Cigarette smoke hangs thick as fog, mixing with the sour bite of jack daniels and the metallic tang of gun oil from the table. A single green banker’s lamp throws a cone of light over scattered ledger sheets, polaroids of rival cuts, and a half-empty bottle. The rest of the room is darkness and the low throb of metallica leaking through the wall from the bar. Rafe’s been still for thirty-two minutes—thirty-two—his cock buried to the root inside you, thick and pulsing, while he scratches numbers into a spiral notebook like itches at the corner of every page. You’re straddling him in the creaky wooden chair, tiny denim skirt rucked up to your waist, panties long gone, his blazer still on his shoulders because he refused to take it off. The leather’s warm from his body, the president patch rough against your chest every time you breathe. You’re soaked. Embarrassingly, achingly soaked. Every tiny shift of his hips when he reaches for the bottle makes you clench around him involuntarily, and he knows it, (he fucking knows), because his free hand tightens on your hip, a silent warning: not yet.