At my husky whisper, his eyes widened, searching mine for any hesitation. Finding none, he swallowed hard, the movement visible in his throat.
“Are you sure?” Rhett’s voice was a rough whisper against my skin. “Because if we start this, I don’t think I can stop.”
The question slid over me like warm honey, stirring memories of all the times he’d murmured it against my ear, my neck, my thigh as we’d learned and explored each other in the early days. A shiver ran through me, and for a split second, doubt crept in.
Was I making a mistake? We’d been down this road before—the heat, the passion, the connection that made me feel like I was flying and falling all at once. But that hadn’t been enough to save us. The job always came first. The calls in the middle of the night. The missed anniversaries. The constant fear that one day he wouldn’t come home.
I’d divorced him because loving him hurt too much when I was always his second priority.
And yet...
His hands rested at my waist, warm and steady, waiting for my answer. Patient. The old Rhett would have already had me against the wall, clothes half-off. This Rhett was different. Watching. Waiting. Putting my needs first.
My gaze dropped to the fresh calluses on his hands—evidence of the work he’d been doing on my house. Our house. The home he was repairing piece by piece, just like he seemed determined to fix what had broken between us.
My rational brain screamed caution. This could end in disaster. In more heartbreak. In regrets.
But my body hummed with a need I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. And my heart—traitorous thing—had never stopped loving him, even when I’d signed the divorce papers.
I didn’t want rational right now. I didn’t want to list all the reasons this could be a terrible idea. I wanted him. Wanted the heat and the pleasure and the closeness I’d never had with anyone else.
“Yes,” I whispered, pressing my body against his. “I’m sure.”
Rhett’s hands slid beneath my thighs, lifting me with an ease that sent a rush of heat through my body. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my arms looping around his neck as he carried me down the hallway.
“Your shoulder,” I murmured against his neck, suddenly remembering his injury.
“Is fine,” he growled, his voice vibrating against my chest. “Trust me, I’m cleared for this kind of activity.”
The trip to my bedroom—what had once been our bedroom—seemed both endless and too short. My heart thundered against my ribs as he nudged the door open with his foot, stepping into the space I’d deliberately transformed after he left.
Gone was the navy blue comforter we’d picked out together. In its place lay a cloud-like duvet in soft blush pink, piled high with decorative pillows I’d never indulged when we shared the bed. The walls, once the neutral beige we’d compromised on, now gleamed a delicate lavender-gray that caught the afternoon light streaming through gauzy curtains that had replaced the practical blinds.
I’d painted over every trace of him, filled the space with feminine touches—the crystal lamp on the nightstand, the framed botanical prints, the vanity in the corner where his dresser used to stand. I’d needed to erase him, to stop waking up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
But now, with Rhett standing in the middle of my carefully curated sanctuary, all those efforts seemed futile. He dominated the space without even trying. His broad shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as he held me—all of it a stark contrast to the soft femininity I’d surrounded myself with.
And God help me, I loved it. Loved the juxtaposition of his raw masculinity against my deliberate softness. Loved how small I felt in his arms, how his strength made me feel both protected and desired.
He paused, taking in the changes, his eyes darkening as they returned to mine. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured, his thumbs making small circles against my thighs.
“I needed...” I swallowed, not wanting to ruin the moment with old hurts. “I needed it to feel like mine again.”
Rhett lowered me gently onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath our combined weight as he followed me down, bracing himself on his forearms to hover above me. His eyes searched mine, filled with an intensity that took my breath away.
“I’m yours again. If you want me.” His voice was rough with emotion.
The words hung between us, heavy with promise and possibility. This wasn’t just about sex. This was Rhett offering himself back to me—all of him. The good, the bad, the parts that had hurt me before.
I reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. The stubble there rasped against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. Did I want him? I’d never stopped wanting him. Even when signing divorce papers, I’d wanted him. I’d just stopped believing he could ever truly be mine.
“I do.” I pulled him down to me. “I want you.”
Our lips met. The kiss started soft, like the quiet whisper of a match, but we were nothing but dry tinder. The heat between us blazed into something desperate and all consuming. My hands roamed across his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin, tracing the map of his body I still knew by heart. His tongue swept against mine, and I arched up, pressing myself against the hard planes of his chest.
Rhett’s fingers found the hem of my shirt, sliding underneath to caress my stomach. I gasped against his mouth as callused fingertips traced upward, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He broke our kiss just long enough to pull my shirt over my head, his eyes darkening as they took in the lacy bra I’d put on that morning. A ridiculous indulgence that was hardly practical for my occupation, but it was worth every moment of discomfort to see the look on his face.
“You’re so beautiful.” He breathed the words, lowering his head to press kisses along my collarbone.
