Page 41 of Rhett & Moses
The decision was made for us when the sound of a door opening shattered the moment. We broke apart, startled, as Bronwyn’s voice rang out from the entrance.
“Relax, it’s just me,” she called, deliberately making noise as she entered. “I forgot my laptop. Please tell me you’re both fully clothed.”
“Jesus, Bronwyn,” I muttered, heat flooding my face as Rhett and I hastily straightened our rumpled clothing. “A little warning next time?”
She appeared at the edge of the bar area, laptop bag in hand, her expression amused but not unkind. “I texted you,” she pointed out. “Three times. Not my fault you were too occupied to check your phone.”
I reached for my phone on the table, confirming that yes, there were indeed three unread messages from Bronwyn, the last one featuring several suggestive emojis and a warning that she was coming by the bar.
“Right,” I conceded, unable to meet her eyes. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize,” she replied, a hint of genuine warmth breaking through her usual sardonic demeanor. “It’s good to see you happy, Moses. Both of you.” She included Rhett in her gaze, something like approval in her expression.
“Thanks, Bronwyn,” Rhett said, composed despite the awkward interruption. “For everything this week.”
“Just doing my part for the course of true love and all that nonsense,” she said dismissively, but I could tell she was pleased. “Now, I’m going to leave again, and this time I won’t be back. If you decide to continue your celebration, might I suggest the perfectly good apartment upstairs? With an actual bed and, more importantly, a door that locks?”
With that parting advice, she was gone, the sound of the front door closing firmly behind her.
Rhett and I looked at each other for a suspended moment before simultaneously dissolving into laughter, the tension broken, replaced by the giddy relief of teenagers who’d narrowly avoided being caught by a parent.
“Well,” Rhett said when our laughter subsided, “I think Bronwyn just gave us her blessing. In her own unique way.”
“That she did,” I agreed, standing and holding out my hand to him. “And she made a good point about the apartment upstairs.”
Rhett took my hand, allowing me to pull him to his feet. “Lead the way.”
The journey to my apartment was a blur of stolen kisses and wandering hands, the narrow staircase becoming an obstacle course as we refused to separate for even the brief ascent. By the time we tumbled through my apartment door, my shirt was completely unbuttoned, and Rhett’s was half untucked, his hair mussed from my fingers.
In the soft lamplight of my living room, we paused, both breathing heavily. This moment felt significant, crossing a threshold we couldn’t uncross, making real what had existed in memory and fantasy for so long.
“Will you make me yours?” I asked, needing to hear him say it again.
Rhett’s answer was to cup my face in his hands, his touch gentle despite the desire evident in his darkened eyes. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said, the simple declaration both an answer and a promise.
That was all I needed. I closed the remaining distance between us, kissing him with everything I’d kept bottled up for twenty years, desire, regret, hope, longing, all of it pouring out in a connection that was as much emotional as physical.
We moved together toward the bedroom, shedding clothing along the way, eager to feel skin against skin. When Rhett’s back hit the mattress, I followed him down, covering his body with my own, reveling in the heat and solidity of him beneath me.
“This is addictive,” he breathed, his hands tracing patterns across my back, my shoulders, everywhere he could reach. “I dreamed about this. About you.”
“Me too,” I confessed, pressing kisses along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. “More than I ever let myself admit.”
What followed was a rediscovery, of each other’s bodies, of preferences remembered and new sensitivities discovered. Wetook our time, mapping terrain that was both familiar and excitingly new. The lean muscle of his youth had matured into a more solid frame, distinguished by the faint silver threading his hair and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. I traced these changes with reverence, learning this new version of Rhett with hands and lips and whispered questions.
“Is this good?” I murmured against his skin as my hand found him, hard and wanting.
“Yes,” he gasped, arching into my touch. “Perfect. Don’t stop.”
I had no intention of stopping, not when every sound he made, every twitch of muscle beneath my hands, sent fire coursing through my veins. I worked him with deliberate focus, watching his face as pleasure built within him, memorizing the way his eyes darkened, the flush that spread across his chest, the slight parting of his lips as his breathing quickened.
When he was close, too close, he caught my wrist, stilling my movements. “Wait,” he panted. “Together. I want to feel you.”
The raw need in his voice nearly undid me. I nodded, allowing him to reverse our positions, thrilling to the weight of him above me. He reached between us, taking us both in hand, the dual sensation of his fingers and our bodies pressed together drawing a moan from deep in my chest.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, and I did, our gazes locking as he began to move. The intimacy of it, of being seen, truly seen, in this moment of vulnerability, was almost overwhelming. There was no hiding here, no armor, just the raw truth of what we meant to each other.
We moved together, finding a rhythm that built steadily, inexorably, toward release. Words gave way to broken sounds, to whispered encouragements, to names spoken like prayers. When the edge approached, I clutched at his shoulders, holdingon as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with pleasure.
