How did it come to this?

That thought echoed in your head, barely louder than the thudding in your chest or the taste of his lips still on yours.

It was past 5 in the morning. The world outside was asleep, but you were wide awake—heart racing, hands trembling, tangled in something wild and way too real. You’d snuck out. And not just with anyone. With Rafe Cameron.

Now you were in his sports car, parked somewhere off the grid, surrounded by foggy windows and a rising sun bleeding soft orange into the sky.

Sports Car by Tate McRae played low through the speakers, but it sounded like background noise in a dream. Because the only thing you could focus on was him—Rafe. The boy with stormy eyes and trouble stitched into every move.

You were straddling him in the driver’s seat, knees pressed into the leather, your hands clutching at his shirt like you might fall if you let go. His lips were on yours again, deep and fast, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your thighs—gripping, pulling, claiming. Every brush of his fingers set your skin on fire. The car smelled like him: expensive cologne, sweat, and something darker. Something dangerous.

You knew better. You really did.

But with his fingers digging into your hips, the sound of your breath catching in his mouth, and the sunrise painting him in gold…

Stopping wasn’t even on your mind.

Not yet.