family thanksgiving with rafe
The house was alive with the warm chaos of Thanksgiving. The smell of roasting turkey wafted through the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Your family filled the rooms with lively conversations, stories, and the occasional outburst of sibling bickering.
Rafe stood at your side, looking every bit the charming Southern gentleman as he greeted your family. His crisp button-up was neatly tucked into dark jeans, and his hair was combed just enough to look presentable but still had that boyish disarray you loved.
For a guy who claimed to be nervous about meeting your family, he was doing an excellent job of keeping his cool.
“You didn’t tell me your mom could cook like this,” Rafe murmured into your ear as you both carried dishes to the dining room. His voice was low, teasing, but the way his hand brushed your lower back as you walked sent a thrill down your spine.
“Behave,” you warned, shooting him a playful glare.
He smirked, but his eyes held a mischievous gleam. “I’m always on my best behavior, sweetheart.”
That was a lie, and you both knew it.
The first time he pulled you aside was when you were refilling your aunt’s wine glass in the kitchen. The others were still in the living room, chatting over appetizers.
“Rafe,” you hissed as his hand closed around your wrist, tugging you into the small pantry just off the kitchen.
“Shh,” he whispered, his lips already brushing yours.
The kiss was quick, soft, and utterly intoxicating. His hands rested on your hips, his thumbs rubbing slow circles that made your knees weak.
“Your mom’s a great cook, but you’re the only snack I care about tonight,” he murmured against your lips, his tone low and suggestive.
You shoved him lightly, a mix of exasperation and giddy laughter bubbling in your chest. “If someone catches us—”
“They won’t.” He kissed you again, longer this time, his lips moving with a confidence that made you forget the world outside the pantry.
The second time was when you were setting the table. He waited until everyone’s backs were turned, then leaned in to whisper something very inappropriate in your ear, making you nearly drop the fork you were holding.
“Rafe!” you scolded, trying to stifle your laughter.
He just grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. “What? I’m just thankful for you, babe.”
By the time everyone gathered around the dining table, you were already on edge—not from the family chaos but from the man sitting beside you. Rafe looked innocent enough, nodding politely as your dad asked him about his job and laughing at your cousin’s awkward jokes. But under the table, his hand had found your thigh.
At first, it was a simple, comforting touch. His palm rested there casually, his thumb rubbing soft, lazy circles just above your knee. You shot him a warning glance, but he didn’t move his hand. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, a silent challenge in the way his lips quirked into a smirk.
The conversation at the table flowed, but your focus was entirely on him. Every time he squeezed your thigh or shifted his fingers, your pulse quickened.
When his hand slid higher, you nearly knocked over your water glass.
“You okay, sweetie?” your mom asked, looking at you with concern.
You forced a smile, your face burning. “Yep! Just clumsy.”
Rafe’s fingers stilled, but you knew it was only temporary.
As the meal continued, his touch became bolder. His fingers ghosted over the hem of your skirt, then dipped just beneath it. The light pressure against your skin sent a shiver up your spine, and you clenched your fists on your lap to keep from reacting.
“Pass the rolls, Rafe,” your uncle said, breaking the tension.
Rafe’s hand disappeared as he leaned forward, grabbing the basket and handing it over with a polite smile. He was the picture of innocence, completely unbothered by the storm he was stirring inside you.
The final straw came when Rafe dropped his fork.
“Shit,” he muttered, letting the utensil clatter to the floor. “I got it.”
You froze, your pulse skyrocketing as he ducked under the table. His movements were casual enough to keep suspicion at bay, but the moment his hand wrapped around your ankle, you knew you were in trouble.
“Rafe,” you hissed through clenched teeth, trying to sound firm, but it came out more like a plea.
“Relax,” he murmured, his voice muffled under the table. “Just getting closer.”
The answer came when his lips pressed softly against the inside of your ankle. A rush of heat shot through you as he trailed kisses up your calf, his hands gently parting your knees.
Your grip tightened on the edge of the table as he moved higher, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just above your knee. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but the warmth of his mouth paired with the occasional graze of his fingers was driving you insane.
“Rafe,” you whispered again, more desperate this time.
“Shh,” he murmured, the vibration of his voice against your skin making you bite your lip to keep from reacting. “Mhm… just let me.”
His lips hovered just beneath the hem of your skirt, teasing in a way that made you squirm. His fingers slid further up, ghosting over your panties, and your stomach tightened as he paused, pressing his thumb against the damp fabric.
“So wet,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quietly for you to catch, but the deep tone sent a shiver down your spine.
You opened your mouth to scold him, but before you could, you felt it—a quick, deliberate kiss over the center of your panties.
Your entire body froze, a gasp threatening to escape as he lingered for a split second longer, his breath warm against the fabric.
“Got it!” Rafe’s voice rang out suddenly, cheerful and innocent as he reappeared with the fork in hand.
He slid back into his seat with a smug grin, completely unbothered by the chaos he’d caused.
You shot him a glare, your cheeks blazing with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “You taste better than dessert, babe,” he whispered, his voice low and raspy, so only you could hear.
Your stomach flipped, and your thighs pressed together under the table. You refused to give him the satisfaction of a response, but judging by the satisfied look on his face, he already knew what kind of effect he had on you.
By the time dinner ended, you were ready to throttle him—and maybe fuck him senseless. As the family moved into the living room for coffee and dessert, Rafe caught your hand, pulling you into the hallway.
“You’re impossible,” you hissed, your voice low.
“And you love it,” he countered, backing you against the wall. His hands found your waist, and his lips were on yours before you could protest. The kiss was slow, deep, and absolutely intoxicating.
When he pulled back, his blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rafe.”
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