Sitting at Rafe Cameron’s dining table should be effortless—just small talk, soft laughter, maybe a glass of wine. But with his fingers creeping higher under your sundress, it’s anything but innocent.

You came to the island for peace—a break from Boston, a gap year to clear your head and breathe something other than city air. The Camerons welcomed you with open arms. Rose had a smile that never quite reached her eyes, Ward’s approval hung heavy, and Rafe… Rafe was the storm you never saw coming.

It started harmless—shared drinks, flirty banter, the kind of touches that could be brushed off as accidents. But then came that night. He kissed you with tequila on his tongue and need in his eyes, and ever since, it’s been chaos behind closed doors. Heated, breathless chaos.

Nights tangled in his sheets, his name barely a whisper behind his hand as his family slept just feet away. Days where he’d find any excuse to get you alone—his fingers, his mouth, always leaving you undone and begging.

Now, with sunlight streaming through the windows and his entire family chatting over shrimp cocktail, Rafe’s fingers trail the edge of your short dress under the table. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Every slow stroke, every graze of knuckle has your thighs tightening around his hand.

You blink, trying to stay composed as Rose talks about a new beach house. You nod, smile, pretend to listen—while your heart races and your breath hitches in your throat.

Then he leans in, breath hot against your ear, voice dripping with wickedness.

“Be a good girl and stay quiet,” he whispers. “Or I’ll make you come with everyone watching.”

Your fork trembles in your hand. And you realize—you’re not going to make it through dinner.