Page 118 of The Fine Line
“You don’t need to understand everything,” he whispers into my temple.
I swallow hard, colors dancing behind my fluttering eyelids. I swivel my hips to the side, almost unconsciously, searching for that feeling again. When I find it, I do it again—grinding against him without even thinking.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
His fingers tighten in my hair. He heard.
The plane tilts left, and I roll my hips right, trying to make the movement subtle. But I take it too far, linger too long.
When I glance up, Rhett’s already watching me.
“Don’t get shy on me now, Cub.”
I don’t know what it is about being in the air that makes this feel like a dream. Like the rules don’t apply. Like none of it will matter once we land.
I pull my hand from his arm—knowing he’ll stay in place—and brace it behind me. Rhett stays still, eyes on mine, waiting. I hold his gaze, sliding forward.
That sweet spot presses right into his wrist, and then I lift my hips, swirling them, letting the cufflink graze over me again and again where I’m aching the most. It’s positioned just right, each pass making me shiver.
My head falls back, a moan muffled between my teeth.
“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groans, dropping his head to my shoulder. His lips trail briefly up my neck before he angles his head down, watching me move. “You look so fucking pretty.”
The pressure inside me coils tighter. I need release. Desperately. But I can’t quite get there, no matter how hard I chase it. My moans soften into frustrated whimpers.
Suddenly, Rhett’s hand lifts from the counter like it’s instinct—reaching for me—but he freezes, hovering just shy of touching me. His hand trembles.
“S–sorry,” he rasps, slowly lowering it again.
This time, I reach for him.
I wrap my hand around his wrist and guide it up, just until it’s hovering over me again.
“God,” he murmurs. “I can feel the heat coming off you. You trying to fucking kill me, baby?”
I let go and lean back, so the thin fabric of my leggings brushes his fingers.
The contact makes me yelp—and Rhett’s face crumples with restraint, his eyes going heavy, expression turning feral.
He finally rests his fingers against me, just lightly.
“Fuck,” he rasps.
He sinks lower, his face level with the counter. Rotating his hand, he presses into me, fingers angled up, spreading me open through the leggings.
“What are you?—”
My words die when he replaces his hand with his mouth, pressing his nose into the seam of my leggings and dragging it in one long stroke over me.
“Rhett!”
He breathes me in, slow and deep. His exhale fans against me, shooting through to my every nerve ending and making my back arch.
“God, look at you.”
He slides his fingers over the soaked fabric, then brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean.
His eyes roll back. “So fucking sweet.”
