🎀

like wow...stretch me out and fuck me please.

He’s so pretty

Yes yes yes !.

Season 2 Rafe on top!!!

Real

⭒TENSIONS ARE RISING - RAFE CAMERON⭒

cw. football! rafe, college rafe, enemies to lovers, breakups, love triangle (maybe not sure), female reader in mind, violence and blood, objectification of reader by rafe, no use of y/n, allusions to cheating, suggestive, ANGST

a/n: im so sorry babies the word count hit 8k so i gotta write a part two with all smut. stay tuned! MDNI

Homecoming weekend always brought out the worst in everyone.

The air was thick with school spirit and tension, the rivalry between your college and Rafe Cameron’s school burning hotter than ever. You knew the game would be brutal—your school hadn’t beaten his in years, and this season, your team had the best shot in a long time. But apparently, Rafe wasn’t content to let any stats do the talking.

His school was known for being best in the state at football, and although yours wasn't far behind, it seemed as though his was always several steps ahead with strategies, moves, and plays.

You spot him before your boyfriend does, standing near the tunnel below the bleachers with a few fans and frat bros making bets before the game, his team’s colors contrasting against his sharp jawline and too-perfect hair. He’s talking to some of his teammates, but the second he sees you, his smirk widens like he’s been expecting you. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.

His gaze landed on you first, darkening slightly as he gave you a slow, deliberate once-over. From your little sneakers to your sweater, to the way your arms were wrapped around yourself, trying to ward off the October chill. But his stare wasn’t cold. No, it was heated, hungry, and entirely too satisfied.

Your stomach twisted. You hated that look. That arrogant, leering gaze that made it clear he liked what he saw—and that he didn’t give a damn who you belonged to, even with your boyfriend's initials on a gold locket around your neck, sitting on the plush skin of your cleavage.

He made it obvious that his eyes drifted to your tits, and he chuckled. Whether it was at your necklace or your boobs, you weren't sure.

You wrenched your eyes away, but it was too late. He’d already seen your reaction.

“Hey, look who it is,” Rafe drawls as your boyfriend finally catches sight of him. His voice is loud enough to carry over the pre-game noise, designed to get under your boyfriend’s skin. “Didn’t realize you were still wasting your time here, man. Thought you’d be smart enough to transfer after last year’s beating.” A few of Rafe's friends look over and laugh softly, sporting school colors and jerseys.

Your boyfriend stiffens beside you, already pissed before Rafe even says the next part. You hug your boyfriend closer to you, feeling his chest rise and fall hard.

“And you—” Rafe’s gaze flickers to you, shameless and slow, causing you to stiffen. You absentmindedly push your hair in front of your shoulders so it blocks some of his view of your breasts, and he laughs, unperturbed.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes rake you over, going down from the way your tits push against your tight sweater, down to your black leggings, which hug your thighs and hips, and then back up to your face, taking his time in a way that makes your skin heat for all the wrong reasons.

“Damn. I gotta say, you really are the only good thing about this sorry excuse for a school.”

Your face heats up at the comment, and you frown softly. He does this every time he sees you. Flirts with you, more so in front of your boyfriend, and tries to get a rise out of him by making it seem like he can take his girl from him any time he wants.

Your boyfriend surges forward, already balling his fists, and you barely have time to react before his teammates grab his arms.

“Watch your mouth, Cameron.” His voice is low, furious, barely restrained. You wrap your hands around your boyfriend's arm, rubbing gentle circles on his bicep to calm him down. He could be benched for foul play if he threw the punch, and you knew how much the homecoming game meant to him, he couldn't mess this up for someone as stupid as Rafe Cameron.

The two different teams crowded around, with Rafe's behind him and two of your boyfriend's friends holding him back.

Rafe just grins smugly, soft, charming dimples gracing his cheeks as he bites his lip momentarily, letting out a low whistle. He cocks his head slightly to try and get a glimpse of your ass, and you cling tighter to your boyfriend, your heart racing.

“What? Just saying what we’re all thinking.” He takes a slow step closer, eyes gleaming and deliberately provocative. Then his gaze flicks back to you, lingering this time—too long, too obvious. His smirk turns downright filthy.

“I mean, I get it,” Rafe muses, voice dropping just enough that only you and your boyfriend can hear him over the noise of the crowd. “You probably have him all wound up, looking like that. But, Jesus…”

His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and his eyes shamelessly drag down your body yet again. “I can’t stop thinking about how much better you’d look in my jersey. On my bed. Making my name sound so much better than his.”

Your boyfriend lunges before you can stop him.

It happens so fast. One second, he’s tensed beside you, vibrating with fury, and the next, he’s ripping himself free from his teammates’ grip and charging at Rafe. The shove is hard enough that Rafe actually stumbles back a step, but he barely looks fazed. In fact, he laughs.

“You motherfucker—” Your boyfriend is seething, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white. “You don’t talk about her like that, you hear me? I'll fucking kill you”

Rafe straightens his jersey, still grinning. “Oh, come on, man. It's nothing personal, yeah?. I just can't stop thinking about the way she’d sound under someone who can actually handle her.”

Your boyfriend goes for him again, ready to throw a punch this time, but Rafe doesn’t back down. No, the smug bastard meets him head-on, chest bumping against his, barely restrained tension crackling between them.

He pushes your boyfriend back a bit, grinning. He's on a power trip, feeling proud at the way he can easily plant seeds of doubt in your boyfriend's mind. “What, you scared?” Rafe taunts, voice low,. He looks crazed, his eyes lit up with the delight of adrenaline that comes with a potential fight.

“Scared she might like it?”

You shove yourself between them before your boyfriend can swing. “Enough, Rafe!” you snap, voice sharp. “You’re disgusting.”

Rafe tilts his head at you, amused by your intervention. “That so, beautiful? That why you’re blushing?”

You hate him.

Hate that he always gets under your skin, hate that he’s so damn smug about it, hate the way he looks at you like he already knows how this ends.

And worst of all? He laughs.

Like this is fun for him. Like he loves the way he gets under both your skin and your boyfriend’s.

“Save it for the game!” a sharp voice cuts through the tension.

The ref.

He glares between the two boys, face tight with frustration. “I see either of you lay a finger on each other before kickoff, you’re both benched. Understood?”

Your boyfriend steps back, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together. His teammates grab his arms again, dragging him away. You reach for him, running your hands over his back, whispering something low to calm him down.

And then you feel it.

The weight of a gaze still on you.

You turn, just in time to see Rafe watching you walk away.

You’re still fuming as you drag your boyfriend away, your fingers gripping his wrist like it’s the only thing keeping him from turning around and knocking Rafe’s smug face into the dirt. "You're good, baby. It's fine, he's just talking shit before a game. Wants to get you in trouble." He nods, barely looking your way, and your heart sinks in your chest.

You’re tired with this. Tired of Rafe, tired with his bullshit, tired of the way he always has to push and push and push until someone snaps.

And then, just as you think it’s over, you hear him again.

A low whistle, slow and drawn out, just loud enough for you to catch.

“Damn,” Rafe drawls, voice lazy. “I swear, that ass just gets better every time I see it.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your boyfriend stops dead in his tracks.

It takes everything in you to yank him forward again, forcing him to keep walking, even as you hear Rafe chuckling behind you like this is all some game.

The audience is alive with energy before the game, the roar of the student section echoing in your ears as you slide your boyfriend’s jersey over your sweater, tugging it into place. It’s warm, slightly oversized, and smells faintly like his cologne—the same one you stole hoodies from just to keep close when he was away for away games.

You ground yourself in the familiar scent, trying to rid yourself of the memories of Rafe's. Mahogany... Nutmeg... your mind starts to wander, and you shake your head quickly, refusing to let your mind get carried away.

You try to focus on the field, unwillingly making eye contact with Rafe.

He's standing near the 50-yard line, smirking like he’s been waiting for you to turn around. He’s wearing his helmet but hasn’t strapped it up yet, letting his hair resting against his forehead. He grins roguishly. Your stomach twists. Rafe barely acknowledges him at first, like he expected this. Like he’s amused.

“Well, well,” he drawls, flexing his fingers in his gloves as your boyfriend stops right in front of him, blocking you from his view. “Look who finally showed up.”

Your boyfriend doesn’t take the bait. Not yet. But his jaw is tight, his fists already clenched. “Stay the hell away from her, Cameron.”

Rafe chuckles. “I thought you were smart enough to know that’s not how this works.” He glances past him, back at you, sitting there in the bleachers. He grins like he’s thinking of something. Like he’s remembering something.

Your boyfriend sees it, too.

“What?” he snaps. “What the hell are you smiling at?”

Rafe tilts his head. “You sure you wanna know?”

Your boyfriend takes a step closer, but Rafe’s still so damn relaxed. He claps a hand on his shoulder—just for a second, just enough to push.

“You should be thanking me,” Rafe he murmurs into your boyfriend's ear. “For keeping your girl entertained while you were busy choking last season.”

That’s it.

Your boyfriend lunges, only stopping when his teammate grabs him from behind, dragging him back.

“I swear to God,” your boyfriend growls, chest heaving. “You say one more thing—”

Rafe grins. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll save it for the game.”

They march off, assuming positions on the opposing side of the field, and with the blow of the ref's whistle, the game takes off.

As you watch the game, you find yourself filled with anxiety. Sportsmanship is out the window, and people have started to become hyperaware of the animosity between the two boys. You heard some girls a few rows back wondering who the girl is that has Rafe Cameron so whipped for her.

You wanted to shout that he wasn't, that it was a pride thing, a rivalry between the two boys that you got caught in unwillingly.

The match has devolved into a raw and brutal battle. Every hit and tackle is sharp, almost desperate. Strategy is out the fucking window, and it's all brute force and personal animosity between the rival schools. You can tell by how many times the ref blows the whistle and screams at the men about class and integrity.

However, the rivalry between your boyfriend and Rafe has turned into the whole focus of the game. Every time they collide, it's personal.

Your boyfriend, a linebacker, is built for this. Working tirelessly to achieve his physique, he's all strength and power with an instinct to shut down Rafe at every opportunity.

But Rafe is a beast. Inhuman, if you will. He's faster. More calculated, and worse, he's playing with intent.

He's not just trying to win, he's making sure your boyfriend loses.

Each time your boyfriend goes in for a tackle, Rafe slips by, taunting him as he runs down the field, dodging him seamlessly. The frustration on your team's end builds with every quarter as the other team picks up points.

The hits get harder.

The penalties increase.

By the fourth quarter, Rafe's team is up by a touchdown. With a few minutes left on the buzzer, your boyfriend can still stop him.

The crowd is raucous, screaming, on edge. You're holding a school flag in your hands so tight that your hands start to hurt, and your eyes focus on your boyfriend, praying he makes the right play to at least get a tie. Anything to put a stop to Rafe's ego.

Rafe gets the ball.

Your boyfriend charges like a bull seeing red, going full speed to stop Rafe this time. He slams into him, the force of the tackle sending them both skidding across the turf. It's a clean, beautiful hit, and the crowd gasps, standing up to watch the two closely. It's the kind of hit that should leave Rafe pained, winded. But it doesn't.

Flat on his back, eyes dark and burning, he spits onto the grass and grins up at your boyfriend with a sickening sort of delight.

And then he leans closer.

“You know,” he breathes, voice husky from exertion, “when I win this, I think I’ll take my time with your girl.” Your boyfriend freezes, going pale.

Rafe sees the hesitation, the moment of shock on your boyfriend's face, and continues with a second blow. "Maybe I'll take her back with me to the showers and bend her over one of those nice locker room benches."

That’s it. Everything snaps. Your boyfriend is feral. No hesitation, no thought—just raw, furious instinct. He lunges, fists flying, tackling Rafe back onto the ground.

The refs are blowing their whistles frantically, but no one’s stopping this. No one can.

The first punch lands hard. A solid hit straight to Rafe’s jaw that sends his head snapping to the side.

For a second, you think maybe—maybe—your boyfriend has this.

But then Rafe moves.

It’s fast, almost too fast. He twists, using the momentum, shifting, and suddenly, he’s the one on top.

And then, it’s like watching something calculated, something cold.

Because Rafe knows how to fight.

This isn’t some wild, desperate brawl. It’s controlled. Every time your boyfriend swings, Rafe dodges just enough to take the edge off, redirecting the energy, making sure his punches land clean.

Your boyfriend is strong, but Rafe fights dirty.

He predicts every move, twisting your boyfriend’s arm just enough to knock him off balance, slamming him down harder each time. He tears off the other boy's helmet, His hand wrapping around your boyfriend's throat to hit his head repeatedly against the grass.

It’s like he’s toying with him.

Your boyfriend fights like a football player—full force, all muscle. But Rafe fights like someone who’s been in real fights before. Someone who’s done this enough times to know how to wear someone down.

And it’s working.

A brutal hit to your boyfriend’s ribs.

A sharp, precise punch to the gut.

Your boyfriend groans, struggling, but Rafe doesn’t let up. He’s relishing this.

He finally gets your boyfriend flat on his back, pinning him down with one knee pressed into his chest.

"You hear that, you fucking cuck?" He says, even as your boyfriend punches at Rafe's head desperately.

With every punch, he emphasizes the words, voice wild, breathless, dripping with cruel satisfaction.

“I’m—” crack

“gonna—” crack

“fuck—” crack

“your—” crack

“girl.”

Your boyfriend’s head snaps back, his lip split, his breath ragged.

You scream.

Your heart is pounding, panic rushing through you like fire. You can’t watch this. You can’t let this happen.

Before you even think, you’re running.

Pushing through the chaos, shoving past people, barely hearing the gasps as you throw yourself onto the field.

You grab Rafe, your hands clenching the back of his jersey, desperately trying to pull him off.

But he doesn’t move.

He’s too strong.

His muscles are tense beneath your grip, his breathing heavy, wild—his entire body thrumming with adrenaline. He’s smiling, his nose bleeding, his cheek already bruising.

And then he turns his head.

Looks at you.

The second his eyes meet yours, something shifts.

He leans closer to your boyfriend, his knee pressing harder into his chest, keeping him pinned.

“Say it,” Rafe murmurs, voice low, like a slow purr.

You blink, confused, hands still gripping his jersey. “What?”

Rafe’s smirk widens, his voice dropping into something sickeningly sweet.

“Tell him,” he murmurs, tilting his head, mocking. “Tell him you want me.”

Your breath catches.

Your boyfriend, barely conscious, groans, trying to lift his head. His eyes, swollen and bruised, find yours.

And that’s when Rafe really digs the knife in.

He twists your boyfriend's collar so he's choking, and you scream and try to lunge for him, but Rafe holds you back with one hand, holding onto the back of your jersey.

By now, there are people crowded around, coaches and the ref fighting to get to the middle of the scene, but Rafe's got his vision set in you, his eyes a striking blue that makes that disgusting, loathsome feeling in your tummy swirl.

You feel like you could throw up, because deep, deep down, so deep that you'd NEVER act on it, you feel that he might be right.

"Go on, princess." He coos at you, his voice no longer a hard snarl, but a soft coo, addressed solely for you. “Say it like you mean it.”

You shake your head, tears starting to cloud your vision as you grip onto Rafe's jersey, feeling desperate. “Rafe... I c-can't, I can’t,”

Rafe tsks, leaning in. “You can,” he whispers, voice sickly smooth. “Or I keep going.”

You look down. Your boyfriend is barely holding on, his breath shallow, his hands twitching at his sides. If Rafe keeps hitting him...

You swallow, your throat tightening so painfully you can barely breathe. And then, your voice cracks.

“I.... I want Rafe.”

Rafe hums, pleased. “Louder, beautiful. And look at him when you say it.”

Your lip trembles, your gaze glued to your boyfriend. Bile continues to rise in your throat.

“I want Rafe.”

His fingers tighten on your boyfriend’s collar.

“Louder.”

You scream.

“I WANT RAFE!”

The crowd is silent.

Rafe exhales slowly, satisfied, his smile wicked.

And your boyfriend—your sweet, strong, beaten boyfriend—just looks at you.

Like something inside him has shattered.

The game resulted in a draw due to extreme foul play on both sides. Not just during the fight between your boyfriend and Rafe, but all throughout the match. The coaches had to make a statement and apologize to the students for a lack of sportsmanship. It did nothing to squash the rivalry, however, and Rafe's team is still ranked higher than your boyfriend's.

Ex boyfriend's. You corrected yourself as you sat alone in your room, your hands cradling your sacred necklace as you sigh softly.

You weren't surprised, in all honesty. Your boyfriend had been humiliated in front of hundreds of people, and he felt like you weren't there for him when he needed you most, even as you explained in verbatim that you only said it because you didn't want Rafe to beat him to death, which then caused him to question if you believed in him. If he was too weak. If you thought he wasn’t man enough to protect you, to stand his ground against Rafe Cameron.

And the worst part? He didn’t even say it in anger. He said it with this hollow, tired acceptance, like the fight had been drained out of him in more ways than one. Like he’d already lost. On the field, in front of everyone, in front of you.

You’d cried. Begged him to understand. But the damage had been done, and his pride was too wounded to heal anytime soon.

So now, here you were. Alone.

You ran your fingers over the locket again, throat tight, stomach twisted. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Rafe got to walk away from this with everything, his ranking, his team’s reputation still intact, and worst of all, the last word.

He always got away with everything.

You frown, trying to focus on your schoolwork, despite the ache in your chest that wouldn't go away.

No matter how many times you tried to refocus on your laptop screen, no matter how much you tried to drown out your thoughts by going over your assignments, your mind kept drifting back to him.

Rafe Cameron.

You hated him. You hated him. The smugness, the arrogance, the way he got under your skin like it was his birthright. You hated how he’d humiliated your ex-boyfriend in front of hundreds of people, how he’d practically made you say those words, how he was still haunting you even now.

You shook your head, pressing the heels of your palms into your tired eyes. You had work to do. You needed to study. You needed to stop thinking about Rafe.

But then, as if summoned by your very thoughts, your phone lit up.

A new message. You already knew who it was without looking at the username of the account.

You hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as you tapped into the notification.

Miss me, sweetheart? Hope you’re not too heartbroken. That’d be a shame. Don’t worry though. Your boy still has a shot at redemption.

Your pulse spiked.

You sat up straighter, your brain scrambling to process the words. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Your fingers moved before you could stop them.

Rafe, what the fuck do you want?

He left you on read for a moment, and you could see the smirk he was probably wearing.

Relax, beautiful. Just wanted to check in. Oh, and let you know I’m seeing your Iittle boyfriend real soon Might just have to finish what I started.

Your stomach dropped. Don't touch him. You respond quicker than you'd have liked to.

Why don't you come stop me then? You know how good I listen to you, princess.

Your heart races at the implication, the hint of a threat he weaved so subtly into his text messages. That’s not funny, Rafe.

He responded soon after, and you got up to try and calm your heart. Your whole body was on fire.

Who said I was joking? But we can make a deal, sweetheart. You come see me. Tonight. And maybe I’ll be nice.

You weren’t actually going to do it.

You weren’t.

But then you found yourself gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles went white, staring at the highway exit that led straight to his university. This was insane. Every rational part of your brain was screaming at you to turn around, to just go home, block his number, pretend none of this ever happened.

And yet.

Your fingers tightened, your heart pounded, and before you could stop yourself, you flicked your turn signal on.

You told yourself it was because of your ex. That you were handling things. That if you confronted Rafe now, if you made him promise to leave your ex alone, then you could walk away from this once and for all.

It was a lie. And deep down, you knew it.

Rafe’s apartment was as absurd as you expected.

The complex was sleek and modern, towering over the rest of the neighborhood like a statement piece. The lobby alone was more elegant than any place you’d ever lived. The kind of place meant for hedge fund heirs and people who never had to work for anything in their lives.

The doorman let you up without question, which only made you more annoyed. He was expecting you. By the time you reached his floor, your blood was boiling. You lifted your fist and pounded on the door, heart racing, breath shallow. There wasn't even a moment spared, as he opened the door quickly, leaving your fist raised in the air.

He grins the second he sees you, raising both arms above the doorframe to hold onto the top and lean over you. He smelled expensive and dark, all spice and warmth, mixed with the faint scent of whatever soap he used. It made your stomach twist with something you refused to name.

"Rafe."

He grins the second he sees you, raising both arms above the door frame to hold onto the top and lean over you.

"Well, well," he drawls, his smirk deepening. "I was starting to think you'd chicken out."

You glare, jaw tight. "Shut up, Cameron."

But he’s not even listening. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, drinking in every inch of your face, your body, the way your fists are clenched at your sides. His eyes rove over your body, and he laughs. “Holy shit.” he muses, staring right at your thighs. "Are you seriously wearing shorts right now? Just for me?" Your face burns. "Not for you," you snap, shoving past him into the apartment, but he follows.

"Mm, sure," Rafe muses, his voice dropping a little lower. "Nice and loose, though. Looks good on you ‘cause it shows off that fat ass."

You whip around, glaring. "Cut the shit, Cameron." He just grins, like he loves seeing you all riled up. "You always this feisty when you visit guys in the middle of the night?" He hums, stepping closer, too close. "Or is it just me?" Your stomach tightens, pulse hammering as his fingers graze your arm, light and teasing. You shove his hand off hard, but it doesn’t matter. His other hand is already grabbing at your waist. You smack it away. "Rafe."

But he just laughs, his hands held up in mock surrender. "Relax, princess. I'm just being friendly."

"You don't know the meaning of friendly. All you think about is your next fuck." you snap.

His smirk deepens. "Oh, you know me so well. I hope you know I’ve been thinking about you next. Made sure to tell your little boyfriend that you’d be on my dick soon enough." he murmurs, voice as he grabs onto your ass, dragging you up against him and squeezing handfuls of soft flesh, before smacking it light.

Your breath catches. Your whole body tenses. "You pervert!" you snap, shoving his huge hands away again. “G-get your hands off me, do you understand?” You pause, panting so loudly that your whole body wracks with each breath. “A-and we broke up. M-me and him. So don’t bring him into this anymore.”

He actually stops, his eyes widening and brightening. He looks elated for a moment. He lets out a low whistle, cocking his brow with impressment. “You got rid of him? Finally, I hope it was because of me.” He laughs at your hurt expression and the way you get more and more frustrated. He knows it was. He just wanted to dig the knife in your chest deeper, and he does, because he keeps going. “Too bad I didn’t get to fuck you when you were still his girl, though. I would’ve had a lot of fun sending him videos of the fun you and I will have tonight.”

You slap him across the face.

Rafe’s head snaps to the side with the force of your slap. A sharp crack echoes through the apartment, the sting lingering in your palm. Your breath comes fast, your whole body shaking with anger, with something else you don’t want to name.

For a second, there’s silence. And then he laughs.

Low and slow at first, before it deepens, growing dark and hungry.

"Fuck," he breathes, running his tongue over his teeth before turning back to you, his cheek already blooming red. His eyes are glowing with something wicked, something starved. "You hit me so hard, baby. Thought you were gonna break that pretty little wrist." You can’t even speak. You want to, you want to tell him to shut up, to back off, but your voice won’t work because he’s smiling. Smiling like he liked it.

And then he steps closer, crowding into your space.

Your breath catches, your whole body tensing as his fingers skim up your arm, trailing slow and lazy toward your throat. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing against a brick wall. He doesn’t even budge.

Instead, he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward, so close your noses almost brush.

"You’re trembling," he murmurs, voice silky. His grip tightens just enough to make your pulse jump. "Scared?"

You glare, ripping your hand free. "Disgusted."

Rafe chuckles, but there’s something dark in his gaze now, something twisted.

"That’s funny," he muses, "considering how fucking red your face is." His hand skims down your waist again, fingers pressing lightly over your hip, your stomach, before moving to your thigh, toying with the hem of your shorts.

Your breath hitches.

You shove his arm away, but he’s already gripping your waist again, fingers digging in.

"You wanna hit me again, don’t you?" he hums, dragging his nose along your jaw. "Go ahead. Do it, baby. I like it when you get rough."

"You're sick," you snap, hands bracing against his chest.

His grin deepens. "And you love it."

"I hate you," you hiss, nails digging into his shirt, gripping too tight.

Rafe laughs, a sharp exhale against your skin. "Yeah?" His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you flush against him. "Then why are you still here?"

You don’t have an answer.

Or maybe you do, but you don’t want to say it, because his hands are so big on you, because his breath is warm against your neck, because his smell is making your head spin and your stomach twist in that awful, unbearable way.

Rafe sees it. Of course he does.

His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Knew you wanted me," he breathes, his eyes primal with want. "Could see it all over that cute little face of yours, sweetheart."

You shake your head, eyes burning. "No, I—"

But you don’t get the words out because suddenly—He kisses you.

This was amazing i need more 🙈🙈