The late afternoon sun bled into Rafe’s bedroom, casting everything in a lazy, golden haze. His calculus notes were tossed across the bed, ignored and forgotten.

Because how the hell was he supposed to focus on textbooks when you were sitting there, cross-legged on his bed, looking like sin and heaven rolled into one?

Tiny matching shorts, a snug little tank top sliding dangerously off your shoulder, your braid loose and falling over your collarbone. You were flipping pages, tapping your pen against the textbook, rambling about derivatives like you weren’t completely wrecking him without even trying.

Then your strap slipped lower.

And Rafe’s world just…stopped.

The plum-colored bra strap peeked out, soft against your bare skin, and every rational thought he had left in his brain burned up on the spot.

You didn’t even notice. You kept explaining, innocent and serious. Meanwhile, Rafe’s hand itched with the need to touch, to pull you closer, to ruin you for anything even remotely productive.

“You’re seriously not even paying attention,” you said, frowning at him, totally oblivious.

Rafe leaned in, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in existence. His voice dropped, a low hum that curled against your skin.

“How am I supposed to care about numbers when you’re sitting there looking like that, baby?”

You tugged your strap back up in a rush, cheeks turning bright pink. “Maybe try thinking with your brain for once,” you muttered under your breath.

Rafe chuckled—low, dangerous, utterly amused.

“Oh, angel,” he drawled, voice all heat and trouble, “thinking’s not exactly what you’re inspiring right now.”

He shifted closer, his knee brushing yours, the space between you crackling like static. His fingers found the edge of your textbook, pushing it down slowly until nothing was left between you but air and heat.

“You’re lucky calculus is the only thing I’m failing tonight,” he murmured, his hand ghosting up your bare arm, making your breath catch in your throat.

You swallowed hard, trying to glare at him, but the way he was looking at you—like he wanted to devour you—made it impossible to remember what you were supposed to be mad about.

“Behave,” you warned, your voice shaking more than you wanted it to.

Rafe grinned, cocky and gorgeous and so sure of exactly what he was doing to you.

“I am behaving,” he said, voice like velvet-wrapped sin. His hand trailed higher, barely brushing under the loose strap at your shoulder again, making you shiver.

“Trust me, baby,” he whispered, mouth so close you could feel the heat of it against your skin. “If I wasn’t behaving, you’d already be in my lap.”