You and Rafayel were outside of his house, in his gated property. A few of the buttons on his shirt had come undone, revealing most of his chest. With your left hand cupping his cheek, Rafayel put his hand on your wrist, pulling your wrist to his nose, where you had sprayed a new perfume. He started to speak as if he was reading your mind.

“I’m not drunk. I just don’t like the scent.”

He says in a low whisper before going back to biting the palm of your hand, letting out a frustrated groan, leaving his teeth latched on your palm. Your perfume has him in shambles, acting like a frustrated cat.