Say My Fucking Name

Edi.

I didn’t see his face.

Didn’t have to.

The second my back hit the wall and that mouth crushed mine like it had a score to settle, I knew.

Carter fucking O’Connor.

Of course it’s him.

Because fate is a vindictive little whore.

His tongue forced its way into my mouth like it owned the place. No hesitation. No hesitation from me either, apparently, because my legs opened on instinct—muscle memory and masochism.

The image flashed in my head. Threatening and uninvited.

Carter blindfolding me, hand around my throat, whispering my name like a sin he’d commit again.

Five years.

Five fucking years.

And the first thing I do when I see him is let him shove me against a wall and kiss me like a threat.

Because that’s what it was.

Not love.

Not lust.

A warning.

His hands slid up under my skirt like they had a history—fingertips rough, palms rude, dragging the past up my thighs like it never left.

I hated how my body arched for him.

No—for the ghost of him.

For the Carter who broke me.

For the version I promised myself I’d never crave again.

Same thing, really.

He groaned into my mouth like he hated the taste of me and wanted another anyway.

Good.

Let him choke on it.

I clawed at his shirt, nails digging, furious with myself for touching him at all.

This was muscle memory wearing a mask.

This was grief dressed as desire.

His lips found my throat and I let them. Idiot.

I yanked his hair, hard.

He grunted.

Didn’t stop.

Because why would he? He always knew which part of me would break first. And he never aimed for anything else.

Different year. Same hell.

“Still wear lace?” he asked, like we were catching up over coffee.

“Still a cocky bastard?” I hissed.

He didn’t answer. Just shoved his thigh between mine and rocked up, right into that humiliating ache that had no business still existing.

My head hit the wall.

He caught it with his hand.

How thoughtful.

Ruin me, but cradle the moment.

He tugged my top down like it was owed to him.

“Still think about me?”

His voice was low. Familiar. Vile.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust what might come out.

Instead, I yanked open his belt like it might save me.

Spoiler: it wouldn’t.

His fingers slid under my underwear.

He swore under his breath.

Then his mouth was back on mine—hungry, claiming, the kind of kiss you give to something that used to be yours and you plan to take anyway.

I undid his trousers.

He shoved my panties aside.

No warning. No teasing.

Just heat.

Just skin.

Just the moment you realise your rules mean fuck all when the past spreads your legs and your future doesn’t even fight back.

He pressed the tip of his cock against me. Paused. Barely.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

I stared him down.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

And then he was inside me.

One hard, brutal thrust.

Not romance. Not redemption. Just ruin.

Everything we didn’t say poured into rhythm and sweat and violence.

He fucked me like he was furious I still let him.

I clung to him like I was trying to win the war we already lost.

My moans were muffled. His weren’t.

The room echoed with everything we shouldn’t have been.

His grip on my hip? Possessive. Bruising. Like a man staking claim on something he never deserved.

His breath caught at my ear.

“Still the best you’ve ever had?”

I didn’t answer.

So he fucked me harder.

“Say it.”

I dragged my nails down his back like I wanted to peel him open.

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

He growled.

Thrust.

And I came.

Hard. Silent. Violent.

I hated him for it.

I hated myself more for the way my hips had tilted up to meet him. Like my body still belonged to him. Like my pain was fluent in his fucking name.

He came seconds later, mouth at my neck, muffling the sound like a coward.

Then there was silence.

Almost.

Because I said it.

The only truth I had left.

“I still fucking hate you.”

He laughed.

Low. Broken. Delighted.

“Good,” he said, zipping up, eyes glaring at the wall instead of my face.

“Would’ve been disappointed if you didn’t.”

I tug my top back up in silence, smooth my skirt and walk the fuck away without another word.

The sound of his zipper still echoed like an insult.