I stand watching until her silhouette disappears at the end of the driveway. The music from the party pulses against my back as I turn, scanning faces again. No Cruz. No Gage. No Bishop. No Rafe—despite Coco’s “mandatory attendance” decree.
My feet carry me across the yard, past the pool, beyond the clusters of people as my sister’s words reverberate inside my head, bouncing around until it becomes a maelstrom of Calloways.
I blink, finding myself in front of the garage’s service door entrance. My fingers hover over the keypad—the one place explicitly marked as off-limits tonight. But lucky for me, I know the code for the lock. Unless they changed it.
6-2-4-9. The keypad accepts my code with a soft beep and green flash. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing away the throbbing bass and drunken laughter like I’ve stepped into a vacuum.
My shoulder blades press against cool metal. I freeze.
Rafe lounges on the couch, claiming it like a throne. One leg stretched long, the other bent at the knee. An unlit joint dangles from lips that curve slightly at the corners. His thumb hovers over the lighter’s striker, suspended in the moment before flame.
He doesn’t straighten or speak. Only his eyes move—storm-cloud blue beneath heavy lids, tracking me with the patience of a predator who knows prey will come closer voluntarily.
The overhead light slices across him, painting half his face in shadow while illuminating the sharp edge of his jaw, the hollow where his throat meets collarbone, the cotton stretched taut across shoulders broader than they have any right to be.
My mouth goes dry. My pulse finds a new home low in my belly.
“You need something, baby?” His voice scrapes low, a rough-edged murmur that vibrates in the air between us.
The room narrows to just him. Just us. Just this moment balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Yeah.” The single syllable emerges steadier than the thundering in my chest would suggest. I push off the door. One foot in front of the other, measured steps across concrete that feels like crossing an ocean. Neither rushing nor hesitating—just moving toward an inevitability I’ve been circling for longer than I care to admit.
His eyes track me across the room, pupils dilating slightly with each step.
I stop between his knees. The denim of his jeans brushes against my bare legs as I climb onto his lap, my dress riding up my thighs.
I pluck the joint from between his lips, my fingertips grazing the warmth of his mouth. The lighter clicks against the arm of the couch as I set both aside.
When I look back, his head tilts. Just slightly. Just enough that a shadow cuts across his jawline. The corner of his mouth twitches.
His palms find my thighs, fingertips leaving five distinct points of pressure on my skin. They drag upward, bunching the fabric of my dress but stopping before he reaches the crease of my hip.
He straightens beneath me. The air between us shrinks to nothing.
“What do you need, baby?” His voice is velvet poured over gravel, low and rough.
My pulse throbs in my throat, behind my ears, between my legs. I slide my palms up his chest, reveling in being able to touch him freely. I wish there weren’t any clothes between us.
Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to explore this man without any clothes hindering my exploration.
The steady thump of his heartbeat quickens under my touch as I sink fully onto him. An involuntary exhale escapes my lips when I feel the hard ridge of his cock beneath his jeans press against where I ache.
I lean in, drawn by something primal and hungry. The first brush of his lips against mine sends electricity crackling down my spine. He tastes like stormy nights and possibilities—intoxicating and consuming. For a heartbeat, he lets me lead, lets me explore the curve of his bottom lip with my tongue.
Then his hand slides to my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He takes control with a growl that reverberates through my chest, tilting my head just so. His tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I gasp against his mouth as his other hand cradles my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath my ear. The kiss deepens, turns molten. My hips roll instinctively against him, chasing friction, chasing heat.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes against my lips, the word more sensation than sound.
I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
The noise hits first—music, voices, the sharp spill of it breaking through the quiet. Then it cuts off as suddenly as it came.
“Coco’s looking for you.”
I turn my head.
