Chapter 9 #2
The colt settles, just slightly, its ears flicking back, testing but calmer under the new tension. I realize I’m breathing in sync with Rhett, our hands locked together, our bodies close enough that my skin burns where he cages me.
“You see?” His tone softens, almost smug. “Control. Not cruelty. You show him who you are, and he’ll fall in line.”
I hate myself for the shiver that runs through me when his hand finally eases but doesn’t let go.
The colt eventually stills, sides heaving, ears flicking nervously. I should feel relief, but all I can register is Rhett’s chest solid against my back, his hand locked over mine, the steady heat of him surrounding me.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, his lips so close the words skim my skin. “How he’s not fighting anymore? That’s control. Yours. You just needed someone to show you how to take it.”
My throat goes dry. I should yank free, scream at him, shove him off me. Instead, my pulse stutters in my veins, every nerve raw, lit up under the weight of his hand guiding mine.
The colt exhales, calm now, but I’m trembling worse than before.
Rhett’s breath brushes my temple. “That’s it, Juniper. You hold steady, he’ll follow you anywhere.”
For a heartbeat, I can’t tell if he means the horse or himself. The thought cracks something in me. With a strangled sound, I jerk my hand free and stumble forward, the rope slipping through my fingers. The colt dances back a step, confused but contained.
I whirl on Rhett, breath ragged, fury sparking through the shame burning my face. “Don’t you ever touch me like that again.”
His eyes stay on mine, calm as ever, storm-gray and merciless. And worse they’re smug. Like I’d just proved his point.
“You’ll thank me later.”
I hate him because part of me already knows he’s right.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of chores.
Rhett keeps me busy—mending fence lines, brushing down horses, lugging water until my arms ache—but I can’t shake the weight of his hands over mine, the heat of his chest at my back.
Every time I blink, I feel it all over again, his voice curling dark and certain in my ear.
By the time dusk falls, I’m filthy, exhausted, and wound tighter than ever. Rhett says nothing as he brings me a clean towel and points me toward the bathroom connected to his room.
The house is quiet, too quiet, as I close the door behind me and twist the lock. My hands shake as I strip out of my dirty clothes. When the water steams hot against my skin, I press my palms flat to the tile, trying to let the day wash off me.
It doesn’t.
All I can feel is him. The weight of his grip around my fingers. The rasp of his breath against my temple. The way my body betrayed me—trembling, leaning into his steadiness even as I swore I hated him.
But the line blurred the second he touched me.
My chest heaves. I squeeze my eyes shut, water streaming down my face like tears I refuse to shed. I should be thinking about Hilbert, about my parents, about the mess I’ve landed in. Instead, all I can think about is Rhett.
The water beats down, scalding hot, but it isn’t enough to burn him out of me.
I press my forehead to the slick tile, palms flat against the wall, breath hitching as steam curls around me.
I should shove the thought of him away. Instead my knees go weak, thighs pressing together as heat pools low.
My chest rises against the mist, every breath sharp and needy.
I close my eyes, and it isn’t water slicking my skin. It’s him. The heat of his body sealing me against the wall. The weight of his hands spanning my hips, guiding me, owning me. My nipples pebble beneath the spray, aching for his touch.
“Control, not cruelty,” he said.
The words strike through me like a brand, curling hot and sharp in my belly until I’m trembling.
My palm skates down, slick and searching, and I hate myself for how easy it is to imagine his hand instead of mine.
How easy it is to hear his growl, to feel the scrape of his teeth against my shoulder while he pushes me deeper into surrender.
The steam thickens, the water running hotter, but it can’t drown the truth. He’s under my skin and in my head. And with the water pounding against me, my body giving way to the memory of him, I’m already giving in, even here, even alone.
I bite down on a whimper, my forehead pressed hard against the tile, but the sound slips free anyway. In my head it’s his palm guiding mine, his chest locking me against the wall, his breath dragging hot and sinful against my neck.
My hips grind into my hand, slick and desperate, chasing the rhythm he’d force on me. My knees threaten to buckle as heat builds sharp and relentless, twisting higher, burning hotter.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t need him. But the more I fight it, the more my body betrays me. My fingers slip faster, wetter, until I’m rocking against my own touch, gasping for breath.
The knot inside me unravels all at once, a white-hot wave crashing through me. My cry breaks against the tile, ragged and helpless—
“Rhett—”
His name tears out of me on a moan as I shatter, trembling under the spray, thighs clenching around nothing. Pleasure wrings me out, leaving me shaking, boneless, pressed to the wall like he’s still there holding me down.
The water scalds hotter, the steam choking thick, but nothing can wash it away.
Not the need. Not the shame. Not the truth.
Even in my release, even when no one’s watching, it’s him. Always him.
I shut the water off, the silence loud, the steam wrapping me in its thick shroud. A towel clings to damp skin as I step out, heart hammering too fast for someone who should be alone.
But I’m not.
He’s there. Sprawled across the bed, boots off but clothes still on, as if he just dropped back and let sleep claim him. His chest rises and falls steady, the lines of his face softened in rest, but even unconscious, Rhett looks dangerous.
And yet I move toward him anyway.
The towel slips a little as I ease onto the mattress, meaning only to lie there on the edge, only to take comfort in the warmth radiating off him. But the second the bed dips beneath my weight, his arm snakes around my waist. He pulls me flush against him, the heat of his body branding mine.
My breath catches. His nose skims the damp curve of my neck, his voice rough, gravel dragged low from the depths of sleep—
“The next time you come saying my name…” His hand tightens at my hip, anchoring me to him. “…it’ll be around my cock.”
The words strike through me like lightning, leaving me trembling all over again, caught between terror, shame, and the kind of hunger that makes my thighs press tight together.
And in that moment, pressed against his chest, I know there will be a next time.