Page 11

His mouth crashes against mine, hot and demanding, tasting of whiskey and bad decisions. I should push him away. I should slap him across his stupidly handsome face. I should do anything but what I'm actually doing—grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and yanking him closer, kissing him back with two years of pent-up rage and longing.

"I hate you," I hiss against his lips, even as my body betrays me, arching toward him like he's gravity and I'm falling.

"I know," he mutters, his hand sliding up to tangle in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp. "Hate me harder."

The center console digs into my ribs as I half-climb across it, driven by a need that overwhelms every rational thought. His hands are everywhere—my hair, my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt to find bare skin. Each touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake.

"This doesn't change anything," I pant against his mouth, even as I'm straddling him now, the steering wheel pressing into my back.

"Shut up," he growls, capturing my bottom lip between his teeth. "Just shut up for once."

The cab is filled with the sound of ragged breathing and the creak of leather seats. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me against him like he's afraid I'll run. Smart man. Part of me is still calculating the distance to the door.

"Stop thinking," he murmurs, trailing hot kisses down my neck.

"I can't," I gasp, my body and mind at war. His mouth finds that spot just below my ear that makes me shudder, and for a second everything goes fuzzy. "This is a mistake."

"Then it's one we're making together," Rhett mutters against my skin, his stubble rough against my neck.

My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as warning bells scream in my head. Two years of carefully constructed walls crumbling under his touch. Two years of convincing myself I was over him, that I'd moved on, that I didn't need him anymore.

All lies.

The steering wheel digs painfully into my back as Rhett's hands slide up my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my shirt. I arch into his touch, hating myself for it, hating him for making me want this so badly.

"We're still having that talk," I manage between kisses, my hands now working at the buttons of his shirt with desperate urgency.

"Is that what we're calling this?" His laugh is low against my throat, vibrating through me. His hands slide down to grip my ass, pulling me harder against him.

"This isn't—fuck—this isn't the talk." My head falls back as his teeth graze my collarbone. "This is a mistake."

"You keep saying that." His voice is rough with need, his breath hot against my skin. "But you're not stopping."

I should. God knows I should. But his hands are sliding under my shirt now, calloused palms against bare skin, and my body remembers his touch like it was yesterday instead of two years ago.

"Neither are you," I counter, grinding down against him, feeling him hard beneath me.

"Never claimed I would," Rhett says, his voice a dangerous rumble against my skin. His hands slide up my ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts with deliberate slowness. "Never claimed I wanted to."

The cab of his truck feels like it's shrinking, the air between us charged and heavy. Outside, the ranch sits silent under moonlight, but here, everything is heat and friction and two years of unresolved everything.

"This changes nothing," I whisper, even as my fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. "Tomorrow, we're still—"

"Tomorrow can go fuck itself," he growls, capturing my mouth again.

His kiss is brutal and perfect, stealing my breath and my common sense in equal measure. I should push him away. I should climb off his lap and walk into the house and lock my door and forget the way his hands feel.

Rhett’s hands slide to my hips, fingers digging in as he pulls me harder against him. The friction sends sparks shooting up my spine, tearing a gasp from my throat that he swallows with another kiss.

"We should go inside," I manage between kisses, even as I'm tugging his shirt free from his jeans.

"You planning to run if I let you out of this truck?" His voice is rough, his breath hot against my neck.

"Maybe."

He laughs, the sound more growl than humor. "At least you're honest."

My fingers finally find skin, tracing the hard planes of his stomach. The muscles jump beneath my touch, and something primal and satisfied uncurls in my chest at his reaction. Two years haven't changed how responsive he is to my hands.

"Fuck," he hisses when I scrape my nails lightly down his abs.

Rhett’s hands tighten on my hips, almost painfully, and his head falls back against the headrest. The moonlight catches the strong line of his throat, and I can't resist—I lean forward and press my mouth to his pulse point, feeling it race beneath my lips.

"Willow," he groans, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair.

The sound of my name in his mouth, rough with need, sends heat pooling low in my belly. I roll my hips against him, chasing the friction, the contact, the release from two years of pent-up everything.

"I'm still mad at you," I whisper against his throat, my teeth grazing his skin.

"I know." His hand tightens in my hair, tugging my head back so he can look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. "Be mad tomorrow.”

"Tomorrow's already pissed at both of us," I whisper, but I'm already reaching for his belt buckle, my fingers clumsy with urgency.

The truck suddenly feels too small, too exposed despite the darkness surrounding us. Every brush of his fingers against my skin ignites something primal, something I've spent two years trying to bury under layers of anger and hurt.

"Fuck tomorrow," Rhett growls, his hands sliding to pull my jeans down.

The truck windows fog with our breath as clothing becomes an obstacle, a barrier neither of us can tolerate. My jeans catch on my boots—of course they do—and Rhett curses, impatient hands tugging at denim while I fumble with his belt buckle. There's nothing graceful about it, nothing like those slow, tender moments we once shared. This is desperation, pure and raw.

"Lift up," he commands, and I do, allowing him to yank my jeans down just enough.

The cool leather against the back of my thighs makes me gasp, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands as they slide back up, fingers hooking in the elastic of my underwear. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but all I feel is need—sharp and insistent as a knife's edge.

"Fuck, Willow," he breathes, his fingers finding me wet and ready. His touch is both familiar and new, his calloused fingertips remembering exactly how to make me fall apart.

"Don't talk," I hiss, grinding against his hand. "Just—fuck—don't talk."

Talking means thinking, and thinking means remembering all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His mouth captures mine again, swallowing my gasp as his fingers work their magic, circling and stroking with devastating precision.

The steering wheel presses into my back as I arch against him, my body chasing a release I've denied myself for too long. His free hand tangles in my hair, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his fingers.

I manage to get his belt undone, the button of his jeans popping open under my impatient hands. He groans when I slide my palm against him, hard beneath denim.

"Condom," I pant against his mouth, a moment of clarity cutting through the haze of lust.

"Back pocket," he growls, lifting his hips to help me reach.

My fingers fumble with his wallet, finding the foil packet tucked inside. A distant part of my brain wonders if he's been carrying it around hoping for this moment, but I shove the thought away. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now except the feeling of him against me, the promise of relief from this ache that's been building for two years.

I tear the packet open with my teeth, my hands too unsteady for precision. Rhett watches me, his eyes dark and hungry, as I roll the condom down his length with trembling fingers. His breath hitches, jaw clenching as he fights for control.

"Last chance to run, Hayes," he says, voice strained.

I answer by positioning myself over him, my eyes locked on his. "Shut up, Calloway."

When I sink down onto him, we both groan. The stretch and fullness is almost too much after so long, my body struggling to remember how to accommodate him. Rhett's hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me still.

"Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed against mine. "Give me a second or this'll be over before it starts."

I dig my nails into his shoulders, fighting the urge to move, to take what I need. But I understand—I'm barely holding it together myself. The sensation of him inside me again after so long is overwhelming, my body humming with recognition.

"Been thinking about this," Rhett mutters against my neck, his voice strained. "Every fucking night."

"Don't," I warn, not wanting his words to penetrate the wall I'm desperately trying to maintain. "Just...don't."

His laugh is dark against my skin. "Still giving orders, Hayes?"

I rock my hips experimentally, and his grip tightens, a strangled sound escaping his throat. Power surges through me at his response, at the knowledge that I can still affect him this way. That for all his swagger and control, I can reduce him to this.

"Fuck, Wills," he groans, his head falling back against the headrest. "You feel—Christ—you feel just so goddamn perfect.”

His words cut through me in a way I'm not ready for, too honest, too close to the bone. I silence him with a kiss, rough and demanding, as I start to move. Finding a rhythm is awkward at first—the confined space, the steering wheel at my back, the way our bodies struggle to remember and forget all at once. But then something clicks, muscle memory taking over.

"Shit, yes," Rhett hisses, his hands guiding my hips, fingers digging into flesh as I ride him.

The truck's suspension creaks with our movements, the sound obscene in the quiet night. Anyone walking by would know exactly what's happening inside this fogged-up cab, but I can't bring myself to care. Not with Rhett is hitting that perfect spot inside me, not with his mouth hot on my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone.

"Harder," I demand, my head falling back as pleasure coils tighter in my core. "Fucking harder, Rhett."

He growls, the sound vibrating through me, and suddenly his grip changes. One arm wraps around my waist while the other braces against the seat, and he thrusts up into me with enough force to make the whole truck rock.

"Like that?" he pants against my ear, his voice wrecked. "This what you need, Willow?"

"Yes," I gasp, stars exploding behind my eyelids as he hits that perfect spot again and again. "God, yes."

The world narrows to just this—his body against mine, inside mine, the slick slide of skin on skin, the mingled sounds of our breathing growing more ragged with each thrust. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving half-moon imprints I know he'll wear tomorrow.

I can feel it building, that exquisite tension coiling tighter with each thrust. Rhett's rhythm grows more erratic, his breathing harsh against my neck. His hand slides between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and I nearly scream at the contact.

"Come for me," he demands, his voice a ragged command against my ear. "Let me feel you, Willow. Let me fucking feel you fall apart."

"I hate you," I gasp, even as my body tightens around him, trembling on the precipice.

"No, you don't," he says, and the certainty in his voice pushes me over.

His thumb circles with devastating precision, and I'm lost. The pressure that's been building explodes outward, waves of pleasure washing over me with such intensity that I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. My body clenches around him, pulsing and gripping as I shatter.

"Fuck, yes," Rhett groans, his hips bucking up into mine with renewed urgency. "That's it, baby. That's it, Wills. Such a good fuckin’ girl for me.”

The world whites out as my orgasm rips through me, my body clamping down around him with bruising force. I'm aware of nothing but sensation—his fingers digging into my hips, his mouth hot against my throat, the delicious fullness of him inside me. My teeth sink into the muscle of his shoulder to muffle the sounds trying to tear themselves from my throat, copper tang filling my mouth.

"Fuck, Willow," Rhett groans, his voice shredded and raw. "The way you feel when you come—Christ, I missed this."

His thrusts grow more desperate, more erratic, his control fracturing with each passing second. I can feel the tension building in his body, the way his muscles lock and strain beneath my hands. His breathing comes in harsh pants against my neck, warm and damp, each exhale punctuated with a broken curse or fragment of my name.

"You're so fucking perfect," he growls, his voice a shattered thing. "Never stopped wanting this. Never stopped wanting you."

I should shut him up, should cover his mouth with mine to keep those dangerous words from slipping out. But I'm too far gone, riding the aftershocks of my own release while chasing the high of watching him lose control. My hands slide up to frame his face, forcing him to look at me as he comes undone.

His eyes lock with mine, pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left—just bottomless black ringed with the thinnest sliver of blue. There's something raw and vulnerable there that catches in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Come for me," I whisper, rolling my hips in a way I know drives him crazy. "Let go, Rhett."

The sound he makes is almost animal—a deep, guttural groan that seems torn from somewhere primal. His hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, holding me in place as he thrusts up one final time. I feel the moment he breaks, his entire body going rigid beneath me, muscles coiled tight as a spring before releasing in powerful waves.

"Willow," he gasps, and my name on his lips sounds like both prayer and profanity. "Fuck, Willow…”

His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he shudders beneath me. For a moment, we stay locked together, sweat cooling on our skin, hearts pounding in tandem. Reality hasn't crashed back yet. We're suspended in this fragile aftermath, neither of us willing to be the first to shatter it.

I'm suddenly aware of everything—the fog on the windows, the ache in my thighs, the steering wheel digging into my back. Rhett's hands have gentled on my hips, his thumbs now tracing small, soothing circles against my skin. It's this tenderness that finally breaks the spell, sending panic crawling up my spine.

"Get off," I mutter, pushing against his chest. "I need to—"

Headlights suddenly sweep across the truck, bright beams cutting through the fog on our windows.

My heart stops. Rhett freezes beneath me, his hands tightening instinctively on my hips. The headlights illuminate our foggy sanctuary,

"Shit," I hiss, scrambling off him with all the grace of a newborn colt, limbs tangling as I try to put distance between us. "Shit, shit, shit."

Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. What the fuck did I just do?

Rhett moves with practiced efficiency, disposing of the condom somewhere (I don't want to know) while I yank my jeans back up with trembling hands. My underwear is twisted, my shirt rumpled beyond saving. I look exactly like what I am—a woman who just got thoroughly fucked in the front seat of a pickup truck.

The headlights grow brighter as the truck pulls up alongside Rhett's, the engine rumbling before cutting off with a decisive click. My fingers fumble with my jeans button, panic making me clumsy.

"Fuck," I whisper, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "It's Knox. That's his truck."

Rhett's already tucking himself away, movements quick and efficient. He reaches over to help straighten my shirt, but I bat his hands away.

"Don't touch me," I hiss, trying to smooth my hair which I know must look like I've been caught in a tornado. "This is bad enough already."

A car door slams outside, the sound like a gunshot in the still night. Then another. Two sets of boots crunch on gravel, heading our way.

"Relax," Rhett murmurs, reaching over to wipe a smudge from my cheek with his thumb. "The windows are fogged to hell. They can't see shit."

But I know better. Knox has the eyes of a hawk and the intuition of a bloodhound. He's going to take one look at this truck and know exactly what happened here. My stomach twists with dread as a shadow falls across the driver's side window, followed by a sharp rap of knuckles against glass.

Rhett rolls down his window, cool as you please, like we haven't just been screwing each other's brains out. The night air rushes in, cold against my flushed skin.

"Evening, Razor," Knox drawls, leaning down to peer into the truck. His eyes slide from Rhett to me, one eyebrow arching so high it nearly disappears.

"Evening, Viper," Rhett replies, his voice steady despite everything.

My brother’s eyes narrow, taking in my disheveled appearance and the lingering fog on the windows. A slow smile spreads across his face, equal parts amusement and something darker.

"You two having a... conversation?" He says, gaze flicking between us.

My face burns hot enough to restart the window fog. I want to crawl under the seat and disappear.

"Something like that," Rhett answers, completely unashamed. His hand finds my knee under Knox's line of sight, squeezing once before I jerk away.

"Interesting," Knox drawls. "Cause from where I'm standing, looks like you were having more than words."

“We were just…" I start, but my voice comes out scratchy and raw. I clear my throat and try again. "We were talking."

"Talking," Knox repeats, his voice flat as Nebraska. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Jace, smirking like he's just won the lottery. "That why the windows are fogged up like a damn sauna?"

My face burns hotter. "It's cold out. The heater was on."

"Uh-huh." Knox's eyes flick to Rhett, hardening into something dangerous. "And I suppose that bite mark on Razor's neck is from... talking too?"

Fuck. I glance at Rhett's neck and sure enough, there's an angry red mark just above his collarbone, visible where his shirt's still partially unbuttoned.

"Well, I need to take a shower and get some sleep. It's been a long day, you know, lots of blood."

Rhett tries to hold back a laugh, which earns him a vexed glare from my brother.

"Uh-huh," Knox says, clearly not buying a word. His eyes flick between us, taking in every detail—my rumpled shirt, Rhett's mussed hair, the unmistakable tension still crackling in the air. "Any particular reason you two couldn't have this... conversation... inside?"

"Privacy," Rhett answers smoothly, like we're discussing the weather instead of being caught post-sex by my brother. "Some conversations need to happen without an audience."

Knox's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "And just what kind of conversation were you having with my sister, Calloway?"

"The overdue kind," Rhett says, unflinching under Knox's glare.

I want to sink through the floor of the truck. Or maybe just die on the spot. Either option seems preferable to this moment.

"Knox," I interrupt. “Drop it.”

My brother's eyes shift to me, sharp as flint. "You sure about that, Willow? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're picking up exactly where you left off with the man who walked out on you when you needed him most."

His words land like a slap. Behind him, Jace shifts uncomfortably, suddenly finding the gravel beneath his boots fascinating.

"This isn't the time or place," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "And it's definitely not your business."

Knox's laugh is short and humorless. "Not my business? When I had to pick up the pieces after he left? When I watched you fall apart for months?"

"Knox," Rhett warns, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that used to make cowboys twice his size back down.

"No, you don't get to 'Knox' me, Calloway.”

I shake my head and open the truck door. “I’m going to bed. Fight it out on the porch and don’t come cryin’ to me to patch you idiots up.”

I slam the truck door hard enough to make the whole vehicle shudder, stalking toward the house on legs that still feel like jelly. Behind me, I can hear Knox's voice rising, sharp with accusation, and Rhett's lower rumble in response. Jace wisely backs away from the brewing storm, shooting me a sympathetic glance as I pass.

The night air is cold against my heated skin, a stark reminder of what just happened. What I just let happen. My mind replays it in vivid technicolor—Rhett's hands on my skin, his mouth against my neck, the way he filled me so perfectly I could have cried.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

The porch steps creak under my weight as I climb them, thrusting the door open. I practically run to my room, stripping my clothes off as I go.

Fuck the shower. Fuck everything else.

I slam my bedroom door shut, throwing my clothes and boots in the corner. Grabbing an old shirt, I toss it on and crawl under my blankets.

I look down to see that it’s one of Rhett’s old shirts I kept and the damn breaks.

The tears come hot and fast, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I bury my face in my pillow to muffle the sound, not wanting anyone—especially not Rhett or Knox—to hear me fall apart. The shirt smells faintly of him still, despite countless washings, or maybe that's just my imagination playing cruel tricks.

Outside, I can hear their voices rising and falling, Knox's sharp with accusation, Rhett's a low, defensive rumble. I should care what they're saying. I should worry about Knox's fists finding Rhett's face. But I'm too exhausted, too wrung out from the emotional whiplash of the past hour.

What the fuck did I just do?