The bonfire snaps and spits, throwing orange sparks high enough to compete with the stars hanging over Figure Eight beach. It’s one of those late-October nights where the air still pretends it’s summer during the day but turns traitor the second the sun disappears, leaving everything damp and cold enough to make your teeth chatter if you’re not careful.

Rafe sits with his back against the big driftwood log the boys dragged down earlier, legs spread wide, one arm slung loose around your waist while the other balances a red cup of something that’s mostly bourbon with a splash of whatever warm mixer Kelce bothered to bring.

You’re tucked between his thighs, back to his chest, drowning in his gray North Face hoodie that hits you mid-thigh like a dress. The hood is up, swallowing most of your hair except for the glossy ends that keep escaping and brushing the underside of his jaw every time you shift. You’re shivering—dramatic little tremors that roll through your whole body even though he can feel how warm your skin still is underneath all the layers.

First time you wiggle, he chalks it up to you hunting for the perfect pocket of heat against his sternum. Your ass nestles deeper into the cradle of his hips, soft pressure that makes his jaw flex once before he forces himself to relax. Just settling in, he tells himself. Nothing more.

Second time is slower. More deliberate. You roll your hips in a tiny, lazy circle like you’re trying to find the exact right angle to steal his body heat. His free hand tightens on the cup, knuckles going white around the plastic. He takes a long swallow of bourbon; burns all the way down, does nothing to dull the sudden heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Third time you do it, he knows.

You’re not even pretending to be subtle anymore. That little arch of your spine presses your ass right back against him, slow grind disguised as a shiver, and he feels every millimeter of friction through the thin fabric of your little tennis skirt and his board shorts. His dick twitches hard, traitorously interested despite the twenty or so Kooks scattered around the fire who could glance over at any second.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder, hood slipping just enough to expose the smooth column of your throat and the tiny diamond studs in your ears. Your voice comes out breathy, sugar-sweet, the same tone you use when you want something obscenely expensive from the boutique on the pier.

“Baby, I’m freezing,” you whine, dragging the last word out until it’s practically a purr. Another tiny roll of your hips; barely noticeable unless someone’s paying very close attention. Someone like him. “Your hoodie isn’t even helping.”

Rafe’s laugh is low, frustrated, more exhale than sound. He dips his mouth to the shell of your ear, voice quiet even with people laughing and music bumping from the Bluetooth speaker Kelce set up on a cooler.

“Yeah?” His lips brush the sensitive skin just below your ear on purpose. “That why you keep grinding that pretty little ass on my dick like it’s a personal heater, baby?”