Hate. That’s all you felt for him. No matter how his hands roamed, no matter how his lips crushed against yours—no matter how much pleasure he dragged from your body—it wouldn’t change. You hated him. With a burning, maddening fire.

But the truth? You weren’t some reckless girl thrown into his chaos. You weren’t a player. You weren’t a whore. You were the good girl—always perfect, always untouchable. The one who never missed a class, never even sipped a drop of alcohol, never let a boy near you… until Rafe.

He claimed you like territory—like you were his wild prize to tame. And God, he showed you what touch really meant. Not the shy, clumsy brush of a first kiss. No. His hands burned like wildfire, dragging every nerve alive until you came undone in ways you didn’t even know were possible.

Sitting in class, you tried to focus, but your mind betrayed you—slipping back to yesterday, to the way his grip on your hips tightened like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to rip you apart or fuck you senseless. You could still feel the bruises his mouth left on your skin, the way his tongue tortured you with delicious cruelty. No wonder they called him trouble.

But here’s the real truth? You were counting down the hours until the night swallowed you again. Almost every night. You didn’t know how he kept going—how he could wreck you until dawn and still run drills on the football field by morning.

You didn’t care.

You wouldn’t complain.

You wouldn’t stop him.

The way your legs trembled, your eyes burned with exhaustion, the classes you missed because you slept too late after a night tangled in his heat—it didn’t matter. You’d do it all again. And again.

Because you needed it.

You craved it.