You were straddling his lap in his room, arms around his neck, the late afternoon sun pouring in through the half-open blinds, casting lazy golden lines across his face. You were both just messing around, teasing and flirting like always, and you leaned in close, eyes wide and innocent.

“Can I get a kiss?” you asked sweetly, your voice almost sing-song.

Rafe’s eyes narrowed with that devilish glint he always got when he was about to do something unhinged. “A kiss?” he echoed, smirking like he was already plotting.

Before you could even brace yourself, he grabbed your face—both hands cupping your cheeks—and licked a slow, disgustingly dramatic stripe from the corner of your jaw all the way up to your temple. Like a damn golden retriever.

“RAFE—!” you yelped, pushing at his chest, absolutely horrified. “What the hell was that?!”

He leaned back, absolutely beaming. “That was your kiss, baby,” he said proudly, licking his lips. “Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”

You were frantically wiping your face with your sleeve, shooting him a look that could kill. “You are so nasty. There is actual spit on my face. Spit, Rafe!”

He just laughed, pulled you back against him, and whispered in your ear with a grin, “You still asked for it.”