bbywhitefox123

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: Cassie Rhett’s A-List Kitchen just got a whole lot hotter with Drew Starkey as her latest guest. Wet shirt, flirty banter, and a kitchen full of secrets—he’s denying the rumors, but can he handle Cassie’s energy and nonstop questions? Spoiler:it gets juicy and wet, and the camera definitely caught it all.

Warnings: none

There were three cameras rolling, a boom mic dangling over the marble island, and Drew Starkey standing at her sink in a full tailored suit like he’d wandered into the wrong set.

“This kitchen real?” he called out, inspecting the gold faucet like it might start spitting diamonds. “Shit looks like a museum.”

Cass Rhett didn’t turn around yet—she knew her angles too well for that. Instead, she kept facing the center camera, adjusting the hem of her black leather mini dress and flashing her signature smirk.

“It’s very real,” she said, her voice rich with amusement. “And so is my very real guest today. Hi, my loves! Welcome back to The A-List Kitchen—the only place where we cook iconic meals in iconic outfits, and I almost always burn something. I’m Cass Rhett, and today I have the very handsome, very Southern, very much in my house, Drew Starkey!”

She turned to shoot him a look.

He raised a brow. “Can I wash my hands or is that, like, a crime?”

“Wash them, babe,” Cass said, walking over and patting his back as he turned on the tap. “I promise the faucet won’t call security.”

She was in her element—heels clicking over polished wood, her long legs on full display, lips glossy and smirk-ready. Her confidence wasn’t loud; it was effortless. She was the sun and she knew it.

“Okay,” she said, turning back to the camera and clapping her hands together. “Today’s menu—editor, you know what to do—will be a little Southern, a little sexy, and probably slightly undercooked.”

An aesthetically pleasing menu would later slide across the screen when the editor gets his hands on the footage:

Today’s Menu: North Carolina Pulled Pork Sliders + Sweet Tea Cocktails

“Now,” she said, glancing over at Drew, who was drying his hands on a linen towel, “Joseph, be a good boy and help me list the ingredients.”

He gave her a look. “Cass.”

She grinned. “What?”

“You government-name me again and I’m walking off set.”

“You’re not on set, baby,” she teased. “You’re in my kitchen, which makes me the director.”

He muttered something under his breath about “being a brat” and took the iPad from her hands anyway.

“Alright,” he said, reading dramatically. “Pulled pork—pre-cooked because someone didn’t want to actually cook it—coleslaw, brioche buns, barbecue sauce—”

“From his hometown in North Carolina,” Cassie added, nudging him with her elbow.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Pickles, onions, and…”

He paused. “Glitter?”

She held up the cocktail shaker with edible glitter in it. “For the drinks, obviously.”

Drew snorted. “That doesn’t feel FDA approved.”

“Neither is this dress,” she said sweetly, twirling once.

He blinked, then looked back at the screen like it owed him an escape plan.

They began prepping—Cassie with her nails clinking against every glass bowl, Drew doing all the real work. She opened the buns too early, spilled half a jar of pickles, and nearly mixed sugar instead of salt into the slaw. Somehow, despite everything, it all looked gorgeous.

“Okay,” she said, pouring glitter into the cocktail shaker with zero hesitation, “Question time. These are from my subscribers, and I’m gonna need honest answers. No PR-approved bullshit.”

Drew raised a brow. “Am I allowed to lie if it’s charming?”

“Only if it’s about me.”

He chuckled and leaned on the counter as she read the first question from her iPad.

“Question one: Did you fall in love while filming The Do Over?”

He blinked. “Are we starting light or just diving into the real shit?”

Cassie sipped from the cocktail she’d just mixed. “I don’t make the rules, Joey. I exploit the rumors.”

He looked at her. “Falling in love on set? No. Falling in like with you while you yelled at the director because the coffee was ‘giving you the ick’? Maybe.”

She giggled. “I told him cold brew isn’t just cold coffee.”

Another question: “Who have you kissed the most these past two months?”

“Technically, you kissed me first,” Drew said, smug.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “It was in the script, Joseph.”

“Still counts.”

Drew read the next question: “Are you dating Cass Rhett?”

Cassie tilted her head. “We’re cooking.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“We’re… making sliders.”

Drew leaned closer. “Sweetheart, that’s the most suspicious answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I know,” she grinned.

They kept chopping, assembling, sipping. Cassie got sauce on her dress and didn't care. Drew tried to teach her how to hold a knife correctly—she called him “baby” and ignored every word. When they finally sat down to eat, she took a dramatic bite of the slider, moaned like it was five-star cuisine, and said, “I’m a genius.”

“You’re a dictator,” Drew corrected, mouth full, “but somehow it works.”

Cassie raised her glass. “To glitter, gossip, and good sliders.”

He clinked his against hers.

The sliders were half-eaten, cocktail glasses smudged with lip gloss and condensation, and Cass Rhett was leaning her elbows on the counter like she didn’t just create a war zone of a kitchen behind her.

“Okay,” she sighed dramatically, licking barbecue sauce off her thumb. “Who’s cleaning?”

Drew glanced around at the disaster—glitter on the marble, pickle juice dripping down a cabinet, a spoon stuck in what looked like an exploded coleslaw bowl.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

She batted her lashes.

“No,” he said immediately. “No way.”

“Oh, come on, Joey,” she teased, drawing out his name with the kind of sinful grin that had made half the internet think they were already married. “You’re Southern. Isn’t hospitality your whole thing?”

“Cleaning after you isn’t hospitality,” he replied, standing. “That’s punishment.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “And this is The A-List Kitchen. I punish my guests by making them take the trash out.”

He let out a low laugh, watching her saunter around the island in those stilettos like she didn’t just offer him a death sentence. Her dress swished as she walked—short, tight, dangerously flirty. Everything about Cassie was fire—voice, hair, dress, attitude. She was chaos and confidence and way too comfortable with glitter in food.

And he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“I have extra questions,” she added, picking up her iPad. “So. If you clean, I’ll ask. If you don’t, I’ll still ask—but you’ll look like a jerk.”

He shook his head and grabbed a sponge. “You’re actually evil.”

“You say that like it’s new information,” she said.

As Drew started rinsing dishes—rolling up his sleeves, jacket discarded over a stool—Cassie leaned against the sink beside him, hips bumping his casually as she pretended not to notice how close they were.

“Okay, question time, baby,” she said, watching his hands. “Let’s go deeper.”

He side-eyed her. “This isn’t therapy.”

She smiled wide. “First question: what was your childhood like?”

Drew paused mid-scrub. “You trying to trauma bait me for views?”

“Only a little,” she said innocently. “Come on. Where did little Joseph Starkey run around as a kid?”

“North Carolina,” he muttered, handing her a now-sparkle-free glass. “Small town. Real southern. Real slow. Nothing to do. Rumors spread fast, though.”

She leaned in a little. “You sound like the beggining of a rom-com.”

He glanced at her lips and then back at the dish. “You starred in a rom-com.”

She winked. “Damn right I did.”

They kept moving, bantering as he cleaned and she occasionally helped by, like, holding a fork or offering moral support.

“Alright,” she said after a beat, voice softer now. “There’s been some talk.”

He froze. “About what?”

“Odessa.”

He let out a breath through his nose and shook his head, tossing a sponge into the sink. “She’s just a friend.”

Cassie raised a brow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter, suddenly still. “You sure? 'Cause that boat pic said otherwise.”

“Cass,” he said, voice low.

“Joseph,” she murmured, eyes flicking to his mouth.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Make me.”

Drew just smiled and shrugged, too casual, too cool. Cassie narrowed her eyes.

She strolled over to the island and dropped her iPad on the marble with a clack, giving the nearest camera a dramatic side-eye like she was in The Office. She didn’t say it, but the message was loud and clear: This man is about to lie and I’m gonna catch it on tape.

“Odessa and I are just good friends,” Drew said, rinsing a plate.

Cassie walked back slowly, heels tapping against the dark hardwood. She leaned against the counter again, arms folded, watching him with a devilish glint in her eye as camera two and three rolled from either side, catching the tension, the smirk on her face, the way Drew’s jaw ticked just slightly.

“Friends with benefits?” she asked, eyebrow arching like she already knew the answer.

“No.” Drew’s voice was firm, but that little grin of his was playing with fire.

Cassie didn’t miss a beat. She reached over and, without breaking eye contact, tapped the little chrome button at the base of the faucet. It sprayed a perfect arc of water straight at Drew’s chest.

“Shit!” he cursed, jerking back as the water soaked his shirt, dripping down to his abs, the crisp cotton sticking to his masculine frame instantly. He scrambled to shut it off, sputtering and laughing.

Cassie stepped back with both hands in the air like she was innocent. “What? I was just putting the fire out.”

Drew looked up, soaked and blinking, trying to pat down his shirt. “What fire?”

She pointed at him with a smirk. “Liar, liar, pants on fire, Joey. You should thank me for saving you.”

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, chuckling as he grabbed a towel and dabbed at his shirt, water still dripping down his torso.

She turned, already sauntering back toward the island like she was ready for round two. “Let me just check the next question while you strip for views—”

But she didn’t get there.

Drew’s wet hands found her waist mid-step, and with a quick tug, he lifted her clean off the floor and sat her right on the counter, the cameras catching the squeal she let out and the way her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips just to steady herself.

Her breath hitched.

“No more questions for you,” Drew said, face close now, voice low, wet hair curling a little at his temple.

Cassie laughed, breathless. “Joseph Starkey, are you threatening me on camera?”

“I’m shutting you up.”

She tilted her head. Her dress had ridden up a bit—nothing indecent, just enough to remind him she was all legs and fire and zero shame. Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, heart skipping.

“What about Madeline Cline?” she asked, tone casual but eyes deadly. “You lived together while filming OBX at some point, right?”

Drew groaned, head dropping for a second like he needed divine patience. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re deflecting.” She smirked.

“Cass…”

She blinked up at him. “Baby…”

The tension was electric. Wet shirt clinging to his chest, her dress hiked scandalously high, both of them mic’d up and pretending they weren’t being filmed from three angles.

“Maddy and I are only friends,” Drew said, voice rough but honest as he finally stepped back. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Or a fuck buddy. Or anything—if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”

He started walking toward the island, tugging at the buttons of his soaked shirt. One by one they gave way, revealing the hard lines of his chest, abs carved like sin, water trailing down in lazy paths she followed with far too much focus.

Cassie kicked her feet idly where she sat on the counter, pretending like she wasn’t staring. But the corner of her lip curled up.

She tilted her head, lashes fluttering with mock sweetness. “But do you have a wife, Joseph?”

He glanced over his shoulder, half his shirt off, brow raised, lips twitching.

“Can we roll the credits, please?” he said, laughing as he tossed the ruined shirt onto the back of a chair and grabbed the towel.

Camera two caught her biting back a grin.

Cassie turned dramatically to face the camera nearest her, lifting her hands like a director about to call cut. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s the end of the episode. Next week I’ll be marrying a liar in my kitchen and serving burnt pie at the reception.”

Drew leaned over the island, towel draped around his neck, looking down with a smirk.

[bbywhitefox123]

summary: rafe can’t resist catherine on the drive to his sister's baby shower—their stolen touches and secret kisses heat up the car until he can barely hold back.

warnings: public sex, dirty talk, getting caught, p in v.

Rafe was gripping the steering wheel like it personally offended him.

Behind them, Mason and Bradley were bickering over the iPad—again—and Maisie was standing on Mason’s thighs, one hand tangled in his hair for balance, the other waving around a half-eaten cracker.

“You’re crushing my legs, Maisie!” Mason shouted.

“Well maybe don’t let her stand on you, genius,” Bradley snapped.

“Both of you,” Catherine said without even turning around, voice calm, clipped, “will lose screen time for the entire week if I hear one more word about ‘Ninja Go’ or whatever it is you’re screaming about.”

They both went dead silent

Maisie yawned.

Rafe glanced over at Catherine, and holy fuck, she was unreal. Soft dress hugging her curves. Little yellow cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her hair behind her shoulder, neck on full display, lips shiny from the gloss she put on in the driveway.

She looked like spring. Like a picnic. Like something to ruin.

He reached over, hand sliding along her thigh just under the hem of her dress. Just a little.

Just to touch.

She shot him a warning look.

“You are not starting something in the car.”

“I’m just appreciating my wife,” he said, innocent as sin. His fingers crept higher, barely grazing the edge of her panties. “Sue me.”

“You want me to kill you before Sarah’s baby shower?” she asked sweetly.

“She’ll understand,” he muttered, palm now flat over the heat between her legs. “We’re just getting in the baby mood.”

She swatted his hand away with a blush blooming on her cheeks.

“I’m not showing up to a baby shower dripping, Rafe.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She turned her head slowly to look at him, lips parted, eyes heavy. “You’re not slick. I saw you staring when I bent over to zip Maisie’s little shoes.”

“You weren’t wearing underwear.”

“I never wear underwear around the house.”

“Which is why I’m always hard around you.”

“Daddy, what’s a slime skin?” Mason shouted from the back.

Catherine laughed, hand coming down over her mouth.

Rafe groaned and banged his head lightly against the steering wheel.

“I hate this car,” he muttered. “And I hate Ninja Go.”

“Ninjago,” Bradley corrected.

“Whatever.”

Catherine leaned over, kissed his cheek with her glossy mouth. Whispered: “Keep that thought in your head until tonight. I’ll make you forget all about cartoon ninjas.”

He gripped the wheel tighter. “God, I fucking love my wife.”

The Range Rover hadn’t even stopped before Bradley threw a juice box at Mason’s head.

“OW! Dad—!”

“He started it!” Bradley shrieked.

“Did not!”

“You literally bit my arm!”

“I was testing a theory!”

Maisie let out a delighted scream, clapping from her booster seat.

Rafe exhaled through his nose like a man on the brink of divine judgment.

“Get. Out. Of. The car.” Catherine said, each word clipped with motherly wrath.

And just like that, they spilled out onto Sarah and Topper’s driveway—bickering, stomping, muttering under their breath like little old men who hated each other but also couldn’t survive without sharing a bunk bed.

Sarah met them at the porch, round and glowing, her bump hugged by a green satin dress. Topper followed with a cooler in one hand and a wide grin like they weren’t about to let feral children into their backyard.

“Catherine!” Sarah squealed. “God, you look hot, I’m gonna punch you.”

Catherine laughed and hugged her. “Shut up, you’re the one glowing.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, helping Maisie out of the car seat and resting her on his hip. She buried her face in his neck, already bored with the adult world.

They made their way inside, the house smelling like candles and cupcakes and too many women in floral dresses. Catherine chatted with Kie and a few of Sarah’s coworkers. Rafe kept one eye on the boys, who were already arguing about who got the last cookie off the snack table.

“Don’t you dare eat that,” Bradley growled at Mason.

“I touched it first!”

“You breathed on it, that’s not the same thing!”

Rafe sipped from his beer and whispered under his breath, “Should’ve pulled out.”

Catherine shot him a look.

“Love you,” he added with a smirk.

—

A while later, Sarah was calling for a group picture. “Topper! Rafe! Cathy ! Come take a photo with me—I want a memory of when we were all still hot and only I was pregnant!”

Catherine blinked. “Wait—shit. I left my phone in the car.”

She turned, already stepping off the deck and onto the driveway in her sandals, breeze catching the hem of her sundress. Her hips swayed like they knew what they were doing.

What she didn’t know?

Rafe was already trailing behind her, beer bottle still in hand, mouth twitching at the thought of cornering her in the car.

She was at the passenger side when she opened the door, leaning in slightly to grab her phone from the seat.

He took a second—just one—to admire her ass from behind, how the light fabric of her dress clung to the swell of her thighs. No shorts underneath. Just a lacy thing, soft skin and trouble.

He shut the car door quietly behind him.

Catherine froze, straightening up.

“Jesus, Rafe—you scared me.”

“You forgot your phone.”

“I know, that’s why I—” she turned, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Why did you follow me?”

He was already stepping in close.

“You are just too hot,” he said, voice low, his hand sliding to the small of her back. “Wearing that little dress, bending over like that.”

“I was just grabbing my phone,” she whispered, but her lips were already parting.

He leaned down, mouth brushing hers. “You think you’re slick. Teasing me in front of all our friends.”

“I wasn’t teasing.”

He pressed closer, pinning her lightly against the Range Rover. “Then explain why my cock’s been hard since mile three of that car ride.”

She shivered, glancing back toward the house, voices floating through the breeze. “We can’t. Sarah’s waiting for the picture. Everyone’s gonna notice.”

“They’re all distracted. And you owe me for the car ride.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re impossible.”

He smirked. “Yeah. So come make me forget I’m a dad for ten minutes.”

She kissed him hard, and for a second, nothing else mattered—not the kids, not the party, not the photo.

Just them.

And the car they never quite manage to keep clean.

Rafe pressed Catherine firmly against the car door, his lips crashing onto hers with that rough hunger only he had. Her breath hitched, fingers tangling in the thick hair at his neck as he deepened the kiss, like he was trying to swallow her whole.

Then, without breaking contact, he swept her up effortlessly and settled her onto the hood of the Range Rover, her legs parting beneath him.

His eyes dropped, dark and calculating, to the delicate lace barely covering her slick heat. The yellow sundress had ridden up just enough to reveal the intricate pattern of her panties — sheer, teasing, impossibly fragile-looking.

A slow, wicked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, fingertips tracing the lace, memorizing every thread.

Catherine shivered, pulse pounding in her throat.

Rafe’s hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider as he leaned down, lips ghosting over her.

“I’m gonna make sure you’re dripping before we even get back inside.”

She bit her lip, eyes locked on his.

Rafe pushed Catherine back against the windshield, his hands gripping her hips firmly as he leaned in close. His breath was hot against her skin, fingers tracing the curves of her body through the thin fabric of the sundress. He nipped gently at her neck, moving lower, his mouth exploring the smooth skin just above the lace of her panties.

His hands slipped beneath the dress, sliding the delicate fabric over her hips and thighs. Catherine’s breath hitched, but she pressed her lips together, biting back the moans threatening to escape. Rafe’s fingers found her slick heat, teasing her through the lace, his touch both firm and maddeningly gentle.

“Shh,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low and rough. “Gotta keep quiet… don’t want the kids or anyone else hearing how good daddy makes mommy feel.”

Her hands tangled in his hair as he kissed a trail between her breasts, his fingers parting her folds slowly, expertly. She trembled beneath him, desperate for more but forced to hold back.

“You’re so wet for me,” Rafe whispered, sliding a finger inside her, curling it slowly. “I want to make you come right here on my hood… but you’re gonna wait.”

Catherine gasped softly, the sensation overwhelming, but she nodded, willing herself to hold still. Rafe’s mouth found her clit next, his tongue flicking and swirling, building a delicious tension that had her arching into him despite the need to stay silent.

“Such a good wife,” he praised, fingers moving inside her, slow and teasing. “You’re gonna beg for it soon, aren’t you? But not yet.”

Her breath hitched again, muffled against his neck, every nerve on fire. Rafe’s hands gripped her hips tighter, grounding her as he kept pushing her right to the edge — edging her on the hood, right there in the open.

“Tell me you want me,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

“I want you,” Catherine whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

Rafe smirked against her skin, finger still teasing inside her. He didn’t stop moving, even as his breath hitched with need. Slowly, he unbuttoned his pants, sliding them down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy, already aching for her slick heat.

He pressed himself against Catherine, the heat of him pressing into her through the thin fabric of her dress and lace panties. “You’re mine right here,” he growled low, voice thick with desire, “gonna fuck you so good everyone will know what we’re doing.”

Catherine swallowed the moan rising in her throat, but the need was too much—her hips bucked into him, desperate for friction.

“Shhh,” Rafe warned, hand cupping her jaw, thumb brushing her lips. “We gotta be quiet. Kids are just inside.”

Her teeth found his shoulder in a sharp bite, muffling the sound she couldn’t hold back. His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her closer, lips crashing onto hers in a frantic kiss.

Without hesitation, he pushed inside her, slow at first, savoring the tight heat that wrapped around him like a glove. She clenched around him, gasping into the kiss, nails digging into his back.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Rafe breathed against her lips, hips beginning a steady, deep rhythm. “You’re gonna be soaked for me all day, baby.”

Catherine trembled, the pleasure building fast, her hands gripping his arms as he fucked her with controlled intensity, desperate to keep quiet but failing every time his hips slammed against hers.

She bit his shoulder again, harder this time, and he groaned, head falling back as he spilled inside her with a shuddering growl.

But even after he came, Rafe didn’t stop—his thrusts slowed but didn’t cease, milking every last bit of tightness, praising her with every dirty word whispered against her skin. “Such a good girl… mine… always mine.”

“Where did you get lost gu—ah!”

Sarah stood on the porch, eyes wide as she caught the scene. Catherine and Rafe scrambled instantly—Catherine pushing him away, cheeks burning hot, while Rafe yanked her panties back up, not even caring that she was still dripping with his cum.

He cursed under his breath. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. He hated that he had a sister who’d show up at the worst possible moment.

Sarah cleared her throat, pretending she hadn’t just caught a live porn production. “Uh… everything okay out here?”

“Just peachy,” Rafe said, voice a little too casual as he squeezed his wife's ass.

Catherine nodded, trying to pull her dress down properly, cheeks flushed with heat and humiliation.

“Great,” Sarah said quickly, stepping back inside. “I'll just forget seeing baby number five in production”

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: After summer break, Lola returned to the Kook Academy with a swollen belly, with no other than the golden boy's, Rafe Cameron, locker engraved with the words - daddy cameron.

☆ Chapter 3: trailer trash☆

Rafe Cameron was never short on girls. They clung to him like perfume—cheap, sweet, and easy to wash off. But tonight, he couldn't treat his girlfriend like just another fling. Not with what he was about to do. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender. It was going to be ugly—messy like blood on white sheets, like mascara-streaked cheeks, like screaming in a house with paper-thin walls and no one listening.

He stood outside her door on the Fourth of July, the sounds of fireworks echoing from Tannyhill—his family and their rich, drunken friends celebrating in their glittering bubble of wealth. And here he was, soaked to the bone, standing in front of a run-down trailer with chipped paint and a porch light that flickered like it was trying to warn him.

He knocked, loud and sharp, a bitter kind of desperation bleeding into his fist. The rain poured harder, soaking his shirt, plastering his hair to his forehead—like the sky itself was begging him to turn around before he did something he couldn't undo.

Then the door creaked open.

Lola looked like trouble wrapped in brunette ambition. Her dark hair fell around her face in messy waves, damp at the ends from the humidity. Her lips were soft but chapped, like she'd been biting them raw, and her eyes—dark brown, sharp as glass—held no innocence, just warning signs. She wore a ribbed tank top that clung to her body, no bra, tiny sleep shorts hanging low on her hips. A cigarette burned between her fingers, half-forgotten, the ash dangling like it was waiting to drop on him.

Rafe met her eyes and smirked, that cruel curve of his lips that always came right before he said something vile. He didn't care how wrecked she looked. In fact, he liked it. The darker the eyes, the deeper the mess—Lola was all bite and bare skin and Rafe wanted it all.

"I heard backshots cost fifty bucks," he said, voice soaked in cocky venom, eyes dragging down her body like he was making a shopping list.

Lola didn't flinch. She blew smoke in his face, letting the silence burn first. Then her lips curled into a sneer. "This is all you have to offer? Daddy's short on pocket money, Cameron?"

"Why don't you let me in and find out?" Rafe said, his voice dipping low—lazy, taunting, soaked in arrogance.

Lola moved aside without a word, just a look. A slow up-and-down glance over his soaked frame. He was a pretty boy, no denying it—sharp jaw, pouty mouth, hair slicked back from the rain, and that smug look in his eyes like he already knew she'd let him in. She watched him walk past her like he owned the place, then kicked the door shut behind him with her bare heel.

Rafe wandered into her living room, dripping onto the stained carpet. The couch was a wreck—half a blanket thrown over the armrest, a few worn-out magazines, a half-smoked joint in an ashtray, and right on top, a lacy leopard-print bra like it belonged there. He picked it up, twirling it between two fingers, smirking.

"Bet leopard suits you," he said. "Heard you got yourself into a scholarship with your head skills."

Lola didn't blink. She stepped forward, arms crossed under her chest, one hip cocked.

"Came to see if the rumor was true, pretty boy?" she asked, voice sharp and sweet all at once.

He shrugged, still toying with the bra. "Curiosity's a bitch."

"And you look like the kind of guy who plays with fire just to get burned," she said, walking toward him slowly. "I heard about you too, you know. Rafe Cameron—rich boy with coke in his veins and a god complex. Should've figured you'd come sniffing around once daddy's money wasn't enough to keep you entertained."

"Think you can keep me entertained?" Rafe asked, his voice low and dangerous as she stepped up and plucked the bra from his fingers.

Lola smirked, twirling the leopard lace in her hand like a trophy. "I can keep you hooked if I want to," she said, cocky and sure—because she knew the power she held, and tonight, she was leaning into it.

Rafe smiled—slow, real, predatory. The kind of smile that said he was already addicted and just hadn't admitted it yet.

She turned away from him, hips swaying with purpose. And then, just before she left the room, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her tiny sleep shorts, sliding them down her legs without ceremony. She walked off in nothing but her panties—thin, black, and barely there—like she didn't have a care in the goddamn world.

Rafe watched, silent for once. Eyes locked on the curves of her body, the sway of her hips, the flash of skin that looked like sin under shitty trailer lighting.

He'd heard the rumors. That sex with Lola was like getting high for the first time. That she was chaos in human form—hands that clawed down your back, lips that left bruises, and a mouth that could bring you to your knees. They said her moans could make you believe in God and her silence could make you beg for hell. That once you had her, everything else tasted bland.

They said she didn't fuck—she possessed.

And now Rafe was standing in her trailer, breath shallow, heart racing like he was about to crash, wondering if maybe—just maybe—the rumors weren't exaggerated enough.

Rafe shrugged off his soaked Ralph Lauren puffer, letting it hit the floor with a wet thud, and followed her into the bedroom. The room was trashy, like something out of a dive bar hookup fantasy—walls stained yellow from smoke, a busted fan spinning slow on the ceiling, and clothes littered like confetti across the floor. The bedsheets were twisted, floral and faded, and the mattress sagged in the middle like it had too many memories soaked into it. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting a mess of makeup-stained tissues, half-empty perfume bottles, and a pink vibrator that sat shamelessly on the nightstand.

Lola didn't even look at him as she stepped over a pile of old hoodies and collapsed onto the bed, stretching out like she was inviting sin.

"Head is ten, missionary is twenty, doggy's fifty, choking costs five extra," she said casually, like she was reading from a menu. "And if you wanna finish on my face, I don't kiss afterward."

Rafe didn't laugh. He didn't flinch. He walked to her half-open dresser and dragged it open with two fingers, rifling through the lace, satin, and cigarettes until he found something interesting—pink fur handcuffs, the metal glinting under the weak lamp light.

He held them up, expression unreadable, voice low.

"How much is it to tie you up," he asked, stepping closer, "and fuck that pretty body senseless?"

For the first time—maybe ever—Lola was caught off guard.

She masked it well, but it was there: the quick flicker in her eyes, the sharp breath she pulled through her nose, the way her fingers curled slightly into the sheets. Rafe had said a lot without saying much, and that cocky, dark edge of his didn't just want a good time—he wanted control, chaos, all of her.

And she wasn't used to that. Not like this.

Ever since Lola figured out what puberty did to rich boys—the way it turned them into dogs in designer clothes, always chasing the next wet dream—she had been two steps ahead. She knew the look in their eyes, knew how to work their hormones, their wallets, their fragile egos. They were easy. Predictable. Puppets dressed in Gucci and hard-ons.

But Rafe Cameron wasn't acting like the rest. He wasn't begging. He wasn't bluffing. He didn't want a taste—he wanted to consume.

And for a second, Lola felt it.

Not fear. Not desire.

A challenge.

She sat up, slowly, legs swinging off the side of the bed, her eyes fixed on him now—sharp, calculating, curious.

"You sure you can handle that much power, pretty boy?" she asked, voice low, silk wrapped around razor blades.

Rafe twirled the cuffs once around his finger, lips twitching into a crooked grin.

"Let's find out."

Lola stood, slow and deliberate, like a panther about to pounce. Her bare legs brushed his jeans as she stepped into him, chest grazing his. The air between them was heavy—thick with tension, with heat, with the kind of energy that usually came right before something exploded.

She grabbed his jaw, tilted it like she was inspecting a piece of art she wasn't sure deserved the wall. Then she kissed him—hard.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was a fight.

Teeth scraped. Tongues clashed. Her fingers tugged his wet hair, and he shoved her back into the mattress, only for her to yank him down on top of her like she'd planned the whole thing. Their bodies tangled, hands roaming, each kiss sharper than the last. She bit his lip—he grunted and grabbed her throat, not tight, just a warning. She smirked against his mouth, blood blooming where she split his lip.

And then—

The click.

She didn't notice it at first. Too caught up in the high of it, the push and pull. But when she tried to grab at his shirt again, her arms jerked, stuck.

"What the f—"

Her voice cut short when she looked up.

Her wrists were cuffed to the headboard.

The pink fur ones. Her own damn cuffs.

Her chest rose and fell, eyes locked on Rafe as he leaned back just enough to look at her, breathing hard, lip bleeding, eyes dark with something wild and smug.

"You motherf—"

He laughed, quiet and slow, dragging his thumb across her lip. "Didn't think the girl with the mouth would be this easy to silence."

She yanked at the cuffs—rattling metal, fury rising in her throat—but he just leaned down, kissing the corner of her jaw, his voice a growl now, deep and filthy.

"You still wanna play, Lola?" he whispered. "'Cause I promise you, I play dirty."

Lola's eyes burned with something between rage and thrill, wrists yanking at the cuffs again, but not to get free—just to remind him she was still in the game. She wasn't scared. She was pissed that he beat her to the punch.

Rafe grinned, slow and vicious, hands dropping to the button of his jeans. The sound of it popping open was loud in the silence, cocky and deliberate. He slid the zipper down and let the denim fall, stepping out of them like he had all the time in the world.

"I've heard a lot about that mouth," he muttered, kneeling on the bed, eyes locked on her lips. "Let's see if it lives up to the hype."

He leaned over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other trailing down the curve of her jaw, slow and taunting. She arched up to bite him but he grabbed her chin, holding her still.

"You're not in control anymore, Lola," he said, voice low, hot against her skin. "Not tonight."

Her laugh was breathy, wild. "You think cuffs are all it takes to handle me?"

"No," he said, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip again. "But it's a start."

Rafe hovered above her, the mattress creaking under his weight as he slid further between her legs, the cuffs rattling softly against the metal headboard. Lola's eyes didn't flinch—didn't blink—just stayed locked on his, steady and daring.

She didn't ask. She didn't beg.

She opened her mouth.

And when Rafe moved closer, guiding himself to her lips, he realized—almost instantly—why the rumors had followed her like smoke.

She didn't just use her mouth. She used her eyes, her breath, her tongue—slow, deliberate, and merciless. She took her time, like she wanted to make him regret every cocky word he'd ever said. And Rafe, for the first time in a long time, wasn't thinking. He was feeling.

The way her mouth worked him—tight, warm, skilled—had him bracing one hand against the headboard, his other still tangled in her hair. His breathing turned ragged, sharp groans leaving his throat as he tried to keep his damn composure.

She didn't let up. Not once. And every time he thought she was done, that she'd ease up, she sank deeper, dragged him further under.

Rafe's head dropped back, lips parted, the muscles in his stomach twitching.

The rumors weren't just true—they didn't do her justice.

And Lola? She just looked up at him, smug as hell, like she'd just won a war without lifting a weapon.

And being inside her?

That was better. Way better.

Rafe had always had a high drive—chronic, untamable. He'd chased every thrill, every tight body that threw itself at him, and most of it blurred together into a forgettable mess of heat and motion. But this? Lola?

She was different.

The second he pushed into her, it was like the noise in his head finally shut the hell up. Everything narrowed down to her—her heat, her grip, her gasp that sounded like it belonged in a confession booth.

She clenched around him like she knew what she was doing—like she was built to wreck him.

Rafe's breath hitched, his body locking up as he bottomed out, the room swaying for a second from the sheer intensity of it. It wasn't just physical—it was punishing. Addictive. A drug disguised as a girl who bit her lip like she wanted him ruined.

She moved beneath him like she wanted a fight—hips rolling, eyes daring, the cuffs rattling as she tried to get leverage.

He gave it to her. Every inch. Every rough snap of his hips. He didn't hold back, didn't pretend to be gentle. And she met him, stroke for stroke, eyes wide open like she was memorizing the moment she made the Cameron boy lose control.

"Still think you're in charge?" she whispered, breathless but smug.

Rafe growled, slamming deeper, his hand wrapping tight around her throat—not enough to stop her words, just enough to make her feel them.

"Shut up and take it, Lola."

And she did.

With a smirk.

Rafe wasn't sure how many rounds they went—three, maybe four? Everything after the first felt like a blur of sweat, tangled limbs, and filthy words exchanged between gasps and growls. His back burned with scratches, raw and stinging in the best way, and his neck? Bruised. Marked. Her lips had left proof of ownership like she was staking a claim.

He stood hunched over the sink in her tiny bathroom, shirtless, rinsing himself off with lukewarm water and a bar of soap that smelled like cheap vanilla and weed. The mirror was fogged and cracked in the corner, but he could still make out the bruises, the bite on his collarbone, the red welts clawed down his ribs.

He smirked at his reflection.

She was insane.

He liked it.

When he stepped out, still drying his face on a threadbare towel, the scent of sex and smoke still thick in the air, he froze in the doorway.

Lola stood by his jacket, back turned, wearing nothing but a long t-shirt—probably his—and holding his wallet open. Her fingers were plucking out a few bills with the same laziness she kissed with. Confident. Unbothered. Like she was taking what was already owed.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, watching her without a word for a second. Then he stepped closer, his voice casual but laced with a grin.

"Stealing from me, Lola?"

She didn't even flinch. Just shoved the cash into the front pocket of her shirt, turned, and smirked.

"Call it a tip," she said, brushing past him. "You wanted the full experience, didn't you?"

He grabbed her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her—and leaned in close, their faces inches apart.

"You keep playing games with me," he said low, eyes locked on hers, "and I'll make sure next time, you forget your own name."

She smiled sweetly, lips still swollen, cash peeking out from the edge of her shirt.

"Then maybe you better come remind me."

Lola didn't even let his hand drop from her wrist. She stepped into him again, lips brushing his like she was tasting the threat on his tongue. Then she kissed him—slow at first, but with heat rising fast, sharp and needy. Her hand slid into his hair, the other pushing his towel off his shoulders like she owned him now.

"You really think I'm done with you?" she whispered against his mouth.

Rafe let out a rough breath, his hands already gripping her waist. "You emptied my wallet, sweetheart."

She smirked, pulling him back toward the bed. "And you're still here."

He didn't argue. He didn't need to.

Lola dropped onto the mattress and dragged him down with her, fingers curling around the back of his neck. She looked up at him with that same wild gleam that had him hooked from the start.

"You gonna prove you're worth my time?" she murmured, her legs parting to welcome him back in.

Rafe growled, low and feral, biting at her neck just hard enough to make her gasp.

"You talk too much."

"Then shut me up," she dared, tilting her chin.

And he did—with his mouth, with his hands, with the kind of urgency that came from obsession. From the need to win a game that had no rules and no end.

They didn't stop until the sun broke through the cracked blinds—and even then, only because they were too spent to keep playing.

But neither one of them looked ready to quit. Not for good.

《

[bbywhitefox123]

summary: she’s in the kitchen barefoot in a nightgown, baby on her hip, frosting on her cheek. rafe finds his old camera, starts snapping pics—of her smile, her thighs, the way she sways. she strips just to mess with him. flour flies. oven forgotten. she ends up on the counter, not a cake in sight.

warnings: voyeurism / teasing, strip tease, oral f receiving, kitchen sex, P in V, oral m receiving, praise + degrading dirty talk, cum play, getting caught.

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and something warm and sweet, like childhood and home and Catherine in the morning.

She stood barefoot on the tile, one hip cocked to balance Maisie on it, the baby’s chubby hand tangled in her hair. Catherine’s nightgown clung to her thighs with every step — thin cotton, barely decent, especially when she bent to check the oven. The neckline slipped just enough to hint at the swell of her breast where Maisie’s cheek rested.

She was humming softly, sleepily, hair tucked up in a bandana that made her look like a pin-up housewife. A little flour smudged across her cheek. Her lips were pink from taste-testing frosting with her finger. Rafe thought she looked like a daydream you never really woke up from.

He hadn’t meant to distract her.

He really hadn’t.

But when he found his old Canon shoved behind a box of invoices in his home office closet—the camera from their senior year at Kook Academy—he felt a pang of something old and sharp in his chest. He remembered it like yesterday. That camping trip. That bungalow. Her legs over his shoulders, her whimpers in his ear. Catherine under him, his, for the first time.

And nine months later, Mason had been born. Wild, stubborn Mason with his mother’s eyes and Rafe’s temper.

He stepped into the kitchen and lifted the camera without thinking, just as Catherine tilted her head to lick frosting from the spatula.

Snap.

She jumped a little, turning toward the sound, strands of hair falling from her bandana.

“Rafe,” she said with a laugh, “what are you doing?”

“Just… capturing the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all damn day,” he said, lowering the camera for a second to drink her in. “You look like a fucking dream, baby.”

“You’re insane,” she murmured, cheeks flushing. “I’m covered in flour and holding a half-asleep toddler.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. Snap. Another shot. “Mother of four, still looking like the first girl I ever—” he paused, glancing at Maisie, “—ruined.”

She shot him a look. He shrugged, unapologetic.

Maisie blinked up at him with heavy eyes, her little head bobbing, cheek now smushed against her mom’s collarbone.

“She’s almost out,” Rafe said gently, setting the camera down. “Here—lemme take her.”

Catherine handed her over with a sigh, her arms aching from the weight. Rafe held their daughter close, her body melting into him immediately.

“I’ll tuck her into our bed,” he said, brushing a kiss over Catherine’s flour-smeared cheek. “You keep bakin’, Mrs. Cameron. Gonna want a slice of that cake after I’m done dreamin’ about the view you’re giving me in that little nightgown.”

“Pervert,” she muttered, but she was smiling when he walked away, and her knees did feel a little wobbly.

She turned back to the bowl, stirring softly, cheeks pink, knowing his eyes would be on her again the second he walked back in.

And they were.

With the camera back in hand.

“You done?” she asked, teasing.

“Not even close,” he muttered.

He leaned back against the wall while Catherine went back to the mixing bowl, hips swaying, nightgown fluttering around those legs he never got tired of watching.

He lifted the camera again.

Snap.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, smirk curling across her lips. Then, slowly, she dragged her finger into the bowl and sucked the frosting off it like it was his cock.

Snap.

“Catherine…” he warned, voice darkening.

“What?” she asked, all faux innocence. “I thought you liked it when I bake.”

He growled under his breath as she reached down and bunched the hem of her nightgown higher up her thighs. Her ass peeked out, round and soft, and he knew damn well she wasn’t wearing panties again.

God help him.

Snap.

She turned to face him then, slow, teasing, deliberate. She let one strap fall from her shoulder. Then the other. The white cotton fluttered down her frame like snow, pooling at her feet.

Now she was fully bare, standing there in front of him in nothing but that bandana, covered in a dusting of flour, nipples peaked from the cool air and the heat in his gaze.

Rafe swallowed hard, the camera nearly slipping from his hand.

Snap.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re perfect. My pretty little wife. My kitchen whore.”

She just smirked and turned back to the counter, checking the oven dial like she wasn’t naked and dripping in front of him.

That’s when he moved.

He was on her in seconds.

She gasped as his hands grabbed her hips and pulled her back into him, her bare ass grinding against the hard length in his sweats. His mouth was on her neck, his camera discarded somewhere near the flour canister.

“Thought you could tease me?” he growled. “Make me watch you bend over in that little nightgown while our kid’s asleep upstairs?”

“I was baking,” she giggled breathlessly.

“No, you were bratting.” He spun her around, lifted her up by the thighs and shoved bowls aside to sit her on the counter, spreading her legs wide. “And now I’m gonna eat you like my life depends on it.”

His mouth was on her before she could speak.

Tongue flat against her pussy, licking slow and filthy. He groaned against her as she moaned, the sound echoing through the kitchen. She was already soaked, thighs trembling as he dragged his tongue over her clit again and again.

“God, Rafe—fuck—”

“That’s right,” he growled between licks. “This pretty pussy’s mine. Always mine. So sweet. So wet. My personal fucking dessert.”

Her heels dug into his back. Her hands twisted in the fabric of the bandana. She cried out as he sucked her clit, then licked down to her entrance, fucking her with his tongue until her thighs shook.

“Cum on my face,” he demanded. “Now.”

And she did. Loud. Writhing. Her taste coating his tongue.

When she blinked her eyes open again, he was already undoing his sweats, his cock hard and red and slick with precum.

He pulled her forward on the counter, pushing her back so her shoulders hit the floured surface. He didn’t even warn her. Just lined up and slammed inside.

They both moaned in unison.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned. “That’s it. This tight little cunt, fuck—made to be filled. Look at you, sprawled out on the counter like a dirty little housewife.”

Flour dusted her thighs. Her tits were bouncing with every thrust, one smudged with frosting. He leaned down, licked it off, sucking hard on her nipple until she screamed.

He fucked her fast, rough, slamming her into the counter until it creaked. His cock hit her deep, over and over, while his hand gripped her jaw.

“You love this, huh?” he panted. “Love being my wife. My slut. My baby mama and my whore.”

“Yes,” she cried. “Rafe, please—”

“Please what?” he taunted. “Want my cum? Want me to wreck this perfect pussy and drip down your thighs again like you’re still eighteen and begging me to fuck you raw?”

Her nails clawed at his shoulders. Her pussy clenched.

“Yeah,” he growled. “Give it to me. Let me feel how good I fuck you.”

She came again, sobbing out his name, and he followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and filling her with every drop.

They stayed like that, gasping, stuck together by sweat and sugar and love and years of filthy memories.

Then she slowly slid off the counter, sank to her knees.

And smiled up at him.

“Your turn.”

He let out a broken laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

But he didn’t stop her when her mouth wrapped around his cock.

Catherine’s lips wrapped around his cock like she’d been made for it—like every inch of her belonged to him, mouth included. She moaned as she sucked, sloppy and eager, spit gliding down her chin, his cock disappearing deeper with every drag of her tongue.

“God, fuck, that’s it,” Rafe hissed, hand tangled in her hair, guiding her with a rhythm that bordered on punishing. “You want it? You wanna taste what you earned, baby?”

She nodded, never breaking eye contact. He was close, the tight coil in his gut snapping as her mouth grew more desperate, her tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing.

“Open wide,” he growled.

She obeyed.

And with a low, choked groan, he came—thick, hot spurts coating her lips, her tongue, her cheek, dripping down her chin.

She blinked up at him with cum glistening on her skin.

Rafe let out a dark laugh. “Damn. My kind of frosting.”

She giggled, licking some off her lip like she was proud of it, smug even.

That was all it took for him to lose his mind all over again.

He grabbed her under the arms and dragged her onto the flour-dusted kitchen floor, flattening her back against the tile. He was already hard again—because of course he was—because Catherine was glowing, messy and wild, and she hadn’t even wiped him off her face.

“You know what you do to me?” he muttered, dragging her thighs apart, slipping between them. “You make me fucking crazy.”

She moaned as he pushed back inside her, the slide hot and obscene, still wet and aching from the first round. She was squirming beneath him, writhing as he fucked her deep and slow.

The cold of the floor made her nipples tighten, but the heat between them was unbearable.

“You’re my good little wife, huh?” he panted, grabbing her jaw. “Letting me make a mess of you in our goddamn kitchen. You like it when I lose control.”

“I love it,” she gasped, legs locking around his waist. “You always fuck me best like this.”

Rafe growled low in his throat, hips snapping faster now, her body sliding slightly over the floor with every thrust. Flour clung to her back, her hair, her skin. Frosting smudged across her shoulder. She looked ruined—gorgeous and wild and exactly how he liked her.

She squirmed under him, back arching, hands pushing against his abs as if it were too much—but pulling him closer at the same time.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“That’s right,” he hissed. “Squirm for me. Cum for me. Make a mess while I fuck you into the damn tile.”

And she did—her whole body locking up, cries echoing off the kitchen walls. He came seconds after her, buried deep again, his moans hot against her neck.

When it was over, they stayed there on the floor—flour, frosting, and all—gasping and ruined.

And somewhere, in the corner, the camera blinked with its little red light.

Still on.

Still recording.

They didn’t stop.

Rafe was still buried deep inside her, thrusting slow and brutal, his mouth at her ear whispering filth—my messy girl, my kitchen whore, can’t ever get enough of me, huh?—when the front door slammed open.

Catherine gasped, eyes flying wide.

And then—

“Mom! I’m home! And starving!”

It was Mason. His voice echoed like a damn siren through the house.

Rafe froze inside her.

Then came more voices. Friends. Boys laughing, arguing about some dumb game. One of them shouted something about slimes and “being OP,” and Rafe wanted to kill them all for existing at this exact moment.

“Shit—” Catherine whispered, shoving at his chest. “Get off—get off!”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Rafe hissed, pulling out of her with a wet sound that made her bite her fist to keep from moaning. He was still rock hard, dripping, and her thighs were coated in slick.

“I’ll handle it,” he muttered, grabbing her wrist and hauling her toward the island. “Hide.”

“What?! Rafe, I can’t—”

“Now.”

She ducked behind the kitchen island, crawling and trying to wipe the flour off her chest with trembling hands. Her hair was a mess. Her thighs were soaked. Her face was still tacky with dried cum.

Rafe, cock still heavy and leaking, yanked the hem of a kitchen towel to clean himself as he stepped behind the island countertop, just enough to hide his lower half if he stayed standing there real still.

The kitchen was a war zone—frosting smears, flour prints, bowls knocked over.

And then—Mason barreled in.

“Hey, Dad. What’re you doing in the kitchen?” the boy blinked.

“Working,” Rafe said flatly, gripping the island like his life depended on it. “What’s it look like?”

Mason squinted. “You’re sweating.”

“I just… lifted a bag of flour. Heavy.”

One of the boys peered in. “Dude, it smells like burnt sugar in here.”

Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Catherine was right there, behind the island, pressed to the floor between his legs, barely clothed.

“Go grab a snack and get outta here,” Rafe muttered. “Your mom’s probably taking a nap.”

“Nah, she’s up. I heard the mixer earlier.”

“Then, she’s probably in the bathroom.”

The boys shrugged, already losing interest, too busy talking about some PvP tournament and a YouTube channel one of them wasn’t allowed to watch.

Mason opened the fridge, grabbed a stick of string cheese, and started heading back out.

That’s when Rafe felt her hand on him again.

He twitched.

His hips jolted.

Catherine had slid her palm right up his thigh and wrapped her fingers around his dick—under the fucking island.

His eyes went wide.

Mason paused. “You good?”

“Peachy,” Rafe ground out. “Go play.”

And when the door shut and the kids’ voices faded upstairs, Rafe looked down at his wife, who was kneeling there like she hadn’t just made him sweat bullets, smiling wickedly.

“You are so dead,” he growled.

Her only answer was to lick a line up his shaft, eyes never leaving his.

And Rafe forgot about string cheese. About flour. About the damn ruined cake.

All he wanted was to fuck her again—this time with her mouth full and the island rattling.

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: catherine’s out back in a tiny sundress, no bra, just sunlight and soil. the toddler turns on the hose, and suddenly she’s soaked—clinging dress, pebbled nipples, and rafe watching from the patio like he’s gonna kill his friend for looking at his wife like that.

Warnings: dirty-jealous-husband Rafe Cameron, P in V, breeding kink, dirty talk, nipple play, possessive praise, sex in the laundry room.

The midday sun poured down over the Cameron estate like a golden syrup, warm and glinting off the hydrangeas Catherine had just planted. She was kneeling in the grass, sundress hiked high on her thighs, red and white like strawberries and cream. That little red headband tugged her hair back just enough to expose her flushed face, a sheen of sweat over her cheekbones. She hadn’t worn that dress in years—not since the days when they used to screw in the back of his truck before Sunday dinners. She looked exactly like his memory of her. Maybe better.

Rafe stood on the patio with his beer in hand, barely pretending to listen to whatever Davis was saying about the new boat engine. His eyes were fixed on her. His wife.

She laughed, light and soft, when their youngest—three-year-old Maisie—grabbed the garden hose and twisted the handle.

A shriek. Cold water exploded across Catherine’s front, plastering that dress to her skin. She froze, and so did Rafe.

No bra. No panties. That much was fucking obvious now.

Her nipples stood out under the soaked cotton, tight and pink like she’d just stepped out of the shower. The curve between her thighs was there too—damn near outlined for anyone with a pair of working eyes.

Rafe didn’t breathe. But Davis did.

“Jesus,” Davis muttered under his breath, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “You sure you don’t got a nanny or somethin’? I’d never let my girl run around like that.”

My girl.

Rafe’s grip on his beer tightened.

“She’s my wife,” Rafe said coolly, eyes not leaving Davis. “Not a fucking show pony.”

Davis just chuckled like he was still twenty-two and dumb, and Rafe had to look away before he did something violent. Catherine was waving at them, still giggling, dress clinging to her thighs as she walked toward the patio. The grass stuck to her knees. Her chest rose and fell, nipples still poking through like she had no idea what she was doing to him.

But she knew. She always knew.

“Gonna grab a towel,” she said, slipping past them, her scent trailing behind her—sun, rose petals, and a little sweat.

Davis watched her walk away. Rafe watched him watch.

That was it.

“Leave,” Rafe said suddenly. Voice low, dangerous.

Davis blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Rafe didn’t wait for a response. He was already walking inside, the screen door slamming behind him.

He found her in the laundry room, towel around her shoulders, still damp, still flushed. She looked up at him with those eyes. The ones that always got him into trouble.

“What’s wrong, baby?” she asked, cocking her head.

“You,” he growled, closing the distance between them in three long strides. “You—dressed like that. Looking at me like that. Letting him—fuck, Catherine.”

Her back hit the washer with a thud. Rafe grabbed the towel, yanked it down, tossed it aside. Then the straps of her dress. Off the shoulders, down her arms, bunched at her waist.

“You wore this dress to ruin me, didn’t you?” His hand trailed down, knuckles grazing her inner thigh. “You remember how I used to fuck you in this thing?”

She gasped when he lifted her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her bare cunt pressed against the bulge in his jeans. Hot. Wet. Needy.

“Tell me,” he demanded, voice rough against her ear. “Tell me you wanted me jealous.”

“I—maybe,” she whispered, eyes wide, lips parted. “You used to get so mean when you were jealous.”

“Still do,” he muttered. “But it’s only ever for you.”

He kissed her hard then, all teeth and tongue and frustration. She moaned into his mouth as he pulled her tighter, grinding her against him until she was panting his name.

“Kids are outside,” she breathed.

“Let ’em play,” Rafe muttered, already unbuckling his jeans. “Daddy’s busy.”

The denim dropped to his thighs, boxers shoved low enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking.

Rafe didn’t waste time. He shoved Catherine’s dress up to her waist, her hips bare, her skin soft and warm in his grip. He let out a sharp breath when he looked down between them and saw her already slick cunt ready for him.

“No panties,” he muttered, voice thick. “Fuck. You knew what you were doing.”

“I just—” she panted, “It’s hot out—”

“Don’t lie,” he growled. “You wore this little slutty sundress with no fucking bra, no panties, let my friend see what’s mine. You like showing off what's mine? Huh?”

She moaned as he dragged the head of his cock through her folds, teasing her entrance but not giving her what she needed yet. Her hips tried to roll forward, desperate.

“Answer me,” he snapped, giving her ass a sharp slap.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Rafe. I like when you get jealous.”

“Goddamn right you do,” he hissed.

Then he slid inside her in one smooth, hard thrust. She gasped, head falling back, the crown of it hitting the laundry shelf. He filled her completely, thick and heavy and home. Her pussy clenched around him like she’d been waiting all fucking day for it.

“Fuck, my wife takes my cock so good,” he groaned, hips already snapping forward. “So warm and wet and perfect for me.”

His hand came up to pull her dress down just far enough to expose her breasts. He groaned at the sight—still soft from the kids, sensitive, her nipples tight and aching. He bent his head and sucked one into his mouth, rough and messy.

She cried out, nails dragging down his back. “Rafe, oh my God—”

“You know how crazy this drives me,” he muttered into her skin, sucking her nipple deep, then switching to the other. “You running around braless, pussy bare under your dresses. You want me to fuck a baby into you in every room of this damn house?”

Her breath caught. “Yes.”

“Yeah? Gonna keep you pregnant, barefoot in the garden, dress all dirty and wet while you carry our fifth baby?”

Her cunt clenched around him at that, drawing a guttural moan from his chest.

“That’s my good wife,” he praised, fucking her deeper, harder. “Takes care of our babies, wears slutty little dresses, and still needs my cock every fucking day.”

Her back arched, one arm wrapping around his neck, the other fisting his hair.

“Say it,” he growled, teeth gritted. “Say you’re my wife. Say you want me to fill you up.”

“I’m your wife,” she cried, voice wrecked. “I want it, Rafe—want you to come inside me. Want your cum so deep I taste it in my throat.”

That broke something in him.

He fucked her into the washer, the rhythm punishing, hips snapping with purpose. One hand gripping her hip, the other twisted in the back of her hair, controlling the angle, baring her throat for him to mark up.

“Mine,” he growled. “My wife, my pussy, my babies—mine.”

“Yours,” she sobbed, eyes rolling back, body trembling.

Her orgasm hit her hard—tight, wet, pulsing around him. Her whole body shook, and Rafe bit down on her neck as he let go, fucking her through it while he spilled inside her, thick ropes of cum filling her up until it leaked down her thighs.

They stayed like that—his cock still buried in her, their skin sticking together with sweat, her nipples still pebbled against his chest.

“I fucking love when you don’t wear underwear,” he murmured, brushing her hair off her face, kissing her softly now. “You make it so hard to be civilized, baby.”

She laughed weakly, voice hoarse. “You never were civilized, Mr. Cameron.”

He grinned.

“You married me anyway.”

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: After summer break, Lola returned to the Kook Academy with a swollen belly, with no other than the golden boy's, Rafe Cameron, locker engraved with the words - daddy cameron.

☆ Chapter 2: throat goat ☆

Lola stepped out of the marble-tiled bathroom at the latest Kook party, her lipstick smudged, her mascara still intact, and that signature smirk painted across her face like war paint.

She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, casual, unapologetic. Like she hadn't just blown a Kook boy whose name she hadn't even bothered to ask.

Two seconds later, he came out—buttoning his jeans, red-faced, and grinning like he'd just won the fucking lottery.

It didn't take a genius to connect the dots.

Not when the music dipped and heads turned. Not when girls rolled their eyes and boys elbowed each other. Not when whispers started again, venomous and loud enough to sting.

"Jesus. She's at it again."

"Girl's got a PhD in mouth-to-dick resuscitation."

"Is that number four this month? Or five?"

And just like that, the name they gave her stuck to the walls like smoke: Lola the Throat Goat.

Crude. Disrespectful. Inevitable.

It echoed in the crowd like a chant. Some said it in admiration, most in judgment. But Lola didn't flinch.

She grabbed a red Solo cup off the nearest table and downed the rest of it like it was water. Like she needed to wash the taste of shame out of her mouth before it even had the chance to settle.

A girl in a glittery mini dress sneered as she passed. "You're not even trying to pretend you have dignity, huh?"

Lola licked her lips. "What's dignity taste like? 'Cause I'm sure it doesn't come in a can of White Claw."

Laughter. A few gasps. One guy clapped.

But her smirk wavered for half a second. Because underneath all that bite and bravado—she did feel it.

The weight of it. The ache of being the punchline. The humiliation that didn't leave, even when the high did.

And from across the yard, standing by the pool with a beer in his hand and Katie hanging off his arm, Rafe Cameron watched her.

Not with lust.

Not even with hate.

But with something uglier.

Regret.

And Lola?

She noticed.

She always did.

Because Lola knew Rafe better than anyone.

Better than Katie, with her bleached teeth and designer tantrums.

Better than Sarah, who always acted like Rafe was just a brother in a Vineyard Vines ad.

Lola knew the real Rafe Cameron.

The one who knocked on her window at 2 a.m. reeking of whiskey and entitlement.

The one who cried into her neck after his dad backhanded him for denting the Range Rover.

The one who whispered don't tell anyone I'm like this before fucking her like the world was ending.

She knew the rage behind his eyes before it even showed.

She knew the way his voice dropped when he was lying.

She knew that twitch in his jaw when he was jealous—even if he'd never admit he could be jealous of a Pogue.

Because before the rumors and the baby bump and the graffiti on the locker, Rafe Cameron belonged to her.

Not in public. Never in public.

But in the dark? In the secret hours of the night, when the rest of the island was asleep and he needed someone—really needed someone— he came to Lola.

And now?

Now he couldn't even look at her.

Now he stood by the pool with a girl who wore his name like a status symbol while pretending he hadn't once begged Lola to keep theirs a secret.

Too late for that now.

Because secrets don't stay buried when they grow inside you.

Not a second later, her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

She fished it out, still standing in the middle of the chaos—half-drunk Kooks, pounding music, judgmental stares—and stared at the screen.

RAFE CAMERON: We need to talk.

Her lips curled into something between a laugh and a scoff.

Of course he texted her. Of course.

Not when she told him she was pregnant. Not when the test came back positive. Not when she sat on the edge of her bed at 3 a.m., debating whether to keep the baby or throw herself down the stairs.

But now?

Now that his locker had been branded and the whole damn school was chanting Daddy Cameron?

Now he wanted to talk.

She stared at the text for a moment too long, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Lola: What's there to talk about?

Lola: You already said you'd never touch a Pogue, remember?

Delivered.

Read.

Typing...

Typing...

Then nothing.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and crushed the can in her hand.

If Rafe wanted to talk, he'd have to do it face-to-face.

Lola leaned against the dresser, the bass from the party downstairs rattling the floor beneath her heels. Her cheeks were flushed, but not from the booze—she hadn't even tasted her drink before some drunk asshole with a man bun and a Patagonia jacket found her. Not that she was supposed to drink pregnant.

But he was cute in that sleazy, frat-boy way.

"Goddamn," he said, eyes dragging over her like she was a fetish on display. "You're gonna make one hot milf."

Lola blinked. Slowly. "Wow. Is that supposed to be charming or are you just drunk?"

He grinned. "Both, maybe. I've always wanted to fuck a pregnant girl. Didn't know I'd get the chance tonight."

Before she could tell him to go fuck himself, he took her hand and started guiding her toward the stairs. She didn't resist. Not yet. There was something about the danger that felt familiar. Warm. Numb.

He pushed open the guest bedroom door and shut it behind them. She leaned against the wall, the shadows swallowing her figure, the curve of her belly sharp in the low light.

"You're seriously hot, you know that?" he murmured, fingers already at the hem of her dress. "Bet that baby daddy's kicking himself right now."

She tilted her head. "He might be."

Just as he reached for her waist, the door slammed open.

"Get the fuck out," Rafe barked, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

The guy jumped back like he'd been caught jerking off in church. "Jesus, bro—chill."

"I said get the fuck out," Rafe repeated, eyes wild.

The guy held up his hands, muttering something about not knowing she was taken and slipped past him with his dick still hard and his ego shattered.

Lola rolled her eyes and reached for the half-empty White Claw on the nightstand. "Didn't know you were my bodyguard now."

Before the can hit her lips, Rafe was there—grabbing it from her hand.

"You're not supposed to be drinking," he snapped.

She yanked her arm back. "Too bad you're a little late playing the bodyguard," she snickered bitterly. "The damage is done, Romeo."

"C'mon, give me that," he said, trying to wrestle it from her again. "I don't want that baby coming out fucked up just because you're a raging alcoholic."

She let out a low, mean laugh. "Raging alcoholic? That's new." Her eyes glittered as she leaned in closer, voice dripping with venom. "Remember when you had me underage drinking before you got me underage pregnant?"

Silence.

The kind that burns.

The kind that reminds you both exactly where it all went wrong.

"It's not even mine," Rafe argued, voice sharp and defensive.

Lola raised her brows. "Oh, really?"

"C'mon," he scoffed, eyes darting away. "We both know we were seeing other people and—"

"—And you were the only one that wanted to hit it raw 'cause it felt better," she cut him off, voice low and pointed.

Rafe's jaw clenched.

"It's not mine, Leanore," he said, her full name slicing through the tension like a blade.

Lola froze.

Her throat tightened. Only her mother called her that when she was being punished. Hearing it from him made her stomach twist.

She swallowed hard. "Then give me the drink and fuck off," she snapped, stepping forward to snatch the White Claw from his grip.

Rafe didn't move. His eyes met hers, burning, unreadable. And for one stupid second, he almost smiled—a reflex, some dumb memory flickering in the back of his mind of the times they used to laugh, fuck, and whisper in the dark like the world wasn't ending around them.

"You should've gotten rid of it," he muttered, low, cruel. "If you're gonna drink your way to a fucking alien-looking baby."

Lola's expression didn't break.

But her voice did.

"News flash," she said, her smirk cracking at the edges, "abortion is expensive, asshole."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was screaming.

And neither of them moved.

"You should've saved up some of that cash you got around then, huh?" Rafe said, mouth curled into that smug, twisted grin he wore when he wanted to be hated.

The words hit her like a slap before she could deliver one.

Her hand flew up without thinking—pure fury, pure instinct—but he caught it mid-air.

Fast. Tight. Fingers clamped around her wrist like a vice.

Her chest heaved. His grip was firm but not brutal. Not yet.

"Let go of me," she hissed.

Rafe's jaw ticked, eyes narrowing. "You were gonna hit me?"

"I should hit you," she snapped, voice shaking. "I should've hit you the night you ghosted me after knocking me up."

《 》

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: After summer break, Lola returned to the Kook Academy with a swollen belly, with no other than the golden boy's, Rafe Cameron, locker engraved with the words - daddy cameron.

☆ Chapter 1 : welcome back, slut ☆

"Oh my god," were the first words that fell out of Katie Johnson's glossy lips, loud enough to echo down the freshly waxed hallway of Kildare High.

Every locker slam, every conversation, every step came to a halt.

Because she had walked in.

She wasn't hiding. She wasn't crying. She wasn't covering up her body like they all expected her to.

No.

She walked down the main hallway of the school with her shoulders back, her chin lifted, her hand resting on the top of a stomach so round it looked like it could burst if someone stared hard enough.

She was glowing—but not in the cute, I just got back from Cancun way. No. She was glowing in the I've been to hell and came back with stretch marks way. And she wore it like a crown.

Katie blinked, then scoffed. "She really is a whore," she muttered, then gave a dry, amused chuckle—just loud enough for Rafe Cameron, her golden-boy boyfriend, and everyone else crowded around the lockers to hear.

Heads snapped toward Lola. A sea of judgmental stares followed her every step. Girls whispered behind binders. Boys gawked like they were watching a car crash they couldn't look away from. Someone took out their phone.

But Lola didn't stop walking.

Her boots clapped against the tile like gunshots. Her curls were wild, her eyeliner sharp. And as she passed Katie and Rafe, her eyes locked on his for just one second too long.

That was all it took.

Katie saw it. The flicker. The guilt in Rafe's eyes.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Katie's smile vanished. Her grip on his arm tightened. "You know something I don't?" she asked sweetly, her voice dripping with venom.

Rafe blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, what?" Katie repeated, louder this time, narrowing her eyes at her golden boy like he'd just stepped out of a crime scene. "Why did the bitch that apparently doesn't know how to use a condom looked at my boyfriend like that?"

The hall held its breath.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair. The same hand that, just months ago, had been tangled in Lola Monroe's bedsheets.

"I don't know," he said too fast.

Katie scoffed. "Oh, you don't know?" Her voice was rising, sharp and slicing. "Because that bitch didn't just look at you. She stared like she knew something. Like she's carrying a secret that weighs about—what? Seven pounds now?"

The group around them murmured. Someone whispered, "Shit's about to go down."

Rafe tried to play it cool, but his jaw clenched, and his hand dropped from her arm. "Can you not do this here?"

Katie stepped back like he slapped her.

"Oh my god." Her laugh was bitter, manic. "Oh my fucking god. You did something with her, didn't you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "You're the baby daddy."

He didn't say a word.

Didn't deny it.

Didn't even flinch.

And that silence?

That was the gunshot that set the whole school on fire.

This was all it needed.

Just one look. One stare too long. One second of silence.

That was enough for the rumor to explode like wildfire.

Rafe Cameron doesn't know how to keep a condom on.

It started at the lockers, slipped out of Katie's mouth like venom-coated candy. It dripped off the lips of cheerleaders, got passed through football players like a damn baton. By third period, the entire school was whispering it between classes like it was a secret recipe for chaos.

"Did you hear?"

"Lola's baby might be his."

"I heard he didn't even pull out."

"No, apparently the condom broke. Or he lied about wearing one."

By lunch, someone carved DADDY CAMERON into his locker.

Rafe, Kelce and Topper stood in front of the vandalized locker, the letters were carved deep into the metal, sharp and unforgiving like a scar that wouldn't heal.

Topper burst out laughing first.

"Holy shit," he wheezed, slapping Rafe's shoulder. "They got you good, man. Daddy Cameron? That's kinky."

Rafe clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists by his sides. His cheeks were burning—not from the heat, but from the way the entire hallway was looking at him. Whispering. Smirking. Recording.

"I'm gonna find out who did this," he muttered.

Kelce grinned like it was all a game. "You better start handing out cigars at this rate, bro."

Topper snorted, then leaned in closer, dropping his voice as the laughter faded. "But seriously, though..."

Rafe tensed.

"You did bang her, didn't you?"

Kelce's grin disappeared. "Come on, dude. You can tell us."

Rafe turned slowly, eyes cold. "I would never touch a Pogue."

His voice dripped with disgust like the word was poison in his mouth. Like Lola Monroe was a disease he couldn't believe people thought he caught.

Topper raised a brow. "Then what the hell was that look she gave you?"

"I don't fucking know," Rafe snapped. "But I'm not the goddamn baby daddy. That girl's been passed around more than a vape at a party."

The bell rang. Kids shuffled past them, still whispering. Still staring.

Rafe shoved his locker shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

But deep down—under the anger, under the arrogance—was a flicker of something he couldn't shake.

A memory.

A mistake.

A night he swore he'd forget.

And Lola, walking through those halls like she had nothing to hide.

》

[bbywhitefox123]

description: Essex in an ER nurse and Richard Madden needs his wound stitched.

warnings: cheating

Essex leaned against the marble bar, the hard, smooth surface cold against her bare arms, and let the thumping bass of the nightclub drown out the roar of her thoughts. All around her, bodies moved to the pulse of the music, but she couldn't shake the gnawing memory clawing its way to the surface.

She'd dragged her tired ass home that morning, practically dragging her feet, dead on her feet from a double shift that left her hollow inside. That little girl...fuck, she hadn't even been five years old. Essex had stood there, helpless as the flatline echoed through the sterile room. And now she just wanted one thing - Andrew. She needed him to hold her, to tell her everything would be okay, to breathe some goddamn life back into her.

But when she walked into their bedroom, the bed was empty. Sheets twisted in a mess of sweaty fabric, undone, like he'd just rolled out of it. The fuck? It was seven in the goddamn morning - Andrew never got up this early unless he was dragged by the hair.

She heard the shower running from their en suite. A bitter smile tugged at her lips. "You, showering this early? Fuck me, maybe the world is ending," she called out as she leaned against the doorframe.

But there was no answer. And then, she heard it-Andrew's voice.

From behind her.

Essex had spun around so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. There he was, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, holding a tray with breakfast. A smug grin plastered on his face like he hadn't just ripped the fucking floor from under her.

Her breath hitched as she whipped back to the bathroom. And that's when she saw her - a woman, dripping wet, stepping out of the shower like she fucking belonged there. Her face flushed, her dark hair stuck to her shoulders like some goddamn soft-core porno star. Her hair smelling of Essex’s new vanilla shampoo, and Essex’s soft towel wrapped around her lean body.

"You sick fuck," Essex hissed. The fury ripped through her, white hot. She barely remembered crossing the room, barely felt the sting of hot coffee splashing over her hand as she hurled the tray of breakfast straight at Andrew's chest.

Andrew had stammered out something, trying to backtrack, to gaslight her, as if there wasn't a naked woman right behind her, scrambling to cover herself with the towel. "Babe, it's not what it looks like—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Essex screamed. Her voice had been raw, brutal. She'd snapped. Chasing him around the house like a goddamn lunatic, plates smashing, her anger tearing through every fucking inch of her. The woman had tried to sneak out - god, the nerve of her. Essex had grabbed her by the hair and dragged her sorry ass out the front door, naked as the day she was born. She didn't give a shit who saw.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored walls of the nightclub now, her eyes hard, lips pulled tight in a sneer. No wonder Liam had told her not to come tonight. She'd debated it herself. Staying away would've been smarter - less messy. She wasn't sure what the fuck she was doing here anyway.

But she was here now, and there was no turning back.

She caught the eye of the bouncer guarding the entrance to the VIP section. The guy looked her up and down like she was another drunk chick trying to sneak her way in. Her lips twitched.

"I'm with Liam Keller," she said, her voice biting and sharp, daring him to challenge her. The bouncer's demeanor changed immediately, stepping aside with a nod.

As Essex walked past, she forced herself to think about anything other than that night. But it didn't work. She could still feel the rage simmering under her skin. Still taste the satisfaction of that door slamming shut behind the naked woman she'd thrown out like yesterday's trash.

She shook off the memory as she entered the dimly lit VIP lounge. Screw Andrew. Screw everything that had led her here. Tonight was for Liam. Maybe not the smartest choice, but fuck it. She wasn't here to make good decisions anymore.

Essex squared her shoulders as she entered the VIP section, the lights softer here but still pulsing with that nightclub energy that made everything feel charged. She spotted Liam near the back, surrounded by a cluster of people, his face bright with that easy, carefree grin he always wore. He looked good — better than good, actually, and for a second, she wondered why she'd even considered skipping this night.

She strutted over, her heels clicking on the floor, and as soon as Liam spotted her, his face lit up even more.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he said, opening his arms wide.

Essex smirked and rolled her eyes as she closed the distance between them. "Couldn't miss the chance to see you freak out about turning ancient," she teased, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "How's it feel, old man?"

"Ancient? I'm in my prime, baby." Liam laughed, his arm sliding around her waist for a half-second before he released her. "Thanks for coming, Essex. Thought you might ghost."

She shrugged, her eyes scanning the crowd around him. "I thought about it."

He smirked, but before he could respond, a familiar face caught her attention. Her old friends—people she'd left behind when she'd cut Andrew out of her life. They saw her too, a moment of surprise flashing across their faces before warm smiles replaced it.

"Essex! Oh my god, is that you?" one of them squealed, rushing toward her. It was Zara—God, she hadn't seen her in ages. They'd been close once, but after things went to shit with Andrew, Essex had disappeared without a word.

"Hey, Zara," Essex said, forcing a grin as she hugged her. The others followed, all chattering and throwing arms around her like nothing had changed.

"You've been a ghost!" Zara accused, half-laughing, half-pouting. "We missed you. You just...vanished."

Essex gave a noncommittal shrug, her lips twitching into a forced smile. "Yeah, well...life's a bitch." She gave them a pointed look. "You know how it goes."

They nodded, sympathy in their eyes, but the small talk buzzed on, and Essex let herself fall into it for a few moments. It was easier to pretend, to act like everything was fine, than to face the mess of emotions brewing beneath her skin.

But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him—Andrew. That familiar swagger in his step, that smarmy fucking grin on his face as he approached. He opened his arms wide as if expecting a hug, his eyes gleaming like he still had some kind of hold on her. Like she would just fall back into him, forget everything that had happened.

"Essex," he said, all too cheerfully, stepping closer. "You look—"

She didn't even let him finish. Without missing a beat, Essex brushed right past him, her shoulder deliberately bumping into his chest as she made a beeline for the bar. She heard his footsteps falter behind her, could feel his confusion lingering in the air, but she didn't care. Fuck him. He wasn't worth the breath it would take to acknowledge him.

The bartender gave her a knowing look as she leaned against the counter. "Vodka. Double," she snapped. She needed to drown everything in her head—the memories, the regret, the anger. She couldn't do this sober. Not with him here, not with everything inside her screaming to explode again.

The glass appeared in front of her, and she didn't waste a second before throwing back the first shot, the burn sliding down her throat like an old, familiar friend. It wasn't enough, though. She needed more.

Another drink appeared, and this time she sipped slower, letting the alcohol seep into her bloodstream, trying to take the edge off. She could feel her old friends watching her from a distance, whispering among themselves, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between her and Andrew. She could feel Andrew, too, lurking nearby like some fucking vulture, just waiting for his chance to pounce.

She didn't give a shit. She was here for Liam, for a night of drowning out everything in her mind, not to play nice with her ex.

She downed the second drink, ignoring the voice in the back of her head telling her she had work tomorrow. She didn't give a fuck about that either.

Essex could feel the vodka hitting her bloodstream, dulling her edges, and pulling her deeper into the swirling madness of the nightclub. After downing two more drinks, she found herself pulled onto the dance floor, bodies grinding, the music pounding too loud to think straight. She wasn't even sure how it had happened - one second she was at the bar, the next she was pressed up against Liam's chest, his hands roaming a little too freely down her back, tugging her closer than she wanted to be.

Her arms were loose around his neck, and her body moved on autopilot. But her mind...her mind was fucking screaming. The longer she stayed here, the more the haze in her brain cleared, the more she saw just how screwed up this entire scene really was.

Zara, with that plastic smile plastered across her face, had waved her over earlier, all bubbly and fake as fuck. But Essex had caught the way Zara leaned into another friend's ear when she thought Essex wasn't looking, whispering something that had them both giggling like fucking teenagers. Something about how Essex had "disappeared" because she couldn't handle Andrew's wandering dick.

Essex clenched her teeth as she pushed harder against Liam, using the rhythm of the music to drown out her fury. Zara wasn't worth it. Not tonight.

But it got worse. Every time she glanced over at Andrew, there he was, laughing with some girl who was giggling way too fucking much at whatever dumb shit he was saying. His hand was on her thigh now, edging higher, and Essex felt a surge of bile rise in her throat. She had once been that girl. She had once been the one laughing at his shitty jokes, thinking she was special. She was sick of it, sick of all of them.

Liam's hands slid lower, brushing the curve of her ass, and she shoved him back instinctively, just enough to send the message.

He gave her a cocky grin. "What's the matter, babe? Thought you liked a bit of fun." His fingers brushed the waistband of her skirt again, trying to reel her back in.

She narrowed her eyes, her voice sharp. "Keep your hands where they fucking belong, Liam."

He laughed, but his hands didn't move for a second. "Relax, Essex. You're just wound up. Come on...we can pick up where we left off." He leaned in close, his breath hot against her neck. "You know you missed me."

Essex shoved him harder this time, breaking free of his grasp. "I didn't miss shit," she snapped. "Keep dreaming, though."

She turned away from him, her eyes scanning the crowd. She felt trapped - by the sweat, the bodies, the bullshit games everyone was playing. It was like she'd fallen back into a cesspool of all the reasons she'd walked away. Zara, gossiping behind her back. Andrew, still a snake, flirting with anything that had legs. And Liam, always thinking he could fuck his way into her life like nothing had changed.

The realization slammed into her like a punch to the gut - this was why she'd cut all these people off. This was why she'd distanced herself. They were toxic, selfish, and nothing had changed. If anything, they were worse now.

She needed out. Fast.

Essex made a beeline for the edge of the dance floor, weaving through the grinding bodies and flashing lights, barely muttering apologies when she bumped into someone. She needed air. Space. Fuck, she needed a fucking cigarette or a stiff drink - or both.

As she reached the exit to the VIP section, she heard Andrew's voice behind her. "Essex, wait—"

She didn't wait. She didn't even slow down. She didn't have the energy for his bullshit tonight, not when everything inside her was screaming for an escape.

But Andrew, stubborn as ever, caught up with her. "Hey, I'm talking to you," he said, grabbing her arm, a sliver of anger in his voice now. "What the hell's going on? You've been weird all night."

Essex yanked her arm free, spinning to face him. Her blood was boiling, and she was done holding back. "What's going on?" she spat. "Are you fucking serious? Look around, Andrew. You're still the same goddamn asshole you were when I left. Flirting with anything that moves. Acting like you're the king of this fucked-up little group."

Andrew's smirk faded, his brow furrowing. "Come on, don't be like that. You know how it is. It's just-"

"No, Andrew. I know exactly how it is,"

Essex cut him off. "That's the problem. I fucking know you. I know all of you. And I'm not playing this game again." She took a step back, her eyes blazing with anger. "So fuck you. Fuck Liam. Fuck Zara. I'm done."

Andrew opened his mouth to say something, but Essex didn't care. She turned on her heel and stormed toward the bar again. She needed to get drunk. Like, really fucking drunk. More than she already was. Because if she stayed sober, she knew she'd end up making some fucked-up decisions - decisions she might not be able to take back.

And right now? She didn't give a single fuck.

And she drank for that. She drank for not giving a single fuck. She drank so much that her throat was still burning even when she went outside the ridiculously priced nightclub. The cold London air did nothing to sober Essex up. She sat on the grimy pavement, legs sprawled out in front of her, a bottle in hand, laughing bitterly at the mess of her life. Her throat burned from all the vodka, and tears stung her eyes as memories surged—Andrew, that cheating prick, Liam, the disloyal bastard. All of it hit her like a punch to the gut, and the absurdity of it all made her laugh again, wild and broken.

Her laughter abruptly stopped when she heard a rich, familiar voice cut through the night.

"If it isn't Essex from London," Richard Madden drawled, his voice teasing but holding that touch of curiosity she remembered all too well.

Essex blinked and looked up, and there he was, standing over her with that cocky grin on his stupidly handsome face. She smirked through the haze of her drunkenness. "If it isn't Richard Madden from the ER," she shot back, her words slurring just a little.

Richard let out a low laugh, his eyes running over her with that irritating charm that always seemed to disarm people. His brows furrowed as he noticed her smudged makeup, her red, swollen upper lip like she'd been biting it raw to stop herself from crying. She didn't say anything about it. Why the hell should she? She didn't owe him an explanation.

"What's this, then?" Richard tilted his head, his smile fading as concern crept into his eyes. "Are you following me around, Essex?"

Essex barked a laugh, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it. "That's the cops' job," she fired back, waving her bottle lazily in the air. "I believe you still haven't given them a statement."

Richard grinned wider, stepping closer. "Or maybe you're just a fangirl," he teased, his voice dropping lower as he looked at her, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You can admit it. Don't be ashamed."

Essex snorted, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please," she groaned, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sign my tit! Have my babies!" She made a dramatic gesture of grabbing her chest, shoving it forward with a drunken grin. "Is that enough for you to leave me alone?"

Richard's laughter was deep and real this time, his shoulders shaking. He crouched down in front of her, his face inches away, eyes glinting with mischief. "You're absolutely mental," he said, shaking his head. But his gaze lingered on her lips, noticing how red they were. Essex could feel his eyes on her like a heatwave, and despite the night's cold air, her skin tingled.

"Don't flatter yourself," she shot back, but her voice wavered slightly. She swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close he was. His presence was overwhelming, the scent of his cologne filling her senses, mixing with the alcohol already buzzing through her veins.

Richard's eyes flicked down to her lips again, and she bit her swollen lip harder, trying to control herself. It was like he could see right through her, through the bravado and the sarcasm, and that pissed her off, made her want to push him away and pull him closer all at the same time.

"Sign your tit, huh?" Richard said, smirking as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "Don't tempt me, love."

Essex scoffed, trying to laugh it off, but her heart hammered in her chest, her body betraying her. She shoved him back lightly, forcing some distance between them, trying to regain her composure. "Don't get any ideas," she said, her voice steadier this time. "You're not that special."

But the heat between them was undeniable, and as she stared into his eyes, she could feel the pull. Richard wasn't moving away either, his gaze fixed on hers, and for a split second, everything else fell away—the shitty night, the memories of Andrew, Liam, all the bullshit.

It was just him. And her. And the charged air between them.

"Come on, Essex," Richard murmured, his voice low and teasing, but with an edge of something darker, something real. "You've had a rough night. Maybe what you need is a distraction."

Essex arched a brow, her lips quirking up into a smirk. "And you think you're that distraction, do you?"

Richard's eyes sparkled with a challenge, his lips curling into a confident grin. "I'm a damn good one."

Essex laughed at that, loud and genuine, pushing him back again with a bit more force this time. "You wish, Madden," she said, her voice a little steadier now, though her heart was still racing. She stood up on wobbly legs, brushing herself off, and gave him a pointed look. "Not tonight."

Richard stood up beside her, watching her carefully, but there was no disappointment in his eyes—just that same amusement, like he was enjoying the game they were playing. "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug, though his grin told her this wasn't the end of it. Not by a long shot.

As Essex turned to walk away, she could still feel his eyes on her, burning into her back. The night wasn't over yet, and something told her that this encounter with Richard wasn't either.

But right now, all she needed was to put one foot in front of the other and get the hell out of here before she did something stupid. Something she couldn't take back.

Not tonight.

Essex staggered back into the club, the loud thrum of the music immediately hitting her like a wall. She should've called a cab, gone home, curled up in bed, and tried to get at least a few hours of sleep before her morning shift. But the idea of facing her empty apartment right now felt worse than staying in this chaotic mess of a night.

She wobbled up to the bar and dropped the half-empty bottle of vodka onto the counter with a clink. The bartender—an attractive guy with an easy smile—raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'm returning this," she said, voice slightly slurred. "You know, like in Lidl or Aldi with the beer bottles? Do I get a discount?"

The bartender chuckled, shaking his head. "I wasn't supposed to give you that bottle in the first place," he said, his tone playful.

"Well, you did," Essex said, smiling back at him. "So, now I want my refund."

He leaned in a little, still grinning. "I can't give you a refund, but how about another drink on the house?"

Essex laughed, her mood lifting just slightly. "Fine," she said, shrugging. "But make it strong."

The bartender winked and slid a cocktail her way, something fruity with a lot of alcohol. She grabbed the glass and took a long sip, savoring the burn as it went down.

"You come here often?" the bartender asked, his tone flirty now.

"Only when I'm not busy saving lives," Essex replied, deadpan. She didn't have the energy for anything more tonight, not even banter.

Still, the drink did its job. Essex slid off the barstool, tossing a quick "Thanks" over her shoulder, and made her way back to the dancefloor.

The pulsing lights and the beat of the music felt like a reprieve from her thoughts. The drink in her hand, she let herself melt into the crowd, the bodies pressing in on all sides, the bass thudding through her chest. Dancing seemed easier than thinking, easier than feeling. She closed her eyes and let the rhythm take over, losing herself in the noise, in the haze of alcohol and sweat and bodies moving around her.

She didn't care that she had work tomorrow. She didn't care about the shitty night she'd had or the hangover she'd regret in the morning. Right now, all that mattered was the music, the heat, and the oblivion she was chasing one drink at a time.

Essex's head was swimming, but the club was pulling her deeper into its wild, intoxicating embrace. The guy she had been dancing with - some tall, well-dressed bloke with a sharp jawline and a grin that promised trouble - had leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "Come with me."

She didn't hesitate, not in the state she was in. One drink had turned into five, and her judgment was more than a little clouded. She let him guide her through the crowd, their bodies brushing as they moved, and she found herself stumbling into a VIP lounge she hadn't noticed earlier. This place was far more upscale than the area Liam had rented for his birthday. Velvet ropes, leather seats, a few private booths tucked into the back. It screamed luxury. And money. A lot of it.

Essex leaned in closer to the guy, smirking. "So, what do you do again?" she asked, her voice a little playful, a little slurred.

He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that vibrated through her bones. "I'm a director," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"A director, huh?" Essex repeated, half mocking, half intrigued. "Of what? Porn?"

He chuckled again, clearly enjoying her cheekiness. "Nah, love. Movies. But who knows, maybe one day."

Essex rolled her eyes, though she smiled back at him. He led her to a booth in the far back, the plush seats sinking under them as they sat down.

<- Chapter 2 Chapter 4->

[bbywhitefox123]

description: Essex in an ER nurse and Richard Madden needs his wound stitched.

Essex kicked off her shoes as she stepped through the front door, the weariness of another long night shift weighing heavily on her shoulders. She dropped her bags of Indian food onto the kitchen counter, the savory scent of curry wafting through the air and making her stomach growl. All she wanted was to sit down, shove some food in her face, and forget about the craziness of the last week - namely, the unexpected run-in with Richard Madden.

"Essie, come see this!" her grandmother called from the living room, her voice a mix of excitement and warmth.

Essex sighed, her heart sinking slightly. "What is it, Gran?" she called back, already guessing.

"Richard Madden is on the Graham Norton Show!"

Great. Just what she needed. Essex had hoped to avoid any reminders of that bizarre encounter, but here was her grandmother, thrilled and raving about the latest celebrity gossip, as if Richard were a long-lost family member.

"Yeah, I'll be right there," Essex replied, washing her hands in the kitchen sink. She scrubbed away the remnants of the hospital - antiseptic and the faintest trace of someone's blood - before drying her hands on a towel.

With a resigned huff, she made her way to the living room, Indian food in hand. As she rounded the corner, she caught the tail end of Richard's story, his smooth voice filling the room, charming and full of that signature British wit.

"...and then I realized the gun wasn't a prop at all!" he said, leaning back in his chair, a playful glint in his eye. "Turns out, I shot myself with a decorative gun that was meant to be on display. I thought I was gonna die from embarrassment more than the actual injury!"

Essex rolled her eyes, dropping the food onto the table with a bit more force than necessary. "Great. Just great," she muttered, earning a curious glance from her grandmother.

"What's wrong, Essie? You don't like him, do you?" her grandmother asked, beaming. She loved to watch the latest celebrity interviews, and Richard was one of her favorites.

"Yeah, well, I had the pleasure of stitching him up last week," Essex replied, crossing her arms. "He's just another overgrown man-child who thinks he can do whatever he wants because he's famous."

Her grandmother laughed, clearly amused. "Oh, come on! He's just telling a funny story. Look how he's making everyone laugh!"

Essex plopped down on the couch, trying to suppress her irritation while pouring herself a glass of water. She could feel Richard's charisma seeping through the screen, and she hated that it annoyed her more than it should have.

"I don't care how charming he is; he still ran off like a scared rabbit," she muttered, her eyes glued to the screen.

Richard continued to regale the audience with exaggerated gestures, the audience erupting with laughter at his every word. "And that nurse, she was a real lifesaver!" Richard said, grinning widely. "Honestly, I owe my career to her. She's the real star of the show."

Essex nearly choked on her water. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Really? Is he really doing this?"

Her grandmother shot her a look. "What? You didn't want him to say something nice about you?"

"Nice?" Essex scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "More like he's turning it into a pity party. He could've just owned up to being a moron."

Richard went on, clearly enjoying the attention, but Essex couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of annoyance mixed with something else - a begrudging respect, perhaps. She had done her job, but hearing him talk about her like she was some sort of heroine was both infuriating and a little flattering.

"Essie, he's really funny! And cute!" her grandmother chimed in, her eyes sparkling. "You should try to find him on social media or something."

Essex only stared at her grandmother for a mere second. There was something about old people and the internet - they thought they could reach anyone who had Wi-Fi.

Her grandmother sighed, glancing back at the TV. "Well, I think he's charming. And so humble, considering the situation."

Essex rolled her eyes again, but she couldn't completely dismiss the charm. As much as she wanted to, she was still curious about how he was handling this newfound fame from that ridiculous incident.

"Whatever," Essex muttered, getting up to grab the takeout containers. "Let's just eat before it gets cold."

As she dished out the food, she couldn't help but listen in as Richard wrapped up his story. "And I just want to say a massive thank you to Essex from London - if you're watching, you're a legend!"

Essex dropped the ladle, splattering a bit of curry on the counter. "Son of a bitch," she muttered, a mix of embarrassment and irritation flooding her.

"See? He's talking about you!" her grandmother said, laughing. "You really are a celebrity now, Essie!"

"Great. Just what I wanted," Essex replied, trying to mask the flush creeping into her cheeks. "Now let's eat before I change my mind and end up throwing the food at the TV."

"Too late!" her grandmother teased, her eyes glued to Richard's charming smile, completely oblivious to Essex's rising annoyance.

As Essex sat down with her food, she couldn't shake off the ridiculousness of it all. A week ago, she was stitching up Richard Madden in the ER, and now she was watching him charm his way through a talk show, all while her grandmother gushed over him like he was the second coming.

"Fucking celebrities," she muttered, though the smirk on her face betrayed her true feelings.

Essex was finally starting to relax, enjoying the spicy, fragrant food after the insanity of the past week, when her grandmother turned to her with a playful glint in her eye.

"By the way, Essie, your mother called earlier," she said, leaning back in her chair with a smug expression. "She wants to know when you're planning on visiting her in New York."

Essex groaned internally, stirring her curry with a bit more force than necessary. "Yeah, I'm busy," she mumbled, avoiding eye contact. She hated the pressure of her mother's expectations, especially when it came to family visits.

"Busy? Busy doing what? Working yourself into the ground at that hospital?" her grandmother pressed, her tone teasing but insistent. "You haven't seen her in months! She'd love to have you."

Essex took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. "Gran, I said I'm busy," she reiterated, her irritation rising. "And besides, I don't need a lecture about family. I'm a grown-ass woman."

Her grandmother raised her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I get it. But you know how your mother can be. You don't want her worrying about you, do you?"

Before Essex could respond with another snarky remark, there was a sharp knock at the door. Thank God, she thought. A timely distraction from this conversation that was going nowhere.

"Hold on," she said, pushing herself up from the table. She walked to the door, half-excited to see who it might be. Maybe it was a neighbor with some hot gossip or a friend stopping by unannounced. But when she pulled the door open, her heart sank.

Standing there was Andrew, her ex-boyfriend. The sight of him brought a flood of memories, all tinged with frustration and anger. Andrew was the reason Essex had nearly moved in with him, the one who had made her feel all those hopeful butterflies, only to crush them with his infidelity.

"Hey, Essie," he said, a casual smile plastered on his face. He looked good, as always—dark hair tousled just right, wearing a fitted jacket that accentuated his build. But she wasn't going to fall for it again.

"What do you want, Andrew?" she snapped, crossing her arms defensively.

He stepped closer, trying to keep his tone upbeat. "I wanted to invite you to Liam's birthday party at this new club. It's going to be amazing! You should come."

Essex's eyebrows shot up, caught off guard by the sudden proposal. "You've got to be kidding me. I'm not interested in hanging out with you or your friends."

"Come on, Essie," he urged, his smile faltering slightly. "It'll be fun! Everyone will be there. It's been ages since you've seen any of them."

"Yeah, and the last time I saw them, you were busy cheating on me with half the city," she shot back, her voice low but firm. "What part of that do you think I'd want to relive?"

Andrew ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly defeated. "I know, I know. I messed up. But I've changed, I swear! Can we just put that behind us? It's Liam's party—he'd really love to see you."

"Look, Andrew," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "I'm not doing this. I don't want to see you or anyone from that part of my life. It's over."

Andrew's expression shifted from hopeful to defensive, and she could see the frustration building. "You can't just keep running away from everything. It's been over a year!"

Essex inhaled deeply, her patience wearing thin. "And what do you expect? That I'll just forget everything because you show up with an invitation? You're delusional."

"Okay, okay. Just think about it, alright?" He stepped back, hands raised in surrender. "I'll text you the details. Just... don't shut me out like this."

Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, heart racing and irritation boiling.

"Fucking Andrew," she muttered under her breath, shutting the door firmly behind her. She leaned against it, taking a moment to gather herself. The nerve of him—inviting her to a party like they were old friends after everything that had happened.

Her grandmother, who had witnessed the whole exchange from the living room, looked at her with wide eyes. "Well, that was... unexpected."

"Understatement of the year," Essex said, pushing away from the door and walking back to the table, her mind still swirling with the conversation. "I'm not going to that party. No way in hell."

"Essie, you can't avoid him forever. Maybe it's time to talk things out," her grandmother suggested gently.

"Talk things out?" Essex scoffed, exasperated. "He cheated on me, Gran! I'm not interested in hashing out old wounds."

"Maybe not, but he's still part of your life. You'll run into him eventually," her grandmother countered.

Essex plopped back down at the table, frustration coursing through her. "Yeah, well, that doesn't mean I have to keep letting him in. I can't believe he had the gall to show up here."

"Maybe it's a sign," her grandmother said thoughtfully, picking at her food. "You can't avoid your past forever, Essie. But it's your choice."

Essex rolled her eyes, stirring her curry with renewed vigor. "Thanks for the advice, Gran. I'll pass."

As she chewed on her food, the memories of Andrew and their relationship flooded back—mostly the anger and betrayal, but also the good moments they had shared. It made her stomach turn.

"No way in hell," she muttered again, determination firm.

"Still not interested, huh?" her grandmother said, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Absolutely not," Essex replied, lifting her chin defiantly. "Now, can we change the channel before Richard Madden pops back on?"

"Only if you promise to visit your mother soon," her grandmother shot back playfully, and they both laughed, the earlier tension dissipating.

But as Essex settled in for her meal, she couldn't shake the feeling that Andrew's unexpected appearance might just stir up some unresolved feelings—like it or not.

<- Chapter 1 Chapter 3 ->

[bbywhitefox123]

description: Essex is an ER nurse and Richard Madden needs his wound to be stitched up.

warnings: blood

The ER smelled like antiseptic and desperation. It was just another night of chaos—overdoses, accidents, and the occasional fistfight fallout. Essex, tired as hell and running on coffee fumes, was at the nurse's station when the automatic doors slid open with a loud whoosh. She turned her head, more out of instinct than curiosity, to see a man staggering inside, clutching his hand with a tight, blood-soaked rag.

"Fuck me," she muttered under her breath, grabbing a pair of gloves off the counter. "Another gunshot wound."

The guy wasn't screaming like most would be. Instead, he looked pale and clenched, like he was holding back more than just blood. Essex stalked over to him, her boots slapping the slick linoleum as she went.

"Sit down. Now," she barked, pointing to the closest empty bed in the triage area. He looked up at her, and for a moment, something about his face flickered in her brain—something annoyingly familiar. But she was too busy trying to figure out how deep his injury was to care.

He sat, trembling slightly, and let her pull his hand into the light. The rag was soaked through, dark red with fresh blood.

"I shot myself," he said, his voice calm but strained.

Essex raised an eyebrow. "Well no shit. How'd it happen?" she asked, cutting through the rag with a pair of shears to get a better look. "And before you start, I'll need to contact the cops."

"No, no, no," the guy blurted, shaking his head. "It was an accident. Totally an accident."

"Everyone says it's an accident, but I'm not risking my license because some idiot shot himself," Essex said flatly, tossing the rag aside. The wound wasn't life-threatening, but it was a fucking mess. Bullet grazed right through the palm, luckily missing any vital tendons. Still, the blood was flowing freely. She grabbed some gauze and pressed down hard.

"Look, seriously," he panted, as if on the edge of panic, "I'm an actor. It was on set. Prop gun, okay? Just...decorative."

Essex shot him a look. "Decorative guns don't usually go off, mate. You sure about that?"

"Yeah," he said, eyes wide and desperate. "I swear. You can google me, I'm—" He winced as she applied more pressure to the wound. "I'm Richard Madden."

She paused, the name meaning nothing to her. "Who?"

The guy—Richard—looked like he was about to lose his mind. "I'm an actor! Game of Thrones, Eternals, Bodyguard...you don't watch TV?"

Essex snorted. "I don't have time to watch people pretend to die on screen when I'm cleaning up the aftermath of idiots doing it for real."

He winced again, more from her words than the pain in his hand. "Please," he begged, pulling his phone out of his pocket with his good hand. "Just—just let me show you."

She stepped back for a second, watching him frantically scroll through his phone, searching his own name like a man trying to prove he wasn't losing his grip on reality. His breathing was getting heavier, and Essex worried the blood loss might be getting to him.

"Relax, you're hyperventilating," she muttered. "Not gonna help your case."

"Here!" He thrust his phone at her. "Look."

Essex took the phone, still unimpressed, and glanced at the screen. His face was plastered all over Google—red carpets, movie stills, interviews. She squinted at one of the pictures. Something clicked.

"Oh, holy shit," she said flatly. "You're the dead guy. From Game of Thrones. The Stark guy."

"Yes! Yes, Robb Stark!" He looked relieved, almost too relieved. "That's me."

Essex huffed, tossing his phone back to him. "Alright, fine, Robb Stark. You still need to file a report if you shot yourself, famous or not. And don't go getting all medieval on me."

"Jesus," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "It was a fucking accident. Can't we just...skip the police part?"

She wasn't having it. "Nope. Look, I don't care if you're royalty in some fantasy world, Madden. You got shot, and I've got protocols. You'll be lucky if the cops don't laugh you out of the station when you tell them how your 'decorative' gun did this."

He sighed heavily, eyes closing as she finally started stitching up the wound. "Fine. Whatever. Just...don't make a scene, okay?"

Essex smirked as she worked, her needle threading with the same kind of precision her grandmother used for knitting angry scarves at home. "Oh, darling. You're the one that walked into an ER with a bullet in your hand. If anyone's making a scene, it's you."

For a minute both of them kept quiet until she finished stitching Richard's hand, the needle threading through his skin with an efficiency that came from years of dealing with dumbass injuries. She tied off the last knot with a sharp tug, then grabbed a roll of bandages to wrap the wound.

"Alright," she muttered, pressing the bandage against his hand a little harder than necessary. "That should hold you together for now. Sit tight. I'll go grab the doctor, get him to sign off on this, and—"

"Let me guess," Richard cut in, his voice a bit more strained now. "You're still calling the cops, right?"

Essex rolled her eyes. "You got it, genius. Someone shoots themselves with a 'decorative' gun, the cops are getting called. Protocol. Doesn't matter how pretty your face is."

Richard sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. "Yeah, I figured. Just thought I'd try one last time to get out of that."

Essex snorted, her lips curling into a smirk. "Good luck with that. You might've been a king on TV, but here? You're just another dumbass who shot himself."

He let out a small chuckle, his good hand massaging his forehead as if he could rub away the embarrassment. "Brilliant. Really fantastic. This is going to make for a hell of a story."

Essex stood up to leave but paused when she felt his eyes on her again. "What now?" she asked, a bit impatient.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

She sighed, turning back to face him. "What?"

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost boyish despite the situation. "What's your name? I mean, I should at least know the name of the nurse who just saved me from looking like a complete idiot."

Essex raised an eyebrow. "Essex."

He blinked. "Essex? Like the place?"

"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Essex living in London. My parents weren't exactly creative."

Richard laughed, the sound louder than she expected. "Essex from London! That's brilliant."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, laugh it up, Stark. I've heard all the jokes."

He grinned at her like he'd just found something amusing in the whole miserable situation. "Nah, I'm not laughing at you. It's just... I dunno. It suits you. Essex from London." He said it again, like he was trying it out in his mouth, like it was some kind of personal joke.

"Whatever," she muttered, shaking her head. "Don't get too attached to it. I'm not here to be your fucking comic relief."

Richard raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful glint still in his eyes. "No, no, of course not. You're definitely not the type to fuck around, are you?"

"Damn right," she said with a smirk. "And if you don't stop stalling, I'll have to remind you I'm the one who decides how tight those stitches stay."

Richard laughed again, a bit more quietly this time, but his eyes softened. "Fair enough, Essex from London. Fair enough."

She turned on her heel and started heading out the door. "Stay put," she called over her shoulder. "Doctor will be in soon. And the cops too, whether you like it or not."

He sighed again, but there was no fight left in him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be here."

As she walked out, she could still hear him muttering her name under his breath, as if it was some inside joke only he understood.

"Essex from fucking London," she muttered to herself, shaking her head with a grin she couldn't quite suppress. "What an asshole."

Essex marched down the hall with a mission, her boots echoing sharply on the hospital floor. The whole encounter with Richard Madden—the Richard Madden—had left her mildly annoyed but more amused than she cared to admit. She found the attending doctor, Dr. Patel, by the nurse's station, filling out a chart.

"Doctor," she said, walking up briskly. "Patient in triage, gunshot wound to the hand. Richard Madden, actor, shot himself with some bullshit decorative gun. He's stable now, but we've got to call the cops."

Dr. Patel raised an eyebrow, barely glancing up from his paperwork. "Richard Madden? The actor? Seriously?"

Essex rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know. But I still called the police. He's not getting out of that just because he played a dead guy on Game of Thrones."

The doctor sighed, scribbling something on the chart before handing it off to her. "Alright, I'll head over and sign off on his discharge. You made sure the cops are on their way?"

"Already done," Essex replied with a firm nod. "Shouldn't be long before they get here."

She turned and made her way back to the triage room, her mind already racing through the next steps. Paperwork. Police statements. The whole damn circus that followed when someone did something stupid and famous enough to attract attention.

But when she walked into the room, her stomach dropped. The bed was empty.

For a second, she blinked, thinking maybe she was seeing things wrong—he couldn't have just vanished, right? But the crisp, white hospital sheets were perfectly undisturbed. No trace of blood. No sign of Richard fucking Madden.

"Shit," Essex muttered under her breath, her heart rate kicking up. She scanned the room as if he might've ducked under the bed or behind the curtain, but there was nothing. He was gone.

That idiot had fled.

She stormed back out into the hallway, cursing under her breath as she grabbed a passing nurse. "Did you see a guy leave here?" she demanded. "Tall, dark hair, injured hand, thinking he's fucking clever?"

The nurse blinked in confusion. "Uh, no. I didn't see anyone."

"Fuck!" Essex snapped, shoving a hand through her hair. Of course. Of fucking course he'd bolted. Celebrities, they always thought they could escape the consequences because they were pretty and famous.

She turned on her heel and headed back to the nurse's station, already dialing the number for security. When the guard picked up, she barked into the phone, "Hey, this is Nurse Essex. We've got a runner—Richard Madden. Gunshot wound to the hand. Check all the exits. Don't let that bastard out."

The guard acknowledged her command, but Essex was already hanging up, slamming the phone down harder than necessary. She could feel the irritation bubbling inside her, threatening to boil over. She'd just fixed him up, followed protocol, and now the asshole thought he could just sneak off like nothing happened?

"Son of a bitch," she growled, pacing back and forth. "Of all the fucking things to happen tonight..."

The police would be here soon, but if Richard had a head start, he might already be halfway out the damn building. Maybe he figured fame could get him out of dealing with the cops—or maybe he just didn't want to face the embarrassment of explaining why he'd shot himself with a prop.

Either way, Essex wasn't about to let him get off that easy.

Not five minutes had passed when Dr. Patel strolled up to the triage area, chart in hand, looking as calm as ever. Essex was still fuming by the nurses' station, trying to keep her cool while waiting for security to radio back. Her heart was racing, but she was outwardly composed—barely.

"Where's your famous patient?" Dr. Patel asked, raising an eyebrow as he approached.

Essex exhaled sharply through her nose, leaning against the counter. "Gone," she said flatly.

Dr. Patel blinked, then tilted his head slightly as if he hadn't heard her right. "Gone?"

"Yeah," Essex repeated, her voice dripping with irritation. "Fucking fled. Out the door, gone. Vanished into thin air like a goddamn magician."

Dr. Patel's brows furrowed in disbelief. "You're telling me Richard Madden just walked out of here with a stitched-up gunshot wound to his hand, and no one noticed?"

"Exactly what I'm telling you, doc," she snapped, the frustration seeping into her tone. She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze darting toward the entrance. "I've already called security. They're checking the exits. But he's probably halfway to whatever posh fucking hideaway he crawled out of by now."

The doctor sighed, rubbing his temples. "Of course. Of course, this would happen on your shift."

Essex shot him a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said calmly, "that somehow you always manage to get stuck with the patients who cause the most drama. And now we're dealing with a runaway actor who's going to have to explain himself to the police sooner or later."

"Well, I did my part," Essex grumbled. "Fixed him up, called the cops—hell, I even gave him a little life lesson on not being a complete idiot. But apparently, he thought he could Houdini his way out of here."

Dr. Patel looked at her for a moment, then shook his head with a resigned smile. "You really don't care about who he is, do you?"

"Why should I?" Essex shot back, her arms still crossed. "Bleeding out in front of me or bleeding out in front of a fucking camera—either way, he's just another guy who needs stitches. Being famous doesn't change the fact that he's a dumbass who shot himself."

The doctor chuckled lightly. "Fair enough. But now we've got a missing patient and cops on the way. They're not going to be thrilled about this."

Essex shrugged, completely unbothered. "Not my problem. Let them chase him down. I'll give them all the details. He's the one who made this harder on himself by running."

Dr. Patel sighed again, looking around the empty room as if hoping Richard might suddenly reappear. "Well, I hope he's not planning on dodging us for too long. Otherwise, this is going to turn into a whole new level of chaos."

Essex smirked. "Let him deal with the chaos. I'm just here to patch people up and make sure they don't bleed out on my floor. If he wants to play the escape artist, that's on him."

The doctor gave her a half-smile and patted her on the shoulder. "Alright. Well, I'm sure the cops will love hearing this one."

Essex watched as Dr. Patel headed back toward his rounds, shaking his head slightly. She grabbed a fresh cup of coffee from the break station and leaned against the counter, waiting for the inevitable questioning from the police when they arrived.

"Fucking celebrities," she muttered under her breath, taking a long sip of the hot coffee. "Always think they can do whatever they want."

Still, a part of her couldn't help but feel a tiny bit impressed. Richard Madden had been stitched up and covered in blood, but he'd still managed to vanish like a ghost. She couldn't say she hadn't seen worse, but something about the audacity of it all made her laugh quietly to herself.

Let the police deal with him. She had more important things to worry about.

Essex was ready to move on with her night, shaking off the Richard Madden debacle as just another bizarre ER experience. She grabbed her clipboard and made her way toward the ward to check on her next patient, trying to refocus her mind on the work ahead. But just as she was rounding the corner, the receptionist, a chatty woman named Dana, flagged her down.

"Hey, Essie!" Dana called out, leaning over the counter. "Wait up a sec!"

Essex sighed internally, forcing herself to stop and turn around. "What is it, Dana? Got another patient bleeding out that needs stitches? Or did some other celebrity decide to shoot themselves?"

Dana grinned, shaking her head. "Nope. But some guy left this for you."

She held up a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, waving it in the air like it was something special.

Essex blinked, eyeing the money with confusion. "What? Who the hell left that?"

Dana shrugged, but her grin widened mischievously. "He said it was for 'Essex from London.' Told me to give you this and said to tell you, 'Thanks for the stitches.'"

Essex stared at the twenty in disbelief for a moment, then snorted. "Oh, for fuck's sake. He's tipping me now?"

Dana laughed, handing her the bill. "Apparently. Who am I to question it? It's not every day we get celebrity patients leaving tips like we're a goddamn diner."

Essex took the money, shaking her head in amused disbelief. "Unbelievable. The guy pulls a runner and then sends me a fucking tip."

Dana winked at her. "Well, at least he appreciated your work! Maybe you'll get a shout-out in his next interview or something. 'Essex from London saved my ass.' Could be your big break."

"Yeah, right," Essex scoffed, stuffing the twenty into her pocket. "I'm sure that'll do wonders for my career. 'Nurse Essex: fixing up idiots and getting tips for it.'"

Dana chuckled. "Hey, take what you can get, girl."

Essex gave her a smirk before heading back down the hall. "Yeah, sure. Maybe next time he'll leave me enough for a drink."

As she walked away, the absurdity of the situation settled in. The whole night had been one for the books—patching up Richard Madden, watching him bolt like a scared rabbit, and now being tipped like a waitress for her troubles.

Still, twenty bucks was twenty bucks. She'd make sure it didn't go to waste. Maybe she'd grab a beer after her shift, toast to the ridiculousness of it all, and then let it fade into just another weird night in the ER.

"Fucking celebrities," she muttered under her breath, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she headed to see her next patient.

chapter 2->

[bbywhitefox123]

descrption: mia and rafe have been best friends ever since mia and sarah have been best friends. however, mia has a guy that she wants to make jelous and rafe has the dick she could use for her plan.

warnings: degrading, deep-throating, filming etc.

Rafe was sprawled out on his bed, shirtless and still riding the buzz of his last hookup, when Mia strolled into his room without so much as a knock. The girl he'd just been with scrambled to collect her things, tugging her dress over her head with a hasty glance back at Mia, who barely even acknowledged her presence.

This was routine. Mia had seen enough by now that nothing about it surprised her. They'd been best friends since they could remember- she and Sarah had been thick as thieves growing up, and with Sarah came him, the so-called Kook Prince. But somewhere along the way, the line between friends and something else had blurred.

He smirked as the girl slipped out, the door clicking shut. "Here to yell at me, Peach?" he asked, lounging back, his smirk practically lazy.

But Mia just rolled her eyes, stepping closer. "I need you to make someone jealous," she said, her voice direct.

Rafe's interest piqued. "What, another staged picture for your story? Need the back of my head or something?" He shrugged, already moving to get up.

"No," she said, and that one word stopped him cold. She put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him seated. Then, without a second thought, Mia reached for the hem of her top and peeled it off in one swift move, tossing it aside.

Rafe's eyes went wide, his throat going dry as she stood there, her skin bare save for a black lace bra that did nothing to cover her curves. His heart hammered. He was used to Mia's games, but this? This was different.

"Mia," he said, his voice low, "what exactly are you trying to pull here?"

"Shut up, Rafe," she murmured, leaning down until her face was close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. She reached behind her back, unhooking her bra and letting it fall away, and Rafe's mouth went dry as he took her in.

He swallowed, his hands instinctively moving to her waist, pulling her onto his lap. The heat of her skin against his chest made his head spin. "You're insane," he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips, but he couldn't look away.

She ignored him, pulling her phone out and adjusting the camera until it captured their reflection in the mirror. From this angle, all that could be seen was her sitting on his lap, her bare skin pressed to his, and the unmistakable look in her eyes. No one would mistake this for friendship.

Rafe's breath caught as he watched her hit the shutter button, capturing the image. His hands tightened on her hips, and for once, he had no comeback, no witty response-only the overwhelming feeling that he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything.

Mia’s fingers curled around the back of his neck, keeping him close as she angled her phone for another shot, shifting on his lap like she’d done this a thousand times before. Rafe squinted, both entertained and a little confused. He tilted his head, trying to catch her eye.

“So,” he asked, voice low, “who exactly are you trying to make jealous here?”

“Just some idiot who thinks I’m not worth his time,” she muttered, bitterness creeping into her tone, though to them, this was all just normal conversation.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “You’re kidding.”

She sighed, finally pulling herself off his lap, and with a quick, fluid motion, she snapped her bra back on. Rafe’s gaze lingered, noticing how the lace still left just a hint of skin peeking through, enough to keep him hooked. He had to force himself to look back up at her face.

“Mason Williams,” she continued, sounding exasperated. “He’s got it in his head that I’m just some… pillow princess or whatever.”

Rafe smirked, unable to resist the jab. “And you’re not?”

Her mouth dropped open, feigning shock. She grabbed a pillow from the bed and lobbed it at him. He ducked, laughing as he caught it mid-air, remembering that one time he’d stumbled in on her with one of his buddies. She’d been sprawled on her back, looking like she was a spectator while the guy did all the work.

“I’m a freak, Rafe,” she shot back, arching a brow, daring him to say otherwise.

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” he mocked, grin widening. But his gaze dipped, taking in the curve of her figure, wondering just how much of that confidence she really meant.

She rolled her eyes, but as she picked up her phone again, Rafe forced himself to look away, back to her face. He couldn’t help himself, though; his eyes kept trailing back down.

“What’s the deal with Mason?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual, though her bare skin was still seared in his mind.

She didn’t look up from her phone as she scrolled through the photos they’d taken. “It was this stupid dare. Mason’s friend Matt bet him a grand that he couldn’t get me in bed.” She shrugged, like this was just another normal night.

Rafe raised a brow. “And you’re cool with that? Getting dared on?”

She shrugged, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “I was the one who set up the whole thing. I convinced Matt to make the dare. Figured it’d get Mason to bite.”

Rafe blinked, somewhere between amused and impressed. The twisted plan was something only Mia could’ve dreamed up, and as messed up as it was, he had to admit—it was brilliant in a way only she could pull off.

“You’re a little insane, you know that?” he said, shaking his head. But he couldn’t help the pride that crept into his tone. She was a handful, but damn, was she his kind of trouble.

Rafe watched as Mia tapped away on her phone, her black bra and that short pink skirt leaving almost nothing to his imagination. Every time she moved, his eyes couldn't help but follow, tracing over her curves. She was looking down, too absorbed in her plan to notice him watching.

He smirked, biting his lip as an idea formed, reckless but tempting. "Maybe you should try a different kind of photo," he suggested, his tone low and dangerous.

Mia barely glanced up, shaking her head with a small laugh. "Not sending nudes, Rafe."

Rafe just rolled his eyes, even as his grin spread wider. She still hadn't looked at him, and she definitely hadn't noticed the way his eyes were following every inch of her. He leaned in, reaching over to take her phone right out of her hands, and that finally got her attention.

"Hey!" she protested, but Rafe held her gaze, his own sparkling with that dervish grin of his.

"Not that kind of photo," he murmured, leaning close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin against his. His fingers brushed her arm as he set the phone down on the table, and her eyebrow quirked, the hint of a challenge in her eyes.

"Then what kind of photo, exactly?" she asked, one brow raised in that familiar look she gave him, equal parts daring and defiant.

Rafe leaned in just a bit closer, his hand lingering at her waist. "The kind where we make it crystal clear to this guy that he has no idea what he's missing," he whispered, letting his fingers drift along her hip, the tension between them thickening by the second.

For once, she didn't brush him off, didn't shove him away. Instead, she held his gaze, and Rafe could see the flicker of intrigue in her eyes. He knew she felt it too-this electric, irresistible push-and-pull they'd been playing with for so long.

Rafe held her gaze, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He ran his thumb over the edge of her phone as he leaned a bit closer, voice dropping lower.

"Come on, Peach," he said slowly, watching her reaction as he spoke. "What if you really gave him something to think about?"

Mia scoffed, rolling her eyes as she took her phone back. "I told you, I'm not sending nudes."

"Who said anything about nudes?" he replied, his grin widening. "Just saying... maybe you give him a taste. Show him what he's missing."

Her eyebrow arched, but he noticed her hesitation, a flicker of curiosity. "Like what?" she asked, crossing her arms.

Rafe's gaze trailed down, lingering on her bare skin, her black lace bra, and that tiny pink skirt that barely covered her hips. He could already imagine just how far that lace ran down, and the thought had his pulse spiking. He leaned closer, just enough that his breath grazed her cheek. "Maybe you turn around, show off a little more. Let him see what he's too stupid to go after."

Mia narrowed her eyes, a smirk teasing the corner of her mouth. "You're really pushing it, Rafe."

"And you're really not stopping me," he shot back, holding her gaze, daring her.

She let out a sigh, but she was smiling now, her eyes challenging him. Finally, she turned, tossing a look over her shoulder as she tugged her skirt up, just enough to reveal the curve of her hips and the thin line of her black lace thong.

Rafe's breath caught, his hand instinctively reaching out, hovering just an inch from her skin. "Now we're talking," he murmured, the heat in his voice unmistakable.

She tilted her phone to capture the shot, giving him a daring glance. Rafe's fingers brushed over her hip, his pulse hammering as he fought the urge to let his hand slip lower, to show her just what he thought of her little plan.

Rafe leaned back, watching Mia with that familiar cocky smirk. The tension between them was undeniable, simmering in the air. He caught her eye, and she held his gaze, challenging him with that same fiery look she always gave him when they were toeing the line. He took her by the hand and guided her down onto her knees, her eyes flashing with defiance even as she settled into the position.

"You're really taking this seriously, aren't you?" she scoffed, though there was a spark in her voice, something daring him to keep going.

"Think of it as dedication to your mission," he replied, his voice a low murmur as he leaned forward, fingers trailing down her shoulders to the delicate lace of her bra. "If Mason's gonna get a taste, let's make it memorable."

He tugged gently, teasing her until she rolled her eyes but didn't stop him. Her skin spilled just slightly over the lace, and his fingers traced the edge, letting the tension build between them. She shifted, her breath quickening, and Rafe's pulse spiked as he took in the sight of her, the mixture of resistance and undeniable chemistry pulling them closer.

She shot him a look, somewhere between a glare and a challenge. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe," he admitted, snapping a picture, his grin only widening. "But so are you.”

When he brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, she hesitated for just a second, then parted her lips, letting him slip two fingers into her mouth. She held his gaze, the weight of the moment thickening as she leaned into the game. Rafe's heartbeat thundered in his chest, his focus narrowing to this charged moment between them, where the lines between friendship and something more had completely blurred.

Mia's eyes dropped to the bulge in Rafe's boxers, a spark of mischief igniting within him. "Wanna snap a pic with my dick in your mouth?" he teased catching her off guard.

Her breath quickened, but she didn't say anything. What could she say anyway? Yes, Rafe, please fuck my throat for the sake of making Mason jealous? Hell nah.

“C’mon, Peach, let’s show him that you can be a dumb cock slut, isn’t that what you want?”

“I guess…” Mia muttered, feeling her stomach tightened. This whole thing was making her panties wet and they hadn't even started.

Rafe leaned closer, pulling Mia in as he took his dick out of his boxers. He pressed himself against her lips, urging her to take him in. The camera captured every moment, documenting the raw intensity of their connection. Mia's eyes locked onto Rafe's, a mix of excitement and hesitation as she surrendered to the moment.

Rafe's grip on Mia's hair was tight, controlling, as he forced her deeper, his smirk widening. "Look at you," he sneered, his voice low and mocking. "Just a pretty little thing, taking what I give you." The camera rolled, capturing the way her eyes fluttered, torn between defiance and desire. He leaned closer, breath hot against her ear, taunting her with every word. "You're nothing but my plaything. Prove it." The scene was charged with a dark energy, each moment steeped in power and submission, leaving no room for escape.

Rafe thrusts his hips against her mouth, feeling her tight and warm throat. He could feel his dick twitch as he watched her eyes tear up from the phone screen.

He smirked, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her jaw, “You like being used, don’t you?”

Mia was unable to answer. God, she was unable to breathe let alone to answer! Her eyes rolled back as saliva dripped down her lips and chin, just for her to shoot them back at Rafe when he yanked her by the jaw again.

“C’mon, Peach, do you like being used?” Rafe asked again, his voice becoming hollow as he felt his balls begin to throb.

Unable to say anything, Mia nodded her head like an obedient girl.

“You like being a whore, don’t you?” Rafe muttered, sucking in a breath.

Mia nodded, tears rolling down her eyes but she kept sucking his dick. Sucking him so fucking good like she was made for it. Made to kneel in front of him and give him head like an obedient little slut.

Maybe she was, though?

Before Rafe could ask her anything else, his mouth fell agape, and a loud moan escaped his lips. His hot cum streamed right down her throat, making Mia begin to cough. She was suffocating on his dick, but no matter what she kept sucking him with hallow cheeks and teeth eyes.

Rafe’s hand wrapped around her hair as he pulled her head back so his dick could get out of her mouth and he could cum on her pretty face as well. He was breathing heavily as he moved the phone closer to her face to capture the ruined mascara and lipgloss, the sticky cum dripping down her face and the self-respect gone from her eyes.

He chuckled at her, ending the video and throwing the phone on her bed. “Think that would be enough?” he asked, amusement reeking from his voice.

Without a thought, Mia nodded her head in agreement, causing him to laugh even louder. Rafe snorted and looked down at the lipgloss stain on his dick.

He has just made his best friend deep-throat him.

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