ex!husband!rafe baby trapping you… again
warnings: manipulation, baby trapping, rafe being arrogant and condescending, explicit content 18+
wc: 1,643 — a/n: i went a little crazy with this but i’m kinda obsessed with ex!husband!rafe
you pull into the driveway of rafe’s ostentatious mansion, tires crunching on the pristine gravel, and already you’re irritated. the place is a monument to his ego—towering columns, a fountain that probably cost more than your car, and those floor-to-ceiling windows that scream look at me. it’s sunday, 6 p.m., and your son’s supposed to be packed and ready for pickup. except the house looks dead quiet—no little boy barreling out to tackle you with hugs. you grit your teeth, haul yourself out of the car, and stomp up to the door, banging on it with the side of your fist.
it swings open, and there he is—rafe cameron, your ex-husband, the human equivalent of a migraine you can’t shake. he’s leaning against the frame, white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, showing off that infuriatingly sculpted torso. a glass of whiskey dangles from his fingers, ice clinking as he swirls it, and his lips twitch into that smug, lopsided grin that makes you want to slap him—or worse, kiss him.
“well, well,” he drawls, voice dripping with condescension. “look who’s gracing my doorstep. early, too. miss me that much, sweetheart?”
you glare, arms crossing tight over your chest. “where’s our son, rafe? don’t play games with me.”
he takes a slow, deliberate sip of his whiskey, letting the silence hang heavy just to mess with you. “oh, him? yeah, he’s at a sleepover. didn’t i mention that?” his brows lift, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eyes says he planned this down to the second.
“no, you didn’t,” you snap, voice rising. “you purposely didn’t, you manipulative—”
“easy, easy,” he cuts in, stepping aside with a lazy wave of his hand. “no need to storm off. come in. i’ve got dinner.”
you should turn around. you know you should. but then you smell it—garlic, rich tomato sauce, the unmistakable aroma of your favorite italian takeout from that little spot downtown you used to drag him to. your stomach betrays you with a growl, and rafe’s smirk widens, like he’s already won.
“got your usual,” he says, voice low and coaxing, stepping closer until you can feel the heat radiating off him. “figured you’d be starving after all that… hard work you do.”
it’s a dig—he’s always loved reminding you how “cute” your post-divorce life is compared to his empire of excess. you clench your jaw, but your feet move anyway, carrying you past the threshold. one dinner. that’s it. then you’re gone.
the takeout’s laid out on his ridiculous marble island, a spread that’s way too much for two people—pasta, bruschetta, tiramisu, the works. he pours you a glass of wine without asking, sliding it across the counter with a smug, “whiskey’s too harsh for you, princess. stick to what you know.”
you roll your eyes but take it, sipping just to prove a point. he’s lounging across from you, shirt still half-open, watching you eat like it’s a damn performance. one glass becomes two, then three, and soon you’re tipsy, the room softening around the edges. he’s telling some story about a client overpaying for a yacht, his voice all smooth and mocking, and you’re laughing despite yourself—because he’s still got that stupid charm that hooked you years ago.
“see?” he says, leaning closer, his knee brushing yours under the counter. “you’re always better off here. loosen up a little.”
his hand grazes your wrist when he refills your glass, lingering just long enough to send a shiver up your spine. you should pull away. you don’t. the wine’s buzzing in your veins, and he’s looking at you like you’re prey he’s been stalking for months—smug, hungry, knowing. before you can process it, he’s rounding the counter, tugging you off the stool with that effortless strength that always made you weak.
“c’mere,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave, and then you’re in his arms, stumbling toward the master bedroom like it’s inevitable.
the bedroom’s all rafe—dark wood, crisp white sheets, a king-sized bed that’s probably worth more than your mortgage. he’s got you pinned against it in seconds, mouth crashing into yours, all teeth and heat and desperation. his hands roam everywhere—up your sides, gripping your hips, sliding under your shirt to yank it over your head with a rough, “off. now.”
you’re too far gone to fight it, hands fumbling with his shirt buttons until he just rips it open himself, smirking down at you like he’s doing you a favor. “that’s it, sweetheart,” he mutters against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “always so needy for me, huh?”
“shut up,” you hiss, but it’s weak, and he knows it. his laugh is low and condescending, vibrating against your skin as he kisses down your collarbone, hands shoving your jeans down with zero patience. he’s pressing you back onto the bed, climbing over you, all broad shoulders and whiskey breath, and you hate how much you want this.
“look at you,” he says, voice thick with arrogance as he settles between your thighs, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. “divorced me, moved out, and you’re still right back here. couldn’t stay away, could you?”
you glare up at him, but he just grins, dragging his free hand down your stomach, slow and deliberate, until he’s pressing hard against your lower abdomen. “gonna give me another one,” he murmurs, eyes dark and locked on yours. “you’re mine, always will be.”
there’s no condom in sight—he doesn’t even pretend to reach for one—and you don’t stop him, too caught up in the heat of his mouth on yours, the way he’s kissing you like he owns you. he’s rough, relentless, sliding into you with a groan that’s pure smug satisfaction, like he’s proving a point. “fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, hips snapping against yours, deep and possessive. “knew you’d come running back.”
his hand stays on your stomach, pressing down just enough to make you gasp, and he smirks against your lips. “gonna fill you up, princess. make sure you don’t forget who you belong to.” he’s going harder now, all control and condescension, whispering filthy praise in your ear—“so fucking perfect for me,” “gonna look so good carrying my kid again,”—until you’re a trembling mess beneath him, clinging to his shoulders as he pushes you over the edge.
he follows right after, burying himself deep with a low, “that’s it, take it,” and you’re too blissed out to care about the consequences, lost in the haze of him—his weight, his scent, his infuriating victory.
—
you wake up alone, sheets tangled around your legs, head throbbing like a drum. the room’s too quiet, and there’s a note on the nightstand in rafe’s sloppy handwriting: “work called. coffee’s in the kitchen. you’re welcome. — r” you groan, rolling over to bury your face in the pillow, cursing yourself for last night. how does he always do this?
you drag yourself to his stupidly huge shower—marble, rainfall heads, the works—muttering about his overpriced body wash and the fact that you’re even here. you dig through his closet after, finding that old sundress of yours shoved in the back—floral, faded, a ghost of your pre-divorce life. it barely fits, clinging to your hips, and you hate how it makes you feel soft for him all over again.
you’re stomping around his mansion now, checking your son’s room—his little clothes are neat, toys in place, and it only fuels your grumbling. “fucking rafe,” you mutter, glaring at that gaudy gold lamp in the hall. “thinks he’s so fancy with his dumb rich-guy shit.” you don’t know he’s watching—sprawled in his office chair downtown, feet up, smirking at his phone as the security feed catches every word. he zooms in on you tugging at the dress, muttering about his “pretentious bullshit,” and he chuckles to himself. “still feisty,” he says, sipping his coffee. “love that about you.”
you leave in a huff, determined to put last night behind you. work’s a blur—meetings, emails, pretending you’re not replaying every second of rafe’s hands on you—and by the time you pull into your driveway, your cozy little house feels like a sanctuary. until you see him.
rafe’s leaning against his range rover, parked right in your spot, arms crossed, a handful of designer shopping bags at his feet. he’s in a crisp polo now, looking every bit the smug bastard he is, and that grin’s back—wide, knowing, maddening.
“what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, slamming your car door so hard it echoes.
he doesn’t flinch, just straightens up, sauntering over with the bags. “brought a little something for our newest addition.” he nudges the bags toward you—chanel onesies, a prada blanket, a tiny leather jacket that’s absurdly expensive. “gotta start ‘em young, right?”
your heart stops. “what are you talking about?”
he steps closer, crowding you against your car, voice dropping to that slow, patronizing drawl. “c’mon, sweetheart. you’re late, aren’t you? two weeks, by my count. don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
you freeze, mind spinning. the dates line up—last night, the wine, the no-condom recklessness—and your stomach twists. he sees it, the realization dawning, and his smirk turns downright triumphant.
“yep,” he says, popping the p like an asshole, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “guess i still got it. you and me? we’re a package deal, princess.” he leans in, lips grazing your ear as he whispers, “should’ve known you’d never really leave.”
you want to shove him, scream, anything—but he’s already strolling past you, bags in hand, letting himself into your house like it’s his. “where should i put these?” he calls over his shoulder, all casual arrogance. “nursery’s upstairs, right?”
and the worst part? you’re standing there, keys dangling uselessly, wondering how he’s still got you wrapped around his finger—and if you even mind.
