You're in Rafe's bedroom, the door slamming behind you with a dull thud. His mouth is already on yours, desperate and rough, hands in your hair like he's been starving for this-for you.

"You taste like tequila," you mumble against his lips.

"Better than that trash you were dancing with," he growls, gripping your hips like he owns them.

"Didn't like that."

You laugh, breathless. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Rafe."

"Neither does that dress," he mutters, fingers slipping under the fabric. "It's coming off."

The room spins a little, from the booze, from him. The party is a distant throb downstairs, music and voices muffied by the door you've forgotten how to open. But none of that matters. Because he's here.

And so are you. Again.

It started with a message. One stupid

"rafe: you up?"

and you should've ignored it. But you didn't. One night turned into two, then three. And now, whenever you go more than a week without him, your body ache-empty and cold like it forgot how to be alive without his hands on you.

"You're still an asshole," you whisper, your voice catching as he lifts your dress over your head.

"And you're still a brat," he shoots back, grinning as you push him onto the bed. "A hot one, though."

You straddle him, lips crashing into his, anger and desire wrapped so tight you don't know where one ends and the other begins. He kisses like he argues -relentless, all heat and sharp edges.

"I hate you," you pant, pulling his shirt off.

"Good," he groans. "Hate me harder."