The air was thick with tension, the space between you and Rafe suffocating in the best way. His weight caged you in, one hand planted firmly beside your head on the mattress, the other gripping your hip, pressing you down into the soft sheets. You could feel the warmth of his body even through the thin fabric of your clothes, the slow rise and fall of his chest brushing against yours with every breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with restraint. His lips hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin, teasing, testing.

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, nails digging into the fabric. You should push him away. You should say something—anything—to break the moment before it spiraled past the point of no return. But when his grip on your hip tightened, anchoring you beneath him, all logical thought slipped from your mind.

“You’re not saying anything,” Rafe muttered, tilting his head slightly, watching you. His blue eyes were dark, filled with something dangerous, something desperate. His knee nudged between your legs, shifting just enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Didn’t think so,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt, teasing against your skin.

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you, pressing up into his touch instead of shying away. Rafe exhaled sharply, a quiet curse slipping past his lips. His self-control was razor-thin, and you could feel it unraveling with every second you didn’t tell him to stop.

“Tell me to stop.” he said again, though this time, his voice held no real demand—just a quiet plea, a final chance for you to pull away.