A Golf Lesson with Rafe After a Boozy Brunch…
bf!rafe x reader
𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ inspired by this
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ language, pet names, tipsy behavior, rafe is down bad and so are you, sexual tension + heavy petting
2,799 words
The sun is warm on your skin as you step out of the Island Club, laughter still bubbling on your lips from the table you just left behind. The smile sticks too, your head a little floaty, your limbs looser than you intended them to be when you asked your boyfriend for the golf lesson earlier in the week.
The mimosas had started innocently enough, one turning into two, then another round ordered for the table. Suddenly everything felt lighter and warmer, the conversations with your friends turning into more tea than table talk.
Your purse strap slides down your shoulder as your hands reach to slip off your heels, your bare feet hitting the cobblestone.
That is when you see him, already out front and waiting exactly where he said he would be.
Rafe leans back in the golf cart, one big arm stretched along the back and the other resting lazily on the wheel. His hardened features soften completely when he sees you, a smile curling on his lips, a quiet chuckle slipping out when he notices your heels dangling from your fingers and your bare feet on the stone.
His head tilts slightly, sunglasses low on his nose, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the wheel of the golf cart.
Your stomach flips, that warm feeling spreading as you try to collect yourself, suddenly aware of every step you take. His eyebrows lift, noticing the soft sway in your hips and the way your smile refuses to settle.
“There she is,” he says, the smile reaching his eyes. You try to bite back a grin and play it off, but it only makes it worse, because you’re clearly not as composed as you think you are.
By the time you reach the cart, he is already leaning forward, his elbow braced on his knee to get a better look, not wanting to miss a thing.
“Hey, baby,” he says teasingly. “You have fun?”
“Mhmm,” you hum, nodding a little too eagerly.
His gaze flicks down briefly as he taps the seat next to him. He holds out his hand for you, gold watch glimmering in the sunlight, helping you inside. The second you’re beside him, his hand comes up, cupping your face, and you lean into it naturally as his lips press against yours.
He groans against your lips, smiling against your mouth as the sweetness of your lip gloss mixes with the champagne still lingering on your tongue. His thumb rubs gently against your cheek, soaking in the moment with you.
“You a little gone, sweetheart?” He murmurs, his voice softer now, lips brushing against yours.
“No—Me?” You ask, your response not nearly convincing enough, and it only makes him laugh quietly under his breath.
“Just thought I’d ask,” he feigns genuine curiosity, leaning back, his arm coming to rest along the back of your seat.
He grips the steering wheel again, his forearm flexing with the movement, his bicep shifting under the sleeve of his golf shirt. Your eyes drift away for a moment, that same stupid, traitorous smile giving you away again, because he looks too damn good like this. It’s unfair.
The cart hums to life beneath you as he pulls away from the clubhouse, one hand still resting loosely behind you.
“I’m fine,” you insist, feeling him eyeing you in your peripheral. He studies you for a moment, seeing your reaction, hoping to get a little more if it has you giggling like that. Then his tongue drags slowly over his bottom lip when your eyes meet his again.
“Thirsty?” He chuckles, nodding to the cup holders, something bright and citrusy, condensation dripping down the side.
“Might have had a little too much fun,” you mumble under your breath, and he snorts at the understatement.
“Well, just in case,” he smiles. “Brought you some water too, pretty. And… your golf shoes.” Your eyes fall to your lap, shoes still hooked around your finger. “Toss ‘em back there.”
“Thank you, baby,” you say, leaning closer to toss your heels in the back basket. His arm tightens around you at the contact, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “M’sorry.”
Rafe pulls back and looks down at you, searching for your eyes. “What are you sorry about?” He asks, the question genuine, like maybe he said the wrong thing.
“I asked you to teach me and—well,” you giggle, your hand coming up to squeeze his bicep when he takes a sharp turn, your head falling onto his shoulder a little heavier than usual.
He rolls up beside the tee box fast, cutting off the engine before turning to look at you. “I just wanted to spend the day with you, baby. I don’t care if you had a few. I’m just teasin’ you, honey. It isn’t like we can’t come again—you’re not gettin’ rid of me.”
“Okay,” you giggle.
“That smile,” he mumbles, pressing his sunglasses up on his nose a little. “That’s all that matters, aight?”
His gaze drops from your face to the line of your neck, following the way the little black golf dress fits you like it was made for you, skimming your waist, hugging your hips, and showing just enough skin to make his hand tighten slightly around the wheel.
“And you… you look so damn good,” he says, softer this time. Your nose scrunches as you smile bashfully. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too,” you murmur.
“You ready for this?” He asks, nodding toward the course ahead, a stretch of green and crisp white flags, golf carts zipping around with regulars and pros. “Or do you wanna go home and hang out by the pool instead?” His tone lifts slightly like he is already thinking about it.
“No, I’m ready,” you answer quickly, remembering how happy he was when you first asked.
“Yeah?” He asks, his brow lifting slightly as he reaches for his drink. “You sure? I mean… I wouldn’t exactly be mad about going home.”
“Later,” you giggle, watching him smile against the rim of his glass before he glances at you and gives you a small wink.
He gets out first, his shoes hitting the grass as he adjusts his hat, his fingers hooking the brim and flipping it around so it sits backward on his head. He moves around the cart while you do the same, stretching out his arms and rolling his shoulders, and for a second you just stand there watching him.
Butterflies stir in your stomach as you take him in, tall and strong, sun-kissed under the afternoon light, his blue eyes scanning down the fairway to check on the group ahead.
He glances over at you and catches you staring just as you tug on your golf shoes, teetering slightly as you hop on one foot, grabbing the cart for balance.
“C’mere, baby,” he murmurs, beckoning you closer as he drops down onto one knee in front of you.
He looks up at you as he reaches for your shoe. “What club do you think we’re using, sunshine?” He drawls, tying one before moving to the other.
“Um…” you say, a little flustered as he stands again, close enough that your chest brushes his. “Nine?” The answer comes out more like a question, and he smiles.
“Mhmm…” He hums, pulling a hat down onto your head before pressing a quick kiss to your lips.
“Lucky guess,” you giggle.
“Nah,” he says easily. “You’re just a natural.” Rafe reaches into your bag, pulling out a club, handing it to you.
The two of you walk toward the markers side by side. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a ball and a tee, then scratches your name onto the scorecard just above his before glancing up to watch the pair ahead move toward the green.
“Alright, baby, first thing is your stance,” he starts, stepping closer as he gestures toward the ground. “You want your feet about shoulder-width apart and your weight balanced.”
“Mhmm,” you agree as he mirrors your stance, standing a few feet in front of you.
But in reality, you’re not hearing a single word because it all starts to drift away and blur together into something that sounds blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name, backstory stuff, because you’re just watching him.
You notice the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way his arms flex when he adjusts his grip on the club, and the way his voice softens slightly, like he actually cares about getting it right for you.
Your eyes move over him slowly without trying to hide it, and when you finally look back up at his face, you realize he is already looking at you.
“You’re not listening to a damn thing I’m saying, are you, baby?” He asks, a quiet, bashful laugh slipping out, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks.
“What?” You ask softly, your hands dropping to the club like you even know what you are fixing, which only makes him laugh harder.
The head of his club taps against the grass as he tries to collect himself, but he cannot even pretend to be annoyed about it.
If anything, it looks like he loves it, like he loves you like this, a little distracted and completely caught up in him.
He steps closer again, slower this time, and it’s less about the lesson now and more about you, his attention shifting between your eyes and your mouth as he exhales quietly through a small smile.
“Alright,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “Yeah… this isn’t gonna go how I planned.”
“I’m sorry,” you repeat softly, echoing yourself from earlier without even realizing it.
“Baby,” he murmurs, his tone lowering just enough to make it clear he does not want to hear you apologize again.
You nod, taking in a little breath, brows furrowing as you try to focus on your stance, and the club face.
He grins at that, his eyes moving over you again, slower this time as he takes in the dress, the way it flutters in the breeze, and the way your tongue pokes out a little as you try to mimic his shoulder position.
“Yeah,” he hums, pretty distracted himself. “Exactly like that.” You smile proudly, following behind him as he takes a practice swing of his own. “Alright, baby. You’re up.”
You look ahead, watching the old men in front of you cruise off in their cart toward the second hole. You crouch down, sinking your tee into the grass, settling your ball on top, watching it wobble slightly before it finally steadies.
“Atta baby,” he says, his tone easy and approving, like you did something far more impressive than setting a ball on a tee, but it makes you smile anyway.
You step into position, lining yourself up with the ball as you adjust your feet the way you’ve seen him do before. He walks around you, watching you closely. “Alright, hold on,” he says, stepping in. “Let me fix a couple things.”
You nod, your eyes still fixed on the ball.
“See how this hole runs?” He says, one hand coming up to rest on your waist as the other points ahead. “It’s gonna hook left once you get some distance on it, so you don’t want to aim straight down the middle, you want to offset a little to the right.”
You glance over your shoulder at him, smiling as you see just how close he is, his eyes nowhere near where they need to be as his gaze traces from the hem of your skirt, following where the fabric stretches over your back, dipping low.
His eyes meet yours and he smiles. “You listening?” He asks as he smirks.
“You focusing?” You giggle, gasping as his hand comes down to swat you playfully on the butt.
“Am I focused?” He snorts, laughing under his breath. “I’m focused, baby. I’m locked in.”
“Mmm… Sure,” you tease him, tightening your hold on the club. You glance up where you need to go, squinting into the sun a little bit before you look down at the ball, your hold tightening on the iron as you try your best to lock in yourself.
“Sheesh, baby,” he says, pulling you right out of your focus, stepping in closer to look over your shoulder, shifting back into teaching mode. “Your grip—”
“What?” You ask.
“Hey, don’t move,” he adds lightly. “Your stance is perfect but you’re squeezing the life out of this thing. Relax.” The final words fade off his lips as he steps in behind you.
His chest pushes against your back, solid and warm, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of his polo. He keeps talking through it, calm and patient, like this is still a real lesson and not something that shifted the second he got close enough to hold you in his arms.
Your fingers loosen around the club like he told you to, but the effort is half-hearted at best because you are too aware of him—of the way he is standing behind you, his body lining up perfectly with yours.
His hands come in, settling briefly over your grip, so big they almost completely cover your own. “Like this,” he says quietly. “Not too tight, just let the club do the work.”
Music drifts from the golf cart, the afternoon breeze swirling around the subtle sweetness of wild roses and freshly cut grass as that little liquored-laced buzz of yours mellows you out even more in the North Carolina heat.
“Baby…” He murmurs; a quiet breath of a laugh leaving him warm and close against your ear. “Stop wiggling, yeah? Your stance was perfect.”
You hum softly in response, still not fully present, your weight shifting again just enough that you end up settling back into him instead of finding your stance again.
“Back straight, alright?” He mumbles. “Bend at the knees—” His breath catches, the word leaving him as you do your version of whatever that is.
His grip tightens over yours, not correcting anymore, a helpless laugh tumbling out of him before he can stop it, his control slipping almost instantly as his head drops forward, pressing into the curve of your neck when you push back into his lap.
You giggle breathily, catching your error—catching the way he reacts too. And for a moment you pause, realizing exactly what’s happening, and how much he’s enjoying the lesson.
“Fuck, baby, just—“ He huffs out a breath. “Keep… Keep goin’,” the words barely pass his mouth, and you can hear the lusty smile on his lips.
You bite your lip, grinding your hips a little more for the fun of it; ass pressing against the thick bulge beneath his shorts.
His hands drop down to grip your thighs, drifting inward. You turn your cheek and your lips ghost over the top of his, his smile spreading across your mouth before he kisses you soft enough to make your lips and your whole body tingle.
He lets it happen longer than he should, long enough for it to sink in and feel good—too good. A cart of old women rolls by, heading back from the 18th hole, and he clears his throat, snapping himself out of it, forcing himself away from you, blinking a few times as he tries to reset and remember where the two of you are.
“Baby,” he says, shaking his head slowly, like he does not even know what to do with you anymore.
“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you laugh, shaking your head while you reposition your hands. “I’m sorry, okay, let’s try again. I’ll be good, I promise.”
You line yourself back up with the ball like you mean it this time, adjusting your stance and squaring your shoulders. His hands hover over your hips. A quiet, defeated laugh slips past his lips because it hits him that there’s no version of this where he finishes the lesson. Not a single chance that he makes it through the front nine, let alone the back without taking that dress off you and getting you underneath him.
“Nah,” he decides, almost immediately.
Before you can react, his hand hooks around your waist, the other taking the club off your hands. He guides you back toward the cart with a smile on his lips.
“Rafe—”
“We’re not doin’ that,” he mutters under his breath, still half-laughing as you start to assure him that you’ve got this, but all he’s got is you on his mind. “We’re gettin’ outta here.”
“Why?” You ask, as if the answer isn’t written all over his face and strained against the zipper of his shorts as the two of you step into the golf cart again, not a single swing marked on the scorecard.
“So you can do that again.”
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