You shimmy the dress down over your hips, smoothing it out and adjusting the seams so everything sits just right. You look at yourself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric down again out of pure reflex before letting out a soft sigh.

You were being dragged out to a charity gala at the Island Club. Normally Rafe avoided any kind of black tie event, but after taking over complete control of Cameron Development after Ward’s death, he figured it was finally time to make a good impression. Better late than never.

The dress is gorgeous; just the right length, fits like it was custom made just for you, and to top it all of it’s Gucci, price tag so crazy Rafe wouldn’t even let you watch as he checked out, immediately shoving the receipt in his pocket to add to the envelope he sends to his accountant.

You smear on another layer of lip gloss before finally exiting the bathroom. You unplug your phone from the charger before shoving it into your purse, a strand of hair falling in front of your eyes that you quickly push behind your ear.

You hear Rafe’s footsteps before his voice, “Baby?” he pushes the door fully open. “You almost ready— fuck.” His voice drops at the end of his sentence.

You look over your shoulder before turning to face him fully. You start to get nervous, anxiety picking at your skin. “What?”

“God, baby,” he grits out, rushing you to suddenly pick you up and spin you around. “You look so fucking good. Fuck.” He practically moans out the last word as he sets you back down.

Rafe’s hands eagerly grab at your hips, fingers itching to reach around and squeeze your ass. You giggle, shifting on your feet. “It’s a cute dress.”

“It’s a fucking beautiful dress,” he says, eyeing you up and down. “And you look so fucking good.”

“Thank you,” Even after all of these months together, you still get flustered when Rafe compliments you. “I’m almost ready, just gotta put my shoes on.”

He eagerly jumps at the chance, pushing you down to sit on the edge of the bed as he kneels in front of you, practically tearing open the shoe box. “Let me, let me, please.”

“Rafe, I got it—“

“Shush,” he unbuckles the heel and slips it over your feet. “Lemme do it, please.”

“Fine, fine.” You can’t help but chuckle as he fastens the strap, kissing up and down your calves and ankles as he does.

“You literally look so fucking good,” Rafe’s voice is deep, pupils wide and dilated. “I’m so fucking lucky.”