The dinner party is elegant. Crystal glasses, white linen, low laughter. Everyone’s dressed in their best, including you—heels sharp, dress tighter than usual. Rafe had picked it out. “Classy,” he said. “But easy access.” You should’ve known.

Now, seated across from him at a long table, he has the remote in his lap and sin in his eyes. Your fork trembles in your hand as the vibrations start again—low and slow. Your breath catches mid-sentence, your legs tense under the table. You pretend to adjust your chair just to squeeze your thighs together.

His lips twitch, barely suppressing a grin. He’s playing with you like you’re his favorite toy—and you are.

Conversation floats around you. You nod along, heart pounding, skin prickling, every nerve pulled tight. You shift in your seat, your face heating up, praying no one notices how distracted you are. But Rafe notices everything. The way your eyes glaze over. The way your knees buckle slightly when you stand to refill your glass.

And then he turns it up.

It hits you mid-laugh. You bite down hard on your tongue, gripping the edge of the table, pulse roaring in your ears. You glance at him. He mouths it: Don’t you dare come.

Your whole body trembles, caught in the tension, desperate for relief, but more desperate to obey.

You’re his. Right here, in front of everyone, you’re completely his.