Rafe doesn't run. He controls. He commands. He moves through the world like a perfectly oiled machine, every action precise. And I just watched that control crack.
And it was fucking fantastic.
Which means he wants me. He might deny it with his marble jaw and his cold stares, but his body doesn't lie. That tiny break in his composure, it's all the proof I need to energize me. QueenNikki is back in the game.
I climb out of the pool slowly, deliberately, like I'm emerging from a very chlorinated rebirth. The stone is warm beneath my feet, absorbing the last heat of the day. My black bikini, stillplastered to my skin, feels like a second skin. My towel's missing, probably discarded somewhere by Enzo, or maybe Rafe himself. Doesn't matter, I don't need it.
I walk through the villa soaked and barefoot, leaving a trail of wet rebellion across priceless imported rugs.
Sure, I could dry off. I could change into one of the ridiculous, expensive outfits he's provided, but I don't. I want him to see me like this. I need him to see me like this. A living, breathing, dripping consequence of his own actions.
I find him in the sleek, minimalist kitchen, pretending to look busy with a bottle of rare, expensive wine he'll make a show of pouring and will never actually drink. He's standing by the counter, his back to me, the water from his hair making dark spots on the pristine marble floor. Of course, he’s already in a clean, dry shirt and pants now. Probably has a dozen perfectly folded backups, each as crisp and emotionless as he is.
He doesn't look up as I approach, just pretends to be deeply fascinated by the label on the bottle. "You should cover up," he snaps at me.
"Why? What’s the problem?" I lean against the cold granite counter across from him.
"It's cold," he mutters, and I almost laugh.
"It's eighty degrees, Rafe. And I'm still radiating body heat from the incident in the pool. Unless you're talking about your heart, in which case, yeah, that thing's probably frozen solid."
His jaw flexes, a visible twitch that tells me I'm getting under his skin. "Then dry off and cover up for my sake. You're a guest here. There are other people in this house."
I pad closer, slowly, my bare feet silent on the polished stone floor. The space between us shrinks. I feel the warmth radiating off his back. "You jumped out of the pool so fast," I say. "Almost as if you were afraid. Or you were about to do something you shouldn't."
He turns then, finally, his eyes dark, stormy, dangerous. But there's something else there, too. Something I haven't seen before. A flame of unmasked raw desire.
"I wasn't afraid," he says. "I simply decided there wasn't anything more to gain from that particular interaction."
"Then why leave?" I push, refusing to back down.
"I'm not playing games with you," he grits out, his body taut.
"Oh really? Then stop letting me win. Because every time you react, every time you try to deny this… whatever this is… I'm scoring points. Which means, I'm winning and you're losing. How does that feel?"
He finally lifts his eyes to mine. They're stormy and dangerous. A raw, untamed look that sends a shiver through me. Not of fear, but of something else entirely. Something electric.
I've never felt more powerful or more reckless.
I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, daring the wind to push me over.
He stands perfectly still as I close the distance between us. The heat rolling off him is unreal, a boiling furnace ready to explode against my wet skin. I can almost taste the danger. I stop just shy of touching, our bodies almost brushing.
"Tell me again this is fake. Tell me all of this, every single glance, every accidental touch, every moment of charged silence, is just a performance. Tell me. I want to hear you say it."
He says nothing while his jaw is clenched tight.
"Tell me I'm not under your skin. Tell me you don't think about me when I'm not around. Tell me you don't feel this the same way I do. Tell me your cock wasn’t hard when you saw me in the pool. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?"
Still nothing.
Just the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the raw, desperate hunger I see mirrored in his eyes, even as he fights to hide it.
I rise up on tiptoes. Not to kiss him. Not yet. Just to let my breath, warm and humid, touch his lips. I hover there, inches away, my eyes still locked on his. I want him to feel it. I want him to break.
A subtle tremor runs through his entire body. It's a crack. A tiny, hairline fracture in his impenetrable facade. And I wedge myself into it, twisting the knife.
"You can control the headlines," I whisper. "You can control the paparazzi. But you can't control me. And you definitely can't control what you're feeling right now. I’m under your skin and you fucking hate it."
