Chapter 7 - Rhett
"Sounds about right," I say, and despite the lingering adrenaline from the nightmare, I feel something warm settling in my chest.
This is how you build something real. Not through grand gestures or perfectly planned dates, but through moments like this—sitting together in the middle of the night, sharing pieces of yourself you usually keep hidden.
Claire's telling me about her father and his terrible westerns, about the scar that reminds her she was loved.
And I'm telling her about Frank's pocket watch gathering dust in my drawer because I can't bear to wear it but can't let it go either.
We're opening up to each other. Actually connecting.
And I'm so fucking happy that this is working, that she's here, that maybe this insane plan might actually lead to something real.
Except my brain is divided right now. Split between two very different tracks.
One part of me is focused on what Claire's saying, genuinely listening, wanting to know every detail about her life. The other part, the part I'm desperately trying to ignore, is aware of her body pressed against my side.
Because Claire is essentially wearing nothing.
When she heard me screaming from the nightmare, she must have just bolted out of bed without thinking about clothes.
That oversized t-shirt barely covers her thighs when she's standing, and now that she's curled up next to me with her knees pulled to her chest, I caught a glimpse of red underwear when she first settled in.
Red fucking underwear.
And no bra. Jesus Christ, no bra. I'm trying not to look.
I'm actively trying not to be that guy who notices these things when we're supposed to be having a meaningful conversation, but I can see the curve of her breasts through the thin fabric.
The way the shirt drapes over her body, leaving very little to the imagination.
I feel like a goddamn monster for even noticing.
For letting my dick get involved when we're talking about dead fathers and trauma and building trust. But I'm also human, and I haven't been with anyone in years.
Not since before my last deployment. And Claire is soft and warm and pressed right up against me, and my cock is throbbing so hard it's starting to hurt.
My hands are itching to touch her. To slide up her thigh, push that shirt higher, see if those red panties are lace or cotton. To cup her breasts, feel their weight in my palms, maybe take a nipple into my mouth and see what sounds she'd make.
I'd make her cum. I know I would. I'd worship every inch of her curvy body until she was rolling her eyes back and screaming my name. I'd feast on her until she begged me to stop.
But she just got here. She's probably still nervous and scared, still processing everything that's happened in the last twelve hours. And after watching me have a full-blown PTSD nightmare, sex is probably the absolute last thing on her mind.
So, I force myself to focus on her words. To ignore the way her body feels against mine. To be the decent man I told her I was instead of the desperate asshole my dick is trying to turn me into.
"Do you ever regret it?" Claire asks suddenly, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. "Hiring a mail order bride? Meeting me like this?"
"No," I say immediately, and I mean it. "Not even a little bit."
She shifts slightly, looking up at me. "Really? Because I feel like I'm barely hanging on by a thread here. Like I'm one wrong move away from completely falling apart."
I shake my head. "I was terrified we wouldn't be a match.
That you'd show up and we'd have nothing in common, nothing to talk about.
That it would be awkward and forced and we'd both regret it within an hour.
" I adjust my arm around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer.
"But you're proving me wrong. My family loved you, and that matters to me more than you know.
You saw me at my worst tonight, having a nightmare, and you didn't run.
You stayed. You helped. That has no price, Claire. "
"Of course I stayed," she says softly. "You needed help."
"Not everyone would have. Most people would've packed their bags." I pause, debating whether to say the next part, then decide fuck it. We're being honest with each other. "And besides all that... you're so gorgeous that your pictures didn't do you justice."
Her cheeks flush red, the color spreading down her neck. "I—thank you. But I don't know how you can say that when I'm marked forever." She touches her scar. "This isn't going away. I'll always have it."
"I love your scar," I say, meaning every word. "It proves you're real. That you've lived, that you've survived things. I understand that because I have scars too."
She frowns slightly. "Where? I can't see them."
I gesture vaguely at my whole body. "Everywhere. Under my clothes. The burn on my shoulder, shrapnel scars on my chest and legs. I'm covered in them."
Claire sits up straighter, pulling away slightly so she can look at me properly. "Can I see them?"
I’m caught off guard. "What?"
"Your scars. Can I see them? All of them?"
I hesitate, my heart suddenly racing for an entirely different reason than before. No woman has ever seen the full extent of my damage. Maybe a glimpse of the shoulder burn, but never everything. Never the roadmap of failure and survival etched across my body.
"They're not pretty," I warn her. "At all. They're ugly and twisted and—"
"Let me decide that," she interrupts. "I want to see you. The real you."
The real me. The broken, scarred, damaged version that I've spent years hiding from everyone except myself in the bathroom mirror.
I'm terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified that she'll take one look and realize she made a mistake. That she'll see me as the monster I sometimes feel like when the nightmares are bad and the buzzing won't stop and I can't remember what it feels like to be whole.
But she's asking. And I told her we'd be honest with each other.
I stand up from the couch, my hands shaking slightly as I reach for the hem of my shirt. Claire watches me, her expression open and patient. Not demanding, just... waiting. Giving me the space to make this choice.
I pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.
The moonlight streaming through the window illuminates every scar in stark relief.
The burn scar on my left shoulder—thick, twisted tissue that stretches from my shoulder halfway down my bicep in ugly red and white patterns.
The shrapnel scars across my chest. Some small and faded, others raised and angry-looking.
More scars on my ribs, my abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of my jeans where they continue down my legs.
I run my finger down one of the worst ones, a jagged line that cuts across my left pectoral. "This is me," I say, my voice rough. "A scarred ex-soldier. This is what you're signing up for."
Claire stands up from the couch. For a second, I brace myself for her to back away, to head toward the bedroom or the door. To tell me this is too much, that she can't do this.
Instead, she takes a step closer. "Can I touch you?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. Her fingers land first on the burn scar near my shoulder, feather-light and warm. "Does it hurt?"
"Most days, no," I manage. "But sometimes it does. On the warmest days, it feels like my clothes are glued to the skin. Like I'm burning all over again."
She nods, absorbing this information, then runs her hand down from my shoulder to my chest. Her fingers trace the shrapnel scars, following their paths across my torso. She's not flinching, not grimacing. Just... exploring. Learning my body through its damage.
I've never felt this cherished. This appreciated despite everything wrong with me.
After I came back from deployment, after the nightmares started and the buzzing in my ear became constant and I couldn't sleep without seeing my friends die over and over, I convinced myself I wasn't worthy of love.
That no woman would want someone this broken.
That the best I could hope for was to be alone with my ranch work and my brothers and try not to think about what I was missing.
But Claire is making me rethink everything.
I place my hand over hers where it rests against my chest, right over my heart. "Are you okay with this? With me looking like this?"
She looks up at me, and there's something fierce in her eyes.
"You're an idiot if you ever thought different.
You're handsome, Rhett. The scars and the burn don't scare me.
They show me that you had a life before me, that you survived so many trials and you're still here.
Still pursuing love. Still worthy of it. "
My fist clenches at my side. Fuck. I've been longing to hear those words for so long. Longer than I've been willing to admit even to myself.
I place my hands on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin t-shirt. She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide and trusting.
"I want to kiss you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I know that might be off-putting, but I haven't kissed someone in so long that I'm afraid it'll be a shitty kiss. I'm probably out of practice, and—"
She laughs softly, the sound cutting through my rambling. "It's okay even if it's bad. We'll just have to practice more."
Practice more. The implication that there will be a "more," that this isn't just a one-time thing, makes my chest tight.
I lean down, my hands trembling where they grip her hips. My chest is heaving, heart pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it. This matters. This kiss matters in a way that feels enormous and terrifying.
When my lips touch hers, it's like a fuse getting blown in my head.
Everything else disappears. The nightmare, the scars, the lies we're telling my family, none of it matters. All that exists is the softness of Claire's mouth against mine, the way she immediately opens for me, the small sound she makes in the back of her throat that goes straight to my cock.
Her lips are so soft. Softer than I imagined during all those nights alone in my cottage, wondering if I'd made the right choice. She kisses me back without hesitation, her hands coming up to cup both sides of my face, and the tenderness nearly undoes me.
My cock throbs, straining against my jeans, demanding attention.
I want to touch her everywhere, want to strip that t-shirt off her body and see all of her, want to make her feel as good as she's making me feel right now.
But I force myself to keep the kiss slow.
Gentle. To let her set the pace, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to take more, claim more, make her mine in every possible way.
Claire's tongue touches my bottom lip, and I groan into her mouth.
My hands tighten on her hips, pulling her closer until her body is pressed against my bare chest. I can feel her breasts through the thin fabric, feel her nipples hardening, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to rip that shirt off her.
She makes another small sound. Half gasp, half moan, and it's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I want to hear it again. Want to hear what other sounds she makes when she's being touched, being worshiped, being made to feel good.
My hands slide up from her hips to her waist, my thumbs brushing against the underside of her breasts through her shirt. She arches into the touch, pressing herself closer, and fuck—
I pull back slightly, breathing hard, resting my forehead against hers. "Claire."
"Yeah?" Her voice is breathy, her pupils dilated.
"We should probably stop."
"Why?" She sounds genuinely confused.
"Because you just got here today. Because you've had an exhausting night. Because I just woke you up with a nightmare and this is probably not the right time to—"
She kisses me again, cutting off my words. She's decisive, demanding, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my knees tremble. When she pulls back, she's smiling.
"Stop overthinking. I want this. Do you want this?"
"Yes," I growl, my voice coming out rough and desperate. "Fuck yes, I want this. I want you."
"Then touch me," she whispers. "Please, Rhett. Touch me."