You’d always watched him from afar—half hidden behind sun-drenched sunglasses, heart racing whenever he so much as glanced your way. You imagined what it might be like, being with him. Not in the fantasy way other girls did. No, you imagined the details. The weight of his hand on your thigh. The rasp of his voice in the dark. The way it might feel to be wanted by someone like him—Rafe Cameron.

And the thing was? He’d noticed you too. Of course he had. You weren’t exactly subtle, and he wasn’t exactly blind.

And if he minded the attention, he had a funny way of showing it—because Rafe didn’t look annoyed when your eyes lingered too long. He smirked. He looked interested.

The only issue? That little thing called an age gap. Eleven years, to be exact.

He was thirty. You were nineteen. Technically legal, sure, but definitely enough to turn heads—and not in a good way. But public opinion wasn’t really your concern. Not when your mind was set. You’d always been the kind of girl who got what she wanted, one way or another.

And tonight? You wanted him.

The annual Pogue beach bash was already in full swing—bonfire blazing, someone’s truck blasting music with just enough bass to rattle your ribs, a makeshift bar slapped together with driftwood and good intentions. Empty cups littered the sand, beer cans crunched beneath bare feet, and the thick scent of weed hung heavy in the salty air.

That’s when you saw him. Rafe. Leaning back against the bar like he owned the ocean behind him—sun-kissed skin, messy blond hair, the outline of a cigarette tucked behind one ear. And that smirk. God, that smirk.

Fueled by a few drinks and a little too much boldness, you made your move. Your bare feet sank into the warm sand as you approached, bikini-clad and buzzed on more than just alcohol.

You slid up beside him, pretending not to notice the way his gaze swept down your body like he was making mental notes.

“I’ll take a wine,” you said, smiling at the bartender—a high schooler who definitely shouldn’t be manning the drinks, but hey, free booze and blunts made people generous.

Rafe didn’t look away. Not once.

“Hi, Rafe.” You greeted him, voice sweet, teasing. Your pulse thundered in your throat.

That smirk curled deeper. His eyes were slow, deliberate, as they raked over you. “Hi, {{user}}.”

You blinked. Your name. He knew your name. You hid the surprise behind a coy smile, the kind that said, oh, this is going to be fun.

“Buying drinks tonight?” you asked, lifting a brow as you sipped the too-warm wine. “Or just staring?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “My tattoos are older than you, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you were hooked.

More than ever.