You and your worst enemy — Rafe Cameron — were crammed into the backseat of a car, on the way to a family dinner. Somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, you had ended up sitting on his lap.

Your brother was driving, your sister was riding shotgun, and next to you in the backseat were your younger brother and Rafe’s little sister, both completely absorbed in their iPads, playing toddler games without a care in the world.

Meanwhile, you were stuck on his lap — facing the window, your back turned toward the kids. His hands were resting on your thighs, gripping just tightly enough to keep you from squirming too much.

You rolled your eyes and glared at his hand. “Stop it,” you muttered, annoyed.

He only smirked, the corner of his mouth curling up in that infuriating way, before sliding his hand a little higher along your thigh — his fingers slow, deliberate, teasing. “Stop what?” he asked, voice coated in fake innocence, as if he wasn’t fully aware of exactly what he was doing to you.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening, when you felt the first brush of his fingertips slipping under the hem of your dress. “Rafe,” you hissed under your breath, your tone a desperate warning. But he only grinned wider, like he was feeding off your reaction, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in that cocky, maddening way that made your blood boil.

“Shh,” he whispered, the sound so close to your ear that it sent a shiver down your spine.

And then — his hand kept moving, slow and possessive, creeping higher and higher until he reached exactly where he wanted to be. You tensed instantly, your body betraying you, and the hand you had resting lightly on his shoulder suddenly clenched, your nails digging into his skin so hard you knew it had to hurt. But Rafe didn’t even flinch — he only smiled against your ear, amused, like your resistance thrilled him even more.

“Stay quiet,” he murmured lowly, the command rough and quiet, filled with dark amusement.

Then — with a slow, devastating movement of his fingers — he made your stomach flip and your breath hitch violently in your throat. A raw, involuntary sound nearly slipped from your lips — but just as it did, he was already there, quick and smug, clamping his hand over your mouth. His palm was firm, silencing you instantly, while he chuckled softly, the vibration of it rumbling against your side.

“I said stay quiet,” he whispered again, his voice dripping with wicked satisfaction.

And all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut, fight the trembling of your legs, and wondering—

’When the hell were you finally going to arrive at that damn restaurant?’