Chapter 13 Hog #2
"You've seen it before."
"Still a disaster." He kissed my chest, working his way down. "Still like it."
The bed was unmade and held a pile of clean laundry I'd dumped there three days ago. Instead of bothering to move anything, I grabbed Rhett's flannel and yanked it off, throwing it toward the laundry pile.
He had my jeans off in record time, not even hesitating at the knee when my socks resisted. He yanked until he took the whole mess—pants, boxer briefs, and socks—and balled it up and launched it at the corner of the room.
I couldn't fake being self-conscious; he made it impossible, his hands everywhere, kneading the meat of my thighs, and tracing the scar on my right quad.
He kissed me like he meant it. Like he had a checklist of every way a body could be kissed and wasn't going to sleep until he'd ticked off all of them.
I tried to do the same, but I kept catching myself grinning in the middle of it, which made him do it too.
Rhett propped himself up on one elbow and looked like he was about to launch into a heartfelt declaration, but what actually came out was, "You have a knitted raccoon on your dresser. It's staring at us."
It was true. One of Gram's old projects—a gray raccoon with beady eyes and a lopsided smile—perched at eye level, angled like it had front-row tickets to the chaos unfolding in my bed.
"It's my emotional support animal," I said.
Rhett snorted and then, for the next minute, neither of us could look at each other without cracking up.
He pressed his forehead to my shoulder, shaking, and for a second I thought maybe we'd lost the thread of the whole thing—but then his hand slid down my stomach, slow and deliberate, and I realized we hadn't lost anything.
"Sorry," I said. "You want me to put it away?"
"No. Let it watch. I like the pressure."
Rhett's fingers wrapped around my cock with practiced confidence. He stroked me slowly, thumb gliding over the head, and my brain ejected every thought except the simple fact of his touch.
I grabbed his hair and hauled him in for a messier, deeper kiss. He let me set the pace, rough and greedy, and when I rolled him under me again, I saw the hunger in his eyes.
He reached for something in the nightstand drawer, and I braced myself for a condom that expired before the pandemic or, worse, a tiny half-empty bottle of hotel lotion—but instead he produced a proper, unopened packet and a bottle of lube he must've stashed there on a previous visit.
The thought of him standing in a Shoppers aisle, picking out supplies and planning to fuck me, made my head dizzy. He handed both to me. "You wanna…?"
"Yeah." My fingers shook as I tore open the package, but I got it rolled onto him, then slicked my hand and his cock with lube, the cold of it making him jump and laugh and then moan when I stroked him.
We rearranged, me on all fours, and Rhett behind me.
He placed one hand on my thigh and the other on my back, steady and no-nonsense. The way I imagined he handled a saw blade—firm but careful, trusting his own strength not to fuck it up.
I let him in—slow, at first, like we had all night. It burned, but I liked the feeling, the way it made me aware of every inch of him. He stopped when I grunted. I looked over my shoulder and nodded. He moved again, patient, holding back with a discipline I never managed during a game.
He lost that last bit of control when I adjusted and pushed back. He fucked into me, deep and thorough, the mattress thumping against the wall with each thrust.
The raccoon tipped forward, as if invested in the outcome. I started laughing and almost bit my own tongue. Rhett lost the rhythm and draped himself over me, breathless.
"Fucking—stop—" he gasped, caging me in with his arms, sweat slicking his chest to my back. "That thing is judging us."
"Good. It's a family tradition," I managed, bunched up tight around him. I reached back and squeezed his thigh, flexed like a steel cable. "Don't get soft on me, Mason."
He huffed, steadied, and moved again, shoving my face into the pillow. I let him. I loved the weight of him, the sense of being held down and filled up, entirely at his mercy.
I heard myself making noises—half grunts, half laughs, the occasional "Fuck yes!" My free hand caught the edge of the fitted sheet and yanked it loose. We were going to piss off the neighbors and probably destroy my bed, but I couldn't have stopped if I tried.
He kept control longer than I expected, holding himself back, muttering curses into my shoulder. Sweat beaded at his hairline. I could smell the sharp mix of bodies, clean laundry, lube, and the faint, persistent note of winter from the window.
Rhett pulled out slowly and turned me with both hands until I was on my back.
He placed my legs around his waist and pressed my knees nearly to my chest. I didn't think I could bend like that anymore, but he made it happen, his face hungry and half-wild.
He kissed me as he rocked back in, both of us so close already.
The noises I made weren't pretty. Didn't care. I was shaking, sweat rolling down my sides, and he was just as wrecked, the control in his face gone, every line of him desperate.
"Want you to come," I said, voice strangled.
"You first." He wrapped his fingers tight around my dick and stroked.
I lost it. Blacked out for a second, maybe, or saw stars. I came hard, probably ruined my sheets, and Rhett was right behind me, holding so tight it left marks, fucking into me with a groan that rattled my teeth.
It was a mess.
He collapsed on top of me, all dead weight and heavy breathing, and for a second I couldn't move, couldn't do anything but laugh and catch my breath. The raccoon had fallen off the dresser, landing face up on the floor, its beady eyes staring accusingly.
"Did we kill it?" Rhett mumbled, voice muffled by my shoulder.
"I think you owe me a new one," I said.
We lay there tangled together, sweaty and spent, the sheets twisted into a nest under us. I became aware that I still had my legs wrapped around his waist, and that I had not only ruined my fitted sheet but also a perfectly good pillowcase in the process.
Rhett rolled us sideways, keeping me in his grip, and flopped onto his back with a grunt. I rolled to my side and looked at him stretched across my messy bed—surrounded by yarn and half-finished scarves and the general chaos of my life—and it all clicked into place.
He didn't want me smaller. Didn't want me tidier, simpler, or easier to understand. He wanted me.
We were quiet for a while. Outside, someone's car alarm went off and then died. The upstairs neighbor's TV was too loud—hockey game, someone scored, feet stamping overhead.
"I think I'm going to tell Margaret yes," I said.
Rhett lifted his head to look at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not right away. I need to figure out the teaching schedule and how it works with playoffs. Coach thinks we have a chance. But yeah. I want to do it."
"Good." He settled back against my chest. "You should."
"We're sitting in second place—hard to believe."
"Then you'd better rest up. You've got a championship to chase."
A championship. The shop. This man in my bed is discussing the future like we'd both be in it.
My phone buzzed somewhere in the pile of discarded clothes—probably Jake with an inappropriate question about my evening.
I didn't check it.
Instead, I pulled Rhett closer, feeling his solid warmth against me. His breathing started to even out—not quite asleep yet, but getting there.
"Rhett?"
"Mmm?"
"Thanks. For showing up tonight. For the hot chocolate. For—" I gestured at my disaster of an apartment, at us tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and his cedar soap. "All of it."
"Thanks for letting me." His thumb traced my knuckles—the split one from last week's fight, the bruised one from catching a puck wrong in practice. "And Hog?"
"Yeah?"
"Your neighbor definitely heard us."
I groaned. "I'm never going to be able to look Mrs. Johnson in the eye again."
"You already avoid her."
"Now I have a better reason."
He laughed—quiet and warm against my chest. Within minutes, his breathing deepened into sleep.
I lay there staring at my ceiling, listening to the sounds of Thunder Bay at night—the distant horn from a ship on the lake. Wind rattling my windows. Rhett's steady breathing.
I thought about Gram's hands teaching me to cast on. About Margaret's offer and Edith's fierce certainty that I was enough. About the Storm fighting their way toward the playoffs, and Rhett making space for all of me without asking me to choose which parts to keep.
My ribs ached—they constantly ached now, old bruises and new ones layering like sediment. My hands were scarred, split, and still steady enough to knit lace.
I was thirty years old with a body that was starting to keep score, and for the first time, I wasn't terrified of what came after.