Chapter 2: The Morning After
The locked door echoed in the quiet room, a final, definitive sound. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Rhett stared at her, his expression that rare, unguarded shock slowly dissolving into something more complex. Curiosity. A flicker of wary hope.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice strangely hollow. “I believe that’s a first.”
“It won’t be the last,” Scarlett said, the confidence in her own words surprising her. She walked toward him, the morning air cool on her skin. She stopped just out of reach, needing to see his eyes. “The coffee will be here soon. You might want to put on your pants.”
A ghost of his old smirk returned. “Afraid the sight of me will shock poor Prissy?”
“I’m afraid you’ll catch a chill and be even more insufferable than usual.”
He chuckled, a low, genuine sound that warmed the room more than the emerging sunlight. He retrieved his trousers, pulling them on with a casual grace that made her heart trip. He left his shirt hanging open. The physical ease between them was new, a tangible relic of the night. It sat in the space alongside the lingering tension.
A soft knock heralded Prissy, who entered with eyes wide as saucers, bearing a heavy tray. She scurried to set it on a small table by the window, her gaze fixed determinedly on the carpet, taking in the scattered clothing—the ruined silk gown, the ripped corset—with a barely-contained squeak. She fled without a word.
The scent of strong coffee, buttered grits, and ham filled the air. It was a normal, mundane smell. It made everything feel terrifyingly real.
They ate in a silence that was neither comfortable nor hostile, but charged. Scarlett watched him over the rim of her china cup. He cut his ham with precise, economical movements, his dark head bent. The man who had pinned her to the bed and promised to ruin her was now calmly chewing his breakfast. The contradiction was maddening.
“You’re staring, my dear,” he said without looking up.
“I’m counting.”
“Counting what?”
“The number of times you almost smile and then decide not to.”
He set his fork down carefully. When he looked at her, the mask was back, polished and impenetrable. “Don’t confuse satisfaction with happiness, Scarlett. A man can enjoy a meal without wanting to marry the cook.”
The words were designed to wound. A week ago, they would have. Now, she heard the defensive edge in them. She saw the way his knuckles were white around his coffee cup. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Ashley’s name to come up again, for her to ask for money, for the game to resume.
She put her own cup down with a decisive click. “Is that what I am to you? A cook? A meal to be enjoyed?” She stood, picking up the silk robe she’d discarded earlier and slipping it on, not bothering to tie it. “You told me last night you were going to have me in every way a man can have a woman. Was that just menu talk, Rhett?”
He leaned back in his chair, a king surveying a mildly interesting subject. “I keep my promises.”
“Do you?” She walked around the table until she stood beside him. “Or do you just make promises you know will cause a scene? You’re good at exits, Rhett. Spectacular at dramatic last words. But what about an entrance? What about staying?”
His jaw tightened. “You sent Ashley away. A compelling scene. It doesn’t rewrite the last decade.”
“I’m not trying to rewrite it! I’m trying to burn the damned book!” Her voice rose, frustration cracking her composure. “But you. You want to keep it. You cling to my past mistakes like a security blanket because it gives you an excuse to stay at arm’s length. You’re a coward.”
He was on his feet so fast his chair screeched backward. He loomed over her, his eyes blazing. “A coward?”
“Yes.” She didn’t retreat. She tilted her head back, meeting his fire with her own. “You’re brave enough to face Yankee rifles and societal scorn, but you’re terrified of this. Of me, when I’m not playing a part. You’d rather have a fight than a real conversation. You’d rather screw me against a door than talk to me over breakfast. Because this,” she gestured between them, “this quiet, morning-after thing… that’s the real battlefield. And you, Captain Butler, are looking for a retreat.”
The truth of it hung in the air, ugly and undeniable. His face went through a series of transformations—fury, insult, and finally, a stark, unveiled astonishment. He had no ready retort. No clever deflection.
Scarlett seized the moment. She closed the last inch between them, her hands finding the open sides of his shirt. She fisted the fabric and pushed. He was solid, unmovable, but he allowed her to walk him back until the edge of the heavy dining table hit his thighs.
“You made your point last night,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You showed me what it means to be wanted by you. Now let me show you something.”
She shoved the robe from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet. In the clear morning light, she was utterly exposed, every freckle, every curve, every shadow. She saw his gaze drop, his breath catch. There was no mockery there now. Only a hungry, bewildered awe.
Her fingers went to the fastening of his trousers. He didn’t help, but he didn’t stop her. His hands came up to grip the table’s edge on either side of him, the wood groaning under his weight.
When she freed him, she didn’t hesitate. She hitched herself up onto the table, sending a porcelain dish clattering to the floor. It shattered. Neither of them looked. She moved over him, guiding him, her eyes locked on his as she slowly, deliberately, took him inside.
A harsh, shuddering gasp escaped him. His eyes fluttered shut for a second before forcing themselves open, determined to watch.
This was different. Last night had been a storm of his making. This was a deliberate, slow-burning fire of hers. She set the pace, a rolling, grinding rhythm that was about connection, not conquest. She braced her hands on his shoulders, leaning close. Her hair fell around them like a curtain.
“See?” she breathed against his mouth. “No games. No audience. Just me. Having you.”
His control shattered. The observer vanished. His hands flew to her hips, his grip fierce, anchoring her as he began to move with her, meeting her grind for grind, his upward thrusts meeting her downward slides. The table rocked, its legs protesting with sharp squeaks against the floorboards.
It was slower, deeper, more devastating than the night before. It was a conversation in a language older than words. Every shift of her body asked a question. Every groan from his chest provided an answer. The sunlight warmed her back as she moved, a stark contrast to the shadowed frenzy of the storm.
She watched his face, saw the moment his cynicism truly burned away. His features were tight with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His gaze was naked, vulnerable, utterly hers.
“Scarlett,” he choked out, a raw plea and a surrender.
It was her name, spoken like that, which undid her. The climax rolled through her, a deep, unfolding wave that pulled a long, low cry from her throat. He followed instantly, his own release a sharp, guttural sound as he pulled her hard against him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his body trembling.
The silence returned, filled now with the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint, domestic smell of cooling grits. The world outside the window—the birds, the dripping trees—seemed impossibly loud.
Slowly, his grip on her relaxed. He didn’t let go, but his hands softened, smoothing over the skin of her back. He was still buried inside her, still leaning against the ruined breakfast table. He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, soft, profoundly confused.
She touched his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his mustache. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a brief second.
When he spoke, his voice was rough, stripped bare. “You’ll be the death of me, Scarlett O’Hara.”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across her lips. She felt powerful, alive, more herself than she ever had. “Good,” she whispered, leaning forward to brush her lips against his. “Then we’ll finally be even.”
He exhaled a shaky laugh against her lips. "Even. What a concept for us." His hands were still on her hips, holding her in place against him. The reality of their position—naked, tangled, atop the ruined breakfast—seemed to dawn on him. His gaze flicked to the shattered dish on the floor. "I believe you murdered the gravy boat."
"Prissy will mourn it terribly," Scarlett murmured, not moving. She felt languid, powerful, satiated in a way that went deeper than physical release.
Rhett's expression shifted, the vulnerability hardening back into something more familiar, though less sharp. He was reconstructing his defenses, but she could see the seams now. "This changes nothing about the logistics, you know. The world is still out there. Your mills, my ships, the fact that we can't be in a room for ten minutes without drawing blood."
"I don't want to change the logistics," she said, tracing the line of his collarbone. "I just want this to be part of the negotiation."
"A rather potent bargaining chip."
"It's not a chip, you blockhead." She nipped his shoulder, not gently. "It's the table. It's the room where the negotiation happens. It's the... the assumption."
He studied her, his dark eyes searching hers. The morning light showed every fleck of amber in them, every tiny line of skepticism and weary hope. "What assumption, exactly?"
"That you're staying. That I'm staying. That we'll fight, probably daily, and then we'll..." She glanced down at where their bodies were still joined, then back up, a defiant glow in her green eyes. "We'll settle it. Like this. Or over coffee. But we'll be in the same house to have the fight."
He was silent for so long she felt the first cold trickle of doubt. Then his hands slid from her hips up her back, a slow, possessive migration. "The wreckage of that gravy boat is a portent, Scarlett. A symbol of the chaos that follows you. My life is... ordered. Or it was."
"Liar," she said softly, her smile real. "Your life is ships that run blockades and deals in shadowy corners. You crave chaos. You just call it by a different name. Profit."
A genuine grin, bright and surprising, broke across his face. It transformed him, taking years off. "God, you're a menace." He kissed her, hard and quick. "You see too much."
Before she could respond, his hands tightened. In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifted her from him and spun her. The world tilted. Her palms slapped against the cool, polished wood of the table as he flipped her over onto her stomach.
A gasp was punched from her lungs. The scattered remnants of breakfast pressed into her skin—a stray crumb, a cool pat of butter. She tried to push up, but his broad hand settled between her shoulder blades, holding her down with effortless strength.
"Rhett—"
"You want assumption?" His voice was a low growl at her ear, his body covering hers. His knee nudged her legs wider. "Assume this."
He entered her again, deeply, from behind. This was different. There was no face to read, only sensation and sound. The impact was sharper, more carnal, stripping away the last pretense of a gentle connection. It was about possession, pure and stark. The table shuddered with each driven thrust.
She cried out, the sound muffled against her own arm. Her fingers scrambled for purchase, finding none. She was utterly open, pinned, taken. And instead of fear, a fierce, dark joy surged through her. This was the other side of the coin from her control moments before. This was his answer.
"Is this the negotiation?" he rasped, his breathing harsh. His hand slid from her back, around her hip, dipping between her legs. "Is this the table?"
She couldn't form words. She could only nod against the wood, a frantic, desperate motion. Her body coiled tighter and tighter, wound by the relentless rhythm of his hips and the clever, circling pressure of his fingers.
"Good." The word was a vow. "Then remember the terms."
His pace became punishing, final. She fractured, a silent scream shaking her frame as the climax ripped through her with brutal intensity. He followed with a choked curse, his whole body locking as he spilled into her, his weight fully surrendering onto her back.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their struggle for air. The smell of sex and ham and coffee was overwhelmingly intimate. He softened, withdrew, but didn't roll away. He just lay over her, his face beside hers on the table, his breath hot on her cheek.
"Logistically," he whispered, his voice wrecked, "this means we need a stronger table."
A weak laugh bubbled out of her. She turned her head, her nose brushing his. "Or we stop having important discussions in the dining room."
"Where's the fun in that?" He pushed himself up slowly, leaving her skin feeling cool where his heat had been. He offered a hand.
She took it, letting him pull her upright. Her legs trembled. She stood amidst the wreckage of the meal, utterly exposed, and felt no shame. He looked at her—really looked—his eyes traveling over her flour-dusted stomach, the butter smudge on her thigh, the wild tumble of her hair.
He reached out, not for anything sensual, but to pluck a piece of grits from her shoulder. "You're a mess."
"So are you." She smiled, a slow, tired, victorious thing. "Your shirt is inside out."
He glanced down and laughed. It was a free, unburdened sound she realized she'd never truly heard from him. He untangled the garment, pulled it off, and used it to gently wipe the worst of the breakfast from her skin. The gesture was so profoundly domestic, so unexpectedly tender, that her throat tightened.
A louder, more insistent knock came at the door. "Miss Scarlett? Captain Butler?" It was Mammy this time, her tone brooking no nonsense. "There's a wire come for the Captain. From Charleston. The boy says it's pressing."
The world rushed back in, cold and urgent. Rhett's face closed like a vault. He snatched his trousers, stepping into them with swift efficiency. The man from the blockade was back, the softness of a moment ago vanished.
Scarlett wrapped her ruined robe around herself, tying it tightly. "See?" she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "The logistics."
He finished buttoning his fly and walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the key. He didn't look at her. "This changes nothing," he repeated, but it sounded like a mantra, a ward against hope.
He unlocked the door and opened it just enough to take the telegram from Mammy's waiting hand. He shut it again, leaning back against the wood as he tore the thin paper open. His eyes scanned the lines, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Scarlett watched, her heart a hard, anxious knot in her chest. The sunlight felt accusing now. "Well?"
He crumpled the paper in his fist. "My father is dead."