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You wake to the low sound of wind pressing against the windowpane, that steady Wyoming hum that never really stops. The sky outside is soft and gold, the kind of dawn that creeps rather than bursts. Somewhere downstairs, the old heater clicks on. The world smells faintly of coffee that Rhett must’ve brewed before crawling back into bed.
You feel him before you see him—the weight of his arm slung heavy over your waist, the warmth of his breath against your neck. He murmurs something low, half asleep, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. You smile against the pillow. He does this sometimes; slips back under the sheets after starting the day, pretending he meant to stay in bed all along.
“Mmm,” he hums against your skin. “You awake, honey?”
You don’t answer. Instead, you tilt slightly, inviting him closer. His hand finds the edge of your sleep shirt and slides upward, palm rough and calloused from ranch work, fingertips tracing lazy shapes against your ribs. His mouth moves to your neck—slow, open mouthed kisses that make you breathe deeper, lips parting as his tongue flicks out at the soft skin below your ear.
You turn your head just enough to meet his mouth halfway. It’s a soft kiss at first, still caught between sleep and waking. Then another, slower, deeper. You part your lips for just a second and he slips his tongue in, steady and heady in the way he kisses you. You nip at his bottom lip and Rhett groans, then growls, and his hand tightens on your hip, sliding back up the expanse of your ribs to rest under the curve of your breast.
A short, sharp whine escapes you. His fingers trail up to the nipple, circling it, before lightly pinching. You arch into his hold and grind your hips back, ass pressing against his slowly hardening cock.
You can feel the smile start against your lips before he pulls back, eyes half open, that boyish grin of his showing.
“You’re trouble in the mornin’,” he mutters, voice gravel and warmth.
“Am I?” You whisper, reaching a hand back to brush your thumb along the sharp line of his jaw.
He nods against your skin, pressing another kiss below your ear, a low sound leaving his throat when you shift your hips just slightly—enough to make him react, not enough to give in.
You kiss him again, harder and messier than before, pulling away just as he leans in.
“Only good boys get treats, Rhett.”
He blinks, still fogged with sleep, then lets out a soft huff that’s half a laugh, half disbelief.
“You’re killin’ me.”
You stretch, pretending innocence. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Rhett groans, flops onto his back with one arm thrown over his face, his hair mussed and wild from the pillow. You can’t help but grin. You slip out of bed, bare feet on the cool wood floor, his eyes following you the whole way to the dresser.
“Where you goin’?” He asks, voice lower now, teasing at the edges.
“Gonna make breakfast,” you say, reaching for a hoodie. “You can come downstairs, if you promise to behave.”
You hear him mutter something under his breath that sounds a lot like a curse mixed with a prayer.
The kitchen smells like maple syrup and toasted bread when he finally comes down, hair damp from the shower, t-shirt clinging just right. He leans against the doorframe, watching you flip pancakes at the stove.
“Smells good,” he says.
“You mean I smell good,” you quip, not looking up.
He grins. “That too.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching him watching you—that soft, lazy look that means he’s thinking things he shouldn’t be before coffee. You turn back to the skillet, pretending not to notice.
He moves up behind you anyway, hands sliding around your waist.
“You teasin’ me again?”
“Always.” You reach back and pat his cheek. “Now sit. Eat. Be good.”
Rhett sighs dramatically and obeys, flopping into the chair at the end of the table like a sulking cowboy. You plate up breakfast and set it down in front of him, then sit opposite.
The two of you eat in comfortable quiet, the kind that comes from two years of shared mornings, where every little sound means something: the scrape of his fork, the rustle of your sleeve, the slow exhale before his next joke.
“You still plannin’ on goin’ out to that pumpkin place today?” He asks, breaking the easy silence.
“Yeah,” you say, sipping your coffee. “Wanted to get a few for the porch. Maybe carve one later.”
Rhett leans back, eyes narrowing playfully.
“What if I told you I know a spot with bigger pumpkins—real good ones—out past the main field?”
You narrow your eyes right back. “You tryna get outta buying them?”
“Just sayin’,” he shrugs, that slow grin spreading again, “I know a shortcut.”
You shake your head at him, sensing some antics and shenanigans from him, but still you’re smiling.
“Fine. But if we don’t find any, you’re carryin’ every single pumpkin I pick from the regular patch.”
“Deal,” he says easily.
The drive out is easy—sun high, the truck windows cracked open, country radio humming low. Rhett’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting over yours on the bench seat. Every few miles he glances over, that quiet little smile tugging at his mouth like he still can’t believe you’re here beside him.
“You remember that rodeo in Laramie?” He asks suddenly, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “That’s where I met you.”
You laugh. “You tell me that every time we pass a barn.”
“Still true, ain’t it?” His grin is crooked, the way it always is when he’s smiling for real. “You were wearin’ that blue shirt, the one with them pearl snaps.”
You roll your eyes but your cheeks warm anyway. “You remember what I was wearing?”
“Hell yeah, I do. You looked like trouble all wrapped up in a bow, even back then.”
You give him a look. “And yet you still fell for it.”
“Didn’t have a chance,” he admits, eyes soft now, fixed ahead. “Soon as you smiled, I was done.”
The way he says it—like it’s still true, like it’s still happening right now—makes your chest go warm. You lean your head against his shoulder and he kisses the top of your hair without thinking, eyes still on the road.
“You still teasin’ me today, honey?” He murmurs after a moment.
“Depends,” you say lightly. “You still plannin’ on bein’ a good boy?”
Rhett groans, dragging one hand down his face. “You’re gonna drive me crazy before noon.”
“That’s the plan.”
By the time you reach the pumpkin farm, the place is buzzing—kids running around with cider cups, couples arguing over sizes, someone selling homemade pies near the gate. You tug Rhett’s hand as you walk in, your fingers laced through his.
He’s good with people, in his quiet way. A few folks nod or wave; he tips his hat back and mutters howdy in return. You catch one older woman smiling knowingly when she sees you two holding hands.
“Everyone’s lookin’ at you,” you whisper.
“Let ’em,” Rhett says. “Ain’t their business.”
You bump his shoulder with yours. “You love it.”
He shrugs, a blush dusting across his cheeks. “Maybe a little.”
You pick your way down the rows, pretending to inspect pumpkins, mostly just watching Rhett try to look serious about it. Every time you lean over to check one, you feel his eyes on you.
“See somethin’ you like?” You tease, glancing back.
“Yeah,” he says simply, meaning you, not the pumpkin.
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “Focus, cowboy.”
He holds up a small one. “This one’s cute.”
“So are you,” you shoot back, and the way he flushes, just slightly, makes it worth it. You know if he wasn’t wearing his hat that you’d see the tips of his ears pinking too.
He groans again. “You can’t just say stuff like that out here.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause I’m tryin’ real hard to be good here, honey.”
You lean in close, lips near his ear. “You’re doin’ great, baby. Keep it up.”
You walk ahead before he can answer, leaving him standing there looking like he might combust.
The sun is higher now, throwing long gold flashes across the fields. You can smell the cider in the air, that sweet-spice scent that clings to everyone’s clothes this time of year. Kids laughter drifts in from somewhere behind you while the crunch of hay underfoot fills the spaces in between.
You turn to find Rhett a few rows back, hands in his jacket pockets, watching you like you’re the only thing in sight. He grins when he sees you looking.
“What?” You call out.
He shrugs, walking toward you.
“Think we’re wastin’ time out here,” he huffs, lips twisted in a grimace made purely out of boredom and scheming. “Remember I said there’s better ones just off main field, down by them woods? Heard they’re bigger’n these.” For emphasis, he kicks a deflated pumpkin at his feet.
You raise an eyebrow. “You ‘heard’, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” He offers his hand. “Come on, honey. Trust me.”
You hesitate just long enough to make him grin wider, then slip your hand into his. His palm is warm, rough from the ranch, and grounding. You let him lead you past the last of the pumpkin rows, toward where the fence line breaks and the shade begins.
The crowd noise fades the further you walk, replaced by the wind through dry corn stalks and the scuff of boots against dirt. The air smells different out here, almost sharper, full of fallen leaves and distance.
“You sure this is where they keep the big ones?” You ask, eyes narrowing when he doesn’t turn to look at you.
He hums, noncommittal. “Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure?” You repeat, suspicion colouring your voice.
Rhett just squeezes your hand, guiding you around a patch of wild grass until the path opens into a quiet clearing. The ground is scattered with orange leaves, sunlight slipping through branches overhead. But there aren’t any pumpkins. Not a single one.
You stop, snatching your hand from Rhett’s, spinning fast to turn to him and crossing your arms.
“You tricked me, Rhett.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “It’s trick or treat, right?”
Before you can answer, he steps closer—close enough that his shadow falls over you, that you can smell the cedar of his jacket and the clean soap from his morning shower. He tilts his head down, the brim of his hat catching a slant of light.
You feel that flutter low in your stomach, the one that always comes right before you give in.
“Rhett…” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.
“How ‘bout a l’il trick and treat?” He catches your wrist gently, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t gonna hurt nothin’ if I take myself a little treat then, is it?”
You try to glare, but he’s already got that look—the one that says he knows exactly how far he can push you.
“Not here,” you say, laughing a little, glancing back toward the fields just beyond the line of trees. “Someone might see.”
He leans down, mouth close to your ear. “Then don’t make a sound.”
It’s a whisper, but it lands like thunder.
He kisses you before you can argue, and the world narrows to that: the warmth of his mouth, the faint scratch of stubble against your skin, the way his hand curves around your hip like he was built to find that spot. You break the kiss once, just long enough to breathe, and he’s looking at you like you hung the stars over Wabang.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
“So are you,” you whisper back. “But you still tricked me.”
“Guess that makes us even,” he says, voice rough with laughter.
The leaves rustle underfoot as you shift, pressed close, your heartbeat wild against his chest. He leans in again, hovering his lips above yours—teasing you, just like you’d done to him all day—and you lunge forward before he can pull back.
A noise of surprise punches out of him when you lick at his lips, begging for entry, and he acquiesces without complaint or comment.
The warmth of his breath, the slide of his tongue, the low sound he makes when you shift and pull away just a hair’s breadth before pressing yourself harder against him—it’s all dizzying, clouding over the sensible part of your brain screaming that you’re still in public, just a mere few hundred yards away from everyone else, but Rhett has a funny way of making the world slip away until there’s only the two of you.
“Thought you said only good boys get treats,” he murmurs between kisses.
“I did,” you say, panting into his mouth. “And you haven’t been one today, have you?”
He laughs, quiet and helpless. “Workin’ on it, honey.”
“But I ain’t been very good either, have I?”
He looks down at you and you know what he sees—freckles dusted across flushed cheeks, your hair catching the sun, a reckless softness in your eyes—and he hums, vibrating low in his chest.
“No, you ain’t.” His thumb slides under your jaw and tilts your chin up.
“C’mere,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a breath.
You go without thinking, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left to fill. His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s saying something neither of you have words for.
Rhett hums against your lips, the sound of it sinking into you. His hands drop to your hips, gripping hard, walking you backward until your shoulder blades meet the rough bark of an old oak tree. The contrast is electric—the solid, unyielding wood at your back, and the hard, living heat of him pressed against your front.
“Keep quiet now,” he breathes against your lips, his own voice already strained.
One hand stays on your hip, holding you in place, while the other slips between you. His fingers make quick work of the button on your jeans, the zipper a loud scratch in the quiet clearing. You gasp as his cold fingers graze over your clothed clit, tapping at it for a half second before moving further down to slide your panties to the side.
You’re already soaking wet—you could already feel that through your jeans the second time you kissed. Rhett groans as his fingers slide easily through your folds, drenched in your wetness, and presses the tip of them against your entrance.
You whimper, knees buckling. His mouth swallows the sound; his knee fits between your legs to catch you.
“So wet for me already,” he growls, his fingers circling where you really want him, his thumb pressed firmly against your clit. “All this time, teasin’ me, treatin’ me like that… were you thinkin’ about this?”
You can only nod, your head falling back against the tree as his fingers plunge inside you. Two, curling deep, stroking a place that makes stars burst behind your eyelids—your own supernova building deep within you.
Your fingers scramble for his belt buckle, fumbling with the cold metal. You can hear and feel just how wet you are—the squelching of each thrust, jeans sticking to your inner thighs—and Rhett’s moans grow deeper and louder as he twists his fingers faster inside you.
“Need you,” you manage to choke out, the words torn from your lips. “Now, Rhett. Please.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He frees himself and the feel of him in your hand—hot, hard and heavy—makes you both shudder. For a few seconds you’re hypnotised by how wet his cock is with pre-cum, dribbling down the ruddy head to his balls. You dip your fingers to your pussy, dragging them quick through your folds, before bringing that same hand to his cock and stroking him, slicking him up with your wetness.
Rhett’s eyes roll to the back of his head, jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.
“Fuck, honey—” He cuts himself off, wholly aware just how loud he was and how close you two still are to the edge of the woodlands, right where it meets the field.
You pull your hand away, tugging your jeans down in a hurry, nearly tripping over as you yank one boot through a leg with a struggle. Rhett doesn’t bother with your panties; he just pulls them taut to the side until they snap. His hands hook under your thighs and he lifts you like you weigh nothing, pressing you into the tree, your legs wrapping instinctually around his waist.
He guides himself to you, the broad head of his cock notching against your entrance. He holds there for a second, eyes locked, his breathing as ragged as yours, and then he presses inside in one full stroke.
A choked cry escapes your lips and he covers your mouth with his, swallowing the sound as he fills you completely. It’s a stretch—a perfect, burning fullness that steals the air from your lungs. He stays there, buried to the hilt, body trembling with the effort of holding still, letting you adjust.
“You good?” He grits out, his forehead beaded with sweat.
You nod frantically, rolling your hips against him, the motion making both of you gasp. That’s all the permission he needs.
He withdraws almost all the way then drives back into you with a force that shakes the tree. Your nails dig into the collar of his jacket, holding on for dear life as he sets a relentless, pounding rhythm. Each movement is a jolt of pure pleasure, radiating out from your core, making your toes curl. The stretch of him inside you is intense at this angle—no place to go, no wiggle room to scoot away from the relentlessly thrusts of his cock; just a neverending onslaught of pleasure as Rhett fucks into you like an animal.
The sounds are obscene—the wet, slick slap of your bodies meeting, his ragged grunts in your ear, the choked little moans you can’t hold back. He fucks you with a single-minded intensity, every bit of that ranch strength focused on driving you both right to the edge.
“Look at me.” A demand, his voice a raw scrape.
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, blazing gaze. The love and raw hunger there is more overwhelming than anything else. You can feel the tension coiling tight low in your belly; a familiar, incredible pressure building with every deep, sure stroke.
“I’m close,” you whimper, the words barely audible.
His pace quickens, becoming almost frantic. “Me too, honey. Cum for me. Let me feel it.”
His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, and that’s all it takes. Your orgasm rips through you, violent and stunning, silencing you completely as your body clenches around him in wave after wave of blinding pleasure. You bury your face in his neck to muffle your cry, your body shaking uncontrollably.
Feeling you clench around him pushes him over. With a guttural groan that is pure release, he thrusts into you one last, final time, pulsing hot and deep inside you, his own body shuddering as he cums, his grip on your thighs like iron.
You stay like that for a long moment, pinned to the tree—panting, sweating, utterly spent. Your harsh breaths are the only sound in the quiet of the trees. He nuzzles into your hair, his lips brushing your ear.
The sound of voices drifts faintly from the main path, a couple of families wandering further than they should. You both freeze instinctively—eyes wide, moans caught low in your throats.
Rhett brings a finger to his lips, shushing you, though he’s the one who can’t keep his hips from twitching in tiny increments. You bury your face in his neck, praying you’ll be swallowed whole before you can be seen.
Adrenaline floods your veins as goosebumps trickle all over your skin like hot wax. Your muscles stiffen, tauter than a bow line, and you clench around Rhett’s cock accidentally. A whip sharp whine escapes him, short but loud enough in the quiet of the woods, and he leans forward to bury his face in the nape of your neck, teeth biting into your skin hard enough to mark.
When the voices fade, you exhale; half-laughing, half-relieved. “We almost got caught.”
He tips your chin up with his thumb, forcing you to look at him.
“Worth it.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But you’re still smilin’.”
You swat at his chest, but he catches your hand, kissing your knuckles like some old-fashioned cowboy courting trouble rather than a guy who just fucked his girlfriend against a tree out in public where anyone could see.
“Come on,” he says, voice lower now, full of promise. “Let’s get outta here before I really lose my mind.”
He slips out of you, slowly and carefully, lowering you until your feet touch the ground, though your legs can barely hold you. He leans against you, his body heavy and warm.
You can feel his cum dripping out of you already, starting to trickle down your thighs. You squeeze them together, trying not to make a mess, when Rhett presses a knee between your legs and forces them open again. He looks at you as he catches his cum, scooping most of it back up your thighs and inside you, careful to not touch your sensitive clit. Whatever he couldn’t push back in you, he gathers on his fingers, brings up to his mouth and his tongue dips out, licking at the mix of his and yours cum.
You gasp at the sight. Rhett’s eyes flutter shut, a sharp moan slipping out between his fingers as he laps at them hungrily. When he’s finished cleaning them off, he opens his eyes to look at you with a dirty, cheeky grin on his face.
“Better than pumpkin stew.”
“Rhett—” You smack his chest and push him away, cackling when he trips over a branch and lands hard on his ass.
The walk back is quiet, except for the crunch of leaves and the sound of your breath finally evening out. The sky’s gone soft again—that golden-grey that comes right before the sun starts to dip. You reach the truck just as the wind picks up, carrying the smell of bonfires from somewhere down the road.
Rhett opens the passenger door for you, an old habit he’s never dropped. When you climb in, he lingers, one hand braced on the frame, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to memorize every shade of light on it.
“We didn’t buy a single pumpkin,” you say, teasing as he rounds to the driver’s side.
He climbs in, starts the engine, the low rumble filling the cab.
“Don’t need one,” he says. “Got what I came for.”
You glance over. “And what’s that?”
He looks at you—really looks—that same steady, all-in way he does when he’s about to say something that’ll stick.
“You,” he says simply.
The radio hums low between you, some old song about home and love and the long way back. The sky outside is spilling into orange and blue as the truck pulls out of the lot, gravel spitting under the tires.
You watch the fields fall away, your reflection flickering in the window—windblown hair, flushed cheeks, Rhett’s hand resting on your knee. Every now and then, he glances at you like he still can’t believe he gets to.
You lace your fingers through his. “Speedin’, cowboy.”
He grins, eyes on the road. “Yeah. Tryin’ to get home before dark.”
“Before dark, huh?” you tease. “That all?”
His thumb traces slow circles against your palm. “Maybe I owe you somethin’ for teasin’ me all day.”
You laugh softly, resting your head back against the seat. The truck picks up speed. The last of the sun catches in the rear view mirror, turning everything to honey and fire.
The next few miles pass with nothing but the sound of tires and breath. He rolls the window down and cool air sweeps in, tugging strands of your hair across your face. He reaches over, tucking them behind your ear.
“Hold still,” he murmurs. “Can’t see your eyes when the wind gets ‘em.”
You grin. “You like lookin’ at me that much?”
“Darlin’, that’s the only thing I ever wanna see.”
You laugh but it fades soft when he looks at you again. There’s that quiet thing in his gaze—the kind that makes your pulse skip, the kind that says home louder than any word.
Outside, the horizon burns orange. Inside, it’s just the two of you—your laughter, his low hum, and the long road home.