cameron confessional.

his secret.

it started six or seven months after rafe married your mother. he was doing laundry, or at least that's what he told himself, when he found them in your hamper. pale pink panties with a little bow. the moment his fingers brushed the soft cotton, something inside him broke.

he brought them to his face in your empty room and inhaled deeply. the smell of you, so sweet and musky, went straight to his cock. he was hard instantly, achingly hard, and before he could think better of it, he'd shoved them in his pocket and left with shaking hands.

that night, alone in the bathroom while your mother slept, he wrapped your panties around his shaft and jerked off thinking about you. about your soft thighs, the curve of your ass in those little sleep shorts you like to wear, the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating. he came so hard he had to bite down on his fist to keep from groaning loud enough to wake the whole house.

he told himself it was a one-time thing. it wasn't.

the second time, a week later, he waited until 2 am. he slipped out of bed beside your mother and padded down the hall to your room. your door was closed but not locked.

he could see you in your bed, curled on your side, so peaceful. so beautiful. so fucking innocent. his cock was already hard as he crept toward your hamper, his hands trembling as he picked through until he found what he was looking for. a pair of your panties from that day, sitting at toward the top of the pile like they were waiting for him. earlier that day in the kitchen, he’d caught a glimpse of them peaking out of your skirt when you’d reached up for a glass.

he pressed them to his face right there in your room and had to stifle a groan. god, you smelled so. fucking. good. it was addicting. he could smell your pussy on them, could imagine what you'd look like in them, flush against your body with your legs spread open just for him.

in his bathroom, he came in less than a minute, your panties wrapped around his shaft once again, your name a quiet whisper from his lips.

after that, he couldn't stop. every couple nights, he'd slip into your room. sometimes he just stole your panties and left. sometimes he stayed longer, standing beside your bed for five, ten minutes, watching you sleep, watching your chest rise and fall, watching the outline of your nipples through your shirt. his fingers would twitch at his sides, aching to touch you, but he'd hold back. barely.

one night he touched your hair. just the lightest brush of his fingers through the locks. you didn't stir, and so he stood there, cock hard and leaking in his pajama pants, imagining fisting his hand in your hair while he fucked your mouth.

he had a collection now. a shoebox hidden in the back of the closet, filled with your stolen panties that he’d rotate and return (hoping you’d never suspect that they’re missing). he'd used each pair multiple times, had come on them, in them, had pressed them to his face while he imagined all the things he wanted to do to you.

but it wasn't enough anymore. jerking off with your panties wasn't cutting it. sneaking into your room and watching you sleep wasn't enough. the need had grown into something he couldn't control, something that consumed him every waking moment and invaded his dreams. he needed to taste you. needed to feel you. needed to know what you smelt like, what sounds you'd make if he finally, finally touched you the way he'd been fantasizing about for months, if he touched you just right.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the breaking point.

at dinner, when you weren't looking, rafe crushed up an ambien he stole from your mother and stirred it into your drink. she took them every night. he watched you sip it down with your pasta, completely oblivious. your mom didn't notice either. she was too busy talking about her book club or some shit. he just sat there, fork in hand, nodding along while his heart hammered in his chest. his cock started getting hard right then and there as he watched and thought about what he was gonna do to you later.

you yawned twice after dinner as you sprawled out on the couch. said you were exhausted, didn't know why. he suggested maybe you were coming down with something, that you should get some rest. you agreed, gave him a sweet, sleepy smile that made his dick twitch, and headed upstairs early.

he waited. god, he fucking waited. sat through another hour of your mother's chatter, helped her clean up, watched some mindless tv show. the whole time he was counting down the minutes, his leg bouncing with nervous energy, his mind racing with all the filthy things he wanted to do to you.

by the time rafe slips into your room at midnight, he knows you're out cold. the ambien plus your usual tiredness means you're sleeping deeper than you ever have. means he can take his time. means he can finally taste you the way he's been dreaming about for months.

and fuck, when he sees you lying there in the moonlight, something inside him shatters.

you're on your back tonight, one arm thrown above your head, the other resting on your stomach. your blanket's slipped down to your knees all twisted up. you're wearing just a thin white tank top and, jesus fucking christ, he can see your nipples through the fabric. your legs are slightly parted, one knee bent, and he can see the edge of your panties peeking out from under the hem of your sleep shorts.

it’s almost like you knew deep down he’d be coming for you. at least that’s what he tells himself. you look like a goddamn angel laying like this. like something pure and perfect and untouchable. and rafe has never wanted anything more in his entire fucking life.

he stands frozen in your doorway, his cock already rock hard and throbbing, his breathing shallow. he should leave. he should turn the fuck around right now and get the fuck out before he does something he can't take back.

but he doesn't.

instead, he closes the door behind him with a soft click and moves toward your bed like a man possessed. his hands are shaking. his heart's pounding so hard he's sure you'll hear it and wake up. but you don't. you just keep sleeping, peaceful and unaware, while your stepdad stands over you with his cock straining against his pants and his mind full of the filthiest, most depraved thoughts.

"fuck," he breathes out, barely a whisper. "look at you."

you're so beautiful it hurts. the moonlight paints your skin silver, highlights the curve of your cheek, the soft swell of your breasts rising and falling with each breath. your lips are slightly parted and he can hear the gentle sound of your quiet snores.

he shouldn't be here. he shouldn't be looking at you like this, thinking about you like this. you're his stepdaughter. this is wrong. it is so fucking wrong.

but he can't stop. he's too far gone.

carefully, rafe lowers himself to his knees beside your bed. his face is level with your hip now, and he can smell you from there—that sweet, intoxicating scent that's been driving him crazy for months. it's stronger here, closer to the source, and it makes his head spin and his cock leak.

he leans in, just a little, and inhales deeply. god. fuck. you smell so good. like sleep and warmth and something sweet. he wants to bury his face between your thighs and breathe you in until he passes out.

"never gets old— seein' you like this. don't even know how many times i’ve been in this room watchin' you," he mutters, voice rough.

his hand moves without his permission, reaching out to touch your hip over your shorts. just the lightest touch, his fingers trembling as they make contact with the soft fabric. you don't stir. he grows bolder, letting his palm rest fully against your hip, feeling the warmth of your skin through the thin material.

his cock is throbbing so hard now it's painful. he reaches down with his other hand and palms himself through his pants, groaning softly at the contact. he's so fucking hard. just for you.

he knows he should stop. he knows he should get up and leave right now, because it’s not too late yet. but instead, he leans in closer, pressing his face against your hip, inhaling deeply. the scent of you is overwhelming this close, and he can't help the low groan that escapes his throat.

his hand slides up from your hip to your stomach, feeling the soft skin exposed where your tank top has ridden up slightly. you're so warm and oh so soft. he wants to touch every inch of you, wants to map your body with his hands and mouth until he knows every curve, every dip, every sensitive spot that makes you gasp.

his control is slipping. he can feel it fraying at the edges, unraveling with every breath, every second he spends this close to you. his hand moves higher, fingers brushing the underside of your breast through your tank top, and he has to bite back a moan.

your nipple is hard. he can feel it against his palm, a tight little bud that makes his mouth water. he wants to flick his tongue on it, wants to feel it harden further against his tongue while you whine and arch into his mouth.

but you're still sleeping. still unaware while your stepdad kneels beside your bed with his hand on your breast and his cock leaking in his pants.

his hand slides back down your stomach, over your hip, and comes to rest on your thigh. your skin is so soft here, so smooth. he squeezes gently, his fingers digging into the plush flesh, and you shift slightly in your sleep, your legs parting just a little more.

rafe's breath catches. from this angle, he can see the shadow between your thighs, can see the outline of your pussy through your thin shorts and panties. his mouth goes dry.

he knows what he's about to do. he knows it's wrong, knows it's crossing a line he can never uncross. but he's too far gone now. the need is too strong.

rafe's hand slides up your inner thigh. you don't wake. you just keep sleeping, your breathing steady and even, while his fingers creep higher and higher until they're brushing against the edge of your shorts.

he can feel precum soaking through his pants by now, leaving a wet spot on his sweats. can feel his pulse pounding in his shaft. he's never been this turned on in his entire life.

he climbs onto the bed slowly, feeling the mattress dip between his weight, and with trembling fingers, he eases your shorts to your ankles, exposing your panties. they're light purple, cotton, with a little white bow at the front. his breath catches in his throat.

"oh fuck," he groans softly. "these ones. fuck, baby, these—these are my favorite."

they’re all his favorites. but he remembers these. remembers stealing them three weeks ago, remembers how they smelled, how soft they felt wrapped around his cock. but seeing them on you, actually on your body, makes his head spin.

his finger traces the edge of the fabric, feeling the slight dampness there, and he has to squeeze his cock through his pants to keep from coming right then and there. you're wet. not soaking, but definitely wet, and the knowledge makes him dizzy with want.

"even in your sleep you're—" he whispers, voice breaking.

he can't help himself. he leans down, pressing his face against the fabric of your panties, and inhales deeply. the scent of you mixed with the clean cotton makes him groan, low and desperate. it's different than the stolen ones—warmer, stronger, more you.

"god," he mutters against you, his breath hot through the fabric. "been dreamin' about this. about— smellin' you like this. tastin' you through ‘em."

his other hand fumbles with his pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. it springs out, hard and leaking, and he wraps his fist around it with a shuddering groan.

"look what you do to me," he pants against your panties. "my cock is—fuck—so fuckin' hard for you. been hard for you for months, baby."

he presses his mouth to the fabric, kissing you through your panties, his tongue darting out to taste. the cotton is damp, and he can taste you faintly through it—sweet and musky. he curses quietly, his hips jerking forward.

"so good," he mumbles, words muffled. "taste so fuckin' good even—even through these. got a whole collection of 'em. the pink ones with the bow. the black lacy ones. the yellow ‘n white ones with the stripes. jerk off with 'em every night thinkin' about—about this."

he starts stroking himself slowly, keeping himself on the edge, while his mouth works against your panties. he's licking and sucking at the fabric, getting it wetter, tasting you through the cotton. his tongue traces where he knows your slit is, where your clit would be, and you shift slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips.

"yeah?" he whispers desperately. "you feel that? even through your panties you—you like it?"

he sucks harder at the damp fabric, his tongue pressing against where your clit is, and your hips twitch. he does it again, more pressure this time, and your eyes flutter open just slightly—barely conscious, everything thick and heavy like you're underwater.

"what—" you mumble, voice thick with sleep. the ambien is still heavy in your system, making your thoughts slow and confused. you can feel something—something warm and wet between your legs, something that feels so fucking good.

"shh, shh," rafe murmurs against the fabric, voice rough and desperate. "shh, 'kay? 's okay. you're—you're doin' so good. just be quiet for me, yeah? be good 'n keep quiet."

"feels—" you whimper, not even sure what you're trying to say, your body lifting toward the sensation. "feels good—"

"fuck, baby," he groans against your panties. "i know— feels so good, doesn’t it."

he's completely lost in it now. in the scent of you, the taste of you through the fabric, the feel of the cotton against his tongue. he's been fantasizing about this exact thing for months and now he's actually here, actually tasting you.

"been watchin' you," he mutters against the fabric, shame bleeding through his voice. "know which ones you wear. know which drawer you keep 'em in. been stealin' 'em for months, baby. jerkin' off with 'em. comin' all over 'em thinkin' about you."

his fist speeds up on his cock, precum making the slide slick, the quietest most broken whimper falling from his mouth. he's getting close already, just from this, just from tasting you through your panties and smelling you and feeling the damp fabric against his tongue.

but he needs more. he needs to taste you properly. needs to feel your bare pussy against his mouth.

with shaking hands, he hooks his fingers under the edge of your panties and slowly, so slowly, pulls them down.

the sight of your bare cunt makes him groan out loud. it’s trimmed down, slick and glistening, the moonlight catching the wetness perfectly. you’re much wetter than he expected.

"jesus christ," he whispers. "look at you. look at this—look at this pretty little pussy."

he can't wait anymore. he leans in, pressing his face between your thighs, and drags his tongue up through your folds. the taste of you, direct and unfiltered, explodes across his senses and he groans so loud he has to muffle it against your skin.

"oh my god," he moans. "baby, you taste—fuck. better than— so fuckin' good."

he licks you again, more firmly this time, collecting your wetness on his tongue. you're so wet, so responsive, and the knowledge makes his cock throb in his fist. your hips are moving on their own now, grinding down, and there's pressure building in your core that makes you whimper.

"been dreamin' about this for—for months," he pants against you. "almost every night i think about—about this. about tastin' you. makin' you—"

he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and you whimper louder, your body trembling.

it feels so good. whatever's happening feels so good. you try to open your eyes more, try to focus, but everything is blurry and your body is on fire with pleasure.

his tongue doesn't stop. if anything, he doubles down, licking and sucking at your clit with renewed fervor. his fist is pumping his cock faster now, his breathing ragged.

“i've been—i've been imaginin' it. every night with your little panties pressed to my face."

you should say no. to stop. but instead, a choked moan escapes your throat and your hips grind down harder on his face. it feels too good. you're too close. you can't—

"yeah, that's it," he groans, his grip on your thigh tightening, fingers digging in harder. "that's it. fuck, you like it, don't you? you like when i—when i lick you like this?"

"i—" you try to speak, but all that comes out is another whimper. your hands fist in the sheets, your body trembling.

"you taste so fuckin' good," he pants against you, words tumbling out faster now. "been dreamin' about this. about tastin' you ‘n about—about makin' you feel good. gonna come just from—just from eatin' this pussy."

your eyes finally focus enough to look down, and you see him.

rafe. your stepdad. kneeling between your thighs with his face buried in your pussy, his hand wrapped around his cock.

and god, he looks—

his blue eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide with lust, staring up at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. his mouth is glistening, absolutely soaked with your arousal, his chin slick and wet. there's something raw and hungry in his expression, something vulnerable and needy that makes your stomach flip. he looks absolutely fucking wrecked.

and for a split second—just a heartbeat—you're not thinking about who he is or what this means. you're just looking at how fucking good he looks between your legs, how turned on he is, how his eyes are glazed with pleasure and his mouth is wet from you.

it's hot. fuck, it's so hot.

and then reality crashes in.

the shock hits you all at once—rafe, your stepdad, between your legs—and shame floods through you hot and immediate. but so does the arousal. god, the arousal. because he looks so fucking desperate, so needy, and you're already so close and it feels so good and—

"rafe—" you gasp, but it comes out breathy and weak, more moan than protest. "oh my god, you're—"

"shh," he murmurs against you, tongue never stopping. "i know, baby. i know."

you should push him away. you should scream. but your hands just tremble in the sheets and your hips roll against his mouth and a whimper escapes your throat because you're too turned on, too close, too fucking gone to stop this.

"this is so—" you try, voice breaking. "you can't—oh fuck—"

"i know, baby. but you taste so fuckin' good," he groans, his words desperate and filthy. "been helpin’ myself to your panties, too.”

"you—what?" you gasp, but then he sucks on your clit and your back arches. "oh—"

"mmm.” he groans, his fist pumping his cock faster. "the purple ones. the pink ones with the bow. got a whole collection. jerk off with 'em every night. come all over 'em thinkin' about you. been stealin' ‘em for months."

his words are filthy, wrong, and they shouldn't turn you on but they do. god, they do. you can feel yourself getting wetter, can feel the pressure building higher.

"this is—" you try to say, your voice breaking. "this is so wrong—"

"i know," he mutters against you, shame and desperation bleeding through his voice. "i know it's wrong. but look at you, grindin' on my face askin’ for more."

"i don't—i can't—" you whimper, but your hips are moving, grinding against his mouth, betraying you. "feels so good—"

"god, you're actually—you fuckin’ love it, don’t you. your stepdad lickin' you like this? tastin’ this greedy pussy," he mutters, his whole body shuddering. "tell me— tell me it feels good, baby."

"it—" you gasp, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. "it feels—oh god—it feels so good— please," his tongue works your clit relentlessly now, and you're babbling, words spilling out in a confused, desperate stream.

"please, rafe—i can’t—please—"

"what?" he pants against you. "what are you beggin' for, baby? what do you need?"

"i don't—" you whimper, your body trembling, hands lazily grabbing and ruffling through his hair. "need more, please—"

"shh, i know," he whispers, voice raw as he continues lapping at you. "i know, gonna make it—gonna make it all better. gonna make you come. you're doin' so good," his voice is muffled against your leaking cunt. "just— just keep grindin' on my face. nobody can know about this, baby. nobody can know you like this."

you're so close. so fucking close. the pressure is unbearable, and you're whimpering and moaning, your hips moving frantically against his mouth.

"please—" you whimper, tears streaming down your face now. "please don't stop—please—"

"look at you. beggin' for your stepdad. got you all fuckin' needy," he groans desperately, his fist flying over his cock.

"i—" you sob, lost in sensation and fog and need. "i know but—but please—pleasepleaseplease—" you're babbling now, barely coherent, sniffling quietly as tears start streaking down your cheeks.

"fuck, you're gonna—you're gonna make me come," he groans desperately, voice breaking. "just from hearin' you beg. just from tastin' you. you're so—so fuckin' perfect, baby. come for me. please. need to—need to feel you come. need to taste it."

and then you're there. the pressure breaks and you're coming, your back arching off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head, a broken moan tearing from your throat. pleasure crashes over you in waves, so intense you can't breathe, can't think, can only feel.

"fuck, fuck, fuck," rafe groans against you, voice muffled between licks, tongue working your like he’s trying to gather every last drop of your. "oh, fuck—"

and then he's coming too, his cock pulsing in his fist, cum spurting onto your comforter, onto his hand, his whole body shaking with the force of it. he doesn't stop licking you, doesn't stop working your clit, drawing out your orgasm until you're whimpering and weakly pushing at his head, overstimulated and trembling.

"so good," he whispers against your pussy, pressing soft kisses and licking long stripes against your slit. "so good, baby. you did—you did so good for me."

when you finally come down, when your body stops shaking and your breathing starts to even out, you look down at him. he's still resting between your thighs, his face wet with your arousal, his cock still in his hand, cum dripping from his fingers. he looks completely undone, even still as he looks up at you. he wipes the cum on his hand off on his sweats.

"nobody can know about this," he whispers, voice hoarse. "this is—this is just for us, 'kay? you're only like this for me."

you should be horrified. you should be screaming, calling for your mother, calling the police. but the ambien is still heavy in your system, making everything feel distant and dreamlike, and your body is still buzzing with the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm you've ever had.

"okay," you whisper, not sure what else to say.

his hands move to your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. he pulls them down slowly, his eyes never leaving them as he slides them off completely.

"gonna keep these," he says, voice rough as he holds them up. he brings them to his face, inhaling deeply one last time before shoving them into his pocket. "gonna add 'em to my collection. made such a mess in ‘em while i was tastin' you."

then he's pulling your shorts back up, and tucking your blanket around your shoulders with shaking hands. his touch is careful, but there's nothing gentle about the way he's looking at you.

"gonna come back tomorrow night," he whispers, his voice low and certain. "'n the night after that. you know that, right? gonna live between these pretty thighs."

your head tilts slightly in acknowledgment, a small nod that barely registers through the fog of the drug pulling you under.

his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb dragging across your cheekbone. his fingers trace your jawline, then slide into your hair. you lean into his palm, seeking the warmth of his touch even as your eyes grow heavier, and then you're drifting off again, the ambien pulling you back under.

the last thing you feel is his hand in your hair and the ghost of pleasure still thrumming through your body.

rafe stands on shaking legs and tucks himself back into his pants. he looks at you one last time. your parted lips and softly furrowed brows, your peaceful face. and he knows with absolute certainty that everything has changed.

he's tasted you now. he's made you come. he's heard you whimper and beg and felt you grind on his face. there's no going back from that. and next time? he won't stop at just his tongue.

——

p.s: this is EXACTLY what kind of rafe i imagined. kay, thanks bye : )

it always starts with your boyfriend’s tone. short and irritated in a way that makes you feel like you're wrong before you even open your mouth. he tells you you’re too sensitive, that you’re making a big deal out of nothing, that you always do this. you try to explain. you’re patient, gentle, careful with your words. but he talks over you until your sentences lose shape. by the time you leave his place tonight, your chest aches and your eyes burn, and you’ve apologized for things you didn’t do just to keep the peace.

rafe told you from the beginning that he didn’t like him, and he didn’t cushion or soften it either. he said it once, like past experiences should've already done the math for you. he didn’t like the way he spoke to you. how you came home quieter than you left, or how it seemed like you’d been trained to walk on eggshells.

you told him it was different, that he didn’t know him like you did. but rafe looked at you, something quiet and earnest in his voice and said, “i know you.”

and now, sitting in the driveway with your hands tight on the wheel, eyes glassy and cheeks tear-stained, you realize he wasn’t guessing. he was waiting for you to catch up.

you walk inside without announcing yourself. you don’t slam doors or cry. you just move slower than usual, shoulders rounded like you’ve been carrying something heavy all day and finally ran out of places to set it down. the tv is on, but it’s so quiet it may as well be muted.

rafe is on the couch, legs spread, settled deep in the cushions like he’s earned the space. there’s an ease to him that comes from years of knowing his own weight. jeans worn thin at the knees, shirt loose at the collar, sleeves pushed up over forearms thick with muscle and old scars. his knuckles are scraped and bruised from work, and they wrap around the neck of a beer bottle slick with condensation. he looks solid. tired.

his eyes lift to you and drag down slow. they start at your face, linger on the shine in your eyes, then move down your body like he’s assessing damage. almost like he already knows what it means.

“take your shoes off,”

you hesitate, then bend and slip them off. they hit the floor softly.

“come sit.”

your head shakes before you can stop it, feeling embarrassed and tired from the emotional stress. “no, it’s okay,”

rafe doesn’t answer right away. he just watches you, patient and steady, like he’s waiting out weather.

“’m not askin’.”

you walk toward him because it feels like the next step of something that's already decided. when you’re close enough, his hand comes up and grips your waist, warm and calloused, fingers pressing into you like he already knows where you fit. he pulls you down onto his lap with a single, controlled movement, guiding instead of forcing.

“sit. right here,” he says quieter.

you do, even though it feels wrong the second you settle. his thigh is solid beneath you. his arm comes around your back, forearm resting there like a boundary and his hand settles on your thigh, palm flat, full contact, pressing you into place. it shouldn’t be there, but the warmth of it sinks into your skin anyway, and something about the touch triggers another quiet sniffle that threatens to turn into tears.

“easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and even, like he knows exactly how to reach you. “tell me what happened.”

so you do. you talk because stopping would mean thinking. and you don't wanna think. not right now. you tell him about the fight, about what was said, about how stupid it made you feel. you soften it out of habit, laughing once like it wasn’t that bad even though it was. rafe listens without interrupting, his thumb moving slowly against your thigh in the same measured rhythm, keeping you anchored while you ramble.

“i had a feelin’,” he says when you finish, nodding once as he takes a quick swig from the sweating bottle in his hand.

“’s why y’need someone who knows better,” he adds calmly, his eyes dipping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. you ask him what he means by that, voice thin but threaded with curiosity despite yourself. “you weren’t made to carry that kinda mess,” he says evenly. “you understand?”

rafe doesn't say it outright, but it's there in the way he looks at you. that you're too soft. too delicate for a world like that. too easily bruised to hold something so sharp without bleeding. you understand. and you nod, gazing at him through wet lashes.

his hand slide higher, callouses brushing rough against your skin. he doesn't move it far, just enough for his fingers to slip beneath the hem of your shorts. it’s precise. intentional. wrong in a way that tightens your stomach.

“you don’t need him,” he says, shaking his head slightly, eyes burning into you like the words are meant to take root. “jus’ need me.”

you shake your head and shift like you might pull away, like your body remembers itself too late. his grip tightens immediately, fingertips pressing into the soft skin of your thigh without urgency. it feels firm. corrective.

“'don’t— ‘m not finished with you,” he says, low and gruff, like it’s something he’s said before which earns a soft, barely audible 'i’m sorry' from you.

his hand leaves your thigh and comes to your jaw, thumb settling beneath it as he tilts your face down to get a better look at you, eyes drinking in how soft and broken you look sitting in his lap. “y’gunna behave f’me aren’t you? gunna be good?”

“i’ll be good,” you whisper softly, nodding your head though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to. his hand then moves to the back of your head to cradle it, fingers threading into your hair to hold you steady. you don't dare look away. you can’t. he looks at you like you’re fragile, like he’d taken responsibility for you a long time ago.

“good…” he pulls your face closer and leans in to kiss you before you can protest. “i knew you would.”

he doesn't ask, he just takes it. his mouth is cool from the beer. you feel the scrape of his stubble against your skin and the weight of his arm holding you there when your body tenses. you don’t kiss him back. you just let him do it.

when you pull away, breath uneven, he doesn’t follow. he just waits, watching. he looks at you for a long moment, eyes dragging to your mouth again, slower this time. you stare at him for a second too long, breath caught, cheeks warm with something like shame. your eyes drop, then flick back up, searching his face like you’re waiting for him to take it back.

“hey— ’s alright. don't be embarrassed,” he says quietly, voice low and gravelly like he’s trying to calm something in you. “this'll make it better, i promise. y’trust me, yeah?” his hand moves just the slightest bit higher beneath your shorts, and you can feel him caressing your thigh like it's meant to ground you.

“i trust you.” the words come soft, like you know you’re supposed to. he can feel you melt just the slightest bit in his lap, watching your face inch forward like you know you shouldn't but want to anyway. he sees every bit of it, and uses it to egg you on, his voice turning thin and raspy.

“yeah, that’s it… let me make it better.”

you hesitate, just long enough for the wrongness to flare again, then you kiss him. this time your lips move with his. the kiss deepens. the claiming, sloppy slide of his mouth against yours makes you sigh quietly, warming something low in your core. his lips guide yours like he’s in charge of the rhythm. he does it slow like he's trying to taste every inch of you, like he's teaching you his way. the right way.

a low sound slips from him, a soft groan against your mouth, like this is the last thing he needed to finally unwind after a long day of work. the sound settles deep in your chest. you taste beer and heat on his lips, a faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to him, and something about it feels grounding. comforting, even though you know better.

he sets the beer bottle aside without looking and pulls you further into his lap so that you straddle his waist, both hands firm on your hips you until you feel the solid press of his chest against yours. you let your body sink into his warmth, settling there like it was all you'd ever wanted to know.

his tongue swipes slow against your lower lip, and when you part your mouth just enough, he follows with the same steady control, guiding the pace like he’s showing you where to soften, when to give.

the kiss stretches on, turning wet and languid. soft smacking sounds fill the air with time and he grips your hips harder to press you against his lap. your breathing turns shallow without you noticing, soft little inhales catching too fast in your chest. your hands drift up and settle against him like you’re bracing yourself there. one palm splayed over his chest, the other resting at his abdomen like you’re already leaning into what comes next. he holds you in place, his mouth still deciding when to move, when to linger, when to pull you back in.

“there you go,” he mutters after pulling back. he lifts a hand and tucks a loose piece of hair behind your ear, the gesture careful, almost habitual, his thumb lingering at your temple like he’s steadying something fragile. you go still at the touch, like your body recognizes it before your mind does, and the praise settles warm and heavy in your ribs. you look at him with softened, dazed eyes as something loosens, relief slipping in with the affirmation.

“good girl,” his words draw out just enough to sink in, his eyes flicking to your lips once more and back again, taking in his work. they're reddened now and a little swollen, still glistening from when your mouths met. a small, satisfied smirk ghosts the corner of his mouth before he smooths it away, and his hand slides lower to the curve of your ass to hold you there, fingertips pressing in like they belong there. “that’s better, isn't it. jus' needed t'see it for yourself, yeah?”

“mhm.” the sound hums low between you, a soft, pliant nod following after like punctuation. his hand other hand stays firm at your back, anchoring you there as he watches you, eyes steady and assessing, like he’s making sure you’re exactly where he wants you.

“mm, i know, baby. ’s why ’m here,” he adds, voice calm and approving, his hips lifting beneath you and shifting just enough to sink deeper into the couch. the movement changes the angle between you, bringing him closer where your legs frame his hips, and the new pressure beneath his jeans pulls a soft breath from you before you can stop it. “to show you what’s right,”

your weight tips forward instinctively, just a fraction, adjusting to the way he’s settled, like your body’s trying to stay aligned with him and still feel more of what he’s offering between your thighs. you still yourself as soon as you realize you’ve moved, waiting to see if he’ll correct you. rafe notices all of it. he always does.

“i’m doing it right,” you breathe, because he already decided that you were, and it feels safer once he’s already said it.

“yeah, you’re doin’ real good.” he murmurs, eyes steady on your face as you hold there, close and wanting. his thumb comes up to your mouth briefly, dragging your bottom lip down slow, his face showing a flash of restraint. the sight of it makes his cock twitch beneath you. you lift your face toward his without thinking, already moving back into him.