Rafe Cameron liked control. Liked having the upper hand, liked knowing people would fall in line when he spoke.

But you?

You never made it easy for him.

Which is exactly why he was watching you now, arms crossed, tongue running over his bottom lip as you danced in the middle of the party like you had the whole damn room wrapped around your finger.

Your dress clung to you in all the right places, your smirk teasing as you met his eyes from across the room—completely aware of the effect you had on him.

Rafe’s jaw clenched.

Cocky little thing.

So when you finally sauntered over, drink in hand, he didn’t give you the satisfaction of speaking first.

Instead, he let you press up close, tilting your head as you ran a finger along his collar. “You’ve been staring, Cameron.”

Rafe smirked, leaning down. “You’ve been making it easy.”

You hummed, sipping your drink. “Jealous?”

His fingers ghosted over your hip. “Of who?”

You shrugged, playful. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

That did it.

One second, you were teasing him—the next, his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him.

“You like pushing me, huh?” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You grinned. “I like seeing you lose control.”

Rafe chuckled, low and dangerous. “Bunny,” he said, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him, “I’m the one in control here.”

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to prove it.

And he would.

Because if there was one thing about Rafe Cameron—

He never backed down from a challenge.