Rafe Cameron—the cocky, egotistical jerk that you hated, absolutely hated with every bone in your body, but at the same time, loved. He was hot—like, extremely hot, but you were never going to admit that—not unless he did first.

“Hey gorgeous,” he cat-calls, wolf-whistling as he comes to sit beside you at the bar. You roll your eyes and scoff, not saying anything. “Playing that game, are we?” He says, smirking and moving closer to you. “I can play that, baby.” He whispers confidently.

His fingers trail across your jaw, then your lips, and his face is somehow inches from yours. Heat was radiating off of his skin, the smell of beer and expensive cologne wrapping around you like a haze. “Rafe, come on.” You argue back, your tone bored as you shift away further.

“If you want me this bad, show me.” You whisper to him, a smirk playing on your lips as you look at him. He was staring at you like a baby looking at candy, his pupils dilated and his gaze intense. This wasn’t just another kook party fling, he wanted you, and he wanted you bad.

“Yes ma’am.” He said, standing up and lifting you onto him, your body fitting into his. “I’ll definitely show you.” He taunts, “Whatever you want princess.” He adds, carrying you upstairs.