They always started the same way—innocent enough, at least on the surface. It didn’t matter how much you told him you didn’t need it or how many excuses you tried to make. Rafe didn’t care. He was relentless in his mission to make sure you were taken care of.
“Baby, you’ve been carrying stress all week,” he’d say, his voice laced with that soft, commanding tone that left no room for argument. “Just let me handle it. Let me help.”
And so, you always gave in. How could you not? Especially when his hands were so good at coaxing away every ounce of tension you didn’t even know you had.
Tonight, you were on his bed, stretched out on your stomach, the soft glow of his bedside lamp casting golden light across his sharp features. The sheets beneath you smelled like him—cedarwood and something faintly smoky—and the familiar scent was enough to ease some of the weight pressing on your chest.
Rafe straddled your legs, his hands warm and firm as they worked over your shoulders. His fingers pressed into your skin with practiced precision, finding every knot and coaxing it loose.
“You’re all wound up, princess,” he murmured, his thumbs digging into a particularly tight spot between your shoulder blades. “What’s got you so tense?”
“Life,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by the pillow.
He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through the quiet room. “Good thing I’m here, huh?”
You didn’t answer, too focused on the way his hands worked their magic. His touch was firm yet tender, soothing yet intoxicating. It was almost too easy to lose yourself in the rhythm of his movements, to let your mind wander as his hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your spine.
But with Rafe, it was never just a massage.
The shift happened slowly, subtly at first. His hands lingered on the small of your back, his thumbs brushing against the waistband of your shorts in a way that made your breath hitch. You felt the change in the air, the way it seemed to thicken with something unspoken, something electric.
“Rafe,” you said, your voice soft, tentative.
“Hmm?” His response was casual, almost innocent, but the way his hands moved wasn’t.
His fingertips dipped just below the waistband, tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. “Relax, baby. Let me take care of you.”
Your heart raced, a mix of anticipation and nervousness coursing through your veins. His touch was intoxicating, making it hard to think, hard to breathe.
“You had a rough week,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your shoulder as his hands slid lower. “You deserve to feel good. Daddy’s got you.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly. You couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your body instinctively arching into his touch.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “Just let me do the work.”
He tugged at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them down your legs in one smooth motion. The cool air against your bare skin made you shiver, but the warmth of his hands quickly chased it away. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as his hands skimmed over your thighs, squeezing gently before moving higher.
“You’re so soft,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe as his fingertips traced the curve of your hips. “So perfect.”
Your cheeks burned at his words, but you didn’t have time to dwell on your embarrassment. Not when his fingers were sliding between your legs, finding the damp heat already building there.
“Look at you,” he said, his tone both teasing and adoring. “So puffy, so ready for me.”
A whimper escaped your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily as his fingers pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties. He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with your reaction.
“Rafe,” you gasped, your voice trembling as he slid the fabric aside, his fingers brushing against your bare skin.
“What is it, baby?” he asked, his voice low and dripping with affection. “What do you need?”
“I...” Your words faltered, your mind too foggy with desire to form a coherent thought.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me, princess. I want to hear you say it.”
“I need you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
He groaned softly, his fingers finally sliding inside you, drawing a gasp from your lips.
He moved slowly, deliberately, his fingers curling just right to hit that spot that made you see stars. His free hand slid beneath you, his palm pressing against your stomach to hold you steady as he worked you over.
“Feel that?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. “That’s me taking care of you. That’s me making you feel good.”
You couldn’t answer, too lost in the sensation of his touch, the way his fingers moved inside you with an almost unbearable precision. He took his time, savoring every reaction, every moan and whimper that spilled from your lips.
“You’re so tight,” he muttered, his voice tinged with awe. “So perfect for me.”
Your body trembled beneath him, your hands gripping the sheets as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.
“That’s it, baby,” he said, his tone filled with pride. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
When the wave of pleasure finally crashed over you, it was overwhelming, all-consuming. Your body shook, your vision blurred, and all you could do was hold onto him as he guided you through it.
He didn’t stop, didn’t pull away. His touch remained steady, grounding you as you came down from the high, his lips pressing soft kisses against your shoulders and neck.
“Better?” he asked, his voice soft and filled with genuine concern.
You nodded weakly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you turned to look at him. “Yeah. Better.”
He smiled back, his expression tender as he leaned down to kiss you.
“Good,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “You deserve to feel good, princess. Always.”
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