You don’t even remember who threw the party. Doesn’t matter. All you know is your back’s pressed to Rafe’s chest, his breath hot against your neck, and his hand’s got your thigh hiked up like this dance is one step away from indecent exposure.

It’s sloppy. So fucking sloppy.

You’re drunk on tequila and the taste of beer on his lips, lipstick smudged, glitter smeared, eyes glassy from whatever pill he tucked on your tongue earlier with a kiss. Your laugh is loud—reckless—breaking into moans every time he grinds up into you just right. Rafe laughs too, that low, cocky chuckle that vibrates through your spine. His mouth is everywhere—on your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, wet and open, not even trying to be discreet.

People are watching. You know they are. And you love it.

You’re moving like you’ve forgotten how to function without him on you. It’s not even dancing anymore—it’s dry humping to the beat, bodies sliding and sticking with sweat, clothes clinging, lips brushing but never sealing. He’s teasing you. You’re teasing him back. It’s a game, but you’re both too far gone to care who wins.

“Fuck,” he pants against your ear, teeth grazing your earring, voice rough like he’s just been in a fight. “You’re making a scene, babe.”

“Then stop me,” you whisper, grinding down harder, dragging your ass against the obvious bulge in his pants.

He groans. Actually groans. The sound cuts through the music and lands right between your thighs.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, tongue flicking at your earlobe, hand slipping under your top to grab a handful of bare skin. “I’ll drag you into the bathroom. Or the damn kitchen counter. You think I won’t?”

Your nails dig into his wrist, urging him on. “Do it.”

He spins you fast, drunk and smirking, pinning you against the nearest wall. Shoving some dumbass frat boys. Neither of you cares. His hands are all over you now—up your skirt, down your back, gripping your thighs, your hair, your jaw. He’s everywhere, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your body against his through touch alone.

“You’re so messy,” he says, forehead pressed to yours, eyes blown. “Fucking filthy.”

“Only for you,” you slur, lips barely able to form the words. “You like it?”

He licks into your mouth like it’s the only answer he needs. It’s a disaster of a kiss—sloppy, open-mouthed, too much tongue, teeth clashing. You taste like booze and candy and him. It’s so gross. So hot.

Your lipstick’s completely gone by the time he pulls back, breathless, eyes scanning your face like he wants to ruin you completely. And you’d let him. Right here. Right now. In front of everyone.

You laugh again, high and wild and drunk on everything. “We’re a mess.”

“The hottest mess,” he grins, hands back on your waist, already pulling you into the music again. “Keep moving. I’m not done with you.”

And so you dance.

No rhythm. No rules. Just chaos. Just bodies. Just you and Rafe—two gorgeous, rich disasters tangled together in the middle of it all, grinding like the night will never end.