The house is packed — bodies pressing shoulder to shoulder, bass thudding through the floor, the air thick with smoke and cheap perfume.

You’re halfway through your second drink when you see Rafe across the room.

Leaned back against the kitchen counter, red Solo cup dangling from two fingers, head tipped down like he’s pretending not to look at you. But he is. He always does. And tonight, you’re in the mood to make him sweat.

“BODY SHOTS!” someone screams over the music, and the crowd surges toward the island where a lineup of tequila shots, salt, and limes waits.

You hop up onto the counter before you can think better of it, tossing a cocky smile at the circle forming around you.

“If we’re doing it, we’re doing it right!” you shout, and someone shoves a salt shaker and a lime wedge into your hand.

You glance up — and sure enough, Rafe’s pushing through the crowd, blue eyes locked on you like he’s hunting.

"You volunteering?" you tease, twisting the lime between your fingers.

He shrugs, playing it cool. "Depends. Who’s offering?"

You grin and tilt your head back, baring your throat, offering him a stretch of skin just above your collarbone.

"Me."

The room whistles and whoops, but Rafe doesn’t even blink. He steps in — close, too close — standing between your legs as he grabs a shot glass off the counter.

His fingers brush your thigh as he leans forward. Casual. Like he owns you. Like it’s inevitable.

You sprinkle the salt just above your collarbone, the grains cool against your heated skin. He watches every movement, jaw ticking slightly.

"You sure about this?" he mutters, voice low so no one else hears.

You meet his gaze dead-on. "Scared, Cameron?"

His smirk is slow and lethal. "Not even a little, baby."

In one fluid move, he leans in — Tongue tracing along your skin, tasting the salt, slow and deliberate.

Your breath stutters, hands curling against the counter to stay steady.

He tosses the tequila back, throat working.