Page 33 of Curvy Cabin Fever

MORGAN

R hett’s standing in front of the fire, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching the flames like they insulted his mother.

The way the light plays across his shirtless torso makes my throat dry, and I know I’m going straight to hell for the way my eyes linger on his chest, tracing that scar on his ribs before drifting lower.

I’ve wanted him for years, craved him with a hunger that never quite faded, but now with the storm finally passed and Damien and Aria off to town, I’m done pretending otherwise.

“Can you stop staring at the damn fire and talk to me?”

Rhett remains motionless and silent, but the slight shift in his shoulders tells me he heard. We’ve been circling each other for days, tension building while we waited out the worst of the weather, and now that we have the cabin to ourselves, all that remains is this unspoken thing between us.

I set my drink down on the coffee table and move closer until I’m standing behind him, near enough to feel the tension radiating from his body like heat off a furnace.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask, keeping my tone casual though the question is anything but.

He glances over his shoulder. “Why would I be mad?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I kissed you in front of everyone? Or maybe because you liked it.”

That gets him. His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare, yet he still doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of wind outside.

“You gonna pretend this isn’t happening?” I question, moving closer until my chest brushes against his back, the heat of his skin palpable through my thin shirt.

“I’m not pretending shit,” he growls, his voice rough with something that sounds like resignation.

“So do something about it.”

He turns with unexpected speed, and before I can catch my breath, he’s backed me against the wall, his forearm braced beside my head, his body crowding mine in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

Oh my.

His face hovers inches from mine, eyes wild with conflict, mouth twisted as though he’s teetering on the edge between violence and desire. “You think I don’t want you?” he snarls, his breath warm against my lips.

“I know you want me,” I reply, keeping my voice low and steady despite the hammering of my heart. “I just don’t think you know what to do with it.”

“I’ve been trying not to want this.”

“Don’t.”

He stares at me with an intensity that might have made a lesser man look away, then crushes his mouth to mine in a kiss that feels more like a confession than anything else.

Nothing about it is soft or sweet—it’s all teeth and tongue and years of pent-up longing.

Rhett kisses like a starving man, like someone who’s denied himself for so long he’s forgotten how to take without breaking.

Yes, baby, give it to me. Give in to yourself.

I welcome the onslaught, letting him press me harder against the wall, his hands gripping my shirt, yanking it up and over my head with an urgency that borders on desperation.

“Fuck,” he mutters when he sees me bare-chested, his hands running down my torso as though committing every line to memory. “I shouldn’t want this.”

“But you do.”

Instead of arguing, he sinks his teeth into my neck, marking me in a way that sends heat coursing through my veins.

We make our way toward the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing, leaving a trail of evidence behind us.

By the time we tumble onto the mattress, we’re breathless and half-naked, well beyond the point of no return.

I climb atop him, straddling his thighs, and what I see in his eyes nearly knocks the wind from my lungs—not just desire, but a complex tangle of confusion, longing, rage, and underneath it all, something that looks remarkably like love.

“Rhett,” I whisper, my voice gentler than before. “You don’t have to fight it anymore.”

He grabs my wrist with enough force to leave marks. “I don’t know how to want this and survive it.”

I lean down until our foreheads touch, sharing the same breath, the same space. “You don’t have to survive it. You just have to feel it.”

When he lets me kiss him again, something fundamental has shifted between us.

This time he opens for me, surrenders the lead, allowing me to set the pace.

My hands wander down his chest, across the sharp ridges of his abdomen, and when I finally wrap my fingers around him, the groan that tears from his throat is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, Morgan...”

I stroke him slowly, reveling in the way his breath catches, the way his eyes roll back, the impressive hardness of him making my own body ache with anticipation.

“You want me?” I ask, needing to hear him say it.

His voice breaks on the word. “Yes.”

“Then tell me how you want it.”

He blinks up at me, lips parted, vulnerability written across his features. “I want you to fuck me.”

My entire body goes still, the confession hitting me like a physical blow because hearing those words from him means everything.

I’ve imagined this moment countless times, but fantasy pales against the reality of Rhett beneath me, eyes dark with desire and vulnerability, asking for something he’s probably never asked for before.

And I assumed I would be the bottom in this situation.

“You sure?” My voice comes out hoarse, barely audible over the thundering of my heart.

He nods, a single jerky movement. “Just... I’ve never…” he admits, and the roughness in his voice makes something in my chest tighten.

He’s never been with another man. I know, and I’m so fucking happy it’s me.

I lean over to the bedside drawer, where I’d stashed supplies the first day we arrived—hopeful or presumptuous, I’m not sure which.

The bottle feels cool against my palm as I click it open.

I warm the lube between my fingers before moving between his thighs, giving him time to change his mind, to pull away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he plants his feet on the mattress and lets his knees fall open, the most trusting gesture I’ve ever seen from him.

“I’ll go slow,” I promise, placing a steadying hand on his hip.

The first touch makes him inhale sharply—my slicked finger circling, testing, before pressing gently inside. His body resists initially, tight with tension, and I wait, watching his face for any sign of discomfort.

“Breathe,” I murmur, and he does, a long exhale that makes his chest fall and some of the tightness around my finger ease.

Rhett clutches at the sheets, his knuckles going white as I work him open with patient deliberation, adding a second finger when his body yields to the first. I curl them carefully, searching, and when I find that spot inside him, his back arches off the bed.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes flying open, pupils blown wide.

“Good?” I ask, though his reaction tells me everything I need to know.

He nods wordlessly, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle pulsing beneath his stubbled skin. His thighs tremble with the effort of holding himself open, vulnerable—a state I know doesn’t come naturally to him.

When I add a third finger, stretching him with meticulous care, sweat beads along his hairline.

His breathing comes in short, controlled bursts, like he’s fighting for composure.

I lean down to kiss his stomach, his chest, the hollow of his throat—anywhere I can reach—while my fingers continue their slow, thorough preparation.

“Morgan,” he groans, voice wrecked. “I’m ready. Please.”

The plea in his voice nearly undoes me. I withdraw my fingers carefully, his body clutching at them as if reluctant to let go.

More lube, then I’m positioning myself between his legs, the blunt head of my dick pressing against him.

Our eyes lock, a moment of perfect understanding passing between us.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say, needing him to know he has control here, even when he’s giving it up.

The first push is exquisitely slow—just the head of my dick breaching him, his body yielding inch by reluctant inch.

The sensation is almost too intense, heat and pressure surrounding me in a way that threatens to shatter my control.

Rhett’s mouth falls open, a soundless gasp, his eyes squeezed shut.

I pause, buried just past the crown, giving him time to adjust. My arms tremble with the effort of holding back, of not driving forward into that perfect heat. He pants as a fine sheen of sweat makes his skin glow.

“More,” he whispers after what feels like eternity, his hands finding my forearms, gripping tight.

I sink deeper, watching his face transform with each inch.

Pain and pleasure war across his features, neither quite winning out until I’m fully seated inside him, our bodies connected as completely as they can be.

When I finally push all the way in—bottoming out with a slow, deep slide—he makes a sound like something fundamental breaking open within him; a raw, vulnerable noise I’ve never heard from him before.

“Christ, you feel...” I trail off, unable to find words adequate for the sensation.

His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with an intensity that steals my breath. There’s wonder there, mixed with desire and a hint of astonishment, as if he’s surprised by his own response to this invasion.

“Move,” he says, the word somewhere between command and plea.

I withdraw slightly before pushing back in, establishing a rhythm that starts maddeningly slow. He feels tight and hot and perfect around me, his body gradually softening, accepting me deeper with each careful thrust. But I can tell from the way his hands clutch at my back that he needs more.

I don’t hold back, knowing instinctively that gentleness isn’t what he craves.

This isn’t about treating him delicately—it’s about giving him the intensity he needs, the only time he truly allows himself to let go.

I adjust my angle, driving deeper, harder, watching as pleasure overtakes discomfort on his face.

“Like that?” I question, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, hips rising to meet my thrusts, finding our rhythm together.

His head tips back, exposing the strong column of his throat, and I can’t resist leaning down to taste the salt of his skin there.

The change in angle makes him cry out, a broken sound of pure pleasure that I feel more than hear.

His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me impossibly deeper, urging me to move faster, harder.

I brace one hand beside his head, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks, and give him exactly what he’s asking for—what we both need. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by his increasingly desperate moans and my own ragged breathing.

His body tightens around me with each thrust, a velvet fist that threatens to push me over the edge too soon. I reach between us to wrap my hand around him, stroking in time with my thrusts, and his whole body goes rigid.

“I can’t—” he starts, but the words dissolve into a groan as his release overtakes him, spilling hot and slick between us, his body clenching rhythmically around me.

The sight of him coming undone—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry, body arched in perfect abandon—is all it takes to send me following after him. My orgasm hits me hard—pleasure crashing through me as I drive deep one last time, his name a whisper on my lips.

We remain joined as the aftershocks ripple through us both, my forehead pressed to his shoulder, his hands still gripping my back as though afraid I might pull away too soon. Only when our breathing begins to slow, do I carefully withdraw, causing him to wince slightly despite my gentleness.

I collapse beside him, our sweat-slick bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle. For a long time, we just lie there. The only sound is our gradually slowing breaths.

Then, in a gesture more intimate than anything we’ve just shared, he rolls toward me and drapes an arm across my chest. His face finds the hollow of my neck, and I feel the warm rush of his breath against my skin.

Without a word, he wraps his arms around me and holds on tight, as though afraid I might disappear if he lets go.

And I understand completely, because I have no intention of ever letting him go again.