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The humidity inside Windhaven’s one and only bar leaves strands of hair sticking to the nape of Feyre’s neck. The sensation only eases with the occasional brush of wind, courtesy from the faint breeze spilling in through double doors. Having been propped open, they allow out-of-towners and locals to sway to the lilting country music that reaches them in the field beyond.
From her vantage point, Feyre can see how the soft glow of twilight paints a romantic picture. How even the air holds a hint of magic, one only revealed in the lingering days at the tail-end of summer.
The possibility of enjoying herself, however, escapes her. It’s far too difficult when she’s working and her much-unneeded babysitter squashes any chance she has of flaunting her cleavage and racking in extra tips.
“Keep walkin’, jackass,” Cassian drawls, laying his accent on thick. He crosses his arms over his chest as he glares at the man who’d been about to order a drink and, unfortunately, had been ogling Feyre’s chest.
In her defense, there’s nothing in their bar’s policy that prevents her from wearing a top so low-cut, despite Rhys’ attempts at mandating a dress code. So, she wears whatever the fuck she wants to, even if she’s left suffering the consequences of what Cass has affectionately titled ‘Feyre Duty.’
At least, Cassian is decent company, despite tracking alongside her like mud on dirtied boots. He’s far better than her boss, Rhys, in any sense.
And so, it’s hard not to give into Cassian’s charm when his lips tug into a grin and a dimple reveals itself in his cheek. He rests his elbows on the bar top and bats his full lashes at her, hazel eyes full of colour even in the low light.
“What are we drinkin’ tonight, sweetheart?” he asks.
From the sound of his voice, he looks like he should be wearing a cowboy hat, but he doesn’t. Instead, the wavy strands of his dark, shoulder-length hair are uncovered. Tied half-back and the tiniest bit unkempt. He does, however, keep a spare hat somewhere within the mess of his pickup truck. Feyre knows this—even though she wishes she doesn’t—and the fact that he uses the hat to pick up women and ask if they’d like to ‘save a horse’.
He’s asked her that on more than one occasion. Yet, somehow, only ever in front of Rhys.
“We are not drinking anything,” Feyre tells him in response to his question. She meets his shining gaze with a pointed look. “I’m working and, need I remind you, Cass, so are you.”
“How ‘bout some whiskey?” he counters. “It don’t even gotta be the good stuff.”
“Of course, it wouldn’t be the good stuff.” Her tone is mocking as she rolls her eyes. “It’s not like your brother would even consider letting us anywhere near the top shelf.”
“He would if you asked him nicely.”
Scoffing, Feyre leans forward until she props herself against the bar top. She hopes the proximity is enough to get the words into Cassian’s thick skull.
“The day I ask Rhys for anything nicely,” she seethes, “is the day that I realize this backwater town is literal hell.”
“You mean, you haven’t realized that yet?” The low voice isn’t Cassian’s. It sounds from behind her, unexpectedly rough at the edges but still velvety soft. Feyre doesn’t turn to face Rhys’ direction, although her spine does stiffen as he shifts towards her and continues, “And here I thought you were already packin’ your bags.”
“Those are for when I bury your dead body, and I need to skip town,” she spits back. She doesn’t let her words falter, not even as the warmth of Rhys seeps into her, his chest mere inches from her back.
But then, he tilts his head forward.
“Careful, Feyre darlin’,” he purrs, hot against the shell of her ear.
Unlike Cassian, Rhys’ accent is barely there. She tries not to cave at the subtle hint of it—an elongating of vowels here, a dropping of consonants there. Surely, she should be immune to it, after months of working together.
Yet that’s not how this thing between them works, so, of course, her knees threaten to buckle. And, of fucking course, the asshole takes note of the fact and spreads a large hand over her hip.
He tuts, “That almost sounds like a motive.”
“To kill you? If it is, you might need to start sleeping with one eye open.”
His fingers dig into the soft flesh at her hip in response to her threat. As if the prospect delights him. “You wanna come to my bedroom, and make sure that I do?”
“That—” Fuck, she takes in a sharp breath. “That really, um… That…”
She tries to speak, but words evade her. She can’t seem to string together any coherent thought, so it must be with frenzied blue-grey eyes that her gaze seeks Cassian. She gives him what she hopes is a pleading look as she squeaks his name: “Cass?”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” He’s leaning back atop the bar stool, a crooked smirk toying with his lips. “I’m just here enjoyin’ the show. Do go on.”
The bastard—
“Although…” He pretends to consider his words, not even bothering to mask the dangerous gleam in the hazel of his eyes. “If you’re willin’ to spare some whiskey, I’d be happy to indulge in some good ol’ conversation.”
And that’s enough for Feyre to find her words again.
“I already said no.” She huffs out the statement. All she wants is some semblance of peace in the otherwise crowded bar, but both Cassian and Rhys seem hell bent on getting under her nerves.
Case in point: her boss’s hand still clutches her and, somehow, in the span of her few dazed moments, he’s stepped forward and pressed his chest firmly against her back.
“Play nice, Feyre,” Rhys says, low enough that only she can hear him.
He skims the sharp points of his teeth against her ear. His head is angled just so, but she can still feel the brush of his prized cowboy hat.
“The hounds get one treat per shift,” he continues. He says this a touch louder. Keeping himself wrapped around her, he grabs a bottle of mid-shelf whiskey and two glasses.
She can feel his attention on her, and that’s when she finally gives in and tilts her head. Rhys expertly pours out the whiskey, but when Feyre’s gaze fixes on his midnight-blue eyes, she realizes that they never stray from her.
“Here.” He recaps the bottle, sliding the now-full glasses towards Cass. His hands settle on either side of her waist, and he guides himself against the swell of her ass. They continue staring at each other, transfixed, until everything in the bar that calls for her attention falls away.
She can feel the warmth of his breath against her lips when he speaks to his brother.
“Give the second one to Az, will you?”
It’s as much a dismissal as a relenting to Cassian’s previous request. Feyre doesn’t have the chance to react, before he scampers away.
“Now,” Rhys hums, “where were we?”
Feyre doesn’t know what to say, so she simply blinks up at him. She takes the opportunity to appreciate the dark-coloured hat slanted downwards atop his head. Locks of hair escape from beneath its edges, and the wide brim casts shadows that accentuate the sharp angles of his face. She finds her gaze lingering on the slopes of his high cheekbones, where she notes a faint scar etched into his golden brown skin. It’s distracting enough that she doesn’t put up a fight when his grip tightens around her waist.
She only gasps, feeling robbed of her breath.
Rhys’ practiced hands turn her swiftly. He lifts her with relative ease. Yet, despite the speed with which he maneuvers her, he places her on the bar’s countertop with a distinct reverence, until she’s perched before him, wedged between his knees.
Even with the added height, he has several inches on her. So, he dips his head to keep his eyes fixed on hers.
Then, he trails his scorching gaze lower.
Licks of flame work their way over Feyre’s skin, painting a blush in the wake of Rhys’ attention. His hands stay unmoving around her, yet she can imagine a phantom caress down the curve of her neck and over the slopes of her breasts.
As her body warms, her hands grasp at the cool surface beneath her. The arch of her back has her attempting to close the distance between them, but then she sees the moment Rhys squints. When fine lines crinkle the skin around his eyes.
He huffs out a breath.
“Great tits?” he asks, reading the tiny font scrawled across the front of her chest. The night sky in his gaze darkens as he glares at her, every star winking out.
And honestly, sue her, if she wriggles against him.
“Why, thank you.” She bats her lashes, taking on a tone that’s deceptively sweet.
Rhys pinches the soft skin atop her ribs. Dropping his voice, he barrels forward with the unrestrained gruffness of a full country accent.
“Don’t think I'm lettin' you walk all ‘round here, dressed like that.”
Angling her chin upwards, she asks, “Because you run a respectable business?”
“No.” A muscle in his jaw tightens. “It’s ‘cause I don’t want men shovin’ their faces in your great tits, just so you can make tips.”
God, he’s insufferable.
“Maybe if you paid me a fair wage, I wouldn’t have to whore myself out,” she bites back. The words stumble out of her fast enough that her chest is left heaving.
She continues to struggle with her breath as Rhys’ presence overtakes her senses. Now, he’s right there, the hard planes of him brushing against her breasts, leaving her nipples aching. He fills her lungs with the subtle sweetness of jasmine, with the sea-salt scent of tangled limbs on endless summer nights.
In hindsight, she should have hopped off the bar and strode off, because that’s when Rhys pushes.
“You’re the one who keeps threatening to leave, darlin’, yet you keep comin’ back.”
A rough, calloused hand cups her cheek. Feyre forces herself to not lean into the touch. Still, she trembles, and it worsens when Rhys’ strong fingers glide behind her neck and tangle themselves with her hair.
The faintest of smirks tugs on a single corner of his mouth. “Tell me, Feyre, why is that? Haven’t you had enough of us?”
No, she wants to say. She hasn’t had enough. Not of Windhaven and its many charms, and definitely not of the overprotective, bad-tempered bar owner she can’t help but want.
She is fucked, she knows that. Especially here, bracketed by Rhys’ arms. Yet, impossibly, it feels like exactly where she needs to be
So, she gives in.
She doesn't jump into the deep end, just dips her toes into the pool of her desire. It starts simple, with the slow drag of her foot against the inside of Rhys’ leg. She can pinpoint the exact moment he clocks the movement; it’s when the grip on her hair tightens and he yanks her forward so he can press his forehead against the crown of her head.
“If we start this,” he rasps, “there’s no goin’ back.”
“I know.”
His singular gaze nearly seers her with its intensity. “And I’m never lettin’ another man so much as look at you.”
Feyre has to bite down on her bottom lip—she’s not sure if it’s to stop herself from kissing him or to stifle a laugh.
“I’m not sure you can enforce that,” she teases gently.
“Try me,” he dares.
The words are a fire, only a fraction of an inch from her mouth.
She accepts the challenge.
They meet in the middle, a hurried clash of lips and tongues and teeth. There is no artistry in their movements. Only raw, immutable desire. It singes Feyre until she’s left burning at every point of contact—from Rhys’ mouth on hers, to his hand plastered against her thigh and the other interwoven with her hair. Her own hands grab him by the neck, trying to pull him closer, despite the fact no space remains between them.
Desperation makes everything a blur.
One of Feyre’s legs hooks over Rhys’ hip. His hold shifts to grab her by the ass. With his mouth on her jaw, his tongue lavishes her pulse point in a series of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.
Some rational part of Feyre tells her that they need to slow down, that they need to maintain some decency in the town’s only bar. She can’t hold on to the thoughts, however. They fall away, as if slipping through her otherwise occupied fingers.
That’s when she finds herself being carried by capable arms. Rhys’ boots track against the floor, moving through the bar with what seems like muscle memory alone. The crowd must be parting for them, she realizes absently, because Rhys is only focused on licking a stripe up from her collarbone. There are a handful of hoots and hollers, and a very Cassian-like ‘Yee-haw,’ yet Feyre barely hears them.
She can only make note of Rhys’ steps, unyielding as his fingertips curve into the soft flesh of her ass. She gasps, breathless, as he stumbles through a back corridor and her shoulder knocks against the wall, making her throw a palm over Rhys’ cowboy hat to steady herself.
The door to his office falls open. The axis of her world shifts. Time seems to slow, and she can almost hear Rhys’ heartbeat as he guides her so her back is flat against the door. His palms splay out on either side of her. Then, using the tilt of his head, he leans into their newfound pace by gently coaxing her mouth back open with the sweep of his tongue.
“Darlin’, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs.
“I thought we’d already established that.” She bites down on his lower lip, drawing the delicate skin away from his mouth. She must be feeling bold, because she says, “Although, I’d be happy to go easy on you if you fuck me.”
He shifts back slightly then, creating space between their lips. Her eyes are closed, but she can almost picture the bright spark of mischief in his darkened gaze.
“Is this you askin’ nicely?”
“Not at all,” she breathes.
Tsking, he takes her face into the palms of his hands. He angles her just so, and indulges in a single lingering kiss.
“That’s too bad, baby,” he says, pulling way. “I was hoping that you’d beg.”
“Rhys…” she begins, but he’s already unwrapping her legs from around him and steadying her feet on the ground.
As distracted as she is, Feyre appreciates the way his jeans hug his ass as he stalks towards the large desk situated across the room. He sits down on its very edge, facing her, tapping his fingers against the wood.
His gaze rakes over her, evidently hungry. Yet, there’s something in his expression that’s almost expectant.
“I reckon you could start any minute now.”
She glares at him. Crossing her arms over her chest, she huffs. “You sadist.”
“C’mon now,” he drawls easily, getting comfortable as he leans back. “I ain’t hurtin’ you, am I, darlin’?”
“Rhys—”
“No.” His tone is commanding, leaving no room for argument. “Tell me how much you want it.”
His words make Feyre’s throat run dry, but she’s not one to cave when it comes to Rhys’ many demands. She decides to take matters in her own hands, allowing her fingers to clasp the bottom hem of her shirt and tug up. The precise script on her material must be right about one thing—she does have great tits, great enough that the sight of her breasts covered in lace leaves Rhys’ jaw falling slack.
It fills Feyre with an immense amount of satisfaction when she balls up the fabric, and throws it at him.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he catches the shirt easily and lifts it to his lips. Feyre nearly loses all conscious thought when he bites down on the material, flashing his teeth.
Lowering the shirt, he beckons her forward with his free hand.
“C’mere,” is all he says, staring at her with half-hooded eyes.
Feyre wants to move towards him, but she also wants to play. She juts out a hip, then cocks her head.
“Now, now,” she says, keeping her voice low even as she takes on a crooning accent, “I reckon you should be beggin' for me, darlin’.”
Rhys doesn't hesitate. “Please.”
“See, there are those manners.” She grins, letting long strides lead her forward until she’s standing between his legs. Until she’s close enough to tuck a single, slender finger beneath his chin and tilt back his head.
“There’s no going back,” she tells him.
Rhys nods, a subtle dip of his cowboy hat. Then, slanting his mouth, he seals the promise with a kiss.
Feyre loses herself in him for a series of heartbeats. All in the slow progression of her lips against his. Whereas out in the bar, they’d been frantic, now they move against each other in languid strokes, taking their time to learn the precise shape of each other’s mouths.
She moves tentatively when she guides her hand to his stomach. Swallowing the low moan that escapes him, she slides her fingers under his shirt so that she can trace the coarse etching of hair that leads beneath his pants.
“This okay?” she asks, pausing just underneath the waistband.
Against her palm, she can feel his breath hitch.
“Feyre darlin’, you can take anythin’ you want from me.”
And so, she does.
Feyre isn’t sure what happens first—if her knees hit the ground before she unbuckles his belt, or the other way around. She just knows that Rhys’ pupils dilate as he lifts his hips and shucks off his pants. The denim of his jeans gets trapped at his ankles, but that doesn’t prevent Feyre from squeezing the firm outline of his dick through his underwear as he pulls off his shirt.
“God, I want this.” The huskiness of her voice makes his cock pulse against her hand.
He wants this, too. She can feel it. He’s hard beneath her touch, and so fucking big that she can’t bring herself to resist temptation. She tugs down his briefs, revealing his swollen length and the single bead of liquid that glistens at its tip.
Lifting her eyes up to the midnight gaze of Rhys, she angles her head so she can dart out her tongue and taste him.
He groans—low and deep.
“You gonna let me fuck this pretty little mouth?” he asks, leaning forward so the pad of his thumb can drag against her lip.
Whatever she had against begging evades her now.
“Please,” she pants, mouth watering.
She swallows. Exactly once.
Rhys’ lips quirk in response, enough that Feyre can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks.
“I’m sure you’re a good girl, baby,” he says. “You gonna swallow just like that when I come?”
She nods quickly, leaving golden brown locks of her hair sweeping down her back. On her knees, in just her denim shorts and her lace bra, she doesn’t feel like a good girl. She feels every bit depraved. Like a wild, reckless thing, solely intent on giving in to her pleasure.
Maybe this is why she could never find it in herself to leave. Nothing in any other place could make her feel as alive as she does with Rhys. So, she tilts back her head and sticks out her tongue, painting a pretty picture of patience, hands resting on his bare thighs, kneeling at his feet.
“What a well-behaved slut,” Rhys croons, fisting his cock. “You were made for gettin’ on your knees, weren’t you?”
She can’t help but whimper.
“Just like I thought.” He briefly taps his dick to the flat-side of her tongue, quickly enough that she can’t wrap her lips around him.
“Such a desperate little thing,” he hums. “Always runnin’ your mouth, when all you needed was a good face fuckin’.”
He stretches past her swollen lips. Just barely.
It’s a throaty noise when he says, “Don’t worry, darlin’, daddy’s here now.”
Feyre lets out a choked sound as he thrusts his cock into her mouth.
Already, saliva makes the entire ordeal messy. It spills from the corners of her lips, as Rhys nearly gags her. On each punishing movement, he hits the back of her throat, whisking away any lingering fantasy that he’d be careful with her.
He’s greed and lust personified, and somehow that’s exactly what she wants. She moans around his length, digging the crescent moon shape of her fingernails into his thighs.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. The words are like kerosene poured atop flames. They fuel her drive, prompting her to hollow her cheeks and suck harder. She meets each relentless thrust with a bobbing of her head. Her eyes water, staving off tears, especially when Rhys wraps her hair around a hand and tugs.
He grunts, hips bucking. Despite her watery gaze, she can clearly see his whitened knuckles as his free hand grabs the edge of his desk.
He throws his head back then, biting down on a curse. Which leaves only the faint rustling of his cowboy hat as it falls to the ground.
“Fuck, I’m close,” he spits out. “Darlin’, don’t you stop.”
She doesn’t stop. She can’t. It’s her own desperation that keeps her head moving as he fucks her mouth. The length of his cock swells, straining against her lips. Then, he comes hard enough that Feyre struggles to swallow every last drop like the good girl that she is.
“Get over here,” Rhys demands before she even has the chance to catch her breath. Yanking her up by the hair, he drapes her across his lap. Yet despite the fact he’s being mean, when his mouth latches onto her, Feyre accepts it as his penance.
Rhys makes forgiveness taste like sin, or maybe that’s the tart sweetness that clings to her tongue. He steals every last moan from her lips, until she’s left panting the second his teeth nip below her jaw.
From there, he moves lower. A quick swipe down her neck. A bruising suctioning at the hollow of her throat. Then his lips part around the tight bud of her nipple, dampening the lace of her bra as his tongue lavishes her through it.
Hat off, Feyre cards her fingers through the dark locks of Rhys’ hair, tugging at the roots, directing his movements. His mouth never leaves her, save to switch from breast to breast.
Still, she can’t help but want more.
It takes three attempts for Feyre’s fingers to gain the steadiness required to unbutton her shorts. The rough denim then shifts in a sensuous glide down her legs, leaving her almost bare.
She only wears panties and her flimsy bra, a matching lace set.
Rhys leans back on his elbows, drinking her in like a shot of whiskey. His dark gaze turns ravenous as it narrows on the damp material between her legs. The wicked gleam in his bedroom eyes makes him look all kinds of intoxicated.
“Did suckin’ my cock make you wet, baby?” he slurs. As if he were genuinely drunk.
Pussy drunk, maybe.
All she says is, “Yes.”
“Hmmm. Has me wonderin’ what my patrons would think if they saw you dripping all over my lap.”
“You—” She lets out a breathless laugh, laden with nerves and dizzying energy. Her cheeks burn, yet she’s thoroughly enjoying the filthy mouth Rhys has on him.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone else looking at me,” she says.
Her breath hitches when his large hand presses flat against her stomach. His fingers fan out, a single one teasing the lace edge of her underwear.
“Darlin’,” he tells her, “you’ll do well to learn that I have no trouble showing folks that you’re mine.”
He…
“So you’re an exhibitionist?” she asks, nearly squirming when that finger of his inches lower.
“An opportunist,” he corrects. “If I see a bull-headed bartender with ‘great tits’, I try my hand at fuckin’ her. Witnesses be damned.”
Feyre waves a hand in the general direction of her face, trying for air.
“I’m guessing this is you throwin’ your hat in the ring?”
Rhys grins, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat. “Yes ma’am.”
She can’t shake the look he gives her, devilish intent with just a hint of charm. His hand rests lower across her stomach, applying pressure when his fingertips graze her panties, so close to her clit.
“And you want to fuck me?” she asks.
“An awful lot.”
Now, it’s a grin that reshapes her features. She sees the light of it reflected back through Rhys’ gaze.
“Then, do it,” she tells him.
And he does.
The wet fabric of her underwear is tugged to the side, as Rhys pulls the fine lace taut. Then, his thick fingers slip easily through Feyre’s soaked folds, gliding over her swollen clit and coaxing the ache that only builds with how empty she feels.
She claws at his chest, begging. “More.”
Two fingers push deep inside her.
Arching her back, Feyre lets out heavy pants.
One of her knees rests on the desk beside Rhys’ hip; the other is wedged between his legs so she straddles a wide, muscular thigh. She bucks her hips against the onslaught of his fingers, riding his hand as his thumb strokes her clit and waves of pleasure threaten to overtake her.
Rhys moans something almost unintelligible.
‘You close, baby?’ is what Feyre thinks he says.
She is. So close. Enough that she fists her hands into Rhys’ hair and uses a single rough movement to clash her mouth against his.
She comes apart around him, rasps falling onto eager lips. Her pussy flutters like a rapid pulse, and although her legs threaten to press together, they’re held open by the barrier that is Rhys’ thigh.
That’s when she feels a vicelike grip, a large hand circling her leg in its entirety, roughness pressing into the smooth skin above her knee. With his hold on her, Rhys spreads her wide so that both her legs rest on either side of him. So that as he leans against his desk, she’s seated atop him, solid wood biting her knees, a firm grip holding her in place with handfuls of her ass.
“Condom?” he asks. A note of desperation weaves into his voice as he ruts against her, positioning himself so that his cock glides across her stomach.
“I have an IUD.” Feyre gulps down a breath, unable to stop the writhing motion of her body.
“And I…” she continues. “I get regularly tested.”
“Me, too.”
“Okay.” The word is only a breath, a resolution.
Feyre’s mind starts racing in anticipation of what this means, so the next thing to leave her lips comes out hurried, syllables stumbling over each other.
It sounds something like: “We-don’t-have-to-use-a-condom-if-you-don’t-want.”
She’s not sure if Rhys has heard her. She considers enunciating the words better and propositioning him again, but then she notices the widened state of his eyes and the way he bites down on his lip.
“Yeah?” he says finally. His voice sounds hoarse. “I’d like that.”
Nodding eagerly, she echoes his response by grabbing his cock and guiding the hard length towards the sopping mess between her legs. Rhys’ breathing goes shallow as she teases herself with the head of it. It’s almost to much for her. The warmth of him. The pleasure. Even so, she indulges herself further as she sinks onto his dick in a single, fluid motion.
She stills as twin moans spill from their lips.
“Fuck, it’s—” Feyre feels her pussy clench around his cock. Her entire body pulls tight, and even though she’s just come, for a moment she can’t move. She can only breathe through gritted teeth and revel in the way Rhys fills her.
“It’s so deep,” she tells him.
Resting his forehead against hers, he kneads her ass in gentle motions. “I know, baby,” he says. “You’re takin’ me so well.”
She rolls her hips tentatively.
Rhys monopolizes the opportunity to slide off the straps of the bra she still wears. His fingers skim her shoulders and trail down her arm, leaving goosebumps atop her skin and a pulse fluttering at her wrist. He taps against the telltale beat, knowing, before tugging on the lace that covers her breasts. It ends up pooling around her waist like a soft, paper-thin belt. With that, and her panties pushed to the side, she feels like something decadent.
“Take what you need,” he says softly. His lips are featherlight when they sweep against hers.
It almost seems impossible that this is the same man who spends the better part of his time arguing with her, under the roof of this very bar. Yet, as much as Feyre has matched his fire, she can recognize that his intentions always carried an undercurrent of care.
For her.
And so, she infuses all the tenderness she can muster into the brush of her fingers over his chest and the glide of her tongue across the seam of his lips. They can fight and argue and play later. For now, all she wants to do is make love.
Feyre sets a languorous pace—for a slow, satisfying fucking. She digs her knees into the wood of Rhys’ desk, providing herself with enough leverage to guide him with gentle cants of her hips and drawn-out, overly indulgent thrusts. All the while, she keeps her hands firmly atop Rhys’ heart and keeps time of the ever quickening rhythm.
“You have the sweetest lips,” she tells him, on a lingering kiss.
The praise leaves Rhys pliant beneath her touch. He’s in no rush when he whispers, “I think you have ‘em.”
His words leave her melting, too.
Take what you need, he’d said earlier, and this is exactly that.
What she needs.
What she wants.
Fucking Rhys this way feels like the quiet embrace of a long, summer night. Of skin against skin, and the soft sheen of sweat that remains when the sun comes up.
It feels like the promise of more.
Feyre can imagine all the nights they’d spend together. When they’d have sex just like this, or spend hours bickering behind the bar. She can picture Rhys placing his cowboy hat atop her head and leading her outside. He’d place a hand at her hip and another at the small of her back, swaying her in the breeze to any strings of country music that drifted toward them.
Now, Rhys’ voice interrupts her daydreaming.
“Can you come for me again?” he asks.
Feyre nods her response, dipping her chin to meet his eyes. She’s taken aback for a moment, because he’s staring at her with something that looks awfully close to genuine awe. It brings the light of countless stars to his otherwise dark gaze, and softens his entire expression.
“That’s my girl,” he drawls.
And his words…
She’d already been close to her release, basking in the anticipation that came at the hands of their slow buildup. She’d felt it, from the tingles in her toes to the stretch of each vertebra as she arched her back.
But with Rhys’ words, she can feel herself about to tip over the edge. It pushes her to quicken her movements until she’s lost to the sensation of riding his cock, taking him over and over in punishing thrusts. She continues, despite her thighs burning with exertion and the fact that she can barely keep pace with Rhys’ onslaught, the relentless pounding punctuated with his fingers working her clit.
She can only hope that he knows how to catch her when she falls.
Because fall, she does.
Her orgasm rips through her in waves. A shriek spills from her open mouth. Her legs tremble of their own accord and her head tilts back, baring her throat and welcoming Rhys’ hot breath against her delicate skin. Then, she can feel the elation of her body, narrowing in on where her pussy pulses around his dick. She must tighten around him, because Rhys falls at the same time. A rough cry leaves his lips as he spills his release inside her.
It takes a few moments for them to gain any semblance of control.
Feyre starts to come down from her high, heavy pants shifting to something softer. She’s barely conscious of Rhys’ strong arms around her, but she finds herself burying her face against the slick sheen of his chest.
He seems content to let her nestle atop him. Feyre is filled with a sated happiness, too. The steady thrum of his heartbeat threatens to lull her to sleep.
Then she hears a soft rumble as he speaks.
“How’d it feel, darlin’?”
She lifts her head at the sound of his voice, winking open an eye to look at him. She feels entirely spent, but she lets him cradle her face and tilt up her head. Lets him kiss her mouth, lazily enough that he only catches the corner.
“To do what?” she asks, breathless, melting at the sight of his crooked grin as he leans back.
“To ride a country boy.”