Page 117 of The Fine Line
The release in my legs sends a shuddering breath through me. Rhett must think it’s panic, because he lowers his head into the crook of my neck, hands sliding down to cradle my ribcage.
“I have you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, baby.”
I take in a jagged breath, and my shoulders rise—high enough that his lips graze the one he’s leaning over. I think it’ll be a fleeting touch, but instead, he lowers his head further, letting his mouth drift along my shoulder.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he whispers. “I’m with you. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
Whatever was keeping me upright vanishes. My body sags, my bones suddenly gelatin, and I start to slide off the counter.
“Whoa,” Rhett says quickly, catching me by the thighs. “Stay with me.”
His grip is firm but gentle, his hands moving in slow, calming strokes along my legs.
But the turbulence soon turns Rhett’s careful touches clumsy—shifting them into something frenzied and uneven. The rhythm of his hands against my skin sends a whimper slipping past my lips as I bite down on my bottom one.
“Cub, tell me what I can do?—”
It’s Rhett’s rushed words that get cut short this time when the plane bucks. He stumbles forward, one hand slipping off my thigh as I begin to slide. We both scramble for balance—Rhett grabs the counter, and my hands shoot out, gripping his forearm at the exact moment it happens.
And then I see stars.
The only space Rhett had to grab was the three square inchesof counter between my spread thighs, and now his wrist is pressed firmly against my core.
The plane lurches again, like we’re hitting invisible speed bumps, and I squirm to create space. But he’s still trying to regain his balance, unintentionally holding me in place. My head thuds back against the mirror as I pant, fighting against gravity.
But then, between one breath and the next, my body relaxes slightly—and when I shift to the side, something cold and hard hits a spot behind my leggings that sends a firework of sensation shooting through me.
I glance down and spot it—one of Rhett’s custom silver number 19 cufflinks. It’s angled just right. My back muscles slacken again, and I find myself slipping forward another millimeter, grinding into the cool metal nub.
A second wave detonates—stronger this time—and just as Rhett lifts his head from my shoulder, a hiss escapes my lips.
“Shit, sorry, Cub,” he mutters. “Guess we need to give seatbelts a little more credit?—”
He cuts off.
It takes me a second to peel my eyes open, and when I do, he’s not looking at my face. His gaze is locked between us.
The plane is still rocking, and at first, I don’t understand the difference in the way we’re moving. Then a moan escapes me—and I realize what he’s feeling. What I’m doing.
I freeze, my face flushing.
I release my hold on him, scrambling to push myself back onto the counter. “Sorry, I?—”
“No.” Rhett’s voice is low, commanding. He grabs my wrist before I can pull away.
He brings my hand back down, threading his fingers through mine and wrapping them around his forearm again.
“Take what you need.”
My brows knit. Rhett says nothing, his heated gaze locked on my face, unwavering.
“I—I don’t understa?—”
The plane jerks forward.
I slide—this time landing not just on his wrist, but on the full heel of his hand. A shock shoots through me so sharp it makes my legs tremble and a broken sound claw its way from my throat.
Rhett untangles his fingers from mine, letting me grip his arm alone as he slides his hand into my hair, gently pulling me toward him.
