“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Rafe mutters, eyes following your every move as you dip a brush into a highlighter palette.

“And you’re pretending like you don’t love it,” you shoot back, smirking as you shift slightly in his lap, eliciting the softest grunt from him. His back is against the headboard, your legs straddling him, and your makeup bag lies open beside you like a carefully curated arsenal.

It started with a harmless bet—one he swore he’d win. But he didn’t, you did. Now he’s stuck with the punishment you chose: a full face makeup look. Your favorite kind of payback.

Rafe’s shirt is slightly wrinkled, jaw tense, arms loosely on your thighs like he’s trying to pretend he’s still in control. But the flush in his cheeks and the way he keeps watching your lips say otherwise.

“You said you’d behave,” you remind him, tapping a brush under his eye with delicate precision.

“I am behaving, not my fault you’re making it so damn hard,” he grumbles, his grip on your thighs tightens just the tiniest bit.

You laugh under your breath, leaning in to carefully blend the gold shimmer onto his lids. “Well, you’re doing great, baby. Very brave.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

You finish the last of the mascara and lean back, proud. “Okay. Almost done.”

“Thank God.”

You glance down, then freeze. “Wait—I forgot lip gloss.”

Rafe looks hopeful. “So we’re calling it?”

“You wish,” you say, smirking at him because you know how much this annoys him.

He opens his mouth to protest—but you kiss him before he can.

Soft, warm, slow. Your lips glide over his, transferring the sticky-sweet gloss from your lips onto his in the laziest, most intimate way. You feel his breath catch, his hands tighten on your thighs again, and for a moment, his grumpiness dissolves under the way you taste, the way you kiss him, because you know what it does to him.

When you pull away, his lashes are heavy, lips parted and shining.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he says hoarsely.