Rafe always thinks he’s in control. He likes it messy, rough, with your body bending to his will. And you’ve let him—again and again. But tonight, you flip the script.

You straddle him, hands pressed to his chest, holding him down. He laughs at first, cocky as ever. “You think you can handle me?”

But you’re not smiling. You lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “No, Rafe. I think you’re gonna break.”

Something shifts in his eyes. Lust. Challenge. A flicker of uncertainty.

You drag it out. Slow. Every movement calculated, every kiss just not quite enough. You ride that edge mercilessly, watching him unravel beneath you. His hands grip the sheets, desperate to grab you, to flip you over and take control back—but you slap them away, firm. “Don’t move.”

The tension builds like static, thick and breathless. He’s biting his lip now, brows furrowed. He’s close. Too close. And you haven’t even given him everything yet.

You whisper things that drive him insane. Things that make his head fall back against the pillow. He’s begging without words, breath hitching, muscles shaking, undone in a way you’ve never seen before.

“You’re mine right now,” you tell him, voice steady. “Say it.”

He doesn’t speak.

So you slow down.

That breaks him.

“I’m yours,” he groans, eyes wild, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I’m yours.”

And just like that, you win.

But next time?

He’ll try to make you break first.