Page 28

One of Rhett’s hands flies from my face to the mirror behind me—just beside my head—as he braces himself. He ends up so close that I can feel the heat radiating off him, and I have to spread my legs wider just to keep from touching him.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the plane rumbles again.

My chest tightens until it aches, and I start to hyperventilate.

Rhett doesn’t seem to register how close he’s gotten, because he doesn’t back away.

If anything, he leans in further, sliding his hand from the mirror to the back of my neck.

His thumb moves in slow circles, trying to ease the tension .

“I know it might not feel like it, but you’re breathing. You’re getting air. You’re okay?—”

“N–no,” I gasp, “I can’t?—”

“Caroline Barrett,” he says firmly, “you know damn well there is nothing you can’t do.”

My eyes snap open. His face is inches from mine.

“Am I right?”

Tears sting behind my eyes, but I force a nod.

“ Good girl ,” Rhett murmurs, bringing his other hand to cradle the back of my neck, gently tipping my head up.

My chest rises and falls too fast, and when thunder rattles the cabin again, I think my heart might actually stop. But Rhett just gives a small shake of his head, then presses his forehead to mine.

“Breathe,” he commands. “You’re doing it. You can do it. Just breathe.”

My lips part, and I exhale a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“That’s it,” he says, then shifts closer, his mouth brushing my ear. “Inhale . Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. ”

I’m doing the best I can, but every third inhale or so is cut short by a sob or whine breaking through as the weather rages on.

I’m breathing—I know I am—but it’s hard. Everything is tingling. My skin, my limbs, my chest. I can’t focus. The deeper I inhale, the hotter I feel, like my body’s on overload.

And then it hits me—why.

Between Rhett’s hands anchoring my neck, his breath warm on my ear, and the strain in my thighs from holding myself open to make room for him—it’s too much.

I’m a trembling mess. And once I become aware of it all, each individual pressure point being affected only pulses harder.

Overstimulation crashes into the fear, and suddenly, the physical discomfort wins out .

My muscles give. I can’t hold the position anymore. My legs relax and fall together, folding around Rhett’s waist with the angle I’m sitting at, pressing him close.

He doesn’t flinch or move—just stays focused on calming me. If he notices the contact, he doesn’t say.

The release in my legs sends a shuddering breath through me. Rhett must think it’s panic, because he lowers his head into the crook of my neck, hands sliding down to cradle my ribcage.

“I have you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, baby.”

I take in a jagged breath, and my shoulders rise—high enough that his lips graze the one he’s leaning over. I think it’ll be a fleeting touch, but instead, he lowers his head further, letting his mouth drift along my shoulder.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispers. “I’m with you. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Whatever was keeping me upright vanishes. My body sags, my bones suddenly gelatin, and I start to slide off the counter.

“Whoa,” Rhett says quickly, catching me by the thighs. “Stay with me.”

His grip is firm but gentle, his hands moving in slow, calming strokes along my legs.

But the turbulence soon turns Rhett’s careful touches clumsy—shifting them into something frenzied and uneven. The rhythm of his hands against my skin sends a whimper slipping past my lips as I bite down on my bottom one.

“Cub, tell me what I can do?—”

It’s Rhett’s rushed words that get cut short this time when the plane bucks. He stumbles forward, one hand slipping off my thigh as I begin to slide. We both scramble for balance—Rhett grabs the counter, and my hands shoot out, gripping his forearm at the exact moment it happens.

And then I see stars.

The only space Rhett had to grab was the three square inches of counter between my spread thighs, and now his wrist is pressed firmly against my core.

The plane lurches again, like we’re hitting invisible speed bumps, and I squirm to create space. But he’s still trying to regain his balance, unintentionally holding me in place. My head thuds back against the mirror as I pant, fighting against gravity.

But then, between one breath and the next, my body relaxes slightly—and when I shift to the side, something cold and hard hits a spot behind my leggings that sends a firework of sensation shooting through me.

I glance down and spot it—one of Rhett’s custom silver number 19 cufflinks. It’s angled just right. My back muscles slacken again, and I find myself slipping forward another millimeter, grinding into the cool metal nub.

A second wave detonates—stronger this time—and just as Rhett lifts his head from my shoulder, a hiss escapes my lips.

“Shit, sorry, Cub,” he mutters. “Guess we need to give seatbelts a little more credit?—”

He cuts off.

It takes me a second to peel my eyes open, and when I do, he’s not looking at my face. His gaze is locked between us.

The plane is still rocking, and at first, I don’t understand the difference in the way we’re moving. Then a moan escapes me—and I realize what he’s feeling. What I’m doing.

I freeze, my face flushing.

I release my hold on him, scrambling to push myself back onto the counter. “Sorry, I?—”

“No.” Rhett’s voice is low, commanding. He grabs my wrist before I can pull away.

He brings my hand back down, threading his fingers through mine and wrapping them around his forearm again.

“Take what you need. ”

My brows knit. Rhett says nothing, his heated gaze locked on my face, unwavering.

“I—I don’t understa?—”

The plane jerks forward.

I slide—this time landing not just on his wrist, but on the full heel of his hand. A shock shoots through me so sharp it makes my legs tremble and a broken sound claw its way from my throat.

Rhett untangles his fingers from mine, letting me grip his arm alone as he slides his hand into my hair, gently pulling me toward him.

“You don’t need to understand everything,” he whispers into my temple.

I swallow hard, colors dancing behind my fluttering eyelids. I swivel my hips to the side, almost unconsciously, searching for that feeling again. When I find it, I do it again—grinding against him without even thinking.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

His fingers tighten in my hair. He heard.

The plane tilts left, and I roll my hips right, trying to make the movement subtle. But I take it too far, linger too long.

When I glance up, Rhett’s already watching me.

“Don’t get shy on me now, Cub.”

I don’t know what it is about being in the air that makes this feel like a dream. Like the rules don’t apply. Like none of it will matter once we land.

I pull my hand from his arm—knowing he’ll stay in place—and brace it behind me. Rhett stays still, eyes on mine, waiting. I hold his gaze, sliding forward.

That sweet spot presses right into his wrist, and then I lift my hips, swirling them, letting the cufflink graze over me again and again where I’m aching the most. It’s positioned just right, each pass making me shiver .

My head falls back, a moan muffled between my teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groans, dropping his head to my shoulder. His lips trail briefly up my neck before he angles his head down, watching me move. “You look so fucking pretty.”

The pressure inside me coils tighter. I need release. Desperately. But I can’t quite get there, no matter how hard I chase it. My moans soften into frustrated whimpers.

Suddenly, Rhett’s hand lifts from the counter like it’s instinct—reaching for me—but he freezes, hovering just shy of touching me. His hand trembles.

“S–sorry,” he rasps, slowly lowering it again.

This time, I reach for him.

I wrap my hand around his wrist and guide it up, just until it’s hovering over me again.

“God,” he murmurs. “I can feel the heat coming off you. You trying to fucking kill me, baby?”

I let go and lean back, so the thin fabric of my leggings brushes his fingers.

The contact makes me yelp—and Rhett’s face crumples with restraint, his eyes going heavy, expression turning feral.

He finally rests his fingers against me, just lightly.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

He sinks lower, his face level with the counter. Rotating his hand, he presses into me, fingers angled up, spreading me open through the leggings.

“What are you?—”

My words die when he replaces his hand with his mouth, pressing his nose into the seam of my leggings and dragging it in one long stroke over me.

“Rhett!”

He breathes me in, slow and deep. His exhale fans against me, shooting through to my every nerve ending and making my back arch .

“God, look at you.”

He slides his fingers over the soaked fabric, then brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean.

His eyes roll back. “So fucking sweet.”

Overwhelmed and desperate, tears prick the corners of my eyes.

He spots it, reaching up and swiping them away with his fingers.

“Do you mind?” he mutters. “I’m already tending to one weeping mess.”

“Oh, fuck you?—”

He cuts me off by pressing his wet fingers between my legs, making my head snap back.

“Now, don’t go saying things you don’t mean.”

I glare at him, and it only makes his smirk widen.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice husky. “Ride my hand, sweet girl.”

I freeze for half a breath. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I never listen to him. I never let him win.

But right now, I can’t think.

Right now, I need .

So I do as he says. I grind against him as he rubs slow, deliberate circles. He watches me closely, eyes flicking from my face to my hips, like he’s memorizing everything.

It’s so gentle. But it’s making me come undone.

My moans spill out.

“That’s it,” he whispers.

He wraps his fingers in my hair. I throw my arm around his neck, lifting myself, bucking against him. His gaze drops to my mouth, hovering close—so close our lips almost touch with every thrust.

So close when?—

Knock knock knock.

“Caroline, are you in there? ”

My entire body jerks. “Dad?”

I whip around to Rhett, wide-eyed. Everything snaps back into focus.

I drop my arm. Collapse back onto the counter. Rhett steps back, chest heaving, gaze fixed on me.

Oh my God.

“Hon, are you okay?”

“Y–yes,” I stammer. “I’m okay.”

“We’re through the storm now.”

We are?

“But there’s still going to be some turbulence. You need to get back to your seat.”

“Okay, I’m coming!”

Or at least, I was about to.

I glance over my shoulder, still breathless, and whisper to Rhett, “Count to one hundred before you come out.”

I don’t dare look back again as I slip out of the lavatory and pull the door closed behind me.

“Hi!” I blurt out, far too loudly. Not casual in the slightest.

Dad’s gaze narrows slightly, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

I can tell he’s doing a mental scan—assessing my color, my posture, the state of my clothes.

I smooth my shirt, push my hair behind both ears, and try to appear composed.

Luckily, the physical remnants of a panic attack aren’t so different from the flushed disarray of… whatever that was.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low but clipped.

I open my mouth to answer, but the bathroom door swings open behind me—not even close to a hundred seconds later—and Rhett steps out.

He does a double take when he sees us, clearly not expecting that we would still be standing here.

He clears his throat. “Excuse me, Coach,” he says, tone careful but steady. “I was taking care of her.” A pause. “Or… trying to.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

Dad turns to me, and it’s like a thousand unsaid things flash across his face before he settles on a blank stare.

I scramble to fill the space. “He was just trying to help,” I say quickly. “To calm me down. Get my mind off the storm…”

And he certainly did.

As my dad exhales slowly, Rhett shifts beside me. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, his fingers brushing over the silver number 19. His other hand drags across his mouth, like he’s trying to wipe the moment off him.

I flush crimson.

“Well,” Dad says finally, his gaze flicking between us. “Thank you, Rhett. I appreciate you being there for her.”

Rhett holds the look, then dips his chin. “Anytime, sir.”

Dad doesn’t respond. He just steps back into the aisle, and I follow—only to realize every set of eyes on the team is turned toward us. Wide-eyed. Unsubtle.

If they hadn’t believed we were the real deal on the flight to Toronto, they definitely do now.