Rafe didn’t do love. Especially not with a Pogue. But damn you.

It started as nothing more than a game. You and JJ had been playing it all summer, a stupid bet to see who could notch the wildest, most unlikely hook-up. When JJ smirked and said, “I bet you couldn’t get to fuck him,” your blood sparked.

Game on.

You didn’t even think it would be hard. Rafe liked to pretend he was untouchable, but everyone knew he had his vices—and your smile was just another one waiting to happen.

And sure enough, it didn’t take long. A few teasing words, a smirk at the right time, your hand on his arm when he least expected it. Next thing you knew, you were in his room at Tannyhill. Funny, because Rafe never took girls home. He kept his mess far from the family estate. But you… you were different. At least, that’s what he whispered in the dark.

At first, it was a laugh. Just sex. You’d win the bet, brag to JJ, maybe do it again if you felt like it. But then Rafe started showing up where you were. Started calling, messaging, needing, craving, wanting. You told yourself it was still a game, even when he pulled you in by the waist, voice wrecked, asking, “Where the fuck were you?”

You lied to JJ, said you’d ended it, that it wasn’t worth it anymore. But every time Rafe’s name lit up your phone, your heart jumped. You kept going back. His hands were rough, his words were messy, but his need for you was real in a way you hadn’t expected.

And Rafe—Rafe, who didn’t do love—found himself tangled up in you. Whispering things in the dark he’d never say in daylight. Promises, apologies, curses.