Flowers In November (3/4) Rhett x Reader
Word Count: 11,570 ♡‧₊˚ AO3 Cross-Post
♡⊹˚₊ Flowers In November Masterlist₊˚⊹♡
Warnings: Fem!Reader. Briefly mentioned abusive relationships (not involving reader), improper disposal of a horse's corpse, l-bombs, oral sex, physical and verbal altercations, blood, unprotected sex, inappropriate use of a firearm, lying to a police officer, multiple mentions of food and cooking.
Part 2 ♡⊹˚₊ Part 4
Sometimes, you feel like Rhett's family raised him to be like this, not so he would be a good man, but because it would be easy to take advantage of his kind heart.
It certainly feels like it from your perspective. Perry works twice a week and has trainers that work with the kelpies for him. Royal and Cecelia don't do a whole lot of anything; Cecelia busies herself with fostering young puppies and kittens, but nobody knows what Royal does all day.
You don't know much about ranching, but it can't take an entire day to look after one singular bison and two horses.
The birthday party is the third time you've seen him; he's standing in his driveway, talking to the girl who chased you down with a knife. Autumn. Is that what he does all day?
Amy is both easy and hard to find. A crowd follows her everywhere she goes, fussing over her every movement. She doesn't find much enjoyment in it. A big scar ripples across her hairline, reminding you of the one Autumn bears. Even from here, you can tell she's miserable.
"Y'alright over here?" Rhett's low drawl is a welcome sound.
Glancing away from the window, you nod, "just got a little overwhelmed, is all."
Nobody told you that practically half the state would be attending this party. All gathered up in the backyard, so many voices that become a big jumble of noise. Impossible to decipher. Suffocating to listen to.
"Yeah...I had no idea it would be that many people, either," he settles across from you, leaning against the kitchen island; it's strange to see him in a plain black tee after all these months of seeing him almost exclusively wear plaid flannels.
Have his eyes always been that blue?
"They didn't invite this many people to your parties when you were a kid?" Eyebrows raising as you speak, surprised.
When you don't get an answer, you glance back outside. The sun should be setting, but it's completely blocked out by heavy clouds. Large, nearly jet black in color, towering high into the sky. It looks like an oversized blanket, ready to cover you any moment. The weather forecast said it wouldn't rain today. You don't buy it.
Rhett sucks his lower lip, shaking his head, "never had one, actually."
A part of you wishes it could be shocked. For your jaw to hit the floor over this revelation...but you can't say you're the slightest bit surprised. "Not even one?"
"Think there may have been a party after I turned one," he recalls with a hum, "but that's it."
"What about Perry?" It's challenging to make yourself sound genuinely curious when you've got the answer already.
"I think...he quit having them after he turned eighteen," his hand rubs the underside of his scruffy chin, audibly disturbing the stubble there, "why?"
He really doesn't notice it, does he?
"Why in God's name are you two lingering in my kitchen?" Speak of the devil; there's Cecelia, walking into the kitchen with a purpose in her step. "We're about to cut the cake; go on, shoo."
"Sorry, ma," Rhett's eyes meet yours as he nods his head toward the door, doesn't need to say much else.
Walking toward the back door feels like you're about to meet your demise. The commotion of voices grows louder with every step until it's built into a muffled wave. Barely held back by this thick wooden door.
"You don't want to go out there either, do you?" His observation is spot on.
It's just a crowd. It's just...a crowd. "I'd rather if that hole opened up and swallowed the both of us."
Right now, it looks like he wishes for the same thing to happen. Chewing on his thin lower lip, hand hovering over the door knob. He looks behind himself, then, quietly, "come on."
But he doesn't open the door.
No, he takes your hand and pulls you around a corner, down a winding hallway that looks familiar yet foreign. All this money, and yet every hallway looks the same.
"Where are we going?" You whisper, tripping over your own two feet. "Rhett—"
You run straight into his broad back; he's stopped, backtracking before you can register what is going on. One strong arm loops around your waist. Effortlessly pulls you into a closet you've never seen before. Dark, tiny, cramming you up against his chest.
Outside the door, Cecelia walks by. Stops. "Do you need any help carrying the cake?"
Even your breathing feels too loud. "Why are we hiding?"
"Shh," the sound breathed against your temple.
It's hard to focus on what is going on when his hand presses on the small of your back, coaxing you closer. Until there isn't a centimeter of space between your bodies. His cheek is squished against the top of your head, arms wrapped around your waist, absolutely engulfing you.
Faint leathery notes kiss your nose, lingering from his cologne, vaguely musky in that warm sort of manner. You think you could bathe in it for the rest of your life.
Cecelia continues to fuss over the cake outside the door as they roll it down the hallway. Utterly oblivious to her son and his stowaway hiding mere inches away. But the rolling continues, deep, vibrating through the house.
A sharp, earsplitting crack rings out, a heavy, elephant-sized fist hitting the ground.
"It's okay, it's okay," you don't realize you've jumped until Rhett's pulling you down from it, bringing you impossibly closer, "I've got you, baby."
His chest is big enough that you nearly drown in it, so entirely encompassed by it. But, man, how could you mistake the sound of rolling thunder?
"It's just a storm," reassuring you, "if we sneak out now, we might be able to beat it."
Somewhere between the thunder and Rhett bringing you down from shock, Cecelia has disappeared, and so has the cake. In fact, as Rhett reopens the door, not a soul is inside.
"How is everyone still outside?" What kind of world is this, where people don't come running inside the moment thunder cracks?
"Half them probably ain't sober," you're unsure of when Rhett got ahold of your hand, but he's gently pulling you toward the front door, fingers carded together so perfectly that it's dizzying.
The door squeaks open.
"Perry?" Both you and Rhett in unison.
But Perry doesn't seem to hear you. His eyes are locked on the floor, holding the door open, not stepping through it. Frigid air rushes through the gaps, clawing at your skin with its icy fingers. Feet patter against the ground behind you.
"I confessed."
Rhett stiffens. His grip on your hand is like iron. "What are you talkin' about?"
"I left a voicemail for the sheriff," behind him, lightning flickers, "I took the blame for killing the horse."
Rhett drops your hand. At first, you think he's going to charge Perry right here and now. He doesn't. Instead, he stares at the wall beside you, clenching and unclenching his scarred fists.
Scars that he bears because of Perry's lie.
"Perry," you aren't sure where Cecelia came from, but she speaks with a glass voice, "after all we did to protect you?"
"It's okay," finally removing his eyes from the ground; Perry smiles, "all they'll do is give me a fine since I confessed."
Royal steps past you; he blocks you from the cold like a shield. "And you'll pay it with what money, Perry?"
Perry's gaze fixates on Rhett.
Rhett growls. "No."
"Rhett—"
"—I'm not killin' my fuckin' cattle so you can pay for your goddamn fine!" Cecelia's voice is shattered by the roar that ripples out of Rhett's throat. Such a sudden shift in tone that you find yourself backing away.
"You can always breed more," Royal's focus shifts to the youngest, "it's not like your golden touch is going to run out."
A weak breath puffs out of Rhett's mouth. Incredulous. "Nobody's fuckin' buying gold no more," reaching up, Rhett claws at his hair, yanking on it as hard as he can, "you wanna know why? Because you ruined the market when you took half my livestock to pay for the shit you can't fuckin' afford."
"Rhett," gentle as ever, Cecelia steps up to the batting plate, "honey, remember, he's your brother."
"Relation doesn't make you entitled to Rhett's cattle," it was only meant to be an inner thought, but it slips from your lips like a breath of air.
Perry slams the door behind him, "you need to keep your goddamn mouth—"
It takes you a moment to realize why Perry recoils the way he does, blocking his face with his arms as he stumbles to the side.
Fresh blood drips from Rhett's trembling knuckles. It looks like he's fixing to go after Perry again, but he stops midway, eyes fixating directly on you.
He walks away from the fight.
"You wouldn't tolerate me raising my voice at Amy or Rebecca," he remarks as he steps past his parents, "so don't tolerate it from him." Then, eerily calm, he approaches you, nods down the hallway, a silent request.
"You don't start a fight and walk away before it's finished." Royal barks, but he makes no move to go after him.
"And I'd knock his teeth so far down his throat that he'll spit 'em out single file," the corner of Rhett's lips tilts up, "but a man never starts a fight in front of a lady."
As quickly as the argument started, it ends. Perry doesn't go after Rhett; perhaps his pride is too hurt to risk another blow. Royal, albeit red-faced, imaginary steam billowing from his ears, remains frozen by his eldest.
People are coming in now, washing through in inconsiderate waves, pushing, shoving. A broad shoulder clocks your own and effortlessly shoves you from Rhett's side. Crossing the hallway feels like wading through a violent sea; the only thing keeping your head above water is the calloused hand that catches your wrist, guiding you through.
"Y'okay?" He checks in when you've found a space devoid of guests.
Your shoulder throbs, but you force a smile, "yeah."
Just past the kitchen, there's a side door that leads to the barn where Royal's stablehands are looking after your horses. Rhett only opens the door by a few inches, but the wind whistles through the gap, frigid from the rain that comes down in sheets. The barn is massive, painted a new shade of pearl white that seems to glow at night, but now, you can hardly see it.
"In hindsight," massaging his bloody knuckles, Rhett shuts the door with his hip, "maybe we should have run for this door instead."
"With our luck, we wouldn't have made it halfway before the rain started," your teeth chatter as you wrap your arms around yourself. Even with the door closed, it feels like the icy wind still has a hold on you.
Rhett hums, "or that hole would reopen and put us up on the moon."
You don't know if it's your visible shiver or if he's feeling particularly affectionate, but Rhett wraps his arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his warm side.
Wordless, his stubbled chin rests against your temple, some comfortable intertwinement of bodies that barely misses the qualifications for a hug. So close that you can hear his every breath, the soft 'hm?' when you open your mouth, only to close it again.
Lightning flashes, taking with it the electricity flowing throughout the house. It's barely eight o'clock, but it's grown so dark that one can easily mistake it for midnight.
The storm doesn't let up, surrounding the house with its fury, shaking the walls and battering the windows with half-frozen raindrops. It doesn't stop the guests from fleeing to their fleets of cars; Perry and his daughter vanish without a goodbye. The disappearing thing must run into the family because even Cecelia cannot decipher where Royal wandered off. Or maybe she does find him because soon, she disappears too.
"Think we might be spending the night in my old bedroom," Rhett yawns after some time, "this storm doesn't sound like it's fixin' to leave anytime soon."
His yawning triggers you to yawn, "can you even find it in a house this big?"
You can't see it, but you know he's rolled his eyes, "yes, ma'am, I can."
Taking you by the hand, he leads you around corner after corner, of which you can hardly see. It's a blessing that you don't knock over a figurine or a vase or that you don't trip while walking up the never-ending stairs.
His bedroom is so bare that you can see how empty it is, even in the dark.
"Damn," yawning again, "I was hoping you'd have something embarrassing in here." Above all, the room is remarkably tiny, barely enough to house the bed and dresser.
"This twin bed is embarrassing enough," an old rocking chair sits next to the bed, crammed into the corner. The wood squeaks under Rhett's weight when he settles into it.
"Please don't tell me you're planning to sleep in the rocking chair," you tease as you sit on the edge of the mattress; it's nothing special, the one he has at home is much nicer, but it works.
Audibly, the chair rocks, "bed's all yours."
"It's a bed, Rhett," leaning back against it, you realize that maybe it's a little worse than you initially thought. How can a mattress be so lumpy? "Your shoulder will be sore in the morning."
"'ts already gonna be sore," he quips, "I'll be fine. Don't worry, your pretty little mind about me."
You want to push it further, but arguing with Rhett is like arguing with a damn wall. Stubborn. Bull-headed. As immovable as a mountain. The bed is just as uncomfortable beneath the covers, the sheets so thin that you might as well have stayed on top of them.
The weather sounds much like it did the night you fell through the hole. Wind screams around the corners of the house, pounding against it with such rage that you fear it's coming to get you. You wish you were safe at home, cozied up on the couch while Rhett's old battery-powered radio sings a tune to distract you from the storm's roar.
Lightning cracks, ear-splittingly loud, tearing apart the silence so suddenly that your body jolts.
No, no, no, you don't like this at all. This is too similar. What if the hole swallows you up right here and now? You don't know what to think; deep down, your gut twists as memories of home cloud your head. But if it comes for you, what about Rhett? Nyx? Isabela?
What are you meant to do when your heart is torn between two places?
You can't have both, no matter how much you—
"You're okay," Rhett's voice comes to you as a light at the end of a tunnel, "'s just a storm."
For a man as large as him, he's moved silently, now sitting on the edge of the bed. The lightning lights up the room, gracing you with the briefest glimpse of his face, contorted with concern and something you can't quite name.
"Do you want me to lay with you until it calms down?" Coming from anyone else, it would sound odd. But, with Rhett, it's the only thing that feels right in this world.
Shallowly, you nod, and he lifts the edge of the comforter.
The bed is far too tiny for a man of his stature, barely capable of holding him, let alone you as well. But he fits, pressed so close to you that it's all you can comprehend.
"Do these storms always shake you up like this?" Running his big hand against your cheek.
"Not always," although you're sure that could be true if thunderstorms were more frequent during the winter, "this one ...reminds me a lot of the night I was brought here."
A puff of air escapes his mouth, a remnant of what's supposed to be a laugh, "scared another hole will pick you up and carry you to another good-for-nothing cowboy?"
Shy, your hand crawls up on its own accord, "no," wavering as it curls around his unshaven cheek, "I'm scared it'll take me away from this cowboy right here."
This time, he doesn't have the words to respond.
Thunder rattles the foundation of the house, shaking you like a snow globe. Rhett's silence rings even louder, and the longer his lips stay closed, the heavier your heart feels.
Shit. You shouldn't have said that.
"I wish we had the radio to distract us from the storm," you croak, drawing your gaze to the sheets below you, anywhere that doesn't involve Rhett and his eyes.
His hand against your cheek moves, curling around the back of your head, "maybe this will distract you."
The brush of his lips against yours is so feathery light that it feels like you've been kissed by a ghost. His lightness is not to be mistaken for hesitance; no, it's an unspoken promise to wait until you're ready for them.
You've never been so ready for something in your life.
You meet him the rest of the way, and the world around you is quiet. Not even the storm or your pounding heart is loud enough to distract you from the softness of his lips as they mold with your own.
It breaks, but he doesn't back away. Hot breath fans against each other's lips, Rhett's nose nudging against your cheek, and you can't tell if it's you or him who closes the gap again.
Kissing Rhett feels like kissing a daydream, lips dancing like old lovers do, slow, calculated, knowing, your noses bumping into cheeks with the same clumsiness of teenagers. Teeth clacking together because you've both begun to smile into it. So perfect and yet so clumsy.
"I'm sorry," his tone airy as he chuckles against you, "I'm trying not to smile, but the more I think about it, the worse it gets."
As quickly as the kiss began, it dissolves into a fit of giggles, the both of you sinking back into the mattress. Every time you think you've gotten over it, Rhett's eyes meet yours, and it starts all over again, your cheeks aching with it.
"You'd best be careful, darlin'," he warns as you peck his lips, "I might get addicted to these."
Stealing a second kiss now, "I don't see an issue here."
He pulls you back in so quickly that by the time you register it, your lips have crashed together like colliding galaxies. Explosions of color decorate the underside of your eyelids, tingling across your cheeks and down your back; if your eyes were open, you'd see them dancing around the room like novelty sparklers.
Rough stubble scratches your chin, something that should be uncomfortable, but it only serves to make you gasp into the kiss. Your hands wander up into his hair, curling into those messy locks. Otherwise, you'd float up into the ceiling and never come back down. His arm secures around your back, fingers between your shoulder blades, and you're confident he can feel your heart hammering against your chest.
"That distractin' enough?" He teases, panting against your lips.
As much as you already love kissing this man, your neck aches from the strain of this angle. This shared pillow beneath you is a blessing in disguise. "I like to think so."
Who would have thought that Rhett Abbott would make such a perfect kisser? And a cuddle bug to boot. Effortlessly curling himself around you, wrapping you in his strong arms in such a perfect, comfortable manner. As if these arms were built to hold and keep you safe.
And only you.
He's the first to fall asleep, the curve of his nose resting against your forehead, fitting like a puzzle piece. You've seen him asleep multiple times before, but this is the first you've ever seen him wear a smile to bed.
That isn't the position you wake in, though.
At some point, you roll onto your opposite side, barely clinging to the edge of the bed. There's something heavy looped around your waist, a light pressure between your shoulder blades.
"Rhett?"
"Hm?" Vibrating against your spine, sending shivers crawling up your neck.
In your sleep-clouded mind, it all feels like a dream, fuzzy around the edges, as palpable as a daydream. But the sensation of Rhett's fingertips drawing circles into your tummy feels too real to be your imagination.
This room is so cold that you can hardly feel your cheeks; maybe that's why Rhett runs as hot as a wildfire. His hands are blazing, heat radiating off his chest. So close, yet far enough away that you've found yourself squirming back into him, selfishly seeking out more of his warmth.
"Did you sleep—ah," the sound so airy and sudden that it takes you a moment to realize what triggered it, "...careful with those hips, doll."
That isn't his belt buckle pressing against your ass...is it.
Maybe it's the sleepiness preventing you from making good choices. Perhaps you're simply a menace. But something makes you squirm against him again, seeking out that beautiful, airy moan.
And hear it, you do.
"Fuck," muffling the rest of his words by hiding his face in your back, big hand seizing your wandering hips, halting them completely. That fleeting sound alone is enough to get you hooked; you want to hear it again and again and again.
"Don't get nothing out of it, my ass," giggling at the feeling of his breath tickling your sensitive skin.
The hand on your hip trembles slightly, "it's different when it's been a few years since..." On their own, he twitches forward, barely able to hold back his pleased gasp when his cock rubs against your ass once more. "Fuck, 'm sorry; I didn't mean to..."
"It's alright," your mouth feels dry, suddenly aware of what's about to come off your tongue, "I sort of...liked it."
Rhett rises, sitting up straight in bed. God, hell, fuck, shit, you shouldn't have said that—
He's moving again, but he's not getting out of bed and fleeing as you expected. No, he rolls you onto your back, meeting your gaze with half-lidded eyes, torn between sleepy and something darker.
Leaning down, he meets your lips with his own. Once, twice, until you chase him on the third, refusing to settle for another simple peck. It's anything but the kiss you shared last night; lazy, open-mouthed as your tongues meet for the briefest of periods, sliding against each other until your lips shimmer in the light.
"Part your legs for me, darlin'," his request is met with the near-instant spreading of your legs, allowing him to slide between them. His hips are much broader than yours, putting a foreign ache in your lower back as you adjust to him.
If his proportions are consistent, you're in for a world of trouble.
"What're you doing?" Although, you can't complain when he braces his forearms on either side of your head, veins bulging, rippling up into his thick biceps.
"I'm not fixin' to take and give nothin' in return," those hips roll down, his clothed cock brushing deliciously between your legs, so close to where you crave him most.
Some readjusting is needed, but it only takes three tries for him to get it right, the motion dragging the underside of his length against your pussy.
"Rhett," clinging to his forearms as he grinds past your clit, "there."
"That where you want me, hm?" He murmurs, repeating the motion, "fuck, you feel good."
The soft whimper, the dizzying roll of those deep blues. Nothing you expected from this big old cowboy. Just the sight of him has a wet heat pooling between your legs, desperate for more, more, more.
A light hand knocks at the door. "Rhett, you and your girl in there?"
Your little crystal world shatters into a million pieces.
Scrambling, Rhett's feet hit the ground, barely quick enough to get the blanket back overtop you before the door squeaks open.
"We're in here," there's a damp spot on Rhett's slacks, "was just fixin' to get up and get out of your hair."
Thankfully, Cecelia doesn't put two and two together. Not your equally swollen lips or the heavy tent that strains against the fabric of his pants. All she see's is her son and his half-awake friend.
...friend.
That thought bugs you for the rest of the day.
Neither of you has discussed this, and no moves have been made to sort it out. It's confusing. Rhett kisses you like an old lover, familiar and passionate, but aside from the heart-fluttering pet names, he acts no differently.
But it's hard to jump to conclusions when he immediately has to go to work once you get home, leaving you with a kiss at nine. A text on your phone reminds you he'll be late, but the voice in your head tells you he's avoiding you.
You go to bed before he gets home.
You wake minutes later to a chaste kiss on your temple and the sweetest whisper of a goodnight you've ever heard.
And then you can't go back to sleep.
Motherfucker.
"Oh, I thought you were asleep," Rhett sputters, caught red-handed in the kitchen, halfway into his bite of cold pizza.
Yawning, you reach across the island to steal a cold pepperoni, "I thought I was too."
Here you'd thought you could sleep the night away, and now you're wide awake, wired like you've chugged a cup of coffee. Worse, your mind isn't racing; you simply cannot sleep.
Rhett's keys jingle. Maybe you can't sleep, but you're tired enough to have missed him reaching for them.
"I have an idea." And that's all the elaboration you receive.
Bundled in his old rodeo jacket and with an armload of blankets, you walk out to the truck, awake enough for questions to fill your head, too tired to voice them. Rhett's truck has seen better days; the front bumper is crumpled, and the passenger-side headlight is held in by ducktape and high hopes. But the vehicle runs, so he hasn't bothered to fix it.
As he drives through the field, the headlight wiggles more than it should, bobbing back and forth with the vehicle's motions. You worry it will fall out, but it stays.
In the middle of his property, Rhett puts it in park.
"What are we doing?" You ask, getting out after him.
Wordless, Rhett points at the sky. Where the stars twinkle and dance amongst each other, perfectly intertwined with their dark, velvety backdrop. Brightest of all lies the moon. Who comes up, so the night doesn't feel lonely, lending an ear to the souls who stay up to talk to him.
It's full tonight.
The hinges of the tailgate squeal as Rhett lowers it, "won't hurt your neck if you lay back here."
There are enough blankets to cushion you from the metal truck bed. Not as comfortable as the bed at home, but it'll do.
"All this, just to watch the stars," you can't resist teasing him while you situate yourself next to him, lying flat on your back.
"Can't seem 'em as well from the house," Rhett muses, "barn lights tend to drown it out."
Around you, the world is hushed. Not a sound to be found, aside from the faint squelch of Rhett sucking on his own tongue. His eyes flick to you but dart away when you acknowledge his gaze.
Tilting your head to look at him, "spit it out."
His chest deflates like he's been waiting on you to say that. "Can I tell you somethin'?"
You nod.
He continues. "I helped Rebecca run away."
That—now you're awake. "What made you do it?"
"You know how Perry...flew off the hinges when he first met you?" Then, tilting his head, he holds his hand up, quietly asking for you to take it. "He was like that with her and Amy."
You shouldn't comply, but you do, slipping your small hand into his. It's not much, but how he squeezes it makes it seem that he really needed it.
"About a year ago, she showed up at my door with a gash so deep I could see her skull," eyes bolting shut, as if he's afraid the image will appear in front of him, "I knew it was bad, but I didn't..."
Unsure of what to do, you squeeze his hand in return, "how did you do it?"
"Threw firecrackers into the kelpie pond and started a panic." Barely steadying his shaky breath, he goes on, "I had her car runnin' in the driveway; all she needed to do was hop in and gun it, but..."
"But?"
"Perry caught on," fidgeting with your fingertips, "nearly scalped the poor girl dragging her away from the car."
Like a jigsaw puzzle, it all clicks. Nyx's avid dislike for Rhett. Perry's hostility toward you. Amy's scar. The mystery that clouds Rebecca.
"I know this is...sudden," his voice is as watery as the tears that seep from the corner of his eyes, "but I can't stand keeping it from you."
The guilt eats at him so strongly that it spills over and comes for you as well, nibbling at your psyche with its sharp teeth and bottomless stomach. Turning, you reach out to cradle his cheek, freshly shaved but still scruffy.
"You don't have to bare all your secrets to me if you're not ready," whispering softly, barely loud enough to break through his sniffles.
"That's the thing," you don't think you'll ever be able to handle the sight of those eyes so full of tears, can barely stomach the tremble in his hand as he covers the one on his cheek. "You mean a lot to me, and I want to ask if you feel the same, but I can't do that when I know I'm keeping things from you."
He freezes.
You freeze.
The world freezes.
In the blink of an eye, you've been filled with ice, frozen solid into this very spot. Yet, he is the same person to thaw them. His warm hands holding yours. Those rushed words that rattle about your brain until they shake something loose.
"I'm sorry," wide-eyed panic replaces those painful tears, "I didn't mean to say that all at once I-I know you don't—"
"—fool," and you kiss him.
It's an awkward clatter of teeth and lips; your necks strain with the angle, but it's all you could have ever asked for. Rhett Abbott is the man you've always dreamed of; all boiled down into this wonderfully sweet cowboy that has ruined you for anyone else.
You kiss him, and he kisses you back, over and over. Seizing him by the collar, you pull him closer until he complies and clambers on you, barely breaking your fragile liplock. His kisses are greedy, eating you up, frenzied for no reason other than just because. Doesn't part until your lungs burn so deeply that everything begins to spin.
"Fuck," heaving for his breath, Rhett presses his nose against yours, "you are something else."
It's impossible to stop yourself. "Some would say I'm out of this world."
His eyes roll so hard that all you see are the whites. "I knew I fucked up when I told you that joke."
Even that is not enough to stop the kisses from coming. Breathy, lips so loosely tangled that one can hardly describe it as a kiss. They travel up, one on your nose, between your eyes, against your forehead. Then your noses are pressing back together, and even up close, you can't get enough of how he closes his eyes and smiles.
"You're the greatest thing that's ever happened to me," and when he says your name at the end of the sentence, it sounds like a melody. "Y'know that?"
Through the conflict of your heart, split between worlds, you find yourself in silent agreement.
Cupping his cheeks, you squish them together, wrenching an amused chuckle from him, "sometimes, I don't believe you're real."
If someone told you that he was an angel, you fear you may believe them.
Because what earthly being scoops you up like a feather and carries you bridal style to his passenger seat? Tucking you in with all the blankets you can hold because he thought he saw you shiver. And then carries you right to bed, saying it's something he has always wanted to do.
"You always look so comfy in my bed," he grins once you're comfortably snuggled into the sheets. The bed dips as he sits next to you, reaching down to run his fingers against your scalp, "your little eyes are barely open."
How are you meant to keep your eyes open when he's rubbing your head like that? Stroking you like one would a cat, nails dragging against your skin. If you could, you would be purring right about now.
"You calling me small?" Your attempt to sound annoyed is lost as a wave of sleepiness overtakes you, pulling you into the murky depths of unconsciousness.
"Compared to me?" Warm breath against your forehead as he presses a kiss there, "absolutely."
A part of you almost wishes he hadn't done that because now your skin feels impossibly cold, frost settling where he once warmed you. Would it be weird to ask the question resting heavily on your tongue?
The mattress rises as he stands, boots pattering across the hardwood; if you're going to ask, you need to do it now.
"Will you stay with me?"
Silence.
Those boots start to move, but they're not walking away. They're coming closer. Shoes land on the floor and the dresser drawer squeaks open. Just in time to catch it, your eyes open, landing on Rhett's frame as he yanks his jeans off. They catch on his briefs, yanking them down enough for you to catch a glimpse of a scar on the side of his left ass cheek.
"Is that your family brand on your ass?" Wide awake now.
In the blink of an eye, Rhett's face goes beet red. "I...yes?" Fumbling a little faster now, he reaches for his plaid pajama pants, squirming into them. "Perry and I got drunk one night, and our old buddy did brandings as a side job."
Drunk Rhett sounds like a hell of a person to be around.
This may be the first time Rhett has laid in this bed since your arrival; by the looks of it, he's sure missed it. His eyes flutter as he momentarily lies on his back, tension leaking from his muscles like a bad memory. It's a hell of a sight to take in.
But then he starts to giggle, and you realize you've been caught staring.
"C'mon," opening up his arms, "snuggle in."
Your body fits so perfectly against him, comfortably cuddled up to him in this big, cozy bed. Wandering fingertips crawl under your shirt, stroking up and down the base of your spine. It doesn't tickle like you thought it would; instead of making you laugh, those calloused fingers seem to be massaging every thought from your sleep-clouded brain.
"This what you wanted?" His deep voice rumbles against your scalp, rattling around your skull.
All you can do is hum, unable to move your tongue to speak. Rhett shifts, and vaguely, you're aware of his arm sliding under your pillow. It only allows him to hold you better, long leg snaking between yours until you're so intertwined that you can't tell who begins and ends where.
Slowly, your eyes become heavier.
And heavier.
And the next time you pry them open, it's daylight.
Like yesterday morning, you've rolled over in your sleep...and Rhett's arm is draped around you, anchoring you to his warm body. There's no way that's really him; he's never stayed home this late. But there he is, eyes opening as soon as he's registered you moving, with that dopey look on his face.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" It's difficult to conceal the surprise that laces your tone.
His bicep flexes, pulling you a few inches closer, "didn't wanna move."
If you could have it your way, the two of you would never leave this spot. Warm, tranquil, flawless. Even when you start to sweat, weighed down by both a furnace of a man and the bed sheets, you can't find it in yourself to budge.
Until you spot a smudge of black along Rhett's cheek, bugging you so much that you crack. Licking the pad of your thumb, you wipe it away.
"Why are you licking me?" He whines, eyes scrunching shut.
Dramatic.
But as much as you'd like to lay in bed with him all day long, work calls. The cattle and their appetite wait for no man, and Nyx is already fussy enough when her breakfast is five minutes late. You think you can already hear her impatient whistles.
Like he did yesterday, Rhett leaves you with a kiss on the lips. Deep down, it feels like the sparks of a routine; you've already found yourself looking forward to it every morning. No matter where you are or the time, Rhett has to steal a kiss, or he may drop dead on the spot. Placing them on your cheeks when you're asleep, waiting on you to finish brushing your teeth, catching you in the middle of the living room.
And it's all so painfully, Rhett.
Your first date comes by surprise.
The first calf drops three weeks earlier than she should have, surprising Rhett so much that you had to come and verify that the little fella was real. This herd has a reputation for snowballing; once one comes, they all do. According to Rhett, there is always at least one calf who, for various reasons, cannot nurse and needs to be bottle-fed.
"This year, I'm gettin' it early," he tells you on your walk back to the house, "I ain't doin' the whole 'emergency rush to every feed store in the state' this year."
And it's off to a feed store thirty minutes outside of Wabang, situated next to a family diner. It just happens to be dinner time. The warm aromas waft through the sliding doors, following you around the store like a stubborn memory. You didn't come here to get dinner, but as you stand and look at these chicks, you can't quit thinking about it.
"I knew I'd find you over here." You take it all back; you can definitely quit thinking about food if you have those biceps to stare at. Bulging under the weight of the bag he's carrying over his shoulder, prominent veins decorating the muscle.
"Your chickens are very different from the ones I'm familiar with," observing aloud; there certainly aren't any two-headed chicken breeds or six-footed ones where you come from. The only relatively normal chicks are tiny white ones called Kettles, whose peeps sound like tiny whistling kettles.
"Yeah?" Reaching down, Rhett disturbs one of the two-headed babies, grinning as it pecks his finger, "d'ya want some?"
"Do you even have a chicken coop?" Last you checked, the barn was the only structure nearby the house.
Shaking his head, "I can build one if you give me a week or so."
While you love the idea, you're not too sure. These Kettles are cute; their sign says they're beginner friendly, looking more like balls of fluff than anything else.
You'll think about it.
Outside the store, the scent from the diner slams you like a freight train; man, you want to go in there. In fact, you can hardly take your eyes off the building. Miss Molly's is nothing more than a hole in the wall, so tiny that it's a wonder if they get much business, but whatever they're cooking has you about to drool.
If Rhett didn't have work to do around the ranch, you'd ask to go in, but you know he's busy as it is. This was only meant to be a quick run to get milk replacer, nothing more.
Rhett's not pulling out of the parking lot.
Instead, he's looking at you, hand resting on the gear shift, the other propped on his steering wheel. "Do you want to go in there, doll?"
"I do," gulping, "but you're busy with work on the ranch—"
"—nonsense," quick to cut you off as he opens the door, "chores can wait a few hours."
Either your standards are low, or Rhett Abbott is a man sent from the heavens.
The inside of the restaurant is exactly how you pictured it, red cushioned booths, black and white checkered tile stretching across the room, reeking of the 50s. Accurate right down to the questionably sober waitress who treats you like an old friend rather than a customer.
Does this count as a date?
"I'm the last person you should be asking that question," Rhett shrugs, and only now do you realize you've said your thought out loud, "I ain't never done stuff like this before."
Your world screeches to a halt so suddenly that you can hear the breaks squeal. "You haven't?" There's no way a man like him hasn't been on a date before, but sure as day, he mouths a no.
The food takes a while, but Rhett's so good at making time fly that you can hardly believe he's never done something like this. Playing with your feet under the table. A little game of how far you can run your foot up each other's leg until someone giggles.
Rhett almost wins until you find a particularly sensitive area on his inner thigh, his stoic expression shattering instantly.
Rain begins to fall minutes after you get your food. Given away by the loud pitter-patter of droplets hitting the tin roof, so loud that you can hardly hear what's playing on the radio. Not quite a storm, but the clouds are heavy enough to make the outside look darker than usual.
After you've eaten and the bill is paid, you idle outside the door. Hidden underneath the overhang, where only the mist can get to you. The idea was to wait until the rain let up, but it's showing no sign of slowing. This was a bad day to park in the middle of the lot.
"There's only one way to deal with this," Rhett concludes after a while.
But before you can comprehend what he's on about, he grins at you and runs out into the rain.
"Rhett!" Squeaking, you run after him without much thought. Frigid water droplets pelt against your skin like tiny bullets, soaking you.
In front of you, Rhett turns around, laughing as you scamper after him, unbothered by it all. The tattered cowboy hat he wears is doing its best to protect him from the rain, but it can only do so much. His cheeks shiny, eyes sparkling with something fond.
"Are you mad?" Barely within earshot, the weather covering most of your words, "it's pouring!"
There's something he's trying to say, but he can't seem to speak through his upturned lips. So wholly, utterly pleased with himself that he's become incapable of doing anything else.
You stop before him, shielding your eyes from the onslaught of water, "Rhett?"
Wordless, he reaches out to curl his hand around your cheek, holding you there as he leans down.
There were many things you expected to happen today. Rhett intentionally kissing you in the pouring rain after your first date was not one of them.
But oh, his lips are soft. Melting away every ounce of care from your body as they move. Slow, encouraging you to take this impromptu dance with him. And for as unplanned as it is, it's so mindbogglingly delicate, as if your lips are made of glass.
He's curling his arm around your waist, cinching you into his chest; your knees nearly go out from under you when he sucks your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth. Beneath the shield of his hat, you feel as if you've caught on fire.
Distant thunder rumbles, the only thing that can shake you two apart.
By the time you clamber into the truck, you're anything but dry. Clothes drenched, the ends of Rhett's hair dripping like he's just had a shower. Your teeth are chattering; the only thing Rhett can do is laugh.
In the back of your head, you wonder how long he's wanted to do that.
There's a blanket in the seat, left over from your star-gazing venture, but it's not much help when your clothes are the issue. Clinging to your body like glue, refusing to allow you any escape from the rainwater they carry.
Rhett reaches for the temperature gauge. "Cold?"
"A little bit," squeezing the blanket to your chest as if it will help your case any more than it already is.
Lifting the middle console, Rhett pats the now-open space, allowing you to slide into the newly emptied space. The truck may have great heat, but Rhett will always be the best at warming you. Always so remarkably warm, even now, when he has every reason to be cold. Even the dampness of his t-shirt cannot stop you from curling into his side as he drives.
"If we get sick," yawning, "it's your fault."
The truck bounces as the tires kiss the uneven gravel driveway, perpetually washed out every rainfall. Your seatbelt is the only thing preventing you from bouncing around like a ping-pong ball.
"Who says anything about me getting sick?" Cocky as ever, Rhett slings his arm around your shoulders, "I haven't so much as caught a cold since I was thirteen."
Selfishly, you hope a cold humbles him soon.
The house is not too far down the driveway, the gutters spewing enough water to make a lake out of. Isabela hides under her shelter, visibly peeved about the weather, but Nyx is in her element. Running along the fence line, following until she's had enough. You wonder if she misses swimming in the south pasture.
Rhett parks next to the house for once, only a few paces away from the front door. Convenient, considering you're too wet to complain about a little more rain. Before he opens the door, Rhett leans down, pressing a warm kiss into your cheek. Only meant to be one, but that's not enough for you. No, not when you're cold and eager to feel him against you again.
"Not so fast, mister," catching him by the collar, you yank him back down. The moment your lips meet, Rhett moans, loud and whiny, as he lets you have your way.
His rough stubble scratches against your skin in the most wonderous of ways, following your lead. What's only meant to be a few short kisses unravels into something so heated that you no longer feel cold. Your hands tangle in his soaked hair, knocking his hat off completely when you clamber into his lap. Rhett's everywhere. His nails rake down your clothed back, climbing down to grip your squirming hips as you situate yourself on top of him.
Tongue darting out, you try your luck by running it along his pale bottom lip. He welcomes you in with a gasp, meeting you halfway. Wet bodies stick together like velcro, but you can hardly pay it any mind when he licks into your mouth the way he does, chasing your fleeting tongue down. Eager to feel you against him, tangling in loose, sloppy circles. Effortlessly wrenching the air from your lungs, panting hot into each other's mouths.
"Like a fuckin' daydream on top of me," he says against your lips, "y'know that?" The way he looks up at you tells you that he means every word. Smitten.
Blindly reaching over, you find his soggy hat, placing it on your head, "you've got your head too far up in the clouds, cowboy."
And then it's out the door you go. Leaving Rhett to catch up while you dart into the house, giggling all the way. The hat is a touch big on you, threatening to blow off with the slightest breeze, forcing you to hold on to it as you round the corner.
The only indication that Rhett's following are the boots that follow close behind, echoing through the house as he runs you down.
Something flies over your head with a soft whooshing sound, cinching around your waist. You can't move any further, arms mysteriously bound to your sides.
Rhett's lassoed you.
"You ain't gettin' away from me that easy, darlin'," it's not the clothes that send a shiver down your spine as he approaches, looking you up and down like a wolf hungry for his meal.
"Is that so?" The back of your knees bump against the bed, "here to take your hat back, cowboy?"
As if that's his plan, he reaches up. Instead of taking it, he slides his hand under the brim and pushes it off your head. Paying no mind to where it lands.
"No," effortlessly, lifting your chin with a hooked index finger, making you look him directly in the eye, "just wanted to kiss my sweet girl again."
The rope prevents you from touching him as he closes the gap between your bodies, planting his lips on your forehead, then down to your nose. Yet he ghosts over your lips, hesitantly brushing against one another. Teasing, waiting for you to break.
You know you've found your moment when the rope slackens around your waist. Grabbing Rhett by the collar, you fall back against the bed, dragging him down with you.
"Whaddya do that for?" Sputtering, incapable of escaping as your legs lock around his hips. Once you've got your ankles crossed above his ass, he's trapped, has no choice but to let you take what you want.
"Because my sweet cowboy is too slow," you murmur between kisses. Each one growing longer than the last, warmer. "And we need to get these clothes off."
Rhett nips at your lip with his teeth. "I can think of a few ways to get them off."
"Then why don't you?"
Did you just say that?
Shit, you just said that.
He straightens, bracing himself on his forearms to hover over you, "yeah?"
"Yeah," you feel dizzy, just thinking about what that could entail.
The next time his lips land on yours, its
different.
Something new, nameless, lies in his movements. Deliberate in such a way that makes you feel known. His mouth explores yours like they're old friends, something familiar in how his tongue curls with yours. Tasting like the strawberry syrup from his pancakes, sweet enough to give you cavities. Addicting, growing harder and harder to resist.
You're reaching up, tangling your fingers in the hair that rests along his nape, pleased when he gasps into your mouth. With a groan, he pushes you further up the bed, allowing himself the room to fully climb into the bed. The grind of his clothed bulge over your cunt is unintentional. However, it's such a dizzying feeling that you struggle to believe it wasn't planned.
This is what you've wanted; Rhett Abbott between your legs, rosy-cheeked with those dreamy, half-lidded eyes fixated on you like you're the most valuable thing in the world. As if all he needs in this world is you. Not wealth, not status, not even this roof over your heads.
"Fuck," pulling away reluctantly, Rhett glances toward the bedside table, "I don't have condoms."
Just by the coaster lies your birth control, the plastic glinting in the lamp's light. Rhett's aware of it; he picked your prescription up when he visited town last week. The ball is in your court.
"I trust you," those three little words are as easy to breathe as air. And they make his eyes light up, lips quivering, but they fail to respond.
He makes up for what he lacks in speech with action; sitting up, he takes hold of the edge of his shirt and lifts it. Exposing miles upon miles of chiseled, milky white skin, the muscles in his abdomen flexing with his movements.
Oh, that chest.
Nothing on this planet can stop you from reaching up to run your hands along it, feeling the gentle curve of his pectorals. Whether or not your thumb intentionally rubs over his nipple is between you and God. The quiet gasp you receive is unlike anything you've ever dreamed of, flitting over your ears like your favorite song.
"Goin' right for my nipple, hm?" But when you retreat, he catches your wrist, guiding your palm back to his warm skin. His heart beats directly under your hand, growing heavier the longer your hand stays there, "you can touch me, doll."
Then he's back on you, groaning into your mouth as you run your hands up his back, seeking purchase there as he licks into your mouth, hungry. You find yourself clinging to him, clutching those beautiful shoulders as he pulls you closer, erasing what space may have been left between you.
It's you who rolls your hips first, feeling how deliciously his clothed cock feels against you. If you're thinking clearly, you're pretty sure you've felt him twitch against you; the only proof is a harsh noise from his throat.
"That what you're wantin', hm?" Taunting, he offers you a taste of what could be, grinding one slow, tantalizing circle into you. Later, you'll say it's unfair. But, right now, you're too caught up to complain.
Your involuntary inhale only makes him do it again, leaving your swollen lips in favor of kissing toward your jaw, dragging his tongue against your sensitive skin. Abruptly, they tear away, leaving you to feel nothing but his warm breath as he searches for a—
oh.
His lips have no right to feel that good. Sucking lightly on your neck, just inches beneath your ear. Briefly, his tongue soothes over it, licking wetly down to your collarbone. All the while, those blue eyes remain fixated on your expression, watching half-lidded as he laps at that sensitive bone.
On their own accord, his hands slide beneath your shirt, settling on your waist. Fingers press against your back, urging you upward. You comply, and he takes hold of your shirt, pulling the damp garment over your shoulders.
And for the first time, Rhett's eyes land on your unclothed body. So completely, utterly fixated on what lies beneath him that you squirm with discomfort, unable to read his expression.
"Fuck," leaning down, he presses a kiss to your upper chest, just above your cleavage, "fuck, you're beautiful."
Your bra prevents him from showering your breasts with attention, but it doesn't stop him for long. In fact, he takes it off of you so easily that it makes your head spin. Reaching behind you, pinching the material, and then it's loosening, coming off like nothing.
In its wake lies a thin indent where the elastic squeezed a bit too tightly at your body; that's the first thing Rhett notices. Presses a string of kisses against it, following from rib to rib. Then up, up, up, to your left breast, dragging his hot tongue along your nipple.
"Rhett," gasping his name, tangling your fingers in his dark hair as he sucks on the rapidly hardening bud. His mouth is so hot, tongue like molten lava on your body. Burning these motions into you, ruining you for anyone else.
Incapable of showering one with too much attention, he switches sides, flicking that pink tongue against your neglected nipple. "Has anyone told you how perfect you are?" Massaging the one that he's just left.
When such words come from Rhett Abbott, you can hardly ravage your memory enough to come up with an answer. Because the way he says it makes it feel like the first time those little words have met your ears.
Sinking further down the bed, kissing, licking down your belly, gaze fixated upon you all the while. He's hardly done anything yet, and you're already breathless. Those thick fingers hitch under your panty line, pause, waiting for your frantic nod for him to continue.
In one smooth motion, he pulls them down. Taking with them your pants and knocking your shoes clean off your feet. One sock remains; you can hardly pay it mind because his clinking belt buckle is too distracting. The belt snaps around his wrist as he tugs it off, wrangling it like a damn snake.
Subconsciously, your thighs clench together.
Rhett's caught it too, eyes glinting with something dark as he parts them, sinking between your legs. Words don't need to be shared.
Why are the cowboy's always hung like a horse?
"So pretty," he muses, pressing a kiss to your knee, then another, and another. Leading down to your sensitive inner thigh, suckling at the skin there until it leaves a faint mark. Wet spots glisten in the light, remarkably cold.
His nose brushes against your cunt, but he devilishly grins up at you, retreating to assault your neglected thigh. They'll be sore when he's done with you, the scattering of darkening marks already rearing their heads. Each and every suck of his mouth has you clenching around nothing, helplessly impatient for him.
"Fuck you're wet," and now that he's noticed, he's leaving your abused thighs alone, "this all for me, darlin'?"
Not if he takes any long—
"Rhett!"
All of a sudden, a broad, flat tongue licks up your cunt, so unexpected that you jump away from it. The hands on your hips tell you that you're not getting away from him as he swirls around your swollen clit. Hungry, a starved man between your legs that can't get enough of your taste.
"Could fuckin' die happy between these pretty legs of yours," speaking directly into your wetness, vibrating deliciously up your core, "y'know how long I've thought 'bout this?"
If he could have had his way, you wonder how many more times he would have sunk to his knees for you in the past.
Rhett sucks on your clit like it's candy, flicking his talented tongue over it, and you just can't seem to keep your hips still. Squirming, unsure of what to do with all this, the beautiful man between your legs, the slick noises, all of it.
He takes pity on you, letting go of it in favor of lapping downward until he's found your entrance, fluttering impatiently. Twice, he traces your rim with his tongue, then sinks in; the tip of his nose presses into your clit, opening you up on that hot, thick muscle, shallowly fucking you on it.
And the bastard maintains eye contact with you the entire time. Gauging your reaction, savoring how your eyes roll into the back of your head, struggling to contain your whimper.
Drawing back again, something thicker nudges between your legs, a single, calloused finger easing into you. You can't remember the last time someone rubbed that little bundle of nerves inside your pussy so well. It doesn't make sense how easily he finds it. Targeting it in such a way that your entire body shudders.
"You like my finger, darlin'?" Adding another finger to join the first, working you, "God, you're takin' them so well for me."
Hips writhing as they quicken inside you, thrusting in and out of your clenching cunt, and you've no escape from it. Not until he decides you're stretched enough to take him, working you up to three fingers. Abusing that spot over and over, thumb idly swirling your throbbing clit. It's too much; you can't, you can't—
"Wait!" You don't mean to cry out so loud; Rhett comes to a screeching halt, "'m gonna," you can't breathe, "was gonna..."
Those broad shoulders drop, relieved, "don't feel like cummin' on my fingers?"
Shaking your head, "I'd rather cum on your cock."
Dare you say it? His cheeks dust with red.
In the bedside drawer hides a small container of lubricant. Half-full, the label somewhat distorted from moisture; a part of you feels it's unnecessary. But then you feel his wet head drag between your folds, and you're reminded of how much of a stretch lies ahead.
One day, you'll have to test and see if you can cum just from his plush head rutting against your clit, can only imagine how it would look. But, it can wait on your shelf of dirty thoughts.
If you don't get him in you within the next minute, you're going to combust.
"You still sure?" Heavy cock nudging at your entrance, only slightly spreading you; his hesitation is both endearing and frustrating.
Wordless, you tighten your legs around his waist and push down. The initial stretch of it burns; even those fingers weren't enough. The pop of his head past your rim is so delicious that you feel no remorse.
Rhett's sharp inhale is so loud that it bounces off the walls, eyes screwed shut. High in his throat emanates a meek whimper. "Fuck." Leaning down, he braces himself on his forearms, pushing your noses together as he finally starts to sink into you, "you'll tell me if it hurts, yeah?"
"Uhuh," breathless, unable to hold a kiss for a second. Your hands slide to his back, finding purchase in his shoulder blades.
You need. You need something to hold onto. Because between your legs, his length splits you wide open, stretching you further and further. With every inch, your composure slips more and more; he's only halfway inside, and you already feel so fucking full.
Sweet kisses pepper to your jaw, soothing as he eases even further. Involuntarily, you clench around him, a muscle reflex that makes Rhett moan so prettily. The sound only serves to make you wetter. It's the last push you need before he finally slides home inside you, hips flush together, balls heavy against your ass.
"Fuck," whimpering above you, "fuck, fuck, baby."
Rhett's arms tremble on either side of your head, and it's not from bracing his weight. No, he's much too strong to be bothered by that.
...and just to boost your ego, "feel good?"
Even his bottom lip quivers with it, "mhm."
Experimentally, you move, grinding on his length. Stars sparkle beneath your eyelids, thick length pressing directly into your sweet spot with every spiral of your hips. Beneath your fingertips lies the raised scar occupying his right shoulder blade. He says he can't feel it, but he sure does react when you press on it, attention snapping to you. All ears for your next words.
"You can move."
Obedient as ever, Rhett draws back, only about halfway, then slides back, bottoming out in your dripping, stretched cunt once more. The drag of his cock in you is something out of your wildest dreams. So hopelessly split open that you can feel every fucking inch.
"Your pussy's so tight, baby," picking up a bit of speed now, each thrust punctuated by the wet meeting of skin on skin, "takin' every single inch of me so fucking well."
Every motion only makes your lips looser, whimpering high in your throat every time his cock massages the gooey spot inside your stretched walls. So effortless, knowing; you've never known that such a thing could feel so mind-blowingly right.
Like a mantra, your name falls from Rhett's lips; it's never sounded so pretty. Each word is punctuated by a thrust, your entire body jolting with it, cock filling you up until you can't possibly take any more. Biting into his lip is the only way he can stifle the sounds building upon his tongue.
"Stretchin' for me so well, darlin'," the squelch of your wetness is filthy, "god damn, your hot little cunt is so wet."
Those words only make you louder, wetter, your cries growing with his pace. That fat cock bullying its way into your quivering pussy. Giving you no choice but to whimper and take every fucking inch he chooses to give you. Ripping the air from your lungs with every motion, dragging so wondrously against the nerves in your walls that it makes you drool.
Rhett's lips find your neck, sucking something fierce into your sensitive neck; you don't want to know what kind of mark that'll leave.
"Rhett," your nails digging into his shoulders with a particularly hard thrust, "feels good, it feels—ah!"
You clench so hard around him that it forces both of you to come to a screeching halt, panting under the feeling of it. Clamping so tightly that you can feel him twitching inside. Only serves to light the match that you've been craving; heat blossoming between your legs, inside your ruined pussy.
So close.
So, so close.
But you don't want to cum like this.
All it takes is one hand on Rhett's sweaty chest for him to catch on. Doesn't quite know what you want, but he complies with your silent lead.
"Wanna ride you," whispering; his breath hitches.
With anyone else, you'd have to slide him out of you to change positions, but this cowboy is strong enough to roll you around with such ease. Jostling his length inside you, but far too big for him to accidentally slide out.
And here you thought Rhett above you was a sight. Him beneath you is a different beast entirely. Arching into your touch as you run your fingers up his neck, seizing him by the jaw. So pliant when he was just fucking you better than anyone else could.
"Ain't you a sight for sore eyes," he groans, lips parting to accept the thumb you hook into his mouth. That tongue of his swirls around it, wetting it until you're satisfied.
Tentatively, you lift your hips, rising until just his head is left, then, equally slow, slide back down. Rhett twitches upward, unable to keep still. That toned chest of his rising off the ground as your wet thumb toys with his nipple, back arching so perfectly that it belongs in a magazine. There's a delay in his sounds like his mind hasn't caught up to what you're doing to him.
"Sweetie, please," pleading around a shaky breath, "want—wanna cum."
The mere suggestion of that sounds like heaven.
Planting your palms on his broad chest, you rise once more; the pace you find is something bordering slow. Enough to savor the drag of his dick inside you, but never slow enough for your body to quit moving. Weak, Rhett reaches between your legs, massaging his wet thumb around your clit.
"Baby, baby," those eyes barely open, breath hitching, "feels good. Fuck, it feels good."
And you've hardly done anything.
"You're so sensitive," cooing as you feel his thighs tremble beneath you, "you gonna cum in me, sweet boy?"
He's barely able to formulate a nod, slack-jawed, panting hard, keening with every movement. Sounds so, so pretty that it makes you clench your legs around him, surprised to find that the tiny change makes his head strike against your sweet spot. Your head is beginning to spin, and that coil between your legs is growing hotter.
You're close.
"Cum in me, Cowboy," coaxing him on, body stuttering, "I know you've got it in you."
He twitches upward, meeting you halfway every time, your ruined pussy squelching with every thrust. The thumb on your clit grows frantic, working it over and over in tight little circles. You're gonna cum; you're gonna cum, you're—
With a weakened cry, you cum on his cock. Suddenly going still. Muscles spasm around Rhett's length so tightly that it's a wonder you don't hurt him. You can't breathe, your head floating off your shoulders and into the clouds. Involuntary, your eyes open just as Rhett's orgasm hits.
Those gorgeous eyes fucking cross.
Hot cum spurts into you in thick ropes. Painting you white and filling you so well that your body runs out of room for it, the excess leaking out around his cock. His barely audible whimpers are music to your exhausted ears, dancing around them like sugar plum fairies. Muscles twitching, trembling right in front of you.
It fades, and his back sinks into the mattress.
For a moment, you can only pant for your breath like a team of overworked dogs on a hot summer day.
"Still a fuckin' daydream on top of me, y'know?" Rhett barely even sounds like himself. Voice hoarse, wrecked by your ventures.
You really should slide off of him, but you don't have it in you, "I could say the same about you," kissing the tip of his nose, "I've never seen a man feel so good that he went cross-eyed before."
Weakly, he laughs, so breathy that he can hardly make a noise. Wandering hands slide up your sides, coaxing you to lay down against his big chest; even the sweat on his skin cannot ruin how wonderful it feels to rest your head here. Heart racing beneath your ear, still coming down from his high.
Oversensitivity is quick to take hold; Rhett squirms with every rhythmic pulse of your cunt around him, unsure what to do with such a painfully lovely sensation. You can hardly muster the strength to slide him out of you, cum already beginning to leak out of your used, spent cunt. A sensation that feels downright obscene; worse, he's stretched you so well that you can feel yourself gaping.
"Would you object to a bath?" He murmurs into your scalp, and you reckon he can feel you leaking too.
Your hum is enough for him to get moving, and you almost regret it; this house feels too cold without him there. It doesn't take him long to return, but those few minutes last for years.
Strong arms slide around you, one hitching under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you from the bed like nothing. You've yet to learn where the bubbles came from or how long the bottle has been hiding under the cabinet, but they smell like bubble gum. The kind whose flavor never lasts for more than a few seconds.
This bathtub isn't big enough for you to sit side by side, but you fit just fine lying against him, your ear coming to rest on that faded bull rider tattoo.
It's unclear how long you lie there, the warm water washing away the tension left in your bodies until you're left sleepy-eyed, unwilling to move. Rhett's playing with the bubbles, stacking them on top of your exposed skin to make vague 'bubblemen' as he's deemed them.
"They're like snowmen," he says, eyes unfocused, "but they're made of bubbles instead of snow."
Sleepiness ebbs at the corners of your psyche, pulling heavy on your eyelids, weighing your body down. Every brush of Rhett's fingers against your body, every puff of hot breath against your forehead, the soothing sound of the water, it's all making it harder to stay awake.
"You fallin' asleep on me?" Whispering, Rhett presses a kiss to your forehead. "Y'sure you don't wanna take a nap in bed?"
You do, but, "don't wanna move."
The nice thing about Rhett is that he has no issue carrying you around. He bundles you up in his soft, oversized clothes and carries you off to bed without complaint. In fact, he seems to enjoy doing it because he carries you every chance he gets. To the living room to watch a movie, to the kitchen island after the pizza delivery guy comes by; if you'll let him, he's got you.
"Up you go, little lady," he beams, scooping you off the couch, "we're off to our next adventure." Your next adventure is something completely uncharted, never done before by mankind.
Bedtime.
Part 2 ♡⊹˚₊ Part 4
61 notes
·
View notes