Chapter 26 We Shouldn’t, But We Will Anyway
we shouldn’t, but we will anyway [trope]
the irresistible gravitational pull between two characters who know better but absolutely refuse to do better; typically fueled by questionable decisions, forbidden circumstances, and a complete lack of self-control, this trope features stolen kisses, whispered “this is a bad idea” declarations, and enough sexual tension to power Willowbrook for a week
The bed creaks softly as Rafael sits on the edge, and I climb in beside him, pulling the blankets over my legs. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds.
“Good to be back?” I ask as he settles next to me. The old wooden headboard creaks faintly as he shifts, the quilt rumpling under us.
“Oh, yeah.” He smiles widely, and it lights up his entire face. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt that clings to the lines of his shoulders and chest, his arm tattoos perfectly on display and immensely distracting. “Feels like coming home.”
I’d roll my eyes if he didn’t look so completely sincere. And you know what? He’s right. He looks so at ease here, broad frame relaxed against my too-small bed, hair mussed from the shower. It does feel like he belongs here.
The warmth of that thought is immediate, but it’s accompanied by a tight pang of guilt. Everything he said tonight comes rushing back in a painful flood—his past, the abuse, the reason for his sudden disappearance.
“It’s not your fault, Scarlett.”
I let out a puff of air, shaking my head. Rationally, I know he’s right. But emotionally? That’s another story. “It was my letter. My stupid, drunken letter.”
“You didn’t hit me. It’s not your letter that was wrong—it was his reaction. In fact, he hit me plenty before your letter, and if I hadn’t left, he would’ve hit me after it, too.”
The blanket shifts as he leans closer, his knee brushing mine under the covers, warm and reassuring despite the subject. But the logic of his words does little to loosen the crushing grip of guilt on my chest. It was my drunken mistake. My feelings that got him into trouble.
“Scarlett.” His fingers tangle with mine, the metal of one of his rings cool against my skin. “I blamed myself for my father’s actions for so fucking long. Don’t do that to yourself.” He lifts my hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the top. “Please.”
The pressure builds behind my eyes. To distract myself, I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, pushing the strands back from his face. “You’re overdue for a trim, huh?”
“You don’t like my hair?”
“I love it, but it must be uncomfortable. It always falls over your eyes.”
He hesitates, then reluctantly gathers his hair and pulls it back, revealing a long, jagged scar etched into the skin above his temple.
My breath catches.
That’s why he wears his hair like that? To hide a scar?
My fingers inch closer, trembling slightly as I trace the rough skin like a road map through the years of torment he’s endured. “Is it from that night?”
His eyes flicker closed, his lips parting as if he’s savoring the feel of my touch. “Yeah. He hit me in the head with something. I didn’t even see what, because he was on top of me just moments after.”
I trace his scar again, as if my touch could erase it. “I hate that he hurt you. He was supposed to love you, to protect you.”
He turns his head, his nose brushing against my wrist, and inhales deeply. “I’m okay now, Freckles. I’m so… so okay.”
The heat of his breath is against my skin, warm and uneven. My hand trembles as it slips down from his scar, the faint rasp of his stubble brushing my fingertips.
His gaze drops to my lips, and the way his chest rises and falls matches the pulse thrumming in my veins. “We don’t have to,” he says, voice hoarse, like he’s fighting to hold himself back.
“I know,” I reassure him.
“We have all the time in the world for kissing and… everything else. I just want this right now,” he says, his finger dangling between us. “It’s enough—more than enough, actually.”
“Rafael?”
“Yes?”
“This is the part in the romance book where the hero shuts up and kisses me.”
He leans closer, the space between us dissolving until his lips brush mine in the barest, most excruciating tease.
The blanket bunches around his waist, his hand resting heavy and possessive over my knee.
Then his fingers come up, curling around my wrist, and his lips part against mine.
He takes the lead, achingly slow, like he’s savoring every second, every tiny movement, every piece of me.
It’s not tentative—we’ve waited too long for that—but it’s not an expert kiss, either, because we’ve never done it before. It’s certainly better than I could have ever pictured, and I spent a lot of time in this very room doing that.
Maybe it’s what a gentle kiss from a wild soul feels like.
When we finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine. “You undo me, Scarlett,” he says, so softly I almost miss it.
“Really?” I rub my thumb on his nape. “Sometimes it feels like you hold me together.”
His lips crash into mine again, and this time, his hand slides to my back, pulling me closer as if the space between us is unbearable.
This kiss is different.
Maybe it’s what a wild kiss from a gentle soul feels like.
I press into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, desperate to close the invisible gap, to feel more of him. His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I let out a soft gasp that he swallows with another fierce, all-consuming kiss.
“Someone has a thing for sad boys, huh?” he says, an inch away from my lips.
“Oh, yeah,” I tease back.
“Then I should mention,” he says seductively as he maneuvers himself on top of me, “that my prom date left with someone else.”
I chuckle, the laughter quickly dissipating as he bites my earlobe, then softly kisses the spot beneath.
“And the anniversary of Hairy Houdini’s death is coming up.”
“Hmm.” He presses soft kisses along the curve of my neck, each one leaving a trail of warmth. “That’s downright depressing.”
“Wait until I tell you about my nana’s last words,” he murmurs, smiling against the skin of my chest.
I laugh, holding on to his hair as he presses wet kisses right above the hem of my shirt. “Rafael,” I breathe, my voice catching as his lips trail lower. My fingers tighten in his hair, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. “Wait.”
He pauses immediately, lifting his head to meet my gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, but there’s concern there, too. “Everything okay?”
I try to catch my breath. “Yeah, I just… my brother’s in the next room. We have to keep it PG-13.”
Rafael’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he leans in close, his breath hot on my ear. “I think I can work with that.”
My hands slide down his back, touching the muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he moves. He keeps his weight on his forearms, hovering above me, but I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m so glad you’re not a serial killer,” I breathe. Though, to be honest, knowing how having his body inches away from mine feels, I’m not sure that would have stopped me anyway.
“Right back at you.”
His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek as he kisses along my jaw.
I tilt my head, giving him better access to my neck.
The scruff along his jaw scrapes softly against my skin, sending little sparks of sensation down my neck.
When his teeth graze a sensitive spot, I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Shh.” He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest where it brushes mine. “How about PG-14?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My heart is racing, every nerve ending on fire where he touches me. I want more, so much more, but I’m also acutely aware of my stupidly thin walls.
I pull him flush against me until his erection presses on my waist, and I can’t help but roll my hips forward, craving friction, my lips pressed together to smother any noise.
The muscles in his arms jump under my palms as he braces himself, holding back, with a groan. “Hear me out,” he says as he thrusts against me, his hard erection rubbing between my legs. “I won’t make a noise. I won’t let you make a noise, either.”
“As if.”
We really, really can’t. Ethan just moved in, and he shouldn’t be welcomed by his sister’s moans echoing through the house. And there’s just no way Rafael would keep me silent.
But even with the clear protests coming from my mind, my body has a will of its own, and I grind back against him, and he against me, again and again, until we find a rhythm that has us both panting.
A slow dance of our bodies pressed close.
Every movement is deliberate, restrained, as we try to maintain our silence, until it feels so good it’s hard not to voice my enthusiasm.
Rafael’s lips find mine again, swallowing any sounds that threaten to escape as his hands roam my body, greedy and rough.
“Fuck, Scarlett,” he breathes before burying his face in the crook of my neck and muffling a groan.
Our hips rock together, the pressure building low in my belly and his fingers digging into my hip as our movements become more urgent, more frantic.
The bed creaks softly beneath us, and we freeze, listening for any sign that we’ve been heard. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest in perfect, frantic sync with my own. When silence persists, we resume our dance, slower this time.
His breath comes in short, controlled pants against my neck, and when I turn my head and gently tug on his earlobe, he shudders.
A low, helpless sound catches in his throat, half groan, half whimper.
He must be close, because his hips stutter in their rhythm, and I’m not far behind, the coiling tension in my core winding tighter with each roll of our bodies.
“Freckles,” he breathes, so quietly I barely hear it. His voice is strained, desperate. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
I kiss him, our mouths sliding together, wet and warm, teeth knocking in our urgency. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as we move together, chasing our release.
I’m a wet mess as his cock rubs my clit back and forth, again and again, in the most perfect of spots.
The pressure builds and builds until, finally, it crests.
My body goes rigid, waves of pleasure washing over me as I whimper.
I bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out, my teeth sinking into the hard muscle there.
I feel him tense above me, a strangled noise breaking in his throat as his own climax hits moments after mine.
“Scarlett, God…” he moans into my mouth, the vibrations prolonging my pleasure as I clench around nothing.
We lie there, both of us trembling and panting. Heartbeats clashing.
“Well,” he says, “I think we might have pushed past PG-14 there.”
I giggle, smoothing his hair back. “Just a bit.”
He lifts his head to look at me, his eyes soft and full of warmth. A strand of hair falls across his forehead, and I reach up to brush it away.
He has the prettiest, softest hair.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m… happy, actually.”
“Yeah? Wait until I get you out of your clothes.” He kisses my lips and settles next to me. “I’ve waited half a decade for the chance to make you happy.” He looks down. “But I’m afraid I just disgraced your dad’s pants in the process.”
“I really wish you hadn’t said that.”
He laughs, pulling me closer. “You sure you’re okay? Not just with… this, or us. You know, everything that happened with your brother and Peanut?”
I settle into his arms, tracing the shape of his tattoos. A snake, a mask, a rose. My head rests comfortably on his chest. “You think tonight was enough? That he’ll leave Ethan alone?”
“Oh, yes. Trust me, Hunter is done bullying people,” he says before he leans in, brushing soft kisses along the side of my face.
I guess. He really looked terrified.
“What did you tell him?”
“Hmm?”
“Right before we left. You said something into his ear. Based on his reaction… a death threat?”
He pulls back just enough for our eyes to meet, a hollow laugh slipping from his lips. “Oh. I told him that if he has a crush on Ethan, he should just ask him out.”
My lips part. “You think this is an extreme case of pulling someone’s ponytail on the playground?”
“Maybe.” His hand moves to my waist, as if he can’t help but touch me. “If it’s not, the implication made him uncomfortable enough that he’ll never want anything to do with Ethan again.”
I let out a small laugh, though it’s more nerves than humor. He could be right. I wouldn’t put any of this past a sixteen-year-old. Hormones make you stupid.
“Rafael?”
“Yes?” His nose presses against my temple, my heart stuttering at the softness of his voice.
I bite my lip, hesitating before looking up. His eyes are on mine, watching carefully, waiting for me to unravel whatever’s running through my mind.
“Do you think…” My voice falters, but I press on, my fingers brushing against the collar of his T-shirt. “Do you think Ethan’s gay?”
His gaze is steady as he slowly nods. “Yes, I do, Detective.”