You never meant to kiss him.

You never even meant to speak to him that night.

Because you hate Rafe. You hate his smug mouth, his perfect hair, and that obnoxiously confident stride he uses like the whole island was made to worship him. You hate the way he looks at you like he already knows you’ll say yes. Like he’s not asking. Like he never asks.

But that party—the one at the Boneyard, with the too-hot bonfire, too-loud music, and that bottle of tequila passed around like it owed everyone something—you got sloppy.

Everyone did.

Too many shots. Too many stares.

And then he cornered you. Just past the dunes. Where the moon couldn’t quite reach and the bass was just distant enough to sound like your heartbeat. Your back hit the wooden post of the lifeguard tower. The air between you burned hotter than the fire pit behind you.

His breath was laced with liquor and arrogance as he leaned in. “Say you hate me again,” he growled, voice low, dangerous.

Your chin tilted defiantly. “I do hate you.”

“Louder.”

And so you said it.

You said it like a curse.

Right before his mouth crashed into yours.

Hard. Messy. Insistent. Like he was angry at you for something neither of you could name. Like this wasn’t about a kiss—it was about power. Control. Chaos.

You shouldn’t have kissed him back. But you did. Harder. Like revenge tasted better when it was pressed against his teeth.

His hands gripped your waist like he owned it. Your nails clawed his shoulders like you were daring him to feel something. He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the only thing left in the world that mattered.

It should’ve ended there. Should’ve been a blackout mistake you could blame on the bottle and bury the morning after.

But it wasn’t.

Because he didn’t let it be.

Now he’s everywhere. In your texts at 1AM, demanding. On your porch at midnight, waiting. In your dreams, smirking. In your sheets, haunting.

In your head—a place you swore no one like Rafe Cameron would ever set foot in.

And worst of all?

He’s between your thighs in the dark, whispering things no one should say with that voice. That voice. Sweet nothings that are anything but sweet. Promises laced with poison. Lies that make you want to believe them.

“You’ll come back to me,” he says, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You always do.”

You tell yourself he’s manipulating you.

Because he is.

He’s got something on you. Something you can’t let slip. Something that would unravel you if it ever saw the light of day.

And Rafe knows it. He’s using it. Inch by inch. Touch by touch. Making you pay for it in moans and breathless nights and mornings that feel like guilt stitched into skin.

You try to fight it. You do. You remind yourself this is temporary. A means to an end.

You’re not just some girl getting played. You’ve got leverage, too. You’ve got secrets with his name burned into them.

You just have to last long enough. Get close. Closer. Close enough to bring him down with one word, one picture, one exposed truth.

But every time he touches you, your resolve frays. Every time he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen, you forget why you started this. His hands leave bruises in the shape of your own surrender. His mouth makes sin sound like salvation.

And you start to wonder…

What happens when his tongue feels better than revenge ever could?

What happens when the war between you starts to feel like home?

Because here’s the truth: you don’t hate Rafe Cameron. Not really.

You hate that you want him.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s even worse.