sign the papers | rafe x exwife!milf!reader
“you really waited until the last page?” his voice is smug, dipped in disbelief—like he already knows why. why you haven’t signed it, why your robe’s loose at the collar, slipping off one shoulder, and why the pen’s in your mouth and your hips are cocked just enough, leaning over the kitchen island like it’s some innocent coincidence.
you don’t answer right away. you let the silence hang— until you bite down gently on the pen, roll it between your teeth, tasting the ink. when you finally speak, your words come out a little too casual.
“figured it deserved a dramatic finish,” you say, setting the pen down right by the untouched line meant for your signature.
rafe steps closer, shoes clicking against the tile. your bare feet twitch beneath your robe. you feel the way his eyes drag over you making you shift forward slightly, pressing your palms flat to the countertop, just to give him a better view.
“so this is a performance now?” he asks, tone sharpening, toeing the edge of a threat. “what are you waiting for—a fucking standing ovation or something?”
you shrug, but it’s all hips, your ass swaying gently as you shift your weight. “nah,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to catch his silhouette in the corner of your eye. “just wanted to see if you’d show.”
he exhales slowly, and you hear it—like he’s trying not to groan. trying not to admit that the second he walked in and saw you like this, he was already hard.
“you said this was about paperwork,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.
you nod. “well, it is, technically.”
he stands behind you now, close enough that you feel the heat of him through your robe. he doesn’t touch you, but his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, and your nipples tighten beneath the silk like they know exactly what’s coming.
“you know you’re fucking evil, right?” he murmurs, his mouth so close you can almost taste his words. “standing here like this. making me look at you with that fucking signature still blank.”
you smile, slow and mean. “i was gonna sign it,” you lie.
he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “bullshit.” his hand grabs your hip, fingers digging in through the thin fabric. the noise that escapes you is involuntary, soft and punched from your chest, and he hears it—of course he hears it. he always hears everything you try to hide.
“you don’t want me to sign it,” you say. he doesn’t answer with words.
his hand yanks the robe open, the belt falling useless to the floor. the silk parts like a curtain, your bare skin exposed to the kitchen’s cold air and his hotter hands. he shoves the fabric down your back and presses you forward over the counter with one palm between your shoulder blades. your cheek hits the wood, and your tits spread out over the stack of legal papers, nipples dragging across the divorce decree.
“say it,” he grits out, already undoing his belt. “say you waited for this.”
you arch your back, roll your hips against him. “i didn’t wait,” you whisper. “i planned it.”
he curses under his breath, and the sound of his zipper splitting open is enough to make your thighs clench—his cock thick, rubbing along your cunt with no warning. he drags the head through your folds and presses it to your entrance—soaked, swollen, hungry for him.
you moan into the papers.
“fuck, you’re wet,” he groans, pushing in slowly, stretching you open. “you wanted this so bad, you sat here dripping onto the counter like a fucking slut.”
you gasp, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto. one palm lands on the papers, smearing ink with your sweat. the signature line blurs beneath your fingertips as he pushes in deeply, cock buried deep in your cunt.
“fuck—rafe—” you choke out, body shaking under the pressure.
he grinds in deeper, then pulls almost all the way out, slamming back in with a brutal thrust that shakes the counter a bit.
“you’re not signing that shit,” he growls, fucking into you harder now, faster, “not until i’m done with you. not until you admit you’re mine.”
your cheek drags against the divorce paper. your mouth opens in a silent moan, spit wetting the corner of the paper. your tits bounce with each thrust, and the pen rolls off the counter with a loud clatter.
“you’re a fucking asshole,” you manage, voice cracking.
“and you love it,” he snarls, slapping your ass, the sting sending another wave of heat through your belly. “you fucking love it when i ruin this perfect pussy.”
you cry out, body convulsing as he hits that perfect spot, again and again, each stroke deeper and deeper. the counter creaks under the rhythm. the papers wrinkle beneath your body, the corner tearing under your clenched fist.
“fuck—i’m gonna—”
“yeah, you are,” he hisses, leaning over you now, chest against your back, his breath hot in your ear. “cum all over these papers, baby. let the lawyers smell what i do to you.”
your orgasm gives a violent and full-body shake—while he just fucks you through it, chasing his own release, muttering curses and your name and “mine, mine, mine”.
he cums with a grunt, pulling out just enough to shoot thick ropes across your lower back, marking you, dripping down to pool on the edge of the contract. one splatter lands on the dotted line.
you were still panting, bent over the papers when he steps back and smacks your ass one last time.
“guess we’ll need a fresh copy,” he says, grinning.
you reach for the pen on the floor and threw it at his smug face. "and a new pen."
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