You hate him. God, you hate him. And yet somehow, you let Rafe Cameron talk you into a bet you were doomed to lose. Now you’re paying the price—barely covered by a bikini, sponge in hand, standing in his driveway while the summer heat blazes down and his smug victory echoes in your head.

His car gleams under the sunlight, black paint so polished you can see your reflection. You drag the sponge across the hood, every movement slow and deliberate, suds dripping down your wrist. The whole thing feels humiliating, and you’re convinced the only reason he wanted this wasn’t for his car—it was for this. For you, on display.

The screen door creaks open behind you, and your stomach drops.

“Well, look at that,” he says, his voice carrying that arrogant drawl you hate. “Didn’t think you’d actually go through with it. But I’ve gotta say… it’s a good look for you.”

You turn, glare sharp, but he’s already walking toward you. Eyes locked shamelessly on the way the bikini hugs your curves.

“Keep staring and I’ll dump this bucket on your head,” you snap.

He just grins. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Before you can move, he’s right there—close, too close—backing you into the glossy hood. The car is cold against your spine, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against yours. His hand plants on the metal beside your hip, caging you in.

“Move,” you order, though your voice betrays the tiniest tremor.

“Make me,” he murmurs, dipping his head lower. His breath grazes your jaw, the line of your throat, and you swear your knees almost buckle.

You shove at his chest, but he barely budges. Instead, he plucks the hose from your grip, spraying a sudden burst of icy water across your stomach. You gasp, arching against the hood as the bikini clings even tighter. His laugh is low, dark, victorious.

“Guess I’ve got a talent for it,” he says, voice husky. “Making you wet.”

“You’re disgusting,” you fire back, though it comes out breathless.

“And you’re blushing,” he counters smoothly. His thumb brushes along your jaw, tilting your face up until you’re forced to meet his eyes.

The smirk fades, replaced by something heavier. His lips hover dangerously close, just a breath away, the tension thick enough to choke you.

For one dizzying second, you think he’s going to kiss you. You even feel the ghost of his mouth against yours—hot, taunting, unbearable.

But then he pulls back just slightly, smirk snapping back into place.

“Not so fun when you actually want it, huh?” he whispers, leaving you trembling against the car, torn between shoving him away and dragging him closer.