warnings: pure domestic sweetness, rafe being daddy (literally), suggestive ending, sexual themes, language (dylan says the f word oops), established relationship, pregnancy mentions
•dylan’s character being based from my book on wattpad.
you spot them before they spot you. outside the barn, golden hour hitting just right. rafe’s crouched low in the grass, wiping the mud off dylan’s tiny converse.
both of them are in matching pale blue shoes, scuffed at the toes. green pants, a little baggy on dylan but rolled up to fit. backwards hats—rafe’s old and sun worn, dylan’s too big for his little head, but he insists on wearing it just like daddy.
you’re toast. done for. emotionally ruined.
“you see mommy?” rafe says, glancing up, spotting you on the porch with that crooked little smirk.
“i see her,” dylan whispers like it’s a secret, eyes wide. “hi mommy!”
he runs, sneakers thudding across the yard, tiny arms flying, and you squat down just in time to catch him against your chest. he smells like sunscreen and grass and something faintly fishy.
“you went fishin’ today?” you ask, pressing a kiss to his sun warmed cheek.
“uh-huh! daddy let me hold the stick. and i got a fish!” he holds his arms apart like it was the size of a shark. “this big.”
rafe finally strolls up behind him, sweat-darkened t-shirt clinging to his back, arms flexed from reeling something in earlier—or so he’ll say.
“wasn’t that big,” rafe mutters, hands sliding into his pockets like he’s not soft about all this.
“was too,” dylan insists, then tugs at your shirt with wide eyes. “mommy… i learned a new wod today.”
you blink. “a new word?”
he nods. seriously. “fuck.”
you freeze.
rafe fucking laughs.
“rafe.” you turn, furious, jaw dropped. “you said fuck in front of him?”
“i didn’t teach him the damn word—he heard me say it when i dropped the bait bucket,” rafe shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “wasn’t directed at anyone. wasn’t violent. just… a natural man-to-man moment.”
“he’s four.”
“four and a half,” dylan says, proudly. “an’ it’s okay mommy. was fun.”
you close your eyes. breathe in, breathe out.
“baby,” you say, crouching to his level. “some words are just for adults, okay? you can’t say that again.”
he nods solemnly. then tilts his head. “but daddy said it four times.”
you glare at rafe.
he lifts both hands, defensive. “it was a slippery bucket,” he offers.
you groan. “you’re so lucky he’s cute.”
rafe steps closer, hands curling around your waist from behind, his voice low in your ear.
“he gets it from you,” he says. “you and that little pout you make when you’re pretend mad.”
you elbow him. “careful, rafe cameron. say another bad word and you’re sleepin’ in the barn.”
“tempting,” he murmurs. “could rope you in there with me. get you nice and loud for the horses.”
you swat him again and he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your jaw before pulling back.
you watch as dylan runs off again to pick wildflowers for you—his new obsession—and when you turn, rafe’s still watching you.
“you’re thinkin’ somethin’,” you say.
“mm,” he hums. “thinkin’ how good you look out here. thinkin’ how good it feels. how sweet he is. how loud it gets when it’s just us three. how quiet it’ll feel when he starts school.”
your eyes soften.
“and thinkin’… i’m ready if you are.”
“for what?” you ask, though you already know.
“for a second one,” he says, brushing his nose against your cheek. “a little girl maybe. or another loud mouth like him.”
you don’t answer right away. you just wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold on for a second longer.
“let me think about it,” you whisper, “but if she looks like you, we’re in trouble.”
“if she looks like you,” he murmurs back, voice dipping, “we’re fucked.”
warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, sleepy morning sex, soft dom rafe, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral fixation, cockwarming, kitchen counter sex, praise kink, cuddling turns into grinding, gentle dirty talk, his flannel + your bare skin, domesticity kink if that’s a thing, second
one two three
you wake up in his bed to the smell of coffee.
his pillow smells like sweat and cedarwood. the sheets are soft and warm. your legs are sticky.
you don’t remember falling asleep, just his name in your mouth, your dress hanging from his tailgate, and his arms wrapped around you like a vow.
when you shuffle into the kitchen, the sun’s barely up.
you’re barefoot. bare-legged. wearing nothing but his flannel.
he’s shirtless, back turned, pan on the stove. and when he hears your footsteps, he turns around slow, eyes dragging over your thighs like they belong to him.
he smiles. it’s soft. sleepy. devastating.
“good morning, sweetheart.”
you melt.“you’re up early,” you murmur.
he shrugs, flipping eggs. “couldn’t sleep. you were makin’ all these little sounds.”
you freeze. “i was?”
“mhm.” he grins. “whimperin’. grindin’ on my thigh.”
your face burns. “shut up.”
he chuckles, deep and low. “you liked it though. even in your sleep, you wanted it.”
your legs cross.
he sets the pan down. crosses the kitchen. stops right in front of you—big, shirtless, and already hard behind his sweats.
his voice drops. “still want it?”
your eyes flutter shut. “yes,” you whisper.
he grabs your waist and lifts you onto the counter like it’s nothing.
his hands push the flannel up. his mouth kisses the top of your thigh.
he doesn’t say a word while he licks you open.
just hums low, tongue slow and expert. like he’s learning you. like this is breakfast.
you cum on his tongue with your fingers in his hair, back arched over the cold counter.
“good girl,” he murmurs, standing. “real good for me.”
you’re still shaking when he grabs your hips again, pulls you to the edge, and lines himself up, bare, thick, and already leaking.
“’m not gonna last long,” he mutters, kissing your jaw. “not with you in my fuckin’ shirt. lookin’ like my wife.”
you gasp.he slips in anyway.
slow. deep
“holy shit,” he breathes, hands on your thighs. “tightest fuckin’—mmph.”
your moan catches in your throat. you clench around him.
“you want me to fill you up again, baby?” he whispers, lips dragging down your neck. “wanna start your morning with my cum drippin’ outta you?”
you nod fast, already there, already throbbing around him.
“yeah, you do,” he pants, fucking into you rougher now. “my girl. my fuckin’ sunshine.”
you cum hard.
he follows, mouth open against your shoulder, hands digging into your hips, body pressed tight to yours while he pulses inside you.
you stay like that. connected.
his forehead resting against yours,
“you want eggs?” he mumbles a minute later, breathless
you giggle, still dazed. “not if they’re burnt.”
he grins, kisses your cheek. “we’ll start over.”
“yeah?”
“with eggs. then lunch. then dinner. then the rest of our fuckin’ lives.”
your throat tightens. he kisses your nose.
“what d’you say, pretty girl?” he whispers. “wanna be my farmer’s wife?”
✯ hi angels, this is where all my Rafe Cameron works are. whether you’re here for the angst, the smut—or just because Rafe ruined your life a little(fucking same), there’s a place for you here ✯
✯ this blog is a safe space. you’re always welcome ✯
taglist 🎱
(if you want to be added or removed, just send me a message or an ask, i got you)
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✯ thank you for being here. truly. your support means everything to me.
now go ahead… scroll back up. rafe’s waiting for you. ✯
warnings: established relationship / sexual themes / farmer!rafe / cherry imagery / suggestive as hell / rafe calling reader baby multiple times / kissing, touching, possessiveness, and one moment that will make you blush / 18+ language / mdni
the sun is hot and high, slanting across the orchard like syrup, warm enough to make your tank top cling to your back and your thighs stick to the top of the ladder you’ve been balancing on.
your hand wraps around the branch. you reach for another ripe cherry, fingers brushing its little stem like a promise.
behind you, you hear the slow crunch of boots against dry grass.
“baby.”
you don’t turn yet—just smile to yourself and drop another cherry into the wooden basket.
“mm?”
“you tryna kill me?”
his voice is deep, playful but rough, laced with that edge he always gets when he’s watching you for too long. like you’ve got no idea what you’re doing. like you know exactly what you’re doing.
you twist slightly, glancing down. rafe’s standing below with his hat tilted back, eyes locked on your legs.
“you mean picking cherries?” you tease, smirking down at him. “i’m working.”
“you’re bending.”
“gotta reach.”
he hums, sliding his hand along the ladder rail. “all i see is that pretty ass in those tiny shorts.”
you toss him a cherry.
he catches it in one hand, brings it to his lips, and eats it.
“show off.”
“you like it when i show off,” he grins, licking juice off his thumb. “now c’mere.”
“i’m not done—”
“baby,” he cuts you off, voice low and final. “c’mere.”
you don’t argue again.
not when he’s looking at you like that. like he’s starving and you’ve been hanging there all summer, waiting for him to bite.
he helps you down—big hands at your waist, grip firm but careful. like you’re something delicate he could ruin but never would.
you land against his chest, all warm skin and sweat-slicked forearms. his shirt is somewhere else—probably abandoned by the barn an hour ago—and his skin smells like sun and cut grass and salt.
“you’re burning up,” you murmur.
“you too,” he smirks. “fuckin’ glowing.”
your nose brushes his. “you’re such a flirt.”
“you’re such a tease.”
you pluck a cherry from the branch right above your head and hold it up between your fingers. “you want one?”
he licks his lips, eyes locked on your mouth.
“feed me, baby.”
you grin and pop half the cherry between your lips, holding the rest out in invitation.
he doesn’t hesitate.
he leans in and bites the other half, lips brushing yours, juice dripping down both your chins. the seed slips free and falls, forgotten in the grass.
he doesn’t pull away. not all the way.
just hovers there. eyes half-lidded. wild. feral.
“sweet,” he murmurs, voice like crushed velvet. “but not as sweet as you.”
you gasp when he spins you and presses your back against the tree.
his hands are on your hips, pushing you hard into the bark, his mouth kissing and biting down your throat like it’s his. because it is.
his voice is low against your ear. “i don’t care how many damn cherries you picked, baby. i’m not lettin’ you walk around this orchard lookin’ like that without remindin’ you who you belong to.”
you moan softly. “rafe…”
“say it again.”
“rafe.”
“good girl.”
his hand slides up your shirt, palm rough and warm against your stomach.
you arch into him, mouth parted. “someone might see—”
“let ‘em,” he growls. “maybe they’ll finally stop flirtin’ with my girl at the damn market.”
you whimper when his teeth graze your collarbone. “i didn’t flirt.”
“you smiled.”
“i smile at everyone.”
“you don’t smile at me like that when we’re out,” he hisses, slipping a hand beneath your waistband. “so now i gotta make you smile like that here.”
you’re panting now, clawing at his bare back, grounding yourself against the tree.
“you’re mine,” he breathes against your lips. “say it.”
“i’m yours,” you whisper.
“louder.”
“i’m yours.”
“that’s my girl.”
he doesn’t fuck you in the orchard.
not all the way.
he makes you want it first.
makes you squirm and beg and whimper while he kisses down your neck, while his hands roam your skin like he’s mapping out every inch of it for later.
you’re flushed and dizzy, thighs shaking, when he finally backs off just enough to look at your face.
he brushes your hair from your eyes and kisses your forehead. “c’mon, baby.”
“where?”
“barn,” he grins. “you can finish beggin’ in there.”
warnings: 18+mdni!!! fingering, oral (f receiving), praise + filth, overstimulation, dirty talk, truck bed sex, thigh grabbing, spit, lowkey worship kink, p in v sex, riding, unprotected (don’t), praise kink, possessiveness, rafe’s hands don’t leave your body once, use of “baby,” “sweetheart,” “pretty girl,” very vocal rafe, rough & slow, he is so in love with you
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your white dress is already wrinkled, bunched up around your hips. your back hits the blanket he laid out—soft from the sun, still warm.
he stares down at you like he can’t believe you’re real.
like you’re more beautiful than the land he’s spent his whole life working.
“spread your legs, baby,” he murmurs, voice low. “lemme see what i’ve been missin’.”
your breath catches. you part your thighs slowly.
he sinks to his knees.
and when he looks up at you from between them—broad shoulders framed by twilight, lips already shiny from your last kiss—you know you’re done for.
“fuck,” he breathes, dragging two fingers up your slit. “you’re soaked.”
you whimper.
“this all for me?” he asks, teasing, cocky, sweet and filthy all at once. “for your local fruit vendor?”
you nod.“rafe, please.”
he grins. “you beg real pretty, sunshine.”
then he leans in. his mouth is hot, tongue slow at first, then hungry. he eats you out like he’s starving. like it’s the best meal he’s had in years. palms pressed to your thighs, holding you open, holding you down.
“so fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “tastes better than anything i’ve grown.”
you’re gasping now, hands in his hair, grinding up against his mouth.
he spits on you, spreads it with his thumb, watches you shake.
“there she is,” he mutters, kissing your inner thigh. “my good girl. so fuckin’ good for me.”
your legs are trembling.
he slips two fingers in—crooked just right—and your back arches hard.
“gonna cum,” you cry, breathless.
“yeah?” he pants, fingers fucking into you fast and deep. “give it to me, baby. make a mess on my fuckin’ hand.”
you fall apart like it’s nothing. loud, messy, legs shaking around his shoulders.
but he doesn’t stop. not right away.
he kisses your thigh, then your knee, then climbs over you slowly.
you feel the press of his cock through his jeans—hard and heavy between your legs—and you’re still buzzing, still trying to breathe.
“you good?” he murmurs, nose brushing yours.
you nod, barely.
“just needed to taste you,” he says, voice thick with want. “but now i’m thinkin’ about how good you’ll look ridin’ me in the back of this truck.”
you blink up at him. he grins.
“you up for it, or you need me to take you home and ruin you in a bed instead?”
you smile.“both.”
his laugh is low and sinful. “my kinda girl.”
he lays back, muscles stretched across the bed of his truck, tan skin kissed gold by the moon.
you straddle him slow, thighs shaking, dress bunched up around your hips, panties long gone, probably somewhere near the peach crates.
he’s looking up at you like he’s praying.
hands on your hips. breath shallow.
“go on, baby,” he murmurs, voice deep and hoarse. “sit on it. lemme feel heaven.”
you grip the base of his cock, heart in your throat, and sink down onto him—inch by inch.
he’s thick.
too thick. he stretches you open like it’s the first time all over again.
his hands tremble on your waist. “fuck me,” he breathes, jaw clenched. “tightest fuckin’—jesus, you’re squeezin’ me like you own me.”
you whimper, fully seated now. your palms on his chest. your white dress slipping off one shoulder.
“feels so good,” you whisper, rocking your hips just once, barely.
he shudders. his head thunks back.
“you know how long i’ve wanted this?” he growls, voice rough, almost angry. “how many nights i had to fuck my hand thinkin’ about you in this dress? touchin’ yourself in some sweet little bed while i was out here gettin’ dirt under my nails—starvin’ for you?”
you moan, riding slow. wet. deep. connected.
his hands are everywhere, up your sides, gripping your ass, dragging the neckline of your dress down to watch your tits bounce.
“rafe—”
“you’re mine now,” he cuts in, breath hot, voice shaking. “mine, baby. no one else gets to see you like this. no one else gets to have you like this.”
your head drops to his shoulder, hips picking up pace. every drag of him inside you lights another fuse. it’s all so raw, so much skin, so much want.
he thrusts up once, hard.
you gasp. he does it again.
“you like that?” he pants, hand sliding to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. anchoring.
“you like ridin’ me under the fuckin’ stars like some goddamn dream?”
you nod, crying out when he hits that spot again.
“say it.”
“i—i love it,” you whisper, broken. “fuck, i love it.”
“you like me?” he says suddenly, quieter.
you freeze. still full of him. chest pressed to his.
he looks up at you. eyes glassy. serious. “i think you do,” he says, palm over your heart. “you’d never let me fuck you like this if you didn’t.”
your lip trembles.
his thumb strokes your ribs. “tell me, sweetheart.”
you breathe in shaky. and exhale the truth“i like you.”
his throat works. he sits up, holding you close, cock still buried deep.
kisses your shoulder. your cheek. your mouth.
“’m gonna take care of you,” he murmurs, rocking his hips up into you slow. “build us a house, grow your favorite fuckin’ flowers, kiss you in the kitchen every night before dinner.”
you whimper.
“gonna put a ring on your finger,” he pants. “fill you up, too. make you a mama. you want that, don’t you?”
you nod frantically.
“ride me, baby,” he whispers, voice breaking. “ride me and take it. every inch, every drop.i’m yours.”
you move. harder this time.
deeper.
his hands never leave you. your skin never cools. the stars burn overhead like they know exactly what’s happening beneath them.
you cry his name when you cum.
and he follows right after, spilling into you with a guttural moan, hands clutching you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.
you collapse on top of him. both of you covered in sweat, dirt, peach juice, and shameless sin.
he’s the first to speak, voice soft:
“still want those peaches tomorrow?”
you smile into his neck. “just one.”
his fingers run down your back. “good,” he whispers. “’cause you’re gettin’ me too.”
warnings: 18+ only, mdni. daddy’s farm, forbidden love, sneaking in, possessiveness, pet names, filthy talk, soft lighting but nasty behavior.
you woke up to sunlight bleeding through your thin curtains—amber and soft, like melted honey spilling across your sheets. the birds were already loud, the roosters louder, and somewhere downstairs your daddy was probably sipping his coffee, boots on, talking about weather or tractors on the porch with his foreman.
but none of that mattered right now.
what mattered was the slight squeak of your bedroom window.
you didn’t even flinch. just turned your head on the pillow, still heavy with sleep, and saw the messy curls first. that cap pulled low, the collar of his worn denim shirt half unbuttoned already. rafe. farmer boy with a bad mouth and worse timing. he slipped through the window like he’d done it a hundred times before.
because he had. “quiet,” you whispered, eyes flicking toward the door.
he just smirked. “quiet ain’t really in my skillset, baby.”
his boots were off before he even reached the bed, crawling over your legs like he belonged there. like this was his morning ritual. maybe it was. you didn’t stop him.
“you know my daddy’s home,” you muttered, voice already shaky as his hand slid under the sheets, fingers tracing the bare skin of your thigh. “he’ll kill you.”
rafe hummed like that was sweet music. “worth it.”
his mouth was on your neck before you could push him away—not that you would’ve. his stubble scraped gently as he kissed just under your ear, tongue hot, breath hotter. he smelled like hay, like sun and skin and a trace of cigarettes. like rafe.
“window was unlocked,” he murmured against your jaw. “that mean you wanted me here?”
“window’s always unlocked,” you whispered back.
“so i’m always welcome?”
“no,” you breathed, “just lucky.”
his hand dipped lower, palming your hip, his thumb dragging slow circles against skin that wasn’t meant to be touched like this with your family under the same roof.
“you look so pretty in this light,” rafe whispered, voice low, dangerous. “soft little thing.”
you swallowed. his mouth brushed your collarbone. “rafe…”
“don’t start with that good girl tone,” he chuckled darkly. “you’re the one lettin’ me in. letting me do this.”
you bit your lip when his thigh pressed between yours, parting them just enough.
you hated how good he looked this early. the veins in his forearms, the shadows of last night’s sweat dried into his shirt. dirt under his fingernails. your parents would say he wasn’t proper. not the kind of man you were supposed to love. but that didn’t stop you from reaching up and tugging his shirt collar, pulling him down until your noses brushed.
his smile dropped. “kiss me,” he said, voice gruff. “c’mon.”
you did. soft at first, but he deepened it, desperate, like he’d been starving for you. his knee shifted between your legs again and the friction made your breath catch.
“careful,” you warned. “he’s—”
“i know,” rafe whispered, cutting you off, voice filthy against your lips. “trust me, i know.”
his hips rolled once. slow. sinful. suggestive.
you bit back a sound, eyes fluttering closed. his hand grabbed your chin, tilting it up.
“eyes on me.”
you opened them. gold light spilled across his features, painting him in something holy and dangerous at once.
“i hate that i have to sneak in to see you,” he murmured.
“i hate that you do too.”
“so make it worth it,” he said, kissing your throat now, pressing closer, hand slipping up under your oversized tee. “tell me you missed me.”
“i did.”
“how much?”
“enough to let you in again.”
rafe’s grin was devilish. “good.”
he kissed you again, deeper this time, while the house around you stayed still. for now.
you could hear the creak of wood settling downstairs. maybe the coffee pot. maybe boots scraping across the porch.
but up here—it was just him. his hands. his mouth. that deep, southern-drawl rasp pressed against your throat like a secret.
“your daddy ever come up here this early?” rafe whispered, breath hot as his hand trailed up your bare thigh again, slipping beneath the hem of your sleep shirt like he owned you. like this was his house.
“no,” you whispered. “but he could.”
“mm,” he hummed, teeth scraping your skin. “you like that, don’t you? being bad.”
you didn’t answer. didn’t need to. your back arched on instinct when his palm splayed flat on your stomach, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles beneath your navel.
he grinned against your collarbone. “so soft.”
you hated how much you melted for him. how much you loved the way he looked at you, like you weren’t a preacher’s daughter or a well-brought-up small town girl—no. rafe looked at you like you were something he’d ruin. something he already had.
“you’re really gonna get caught one day,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut when his hand dipped lower. “and i’m not gonna save your ass when it happens.”
“sure you won’t,” he murmured, kissing up your jawline. “you say that every time.”
he shifted on top of you, slow, letting you feel the weight of him. your thighs instinctively squeezed around his hips, a silent pull. a please.
“just let me look at you,” he whispered.
you blinked up at him, breath uneven, as rafe pushed your shirt up to your ribs and stared. nothing rushed.
no need to fake softness—it was real. golden light poured in through your curtain, catching the edge of his eyes, those sharp cheekbones, the hollow of his throat. he looked like a goddamn painting.
“jesus,” he muttered, voice half-wrecked. “you’re driving me crazy.”
you reached up, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging softly. “then do something about it.”
his eyes narrowed. darkened. “you sure?”
you didn’t answer. just bit your lip and dragged your nails down his back. hard.
he hissed, grinding into you once, slow enough to make you gasp.
“fuck, baby…” he whispered. “you keep doing that, i’m not gonna last long.”
“then go slow,” you whispered. “make it last.”
his smirk returned—lazy, arrogant, dangerous.
“oh, i plan on it.”
he leaned in and kissed you, and this time it wasn’t sweet. it was deep. greedy. his tongue teased yours, his hand gripping your hip like he could brand you with just a touch.
“you feel this?” he rasped against your mouth, rolling his hips again. “been hard since last night just thinking about you.”
your nails scraped his neck. “shut up and—”
a sharp knock echoed through the house.
both of you froze.
“baby girl?” your daddy’s voice. clear. downstairs. “you up?”
your heart jumped.
rafe’s hand immediately covered your mouth as he flattened against you, wide-eyed, grinning.
you smacked his chest. he grinned harder.
“yeah!” you called out, muffled by his palm. “just—getting dressed!”
“breakfast in ten,” your father called, then walked away.
you lay there under rafe, breathless, your heart beating out of your chest, and he just… laughed. low. breathy. that cocky, sinful laugh like he wasn’t just seconds away from getting shot.
he leaned down, kissed your cheek. “told you,” he whispered. “worth it.”
warnings: sexual content / farmer!rafe / established relationship / rough & passionate / light restraint / overstimulation / dirty talk / “baby” use / he’s obsessed with the reader / mdni
the barn door creaks behind you, thick summer air curling around your ankles.
the floor’s dusty. smells like hay, sweat, and old wood. warm from the sun baking the roof all day. it’s quiet, except for the hum of cicadas outside and the steady thud of your heartbeat.
you barely make it past the doorway before rafe spins you.
his mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and desperation, like he’s been needing this for weeks and not just since he saw you up on that ladder.
he kicks the door shut behind you. it slams with finality.
“take your top off,” he mutters.
you breathe out a laugh against his lips. “yes, farmer.”
he grins darkly. “that’s fuckin’ right.”
you peel your tank top over your head and toss it into a pile of burlap sacks, chest rising and falling. your nipples harden in the warm barn air.
rafe stares, jaw tight. “jesus christ.”
“what?”
“you wanna act all innocent pickin’ cherries, but you come out here braless, wearin’ nothin’ but them little shorts, lookin’ at me with those eyes?”
he steps closer, hand sliding behind your neck, thumb resting at your pulse. “you wanted this.”
you blink up at him. “what if i did?”
he growls and lifts you—just like that—hands gripping your ass and carrying you like you weigh nothing.
you gasp as he drops you down onto a hay bale. it creaks under your weight. loose straw sticks to the backs of your thighs.
he leans over you, caging you in with his arms.
“look at you,” he murmurs, eyes dark, voice thick. “pretty lil’ thing. my baby.”
you drag your nails up his stomach, over the sweat and dirt smeared on his skin. “take your jeans off.”
“no ‘please?’”
“please,” you whisper, breathless.
his pants hit the floor.
he’s hard already—painfully so—and the way his cock slaps against his stomach makes your eyes flutter.
“you see what you do to me?” he mutters. “i ain’t even touched you yet, and look at this.”
you whimper. “then touch me.”
he kneels between your thighs and pulls your shorts down slow, kissing your inner thigh, tongue brushing the sensitive skin until you’re squirming.
he licks once—just one teasing stripe—and smirks when you gasp.
“so fuckin’ wet already,” he growls. “fuck, baby.”
you bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, but he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.
“nu-uh,” he grins. “you’re not runnin’ this show.”
“but—”
“who makes you feel this good?”
“you do.”
“who’s the only one that gets to taste this sweet lil’ pussy?”
“you.”
“damn right.”
he eats like it’s his job.
no, worse—like it’s his last meal.
lips, tongue, teeth—he gives you everything. sloppy, unrelenting, grunting into you like he’s been starved.
you cry out, hips bucking, thighs trembling around his head.
“stay still,” he growls.
“i can’t—”
he grabs your hips and holds you down, strong hands leaving imprints in your skin. “yes you fuckin’ can.”
you fall apart a minute later—eyes rolled back, mouth open, moaning his name like a prayer.
he doesn’t stop.
he licks you through it, lets you ride the wave until you’re twitching from overstimulation, sobbing, chest heaving.
only then does he finally come up for air, face glistening, chin soaked.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in and kisses you like he didn’t just ruin you.
“bend over,” he says.
“rafe—”
“bend. over.”
you obey—legs still trembling, hands gripping the hay bale as you lean over it.
he runs a palm down your back.
“look at you. perfect fuckin’ view.”
he slides in slow—inch by inch—until he’s fully inside, buried to the hilt.
you moan like you’ve never felt him before.
“fuck, baby,” he groans, breath shaking. “you always so tight after i eat you out like that?”
you nod, barely able to speak.
“gonna fuckin’ wreck you.”
and he does.
hips snapping, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. his thrusts are deep, filthy, relentless. the sound of skin slapping skin fills the barn, echoing off the rafters.
you’re moaning his name like a song. again and again. dizzy, stupid, ruined.
“say you’re mine,” he pants.
“i’m yours.”
“say it again.”
“i’m yours, rafe. fuck, i’m yours.”
he reaches around and rubs circles on your clit, fast and messy.
you choke on a gasp. “rafe—”
“that’s it, baby,” he grunts. “cum for me. i got you.”
you fall again. hard. legs shaking, vision blurring.
he follows with a deep, broken moan, spilling inside you with a final, punishing thrust.
you collapse onto the hay bale, boneless and limp.
he kisses your shoulder, then your spine. “you alright, baby?”
you giggle weakly. “barely.”
“good.”
he tucks himself back into his jeans and helps you stand, one arm around your waist to keep you steady.
“you still hungry?” he asks, smug.
“i was cherry picking, remember?”
he pulls another from his pocket—stolen from your basket—and holds it between his lips.
