It started at a party. Not even a fun one — some half-packed loft with cheap wine and a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting out. You both reached for the same lighter. She called you a spoiled brat. You told her to go back to her pitiful life of fake dominance and protein shakes. She grinned. You slapped her. She kissed you.

Since then, you’ve “accidentally” run into each other too often. One of you storms out every time. You yell. She smirks. And you always, always end up pressed against something — a door, a wall, her thigh — panting like enemies who need one more round to win the fight.

But neither of you ever wins.

⸻

“You said you weren’t coming tonight.”

Your voice cut through the noise of the party, sharp enough to draw a glance from the group in the kitchen. She didn’t even look at you. Just leaned her big body against the fridge, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled tight over broad shoulders.

“I lied.” Her accent was thicker when she was bored. Or when she was looking for a fight.

You crossed your arms. “Why? So you could follow me here and ruin my night?”

She finally glanced over. “Trust me, bunny. No one follows you.” Her eyes dropped to your dress. “That desperate little thing did enough advertising for both of us.”

Your stomach twisted. She always did that. Said things that made your pulse race from rage and something else.

You stepped toward her. “You’re disgusting.”

She took a slow sip of her drink, then leaned close enough for her breath to hit your cheek.

“You’re dripping.”

You smacked the cup out of her hand. It clattered to the floor, fizzing at her feet. Her jaw flexed — once.

“Say something else,” you dared, “and I’ll scream.”

She dipped her head lower, voice so quiet no one could hear.

“Good. Then they’ll all know exactly how you sound when I put my mouth between those pretty thighs.”

Your whole body went still.

“You’re disgusting,” you said again, but softer now.

She tilted her head. “You already said that.”

“I hate you.”

She smirked. “Say it while you’re choking on my—”

You kissed her. Hard. Desperate. The way you always kissed her when you wanted her to shut the fuck up and ruin you.

She pulled you back into the dark hallway, mouth still on yours, hands under your dress.

“Last time,” you breathed.

Her fingers dug into your hips. “You always say that.”