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The weight of him is a solid, grounding warmth against the frantic rhythm of your own heart. Rhett’s body is a bowed arch of tension over yours, every muscle corded and trembling, his skin sweat-slick and hot where it presses against you. His face is buried so deep into the curve of your neck you can feel the desperate, open mouthed suction of his lips against your pulse, the scrape of his evening stubble a harsh counterpoint to the wet heat of his mouth. You know, with absolute certainty, the darkening bloom his mouth will leave behind—a bruise of possession, of need, a purple shadow you’ll trace with your fingertips tomorrow.
His thrusts aren’t the measured, deep strokes he usually favours. They’re sloppy, a little off centre, a frantic piston engine driven by a week’s worth of frustration. Work, family, the endless, gnawing demands of the ranch and the people on it have carved him hollow, and now he’s trying to fill that emptiness with the only thing that’s ever felt simple: the clasp of your body around his. Each drive of his hips is punctuated by a ragged, punched out sound from his throat, a hybrid of a groan and a sob. You feel the wet slide of his drool, warm and thick, as it escapes his slack lips and traces a meandering path down the tendon of your neck, pooling with the sweat already soaking the sheets beneath your shoulder blades.
The window is open. The night air of Wyoming is a living thing, cool and sharp, smelling of pine and distant, damp earth. A breeze finds its way in, a ghostly finger that skates over the fevered landscape of your entangled bodies. It raises goosebumps on your overheated skin, a delicious, shocking contrast. Rhett feels it too; a full body shiver wracks his frame, and his hips jerk forward with a sudden, brutal force that makes your breath catch. A wet, obscene sound fills the small room, the noise of your bodies meeting and parting, of your own slickness coating him, aural proof of the mess you’re making together.
He’s murmuring. The words are lost, mashed into the damp skin of your throat. They’re just vibrations, low and guttural. But two syllables, one shape of a word, seems to detach itself from the chaos. It sounds like… mommy.
Your fingers, tangled in the sweaty, dark waves of his hair, still for a moment. You didn’t hear that right. You couldn’t have. Rhett Abbott doesn’t say things like that. Rhett Abbott is all quiet intensity and weathered hands, a man who speaks more with a grunt or a glance than with any word softer than ‘goddamn’.
“What’s that, baby?” You ask, your voice low but clear, cutting through the symphony of wet sounds and heavy breathing.
He doesn’t answer with coherence. A low, pained whine escapes him, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, and his hips stutter. His mouth works against your neck, and again, beneath the groan, you catch it. A muffled, desperate little syllable. Mom-muh.
Curiosity, hot and sharp, lances through the haze of your own building pleasure. You tighten your grip in his hair, not to hurt, but to claim, to command. You gently but firmly tug his head up, pulling his face away from its hiding place. The sight that meets you steals the air from your lungs.
Rhett’s head lolls back, his eyes rolling up before they flutter shut and then open again, glassy and unfocused. His cheeks are stained a ruddy, feverish red, a flush that spreads down the strong column of his neck and disappears into the dark hair dusting his chest. His jaw is unhinged, slack, drawing in heaving, wet sounding gasps. His lips are swollen, glistening. There’s a vulnerability in his expression you’ve never seen before—not during calving season losses, not during bitter fights with his brother, not even when Royal picks at Rhett’s doubts and insecurities. It’s a raw, naked need, a submissiveness that has crawled out from deep inside him, coaxed to the surface by exhaustion and the relentless, intimate friction of your joined bodies.
“Say it again, baby. I didn’t hear ya,” you demand, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. Your voice is a whisper, but it carries the weight of an order.
His whole body convulses. A tremor runs from his shoulders down to where you are joined. He tries to turn his face away, to bury it back in the sanctuary of your skin, but your hold in his hair is firm. His hips are still moving, a shallow, frantic rocking now, as if the command has short circuited his ability for anything deeper.
“Mommy!” The word explodes from him on a choked, gasping sob. It’s raw, stripped bare of any pretense. The moment it leaves his lips, his eyes screw shut in a grimace of pure shame, and he does manage to tuck his head down, not into your neck this time, but pressing his burning forehead hard against your sternum, hiding.
A surge of something powerful, protective, and fiercely possessive floods you. The last of your own hesitation melts away, replaced by a dark, sweet certainty.
“That’s it,” you croon, your voice dropping into a lower, more soothing register. You release his hair and instead cradle the back of his head, your fingers splaying through the damp strands. Your other hand slides down the sweat-slick plane of his back, feeling the powerful muscles leaping and twitching under your palm. “My good boy. My sweet, good boy. You’ve been so strong, haven’t you? Holdin’ it all together for everyone?”
A broken sound—half-moan, half-whimper—vibrates against your chest. His hips find a new, desperate rhythm, shallow and fast, a piston seeking its release. His cock, buried deep inside you, feels impossibly hot and thick, a brand claiming you with every frantic push.
“Y’been so good for mommy,” you continue, the title feeling strange and electric on your tongue. You emphasise it, letting it hang in the air between the sounds of skin on skin. “Takin’ care of everythin’. Bein’ such a brave, strong man… but y’don’t have to be strong right now. Not with me.”
His breathing hitches, becomes a series of ragged, wet sobs. He’s not crying from sadness; it’s a physical overflow, a dam breaking.
“Please,” he gasps, the word mangled. “Please, I—I can’t—I can’t hold it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to ya, I swear. I’ll eat y’out ‘til y’scream, I’ll do anythin’, just please let me come. Please, please, please.”
The desperation in his voice is a tangible thing. It’s in the way his hands fist in the sheets beside your head, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cables. It’s in the frantic, almost pained expression on his face when he lifts it again, his eyes begging, his lips trembling. Spit and sweat shine on his chin. He looks utterly wrecked, completely at your mercy, and the sight sends a fresh, aching throb through your core, clenching tightly around him. He cries out at the sensation, his head dropping forward again.
“Please, mommy,” he whines, the word softer now, a prayer. “Need to… need to come in ya. Need to fill y’up. Please.”
You watch him. You take in the sheer animal desperation, the beautiful, humiliating need. This proud, silent man is begging you for permission to lose control, to find his release inside you. The power of it is dizzying, hotter than any friction. You bring your hand from his back around to his cheek, cupping his face, forcing his bleary, lust-hazed eyes to meet yours.
“Come for y’mommy, baby,” you say, your voice firm, final, a benediction.
It’s as if you’ve cut the last taut wire holding him together.
A guttural, raw sound tears from his throat—a wordless shout that is part agony, part ecstatic relief. His entire body locks, every muscle seizing into a rigid, trembling line. His hips slam forward one final, decisive time, planting him to the root inside you, so deep you feel a fleeting, delicious ache. For a suspended moment, there is only the sound of his ragged, stopped breath and the frantic pulse you can feel where you’re joined.
Then, the first hot, liquid surge.
It’s not a gentle release. It’s a violent, pumping flood, wave after wave of his orgasm erupting from him, filling the clutch of your body. You can feel each distinct, pulsing jet, a scalding internal claim that makes your own toes curl and your back arch off the bed. His cock twitches and jumps inside you with each spurt, a throbbing, living thing emptying itself. A low, continuous moan rumbles in his chest, a sound of utter, spent surrender.
The tension holding him up evaporates. His arms, which had been trembling with the effort of keeping his weight off you, simply give way. He collapses forward, his full, heavy weight crashing down onto you, driving the air from your lungs in a soft huff.
He doesn’t try to catch himself. He just falls.
His face buries itself in the space between your neck and shoulder, his hot, panting breaths gusting against your damp skin. For long minutes, there is only the sound of his slowing, shuddering breaths and the distant cry of a night bird outside the window. Each inhale is loud, unashamed in its need; each exhale spills hot and humid over your collarbone before the Wyoming wind steals it away. The scent of him lingers—salt and clean cotton and that faint mineral tang that always clings to him after a long day outside. Sweat cools along his hairline, beads tracking down the curve of his temple. When the breeze touches it, he shivers, and the reaction is instinctive: he presses closer, seeking warmth.
His forehead rests against your sternum, skin hot and damp. His hands, which had been fisted into the sheets as if he needed something solid to anchor him, loosen their grip. Fingers uncurl. The cords in his forearms soften. The tension that once hummed through him like a live wire dims into something quieter, more fragile.
He is heavy, utterly spent, a world of weight and heat and the fading scent of sex, sweat, and him. Inside you, the evidence of his surrender is a warm, leaking fullness. His softening cock is still nestled within you, a tender, intimate connection. His body is a dead weight, but a twitching, shuddering one. Fine tremors race through his shoulders, his back, the muscles of his ass where your legs are still wrapped around him. Each aftershock of his orgasm sends a fresh, weaker pulse into your depths, a final, fading echo of his climax.
He makes a sound, a muffled, broken thing against your skin. It might be your name. It might be another ‘mommy’. It might just be a sigh that contains the entire, brutal week. You don’t ask. You just bring your hands up, one to cradle the back of his head again, the other to stroke slow, soothing circles on the sweat-damp skin between his shoulder blades. Your own arousal is a throbbing, unfinished ache between your legs, a sweet tension he promised to address. But for now, this—his complete and total collapse, his trust, his whispered shame and his desperate release—feels more intimate than any orgasm of your own ever could.
Rhett shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his face upward. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lashes clumped with sweat. The fevered flush has faded to something softer—pink at the cheekbones, warmth at the throat. There is still vulnerability there, still that unguarded openness that would have terrified him an hour ago. When he speaks, his voice is rough—scraped raw from earlier—but softer than you have ever heard it.
“Thank you.”
It is barely more than a murmur; the words dissolve into your skin. You move your fingers to slide into his damp curls. His hair is cooler now where the wind has kissed it. You smooth it back from his temple, feel the steady pulse beneath. Your other hand drifts along his spine, tracing the broad plane of his back. The muscles there twitch faintly under your touch, like horses settling after a hard run.
His breathing slows further. Each inhale is steadier, deeper, edging toward sleep. He presses his face into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder and lets himself be held. The frantic energy that possessed him is gone, leaving behind a hollowed out, peaceful exhaustion. You hold him, listening to the wind, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart against your chest, and the warm, possessive trickle of his cum between your thighs.