The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight bleeding through the window. You’re straddling Rafe’s lap, your skirt riding up more than you realized, your hands resting on his chest as you both pretend like this isn’t exactly what’s been building between you for weeks. The silence is loud—filled with shallow breaths, darting glances, the tension crackling like fire on skin.

His hands are on your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, maddening circles against your skin. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every part of you—your lips, the curve of your neck, the way your chest rises with every nervous breath. You swallow, hard, because it feels like you’re about to either burst or beg.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he mutters, voice dark and low, “and I’m gonna forget we’re taking things slow.”

You tilt your head slightly, challenging, breath brushing his jaw. “Who said I still want to take it slow?”

His grip tightens—just barely—but you feel it. That shift. That heat. He leans in, nose skimming your cheek before his mouth finds your neck, and you swear you nearly melt. It’s not a soft kiss—it’s deliberate. Hot. Like he’s been dying to taste you there.

Your hands slide up under his shirt, palms pressing against his bare skin, and he exhales against your throat, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me, baby,” he groans, dragging his lips to your jaw, then your mouth. His voice is wrecked—desperate, but still holding on by a thread.

You kiss him, slow and deep, and when you grind down on his lap just enough to feel the tension between you both shift into something hungrier—he pulls back just barely, eyes burning.

“One more move like that,” he warns, “and I won’t be able to stop.”

You bite your lip, fingers running over his buzzed hair.

“Then don’t.”