You hate Rafe Cameron. With his smug smile, cocky walk, and the way he always says your name like it’s a joke. You tell your friends he’s disgusting. Arrogant. A walking red flag.

But the second he pulls up outside the party, leaning against his black car with a smirk and a cigarette, your pulse betrays you.

“Lose something?” he asks, eyes dragging over your body like he owns it.

You ignore him. You always do—until the music gets too loud, the beer too warm, and the hallway too crowded. Until you’re outside, walking fast, heels clicking—and his car door opens before you even knock.

No words.

He slams it shut behind you, grabs your face, and kisses you like he’s furious. And you kiss him back harder.

It’s always like this. Always dark. Always desperate. Hands everywhere. Breathing heavy. Your leg over the console. His jacket thrown in the backseat. Your lipstick smeared across his jaw.

“You hate me, remember?” he whispers against your throat, his hand sliding under your dress.

You gasp, arching. “I do.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

You don’t answer. You just pull him closer.

No one knows. Not your friends. Not his. They’d lose their minds. But that’s what makes it hotter. It’s wrong. It’s stupid. It’s addictive.

And when it’s over, you fix your makeup in the rearview mirror. He lights a cigarette, staring straight ahead.

You always say, “This never happened.”

He always replies, “Sure, princess.”

But next weekend? You’ll end up in that car again. And you both know it.