tired of it. of you.

he gently tosses your legs over his shoulders, one lick from your entrance to your clit. his tongue then focusing on your clit. circling, swirling and soon sucking.

you hand falls to his hair, gripping it as his hands gripped your thighs.

“oh my god,” you gasp, his tongue flicks at your clit, a surge of electricity shooting through you. your back arches again, trying to push him deeper into you.

he laps at your entrance beginning to fuck you with his tongue. that fucking tongue. it was long and thick and you didn’t know you could feel this way by a tongue until you met todd.

he knew what to do from the beginning. there were one or two things you talked him through but he understood quick. he loved giving you pleasure.

he hums against you, a deep groan from his throat, more electricity vibrates through you.

as his tongue goes in and out his nose nudges your clit at just the right pace and pressure. your hips buck up but one of his arms reaches across you, pushing your hips down.

“i don’t need help,” he tells you.

that sends you over the edge. your bones vibrate, your muscles spaz, your whole body shakes as he shows more attention to your clit, sucking hard.

“come on baby,” he murmurs against you.

your thighs lock around his head as you cum. your slick wetting his face and you can feel the smile on his face.

you grip his hair a little harder as a white hot feeling covers you. he laps you over and over again through it. he drinks you up.

your thighs grow tired and loosen, he pulls back for a breath, “you taste so sweet baby,” he tells you going back in for a few more licks.

his hands move back to your thighs, rubbing them and kneading them with his fingers as he trails kisses along your inner thighs.

he stands and moves towards you, one hand placing itself on the mattress beside your head the other grabbing your waist.

“toddy… inside,” you’re breathless as you plead.

“i’m sorry what was that?” his southern accent could make you come again without home even touching you.

“toddy,” you whine.

“use your words sweetness,” he tells you, lifting a hand to your face to move hair from your face, then tracing your lips with his fingers, “open,” he instructs.

you open your mouth, he stick his index and middle finger into your mouth and spits in your mouth and you close your mouth around them quickly, sucking at the digits, you linger on them.

“see how good you taste? let me do it some more. what do you want?” he takes his fingers out of your mouth, licking the rest of you off his own fingers.

“in me. want you in me,” you tell him.

“good job sweetness, keep using your words like that yeah?”

you nod fervently. anything to get him to put his dick in you.

he pulls down his boxers with one hand, then feels you with the same hand. he takes some of your slick and coats himself with it. he rubs himself some before bringing his fingers back to your entrance.

he begins with two finger already.

“fuck,” you hiss.

“gotta get you ready,” he explains, coming down to kiss you as he stretches you out, getting you ready for him.

your whines are swallowed by him, kissing away the small pain you feel.

he adds a third finger just in case. pumping in and out of you slowly, he doesn’t want you on his fingers he wants you on his dick.

“you ready baby?” he asks, you nod quickly.

he lines himself up before pushing into you.

your hands go to his back, your nails scratching down his back, marking him as yours. he loves the feeling, the pain from your nails. he loves looking in the mirror after a good night with you and seeing your marks.

he smiles at your nails scratching down his back.

you try pulling him closer, trying to tell him you wanted him closer.

“words,” he reminds you.

“closer,” your eyes are squeezed shut as he pushes further

“no, no,” he says, “look at me,” he says, his hand coming your face and caressing your cheek.

you open your eyes to see his already on yours. his smile growing wider as he sees your eyes. the color popping in the low light of the room, he can’t believe he gets to look at them.

“there she is, good girl,” he praises, “wanna watch you,” he tells you, placing another kiss on your lips.

you pull him closer, digging your nails in his back, his hips jut forward as he bottoms out.

you gasp as he lifts his head. your mouth going to his shoulder, biting down on it.

he pumps fast without warning. once he bottoms out it’s only a matter of time before you’re both exhausted.

he bottoms out again and stays there.

“mmmmm,” he moans in your hair, “you feel so fuckin good sweetness,” he tells you, “could stay like this forever,”

“do it then,” you say, resting in the moment, “i’d let you stay,”

“don’t tempt me,” he says. he shifts and you whine, “i’m sorry baby, i’ll take care of you now,”

he pumps again, harder and faster. the headboard of the bed banging against the wall, an imprint surely being made.

he pumps and pumps, his hand moving to your lips, “spit,” he instructs, you don’t think you simply spit into his hand, he does the same. he moves his hand from your face to between the two of you. he begins rubbing your clit, mixing your spit with his and your slick.

he rubs softly at first but as his pumping increases so does the circling.

“faster,” you instruct him.

one thing about todd is that he’s going to listen to you. faster? done. harder? already picking up the pace. he makes sure you’re happy with his work.

he goes faster, the pumping and circling over takes you. waves build and just as your about to- he stops.

“todd!” you shouts as his hand is pulled back.

“hold it until i say,” he says, you look into his eyes, they’re dark but not in a bad way. in a good way. you like when he’s like this, you like following his instructs.

you nod back at him, never looking away from him.

he goes back to rubbing you and pumping into you.

your brows pinch together, you bite your lip and the whole time he watches you with a smile. praising you as you go along.

“t-todd i will b-burst if you keep talkin,” you tell him.

“you like the sound of my voice sweetness,” he asks, his head lowering so his mouth is close to your ear.

you gasp and whine as you close in on your orgasm.

“not yet pretty,” he tells you.

“oh fuck todd, please,”

“beg some more. you’re so pretty when you beg,” he tells you, you can feel him righting up too.

“please, please let me cum,” you plead, “please todd, come for me too,”

he’s gone.

“come on baby,” he tells you as he reaches his release too.

you both come at the same time, he tired moving through it, he tries fucking you through it but this might have been the hardest he’s come with you. his thighs shake as his knees begin to buckle. he does keep rubbing you though, massaging your clit and overstimulating you.

“s’too much,” you tell him.

he nods, slowing his pace, then stopping.

“you’re so good,” you tell him, “my pretty boy is so so good,” you reach up tucking hair behind his ear.

you put a hand on his neck, right below his jaw, your thumb ghosting over his cheek. you pull him down to you kissing him again and again and again.

his hand reaches back down between your thigh. you’re still so wet and how could todd stop now?

he rubs at your clit again, softly this time. slower than any other time.

you moan with closed eyes, “s’ too much toddy,”

“come on baby, one more.”

he rubs more, more delicately. he’s taking his time with this one.

he inserts a finger, pumping slowly, then another. his pumps are graceful and purposeful. he curls his fingers inside you.

“god todd,” you whine pulling his head down to you, but instead of your face is your chest. which todd was not going to complain about.

as his fingers pump and his palm hits your clit your head rolls back along with your eyes. his mouth goes to your beast again, teasing your nipple with his teeth then fully giving it a soft bite.

his fingers curl again and with his palm against your clit you can’t stop the overwhelming sensation now coursing through your veins.

“fuck todd! yes!” your hips buck up at their own volition, bucking and jerking for moments on end.

“that’s it, good girl,” he talks you through it as he fingers you through it.

you whine as he slows, but love it all the same.

he falls to his elbow and soon to his side beside you. he tucks loose strands behind your ear and kisses your cheek.

“we’re not just a friends with benefits,” he tells you.

you turn your head, smiling wide at him, “was hoping you’d say that,”

he matches your smile, twisting over so his chest lays on yours as he kisses you for a moment.

“you should spit in my mouth more often,” you tell him with a blissful attitude.

“i want yours next,” he tells you.

“don’t worry, baby, you got all of me now,”

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[itlswhatltls]

The Disappointment Club

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader! Summary: After a rough couple of years in California, you move to the quiet pastures of Wabang to work in your sister's bakery, finding solace in the life she's built for herself there. A fresh start would've been a lot easier if a certain six-foot, blue-eyed cowboy hadn't waltzed into the shop with his Stetson pulled low. Wordcount: 13.239k (sorry) Warnings: SMUT! (it gets filthy pls don't look at me - oral sex f!receiving, fingering, handjob, spit play??, corny dirty talk), Soft Dom!Rhett Abbott, Possessive!RhettAbbott, Sub!Reader, Sub Space (adjacent? Sub-space-ish?), Mentions of Daddy Kink, Massive Praise Kink, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Porn with a lot of Plot, Angst (can't write anything without it lmao), Fluff, Humor, Slow Burn, Mentions of Drug/Alcohol Use, Implied Bar Fights, Reader has a troubled past, CORNY THIS GETS SO CORNY. A/N: (this is my belated unsolicited two cents on the Sabrina Carpenter album cover discourse, like let a woman SUB BRO let a gal be a whiny bottom!) Yes, I've been temporarily Rhett-Abbott-pilled...Yes, I've been yee-haw-ed so hard...this was a one-time thing to exorcise my demons

The Disappointment Club

The first time you saw Rhett Abbott, you were behind the counter of your sister’s bakery, piping lemon-thyme curd onto a fresh batch of muffins with the precision of someone who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a piping bag—or a convection oven; or anything sharp, really; anything inside of a bakery, possibly. 

“So, you’re the new hire?” The man said, all six feet, Wyoming drawl, and his Stetson pulled so low all you could see was his mouth. 

You were about to speak up when a glob of curd plopped onto your boot. 

“That’s my little sister, Rhett,” Maya warned, kicking open the swinging doors as she emerged from the kitchen, a batch of mint-green pastry boxes piled in her arms. “So you better not get any funny ideas.”

“Alright, I hear you.” He huffed a low laugh, rifling through his wallet before handing your sister a couple of bills. “I’ll make sure to keep my ideas void of humor.”

“Good, and keep them to yourself while you’re at it. Greet your mom for me!” Maya added with biting faux sweetness that had haunted you throughout your childhood. She handed him the pastry boxes, and the two of you watched in silence as he lumbered out of the bakery. The ding of the shop bell, the cuff of his boots on the tiles. He looked back once through the shop windows, the brim of his hat revealing a surprisingly tender face. The shape of it there, for a moment, in a soft bar of sunlight—before he disappeared from view. 

You lowered the piping bag and took a long breath. 

“Don’t even start.” Maya thwacked you with a dish towel. 

“Who the fuck was that?”

“Someone you will not get involved with.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cowboy McDreamy—”

“Stop. Don’t start with your funny ideas.”

“My ideas are famously hilarious.”

“Trust me. Rhett Abbott’s the type of guy who goes for buckle bunnies and tourists—"

"Buckle-what?"

"—and you are very much neither, so how about you make sure those blueberry muffins don’t look like someone assembled them with their eyes closed, hm?” She cocked a brow at your army of malformed swirls. You scoffed. 

“You know what?” Defiantly, you lifted the piping bag and proceeded to squirt the rest of the curd into your mouth—before scrambling to the back, dodging your sister's ardent attempts at skinning your ass raw with a dish towel. 

· · ❁ · ·

The second time you saw Rhett Abbott, you were on a date at The Longhorn. It was the only bar in town that had decent enough beer and a dancefloor that wasn’t slick with liquor and vomit past ten PM.

Your sister had set you up: He was the son of the game warden, Adam or Adrian (you’d long forgotten), awkward but polite, built like a shy greyhound, and stealing glances at your cleavage in intervals growing shorter and shorter the further he worked his way down a bottle of Budweiser. 

He wasn’t terrible company, patiently listening to you talk about the weather and how much you missed San Diego and your current hyperfixation on the baby goat that lived on the farm next door to your sister’s place. It has three legs, so they built her this tiny prosthetic, so she can walk properly. They named her Tres, as in Tres Leches, get it? Isn’t that the most adorable fucking thing you’ve ever heard in your whole entire fucking life?

You tried to ignore Adam-Adrian’s audible sigh of relief when you got up to grab another round of beers. Maybe you’d get yourself something stronger. Or maybe you’d find a good enough excuse to call it a night, and you would’ve, you really, really would’ve if you hadn’t bumped your shoulder into none other than Mr. Cowboy McDreamy himself. 

He’d swapped the Stetson for a washed-out baseball cap. Jaw hard and stubbled, nose a long slender slope in the lights reflecting off the dancefloor. 

“Hey there, Shortcake.” His quirk of a smile that aged him backwards.

Shortcake.

It wouldn’t have worked anywhere else, with anyone else, but you were a lightweight two beers in, and you liked the way the light hit his eyes, clear blue, like a drop of rain on a car window. 

You would’ve said something cheeky, something about having funny ideas—but he cut you off: “He sure seems like a good time.”

Tipping his chin towards Adam-Adrian slouched in the booth like a lonely sapling. 

You didn't like the way he'd said it. You knew men like Rhett Abbott, and you knew what happened when you let them into your life. “You know what,” you said, “he is, actually. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Rhett’s eyebrows lifted once, then smoothed out. “Okay.” He took a swig of his beer. “Got it.” Like something had been settled between you two.

· · ❁ · ·

The third time you saw Rhett Abbott, your sister’s husband, Jonah—Like the actor! Oh, and the book! Ha-ha! (which had gotten old the first time he’d said it)—took you out to the rodeo grounds. 

You and your sister had grown up in San Diego, amongst beaches and high-rises and palm trees lining manicured promenades. A place of juice cleanses and electric scooters. Men riding bulls in an arena had seemed unthinkable to you; something arcane, something forgotten. 

The rusty roofing of the grandstands shaded the crowd from the setting sun, its light disappearing behind the mountains, the endless sprawl of the valley. Everyone was buzzing, solo cups swishing beer, kids pressed up against the railing. A glossy nimbus of girls in cowboy boots and jean shorts chirped drunkenly one rung below. Every once in a while the PA crackled with the rumbling voice of the announcer, “Aaaaand here we go, folks! Big Joe out the gate, looking strong. Ah! Look at that spin, folks, right in the pocket—”

As a middle-school teacher, Jonah was forever sweet and excited about anything. Even bull riding, it seemed. He explained bull ropes and suicide grips, rattling down the names of the upcoming bulls in the pen. “—okay, so there’s Rotten Dynamite, rankest motherfucker you’ll ever see. Then there’s Terminator. Oh! And Iron Dome! We love Iron Dome. Blind in one eye, bucks like a whipcrack. Heard Rhett’s riding him tonight—”

Everyone knew Rhett Abbott rode bulls. The framed picture of him and his dad hung above the bar at The Longhorn, the two of them triumphantly holding up a big-buckled belt, the hard set of their twin jaws. People in Wabang rode bucking horses and lassoed cattle, wore their hats to the pharmacy and the supermarket, and hauled feed on their way to church. Old buildings still had hitching posts that cracked and blistered in the sun, like in a Western.

Rhett riding bulls wasn’t a surprise—but seeing it was. 

When the chute slammed open, you imagined something inside the crowd opened with it. Iron Dome, with its roiling beastly body, black as a hole in the floodlights, thundered into the arena. Dirt spraying. Crowd shouting. Rhett’s slender body meeting each jerk and heave and lunge, face hidden beneath the wide brim of his Stetson. The crowd surged forward all at once, a wild energy shuttling through it like a wave. Jonah hollered next to you, pumping a fist into the cool evening air. 

Five seconds, six seconds—

Seven point one. 

Rhett's body bending back, bow-tight, arm flung as high as the kick of the bull’s hind legs. Fused in perfect symmetry, their golden ratio like something painted. 

You flinched when Rhett’s arm snagged on the rope, and when Iron Dome finally lashed him off, and he went flying into the dirt—whatever had settled between you two, all at once, unsettled itself.

· · ❁ · ·

During the biggest fight you’d ever had with your sister, she’d called you a human hand grenade with the propensity for blowing up your life more than you could afford to. Which…okay, fair. 

People never expected you to be difficult or complicated or messy. You didn’t look it. Most of the time you didn’t even act like it. Until you slipped up, and slipped up some more, and then the slipping up turned into something big, and the big thing turned into something unstoppable.

Your mom had been the only one to describe it right, she’d understood, and in a moment of rare clarity that tore through the molasses of her medication, she’d whispered it to you like this: 

It comes in waves—until eventually the tide stops receding. 

You’d arrived in Wabang with a duffle bag, wearing a rumpled sundress and hiking boots.

Jonah had picked you up from the bus station with an excited grin and a too-tight hug. Maya had made you chicken and waffles, like when you were kids.

Back then, she'd made it whenever Mom was at her worst, when she was passed out for days, barricaded in her room like a pharaoh in a tomb. Chicken and waffles usually meant things were shitty and couldn't get much shittier. It also meant you'd skip school and spend the day at the mall down Fifth, where the sun slanted through the glass dome in the food court, made it all hot and damp like a terrarium, and the two of you would pretend to be salamanders lazing on the bench by the churros stand, T-shirts covered in cinnamon and sugar and delight. 

Wabang felt like those afternoons in the mall. Wabang was supposed to be the place where you got better.

You stuck to your routine, you made your bed, you ate enough and drank enough, you slept and woke on time, you went to work, you stuck to beers and cigarettes, you read and wrote and you fed the chickens in the garden, you always came back home. 

One afternoon, sitting on the porch staring out at the endless bowl of the valley, Maya handed you the keys to the bakery. “I want you to open up the shop. Four-thirty AM on the dot. You think you're up for it?”

“Are you kidding?”

Tomorrow was going to be a day so big, even Jonah was stopping by to help. They’d prepped the order for the wedding on Willow Ridge all week. Maya had even pulled an all-nighter the day before. It was a big deal, and she trusted you enough to be a part of that big deal. 

Trusted you enough to be a part of this life that she'd built so far away from the mall down Fifth, from mom—from you.

Smiling carefully, you reached for the keys. Maya snagged them away, narrowing her eyes. “Don't eat all the frosting, you little shit.”

“Not making any promises.” 

She tossed the keys and you caught them.

You felt like a saint anointed, like someone had tapped a sword to your shoulder, and you glowed with it, and your sister was so beautiful in the sun, and you’d said thank you, and you’d promised you’d do good. 

You’d be good. 

Maybe you deserved to celebrate being so good.

It was a Friday night after all, and you were bored and maybe a little sad, and maybe you were exhausted from following all these rules you were trying to build your life around. And so you rode the rusty bike Jonah had dug up from the bowels of their garage all the way to The Longhorn. And what started with a beer, ended with a bottle of whiskey and a joint on the back of someone’s pickup. Tame in comparison to what you'd once done on a Friday night, or on any night, really.

So it was fine, right? It was going to be fine. 

There was a girl with a shiny blonde mane and pink-chrome nails, her deep, lovely croon when she called you “—so fucking pretty, baby girl.” You missed feeling like this. You missed saying yes and yes and yes, bursting from it, unstoppable. You might’ve kissed her, but you weren’t sure, you might’ve wanted to marry her, which sounded about right, and you wanted to tell her this, to confess it to her and hold her soft pink-chrome-tipped hands...

The next thing you knew, you woke up next to your bike in the flatbed of a pickup, in a driveway you didn’t recognize, in a part of town you weren’t familiar with.

Head pounding, throat sore. Five missed calls from your sister. It was Saturday. It was noon. 

You were still drunk when you reached the green-and-pink awning of Sweet Pea’s, its buttery cream trim like frosting. Inside, the bakery was buzzing with a barrage of patrons on the sunniest Saturday Wabang had seen in weeks. At the counter, Maya didn’t speak to you. Instead she sent you straight to the back where you threw up once in the sink and once in front of the convection ovens. 

“Give me the keys,” Maya ordered, and you patted yourself down, before you remembered you’d stuffed them into your boot. She told you to go home, that she didn’t want to see you today. Jonah promised that everything would be fine, that Maya just needed a minute. Get cleaned up, he’d said. It’s gonna be okay, he’d said. But he hadn't looked so sure.

You hadn’t been good.

You hadn't been good at all—

Head throbbing more than it had before, you dragged your shitty bike through town. You rode until the sparse sprinkling of houses turned into open fields, pastures flat and endless. You struggled down a lonely dirt road, sweat spilling down your back, your chest, your face, stinging your eyes, you were hot, you were so hot, and your arms shook from the rattling of the uneven ground.

The road stopped abruptly at a rusty fence. You dropped your bike and climbed through the wide gaps between the bars. Marching through the field that stretched on forever, an ocean’s worth of it, green, dry, pricking at your bare legs, the afternoon sun battered you like judgment. You kept wading forward until you couldn’t get yourself to, until unceremoniously, with the theatrics of a very hungover and very disgraced saint, you collapsed into the shade of a lonesome tree. 

You were sure then that you’d reached the end of the world, that you were so far away from anything and anyone, and that here, like this, finally, no one would hear you.

When was the last time you cried?

Covered in sweat and dirt, possibly still drunk and possibly still high, key-less, wretched, useless, melodramatic, sobbing, gasping for breath. 

It comes in waves—  

“Look, I don’t mean to bother you, but this here’s private land.”

You’d heard it too late. 

The horse, the gentle pelt of its hooves in the field. It’s puffs of breath. A man’s low murmured, easy, girl. 

You refused to open your eyes, feeling like a child, as you flopped onto your side to turn away. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

“You doin’ alright?” His voice softer then. 

“I’m fine,” you murmured into the grass. The buzz of a bug on your cheek. You slapped it away. 

“Are you hurt?”

“No, just—” sunbathing? contemplating? “—having an existential crisis. I’m almost done.” 

A sound like a huff or a scoff, a swallowed-down laugh maybe. 

“Do you need me to call someone?” 

“Just give me a second.” Pressing your hands to your face, you took long breaths, waiting for that big bawling bone-pelting agonizing throb of exhaustion to settle down. “Okay,” you finally said. “I’m finished.” 

Turning towards him, there he sat, high upon his noble steed like a cowboy in a story. With his brows scrunched beneath his Stetson, he was a man fully unprepared to stumble upon some sobbing wildling on a Saturday morning.

You weren’t sure if he recognized you. You didn’t care. You’d lost your capacity for public shame a long time ago. 

“Right. I’ll leave. Uh—sorry.” You got up, wobbling there like a newborn calf, shaking out the damp hem of your dress, before heading down the path you’d trampled into the grass. 

“Wait,” he called out. “Do you want me to bring you back?”

The thought of getting on a horse made bile rise in your throat. You weren’t going to risk throwing up a third time. 

“No, thank you,“ you shouted.

He followed you all the way back to the fence, the steady trot of his horse in the distance. You felt his stare across the field, hot and strange on the back of your neck as you peeled your bike off the road and headed home. 

It was the fourth time you’d seen Rhett Abbott, and you’d prayed it was the last. 

· · ❁ · ·

“Hey there, Shortcake.”

God didn’t like you very much apparently.

You swallowed, hunching lower behind the display case where you were restocking the cardamom cinnamon rolls.

Rhett was tall enough to lean over it. “You feelin' better?”

So he had recognized you. 

Standing up straight, you cleared your throat. “All my demons have been temporarily exorcized, thank you.”

“Hm.” He huffed a laugh, that quick smile of his that made him all boyish. “Reckon I should try that sometime.”

“Well, I highly recommend hysterically crying on someone else’s property. It’s very cathartic—”

“That you, Rhett?” Maya shouted from the back.

“Yes, ma’am.” He straightened. 

“Just gimme a sec, I’ll grab your mom’s order.” 

You busied yourself with wiping down the countertop before your sister caught you fraternizing with the one person in Wabang that needed to be left un-fraternized with.

The two of you had only recently regained some common ground, and part of that truce was the unspoken rule that you please, please, please not obsess over the wrong people.

Rhett Abbott wasn't wrong per se; he just wasn't very right either.

Rhett’s shadow spread across the counter as he leaned over the display case again, close enough you caught the waft of his cologne, the unbearable blue of his gaze. You swallowed. His attention trailed down your throat. When he smiled again, it was soft, it stayed there for a while. His voice low then, “There’s a rodeo tonight. You should come. If none of us break any bones, we'll head to The Longhorn.”  

You stared at the spot where the worn collar of his denim jacket pressed into his neck.

“I’ll think about it.” You said it to that spot. 

“Good.” He said it to your mouth. 

Good. 

You’d found out long ago that there was one word that could make you do anything for anyone. 

Just one word—and you were piled in the truck bed of Rhett’s Chevy Silverado, squeezed against the cab with some of his old friends from high school, your legs slung over the lap of a woman who’d known Rhett since kindergarten and who had the sweetest gap-toothed grin you’d ever seen in your life. You told her so, and the gap between her teeth seemed to grow with pride. 

Driving down the winding roads of the valley, the cool air snapping your hair into your eyes, the hem of your dress fluttering, you tipped your head skyward. Before Wyoming, you’d never seen a sky so black. The nights here hit harder than anywhere else. 

You cackled when Gaptooth helped you press the hem of your dress down before you flashed the whole truck, laughing harder when she offered a pull off her cherry-red vape. With the smoke citrusy and sweet in your mouth, you turned towards the driver’s seat, your cheek mashed against the flaking metal edge of the truck bed. 

Rhett was driving. You watched his long tan arm lean out the window, fingers tinkering, playing with the wind. The soft swirl of hair. The faded bull skull tattoo on his forearm, flashing there in the beam of the headlights.

You wanted to reach out, mirror every turn of his wrist, trace the swell of a vein—

His arm went limp. You realized too late he was watching you in the side mirror.

That buzz in the back of your head, down your chest, places below.

You didn’t look away once. 

· · ❁ · ·

At The Longhorn, everyone scattered, some fighting their way to the bar, others pulling each other to the crowded dancefloor. 

“What’re you drinkin’, Shortcake?” The voice was too high to be Rhett’s. It was another rider from before. (Lloyd something-something; four point three seconds on a bull named Napoleon, which was fitting considering Lloyd was as tall as a water dispenser.)

“Uh.” You hastily checked the meager cash you’d stuffed into your boot. “Whatever five bucks will get me—”

“It’s on me.” The rough twang of that familiar voice as he leaned over you. You could still smell the dirt on him, the sweat. “Shortcake.” Rhett shot Lloyd a sharp smile, and you had to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes.  

(You bought yourself your own cider with your own five bucks.)

The rest of the night went on easy. Crowd thick enough you kept drifting away from familiar faces, before meeting them again in the line to the bathroom. Hopping from table to table, clinking bottles and shuffling cards, until Gaptooth pulled you to the dancefloor, where girls in boots and baby-tees taught you how to line dance. “Shake those hips, San Diego!” And so you did, and life was at its sweetest, and you didn’t have to think about the last couple of days or the last couple of years or how Maya had stopped asking where you went at night. And you spun and spun, spun wildly, and thought only about a blue pair of eyes watching you beneath the wide brim of a Stetson.

Oh God, how you’d missed this feeling. 

He found you much later; outside, at the back entrance, unlit cigarette between your lips, crouched on the ground with your back against the wall. You were in the process of yanking a boot off, tipping it upside down in the hopes it would produce your lighter. Had it fallen out on the dancefloor? 

“Need a light?”

Rhett leaned one hand against the wall, presumably still a little lopsided from facing off a two-thousand-pound bull a couple of hours ago. 

“One sec,” you said, yanking off your other boot, revealing a couple of coins and a tube of lipgloss. You looked up at him, his lighter already in hand. You smiled. “Yes, please.”

Rhett huffed a laugh. You wondered what his full laugh sounded like, big-bellied and unbridled. Did he tip his head back from so much delight? 

Leaning against the wall with a stifled groan, Rhett carefully slid to the gravel, knees popping. He landed on the ground with a thud. “Shit. Ow.”

“Careful”

“Think that’s too late for me.”

“That bad?” you asked.

“Surprisingly less terrible than last time.”

“Who would’ve thought a bull named Bonecrusher would go easy on you?”

“If by easy, you mean he made me see God a couple of times, sure.”

You snorted, before popping your cigarette in your mouth and waiting patiently for him to light it for you. He huff-laughed at that too. Apparently he was easily amused.

His hand, big and dry as a baseball mitt, came up to shield the flame from the wind, and for a moment all you smelled was him. The earth, the acrid sweetness of sweat slicked across skin for too long. Like you’d been tucked into him, an animal in his burrow. 

You couldn’t look at him like this. You hummed with this feeling. The brim of his hat bumping gently against your forehead. When the flame caught, you leaned away and took a long, long drag. “Thanks—” You cleared your throat. “Thank you.”

“Sure.”

The two of you sat there for a moment, drenched in the red halogen glow of a neon sign. You, crosslegged, playing with your necklace, pressing the pendant to your mouth; him, with one long leg stretched out, the other hiked up for his forearm to lean against, fiddling with his Zippo. You stared at a couple making out against a car. He stared at the men smoking by the bins. 

You both spoke at once:

“Why do you—” 

“Why were you—”

“Oh. Sorry.” You blinked. 

Rhett pointed his Zippo at you. “By all means, ladies first.”

You snorted again, offering him your cigarette. He hesitated, like he hadn’t expected it, but you were still humming and the night was cool and life was still at its sweetest, and when he took a drag, stubbled jaw working, it felt like you could get away with more than you should. 

“Why does everyone say you choose the rankest bulls on purpose?” you asked. 

Rhett seemed to give it some serious thought, tugging his hat back to look at the sky. He handed you the cigarette. Then, “‘Cause I’m convinced I have something to prove. It’s either that or a real shit attempt at self-sabotage. Sometimes…it’s both.”

His honesty made something inside of you open. 

”Why were you crying the other day?” 

Taking a drag from the cigarette, you gave it some serious thought too. Then, “My sister’s giving me a second chance. I stopped getting those a long time ago, so I’m just trying really, really hard not to fuck it up. But I kind of suck at not fucking things up. I don’t know, it’s…” You took a breath, trailing off. 

“Complicated?” he said.

“Excruciating.”

“Sounds about right." Rhett hummed in agreement, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re in luck. You’re speaking to the Abbott Family Letdown. So.” He gave a silly flourish with his hand. 

“Oh.” You sat up in mock-surprise. ”Why didn’t you say so? Always a pleasure to meet a fellow embarrassment.” You popped the cigarette back in your mouth and stretched your hand out. He shook it with a laugh. The squeeze of his thick fingers, warm and dry. 

“We could start a support group,” he said.  

Reaching your hands above your head, like you were hanging a banner: “The Disappointment Club,” you mumbled around the cigarette. 

When Rhett Abbott laughed, really laughed, when he shook with it and his shoulders did a little shimmy, he did indeed tip his head back from so much delight. 

You laughed with him. You wanted to press two fingers down the Adam’s Apple that bobbed up and down his throat. You were so close the brim of his hat bumped against your head again. You told him everything then, told him about the keys and the girl and the back of that pickup. “—and so Maya had to cancel multiple orders and pay it out of her own pocket. Plus, it was, like, the pastor’s daughter’s wedding. So I’m assuming God was cataclysmically displeased.”

“God’ll forgive you for a couple of fuckin’ muffins.”

“A couple of muffins? Those were toasted pear-and-almond tartlets with a frangipane center and a cardamom crumb topping.”

“Frangi-what-now?”

“Exactly.”

“Trust me, it ain’t that bad. One time I got so drunk in the barn I forgot to latch the gate, and we lost forty head in a night. Took me days to herd them all back together, and my dad didn’t let me into the house until they were all accounted for.”

“If we turn this into a competition, we’ll be sitting out here all night.”

He turned then. His slow crooked smile. “Sounds like a good time to me.”

You didn’t know how long you sat there, talking. Your cigarette stub forgotten on the cool asphalt. The parking lot was empty now. Even the neon sign seemed to have dimmed.

Whatever had unsettled between you two, unsettled itself so completely you fell wide open. He could’ve reached right inside, he could’ve thrown something in—

Was it so wrong to look at him like this and hope, with a desperation that might’ve killed you, that he wouldn’t look away?

· · ❁ · ·

Friendship. 

Could you call it that?

It felt a lot sharper, had more blowback. 

Rhett liked to describe it as your little two-man support group. “Hottest club in town,” he’d say. Which wasn’t particularly funny, but it was stupid enough it made you snort every time. 

Time was no longer governed by phases—no more mornings, noons or nights, no more suns or moons—instead, you found yourself adhering to Rhett Abbott’s reliable rhythms.

Your days started when the tiny bell above the shop door rang, and the brim of a worn Stetson swung up to reveal that surprisingly tender face. Maya had her suspicions about Rhett stopping by the bakery almost every day like clockwork: “There’s only so many errands he can run…and do you really think Cecilia Abbott eats that many toffee-nut buttermilk muffins? Woman must be enormous by now—”

You felt like a puppy, Pavloved, scrambling to the counter every time the shop bell trilled in the quiet. On the days he didn’t come in early, you usually met him on your lunch break. You were notoriously terrible at making sure you ate properly, and so he’d bring you a sandwich, or take-out, and you’d eat on the back of his Chevy in the parking lot, legs dangling from the truck bed, kicking up every time he made you laugh. Rhett made you laugh the way you’d forgotten to, that startled smack of a cackle, like you still couldn’t believe that there was someone who made you topple over from so much fucking glee. 

Your favorite days were the ones he was off work early, and he’d come pick you up, toss your bike onto the truck bed—“Get in, Shortcake, we’re going on a trip!”—and he’d take you to the lakes or a town one valley over or the mountains, show you Wabang, show you Wyoming. He showed you the delicate difference between yarrow and hemlock when you trekked through the forests.

“Wow, dude, real Bear Grylls energy,” you’d said the first time he’d started a fire on a bed of pine needles. 

“That’s the most California thing I think you’ve ever said.” 

“Wait until I start talking about the way they stack vegetables at Erewhon.”

He grunted a laugh. 

“Do you miss it?”

“The vegetables at Erewohn?”

“Home.”

It took you a moment. 

The thought of your sister’s and Jonah’s sweet storybook house, with their porch covered in sun catchers shaped like honeycomb, their little brood of chickens in the garden, how the thought of it all moved through you on reflex. But Rhett hadn’t meant that house or those people or this place.

“I don't know, sometimes.”

Sometimes being here makes me forget to miss anything at all. 

You forgot to miss the most at night, when your days came to an end at the rodeo or The Longhorn. When Rhett sloppily swung you across the dancefloor, the smell of beer and sawdust and the distinct spice of his cologne. Rhett was fierce, he was momentum, he was unstoppable force in a place full of immovable objects. You wanted to hurtle away with him, wrap yourself around his body, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, chin to chin—take me places. 

Did he know he did this to you? 

Did he know how easy you were?  

That when you chose someone like this, you fell into them, and everything and everyone else fell away? 

You didn’t pay attention to Lloyd’s weird come-ons, didn’t care about the girls that crushed around Rhett after he tumbled off another bull, or the way he always seemed to sidle up to you whenever anyone tried to buy you a drink.

You were singular, soaking up his closeness until you felt thick and stupid with it, and all you could do was let him turn you on the dancefloor like a drunken spinning top, his gravelly laughter shaking uncontrollably in your ear. Those lean arms looped around your waist, and your hands slid up the skin of his neck, slick with sweat, to cradle his face.

How those eyes crinkled when he grinned, and how easy it was then to imagine him as a child. The defiant thing with bloodied knees getting into trouble at the edge of town. The Abbott Family Letdown, you thought with so much fondness you could’ve kissed his cheek.

Nights always ended like this: The two of you fused to each other, dancing, or squeezed into a booth, or smoking out in the lot, talking and talking about everything and anything, about the places you wanted to see, and the things you wanted to do, and the people you wanted be. The choices you wanted to make and the ones you really, really wished you could remake. 

Sometimes you didn’t speak at all, and you just sat there and stared at each other, as if to say: Out of all the places in the world, this is where I find you.

· · ❁ · ·

You loved the rainy season, loved those humid afternoons you’d sit on the back deck at Rhett’s place.

He’d fixed up the Abbott's old bunkhouse with Perry, a small cabin at the edge of the forest where ranch hands used to stay back in the day. The two of them had worked on it for a year, and you knew Rhett felt a sense of pride whenever he talked about it, running his hands along the smooth timber walls with a kind of care that felt personal. He and Perry had carved their names like kids into the bottom of the front door, and Rhett knocked the tip of his boot against it every time he left the cabin. “For luck,” he’d told you once, and he’d looked a little sad. 

His was a place of wide gridded windows and Navajo rugs. It was surprisingly sentimental, filled with keepsakes and old furniture from his parents or his grandparents, the kind of place that looked like it had been here from the start, as enduring as the soft in-line of a favorite coat.

You liked the traces of him here, the mundanity of them; aftershave and painkillers in the medicine cabinet, forgotten mugs of coffee left on window sills and counter tops, his belts, his toppled boots by the door, his packet of Camels by the sink, his dad’s old CD collection—The Black Crows, ZZ Top, Stevie Ray Vaughan—a small army of Amy’s arts-and-crafts projects sprinkled atop shelves, family photos tacked to the refrigerator.  

Out on the back deck, your eyes trailed over the rocks set in a neat row on the railing. You sat in a wicker chair, listening to the rain pattering against the tin roof, the cradle of pine all around. 

You’d had a long day at the bakery, and Rhett had had an even longer day herding cattle out of the west pasture, which had started to flood from all the rain.

He sat on the deck with his legs stretched out and his back against the railing. In a T-shirt and jeans, head knocked back, his baseball cap pulled low.

He’d closed his eyes a long time ago. Had he fallen asleep?

“Stop starin’,” Rhett mumbled, eyes still closed. 

You snorted, caught. Ears going hot, you dug your cheek into the weave of the wicker, clenching your eyes closed like a child when he opened his. Your tell-tale grin. His low chuckle.

You felt young with him sometimes. Like you didn’t have to pretend the way you did with Maya, constantly trying to prove that you weren’t the useless little sister floundering through life.

It was easy with Rhett, you could be honest. And you had all these big feelings and these even bigger wants, and they were shameful, complicated, and they ached, and you knew this need all too well, had felt it with every crush you’d ever had, never knew what to call it or how to say it, or how to have it be done to you. You didn’t just like people; you disappeared into them.

And with Rhett…

You wanted to crawl after him on your hands and knees, feel his big, big hand grab you by the hair, pulling and pulling, your teeth sinking into the worn leather of his belt.

Open up, Shortcake.

You swallowed. You pulled your knees to your chest. You wanted to close yourself like a box. 

“You want the talking stick?” Rhett asked with one of his huff-laughs. 

The talking stick was silly.

You didn’t know when it had started; something to do with support groups and their strange rituals, and you’d said it as a joke once at the bar when Rhett had looked like he wanted to say something but was holding back. You’d handed him your soggy coaster and said, You want the talking stick? And he’d taken it with a smile loosened by relief. 

You shook your head. “No, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Super.”

“Because if you ain’t taking it, I will—”

“Oh god, if you’re going to start talking about that bull rope paste again, I’ll suffocate myself in the mud.”

“First of all, it’s called rosin. Second of all, ouch.” He looked genuinely offended. “And you better make your mind up quick, ‘cause I’m gonna start listing my favorite ones. Also, did you know you have to heat it just right? Otherwise it’s like pulling taffy—”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had the kind of sex I really want to have,” you finally said. Blurted, really.

You thought of what your sister had called you once: a human hand grenade.  

The distinct click of Rhett snapping his mouth shut, teeth on teeth. The rain pattered on—and you knew you had to as well, you had to get it out quick before you stuffed it all back down.

“And I’m scared I’ll never have it because I’m too chickenshit to tell people about the kind of sex I want to have, and, it’s nothing crazy, it just—it’s…a feeling? And like, some people just aren’t into it, but I haven’t slept with enough people to really know if that’s true or if I’ve never bothered to get close enough to someone to actually tell them or to know if that really is the kind of sex that I actually want, because I’ve never had it, I just know that I want it, and what if I tell the next person that’s the kind of sex I want and then I don’t like it at all…what then?”

You’d closed your eyes again, vibrating, the blackness vibrating with you.

“What kind of sex do you wanna have?” Rhett’s voice was so low you barely heard him. 

Breath catching. You opened your eyes. You stared at his hands.

You pantomimed tossing the stick over your shoulder. “Lost it,” you mumbled.

I'm sorry, you wanted to say but you couldn't get yourself to.

Even though you weren’t looking at him, you knew Rhett was thinking, trying to figure out if he could push you or if he wanted to wait it out, if he should pave it over with conversation, or if he should stand up to grab a beer. Because in the end, you were friends. And you did know him, and he did know you. 

Rhett settled for something that broke your heart a little. “You know, you can talk to me. Right? About anything.”

You swallowed, nodded. 

“Want a beer?” The soft familiar crack of his knees as he stood. 

You were too scared of the things you’d say if you had one. Shaking your head, you said, “Water, please.”

· · ❁ · ·

Something shifted after that. It felt tectonic, structural. There was this muscle inside of you strung so tight. It waited. Agonized for relief, for a thumb to rub along its tendons and help it unravel itself.

It was different that morning, and you were curled in the tub, shower head pressed close—down there, right there—and you needed so much, and his name spiraled through you endlessly, oh god-oh god, eyes squeezed shut tight enough the whole world cracked open. You came so hard you felt helpless in it, loosened from yourself, your mouth finding your forearm, your teeth finding your skin—

You’d bitten down hard enough Rhett traced a finger over the swell when you met him later that day. “What happened?” His voice too low. Unfamiliar.

“Hurt myself at the bakery,” you lied. 

He huffed. No laugh. He didn’t believe you. 

Whatever had started to shift, didn’t stop its shifting. It infiltrated your conversations, or rather lack thereof, until both of you felt like you were fumbling through something that used to be easy.

Rhett stopped coming into the bakery, rather opting to drive you home whenever you had to close up shop on your own, even if it meant he had to leave the ranch early to drive all the way to town and back. There was an energy around him, especially at the bar when he was a couple of drinks in. 

You were used to Rhett Abbott quietly watching over people, making sure no rowdy tourists messed with the regulars, or that the Tillerson boys left Perry alone on the rare occasion that he did join you two at the bar, or looming over you whenever some guy slid up to ask for your number, his blunt: Can I help you, man? 

There was something about him, like maybe there was a muscle inside of him too, strung too tight for too long, waiting...

The first time Rhett got into a fight in front of you, something incomprehensible roiled in your stomach.

It had started innocently enough. You knew Lloyd liked calling you Shortcake, and you’d never paid it any mind; he was a touchy drunk the girls tolerated, each meeting his relatively tame come-ons with an eye-roll and a middle finger. But he’d had too much to drink that night, and his hands had sloppily snaked their way around your waist to pull you to the dancefloor. “—no, seriously, I’m good, Lloyd. Like, I’m running for evil mayor of that town in Footloose. I’m done—”

“Come on, Shortcake, for me?”

“I said I’m fucking good, Lloyd.” His arms tightened around you, breath bloated with liquors unknown. “You can let go now.” 

You saw Rhett too late, shoving his way through the crowd. You lifted your hands like you were trying to reprimand an incoming cyclone, “Rhett, don’t—” 

Leaning in close to slur something in your ear, Lloyd was oblivious to the fact that Rhett's shoulder was about to collide with the back of his head.

What proceeded was a burst of juvenile male posturing that consisted mostly of huffing and shoving, like two big pigeons clucking at each other over soggy bread on the sidewalk. But when Lloyd whacked Rhett’s hat off with an accidental swing, the next thing you knew, a fist met a cheek, and a knee met a groin—and you cursed God for ever making you this hopelessly attracted to dick. 

· · ❁ · ·

“Please don’t do that again,” you told Rhett much later, sitting next to him on his couch, pressing a bag of frozen peas to his head. “Not for me, okay?”

Rhett sat slouched beside you, the big bend of his back, as he stared at the scuffed knuckles of his right hand. 

“I’m a big girl. I can deal with Lloyd, for Christ’s sake. He’s, like, three feet. He’s a human step stool.”

“He was touching you—”

“People touch me all the time.”

“Not like that. I didn’t…I don’t want anyone else to fucking touch you like that.”

You tossed the peas into his lap. 

He looked at you then, face hazy in the dim lights of his living room. 

Anyone else…

It echoed in your body, over and over, traveled all the way through you.  

“Pretty sure that’s up to me,” you said. 

With a sigh, he pressed the bag of peas to his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m—sorry. Okay? Sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it until…Yeah.” He took a breath. “I’m a shitty drunk.”

“That makes two of us.” Shifting, you grabbed his arm to help him up, catching him when he swayed with a groan. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed, Bazooka Man.” 

Rhett let you guide him to the bedroom, the same way he’d let you drive him home in his truck. It did things to you, knowing you could wrangle this big cowboy down the hallway and into his bed, without him putting up a fight.

You liked when he listened to you—and you knew full well there weren’t many people he listened to in the first place. 

“Gotta admit, I got him good though,” Rhett murmured when he stumbled into bed, that stupid little grin of his, the one that made his canines flash.

You snatched the peas to smack him with it. “Stop,” you warned. “You kneed him in the ballsack, you trigger-happy fuck. Are you proud of yourself?”

“I hope his sperm count plummets.”

You couldn’t help your laugh, and he couldn’t help his. 

This, you could handle. This was the Rhett with the crooked smile and the lopsided gait, his intense boyishness that made you wonder about how he got each scar on his body.

With this Rhett, things were easy, almost routine, and you felt lulled into the practiced rhythm of it, unthinking; helping him unbutton his shirt, before yanking off his boots, his jeans, the way you had countless of times after he’d been bucked off a bull hard enough he’d returned to the cabin in a tourniquet and his head foggy with medication. 

On the first night you’d driven him home from the hospital, he’d told you that he didn’t like letting anyone help him like this, and you’d reached over the stick shift to wipe the hair from his forehead, and something about the way he'd leaned into it had made you so unbearably sad.  

You didn’t know when you snapped out of it, crouched before him, about to grab his boots to bring them to the door—when you finally looked up.

His silhouette was black against the glow of the bedside lamp, eclipsed by it, he loomed above you in shadow. Your chest cramped up with a feeling you’d tried so hard to push away.

In your head, you were careless.

In your head, you let his boots fall to the hardwood floor. You crawled to him on hands and knees, and you nuzzled his bare knee, the soft hairs there, the lean muscle of his thigh, ran your nose to the spot where the checkered cotton of his boxers bunched just so. I need. I need and need and need—

“You can’t do that to me, Shortcake.” Rhett’s voice rumbled in the quiet. 

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.” His voice felt like a finger below your chin, tapping it up.

“Like what?” All breath. 

Rhett didn’t answer. His head tipped to the side. You imagined yourself from where he sat, imagined his shadow was big enough it swallowed you whole.

This was a Rhett you didn’t know. 

The bed creaked as he leaned forward. You didn’t breathe, didn’t move a muscle, when his fingers ghosted along the edge of your jaw. Your breath hiccuped when you felt a gentle tug on the corner of your mouth, and you realized he’d loosened a single strand of hair from your lips. The heat humming there, humming through you.

“Are you ever going to tell me?” he said. 

Your confusion must’ve been obvious, because he spoke again: “Are you ever going to tell me what you want?” 

What I want? 

It was such a simple answer.

It shamed you how simple it was. 

In the dim light, you stared at the vein roped along his forearm. You wanted to trace it with your tongue, with soft grazing teeth, wanted to lap up the salt and tang of his skin, gather it all in your mouth, take the sweetest littlest bites.

You wanted to lean all the way in, kiss the inside of his palm, that starburst scar from when his glove had once ripped during a bull ride. You imagined then, taking the thick pad of his thumb into your mouth, letting it press into your tongue until you bit down, until it reached all the way in. Until you writhed from it. 

With a frustrated huff, you tipped forward. Your forehead bumped against his knee.

You didn’t know what to do with yourself anymore.

You could’ve wept when you felt strong fingers carefully run down the curve of your skull. The cuff of nails scraping along your skin. The sound it made.

He held you like this: your head cradled in his big, big hand.

You knew Rhett understood something about you in that moment. 

You felt young, skinless, unsure in your body. None of you felt grown. You were all baby teeth. You were a tiny stack of bones that shook.

“You’re okay, darlin’,” Rhett said it with so much tenderness you made a shameful sound low on your throat, and your nose pressed into the scar that ran up the center of his knee.

What you would’ve done to kiss it then, just once, to lave it in spit, with your eyes screwed shut and a hand between your legs, there, down there—

· · ❁ · ·

Your biggest secret was this: You’d let anything be done to you if it was just done sweetly enough. 

Your relationship with intimacy had always been complicated.

You knew what you looked like to men; you were the young desperate thing to be flung face-down and taken, filthy little whore, you asked for it, you want it like this, right? You want it like this— 

The few times you’d had sex, that assumption had left you shaking in the bathroom after, still drunk or high or both, wiping cum off your face or scraping it out of yourself, rubbing the tacky film of it between your fingers until it got grainy. 

The shame of it all, the shame of your body glaring back at you in the mirror like a creature unknown. Because you had wanted it like that, but not really, and you hadn’t known how to say it right, or maybe they hadn’t listened, and you hadn’t blamed them for it, except you had. Most of the time you blamed yourself, an archaic miserable reflex that seemed to define every aspect of you being a fucking woman. 

When you thought about what you wanted, sometimes all you were left with was a feeling.

You thought of big sure hands helping you out of your shoes, unlacing one, then the other. You thought of your hair being washed and your mouth being fed and your cheeks being kissed, one at a time.

It was so embarrassingly sexless.

All you wanted was to know with a kind of relief that you could let go now, that it was going to be okay, and that for a blissful fucking moment, you didn’t have to be yourself anymore. 

You could just want. 

You could be all of your wanting at once and nothing more.

· · ❁ · ·

“Mornin’.”

You didn’t open your eyes.

A low chuckle from above. “I know you ain’t asleep.”

With a tired groan, you cracked one eye open, then the other. Rhett had changed into a T-shirt and sweats. He’d showered, hair still damp and curling at his neck.

He was staring. You knew why. Your dress lay puddled on his living room floor. 

Still hazy from sleep, was it so terrible to let yourself be looked at like this? The worn cotton T-shirt you’d snatched from Rhett’s drawer riding up your stomach as you stretched.

You caught the bob in his slender throat. He was pretty like this, you thought. A patch of sunlight spilled across the side of his face, eyes a tremendous shock of blue. He smelled like his deodorant, his aftershave. His hand so close to your face all you’d have to do was open your mouth. 

“You feeling better?” you said, voice frayed with leftover sleep.

A night on Rhett’s couch always left you a little discombobulated. It was deep and wide, all buttery brown leather, the kind you sunk into as if lazing in a palm.

Your gaze climbed from his hand up to his bare arm, from his throat to his freshly shaven jaw. You were so tired you couldn’t hide from him.

You fell all the way open.

His hand twitched like maybe he’d reach out. 

But you two were good at this game. Especially sober, in the daylight. 

Rhett cleared his throat. “Making breakfast. You hungry?” His attention wavered on your mouth. 

You swallowed. He tracked it.  

“Starvin’,” you drawled in some faux-impression of him, in the hopes it was silly enough to lighten the mood.  

He chuckled. “Starvin’, huh? Okay, cowboy.” He grabbed a pillow and whacked your thigh, “Giddy-up,”  before heading to the kitchen, limping slightly.

Had he not taken his painkillers?

“How do scrambled eggs and pancakes sound?” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Uh—Heavenly?” 

“Okay, calm down, they’re more for me than for you.”

“Liar. If I weren’t here, you’d have a cigarette and a Bud Light.”

“If I didn’t make sure you ate properly, you’d be having orange juice Captain Crunch three times a day.”

“It’s delicious?”

“It’s deranged, is what it is.”

You laughed, more out of relief than anything else. This was normal. You could deal with normal. 

Not bothering with putting on your dress, you dragged yourself to the kitchen in nothing but his T-shirt and your underwear. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight—you’d weathered the occasional hangover on his couch wearing less—but something about this felt different. There was too much inside of you, and after last night, you didn’t know how to look at him without thinking about the way he’d called you darlin'.  

You managed to sit through a painfully normal breakfast—radio on, mundane small talk—and even though it wasn’t Captain Crunch with orange juice, it would do (a mumbled statement that earned you a balled-up paper towel to the head).

You helped clear the table after, before heading out to brush your teeth. When you returned the radio was off, and Rhett was stooped over the sudsy sink, placing a plate onto the drying rack. You hoisted yourself onto the kitchen table and watched as he washed his hands, slowly, methodically, staring out the window like he was thinking. 

“You want the talking stick?” you said. 

Rhett huffed a laugh, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink, looking down, looking up. His wide back expanded as he took a breath. You almost expected him to shake his head when he finally spoke: “Who bit your arm?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I know what a bite mark looks like.” Of course Rhett Abbott would know what a bite mark looked like. It almost made you laugh, the ridiculousness of it. “Are you getting into fights I don’t know about? Or is Maya—”

“Oh God,” you pitched forward, “no, of course not! Biting’s not her style. She prefers dish towels.” You were joking but Rhett wasn’t laughing.

This whole moment felt unreal. You hadn't thought about it in days. The bruise was already healing anyway, yellow and mottled and absolutely not worth being contemplated on.

You raked through yourself for another answer, something stupid enough, something unbelievable: Tres, the three-legged goat? The wonky convection oven at the bakery? A rabid child on the street—

“Are you ever going to tell me?” Rhett gripped into the sink so hard his hands paled from the pressure. 

The question surprised you.

You remembered how he’d asked you that the night before.  

It made the same frustrating weight sink onto your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them again, vision splotchy. Staring at the tender swirls of hair gathered at the nape of Rhett’s neck, you took a breath and you said, “It was me.” 

You watched as the color blotted back into his hands. 

“I was in the shower,” you said. Then, “I was...thinking of you.”

Remembering then how his finger had traced along the tender swell of the bruise just hours later, in the bar, in the red lights, and how you’d secretly hoped he’d press down to make it ache, make you remember how much you’d wanted him, in that moment, in the bathtub surrounded by the splotchy shower curtain, the tiles painted in dried suds, like Venus in her shell, shaking open, shaking apart. 

I was thinking of you.

You closed your eyes when Rhett finally turned. Sitting on the kitchen table, legs dangling over the edge, you kept yourself still. You listened to his breath ragged and strange in the quiet. A warble of birds outside. The creak of the floorboards as he came to you. 

His closeness was a cloud bank rolling in, suddenly all around, the smell of him, coffee and deodorant and soap. Your face lifted on instinct. Eyes still closed, you basked in the heat of his breath pouring across your forehead, your cheeks. 

I was thinking of you.

All of you sighed open. 

And you waited for him in that blackness, until you felt the distinct prickle of skin on skin, a knuckle maybe, a single finger running down the inside of your forearm, down, down, before it reached that tender spot. 

He pressed. 

Your eyes snapped open. Sunlight turned that blue stare into something startling, electric. 

As if moving through a trance, your hand settled atop his still on your arm, finding his thumb and digging it into the bruise even harder. That dull ache turned sharp, shot right through you.

Eyes twitching, mouth opening. The sound you made.

Rhett looked at you like he’d never seen you before. 

Letting go of his hand, you reached for him, digging your fingers into the hair bunched at the nape of his neck, and you pulled him close, pulled him all the way down. Your forehead rolled against his, your nose mashing into his skin, mouth open, waiting, wanting so fucking much. Pleasepleasepleaseplease—

Rhett stopped you with a thumb on your bottom lip. You couldn’t even feel ashamed for spewing out the most pathetic huff. Filthy little whore. Your jaw loosening, tongue darting out to taste him, to dig your teeth into him just a little. 

But Rhett slid his thumb away, pressed it like a gentle warning into your cheek.

“Do you want this?” His voice cracked right in the middle. 

You nodded, nose bumping against his a little too hard. 

“Speak up for me—”

“Yes.” 

“Good,” he said, he smiled small. You wanted to bite at it, make it bigger. “You say the word and we stop, okay?”

You nodded. He waited.

"Okay," you said.

“We’ll go slow. Yeah?”

You nodded again, numbed to everything except for him. “Yes, please.”

Rhett groaned, leaning into you so completely your mouths almost collided. “God, you kill me with all your please-and-thank-yous. You’re so good. You wanna be good for me?” He said it like he was testing something. And your chin nudged forward, body bending towards him, and whatever he was looking for, he found it in the way your legs fell open all the way.

Gripping into the back of your knees, he dragged you closer, his thighs sliding between yours, and you sputtered a breath when you felt the hot press of him against all of you.

“Yes,” you breathed. 

“You are, darlin’. "

Darlin'

"Fuck, you are. You don’t even know how damn good you are.” His hands sliding back up your side, your throat, gripping your jaw to tip your face towards him. Your fingers fumbling to hook into his forearms. You felt as though all you were doing was holding on.

Letting him lead. Letting him keep you like this.

He made you wait. Ran the tip of his nose almost soothingly along the bridge of yours. Lips taunting, that terrible shudder of closeness that escaped you every time your mouth tried desperately to meet his.  

You thought of the way he ran his hand along the flank of his horse, patted her once, twice. Easy, girl—

Maybe you hated him for it. How much he undid you. How he had you sitting there, soaking in it, vibrating inside all of your unbearable catastrophic fucking need like he had you leashed. 

“Please,” you finally mouthed into the heat of his breath. And his eyes flashed. And when you were ready to plead just one more time, without an ounce of shame left, his mouth collapsed against yours. 

It surged through you like a spinal tap. Drawing out, deeper, digging all the way in, tongue and teeth, the smooth jut of his chin. Your hands were everywhere, unsure of what they wanted to grab hold of first, like a woman drowning; in his hair, on his jaw, scraping down his wide shoulders, sliding up the heat of his neck—Here and here and here, let me touch you right here. 

Rhett’s hands stayed bolted to your jaw. You felt like he was the only thing keeping you upright, like you’d unspool if he ever let you go. 

You were a wanton thing, wincing into his open mouth. A constant drool of need. And you were hot. God, you were so hot. You couldn’t breathe with how hot you were. Yanking at your shirt, you just wanted it off, off. Rhett nipped at your bottom lip once, and then he was smiling. Was he laughing? Like he was catching on, like he took such pity on you. Your teeth clacked against his. You couldn't keep your shit together. You couldn't think, you couldn't think...

“I want—” You tugged at the shirt until his hands joined yours. “I want all of it off.” You sounded drunk, like you were listening to yourself from one room over.

“Okay. Okay, darlin’, I got you.” And he did. He helped you peel the shirt off, but it snagged on your elbow, and your face was stuck against threadbare cotton, and you laughed, because what the fuck? Here you were, going crazy on Rhett Abbott’s kitchen table. 

You were still laughing when the shirt finally came off, laughing harder when Rhett tossed it over his shoulder and it landed on the coffee maker.

He was smiling above you, the morning light painting him soft and perfect as he combed the hair out of your eyes.

You wanted to run your fingers over his face, read him like braille.

It was a foreign realization that, now, here, you could. You could do so much. You could have all the things that had piled inside of you, one on top of the other. All of your fucking wanting, it felt bigger than your body. You were so full. And it was just the two of you, and this was Rhett, and it was all going to be okay, it was okay to let go of him and to lean back, push the leftover coffee mugs to the edge of the table, to let Rhett huff a strangled laugh when one of them thunked to the floor, like he couldn’t believe that he was here like this, with you.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, staring down at you 

A hand traced where your body met the table, like he was cutting along the shape of you, skin sliding against yours as he traveled up and up, past each dip of your ribs, your arms, shoulders, up the hollow of your throat to your collarbone, to that dip right in-between, where the pendant of your necklace rested. He pushed it in just a bit, and the pressure made you arch, made you mad with it. “Fuck, look at you, baby."

Baby.

You were baby. 

“No one’s ever taken care of you, huh? You poor thing.” His lilting condescension left you gaping. “Remember what you told me? You’ll tell me what you want. You’ll tell me, yeah? How do you want it, baby? I’ll take such good fucking care of you.”

He leaned over you, ghosting his mouth over your jaw, kissing you there, so unhurried. “Where do you want me?”

Everywhere.

You swallowed, shaking your head, eyes screwed shut. 

Fucking everywhere, all at once, all the time.

You make me want so much it pushes out everything else. 

He huff-laughed into your neck. “Gotta tell me, baby.” Sucked at your skin with tongue and teeth. His T-shirt hung low enough it grazed over your nipples. You arched into him. He hummed. “Here?” His thumb tenderly traveled up the swell of your breast and tapped against your nipple. Breath hitching, you shook your head. “What about here?” His mouth pressed a wet kiss to your clavicle. No. Going lower, kissing a path to your other breast, breath gathering over it. You closed your eyes when he looked at you. “And here?” His tongue like a small flame over your nipple, laving at it so softly, round and round, the wet sweep making you dizzy. Losing yourself in it. Chest bowing up into his mouth, arching so high it hurt. 

He bit down once. You whined. Shook your head again, not there. 

On and on it went:

Here? Mouth on your sternum. And what about here? Hands grabbing your waist. A soft scatter of kisses around your belly button. Biting into the soft flesh of your tummy until it kicked a laugh out of you. No, stop, stop. Okay, okay. Here? He fed your fingers into his mouth, the warm glide of his tongue, snag of teeth when they caught on your knuckles. And here? Baby, what about here? Spit on his chin as bent down to lave at each hipbone—No, no, no.

Here? Traveling lower and lower to kiss the top of a thigh, then inside of it with a drag of his tongue.

Your body hiccuped once and hard with need. 

Rhett moved around your body with the same intensity he had waiting in the chute at the rodeo, holding something back, containing it. You wanted to slam it open, wanted him thrashing and sweating and tossed around, you wanted and you wanted, you wanted so much. 

Maybe he took mercy on you, or maybe he’d run out of patience, when he finally—finally—parted your legs. That pained sound of his. That sweet little oh. “Fuck. You’re so wet. You need it that bad, hm?"

You were nodding again. "Yes—" Could he tell how hard you were nodding?

You heard the distinct drag of a chair on the hardwood floor, and you could’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of seeing him sitting at the kitchen table, the very one you’d just had breakfast at, now covered in the sprawl of your naked body, soaked and aching, your thighs parted for him, right foot resting on the back of the chair. 

Rhett must’ve caught on because he laughed, tipping his head against your leg, kissing your calf. You hissed when he nipped at you there. “God, I could—” Groaning into your skin. “I could take a fucking bite out of you it's not even funny. Jesus.”

With his arms hooked around your legs, his kisses traveled up the inside of your thigh. You watched, open-mouthed, slack-jawed, as his dark swirl of hair traveled between your legs. 

You’d fucked yourself to the thought of this. 

“You want it here, baby?” He nosed at the elastic of your underwear, warm breath pouring over you. 

You nodded so hard your head knocked against the table. You were swimming in it. The whole world swimming with you. “Yes, please…” 

His murmured curse.

Your desperate whine.

Before finally, a kiss to your cotton-covered clit. 

It made your whole body still.

“How you do you want it?” he mumbled it against you. Right there. Down there.

You knew he wasn't expecting you to answer, but your needing felt vicious like this, burned in the back of your throat, and you said:

“Messy.”

You pleaded for it with a voice like a frayed rope one pull away from snapping. 

Rhett's lashes were long and dark as he looked up at you. He huffed a laugh. Something about it sounded very, very mean. 

He gave your clit another quick kiss. And then another and another, longer this time, until his mouth opened, tongue flattening against the center of you. You felt him gather spit, felt the hot gush of it. How he grabbed the elastic of your underwear to stretch it across you so tight it made your clit thrum, holding you there, strumming his thumb up and down, playing with it. “Look at this.” Before giving you a quick pat, once, twice—the peeling wetness of it in the quiet. “Fuck, baby—”

Before you had time to gather enough breath, Rhett buried his face into you, mouth mashing against you there, right there. Taking big bites. Spit and tongue and heat that drooled right through you. He groaned, pressing in deeper, the wide pad of his tongue nudging your clit, over and over, working you like this, until you were soaked enough a string of wetness followed when Rhett finally pulled off your underwear.

He flung it across the kitchen, uncaring, and you heard it land somewhere on the floor with a slop.

You were completely naked then, and he stared down at you like he wanted to be everywhere but he knew he had to make a choice. 

It made your brain light up. It made you writhe when his palm pressed a smooth circle over your aching core, before cupping it once and hard, holding you like this, holding all of you at once. “You’re so perfect, baby. Look at you being so perfect for me.” His endless reserve of nonsensical drivel, slow and honeyed and drawling, like he was pouring it into you. 

You wanted more, you waited for it, legs opening wider, wider.

A breath, then—he spit on your hole.

It felt fucking preposterous.

And then his mouth was on you again. Without that barrier of cotton from before, everything was raw, wetness wetter, pressure harder. His tongue, spongy and hot against you, teeth scraping across your clit. Pulling in a deep mouthful. You felt it everywhere when he moaned. His head shaking once like something gone rabid.

One of his hands dug into your stomach, the other crept up the front of your throat, digging for entrance when it reached your mouth. You let him in, his thick fingers pressing into your tongue. 

“Spit.” He said it right against your clit, before sucking. 

You’d caught the undertone: You want messy? I’ll give you fucking messy—

You grabbed his wrist, laved at his fingers, until you felt a dribble down your chin, and before you could get lost in the pressure of something thick and foreign in your mouth, he pulled his hand back, smearing the mess over your aching hole. Thumb flicking fast—before stopping. You punched out a pitiful cry. 

“You want my fingers, hm? You think this sweet pussy wants my fingers?”

You knocked your head into the table so hard your ears rung, yesyesyesyesyes. Nodding and nodding and nodding and nodding. 

You were so open and so wet, he easily breached you. Full of him. You were full with him.

His fingers curled against that spongy rippling spot inside of you, that spot that gave way completely. He pressed down on your stomach, hard, and you keened, elbows digging into the table, your hands hovering, twitching in the air. 

Rhett was strong enough to keep you from moving too much. You blamed all those damn bulls. His body moved on instinct, meeting each buck and squirm of you. He’d told you once that it was never about anticipating the next move, it was about response, action-reaction, it was all reflex when he was on that saddle. 

You couldn’t keep still, hips jerking, lurching wildly beneath him. You were everywhere. You were fucking dynamite. But he pressed you down, fingers working inside of you with that steady unbreakable rhythm. His tongue on your clit. The filthy sounds of it dripping into the kitchen, all the lapping, the squelch of his fingers, your wet keening sobs. You let him fuck you and fuck you and fuck you and fuck you like this. Your hands finally tearing in his hair. Feet fumbling to find the back of the chair for leverage, trying to ride his face, his fingers.

Don’t stop, you thought so hard it charged through you like voltage. Please, “Don’t stop—” 

His hand on your stomach splayed wider, pressed down, gripping into you—and you realized he’d felt your body tense up faster than you had. 

Something about Rhett feeling you were about to come made your vision blurry. His body meeting yours at every turn. 

You said his name then. He groaned something into you, but you couldn’t hear it over the pulsing in your ears. Chest arching, legs buckling around his head. 

You came in complete and utter silence. 

Eyes screwed shut, dropping into blackness.

You thought you might've reached the bottom of something.

It was so perfect you wanted to cry.

The slow drag of his tongue coaxed you back slowly. His fingers had slipped out, now tracing soothing wet circles on the inside of your thigh. You couldn’t believe Rhett's head was still between your legs, mouth lazily lapping up the mess. You gently pushed him away, clit too sensitive for more. 

Rhett blinked, bleary-eyed. He looked wild. Hair a mess, face ruddy and wet. Covered in you. 

“Holy shit.” His voice was nothing but a low rasp.

Holy shit.

The chair jerked back as he stood again, roughly wiping his face on his T-shirt with such habitual boyishness you couldn’t help but reach for him. Delirious, gooey-warm. You were kissing him and kissing him, kissing him all over. You could taste yourself on him. 

"Did so well for me, baby." He murmured in between kisses, smiling slow. "So fucking good." His hands gripped your head, turning you this way and that like he was checking in.

You couldn't do anything but nod. Your legs felt gummy as you wrapped them around his hips to pull him close. His hardness ground right against you.

Rhett hissed. Eyes squeezing shut. Nodding his head almost absentmindedly when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats to pull them down. 

You felt hungry with it. Insatiable.

Rhett’s cock was heavy and full as it sprung free, the glossy-pink tip swollen with all his aching. Your mouth went numb, filling with spit, with how much you wanted to taste him, slide him all the way into you until you stopped breathing.

But Rhett was shaking his head, no. “I won’t last, baby—” Raw enough it almost felt like he was the one pleading with you now. 

You didn’t want him pleading.

You wanted him to feel good. All you wanted was for him to feel good.

Without a word, you wiped a hand through the wet mess between your legs, all his spit, all yours, all your cum, the terrible gush of you, and you spread it over his shaft in a slow filthy pump. He was so big, you stacked one hand over the other. Rhett tipped forward, his jaw slack, transfixed as he watched your hands move over him. “Hah—fuck me...” One wet deliberate slide after the other, his hips bucking forward.

Next time, you thought, you'd have him all the way inside of you. You could almost imagine it when Rhett leaned over you, caged you in with shaking arms. His mouth buried in your throat, licking a hot strip to your ear, slurring more of his sweet nonsense, so fucking good, baby, oh my god, baby just like that, fuck fuck fuck—

He was thrusting into your hands so hard the table kept jerking back, hitting the window sill. The little ceramics there rattling. One fell to the floor. The back of your head knocked against something hard enough it left you dazed, and Rhett's bumbling hands came up to cradle you there, soothe you through it. And he was so perfect it killed you, he fucking killed you.

You kissed him, breathed straight out of his mouth. All you wanted was to make him come for you. Come for me. Please, please.

And when he finally did, when his hips met yours in a wet cuff, he spilled hot onto your stomach. Groaning into your mouth. Broken, out of it.

Forehead to forehead.

Breathing heavy.  

You felt the wet drag of his spent cock running from your stomach down to your pubis, where he patted it against your clit, once, like some nasty little parting gift, like a promise.

You kissed him one last time before you collapsed onto your back.

For a moment, neither of you said a word. You watched each other. Eyelids heavy. You realized you were breathing in time.

Out of all the places in the world, you thought.

Somewhere in the thick of it, you ran a finger through the puddle of cum on your stomach. Cool now. Spread it across your tongue—acidy, bitter. 

The taste of him.

You wanted to disappear into it. 

“You’ve gotta stop or you’ll actually kill me,” Rhett groaned, leaning in all the way. He gently grabbed you by the jaw, kissed you, wet and open-mouthed, the slip of his tongue going deep. “You’re so good,” he murmured against your lips. "You're so good..." Giving you one sweet peck, then another. 

And you were still stuck in your daze, sitting at the bottom of this thing that felt vast and everywhere. Sunlight poured through the windows, cradling you in the warmth of your afterglow.

Before you could feel ashamed for it, you let it slip: “thank you, daddy.”

And Rhett looked at you like he'd received an answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask.

· · ❁ · ·

Afterward, Rhett piled you into his arms and carried you to the bathroom.

You thought distantly of all the other times you’d had to clean yourself up alone.

Rhett was dense and fumbling after “coming my damn brains out, Christ.” But he was trying his best to be slow with you, helping you into the shower.

The two of you swaying like drunkards in the hot spray of the shower head.

You were so tired.

You’d been holding on to something so deeply for so long, it was knocked loose now, it was open like a wound. You imagined the water rushing in, clearing it out until the blood ran clear.

While you both rinsed yourself off, Rhett’s mouth found you every once in a while. It felt like he was making sure you were still there. Pressing a kiss to your temple, the top of your head, a scatter of them on your shoulder. 

Once even, he lifted your hand and kissed the inside of your palm with such tenderness you wanted to die.

· · ❁ · ·

“What now?” Rhett murmured into your damp hair. 

You were on the back deck, curled in his lap on your favorite wicker chair. Sunlight splintered through the trees as it hit the floor. A patch of it warming your bare feet.

It had taken you a while to climb out of the daze, find your way back to your body. Slowly, slowly, mind un-blurring until you felt coherent enough to speak.

Your voice was a dry rasp when you finally spoke. “Do you think people should be fucking members of their support group?”

“Okay.” Scoffing, Rhett jiggled you in his lap. “Fucking? Really?”

“Fine. Fraternizing.”

He shot you a withering look. It made you snort. 

You knew he was right.

Whatever you’d done on his kitchen table, it had left something big inside of you. It felt important. 

“Who would’ve thought Rhett Abbott was such a closet romantic,” you mumbled, delighting in the way he rolled his eyes. 

Leaving it at that, you curled back into his chest, lazily lifting a finger and tracing along the soft slope of his nose, down his Cupid’s Bow, each curve of each lip.

Look at you—so surprisingly tender.

He opened his mouth to nip at your finger.

“We’ll go slow,” you whispered, echoing the words he’d said to you before, with such reassurance it felt rooted deep.

“Alright,” he murmured, nodding, letting you press your finger to his jaw to make him look at you. “Slow. I can do slow.”

You couldn't help your grin, thinking about all the things he'd done to you in his kitchen just an hour ago. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

He quirked a mean smile, pinching your side until you laughed.

Like this, you didn’t feel difficult or complicated or messy.

Your laughter spiraled as you tipped your head back from so much delight. 

You let it shake through you.

You let it shake through the tin roof and the wicker chair and the rocks on the railing and the sun and the pine trees and the grass and the dirt and the valley that rolled all the way to your sister's house, the very place you'd started calling home the second your duffle bag hit the welcome mat.

And finally, you let it shake through him, sitting there, washed in shards of sunlight—looking at you like you were the easiest thing to love. 

[itlswhatltls]

it’s him i fear