— ☆ﾟ TEN MINUTES || RAFE CAMERON
MINI NOTE: okay, so… I'm back? After MONTHS of not writing a single word, I randomly got inspired tonight. I was bored, this idea hit me, and I just had to get it out. I'm a little rusty, so I hope you enjoy it! Sorry for disappearing..
CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, cheating/infidelity, emotional conflict, substance use (alcohol), and toxic relationships.
I accept requests!!
Tannyhill isn't just packed tonight.. it's a living, breathing entity of chaos. The bass from the speakers is a physical presence, a relentless thrum that vibrates up from the floorboards through the soles of your shoes and into your bones. The air is a thick, intoxicating cocktail of spilled tequila, cloying perfume, and the damp heat of too many bodies pressed together. And everywhere, the soundtrack to it all is a cacophony of shouting laughter, slurred conversations, and the clinking of glass, a symphony of terrible decisions being made in real time.
Everyone seems to be thriving in it.
Everyone except you.
You're stationed next to Topper by the kitchen counter, a hostage to his good time. The drink in your hand is beaded with condensation, a prop you've barely touched. Topper is holding court, his voice booming as he talks to two guys from the country club about golf scores or stock portfolios or something equally meaningless. You've perfected the art of the vacant nod, your smile a mask you hope holds up under the kitchen's recessed lighting.
Topper is radiant. His arm is a constant, heavy weight around your waist, pulling you flush against his side every few minutes in a gesture that feels less like affection and more like brandishing a prize. His hand rests proprietorially on the curve of your back, then drifts lower to squeeze your hip. He leans down, his breath hot and smelling of beer, to press a wet kiss into your hairline while his conversation never skips a beat.
He looks triumphant. Like he's won a lottery he doesn't even appreciate.
Like you're a trophy he gets to polish in public.
But your gaze, a traitor to your body, keeps snagging on a fixed point across the room.
It started as a prickle on the back of your neck, an instinctual awareness that cut through the noise. Then you looked up, and there he was.
Rafe Cameron.
He's holding court of his own, sprawled on one of the massive living room couches with an unnerving stillness, like a predator at rest. One arm is draped along the back of the couch, a casual display of ownership. A girl, Sofia, you think with a dull pang of recognition, is all but melted into his lap, her dress a scrap of fabric high on her thighs as she whispers something into his neck that makes her giggle.
His hand is on her leg, his thumb stroking a slow, idle pattern against her skin. But the performance is for an audience of one, and she doesn't seem to know it.
Because his eyes, dark and unnervingly focused, are locked on you.
And once you have his attention, you realize he’s been watching you for a while.
Sofia presses a clumsy kiss to his jaw, a gesture he acknowledges with a barely perceptible shift of his head. His hand doesn't move. His gaze doesn't waver. He looks more intrigued than embarrassed, a faint, knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches you watch him.
Topper's voice fades into a dull, monotonous drone. The party, the noise, the people, it all recedes, leaving just the charged space between you and Rafe. It's a silent, dangerous game, and he’s enjoying it immensely.
The tide of the party shifts. Kelce materializes across the room, a tray of shots held aloft like a sacred offering as he bellows Topper’s name. Topper's attention is instantly diverted. The promise of cheap liquor and louder laughter is a siren song he can't resist.
He detaches from you, leaning in to press a sloppy, perfunctory kiss to your cheek. "Be right back, babe," he shouts over the music. "Kelce's got shots!"
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.
You're an island.
You turn back to the counter, setting your untouched drink down and grabbing another, the cold glass a flimsy anchor in the sea of strangers. You wipe the condensation away with your thumb, a pointless, repetitive motion, anything to avoid looking at him.
But you feel him before you hear him.
A shift in the air pressure, a change in the light.
"I was wondering when he'd get bored and leave you stranded."
Rafe's voice is low, a rough murmur meant only for you, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight through your system.
You turn slowly, and he's right there, invading your personal space. The top button of his shirt is undone, his hair is artfully messy, and there's the faint, glittery smear of lip gloss on his cheek, a brand that isn't yours.
Your eyes flick to it.
He catches the look, a humorless smile touching his lips. "Don't start."
You raise an eyebrow, feigning a composure you don't feel. "She looks cozy."
"She's a fan," he replies with a dismissive shrug.
The casual dismissal twists in your gut. "And you?"
His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, a deliberate, heated journey. "And I," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "am not."
He closes the remaining distance, a subtle movement that no one else would notice but that feels like a seismic shift to you. He places a hand on the counter on the other side of you, caging you in. It's a classic move, a power play, and your body responds with a traitorous flush of heat.
"Miss me?" he asks, the question a direct hit to the carefully constructed walls around your heart.
You force a swallow, trying to keep your voice even. "I wasn't sure you'd be speaking to me tonight."
"I wasn't planning on it," he admits, his eyes glancing past you toward the spot where Topper disappeared. "Not with him pawing at you. Not with her hanging off me." He lets out a slow breath, and you can feel the warmth of it on your cheek. "But then I saw you standing here. Looking like you'd rather be anywhere else."
His voice softens, roughens. "And apparently, my self-control is still shot to hell."
Your pulse is a frantic drumbeat against your ribs. "Rafe…"
"You know what I can't stand?" he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin of your wrist. "The way he looks at you."
Your breath hitches.
"Like he won the lottery," he continues, his tone laced with a quiet venom. "Like he has some kind of right to put his hands on you."
He shakes his head, a short, sharp movement. "Like he has no fucking idea he's just keeping your seat warm."
You look up, meeting the storm in his eyes. "And whose seat is it?"
His gaze darkens, the amusement gone, replaced by something raw and possessive. "You already know the answer to that."
The silence stretches, thick and heavy with everything you're not saying. The party rages on, oblivious.
Then he leans in closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper against your ear. "Remember the first time?"
Your stomach clenches at the memory.
"You tried so hard to be quiet," he says, his thumb now tracing the line of your jaw. "Thought if you didn't make a sound, it didn't count."
You give a faint, almost imperceptible nod.
"And the second time," he adds, his lips brushing your skin. "Upstairs. You kept saying it was the last time."
His eyes search yours. "But you didn't want me to stop, did you?"
Your breathing is shallow, uneven.
He studies your face for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. "Come on," he murmurs. "Let's go upstairs."
For a moment, you're frozen. The music pounds, people laugh, but all you can hear is the roar of blood in your ears.
"Rafe…" It's a weak protest, and you both know it.
His jaw tightens. "Don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to give me the 'I have a boyfriend' speech."
Your eyes dart past him, instinctively scanning the crowd for Topper. You find him instantly by the kitchen island, a shot glass in hand, his head thrown back as he laughs with Kelce. He hasn't looked for you once.
When you look back at Rafe, he’s already watching you, his expression knowing.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Exactly."
You let out a shaky breath. "You're the one who came over here."
"And you're the one who stayed," he counters, his voice soft but unyielding. "So, what's it going to be?"
He pushes off the counter, running a restless hand through his hair. The sudden loss of his proximity makes you feel cold. "You should go back to him," he says, the words tasting like ash. "That's what good girlfriends do, right?"
There's a bitter edge to his tone that you can't ignore. "You don't mean that."
"Sure I do," he says, though it sounds hollow. "He's your boyfriend. I'm just the guy you pretend didn't happen."
"That's not fair."
He lets out a short, sharp laugh. "Come on. You see the way he parades you around. Like he's the king of the world and you're his crown. He has no idea."
"No," you agree, your voice barely a whisper. "He doesn't."
The space between you feels charged, a silent battlefield. Rafe is still too close, his scent a heady mix of expensive cologne and rebellion. His eyes scan your face, not with softness, but with a sharp, analytical intensity, as if he’s mapping every flicker of hesitation and desire.
Then, he gives a short, decisive nod toward the front of the house. "My truck."
Your stomach lurches, a dizzying combination of fear and anticipation. He sees the reaction instantly, a flicker of triumph in his gaze.
"Relax," he says, his voice a low, calming murmur that does anything but. "Ten minutes. That's all I need."
He leans in just a fraction more, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Then you can go right back to your boyfriend and play the part. Pretend this never happened."
The way he says boyfriend is a deliberate insult, a reminder of the lie you're living. It makes your chest ache with a guilt that's quickly being incinerated by a much hotter, more dangerous emotion.
"You're unbelievable," you breathe, the words devoid of any real conviction.
Rafe just shrugs, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You could've walked away at any point," he says quietly, his gaze unwavering. "You didn't."
He doesn't wait for a response. He turns and starts walking, a confident, easy stride through the throng of bodies. He doesn't look back to see if you're following. He already knows.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, your eyes scanning the room one last time. Topper is still by the kitchen, now slinging his arm around some other girl's shoulders as he tells a story, his laughter booming over the music. A cold, sharp clarity cuts through you.
Then you turn and follow Rafe.
The journey through the house feels surreal. You move through the loud, bright chaos like a ghost, no one paying you any mind as you slip past couples tangled on the stairs and groups huddled in doorways. The front door opens, and the cool, damp night air is a shock to your system, clearing your head for a split second before the sight of him brings the haze right back.
He's standing by his truck, parked under the sprawling branches of an old oak tree, away from the glare of the porch lights. The engine is off, and the vehicle sits in the darkness like a silent, waiting beast.
He turns as you approach, his face shadowed but his eyes catching the faint light. For a moment, you just stand there, the distant thud of the party the only sound between you.
"You can still go back," he says, his voice quiet, giving you one last out.
Your gaze flicks toward the house, a glowing box of noise and people. Then you look back at the boy in front of you, the one who feels more like home than any place ever has.
Rafe watches the decision play out across your face, and when you don't move, he reaches for the back door. He pulls it open, the interior light casting a warm, golden glow on the worn leather seats. He holds it open, an unspoken invitation.
"Ten minutes," he reminds you, his voice a low rumble.
You don’t hesitate. You slide into the back seat of his truck, the worn leather cool against your bare legs. The space is cramped, smelling faintly of him, that familiar mix of his cologne, the mint from the gum he’s always chewing, and something that’s just undeniably Rafe. He follows you in, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a solid thud that seals you both in a sudden, profound silence. The muffled bass from the party is a distant heartbeat, a world away.
The interior light clicks off, plunging you into near darkness, save for the soft glow of the porch lights filtering through the tinted windows. It’s enough to see the sharp, predatory lines of his face as he turns to you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The air is so thick with unspoken history and raw want that it feels like you could choke on it.
He moves first, crowding into your space. One hand braces against the window beside your head, the other grips the back of the seat, caging you in. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the dark intensity in his eyes as they sweep over your face, down to the neckline of your dress.
“You’re still here” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It’s not a question.
You answer by closing the small distance between you, crashing your lips against his. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s a desperate, punishing thing. All the frustration, the longing, the jealousy from watching him with Sofia, from feeling Topper’s possessive hands on you, pours into it. He meets your intensity with his own, his mouth slanting over yours, his tongue delving deep to stake a claim that feels both brand new and as familiar as your own name.
His hand leaves the back of the seat and finds your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress and the skin beneath. He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel how hard he already is, the rigid line of his cock pressing against your hip through his jeans. A soft, needy sound escapes your throat, and he swallows it, kissing you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to devour you whole.
“Rafe” you gasp, breaking away for air as his lips trail down your jaw, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin of your neck.
“I know, baby” he growls against your throat. “I know.” His hand slides from your waist down to your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress up, up, up until his fingers are brushing against the edge of your panties. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you?”
You can only whimper in response, your head falling back against the cool leather of the seat as his thumb presses against the damp fabric, right over your clit. He circles it slowly, torturously, a smug, knowing grin playing on his lips as he watches you fall apart under his touch.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his voice low and commanding. “Say it.”
“God, Rafe, I want this,” you breathe out, the words torn from you. “I want you.”
That’s all the permission he needs. With a deft, practiced motion, he hooks his fingers in the side of your panties and pulls them down. You lift your hips to help him, and he tosses the scrap of lace onto the floorboard without a second thought. His hand is back on you in an instant, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your wetness before one, then two, push inside you.
You arch off the seat, a sharp cry tearing from your lips as he curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that only he’s ever been able to reach. He sets a relentless rhythm, his thumb working your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers. The windows are starting to fog up, blurring the outside world into nothing but streaks of light and shadow. It’s just you and him in this small, heated space, the sounds of your ragged breathing and the wet, slick sounds of his fingers working you filling the air.
“You look so good like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. “All spread out for me. So fucking beautiful.”
His words are your undoing. The tension that’s been coiling in your belly all night finally snaps, and you come with a choked cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, his movements slowing as you come down, his fingers still buried deep inside you.
Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s pulling his hand away and fumbling with the button on his jeans. The sound of his zipper lowering is impossibly loud in the quiet car. He shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, and his cock springs free, hard and thick and already beading with precum.
He shifts over you, settling between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him inside you now.
He pushes into you in one slow, deep thrust that steals the air from your lungs. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, his forehead resting against yours. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, feel his ragged breath fan across your face.
“Fuck,” he groans, his voice strained. “You feel… so perfect.”
Then he starts to move. He sets a punishing pace from the start, his hips snapping against yours, each thrust driving him deeper, harder. The truck rocks with the force of it, the springs creaking in protest. It’s frantic and messy and desperate, exactly like the two of you. His hands are everywhere, tangling in your hair, gripping your hips, squeezing your ass, pulling you impossibly closer to meet his every thrust.
“Tell me,” he pants against your ear, his voice ragged. “Tell me he doesn’t fuck you like this.”
You can’t form words, can only shake your head and cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
“Say it,” he demands, his thrusts becoming even more erratic. “Say my name.”
“Rafe,” you sob, the name a prayer and a curse on your lips. “Rafe, god, yes…”
He groans, a raw, guttural sound, and captures your mouth in a searing kiss as he drives into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, his cock pulsing inside you. The feeling of him filling you sends you over the edge again, and you shudder around him, a second, smaller orgasm rippling through your exhausted body.
For a long moment, you just lie there, a tangled, sweaty heap in the back seat of his truck. The only sounds are your combined, ragged breaths slowly returning to normal. The music from the party is just a faint thud now, a reminder of the world you have to go back to.
Eventually, he pushes himself up, pulling out of you gently. He doesn’t say anything as he adjusts his clothes, his movements slow and deliberate. You sit up, pulling your dress back down over your thighs, feeling the ache between your legs, the stickiness on your skin.
He reaches for the door handle, then pauses, looking back at you. In the dim light, his expression is unreadable.
“Your ten minutes are up,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of the passion from moments before.