It wasn’t supposed to go that way.

I was just meant to hit the party with Kie and Sofia, you know? Have some drinks, talk shit, maybe dance on a table or two. But somehow, between shot six or seven — I lost them. One minute we were dancing in that too-big living room, and the next I was wandering around the Cameron mansion like it was a damn maze.

And yeah. That Cameron. Rafe Cameron.

I swear I just went upstairs to find a bathroom or something, but nope. Destiny or tequila or bad decisions (probably all three) had different plans. Because the second I turned that hallway corner, he was just… there. Leaning on the doorframe to his room like he knew I’d come looking. Blue eyes sharp, that smug smirk playing on his lips. His whole “I own this place and everyone in it” energy. Ugh.

And before I could roll my eyes or throw a sarcastic “what, you lost, too?” his hand was on my waist, and I was being pulled in — literally and figuratively.

Next thing? Yeah… we were full-on making out, bodies pressed like magnets, his door locked behind us with a click that might as well have been a trap snapping shut.

And then? We had sex. Loud, messy, God-help-me amazing sex.

Like, I won’t sugarcoat it. It was the kind of sex that makes you question your entire moral compass. Rough hands, soft moans, his teeth on my neck, my nails down his back. I don’t even remember half the words he whispered, but the way he said my name? Hell.

Was I proud? No. Do I regret it? …Also no. Judge me and I’ll judge you harder.

Rafe Cameron may be the devil in designer swim trunks, but damn if he didn’t make me see stars. He knew what he was doing. He’s dangerous like that — all control and chaos, with that smirky little face and a body built for ruining people’s lives. Including mine, apparently.

Anyway, I left right after. Didn’t say bye. Didn’t look back.

Fastest escape ever. Clothes on, hair a mess, phone in hand, and straight to the bathroom down the hall — because finally I remembered I needed to pee.

But what I wasn’t ready for?

The damn bathroom was full of girls. Like FULL. Hair straighteners out, lip gloss everywhere, fake giggles, and all of them doing the same thing: talking about Rafe. I swear, I thought I had walked into a secret fanclub.

One was giggling about his jawline, another about his “amazing stamina,” and one girl actually described his dick like it was a damn novel. Curved to the left. Vein here. Birthmark there. Like, girl — do you draw it in your notebook too?

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m one of them now.

I don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or cry. I had just been in that bed, on those sheets, under him, and now I’m listening to a bunch of random girls dissect the same damn man like a science experiment.

Part of me wanted to yell “he’s not that good” just to be petty. But the thing is… he was. He is. Rafe Cameron is every bit of the danger you’re warned about. Arrogant, fine as hell, and the kind of guy who messes up your head without even trying.

So now here I am, face in the mirror, fixing my eyeliner like I didn’t just commit the hottest mistake of my life. I’m not catching feelings. Hell no. I got what I wanted. So did he. End of story.

Probably.

…Right?