#Ceo! Rafe Cameron x secretary reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crookedteethed · 1 month ago

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ᡣ𐭩 the good girl . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　the introduction (1)

synopsis -- Rafe is infatuated with you, his new secretary; something about a trip to Morocco. Rafe is in debt and wants you to pick up a bag of cocaine from Barry for him.

warnings: 18+ mdni mostly through Rafe's (perverted) pov, cursing, ward is still alive, smut but through fantasies, angst, Slight Dark! Rafe, drug/alcohol usage

a/n: I don't know anything about real estate so please don't take the buisness portions in this series seriously.

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter | word count: 3.2k

You and Rafe had four scheduled meetings together before noon, each one dragging on with the monotonous drone of old men discussing business.

Rafe, easily bored, found his attention drifting away from the discussions and towards you. He couldn't help but notice the delicate beauty marks scattered across your smooth crossed legs, a detail he had committed to memory by the third meeting.

He longed for your soft voice as he listened to the sound of flapping cheeks and tedious numbers being tossed back and forth. Every now and then, just to hear it, he would interrupt with a simple question in your ear: "You got that down?"

And in response, you would always give a respectful "Yes sir" or a subtle hum on quieter days.

Rafe would watch you intently as you quickly scribbled down notes about whatever mundane topic was being discussed by the mortgage broker--so you can recite to him later.

Despite the dullness of the meetings, he found himself amused by your presence and secretly looked forward to these moments shared between just the two of you.

And then, like clockwork, that smart ass Pope Hayward would lean in and whisper something in your ear, too, ruining everything for Rafe.

Hayward had worked for R&P, the mortgage brokers for Cameron Development, and would often attend their meetings. He always sat beside you, on the opposite side of Rafe, where he was conveniently hidden behind your body and out of Rafe's line of sight.

Rafe thinks this is a sneaky move on Hayward's part since Rafe had suspicions that Hayward may have a crush on you, which only fueled his anger towards Hayward and the meetings.

If Rafe ever discovered Heyward's true feelings for you, he wouldn't hesitate to resurrect the violence of their teenage years. He'd make you watch as he reminded Heyward exactly who you belonged to, letting Heyward's blood stain his thousand-dollar leather shoes. After all, what better way to prove his love than marking his expensive Italian leather with the consequences of wanting what's his? Some men send flowers – Rafe Cameron sends messages written in bruises and blood.

The boardroom felt thick with tension as Rafe's attention ping-ponged between the financial reports and the way Heyward kept leaning toward you. His knuckles turned white around his Mont Blanc pen every time Heyward whispered something in your ear, every time you smiled politely in response.

The irony wasn't lost on him – Heyward's own secretary sat barely three feet away, yet here he was, hovering over what belonged to Rafe. His secretary. His territory.

By the fourth meeting, Rafe found himself on the brink of madness, his father, Ward Cameron, drawling tone grating on his nerves.

Mentally detached, he fantasized about indulging in a line of cocaine to awaken his senses, only to have his mind wander to envisioning himself ravishing you right atop the conference table in full view of everyone.

His imagination spiraled further, picturing the new maintenance girl he saw a couple nights ago, pleasuring you while you, upside down like a flipped turtle, sucking his cock.

A sudden pang of guilt hit Rafe as he remembered that he needed to order another batch of his "special" supplies from Barry.

He wondered if you, his new secretary, would be willing to make the call for him. His former assistant would have handled it without question, but she was long gone now.

Rafe resumed thinking about you, him, and the maintenance girl having a very sexy threesome on the conference table; he's jolted back to the present as his father's voice rings out, drawing his attention to the press room, where every man's gaze is fixed on him.

The gentle touch of your hand on the padded sleeve of his suit stirs him, and he feels like popping a boner from your warm touch.

He asks Ward to repeat himself.

Ward's voice was agitated, his tone indicating his impatience with his son. "Rafe, I want you to deal with the Morocco situation," he repeated firmly.

Later on, Rafe fumed over his father's request in his newly personalized office. Rafe's response was harsh and tense as he spat at his father, "How fair is it to dump all of this on me?!"

He had initially been planning for a sleek, earthy-toned with a black and brown look for his office. But when you mentioned your preference for dark blue and white, Rafe couldn't resist. After all, he always looked delectable in those colors, you told him (and yes, delectable was the exact word you used). So Rafe dropped his original design and went with a nautical theme instead.

"Well, son," Ward's voice cut through the air like ice, "if you could tear your eyes away from your secretary for five minutes, you might understand why the Morocco deal is crucial for this company's future."

Rafe's jaw clenched. "I wasn't--"

"Save it," Ward interrupted, his calm facade cracking. "I've seen this before, Rafe. The way you look at her, how you've redecorated your entire office to her taste. Just like all the others." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "How many secretaries have we lost because of you? How many NDAs have I had to sign?"

The accusation hung heavy in the air. Rafe's hands curled into fists, his cerulean eyes darkening with something dangerous. "This one's different," he growled.

"That's what you said about the last one." Ward's laugh was bitter. "And the one before that. Face it, son - you're becoming predictable. By this time next month, I'll be interviewing replacements. Again."

"Look," Ward's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, but Rafe wasn't about to let him finish that thought.

"No, you look," he spits at his father. "You're always pulling this crap on me - sending me off to do your dirty work like some kind of expendable pawn. 'Send Rafe to northwest Africa for two months, with our worst fucking clients' " Rafe said, fake laughing and clapping all the while." Well the joke's on me, isn't it?" Rafe's eyes blaze with anger and bitterness as years of resentment bubble to the surface.

The words flew out of Rafe's mouth like venomous arrows, each one stinging with a sharp and bitter rage. "You wouldn't dare do this to Sarah, dad--your perfect little princess. But me? I'm just the expendable son, right? Send me on a ten hour flight, unpaid, to fix someone else's mistakes!" His voice dripped with disdain as he imitated his father's words in a mocking tone.

But Ward was not cowed by his son's outburst. "Rafe, please just calm down and listen--"

Rafe's words were sharp as he cut Ward off. "Don't play dumb with me, Dad. I know exactly why you're sending me to South Africa - it's a punishment, a way to get rid of me." The tension in the office was thick and palpable as Ward yelled back, their argument echoing off the walls for all to hear.

But amidst the chaos, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity and nosiness. You had been waiting outside Rafe's office, ready to deliver an urgent message about his 3 o'clock lunch meeting with another Mortgage Broker, Dennis Rutherford.

As time ticked by and Rafe's chauffeured car waited impatiently outside, you knew you had to intervene before it was too late.

Bursting into the office uninvited, you were greeted with the sight of father and son locked in a heated battle, their words laced with anger and resentment. This was not just another work disagreement - this was a deep-rooted family conflict that threatened to tear them apart.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen." you awkwardly say, getting both men's attention.

Had it been anyone else, Rafe would have immediately fired them for barging in like that. However, since it was you—and he hadn’t yet had the chance to sleep with you—Rafe merely shouted a sharp "What?!" that made you recoil in fear. He felt awful about your reaction but thought he could make it up to you later when his tongue is knee-deep into your pussy.

"Your 3'oclock, sir--with Mr.Rutherford." You say, trying to mask their intimidation.

"Shit." Rafe cursed, swiping a hand across his growing buzzed head. "Did you call the chauffeur?" he asked you.

You acknowledge with a bow of your head, responding, Of course, sir, as you pass his briefcase into his hands. Rafe longed to refer to you as his good girl, yet with his father present in the room—and after already being seen openly "oogling" you earlier by his father and possibly others—he hesitated.

While escorting Rafe from the office, he looks at you and remarks:

"Join me and Rutherford for lunch."

Your heart races as you scramble to find an excuse. "I-I have a mountain of work to catch up on--"

"I don't recall asking you," he sneers, cutting you off. "I was telling you."

Twenty minutes past the scheduled meeting time, and Rafe had already downed three vodka shots, each one burning away at his paper-thin patience. The bar at Roots, despite its upscale pretense, felt suffocating.

You'd been to countless lunch meetings with him before, but something about today felt different. More dangerous. Maybe it was the way his leg kept brushing against yours under the bar, or how his cerulean eyes seemed to devour you between drinks.

Rafe Cameron, with his old money and expensive tastes, ordered another round. You watched, entranced despite yourself, as the alcohol stripped away his careful facade, revealing something raw and hungry underneath.

"Have a drink with me," he murmured, his voice honey-thick with liquor. His glazed eyes fixed on yours, holding secrets you weren't sure you wanted to understand.

"I believe one of us should stay sober, sir," you replied, fighting to keep your voice steady. The 'sir' slipped out automatically, and you watched his pupils dilate at the word.

A dark smile played at his lips as he closed his eyes, savoring your voice like another shot of vodka. Something about your presence seemed to intoxicate him more than the alcohol – a power that thrilled and terrified you in equal measure.

His hand found your knee under the bar, and you clutched your purse tighter, using it like a shield. Rafe noticed – he noticed everything about you – and his smile turned predatory.

"Just one drink," he pressed, sliding a virgin cocktail toward you. "Let go for me." The 'for me' sounded more like a claim than a request.

Forty-seven minutes in, Rutherford finally arrived to find Rafe thoroughly drunk and dangerously unraveled. The moment shattered as Rutherford launched into a tirade about debts – \$250,000 worth of them, spread across every loan shark in the city.

You shifted in your seat, uncomfortably aware of Rafe's heat beside you, the way his expensive cologne mixed with top-shelf vodka.

"The money's coming," Rafe slurred, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating. "Big deals in the pipeline. Major commissions."

Rutherford's lip curled in disgust. "Better hope so, Cameron. Or things get ugly."

The threat hung in the air like smoke. Rafe's fist clenched on the bar, his other hand still burning against your knee, his whole body vibrating with barely contained violence.

His thoughts scattered between the mounting pressure, the need for chemical escape, and the way your pulse jumped in your throat every time he leaned too close.

Without realizing it, Rafe grabbed your shoulder roughly and whispered in your ear, nearly dislocating your shoulder blade in the process.

Rafe's desperation was palpable as he leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur. "I need you to do something for me," he said, his eyes locked onto yours. "There's a guy named Barry. He's got something I need. I need you to pick it up for me."

Your heart raced as you realized what he was asking. "What is it?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Rafe hesitated, his gaze shifting away. "It's a bag of cocaine," he admitted finally. "I need it to clear my head, to think straight. And I need it now."

You knew the risks, but Rafe's desperation was undeniable. He was in deep trouble, and he needed your help, as you looked in those glossy cerulean eyes of his. "Alright," you sighed, "I'll do it. But this is the last time, Mr. Cameron, what will your father think?"

"What he thinks of me already—that I'm just a Rafe, his screw-up of a son," Rafe replied. Despite this, a look of relief spread across his face, although the predatory gleam in his eyes remained. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled business card, pressing it into your palm with trembling fingers. His touch lingered longer than necessary, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Barry works out of the Bellamy Building on 5th," he whispered, his hot breath reeking of vodka against your ear. "Suite 401. Tell him Rafe sent you. And for God's sake, don't let anyone follow you."

Rutherford watched this exchange with cold calculation, his jaw clenched tight. He knew exactly what was happening – he'd seen plenty of rich boys like Rafe drag their employees into their mess before.

You gathered your things, trying to ignore how Rafe's eyes followed your every movement. Just as you stood to leave, he grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise.

"One hour," he hissed. "I need it in one hour. Don't disappoint me."

The weight of what you'd agreed to settled heavy in your stomach as you walked toward the exit. Behind you, you could hear Rutherford's gravelly voice resume his threats, but Rafe's attention remained fixed on your retreating form until you disappeared through the door.

The Bellamy Building loomed like a tombstone against the afternoon sky, its worn brick facade a testament to forgotten glory. Inside, the elevator's slow climb gave you too much time to think – about Rafe's hungry cerulean eyes, his lingering touches that burned like brands, how every "yes, sir" seemed to draw you deeper into his web.

Suite 401 lurked at the end of a dimly lit hallway, distinguished only by tarnished brass numbers. Your knuckles rapped against the door – twice, then three times, just as Rafe had instructed. The sound seemed to echo down the empty corridor.

The door creaked open just enough to reveal a sliver of face: tired eyes beneath greasy long black hair, calculating and cold. "Barry?" Your voice emerged steadier than your racing heart. "Rafe Cameron sent me."

The door groaned wider. Barry matched his surroundings perfectly – disheveled but alert, like a crow picking through society's remains. His office was a study in decay: nicotine-stained walls, flickering fluorescent lights that made everything look diseased, and an ancient desk that had witnessed too many secrets.

"Well, well," Barry's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Another one of Rafe's girls." He studied you like a specimen under glass. "You know, you're all starting to blur together. Pretty. Proper. Corruptible." The last word dripped with dark amusement.

He slid a small package across the desk, but when you reached for it, his fingers trapped yours. You jerked the package away.

Inescapably, Barry's raspy laugh followed you as you ascended down the hallway, bouncing off the grimy walls like a bad omen. "Tell Rafe his debt's getting steep," he called after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "And honey? Better watch yourself! Pretty secretaries like you have a way of… disappearing around Rafe Cameron."

Barry's laughter echoed through the grimy hallway, following you like a shadow as you rushed toward the elevator. Each click of your heels against the worn floor seemed to mock you: Pretty. Proper. Corruptible. The words burrowed into your mind, mixing with memories of Rafe's heated stares and possessive touches.

Your mind kept circling back to Barry's words – "disappearing around Rafe Cameron" – like a moth drawn to a deadly flame. The phrase echoed in your head, mixing with memories of Rafe's possessive touches and hungry stares. Each floor the elevator descended seemed to bring a new question: How many secretaries came before you? Where did they really go?

The package felt heavier in your hands as you realized maybe it wasn't just cocaine Rafe was addicted to – maybe it was the thrill of watching people fall into his web, one pretty secretary at a time.

The elevator doors couldn't close fast enough. In its mirrored walls, your reflection looked different somehow – as if Barry's words had marked you, changed you. Your phone buzzed in your purse, Rafe's name lighting up the screen, and you realized with a shiver that maybe Barry was right. Maybe you were already corrupted – after all, here you were, picking up cocaine for your boss in a building that reeked of broken dreams and dirty money.

But that didn't mean you were corrupted by Rafe specifically… right? This was just part of the job. Just another task, like scheduling meetings or taking notes while he stared at you across the conference table. Just another "yes, sir" in a long line of things you told yourself were purely professional. Even if your heart raced every time he got too close. Even if you kept saying yes to things that crossed every line you'd ever drawn.

You were just doing your job. At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.

Back at Roots, you found Rafe alone, Rutherford's absence heavy in the air. His hands trembled as you passed him the package under the bar, his relief palpable. Without a word, he grabbed your wrist and led you to the private bathroom in the back.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as Rafe arranged neat lines on the marble countertop. You turned to leave, but he caught your reflection in the mirror.

"Stay," he commanded softly. Then, more vulnerable: "Please."

You watched as he inhaled sharply, his body relaxing as the cocaine hit his system. When he straightened up, his eyes met yours in the mirror – pupils blown wide, but somehow clearer than before.

"Barry mentioned the money you owe him," you say carefully, your voice echoing off the pristine walls of the family restroom. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Rafe's sharp features as he straightens up from the sink, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Suddenly, the mood shifts. His cocaine-induced sniffles transform into something that sounds devastatingly like tears.

"You know what scares me?" Rafe says slowly, his cerulean eyes never leaving your reflection. "Not the money I owe. Not my father. Not even my fucking addiction." His voice cracks perfectly – a rehearsed break he's perfected over years of practice.

"I'm nothing but Dad's fuck-up son. A disappointment. A monster." He laughs bitterly, running a trembling hand through his hair. "But you… god, you're different. You're so good, so perfect. The best secretary I've ever had." His voice drops to a reverent whisper. "The way you anticipate my needs, how you handle everything with such grace. The only one who's ever really seen me, really understood."

His fingers trace your reflection in the mirror, and his eyes darken with something dangerous. "You're too pure for this world, too good for someone like me. The way you look at me like I could be better… like I'm worth saving…" He shakes his head, voice thick with manufactured emotion. "It kills me knowing I'll destroy you too. Just like I destroy everything else I touch. But god, you make me want to try to be better."

Your heart ached at his words. Without thinking, you reached up to touch his cheek, your palm cradling his face as if you could hold his broken pieces together. "You're drunk Mr. Cameron, you don't mean any of these things do you?"

"Rafe," he interrupted, leaning into your touch like a starved man finding sustenance. "Please… just call me Rafe." His cerulean eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

But you noticed, even through the haze of this intimate moment, how Rafe never actually answered your question. Like everything else with him, the vulnerability was a beautiful distraction from the truth.

You saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the pain, the self-loathing. It made you want to save him, to prove him wrong about himself. And that's exactly what he was counting on.

Because what you missed, in that moment of compassion, was the calculating gleam behind his tears. The slight upturn of his lips as you fell perfectly into place. The way his hand tightened possessively on your waist, marking you as his next conquest.

"I know I can be a lot sometimes, but I need you to stay my secretary, whatever happens," he whispered against your palm, each word carefully chosen to ensnare you further. His lips brush your skin as he speaks, making the moment feel more intimate than it should. "Because you're the only person in my life who sees me. Really sees me."

The confession lands exactly as he intended – a perfect mix of vulnerability and need that makes it impossible to refuse him. Rafe knows what he's doing, dropping these words like anchors to keep you tethered to him, and the worst part is that it's working.

You hadn't known exactly what Rafe meant by that "Really sees me"--or any of the other drunken babble, but seeing as he was clearly heavily intoxicated, and needed your comfort, that didn't matter now. You whispered back words of comfort, of understanding, unaware that each soothing word was another step deeper into Rafe Cameron's carefully laid trap.

Meanwhile, Rafe Cameron smiled into your palm – a predatory curve of lips that you couldn't see from your angle, the kind of smile that should have warned you that comfort was the last thing he actually needed.

The bathroom's fluorescent light flickered once, casting strange shadows across his face. In that brief moment of darkness, his mask slipped, revealing something hungry and triumphant in his expression. But by the time the light steadied again, all you could see was the broken man you desperately wanted to fix.

After all, the best predators know exactly how to play wounded.

a/n: thanks for making it to the end of this chapter!! as always all likes comments, and reblog keeps me motivated! 💕🫶🏾

Taglist -

@trapistani @alexxavicry @rafestoothbrush @ttrinity @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4rafey @Itristessedureratoujours @hittmeandtellmeyouremine @yoongling @lilithblackkk

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crookedteethed · 20 days ago

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ᡣ𐭩 the good girl . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　the proposition and the firecracker (3)

synopsis -- Rafe Cameron manipulates both his secretary and her fiancé Pope with a tempting business offer: a month in Morocco and a six-figure bonus that could change their lives—or destroy them.

warnings -- 18+- mdni, cursing, angst, rafe being rafe *sigh*, sexual advances, manipulation

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | word count: 4k

The following morning arrived with a weight of dread you couldn't shake. Your hands trembled slightly as you arranged your desk supplies, trying to ignore the ghost of Rafe's kiss that still burned on your lips. The office felt different now – every shadow held a memory of Rafe's darkness, every corner echoed with unspoken threats.

Then his shadow fell across your desk, and your heart stopped. Rafe loomed over you, his cerulean eyes gleaming with something that looked too much like triumph.

He'd dressed carefully today – crisp navy suit that matched his office walls, the ones he'd chosen because you'd once mentioned liking the color on him. Every detail calculated, every move choreographed.

"You're coming with me to fix the properties in Morocco," he announced, his voice soft but leaving no room for discussion. "I don't want to hear a no."

Before you could process the implications – before you could think about Pope, about the words Rafe had whispered to you at Roots, about that forbidden kiss that still burned on your lips, about all the professional lines you'd already crossed – Rafe turned on his heel and strode into his office.

The command in his posture was clear: follow.

And like a moth drawn to deadly flame, you did.

Your heels clicked against the floor as you trailed behind him, each step feeling like another thread in his web. He settled into his desk chair with the satisfaction of a predator who knew its prey would come when called.

The door clicked shut behind you with a finality that felt like fate.

"But Sir--"

"I thought I told you to call me Rafe?" His voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade.

"But Rafe--"

"Good girl." The praise rolled off his tongue like honey laced with poison, sending forbidden butterflies dancing through your stomach.

You watch as Rafe rises from his desk, coming straight towards you with that condescending stare that makes your stomach flip. Each deliberate step closes the distance between you, until there's nowhere left to retreat.

"Rafe, I--you're going to be in Morocco for the entire month of July." Your voice sounds small even to your own ears.

"Yes?" His cerulean eyes track your every movement, predatory and patient, as he effectively traps you between his imposing frame and the solid wood of his desk. The single word carries the weight of both question and threat.

"I can't do that, sir--Rafe," you stumbled over the name, watching his jaw clench at your slip.

"Well, why not?" The question dripped with dangerous calm.

"It's my engagement," you burst out, words tumbling faster as his expression darkened. "The $2,000 bonus I was given was just enough to afford rings--we're eloping in July!" The happiness in your voice felt suddenly wrong, like bringing a match to gasoline.

Rafe's face transformed as your words sank in. The bonus he'd authorized – his attempt at marking you with money – had instead funded Pope Hayward's claim on you. The irony of it twisted his features into something terrible.

His fist clenched at his side, knuckles bleaching white with barely contained rage.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. You watched as Rafe's knuckles whitened, as that muscle in his jaw worked overtime.

This wasn't just anger – this was something far more dangerous.

"We plan on just going down to the courthouse," you whisper, each word making Rafe's expression darken further. "The date's already set, and everyone's already RSVP'd--" Your voice trails off as Rafe's expression suddenly transforms into something that makes your blood run cold – a smile that's all teeth and no warmth, sharp and cruel and mocking.

In a moment of misguided politeness that you regret instantly, you stammer: "Of course, you're invited, sir--Rafe." The correction of his title feels like another mistake, another piece of ammunition you've just handed him.

The invitation itself hits Rafe like a physical blow.

His cerulean eyes flash with something dangerous as his mind processes the image: sitting in that courthouse, watching as some judge hands his girl over to Pope fucking Hayward.

The thought alone makes his vision blur red at the edges. A Cameron doesn't sit quietly and watch what belongs to them be claimed by someone else – especially not by a Pogue playing at success.

The way he's looking at you now makes your blood run cold.

But, a courthouse wedding...

How perfectly Pogue of Pope Hayward, Rafe thinks.

His cerulean eyes glitter with something dangerous as he processes this new information. No church, no reception, no grand celebration – just a simple ceremony for what belongs to him. The thought seems to offend him on a molecular level.

"But what about your job?" Rafe's voice softened to that dangerous velvet tone he used when he wanted something. "What about me?" he whispered, the words slipping out before he could catch them, betraying more vulnerability than he'd intended.

His smile flickered, a perfect performance of hurt that made your heart ache despite your better judgment.

"Do you realize how much of a bonus we can get from doing this deal in Morocco?" The question hung in the air between you, equal parts promise and threat, as his cerulean eyes searched your face for any sign of wavering.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his expensive cologne mixing with Rafe's last night's lingering sins.

His cerulean eyes held yours, swimming with what looked like genuine pain – but with Rafe Cameron, what was genuine and what was tactical often blurred into the same dangerous thing.

"All that stuff I said in the bathroom at Roots?" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, raw with something that sounded like truth. "About you being the only one who sees me? That wasn't the vodka talking." His fingers found your wrist, not gripping, just resting there like a promise – or a threat. "You're the only person who's ever looked at me and seen past the Cameron name, past all the money and the mess, and seen me. You're my best secretary yet."

The words hang between you, heavy with implication. His touch burns against your skin, and you can't tell if this is masterful performance or if you're witnessing one of those rare, unguarded moments when Rafe Cameron lets his masks slip.

The most dangerous part isn't the uncertainty – it's how easily you find yourself being drawn back into his gravity, like a planet that knows its sun might burn it to ash but can't help orbiting anyway.

A heavy silence fills the space between you, stretching like taffy as you stare down at his hands now gripping your waist. Rafe's cerulean eyes never leave your face, drinking in every micro-expression, every subtle reaction.

His fingers flex slightly against the fabric of your blouse, memorizing the feeling of having you this close, of finally holding what he considers his.

The possessive triumph in his eyes makes your breath catch – this isn't just about Morocco anymore. This is about ownership.

"But Mr. Cameron, Sir, this is my Wedding," your voice cracked on the word, desperation seeping through as you pull away from his inappropriate grip on your waist, trying to create distance between your bodies. The movement feels like trying to escape quicksand – the more you struggle, the deeper you sink.

"My fiancé and I have been waiting long enough as it is to get married--" You start, and Rafe's cerulean eyes darken at your careful avoidance of Pope's name. He notices it, savors it – how you can't bring yourself to say "Pope" in his presence, as if speaking his rival's name might shatter whatever dangerous thing hangs between you.

As if some part of you knows exactly what saying that name would do to Rafe's carefully maintained control.

"And what's wrong with waiting another month?" Rafe's voice drops to that same dangerous velvet tone, the one that makes promises and threats in equal measure. He moves closer, again, until you're trapped between his desk and his body, the heat of him making it hard to think straight.

His presence surrounds you like a cage made of expensive cologne and dark intentions, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize he's positioned himself deliberately – ensuring you have nowhere to run.

"One month with me in Morocco," he continues, each word carefully chosen like a weapon. "The bonus alone could buy you a real wedding, the kind of wedding a girl like you deserves not some courthouse ceremony." His fingers brush your arm, feather-light but burning. "Unless, of course, there's a reason you're rushing to tie yourself to Pope Hayward before you have time to… reconsider your options."

The implication hangs heavy in the air between you.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" you challenge, pushing back against his desk to create space between you again, trying to ignore how even that small contact sends electricity through your body.

"What does what mean?" Rafe's feigned innocence doesn't match the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Please don't play dumb, Mr. Cameron. 'Reconsider my options'?" Your voice gains strength with indignation, spine straightening as you finally push back. "If you're implying something's wrong with my relationship, you're deeply mistaken."

Rafe's eyebrow arches with dangerous interest, his cerulean eyes gleaming at your defensive tone. Trouble in paradise? he thinks, noting how quickly you jumped to defend a supposedly perfect relationship. Like a shark scenting blood in the water, he catalogs your reaction for future use – another crack in the facade he can exploit.

Rafe's response is a low, boyish chuckle that shouldn't affect you the way it does – shouldn't make your breath hitch or your cunt to clench. The worst part is, he seems to know exactly what that laugh does to you, his cerulean eyes darkening with satisfaction at your visible response.

"All I'm suggesting," he purrs, leaning closer despite your attempts to maintain distance, "is that a month in Morocco might give you some… clarity. About what you really want in life.--"

About who you really want in life, Rafe thinks.

His eyes rake over you appraisingly. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking? I know you're young. Young girls like you shouldn't be rushing into marriage when there's a whole world to explore."

The condescension in his tone ignites something fierce in you. Nice save, Rafe, but not good enough.

"And perhaps," you counter, voice sharp with newfound courage, "I could say the same to you, Mr. Cameron. I suppose living under your father's ownership isn't something a man your age should be doing either, maybe you should follow your own advice about exploration and independence." You shrug, the gesture deliberately casual, but your words strike with surgical precision. It's a direct hit to his deepest insecurity, and you both know it – the way his jaw clenches and his cerulean eyes darken tells you exactly how deep that barb has landed.

Without waiting for a response, you storm out of his office, letting your anger carry you past the weight of his stare.

But even as you retreat, his words follow you like a shadow: One month with Rafe in Morocco. One month that could change everything – or destroy it all. The smart thing would be to say no, to run straight to Pope and never look back.

Yet as you sink into your desk chair, suddenly, the phantom weight of an engagement ring you can't even afford feels heavy on your finger. Despite your anger at his manipulation, despite your better judgment screaming warnings, you find yourself wondering what kind of clarity Rafe Cameron could offer under the Moroccan sun.

And fuck, if you're being honest with yourself, that extra Morocco bonus could solve a lot of problems. The kind of problems that Pope's courthouse wedding and earnest but empty promises can't fix. The thought sits in your stomach like lead – equal parts guilt and temptation, wrapped in the dangerous possibility of what saying yes to Rafe Cameron might mean.

As you sank deeper into your desk chair, a chilling thought suddenly struck you. How did Rafe know about your engagement to Pope Hayward? You'd never mentioned it to him, had been deliberately careful to keep your personal life separate from work.

The realization that he'd somehow known all along made your skin crawl, adding another layer to the growing mystery of exactly how much Rafe Cameron watched you when you weren't looking.

A firecracker you were. That's what kept repeating in Rafe's mind, smiling to himself, as he slouched in his leather desk chair, trying to regain his composure.

The slap you given him yesterday still burned on his cheek. Today's verbal assault stung even deeper. No one talked to Rafe Cameron like that – no one except you.

And fuck, if that didn't make him want you more.

No wonder Pope wanted to marry you. The thought made his blood boil, but he had to admit – that fire, that spine of steel beneath your professional exterior… it was intoxicating. You weren't just another pretty secretary. You were a force of nature trapped in business casual.

For ten minutes after your explosive exit, Rafe sat there, fighting both his rage and his boner. The way you'd thrown his daddy issues back in his face, matching his cruelty with your own – no one else had ever dared. Not his father's yes-men, not his business partners, not even Ward himself. Just you, his perfect, infuriating secretary who thought she belonged to Pope Hayward.

His body's reaction to your defiance was embarrassingly obvious, but then again, nothing about his obsession with you had ever been subtle. Every rejection, every sharp word, every flash of that fierce independence just made him more determined to break you down, to own you completely.

Morocco couldn't come soon enough, Rafe thought.

During most of his solo lunches, Rafe took himself into Cameron Development's newly remodeled canteen – a massive improvement over the old one, now boasting a Starbucks, Panera Bread, and McDonald's.

On his high-calorie days, nothing beat a Big Mac with fries, a guilty pleasure he'd never admit to his health-obsessed father.

Today, however, his appetite vanished the moment he spotted Pope Hayward holding court at one of the central tables. The sight of him, surrounded by laughing colleagues, made Rafe's jaw clench. Pope was clearly in the middle of some elaborate story, gesturing with his sandwich, playing the charming man that everyone seemed to love.

Rafe lingered by the McDonald's counter, watching through narrowed eyes as Pope checked his phone, probably texting you. The way Pope's face lit up at whatever response he received made Rafe's fingers curl into fists.

That should be his messages making you smile, his lunch breaks spent with you.

The Big Mac in his hands suddenly felt like ash in his mouth. Watching Pope play the perfect fiancé, the beloved colleague, the man who dared to claim what belonged to Rafe – it was enough to make him reconsider every non-violent solution to the Pope Hayward problem.

But then again, Rafe thought bitterly, remembering Ward's warning about Pope being untouchable. No matter how much he fantasized about making his rival disappear, Pope's position at R&P made him politically bulletproof. The merger was too important, the relationships too valuable to risk.

So, what the hell, Rafe thought, his lips curving into a dangerous smile. If you can't beat them, join them – and learn their weaknesses from the inside.

"Pope Hayward," Rafe interrupted, his voice cutting through Pope's animated story about some youthful adventure with his Pogue friends. "Long time no see."

The conversation at the table died instantly. Every head turned toward him, faces marked with varying degrees of wariness and surprise.

Rafe couldn't help but appreciate the poetry of the moment – gathered around this corporate lunch table were three men whose faces he'd bloodied more times than he could count: Pope Hayward, Topper Thornton, and Kelce Thompson (both whom he hadn't noticed until now).

The irony wasn't lost on him. These three ghosts from his violent past, now wearing suits and playing at respectability in his mid-thirties. Each one a reminder of who he used to be – and who he still was beneath his own expensive suit.

Pope worked for R&P, climbing the corporate ladder with irritating success. Topper had somehow landed a cushy position under Ward at their mainland branch. And Kelce, who'd never quite figured out the corporate game, still hung around like a remora fish attached to his more successful friends. When had these former enemies become such close allies? The thought made something twist unpleasantly in Rafe's gut.

"Ah, Rafe Cameron," Pope's response came with that insufferably casually witty tone that made Rafe's teeth grind. "What do you mean, I just saw you yesterday, remember that meeting on the Morocco properties?" He paused, a knowing glint in his eye. "You know, the one where you couldn't seem to keep your eyes off my fiancée?"

The word 'fiancée' hung in the air like a challenge. Pope said it so casually, so confidently – marking his territory while maintaining that easy smile. Topper and Kelce exchanged glances, sensing the dangerous undertone of what should have been a simple business reference.

Rafe's cerulean eyes darkened at the subtle jab. Pope might be younger, might play at being the easygoing professional, but there was steel beneath that casual exterior. He knew exactly what he was doing, deliberately reminding Rafe of both your engagement and his own awareness of Rafe's obsession.

The fluorescent lights of the canteen suddenly felt too bright, the space between them too charged with unspoken threats.

How bad would it look if Rafe eliminated Pope Hayward in the corporate canteen? Just reach across the pristine table and finish what he'd started all those years ago on the beach--and all those other times, and while he was at it, he might as well take care of Topper Thornton too – the ambitious little shit who keeps eyeing Rafe's position like a vulture circling dying prey.

Rafe wasn't blind to the bitter reality unfolding before him. He saw the way Ward looked at Topper during meetings – that proud gleam in his father's eyes that Rafe hadn't seen directed at himself since childhood. The same look Ward used to give Sarah. While Rafe drowned in cocaine and debt, Topper had transformed from childhood rival into everything Ward wanted in a son.

The perfect fucking fairy tale: Topper Thornton, who'd married Sarah Cameron in that lavish ceremony three years ago, becoming the golden son-in-law, the brother Rafe never wanted. Now he was one of the company's top performers, stealing deals right out from under Rafe's nose with that same prep school charm that had stolen his sister.

Each of Rafe's failures – the mounting debts, the drug habit he couldn't kick, his growing obsession with you – seemed to push Ward further into Topper's camp. It was only a matter of time before his father decided to make the switch, replacing his disgrace of a son with the perfect proxy he'd always wanted.

But then that strange voice echoed in his head again: if you can't beat them, join them. The thought was foreign, almost painful – submission had never been in Rafe's vocabulary. Yet for once, maybe playing nice could work to his advantage. Get close enough to learn their weaknesses, their secrets. After all, the best way to destroy someone was from the inside.

For the first time in years, Rafe Cameron found himself considering patience over violence. The thought scared him almost as much as it intrigued him.

"Topper, Kelce, long time no see as well." Rafe forced the words through a practiced smile, deliberately turning away from Pope before his fists made decisions his career couldn't afford. He studied Pope's easy demeanor carefully, looking for any sign that you'd told him about the bathroom incident.

If Pope knew about that kiss, about how Rafe had tasted his fiancée's lips and lived to tell about it, this pleasant lunch scene would be very different.

The Pogues might play at being corporate now, but Rafe knew better – if Pope knew, he and his band of loyal attack dogs would have already stormed Rafe's waterfront condo with their old fury, all pretense of civilization stripped away.

But Pope's relaxed posture and casual smile suggested the kiss was still your little secret.

"How's my sister, and my niece?" Rafe said suddenly.

The mention of Sarah hung heavy in the air – another reminder of everything Topper had that should have been Rafe's: Ward's approval, the company's respect, a perfect family.

"Sarah and I are doing fine," Topper replied, his tone carrying that subtle note of superiority that made Rafe's jaw clench. "Madeline just started to walk." He paused, letting his next words land like carefully aimed darts. "You'd know this if you called every once in a while – introduce yourself to your niece."

The judgment in Topper's voice was clear: here was another way Rafe had failed as a Cameron. Another box Topper could check off in his perfect son-in-law performance.

Even being an uncle was something Rafe couldn't get right.

The worst part wasn't Topper's smugness or Pope's knowing smirk – it was that they were right. Rafe had been so consumed with his own demons, with watching you, with fucking random girls from bars, with chasing cocaine highs, that he'd missed his own niece's first steps.

Sarah would never forgive him for that, but then again, Sarah hadn't forgiven him for a lot of things.

"Wow, Rafe, you haven't even met your niece yet?" Kelce's voice dripped with theatrical shock, adding unnecessary drama like the background character he'd always been. His comment made the weight of Rafe's failures press harder against his chest.

"What can I say, I'm a busy man." Rafe's smile didn't reach his eyes. Then, seeing his opportunity, he shifted his attention back to Pope. "Speaking of busy – Pope, got a minute? Need to discuss something about your--" Rafe pauses, swallowing down his pride, "fiancée's role in the Morocco project."

The atmosphere at the table shifted instantly. Topper's eyes narrowed with suspicion, while Kelce looked between them like he was watching a tennis match. But it was Pope's reaction Rafe watched most carefully – the slight tension in his jaw, the way his easy smile faltered for just a moment.

"Sure thing, dude," Pope replied, emphasizing the casual term just to irk him. "Though I'm pretty sure any discussions about my fiancée's employment should go through HR, not me."

Rafe's smile turned predatory. "Trust me, this is something you'll want to hear in private."

"What is it Cameron? I don't got all day for your bullshit." Pope's words bounced off the nautical-themed walls of Rafe's office – the ones he'd designed with you in mind, a detail that made this conversation even sweeter.

"What makes you think it's bullshit I'm about to tell you, and not something that can change your life?" Rafe settled into his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Or more specifically, change your courthouse wedding into something actually worthy of my secretary?"

Pope's eyes narrowed. "Get to the point."

"Morocco," Rafe said simply, watching Pope's reaction carefully. "The bonus alone would set you both up nicely. We're talking six figures, Pope. Enough to buy a real house, throw a real wedding. Maybe finally afford that engagement ring you've been 'saving up' for that she doesn't have to pay for?"

He let that sink in, noting how Pope's jaw clenched at the jab about his finances. "All you have to do is convince her to come with me. One month in Morocco, and you two could finally start living like Kooks instead of… well." Rafe gestured vaguely at Pope's off-the-rack suit.

"You really expect me to send my fiancée off to Morocco with you?" Pope's laugh held no humor. "I'm not an idiot Cameron, I see the way you look at her like she's a piece of meat--" His eyes hardened, that easy Pogue charm evaporating into something more dangerous. "Which I've been meaning to say to you--cut it out, dude, and get your own, that's not cool."

That "dude" hung in the air between them – a deliberate reminder of their age gap. Pope, still young enough to use such casual language in a corporate setting, while Rafe… well, Rafe was old enough to remember beating him unconscious for less disrespect than this.

The age difference had never bothered Rafe before. But now, watching Pope's boyish smile, knowing he was the one who got to wake up next to you every morning – it felt like salt in an open wound. You deserved someone more refined, more powerful. Someone who could give you more than courthouse weddings and young love optimism.

Someone like Rafe.

"No," Rafe's smile turned shark-like--similar to his father's. "I expect you to want what's best for her. Unless, of course, you're happy watching her work as my secretary forever, living paycheck to paycheck, settling for courthouse ceremonies because her fiancé can't provide better."

The words hung in the air like poison. Rafe could see them working their way into Pope's mind, past his suspicion and into that deep-seated insecurity about not being good enough for you. After all, what kind of man would deny his future wife a chance at a better life?

"Think about it, Pope," Rafe pressed his advantage. "One month of discomfort for a lifetime of luxury. That's all I'm offering. The question is – do you love her enough to let her have it?"

"You're full of shit." Pope spat the words like venom as he headed for the door.

"Just think about it, Hayward--" He watched Pope's shoulders tense. "And hey."

Pope paused in the doorway, and Rafe's lips curved into that dangerous Cameron smile. "If you convince her to come with me, and you find out I try to make any move on her, I give you all rights to kick my ass. How's that sound?"

Rafe watched with predatory intensity, head tilted slightly as Pope weighed his options. The soft 'tsk' that escaped Pope's lips only made Rafe's smile sharpen – like a wolf watching its prey realize it's already trapped. Every second of Pope's hesitation felt like victory.

Before either man could speak again, the office door burst open. You stood there, slightly breathless, concern etched across your features. "Mr. Cameron? Is everything alright? I saw Mr. Hayward leaving and-"

"Just discussing some properties, sweetheart," Rafe cut in smoothly, his predatory smile softening into something almost believable. "Weren't we, Pope?"

Pope's jaw clenched at the endearment, but he managed a nod. "Yeah, just business." He caught your eye, and for a moment, looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he turned and walked away, the weight of his decision settling heavy on his shoulders.

Rafe watched you watch Pope leave, already imagining how perfectly his plan was falling into place. Morocco was going to change everything – he'd make sure of it.

a/n -- this shit about to get so messy yall-

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