rafe cameron 𖦹 according to the app.
pairing – husband!rafe cameron x wife!reader summary – rafe spends an entire company dinner looking unfairly attractive, leaving mrs cameron with very little patience by the time they reach the front door. warnings – 18+, explicit smut, oral sex, unprotected sex, cycle tracking used as birth control, possible pregnancy risk, consensual roughness, hand around throat, multiple orgasms, dirty talk and aftercare notes from me – NO BC I SAID THE MULLET AND MOUSTACHE IS WHAT I PICTURED WHEN THEY GOT PREGNANT W LILA SOOOO word count – 5.1k
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By the time dessert arrives, she’s spent nearly three hours pretending her husband doesn’t look like somebody designed him specifically to ruin a perfectly respectable company dinner.
It’s not going well.
Rafe is seated beside her at the long table, one arm hooked loosely over the back of her chair while he listens to a man from Charleston explain zoning amendments with the grave confidence of somebody who has never once been made to sit through a primary-school assembly.
The private dining room is warm with low amber lighting and expensive conversation, every polished glass catching the flame from the candles between arrangements of white flowers. Someone near the far end laughs too loudly. Silverware clicks against china.
Rafe nods at something the man says, mouth pressing briefly into a thoughtful line beneath the small moustache he has spent the past two weeks insisting makes him look distinguished.
It doesn’t. It makes him look obscene.
The white button-up probably isn’t helping. Neither are the sleeves folded neatly to his forearms, the dark watch against his wrist or the way his collar has loosened by one button since they arrived.
His hair has grown out from the buzz cut, short and rough around the sides but long enough on top that he has pushed his fingers through it repeatedly all night, leaving it slightly disordered.
Older than the boy she fell in love with, broader through the shoulders than the man she married, settled into himself in a way he never believed he would be allowed to become.
A father of two, discussing permits over red wine while his thumb moves beneath her hair and strokes the back of her neck.
She presses her thighs together beneath the table. Rafe’s thumb stills. Nobody else would notice. His expression remains composed as he asks a question about the development schedule, voice low and measured, but his palm settles more firmly against the nape of her neck and his eyes cut toward her for less than a second.
That’s enough. She looks down at her untouched dessert before her face can betray her. The fitted dress had seemed like a good idea at home, smooth and close through the waist with narrow straps and a neckline low enough that Rafe had walked into their bedroom, stopped in the doorway and forgotten whatever he had come upstairs to say.
Now the fabric feels too tight against her skin. Every breath moves her chest against it. The slit has fallen open over one thigh beneath the table, and when she shifts, Rafe’s gaze drops there with no attempt at subtlety at all.
His thumb begins moving again. Slowly.
She reaches for her wine, discovers the glass is empty and immediately resents whoever allowed that to happen.
“You alright?” Rafe asks, sliding the question effortlessly beneath the conversation continuing around them.
“Mhm.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “Hot?”
She turns her face toward him. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Yeah?” His hand leaves the back of her chair long enough to reach for his water, but his fingers drag lightly across her bare shoulder on the way, raising a sharp line of sensation down her spine. “Haven’t even said anything to you.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
Rafe drinks, eyes staying on hers over the rim of the glass. His moustache darkens slightly where the water touches it, which is a ridiculous thing to notice and an even more ridiculous thing for her body to respond to, but sixteen years of knowing him have stripped her of higher reasoning.
He sets the glass down. “You’ve been staring at my mouth since we got here.”
“I have not.”
“Baby.”
She picks up her spoon and cuts into the dessert she has no intention of eating. “You look stupid.”
His smile arrives slowly, private despite the crowded table. “You wanna go home?”
Her spoon stops against the plate. Rafe glances toward the man still speaking beside him, then back at her, brows lifting with false innocence. Beneath the table, his hand settles on her thigh where the dress has opened, the heat of his palm startling even though she has been waiting for it all night. His thumb strokes once over the inside of her knee.
She leans closer, putting her mouth near his ear under the pretence of saying something appropriate enough for company. “Sarah said the kids are asleep. She’s happy for them to just stay there.”
His fingers tighten. “Both of them?” he asks.
“Banks tried to convince John B that nine is old enough to watch a horror movie. Marlowe ate three marshmallows and passed out on the couch.”
Rafe gives a faint nod, his attention returning to the table as though this information has not just changed the entire architecture of the evening. His hand travels higher beneath the tablecloth, following the exposed line of her thigh until his smallest finger slips beneath the edge of her dress.
“We should probably stay for coffee,” he murmurs.
She turns to stare at him. His expression lasts perhaps two seconds before the grin breaks through. She digs her fingernails into his wrist, and Rafe catches her hand, lifts it from beneath the table and presses his mouth to her knuckles with a calm that would be convincing if his eyes hadn’t gone so dark.
They last another seven minutes. Rafe says goodnight to three people, shakes two hands and abandons a conversation with the company’s finance director so abruptly that she nearly laughs on the way out.
His hand stays at the small of her back through the restaurant, fingers spread across the thin fabric of her dress, guiding her past white-clothed tables and the discreet glances of employees who will absolutely discuss their departure on Monday morning.
At the valet stand, he crowds in behind her under the awning, chest brushing her back while rain spits lightly against the pavement.
“You couldn’t wait until coffee?” she asks.
Rafe bends his head, mouth close to her temple. “You’re the one who told me the kids were staying at Sarah’s.”
She looks up at his innocently. “That was relevant family information.”
“Mm.”
His palm slides around her waist, pressing her back against him. The hard shape of him beneath his trousers answers the rest.
She turns her head enough that her cheek catches against his. “Jesus Christ.”
“Been like this since you came downstairs.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“I did.” His mouth grazes the shell of her ear. “Told you you looked good.”
“You said, ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’”
“Yeah.” He kisses just behind her ear, too brief to satisfy either of them. “Compliment.”
The car arrives before she can reply. Rafe opens her door with one hand and uses the other to pat her ass as she climbs in. She looks back at him over her shoulder. He only grins and closes the door.
The drive home takes twelve minutes. She knows because she watches each minute change on the dashboard while Rafe drives one-handed, his other resting high on her bare thigh.
They don’t talk much. Conversation has become less useful than the slight flex of his fingers whenever she shifts beneath them, less informative than the way his breathing changes when she places her hand over his and guides it beneath the slit in her dress.
At a red light, he looks at her. His gaze moves from her mouth to the neckline of the dress, down the shape of her waist and lower to where his hand has disappeared between her thighs. Heat climbs under her skin so quickly she has to look out the windshield.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” she whispers.
“Light’s red.”
“It’s going to turn green.”
“Then I’ll drive.” His thumb strokes once along the edge of her underwear. Her hips shift before pride can prevent it.
The light changes. The car behind them honks. Rafe’s mouth twists, but he accelerates, withdrawing his hand just enough to leave her furious for the remainder of the drive.
They barely make it through the front door. The alarm begins its soft warning beep while Rafe reaches the door behind them, and she’s already reaching for his collar when he turns around.
His hands land at her waist as her mouth meets his, the kiss instantly too deep, too hungry to belong in the quiet foyer of the house where they usually trip over school bags and tell children not to run on the stairs.
His body drives hers backward two steps, then catches her when one heel slips over the edge of the rug.
“Code,” she breathes into his mouth.
“What?”
“The alarm.”
Rafe kisses her again.
“Rafe.”
He swears softly, reaching blindly toward the panel while she pushes her mouth along his jaw. He misses one number, the machine chirps disapprovingly and she laughs against his neck as he tries again with her hands already working at his shirt.
“You’re distracting me,” he mutters.
“You manage a multimillion-dollar company.”
“Not with you biting me.”
The alarm silences. Rafe catches her by the ass and hauls her against him, her laugh breaking into a breathless sound as his mouth covers hers again.
One heel falls off near the front door. She kicks the other away somewhere farther down the hall while they stumble toward the kitchen, leaving shoes behind like evidence of a hurried evacuation.
His hand pushes beneath the slit of her dress, fingers closing over one bare cheek through the thin underwear. Hers find the buttons of his shirt. The first few come apart easily. The next catches beneath her shaking fingers, and after two failed attempts, patience leaves her body altogether.
She grips both sides of the shirt and yanks. Three buttons scatter over the hardwood floor.
Rafe stops kissing her long enough to look down at his open shirt, then back at her. “That was expensive.”
“Don’t care.”
Her palms run over his chest, warm skin and firm muscle and the faint dusting of hair she has known in every available light. His stomach tightens beneath her touch. She pushes the shirt from his shoulders, and his grin turns sharp enough to catch somewhere low inside her.
“Buy another one,” she says.
He laughs into her mouth and moves her backward until the kitchen island presses against her lower spine.
The house is dark beyond the pendant lights they left on before dinner, the glass doors reflecting warped pieces of them back into the room: her dress hiked slightly from his hands, his shirt hanging open, his head bent over hers while he kisses her like twelve minutes in the car had been an act of cruelty.
Rafe’s hands slide beneath her thighs. She barely has time to catch his shoulders before he lifts her onto the island. The stone is cool beneath her palms, a violent contrast to the heat gathered beneath her dress.
He pushes between her knees and she pulls him closer by the open sides of his shirt, kissing the small moustache she’s mocked all night, then his mouth, then the corner of it when he smiles.
“You like it,” he murmurs.
She scrunches her nose. “Hate it.”
“Liar.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
She kisses him again, fingers digging into the back of his neck, but Rafe is already moving lower. His mouth travels along her jaw, down the side of her throat and over the swell of her chest where the dress has begun to slip. He bites lightly at the skin above the neckline, then soothes the mark with his tongue while her head tips back.
The sound she makes is too loud for a normal night. They both notice. Rafe lifts his head. For one suspended second, the house remains entirely silent around them. No feet overhead. No door opening. No small voice demanding water from the top of the stairs.
Her smile begins first. Rafe’s follows, slower and far filthier. “Nobody home.”
“Thank God.”
His hands gather the fitted skirt in both fists and drag it over her thighs, up past her hips until the material bunches around her waist. His gaze drops between her legs. Whatever humour had remained in his face disappears beneath something heavier.
“Fuck,” he says quietly.
She’s already wet enough that the fabric of her underwear clings, darkened where his eyes settle. The look on his face sends another hot pulse through her, her body answering attention it’s received thousands of times as though this is the first.
“Rafe.”
He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband and pulls. She lifts her hips, and he drags the underwear down her legs, one heel catching briefly before it slips free. He tosses them behind him without looking.
“Come here,” he murmurs, although she’s already exactly where he put her.
His hands close around her thighs and pull her to the edge of the island. The sudden movement makes her gasp. Rafe drops to his knees before she can recover, broad shoulders fitting between her legs, his palms smoothing up the backs of her thighs with a familiarity that feels almost indecent on its own.
She props herself on one elbow to look at him. His eyes lift to hers from between her legs. The sight nearly ends her. The white shirt is still caught around his arms, open across his chest. His hair is mussed from her hands. His mouth is inches from where she aches for him, the little moustache she’s insulted all evening making him look rougher, older, terribly pleased by the way her breathing has already begun to break.
“You’ve been doing this to me all night,” she tells him.
“Doing what?”
“Looking like that.”
Rafe’s eyebrows lift. “Like what?”
“A fucking problem.”
He smiles and turns his head, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Thought I looked stupid.”
“You do.”
“Mm.” Another kiss, higher this time. “Still wet for me.”
“Don’t be smug.”
His teeth graze the sensitive skin near the crease of her hip. “Baby, I haven’t even started.”
Then his mouth is on her. The first stroke of his tongue pulls a sound from her that flies straight into the high ceiling. Her back arches off the island, one hand flattening against the stone while the other finds his hair.
Rafe grips her thighs and spreads them wider, mouth moving with none of the teasing patience he might use when the children are asleep upstairs and they both have to listen for doors.
There’s no reason to be quiet tonight. The realisation seems to affect him as much as it does her.
He groans against her, the vibration travelling sharp and deep through her body, and then eats her with the focused, nearly furious attention of a man correcting three hours of forced restraint.
His tongue presses through her, circles and flattens, then dips inside while his nose drags against the place already throbbing for him.
Her head falls back against the island. “Fuck– Rafe.”
His grip tightens around her hips as she moves against his mouth. He doesn’t stop her at first. Lets her chase the pressure, lets her thighs close helplessly around his head while he works her open with his tongue and takes every broken sound she gives him.
When she begins moving too quickly, frantic with the pleasure tightening low in her stomach, his hands slide to her waist and hold her down.
She whimpers, hips straining uselessly beneath his palms. Rafe lifts his mouth just enough to speak, lips shining. “Easy.”
“Don’t tell me easy.”
His tongue flicks over her again. “Then stop runnin’ from me.”
“I’m not–”
He pulls her closer and seals his mouth over her. The rest of the argument dissolves. She grabs at his hair, short strands slipping through her fingers as he licks into her with a rhythm built from years of learning the smallest betrayals of her body.
He knows the way her left thigh begins to tremble before she gets close. Knows that the breathless little no leaving her mouth doesn’t mean stop when her hand is pushing him closer, but he still looks up at her, checking her face, waiting until she nods and gasps, “Don’t you fucking dare.”
His mouth curves against her. Then he does exactly what she needs. The pressure gathers too fast to contain. Her stomach tightens hard beneath the dress bunched around her waist.
She feels herself becoming incoherent around his name, words collapsing against one another while Rafe holds her hips to the cold stone and works his tongue over the place that makes her vision blur.
“Baby– baby, I’m gonna– fuck, Rafe, I’m–”
He groans and pushes his tongue inside her, one hand leaving her hip to rub firm, quick circles over her. She comes with her legs locked around his shoulders.
The orgasm rolls through her so hard her body lifts despite his grip. A cry catches high in her throat and breaks free into the empty house, no hand clapped over her mouth, no laughter swallowed into a pillow, no child shifting in the next room.
Rafe keeps his mouth on her through all of it, drawing every shudder out until her thighs tremble around him and her hand goes slack against his head.
When he finally slows, she lies boneless across the kitchen island, chest rising too quickly beneath the fitted bodice, one arm thrown over her eyes as though modesty might re-enter the situation through darkness.
Rafe kisses her once more, softer now, then presses his mouth to the inside of each thigh.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
“Good?”
She lowers her arm enough to glare down at him. “Don’t irritate me.”
His grin flashes. “That good.”
Rafe rises between her legs and she reaches for him immediately, catching his face in both hands and pulling his mouth to hers. She can taste herself on his tongue, feel the wet drag of his moustache against her upper lip. It should be embarrassing. Instead, she moans into him and hooks one leg around his waist.
His patience vanishes. He kisses up the line of her throat while his hands search for the zipper of her dress, fingers fumbling once against the small hidden clasp. “Hold still.”
“You’re the one moving me,” she mumbles.
“Because you won’t hold still.”
“I’ve been waiting three hours. Work faster.”
Rafe bites her shoulder. She laughs, then gasps when the zipper finally gives and the dress loosens around her. He drags it from her body with none of the care an expensive dress deserves, pulling it over her head and throwing it toward the dining table.
She’s left naked on the island beneath the pendant lights. Rafe steps back half a pace and looks at her.
The pause is brief, but it lands heavily. His gaze travels over her flushed chest, her stomach, her thighs still spread for him. There’s no surprise in it. He knows every inch, has watched her body change through two pregnancies and years and ordinary weeks when neither of them sleeps enough. Still, he looks like the privilege has just been granted.
“Come here,” she says, reaching for his belt.
His hips meet her knees. She fumbles with the buckle, fingers still clumsy from the orgasm, and Rafe watches her struggle for several seconds with infuriating amusement. “Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The buckle slips from her grip again. He chuckles.
“Fuck off.”
“Move your hands, baby.”
She does, scowling, and Rafe opens the belt in one smooth movement. “Show-off.”
“Been dressing myself a long time.”
“Congratulations.”
He kisses her while he pushes his trousers down, breaking away only to kick off his shoes and drag the fabric over his legs. His boxers follow. The sight of him, hard and heavy in his hand, wipes the last clever remark from her mind.
“What?” he asks, stroking himself once.
She reaches for him. “Hurry up.”
He steps between her thighs and lets her wrap her hand around him, his breath catching when she runs her thumb over the wet tip. His eyes close briefly, jaw tightening beneath the small moustache.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. Then his eyes open. “Condom.”
The word hangs between them. Rafe turns his head toward the hallway as though one might reasonably be waiting in a bowl beside the car keys. There are condoms upstairs, somewhere in the bathroom drawer beneath headache tablets and one of Marlowe’s old hair clips. The distance isn’t enormous. It feels impossible.
She tightens her legs around his hips. “We’re fine.”
His gaze returns to her. “You sure?”
“The app.” She reaches up and curls one hand around the back of his neck. “It’s accurate. We’re fine.”
Rafe searches her face, desire pulling his expression tight but not overriding the question in it. “Baby.”
“I’m sure.” She draws him closer until his forehead meets hers, her other hand still wrapped around him between their bodies. “Please. I want to feel you.”
His breath leaves against her mouth. “You tell me if you change your mind,” he says.
“I won’t.”
“Still tell me.”
She kisses him. “I will.”
Rafe’s eyes close. “Fuck, I love you.”
A soft laugh escapes her, breathless and aching. “Love you too. Now please.”
He grips her hips and pulls her to the very edge of the island. She braces both hands on his shoulders while he guides himself against her, the blunt head sliding through the wetness he worked from her. Her body jumps at the first pressure.
Rafe stills. “Okay?”
“Yes.” She kisses his mouth, then again when he continues watching her. “I’m good. Come on.”
He pushes inside slowly. Her lips part against his. Pleasure stretches through her with the deep, familiar burn of taking him, her body yielding by degrees while Rafe keeps one hand firm around her hip and the other cups her jaw. He kisses her open mouth through every inch, catching the little sounds that escape as he fills her.
“Easy,” he murmurs, softer now.
She digs her nails into his shoulders. “I thought we established you shouldn’t say that.”
His forehead drops against hers with a breathless laugh. “You’re trying to swallow me whole.”
“Don’t complain.”
“Not complaining.”
He bottoms out and stays there, chest pressed to hers, both of them breathing harder than the movement should justify. She can feel the pulse of him deep inside her, the way his stomach tightens each time she shifts.
Rafe’s thumb moves over her cheek, his eyes fixed on her face in that relentless way he has always loved her – like even now, after half a life, he needs to witness the exact second pleasure reaches her.
She rolls her hips. His expression breaks. “Ready,” she whispers.
Rafe draws back and drives into her again. The island gives a faint complaint beneath them.
His rhythm starts measured, deep enough that each thrust pushes a soft cry from her, but restraint lasts perhaps six strokes before her heels dig into the backs of his thighs and she tells him, “Harder.”
His hand slides from her jaw to the side of her throat. Holding her there, fingers spanning the racing beat beneath her skin while his mouth takes hers. His hips snap forward with enough force to shift her across the stone, and she clings to his shoulders as the change tears a moan from her.
“There she is,” he says against her mouth.
She kisses him badly, too distracted to catch more than his lower lip. Rafe’s hand tightens around her hip. The sound of their bodies meeting fills the kitchen, sharp and wet and indecent in the open room where they made pancakes with Banks that morning.
“Feels so good,” she pants.
“Yeah?” His voice has gone rough, Charleston polish stripped clean out of it. “My girl needed this bad, huh?”
She nods against his mouth.
“Been sitting there all night squeezing those pretty legs together.” He thrusts deeper, watching her face fold around the pleasure. “Thought I didn’t notice?”
“Rafe–”
“Could feel you staring at me.”
“You were staring too.”
“Course I was.” His mouth drags over her cheek, then down her throat. “Look at you.”
Her nails scrape along his back. He has known her body too long to be fooled by the way she tries to hold herself together. The angle changes before she asks, one broad hand dragging her closer while his hips drive up beneath her. He catches the shift in her breathing. Feels the way she begins tightening around him.
Rafe knows. His hand leaves her hip and slips between their bodies.
The first touch makes her jolt. “Fuck–”
“I got you.” His fingers move in tight circles while he keeps thrusting, mouth pressing kisses to her parted lips between the words. “That’s it. Let me have it.”
She shakes her head, disbelief at how quickly he’s brought her back to the edge. “Too much.”
A grin brushes her mouth. “You’ve got it, baby.”
“Asshole,” she whimpers.
“My girl,” he corrects, and then his fingers press exactly right.
Her second orgasm builds differently, deeper and meaner, every hard thrust striking through the tension he is winding beneath his hand. She buries her face against his neck, kissing whatever skin she can reach – his throat, his shoulder, the edge of his jaw – while the words coming out of her lose their shape.
Rafe talks her through it in that low, filthy murmur he saves for when they are alone enough to let him. “Come on, baby. Right there. I know. I know.” His hips keep their punishing rhythm even as her body begins to shake against him. “Doin’ so good for me. Let go.”
She comes around him with a broken cry. Her whole body locks. Rafe holds her against his chest while she clenches hard around him, fingers never slowing until pleasure turns bright and almost unbearable. She can hear him losing control in the rough sound near her ear, feel his rhythm become uneven as her body keeps pulling at him.
He tries to draw back. Her ankles tighten behind him. Rafe’s eyes meet hers.
“Inside,” she pants.
His hand stills against her throat, thumb resting beneath her jaw. “Baby.”
“I know.” She pulls him closer with her legs, mouth finding his. “Please.”
Something hot and helpless moves through his face. Then he kisses her and drives into her hard enough to make the island shift beneath them.
His hand stays wrapped carefully around her throat while his other arm locks around her waist, holding her flush against him. He fucks into her through the aftershocks, deep and desperate now, every remaining piece of restraint burned away by the small sounds she makes into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, I’m–”
She cups his face, kissing the words from him. “Come on, baby.”
Rafe thrusts once, twice, then holds himself deep inside her as he comes. The sound he makes is low and broken against her mouth. Heat spills through her in heavy pulses while his body shudders between her thighs, his grip tightening at her waist before slowly easing. She keeps her ankles locked around him until the last tremor passes, kissing him more gently now, mouths slipping together with none of the earlier urgency.
For several seconds, neither of them moves. Their breathing fills the kitchen. Rafe’s forehead rests against hers. Her dress is on the dining table. Her underwear may be behind the fruit bowl. Three small white buttons lie scattered across the floor beneath the lights.
She begins to laugh. It starts as one shaky breath against his mouth and grows until her shoulders move beneath his hands.
Rafe lifts his head, still panting. “What?”
“Fuck.”
A breathless laugh leaves him too, his nose brushing hers. “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”
She strokes the small moustache with her thumb. “Still looks stupid.”
Rafe turns and bites lightly at the pad of her finger. “You came on it.”
“Oh my God,” she groans.
“Mm.” He kisses her, slow and smug. He smiles against her mouth, but it softens as he looks at her. His hand leaves her throat and moves through her hair, pushing it gently away from her damp temple. “You okay?”
She nods, body still humming around the place where they remain joined. “Very.”
“No regrets?”
“Ask me when I can feel my legs.”
His grin returns. “That good?”
She puts both hands over his face and pushes lightly. “You’re ruining it.”
He laughs, catching her wrists and kissing the inside of one. When he finally eases out, she winces at the sudden emptiness and Rafe notices immediately, palm settling against her thigh. “Stay there.”
“I’m naked on the kitchen counter.”
“Yeah.” His eyes travel over her. “Stay exactly there.”
He retrieves a clean dish towel, pauses, seems to reconsider the hygiene implications and disappears toward the downstairs bathroom instead.
She hears a cupboard open, then water running. He returns with a warm washcloth and steps between her knees again, cleaning her with quiet care that would feel almost sweet if his boxers weren’t obscenely low on his hips and there were still a streak of her lipstick near his jaw.
She touches it with her thumb. “You look debauched.”
“Big word.”
“You know words,” she giggles.
“Some.”
“You own a company.”
“That doesn’t require words,” he shrugs. “Mostly pointing.”
She laughs and runs her fingers through the short hair at his temple while he finishes, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee before tossing the cloth toward the sink. Then he gathers her into his arms and lifts her from the island.
Her legs wrap automatically around his waist. “Rafe,” she laughs.
He carries her toward the stairs, stepping over one of the buttons she tore from his shirt. Halfway out of the kitchen, her phone lights where she abandoned it beside her clutch.
The bright screen shows a message from Sarah confirming both children are still asleep, and beneath the notification, the small calendar widget tracking her cycle.
Green. Low chance. She reaches down awkwardly as Rafe slows and picks the phone up.
“See?” She holds the screen near his face. “We’re fine.”
Rafe squints at the tiny symbol. “That little flower’s making some pretty serious promises.”
“It’s accurate.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
His eyes move from the phone to her, then lower to where her bare body is held against his. “Okay.”
“You didn’t seem particularly concerned five minutes ago.”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
Rafe looks at her as though the answer is insulting in its obviousness. Then his hands tighten beneath her ass and he starts toward the stairs again.
“My extremely hot wife,” he says. “Who owes me a shirt.”
She loops both arms around his neck, smiling into the place beneath his jaw. “Put it on the company card.”
Rafe kisses her temple and carries her upstairs, leaving the dress, the heels and three expensive buttons scattered through the quiet house behind them. On the counter, her phone goes dark around the little green flower.
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