Chapter 8 Rhett
EIGHT
RHETT
Sunlight filters through the cracks in the cabin shutters, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets where Emma's still curled up like a damn kitten, her dark hair fanned out on my pillow.
She's breathing soft and even, lashes fanned against her cheeks, lips parted just enough to make my cock twitch at the memory of last night.
Christ, I wrecked her good—took that sweet virgin pussy and made it mine in ways that should've been gentler.
But she begged for it, didn't she? Clawed at me, called me Daddy, milked every drop out of me like she was starved.
I slide out of bed quiet as I can, pulling on my sweats.
No shirt—too damn hot already, even with the morning chill seeping in.
My back stings from her nails, a good kind of burn that has me grinning like a fool as I pad to the kitchen.
I’ll make her food. Bacon sizzles in the cast-iron skillet, eggs frying alongside, bread toasting over the woodstove.
Coffee brews strong and black, the way I like it.
I plate it all up, figuring she'll wake to the smell.
Sure enough, she stirs. I hear the creak of the bed, then soft footsteps.
She emerges from the bedroom wrapped in my flannel shirt—nothing else, the hem brushing her thighs, buttons half-done like she threw it on in a hurry.
Her eyes are sleepy, cheeks flushed, and she's walking a little gingerly. Fuck, that hits me right in the gut.
"Mornin', little one," I rumble, setting the plates on the table.
She smiles shy, rubbing her eyes. "Morning, Rhett."
I pull out a chair for her, but as she sits, she winces—just a flicker, but I catch it. My chest tightens. Can't help myself; I drop to one knee in front of her, hands on her thighs, thumbs stroking the soft skin there.
"You sore, baby?" I ask, voice low and rough.
She bites her lip, nods a little. "Sort of. It's... not bad."
Guilt punches me hard. I should've been easier on her, held back more. "Fuck. I'm sorry, Emma. Got carried away last night."
She shakes her head, fingers threading through my beard. "I liked it."
Yeah, but that don't make it right. I scoop her up without another word—light as a feather in my arms—and carry her to the bathroom.
The old clawfoot tub sits there, waiting.
I set her down on the edge, gentle as I can, and crank the hot water on full blast. Steam rises quick, filling the small space with warmth.
I toss in some salts from the shelf—eucalyptus, to ease the ache.
"Get in when it's ready," I tell her, but she's already unbuttoning the shirt, letting it slide off her shoulders.
Jesus. Her body's a goddamn vision—small tits perked up in the cool air, nipples tight, faint bruises from my mouth blooming on her pale skin.
And lower... fuck, the sight of her bare pussy, still a little swollen from me, has my cock hardening painfully.
She slips into the water with a sigh, sinking down until the suds lap at her chest. Her eyes close, head tipping back.
I should leave—give her space—but instead, I grab a cloth and kneel beside the tub, dipping it in and running it over her shoulders, down her back.
The water's hot, her skin slick and pinkening under my touch.
"You feelin' better?" I murmur, washing slow circles along her spine.
"Mmm. Yeah." She arches a bit, like a cat under my hand.
Control's slipping. My cock's rock-hard now, straining against the fabric of my sweats. I can't stop touching her—fingers tracing her neck, her arms. She glances over her shoulder, eyes dark with that same hunger from last night.
"Rhett..."
That's all it takes. I stand, shuck my sweats in one rough yank, and step into the tub behind her. Water sloshes over the edge as I settle in, pulling her back against my chest. My cock nestles against her ass, thick and insistent. She gasps, but doesn't pull away—leans into me instead.
"Thought you needed to relax," I growl in her ear, hands sliding around to cup her tits, thumbs flicking those hard little nipples.
"I do," she whispers, but her hips grind back against me.
Filthy words bubble up, and I can't hold 'em back. "You sure? 'Cause this greedy little cunt's already drippin' for Daddy's cock again, ain't it? Even after I fucked it raw last night."
She whimpers, nodding. "Yes..."
I reach down between her legs, fingers parting her slick folds. She's soaked—hotter than the bathwater. "Look at you. Sore and still beggin' for more. What a dirty girl."
She turns in my arms, water splashing, and straddles my lap. Her small hands brace on my shoulders, knees on either side of my hips. My cock stands straight up between us, the head breaching the surface, flushed and leaking. She looks down at it, then up at me, eyes wide but determined.
"Slow," I warn her, gripping her waist. "You set the pace, baby."
She nods, lifting up just enough to notch me at her entrance. Then she sinks down—inch by torturous inch—her tight heat swallowing me whole. We both groan. She's still so fucking snug, walls fluttering around me like she's fighting the stretch.
"That's it," I rasp, hands sliding to her ass, squeezing but not rushing. "Take Daddy's big cock nice and easy. Feel how you stretch for me? Like this pussy was made to be my perfect little sleeve."
She rocks slow, water rippling with each roll of her hips. Her tits bounce just above the surface, nipples grazing my chest hair. I lean in, suck one into my mouth—hard—teeth grazing until she cries out.
"Rhett—Daddy—feels so deep..."
"Yeah? You like bein' full of me? Like knowin' I ruined you for anyone else?" I thrust up gently, meeting her halfway, the angle letting me grind against that sweet spot inside her.
"Yes—oh God—"
I grab her hips tighter, guiding her rhythm. "Ride me harder, little one. Show Daddy how much you need this fat cock splittin' you open."
She picks up the pace—just a bit—gasping with each downstroke. Water slaps against the tub sides, steam thick around us. Her nails dig into my shoulders again, drawing fresh blood. I don't care. The slow build is agony—exquisite—her walls milking me, clenching tighter as she chases her peak.
"You're gonna come all over me," I growl, one hand slipping between us to thumb her clit in slow, firm circles. "Gonna cream on Daddy's dick like the good slut you are. Then I'm gonna fill this tight hole again—pump you so full it'll leak out when you stand."
Her movements turn desperate, hips grinding down hard. "Please—I'm close—"
"Do it. Come for me, baby. Squeeze me dry."
She shatters—back arching, cry echoing off the tiles—her pussy clamping down like a vice. I thrust up once, twice—deep and deliberate—and follow her over, roaring as I spill inside her. Hot jets flood her, marking her again, the overflow mixing with the bathwater.
She collapses against my chest, trembling. I hold her close, stroking her wet hair, kissing her temple.
"Mine," I murmur. "Always mine."
She nods, breathless. "Yours, Daddy."
I’m going to be useless today. Not tactically—don’t get cute. I can still clear a room, pick a lock, and put a round on target in a whiteout with my non-dominant hand.
But mentally? My brain is a slow-motion highlight reel of Emma Lincoln in my bed.
Last night. This morning. Her laugh turning breathless. Her hands in my hair. The way she looked at me like I was something she could finally trust. Like I wasn’t a threat. Like I was… home.
It’s not just lust.
It’s worse.
It’s wanting. Wanting is the thing that gets you killed. Wanting is the thing that makes you sloppy, and I don’t do sloppy. Except I do, apparently, because I let a woman I met yesterday crawl under my skin and set up shop like she’s always belonged there. I want her to be mine.
Forever.
And that thought hits hard, clean, and terrifyingly certain. I don’t do forever. I do missions. Exits. Clean lines. But when she’s curled against my chest in the morning light and she whispers my name like she’s testing how it tastes… I’m not thinking about clean lines. I’m thinking about keeping.
Mine.
I scrub a hand over my face as I head into the main lodge, trying to reset. Trying to tuck the hunger down where it belongs. Trying to be the man I was before she smiled at me like I wasn’t a broken thing in boots.
The meeting room is already active—screens up, coffee flowing, Wyatt tapping at keys like the world will end if he pauses for breath.
Gavin stands at the head of the table, commander posture locked in, calm and lethal.
Rafe leans against the wall with his arms crossed, looking relaxed in that way that screams I’ve killed men and slept fine afterward.
Boyd is posted near the door like a silent security system.
Thorne is… Thorne—quiet, watching everything, missing nothing.
Chase is pacing, which is his version of “I’m trying not to explode.
” Eli has a med bag open, reorganizing it for the thousandth time because he copes with stress by making sure bandaids are perfectly aligned.
Wyatt’s sitting back, legs kicked up, arms behind his head.
And Harlan’s got that look. Like he’s ready to kill.
Silas is here too, sheriff jacket on, expression sharp.
And Emma—
Emma is in the corner of the room with Harper and Kayley, sitting on the floor by a blanket that now belongs to the babies.
Poppi’s little hands are clutching Harper’s shirt.
Aidan is gnawing on something rubber with the determination of a man who pays taxes.
Emma is making a face at him, and Aidan squeals like he’s chosen violence today.
She laughs, warm and bright, and my chest tightens like something is wrapping around my ribs. She looks like she belongs here. Like Haven 7 has always had a place shaped exactly like her.
Kayley catches me staring and smirks. The traitor.
Harper’s smile turns knowing. Also a traitor.