You still couldn’t wrap your head around it — the fact that this moment was real. That you’d finally gotten what you craved: complete control over Rafe Cameron. Not just his attention, but his entire body, now under your command like it belonged to you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his breath shallow, fingers digging into your thighs like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. You were straddling him, heat to heat, your thighs locked tight around his hips as if claiming territory. Your hands explored every inch of his skin, now bare and warm under your touch, a map of tension and surrender.

Rafe looked up at you with those stormy eyes, wide and desperate, his expression soft with need — like a dog starved for affection, aching for your permission to feel.

But you weren’t going to give in. Not yet. You were going to make him earn it.

“You’re teasing me on purpose.” His voice was low, nearly a growl, hands tightening on your thighs like he could squeeze obedience out of you.

You smirked, wicked and slow, rolling your hips deliberately, just enough to make him twitch beneath you. The choked sound that slipped from his throat — barely a groan — was music. “Fuck…” he hissed, almost like it hurt to speak, the sound strained through clenched teeth and shallow breaths.

You pushed him back into the mattress with ease, the power shift electric in the room. He fell into the sheets like he belonged there, beneath you, under you — yours. Your fingers traced over the bruises and bite marks you’d gifted him earlier, every one a signature, a reminder of the art you made with your mouth and nails.

“Anytime. Anywhere. Baby boy, I can misbehave.” You purred it against his skin, lips brushing his chest before they began their descent. You left a trail of kisses, each one hotter, wetter, slower than the last. His body tensed beneath you, muscles twitching, reacting instinctively to every touch — helpless under your spell.

“Breathe me in, breathe me out. Fill me up. Running through your veins.” Your words were like a drug, whispered as your teeth sank gently into a sensitive spot on his abs. His breath caught. His jaw clenched tight, a silent war between restraint and surrender playing out on his face.

You moved lower, your mouth traveling down, until you reached the edge of his waistband. There, you left slow, open-mouthed kisses — just enough to light him on fire but never enough to let him burn. His hands shot to the sheets, gripping them like they could anchor him to reality, but the groan that escaped betrayed him completely.

“You giving me the good shit. That make me not quit.” The words spilled from him in between gasps, as if his lungs couldn’t decide whether to breathe or speak.

You looked up at him, grin dark and dripping with control. “The good shit,” you echoed, your voice honeyed and dangerous.

And then the night blurred — into sweat, into sound, into heat and surrender. You knew, without a doubt, you could do this every single day. Again and again.

Everyday.