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Feyre usually thinks the term “friends with benefits” is stupid. Stupid because it implies that a regular friendship does not have benefits.
But, in her current situation, she really doesn’t care.
Feyre likes being in Rhys’ bed. Not because it’s luxurious and plush and soft (and smells like him). But because usually when she is in that bed, Rhys is in it, too. Ands his hands and lips are all over her, coaxing pleasure from her in a way that is designed to slowly drive her mad.
Like right now.
Her legs are thrown over his shoulders, with Rhys’ head between her thighs as he eats her out like his life depends on it. She can’t complain, because Feyre thinks that if he were to stop right now, she might legitimately die.
And Feyre isn’t ashamed of the sounds that come from her. Small and needy, accentuated by her bucking her hips up in an attempt to get him even closer. Rhys doesn’t seem to mind, at least going by the moan he lets out whenever Feyre’s legs tighten around him and she lifts off the bed.
And the hands that hold onto her hips aren’t pushing her back down. In fact, it seems like he quite enjoys her attempts to choke him. He encourages her with thumbs that run slow circles into her skin, mirroring the movements of his tongue.
Feyre thinks that this.. this is clearly a benefit normal friendships don’t have.
She comes - for the third time - as a slew of words fall from her lips. Her brain has long since stopped keeping up with her mind and she doesn’t care. Not when Rhys is still not stopping. It feels like he’s been down there for hours, for days, forever.
And Feyre really, really can’t complain.
At least until she starts to get sensitive and delirious and she’s gripping the sheets and moaning his name, both seeking that orgasm that she can taste on the tip of her tongue but also burning with each stroke of his tongue.
Sometimes, she wonders if Rhys knows her body better than she does. Because when she comes again, it’s.. actually, she doesn’t have words for how it feels.
Every nerve ending is on fire, her head thrown back, hips lifting up the bed as far as it can go and the feeling of relief so earth shattering that even words fail her.
The first thing she notices once she comes back to herself is Rhys’ lips on her thigh, the second is the soft sound of him chuckling.
Usually she would roll her eyes at the self-satisfied little prick as he slides up her body, but she’s so blissfully relaxed in that moment that she simply gives him a dazed smile.
Rhys’ lips are soft as they brush against her lips. She can taste herself on them and moans a little. Her hand slides between their bodies, surprised to find Rhys still wearing his pants.
As she moves to unbuckle his belt, Rhys lets out another chuckle and Feyre just says, “Shut up.”
But before she can really get going and alarm goes off. Rhys presses his forehead against her shoulder groaning as he pushes up into her fingers and groans again.
“Fuck.” He says, then presses a kiss to her shoulder before grabbing his phone. “I need to go.”
Feyre doesn’t let go of him, simply raises a brow and asks, “How long do you have?”
Rhys looks at the screen, then looks at her and it seems as though he’s doing a quick calculation before he groans again and says, “I need to go now. I have a meeting with Mor.”
She can’t help but feel bad. This arrangement they have is about mutually satisfactory meetings, not about her brains being blown away and Rhys being left hard and wanting.
Not that he doesn’t blow her brain away each and every time. It feels as though Rhys revels in the sounds he can coax from her. And when she returns the favour, Feyre is always surprised by the words that fall from Rhys’ lips. How his hands slide into her hair, nails gently scraping against her scalp, phrases like “yes, darling, just like that” or “Feyre, please” sound.
It’s nothing like the cocky asshole she first got to know. Or the less cocky, but still kind of an asshole friend she made. Rhys in bed is something entirely different.
And right now, she wants him like that. Even as she’s still breathless from her last orgasm. But he needs to go and Feyre feels bad.
“When can I return the favour then, prick?” Feyre asks, still unwilling to let go of him. She slowly strokes him, making him groan again. This time deeper and in a way that dances down her spine and makes Feyre shiver.
“Tonight?”
The reply comes too fast, too eager and Feyre can’t help but smirk. “Alright.”
And then Rhys is getting off the bed, taking hold of her hand and placing it gently by her side and Feyre realizes a beat too late that this is his bed in his apartment and that she’s still naked.
Rhys must realize it, too, because he leans down, pressing a kiss to her forehead and whispering, “Just don’t forget to shut the door when you go.”
There’s a smile in the words, but Feyre doesn’t see it. Because her eyes fall shut at the soft brush of his lips on her skin. But she nods.
“I’ll see you tonight?” Rhys asks, as if he needs to make sure.
Feyre nods again. Eyes still closed, she smiles and says, “Yes. Have fun with Mor.”
Rhys doesn’t move away, his lips simply press another kiss to her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose. Something warm sparks in Feyre’s chest but she can’t name the feeling. She simply enjoys the tingling that his lips leave in their wake. “Goodbye, darling.”
When he finally kisses her lips, Feyre mutters, “Bye, Rhys. Love you.”
His breath fans over her face, harsh and rattling and only when he doesn’t kiss her again or move away, does Feyre realize what she’s just said. Her eyes fly open and she finds him staring down at her, his own eyes wide and filled with surprise. “What did you just say?”
That feeling in her chest turns into an ache. Still warm, still tingling, but almost overpowering in its intensity.
“I-” Feyre starts, and that warm, molten feeling starts to feel more like panic. “I said love you?”
Rhys’ face is unreadable. Which is confusing because in the last few years, Feyre has made it a priority to know what he’s thinking at all times. “You love me?” His tone is soft, filled with wonder and Feyre’s panic ebbs away.
“I- I think so?”
“Feyre-” Rhys starts, but then his phone rings again. This time it’s not the sound of his alarm. “Shit. It’s Mor. Feyre, I-”
But Feyre’s already chuckling. “Go, or Mor’s going to kick your ass.”
“Can we talk about this tonight?” Rhys asks, leaning down and pressing another kiss to her lips. “And, I love you, too.”
Feyre smiles against his lips. Even as his phone rings again and Rhys curses under his breath. “I’m sorry-”
“Go.” Feyre says again and laughs as Rhys gives her one last, longing look and leaves her naked and spent and laughing on his bed.