Page 68 of Peaches

I’m so sorry, I think. Hoping she knows it’s the truth. That I’m so fucking sorry for ever thinking I could bring her into my life without hurting her.

I rip my gaze away and focus between her legs, letting my torment swallow me whole.

And then I give in.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

OLIVIA

Fear lances through me as Rhett’s tongue splits me apart. I cry out from the sensation, writhing on the seat of his bike from the white-hot pleasure of it, but two callused hands rise to pin my hips down, locking me in place. Something’s wrong—very wrong. And I think it’s more than just Melody . . . but I have absolutely no idea what.

Another torturous lick along my center almost rockets me to the moon, but I force myself to stay grounded, to take in any piece of evidence that might point to Rhett’s undoing. Something’s happened, something that’s cracking him down the middle, and I think it’s more than just Melody. He’s reckless when his family’s in trouble, and if I don’t figure it out and show him another way through, I have a terrible feeling I might lose him forever.

As glorious as his mouth on me feels right now, I’m acutely aware of the fact that this isn’t about me at all. This isn’t one of Rhett’s coy and careful lessons. This feels more like a punishment, like he’s punishing himself, and it’s just more proof he’s done something to hurt himself . . .

He moves one hand across my belly so his forearm presses against the bones of my hips, keeping me in place as his mouth lifts from me. With his newly freed hand, he drags the pads of his fingers down the inside of my thigh, eyes locked on where they glide along my skin. He looks back to where his mouth just was, where I’m needy and cold without him. His mouth twists as he seems to suck in through his teeth behind closed lips, and then opens them to spit on me.

The warmth of his saliva lands where his mouth was just deliciously edging me higher, and I watch in fascination as he lifts those devious fingers to swirl himself around me before abruptly plunging two deep inside.

I cry out from the shock of it, my back arching off the leather seat, pushing against the heavy arm that still holds me down. He wastes no time, pistoning his fingers in a brutal assault that forces my eyes closed, overstimulated in the best way, unable to focus on anything but taking what he’s giving me. His mouth finds its rightful place where I need him most, and it takes less than a handful of heartbeats before he’s hurling me over the edge, nosediving into ecstasy as I scream his name into the pines around us, mind spinning from the plunge.

Still, he doesn’t stop. Pleasure wrecks through me until I’m boneless and hollow and made of only him and this, of the intense need to be what he craves when he’s falling apart. When it’s clear he’s siphoned every ounce of my undoing, I feel the loss of his mouth and fingers as he rises to his feet, eyes roaming over me with a predatorial hunger like I’ve never seen before.

His hands bracket around my waist, sliding me off the side of the bike and holding my weight until my feet reach the ground. His eyes fasten to mine for a long second that stretches around us, flaring with the war waging in his heart. I know he won’t tell me what’s going on, that this is his only way of communicating his pain. Still, the resolve to show him that he’s not alone is closing in.

He moves to spin me around until my back is to his chest, and shivers scatter down my neck as his lips trace along the shell of my ear. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, a clear sign the Rhett I know and have come to deeply care for is still in there, even as he grips me hard enough to leave bruises.

“I know,” I say back. Because I do. No matter what, I know without a single doubt that he’s not going to hurt me. He won’t let me fall.

One of his hands lifts to apply pressure between my shoulder blades, bending me down over the bike. I hear the rustle of his clothes before his legs press against mine, where I’m still bared to him and the night, and feel him nudge against me. Anticipation rushes through me like a blast of light just as he pushes in.

It’s fast and hard and not exactly careful, but I can tell he’s holding back.

The groan he lets out is deep and wide open. There’s an edge to it, a relief. An exhale. And then he’s moving, hands squeezing against my hips as his work against me.

“I can take it, Rhett,” I say over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine, steely and focused and still full of so much pain. He looks so tired. “Let me take it.”

He grunts in response, eyes flaring. And then he moves faster. Harder. The slap of our skin echoes the beat of my heart, ratcheting higher and higher as he chases the darkness away. It’s not long until he’s losing his rhythm, becoming more and more frantic. He feels like sin, unmoored and alive with need. It’s carnal, wild, and yet I know from the way his thumb rocks back and forth against my back that he’s still tethered to me, still holding me through this just like he’s always done.

That alone is almost enough to make me come again, but I’m too anchored to his well-being to allow myself to tumble back over the edge. Still, a band of desire pulls taut within me, and despite Rhett’s roughness and my worry, I’m climbing higher and higher with him until his thrusts stutter.

“Christ,” he grunts, pulling out of me, and I feel his release paint my skin as he heaves in heavy breaths. “Fuck,” he says, lower this time, his forehead pressing lightly against the back of my dress where it’s still wrapped around my chest.

I don’t say a word as he moves to pull his pants up around his waist, buckling himself in. “Don’t move,” he says quietly. He takes off his jacket, then pulls his T-shirt over his head and uses it to wipe away the evidence of what he’s just done. Whatwe’vejust done. He gently tugs my skirt back down, smoothing the fabric over my hips as I turn to face him.

His skin is pale in the moonlight, a stark contrast to his dark hair and clothes. I watch as he stuffs one end of the balled-up shirt into his back pocket before tugging his jacket back over his shoulders, his muscles flexing and gliding as he moves. The confidence he wears so easily is nowhere to be found, and his eyes look haunted.

“What did you do?” I rasp, nerves spiking.

The question surprises him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re punishing yourself. You’re . . . you’respiraling, Rhett. This isn’t just about Melody dying. You’ve done something.” I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing the rise of his chest and clench of his jaw. “You’ve done something to try to save everyone, just tell me what it is.”

His eyes harden, and it’s all the confirmation I need. “There’s a threat to the ranch,” he replies coolly, and his words from our phone conversation force their way back in.

Someone might be trying to take the ranch from us.

“Can it happen?” I ask. “Can someone really take it from you?”

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