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salem-s · 3 months ago

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02 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving). 18+ mdni. prooooobably not perfect italian translations.

WORD COUNT 7.5k. need to learn how to reel it in.

SONGS OF THE CHAPTER julia by sza and yuck by charli xcx

Of fucking course Rafe manages to get a first class seat on the flight.

You want to slap that stupid smirk off his face for the umpteenth time when he boards before you, especially when he sends you a farewell wink and over-exaggerated kiss.

Rafe's parting words echo in your head over and over again like a tortuous mantra: “Can’t wait to date you, baby.”

You tap your foot impatiently as you wait for your boarding class to get called, cursing at yourself for your bruising pride when refusing your family’s money when buying the ticket. You absolutely hate using their money, their trust funds, their anything since you barely talk to them, much less feel entitled to their money.

There’s also the thought of wanting as little contact as possible, so the idea of your parents, more so your mother, having some sort of leverage over you makes you a little nauseous.

Whatever. Basic economy will do. Regardless of the seat, you will get from point A to point B.

Although that nonchalant philosophy nearly goes out the window as you pass his seat as you board towards the back, Rafe's stupid smirk making your blood boil. The bastard is already strapped in with that stupid night mask settled over his forehead.

Priiiiiick, you think as you sit in the middle seat between a priest and a middle aged man.

The flight itself isn’t bad. You don't manage to sleep much due to the overwhelming anxiety of your impulsive decision, and constantly teeter back and forth on the topic of if bringing Rafe along was a mistake.

The pros are that he’ll help give your mother a topic to brag about to your family and friends since she claims everything else in your life is boring and not meaningful enough to boast about.

Plus, you might even get a little action if you're lucky.

The con is that it’s Rafe Cameron: the notoriously known prick prince of your campus. The guy who gets under your nerves with every opportunity that presents itself, the guy who will fuck anything with a vagina and flirt with a brick wall if it meant getting his dick wet, the guy who can put on a charming facade and woo you to where the horizon meets the sea without feeling a shred of likings towards you.

No, you need to realize. No real liking.

He likes your pussy and your mouth when it doesn’t speak. He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t have girlfriends. He rarely fucks the same person twice, you being an exception due to your arrangement, and even then it’s a stretch.

It gnaws at your heart, knowing the next week is going to play with you mentally and emotionally in two different directions.

Truthfully, the only reason you continue sleeping with him is that you knows for certain he’s never going to want to take that next step with you.

Rafe’s made it perfectly clear it’s purely casual, and you agreed wholeheartedly (at first). Despite the toll it takes, you know better. You know that it’ll never be more than sex because of his track record, because relationships are a dying breed when it comes to the two of you, because the thought of being someone’s first choice makes you sick to your stomach.

You groan when the plane lands with a jerk, lulling you from a sleep that you just fell into.

It doesn’t take long for you to meet Rafe as he waits by the gate, looking more refreshed than ever. You conclude you probably look like you've been hit by a truck, the only thing keeping you awake and motivated is that you're seeing your nonna soon.

Rafe has way too much energy while you stand in customs, talking your ear off about whatever nonsense movies he watched on the way here, relishing on how relaxed and well-rested he feels after all that time. The words go in one ear and out the other, as you can solely focus on standing on your own two feet right now.

God, you've never wanted to hit someone more in your life than you do right now, especially because he has the audacity to look good with his long hair falling over his bright eyes.

It isn’t until they get in the taxi that you feel somewhat relaxed.

Sure, it’s the smallest sports car you've ever seen in your life, your thigh and shoulder are smushed against Rafe’s in the backseat. It’s comical how he looks cartoonish the way his long legs are folded and how his head nearly hits the roof of the car, but you don't have the energy to laugh or even tease him on his grumpy facial expression.

“Via di dodici Ardoino, per favore,” you mumble to the driver as you close your eyes, feeling the car move a few seconds later.

You miss the incredulous look that Rafe gives you when you speak Italian so effortlessly, his dick twitching immediately – to his utter dismay. But he barely has the chance to comment on it before you're shutting your eyes and down for the count.

While you sleep, Rafe pulls his head out of the gutter to admire the Sicilian scenery as you drive through the countryside. It’s beautiful: the vast mountains, colorful houses, acres of farmland. It seems nice. Quiet. Quaint. The coast is to his right, the country on his left. He toggles looking at both, a small smile making its way to his lips without it meaning to. Rafe meant it when he said that he always wanted to visit Italy.

The driver tries making small talk with him a few times, but Rafe sheepishly nods, not understanding the language in the slightest. He wishes you were awake to translate for him, but decided against waking you up due to how tired you looked after the flight, probably getting no sleep in whatever economy seat you were sitting in.

There’s a slight twinge of guilt in his chest when he thinks of you trying to get comfortable in the small seat, sitting thigh to thigh with strangers, neck straining and tossing and turning in frustration.

Rafe then curses at himself. He should’ve given his seat to you. Why didn’t he switch?

Shit. He’s already doing horrible as a boyfriend.

But his worries slowly start to fizzle out when you unconsciously rest your head on his shoulder, drooling ever so slightly onto his t-shirt and nuzzling into his side.

He can’t help but laugh at the irony of shooting him death glares all day and practically cursing his bloodline with every pointed look you threw at him, but ultimately ending up seeking refuge in him. There’s a small swell of pride in his chest, the notion of you needing him. Even if you don't realize it.

The opportunity is too good to pass up. Rafe takes a selfie with you, setting the incriminating photo as your contact picture, trying to ignore the stupid grin that etches on his face when he looks at it over and over again.

He tries to snap his mind out of it, taking pictures of the scenery, but his focus always reverts back to you, making sure you're still sleeping when he moves too quickly or if there’s a bump in the road that has him hitting his head on the roof of the car.

The car slows at a countryside villa with a low stone perimeter fence, just on the edge of a cliff leading to the ocean. Rafe doesn’t have time to stop and admire as he notices the Euro meter displaying the charge of the ride, and he straightens his posture at his first task as a boyfriend: paying for all things under the sun for you.

He carefully digs his wallet out of his pocket, stacked with Euros that he got in exchange at the airport before you could catch him and interrogate. He pays the driver the set amount, making sure he pockets it before shrugging his shoulder to coax you from your beauty sleep, his palm gently resting on your cheek.

You snap awake, blinking the bleariness out of your eyes as you take in your surroundings: the driver already out of the car and unloading bags from the drunk, your nonna’s cottage in sight.

And Rafe Cameron staring down at you.

“Hi, baby,” he says gently. “Sleep well?”

You hum and nod wordlessly. You stretch and frown at the wet spot on his sleeve.

Rafe follows your gaze and raises a brow. “You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not,” you grumble, fishing around for your purse, ignoring his stupid grin and stupid laugh and stupid hair that falls right over his eyes. “That was there before we got in the car.”

“Hmm,” he hums unconvincingly. “Must’ve missed that.”

Sleepily, you grab your bag, sticking your hand in to grab your wallet but when you pull it out, Rafe opens the door with one hand and covers yours with the other one and squeezes once, twice, and the motion makes you dizzy all over again.

“I already got it. Let’s go.”

Your mind spins. “Wh–?”

Rafe tugs on your arm to coax you out of the car, and he sighs in relief being able to stretch his legs. “I paid already.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugs as he watches you get out of the car slowly, like a baby deer trying to find its footing. “Boyfriend tax.”

You roll your eyes and shove him with little to no strength at all to where he doesn’t even budge, ignoring the way your heart lurches at the thought of him casually putting himself in the role he appointed himself to. The driver sets the remainder of the bags on the side of the taxi, and you offer a soft grazie to him before he drives away, kicking up some dirt from the path that has you waving your hand in front of your face.

Rafe takes a long look at the house, nodding in approval. “This is real nice. Cozy.”

A snort escapes your lips. “What were you expecting? A barnyard?”

You're no stranger to the fact that Rafe comes from money. Heaps of it, even. He’s the type of rich that isn’t voiced, but rather shown through his demeanor, like how he wears a ratty old graphic t-shirt and jeans to class along with his hundred thousand dollar watch, or how he casually replaced your computer after you told him once that the sound stopped working, or how he always seems to smell nice even after he comes home from parties.

Maybe Rafe’s never stayed in a place like this, somewhere cozy, as he describes it, instead of a giant mansion with a yacht waiting in the water. Something tells you that his life before college was far from quaint or homey based on the content expression on his face as he takes in the scenery around him.

“An old building, I guess.” Rafe looks down at you. “Like in The Godfather when Michael flees to Sicily.”

And there it is. You roll your eyes. Of course he’d find a way to bring that movie up.

“You’re never beating the performative film-bro allegations, Cameron.”

You grab your bags and start hauling them towards the house, ignoring his spluttering attempts to defend himself. He follows suit, wishing he could take the bags from you and carry his own at the same time.

As you trek on the cobblestone path, Rafe takes in his surroundings: the quaint cottage with a fenced in garden, two metal garden chairs planted next to a matching circle table, a tabby-cat lazily perched on the stone fence, a shallow rectangular pool that can’t be longer than fifteen feet filled with natural leaves and stones.

He sighs. He could die here peacefully in a place like this, somewhere remote yet warm and inviting.

A dog barking breaks him from his thoughts as a shetland-sheepdog barrels out of the house and runs up to you and greets you like an old friend. You crouch down and swallow up the attention, scratching the shaggy brown fur.

“Ticino!” you coo. “Che bellino!”

The dog, Ticino, eventually makes his way to Rafe, sniffing him cautiously and inspecting the stranger. Once he decides that Rafe isn’t a threat, he allows Rafe to pet him all over. His hands run over the smooth coat, scratching his back, head, ears, and eventually belly when Ticino collapses on his side, throwing a leg in the air as Rafe rubs his tummy with utter enthusiasm.

He nearly sighs in relief at the set-up, as he’s always wanted a dog or generally any animal ever since he was a kid. His father never allowed amenities such as pets, claiming they tainted their family home’s appearance, and would ultimately end up with him paying the staff more to clean up after it (despite Rafe’s constant promises that he’d take care of it).

Rafe figures he can settle, only if it means having one for a few days.

“Ah, lui ha incontrato il tuo ragazzo, sí?” (He met your boyfriend, yeah?)

The unfamilar voice causes Rafe to pick his head up, meeting the gaze of your nonna standing in the dark blue doorway, a crayon-sun yellow apron loosely tied around her waist as a pair of reading glasses flatten the unruly grey curls on top of her head. Her arms are folded, studying the scene in front of her.

The only factor that reassures Rafe’s nerves is the tiny smile seeping onto her lips, more so as she looks at you approaching her.

“Penso che Ticino avrà un nuovo amico,” you sheepishly respond, giving your nonna a warm hug, an embrace that feels genuine. (I think Ticino will have a new friend)

Something in Rafe’s chest tightens, a phantom ache in his heart.

He doesn’t remember the last time he hugged someone in his family like that – or anyone, for that matter – as the Camerons aren’t big on public displays of affection (at least towards Rafe, that is). He watches from the outside peering in.

Despite the unfamiliar feeling bubbling in his stomach, Rafe swallows the lump in his throat and manages to stand and offer a friendly smile. Ticino gets back up on his feet and looks up to Rafe, anticipating more pets.

The older woman releases from the much needed hug and you step aside as Rafe approaches the door cautiously.

“Uh, nonna, questo è Rafe.” You turn to Rafe. “Rafe, this is my nonna, Lorenza.”

Rafe offers the same polite handshake extension he offered Paulette back in the tiny dorm room. But your nonna takes one look at his hand, rolling her eyes in you-like bravado and pulls him in for a hug, one with the same ferocity as she had for her faux grandchild.

He chuckles nervously at the tight – but seemingly genuine – squeeze, reciprocating the quick hug with a wink towards you, who watches the whole thing with an uneasy smile as if your nonna is going to see through the whole facade.

Then Lorenza releases him, hands gripping his biceps as she inspects him head to toe. “Lui è troppo magro. Ha bisgno mangiare,” she mutters, flickering her gaze to you as you snort unattractively at the words.

“Basta.”

You wave her off as Rafe chuckles nervously again, fully aware you're talking about him in a language he doesn’t understand.

He suddenly feels stupid. Like, really stupid.

Because he should’ve studied some common phrases or words that wouldn’t make him feel like such an idiot. Rafe didn’t factor in the whole wait, your grandmother-like-figure doesn’t speak English situation when thinking about the itinerary of the trip.

After all, the wedding is the main event of the mini vacation. This is just the calm before the storm, the prelude.

Rafe nearly slaps himself at the idiocy of his lack of planning, worried that his inadequate knowledge will score him less points with the grandmother, the person whose opinion matters most to you.

Oh, god. He’s already fucking up.

Lorenza steps inside the house, beckoning you to follow. “Vieni. Ho fatto un'insalata." (Come. I made a salad)

She disappears in the house and Ticino follows her, leaving the two of you in the warm breeze as you grab your bag, a small smile creeping up on your lips as Rafe is sure his is dripping in anxiety.

“Uh, what did she…what did she say about me?”

You stand in the doorway, looking him up and down. He isn't sure if you purposefully wait a few moments to respond to prolong his nerves. Given the shit-eating smirk on your face, he assumes this is your own sweet little way of messing with him.

“She said you’re too skinny. You realize she’s gonna try and fatten you up before we leave, right?”

Phew. He can work with that.

Even though he has no idea what she’s saying without your translation, Rafe decides he really likes Lorenza. Obsessed, even.

Obsessed in the way he wants a miniature version of her to keep in his pocket as constant amusement in this grim world. She’s bright, witty, and effortlessly way cooler than what he expects. Her all-yellow kitchen is her safe space, and he laughs out loud when she tells him – or rather when she tells you who proceeds to tell him – that she loves her kitchen, only partially for the cooking, but mainly for the cleaning and maintenance of it all.

Something about the domesticity of it makes his chest warm, especially with the way you're chuckling along with him.

It’s nice to see you unguarded, and Rafe can’t help but shoot teasing glances every time you show an ounce of niceness towards him.

You weren't wrong about Lorenza making him do all sorts of chores around the house. He’s already lifted heavy pots and moved them to different cabinets, reached a spot on the top shelf that she couldn’t quite get with her paintbrush, rearranged some furniture and plucked two tomatoes from her garden outside (and he doesn’t even complain about the worm he saw slithering in the dirt).

His chest pathetically swarms with pride when he completes another task for Lorenza, happy to be of service, and also privy to the way you watch him and translate his next assignment.

By the time he feels like he can sit down, the sun is already setting.

You help Lorenza with the cooking, jabbing at him in both English and Italian that he should be nowhere near a kitchen setting after he nearly set their friends’ house on fire (neglectfully forgetting to add water to instant noodles), as he sits at the kitchen table and watches you.

There’s a moment where you struggle to open a jar and Rafe instantly shoots up from his seat, placing his hand on the small of your back as if to coax you into giving it to him.

The touch lingered longer than he meant it to, opening the jar with ease and handing it back to you with a focused furrowed brow. You nearly teased him with how quickly he jumped out of his seat, but your words died in your throat when your nonna shoots you a knowing smile, a genuine one.

That shut you right up.

Rafe shamefully watches you, how you chop the fruit, pound down the chicken, speak so eloquently that he tries to listen to every syllable. You maneuver around the kitchen with ease, you and Lorenza talking a mile a minute as Ticino sits right next to his chair, laying his head in Rafe’s lap as Rafe strokes his forehead absentmindedly.

He doesn’t even break his stare when the cat, Po, jumps on his lap too, sitting upright as if to claim his stake with the new guest. The aroma of dinner has his stomach rumbling and by the way it’s looking, it’s ready soon.

Rafe helps set the table and tries to make it look pretty the only way he knows how, trying to recall how the chefs at his house make the dinner table look presentable. He does nowhere near the same level of pretty, but Lorenza thanks him gratefully nonetheless. She swats his hand away as he tries to get up and serve himself, but she points at the chair, insisting he sits down, as she fills his plate up with the primo piatti, pasta with homemade pesto sauce.

You sit to his left, filling up the wine glasses with a light white as he fights the urge to push a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

Once Lorenza sits down, she sighs in mock exhaustion and grins. “Buon appetito, ragazzi.” She begins to dive in and so do you, so he takes that as the hint to start eating.

Sitting here at the small wooden table with barked laughter and a warm feeling in his chest, Rafe tries to remember the last time he sat down with his family and had dinner that didn’t result in a screaming match.

He keeps tensing, waiting for something to happen. But it never comes.

Despite there only being three people, it’s the most lively and comfortable he’s ever felt at a meal. It doesn’t even feel like an interrogation when Lorenza spews question after question, to which you translate, and Rafe answers and asks his own questions, and so on.

She asks about his life: what he’s studying, where he’s from, what movies he likes (Lorenza’s a big film lover like him which warranted a giant tangent that he almost feels bad for, making you roll your eyes), and eventually starts asking about your relationship, or at least that what he assumes she asks about given sharp hitch of your breath and your nonna's darting gaze between the two of you.

Rafe doesn’t understand, but the way you shift in your seat and brush off the question with a light chuckle all but confirms his suspicions. Lorenza side-eyes you, dropping the topic.

You know you'll have to tell your nonna about your relationship at one point or another, but you figure you'll brush it off for now in order to get the story straight for later.

After two giant plates of pasta, three pieces of chicken, and a salad, Rafe is spent. He hasn’t been this graciously fed in what feels like forever, yearning to lay down for a little while to catch his breath.

He politely tries to help Lorenza clean, but again she waves him off and he’s selfishly a little grateful for that. She also waves you off, gesturing to your unpacked bags loitering in the doorway and nodding towards the bedrooms at the end of the hall.

Before you walk away, Rafe gently grabs your forearm.

“Um, how do I say thank you?” he sheepishly asks. “You know, for dinner.”

Your lips curl into a pretty smile, a genuine one. It’s quickly replaced with a teasing one and he hates how the tips of his ears turn pink. “What? Didn’t take your Duolingo lessons?”

Rafe bites his lip, looking away from you bashfully. “Shut up. What is it?”

Recognizing the soft gaze in his eyes, your heart skips a beat.

How dare he look so pretty right now?

Then, you tell him. “Grazie per il cibo.”

“Grazie per il cibo,” he repeats slowly, feeling a bit stupid at his over-Americanized pronunciation but turning around to face Lorenza nonetheless. He clears his throat, causing her to pause her dish-washing. “Uh, grazie per il cibo.”

Lorenza beams. “Bravo, Rafe. Adesso, vai, vai,” she waves them out of the kitchen.

You grab his forearm. “C’mon. I’ll show you the room.”

You two exit the kitchen and grab your bags, waiting until Lorenza’s out of earshot even though she won’t understand anyway, ducking low to ghost over the shell of your ear.

“One bed, I hope.”

He’s met with a swift backhand slap against his chest but it only riles him up further, the thought of sharing a bed with you makes him nearly jump in excitement, the cherry on top of the whole trip.

You two enter the room and you flick on the lights, stifling a chuckle as you turn around to gauge Rafe’s reaction, whose cheeky smirk falls into confusion.

Two twin beds.

On opposite sides of the room.

You full on belly laugh at the stupid pout on his face, moving your bags into the room and claiming the bed on the left side as he remains unmoved from his spot in the doorway. His gaze alternates between the two beds, dumbfounded at the ridiculous amount of space between you.

He grumbles something incoherent as he trudges over to the other twin bed that is so small it’ll probably have his ankles poking over the edge when he sleeps.

“This is worse than separate rooms,” Rafe practically whines.

You roll your eyes, lounging on the twin. “You’re such a baby. Not everyone has the luxury of a king mattress with Egyptian cotton.”

Rafe frowns, his grumpy facade simmering into confusion and slight irritation.

Is that what you think he’s bitching and moaning about?

He pushes the thought down.

“Baby, I don’t care if I sleep on the floor or strung upside down like a bat. I hate that there’s this,” he gestures between the two beds, “much space between us. How am I supposed to be able to sleep knowing you’re right there?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe start by having an ounce of self control for your fake girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes. “Now is not the time for jokes. I’m in mourning.”

You sit up, faux concern. “Of what? My vagina?”

Rafe shakes his head with a scoff of disbelief as you bark out a laugh. He hates the way he almost stomps his foot like a toddler.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna shower. Do I have to do that separately, too?”

“Yes, you do.” You stand, crossing the room to end up right in front of him. The centimeters between your bodies is palpable, and these rare moments where he's undoubtedly flustered only fuels your playfulness. “Sometimes, boyfriends need to suck it up.”

Oh, he hates the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

That word, the b-word, sends a foreign chill down his spine as he squirms away from you, grabbing the pajamas at the top of his bag and moving towards the door.

It’s okay when he uses the word, but when you use it…

Rafe pauses in the doorway, looking back to see the smug look on your face that has him automatically rolling his eyes, irritation blooming. He grumbles something incoherent and heads off to the bathroom, ignoring the way your laughter echoes in the hallway and can even be heard after he shuts the door.

When he exits the much needed shower, you aren't in the bedroom.

Rafe dries his hair messily with the towel as he throws it on his bed, leaving the bedroom in his thin pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt to search around the cottage. He enters the living room and sees no one, then peeks into the kitchen and sees no one. But he pauses, hearing muffled laughter beyond the kitchen.

Moving quietly, he gently pats Po's head, who sits on the kitchen table as he looks towards the yard. Rafe follows the cat’s gaze, settling on you and Lorenza sitting at the garden table, each nursing a half-smoked cigarette. The moonlight behind you casts a pearly hue on the ocean as your faces are lit up by the dim kitchen light.

You laugh at something Lorenza says, and he swallows the bile of emotion in his throat at the sound.

He almost leaves to go back into the bedroom, to give you some time to catch up, but there’s nothing subtle about his six foot something stature as Lorenza notices him standing in the kitchen and waves him over with an exaggerated hand, cigarette ash spewing on the cobblestone.

You follow your nonna’s gaze and settle on him, fresh out of the shower in a white tee that snugs his biceps a little too well.

Jesus. You physically have to look away as Rafe approaches. But as he gets closer, you frown when Lorenza stands, ashing her cigarette in the tray as the light slowly dies.

“Vado a letto,” Lorenza announces, flicking her gaze between the two of you with a knowing smirk. You open your mouth to protest but your nonna gestures for Rafe to sit down and take her seat. “Ecco. Buona notte, ragazzi.” (I’m going to bed. | Here, goodnight guys.)

You watch your nonna saunter into the house, Ticino following close on her tail as Po joins them as they all head to the master bedroom.

There’s a calm quiet between you as Rafe plucks the cigarette out between your fingers and brings it to his lips for a long drag.

You find the strength to face him, and much to your dismay he’s already looking at you as he blows the smoke out, gaze intently focused on you with a sort of…

Softness?

Suddenly, you squirm, the whole situation feeling weirdly intimate as you hastily grab the cigarette back from him.

“Leech,” you mutter, taking a drag.

Rafe snorts, putting his elbows on the table and leaning closer to you. “So? What’s Lorenza’s verdict?”

“Hmm?”

“Does she approve?” he teases, but there’s a small part of him that’s bleeding anxiety at the thought of not being liked. Rafe tries not to let it show and if you can see right through his facade, he can’t tell. “Do I need to pick the couch up with one arm to prove it?”

You take a long, painful drag, each second feeling like steel in his chest. “She didn’t say she doesn’t like you.”

“That’s a horrible way to phrase it. This is detrimentally important.”

“Jesus, relax.” Another drag. Rafe steals the cigarette from you, and you let him. “What’s the big deal?”

“Baby, I’m supposed to be your loving, doting boyfriend. I’m losing my mind here.”

You roll your eyes at the pet name. “She likes you, alright?” God, you want to smack the giant grin that spreads across his face. “Stop grinning.”

“I’m not grinning,” Rafe mumbles, still grinning.

You hum low in your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his piercing blue eyes and charming smile that creates a fuzzy feeling in your chest.

Instead, you settle your gaze on the horizon, looking to where the moonlight meets the sea and honing your focus to try and hear the distant waves crashing.

Taking another long drag, you ignore the feeling of his intense stare burning in your peripheral.

“I told nonna that we’re going to the beach tomorrow,” you say after a few minutes of silence. “Supposed to be nice and sunny.”

“Oh? Didn’t think to ask me?”

“I want to lay in the sun. You’re free to stay here and do laundry with nonna, though.”

Rafe snorts. “On second thought, the beach sounds great.”

One of his arms dips under the table to absentmindedly run the pad of this thumb over your kneecap. You nearly jolt from the contact.

Despite it, you hums to appear indifferent, offering him the roach of the cigarette that no one wants. He rolls his eyes but takes it anyway.

“It’s only a twenty minute walk. Figured we could go in the morning, bring some lunch, then come back in the afternoon. What do you think?”

Finally gathering the courage, you turn your head to look at him, a soft expression on his face as if he’s soaking in the moment before you find something to jab about to him. His hand still rests on your knee and you have every urge to nudge it off, because you don't like how you have the urge to brush his damp locks away from his pretty eyes.

No, you reel. Not pretty. Just normal eyes. Nothing more.

“Sounds good, pretty.” His voice is saccharine.

You tear your gaze away from his face to his hands, watching Rafe put out the cigarette in the ash tray with a lingering smile that has undertones of honey.

Suddenly, despite the fresh air, you're suffocating.

Nope.

This is too intimate right now. It’s all too much: his eyes, his voice, his hand still seeking refuge on your knee.

Standing abruptly, his hand leaves your body as he looks up at you in adorned confusion. You really don't like this mushy-gushy voodoo in the air right now, because his gaze is far from teasing, from his normal playful, and instead emulating that of candor.

This whole thing is pretend, fake, faux for show. The person that you're putting the show on for isn’t even here, so there’s no reason to milk the part. All you both do is fuck and argue. Why aren’t you doing either? Why are you pretending to act like you can do anything outside of that?

“I’m gonna shower,” you say almost awkwardly, the sudden movement startling both of you. “Just, uh, lock the door behind you.”

“Wh–?”

You spin on your heel and leave him sitting at the table before he can retort, entering the kitchen and refusing to look back.

You purposefully take an elongated shower, trying to rub off the grime from the plane and airport and the sweat from milling about in the AC-less cottage.

Additionally, you try to shake the foreign feeling in your chest, trying to decide if it’s from the jet lag or from a certain dirty blond playing his part a little too well.

Before you know it, you're contemplating the latter so intensely that you don't know how long you've been standing under the water for.

And of course when you turn the water off you realize you didn’t bring any pajamas into the bathroom, just a measly towel that barely covers your ass.

You just pray that Rafe immediately fell asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, or better yet, he’s still outside scratching his head about you leaving so abruptly.

Poking your head into the hallway, you notice all the lights are all off and you nearly groan.

So, he’s definitely in the bedroom and definitely awake due to the lamp light radiating underneath the door.

It’s fine. Totally fine.

Rafe’s seen you naked more times than you can count. It’s no big deal.

You open the bedroom door quietly, taking in the surroundings cautiously. Rafe lays on his back on the twin bed, ankles propped off the edge. One arm rests under his head as the other holds his phone against his shirtless tummy, lazily scrolling through social media without giving you as much as a courtesy glance.

Normally, you'd laugh at his large frame on the small bed, but that’ll bring attention to yourself.

Maybe later, you note. When I have clothes on.

You slip in the room and nearly sigh in relief when he doesn’t bother looking your way. He’s probably salty at your premature departure, because you know if Rafe hates one thing, it’s not getting what he wants. He’s a primadonna when it comes to holding grudges, and normally it drives you up the wall but now it’s a blessing in disguise. Maybe he won’t even look up at all.

But the worst comes into fruition when you slightly lean over to unzip your suitcase on the bed, fingers brushing your pajamas when you hears a harsh breath hitch.

“Jesus, baby,” Rafe groans.

Fuck.

You spin around as if you were caught stealing, clutching your flimsy pajamas with one hand and desperately trying to keep the towel up with the other.

You take in the sight in front of you: Rafe’s arm is draped over his eyes as he sighs so gutturally deep that he almost sounds irritated, as if it's your fault he decides to look up your towel. His phone is long forgotten, thrown about somewhere on the bed as he pinches his eyes shut.

Rafe takes his arm off his eyes and looks at you sinfully, scanning the water droplets on your chest and bare legs. He lazily lets his arm hang off the bed as he mentally undresses you with no shame at all.

You shift your weight between feet, feeling hot under his gaze.

He likes to do this: watch and prolong the inevitable and get you all hot and bothered and ready for him. It's shameful how well he knows your body, how it reacts to him. He's calculating, precise, and uses his ever-growing knowledge to his advantage. Every. Damn. Time.

It feels like muscle memory when he silently nods towards his bed and your feet instantly pad over the tile towards his side, throwing your pajamas on the floor absentmindedly.

Rafe wastes no time bringing his arm to trickle up your thigh, skirting under the towel and catching a glimpse of your heat. He groans, pulling you onto him by the back of your thigh as you fall onto him, moving to straddle him.

Your hands flatten on his broad chest to stop yourself from collapsing fully onto him, as he wastes no time fisting the towel and ripping it off your body, letting it hit the floor with a damp thud.

Shamelessly, Rafe’s gaze travels to your bare chest, tummy, waist, lower and lower until he sighs gutturally again when you moves your hips against his to tease.

His eyes roll back as his hands grip the curve of your ass, guiding your movements over his thin boxers. Rafe huffs as he moves to sit up, your chests bumping as he pulls you into a bruising kiss as one hand tangles in your hair.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he mumbles against your lips. In retaliation, you push your hips down further and his grip on your hair tightens. “Barely covering anything.”

“You’re the one who can’t control himself,” you retort, biting back a whine when he rubs over your clit.

Oh, but he notices and hums in baritone. “Never can around you, baby. You drive me fucking crazy.”

Rafe can’t take this position anymore because he knows at this pace he might — no, will — get embarrassingly closer to release.

Pathetic, he thinks to himself as he pulls away and slides you off his lap, pinning you down as gracefully as a twin bed will allow and slotting himself between your legs. He ducks down and harshly sucks on that oh-so-sweet spot under your jaw, eliciting a saccharine sigh from you. At the same time, his broad hand skims over your tummy as he presses the heel of his hand against your clit.

You moan, then slaps a hand over your mouth as Rafe chuckles huskily against your burning skin. God, you hate the way that the noise only edges you on further, the vibration against your throat sending a warm feeling to your core. Your other hand finds the nape of his neck, pulling at his hair harshly when you feel a finger enter you effortlessly.

Rafe hums low. “So tight for me, baby. Feel so fucking nice.”

The sudden realization of where you are, what you're doing, and everything in between hits you with a ragged breath.

“Shit,” you whisper breathlessly, mind reeling. “Rafe, we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Shouldn’t,” you retort, biting back another moan as he enters another finger, thumb pressed firmly on your clit.

Rafe feels the way you're squirming as he peppers wet kisses down your torso, roughly sucking your breast in the way he knows you like.

The strangled moan you let out goes straight to his dick, painfully straining his boxers. He licks a greedy stripe over your bud, then moves to the other nipple, giving an equal amount of attention as he practically bruises the swell with how hard he’s sucking. A pang of possession fires in his chest, hoping his marks will litter your soft skin with the bikini you'll wear tomorrow.

You whine when his fingers leave your cunt, bringing his hand up to you mouth. You know the drill, taking his fingers in his mouth and sucking sultry. Meeting his gaze, his pupils are blown dark in arousal as he watches you with pouty parted lips.

“Good girl,” he murmurs low before retracting his hand, moving lower and lower over your body before his lips ghost over the softness of your inner thighs.

Rafe’s eyes nearly roll back at your glistening cunt ready for him as he places chaste kisses closer and closer to your heat.

Then, he scoffs, “Separate beds,” to himself before connecting with your sweet pussy, lapping up and plunging his tongue deep into his favorite meal.

Your back arches, biting down on your knuckle to refrain from letting a shameless moan out, fingers tangled in Rafe’s hair and wiggling your hips to chase your high. But his forearm comes up and pins you down, rending you unable to buck up and ride his face. Which is torture, essentially, because his nose keeps hitting your clit and his tongue flattens and licks and sucks.

If there's one thing you've learned about Rafe through your time sleeping with him, is that he has no problem wasting away an afternoon between your thighs.

You've never understood it completely, but you never complained about it.

Why would you?

Despite how selfish he may look on the outside, it detrimentally contradicts how he really is in bed. There'd be times where you'd get a text in the middle of a lecture from him, simply the female head emoji with a question mark, and that'd be enough for you to understood what he wanted from you.

One afternoon, Rafe went down on you for hours. Literal hours. You remember seeing the sun, then seeing it set, and suddenly it was night. The only excuse he offered was that he had a bad day, and needed a distraction. Apparently, whereas other people used drugs or alcohol, he found solace between your thighs.

God, he’s your favorite eater by far.

Especially now, even though it's embarrassingly frustrating to settle at the pace he's picked: unhurried. It's almost possessive the amount of time Rafe's spent going down on you, ruining every other experience you've ever had with another guy (not that you'd ever tell him that).

It always turns your mind to mush. You consider the cause: his mouth, and the effect: dumbification.

Rafe adds two fingers, looking up for a moment to see your head thrown back as you bite back moans, teeth pressing hard on your knuckle, and, fuck, if that doesn’t drive him insane. He pathetically ruts his hips against the bed in rhythm with his movements, feeling pent up from all the traveling and stolen glances and batted eyelashes he's been enduring all day.

His hot mouth is everywhere it needs to be. When he found your clit the first time you'd slept together, Rafe never missed it again. In fact, he could pin point it every time after that first try. A part of you would be flattered at how well he's mapped your body out by now, but most of the time it simply drives you crazy.

Like now.

You writhe particularly harshly and it makes Rafe groan into your cunt, knowing you're close by understanding your body language: shallow breaths, furrowed brows, incessant bucking of your hips that he has to physically flatten against the mattress.

He prides himself on being able to tell.

“Rafe,” you moan breathlessly.

He’s never heard a prettier sound: his name falling from your lips.

“I know baby,” he mumbles against you. (He is too.) “Come for me.”

The vibration of his voice, his fingers, the scandalous situation in general has you reeling over the edge towards your high, biting down so harshly on your hand as you come embarrassingly fast.

And Rafe’s right there lapping it all up, groaning into your cunt as he, too, releases in his boxers. You ride and wriggle against his face as he no longer tries to hold you down, the heel of your foot meeting his spine as you pull him closer subconsciously.

After a moment, your pants start to settle as you catch your breath, letting out a small whine of overstimulation when he continues lapping up every last drop lazily. And he takes his damn time, too, making sure nothing is wasted. Unashamed, one of his favorite places is between your thighs, so excuse him for wanting to prolong the moment.

Anything to get a rise out of you.

His warm breath fans on your core as Rafe places one last kiss against your cunt, adjusting out of his uncomfortable position on the twin bed and climbing up your body, nearly collapsing on top of you with little space you have.

Your hand stays locked in his hair, smoothing down the parts you gripped harshly earlier, partly out of guilt but also out of endearment. His face nuzzles in the crook of your neck as he sighs in contentment, getting comfortable for the night as his brain slowly starts shutting off, feeling content and pleased and everything synonymous to that.

Despite your exhaustion, a small bubble of excitement rumbles in your tummy, eager to reciprocate. You move to get him off but he throws an arm and leg over your body, caging you in.

“No.”

You frown. “What about you?”

Rafe just hums tiredly against your jaw, shutting his eyes and holding you down to further render you immobile.

You try to wiggle out of his trap. “Rafe.”

“‘m fine,” he murmurs.

The realization hits you. A teasing grin rises to your lips.

“You–”

“Go to sleep.”

You bite your lip. “Awe, baby. I’m flattered.”

“Sweet girl,” he drones out in warning.

“Want me to clean you up?”

“Shut up.”

You bring your fingers to his abs, tickling him. He doesn’t budge, and instead huffs in irritation. Regardless, you open your mouth to dig further, but he senses it and nudges you with his nose.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats.

With a quiet laugh, you relax against the pillow. You sigh with a subtle chuckle embedded into it, but the moment of solace comes and goes when you realize how incredibly naked you are.

Yikes. You picture your nonna walking into this scene right now with a gasp, and probably followed by an hour long interrogation and a lecture on the importance of safe sex, which is a conversation you're not ever ready to have with someone you consider family.

The thought of it makes you shudder uncomfortably.

Attempting to move from underneath his hold again, Rafe refuses to let you get up and murmurs something incoherent. The sound is so fucking precious that you nearly stay, but the disaster of your mother walking in on you two settles fresh in your mind.

“I need to put my pajamas on,” you whisper to him, almost cooing.

Rafe huffs and shakes his head like a toddler.

“Dude, my nonna could walk in.”

“Let her.”

“No.”

“Stop talking. I’m trying to sleep.”

You try again to no avail. “They’re right there on the floor. You can reach them with your long ass arms.”

He hums. “I’m asleep.”

“Stop being a baby.”

“Sleeping.”

You groan. It’s like talking to a brick wall, sometimes.

You eventually succeed in slithering out from underneath him, the boy falling asleep almost immediately when you started scratching his back gently.

As much as he loves to flaunt his tough boy act, he sure folds quickly when it comes to cuddling, or scratching, or massaging, and you usually like to use it to your advantage to get what you want. He melts in your touch, and usually with a low mmrrph, he’s down for the count.

You quietly get out of bed, nearly bursting out laughing when you see his one foot hanging off the bed, the other hiked up across the sheets, snoozing contentedly. The urge to push the hair out of his eyes comes into fruition, and you do it light enough to be sure not to wake him.

A soft smile unintentionally comes when you study his figure. He looks younger when he sleeps, a stroke of innocence coating his features in a way you never see. A mild wave of disgust rises in your throat at the mushy-gushy thoughts, but you can’t help but swoon at his small furrowed brow and parted lips and how his chest heaves in and out deeply.

It’s uncommon to see him at peace, because Rafe is usually bitching and moaning about something, or being obnoxiously arrogant, or sulking in his own brooding.

You let out a breath you're unaware you're holding, snapping yourself out of the moment and picking up your pajamas off the floor and slipping them on. God forbid he woke up and saw you staring down at him like a righteous freak.

He'd never let you hear the end of it.

Tiptoeing back to his side, you frown as you notice he's completely taken up the bed, arrogantly spreading all over the twin mattress in Rafe Cameron fashion.

You wonder if he still thinks you're there, even in his sleep. Or maybe the added room is a relief, even to his unconscious self.

You shake the thought away. Girl, stand up.

The final decision is that there's definitely no room for you anymore, that you probably won’t be able to slip back in without waking him up. Or worse, not waking him up and being left to adjust and awkwardly settle back into your original position.

So you settle on your own cold bed with a pout, turning off the lamp and settling into the cold sheets.

Despite the loneliness, sleep finds you almost immediately.

note bit of a filler, just fyi lorenza isn't blood related (more of a family friend). also, a few people have asked me about a taglist and i actually have no idea how to do any of that??? if anyone could enlighten me that would be greatly appreciated!

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe x y/n #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron smut #reader insert #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron outer banks

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