✍️ "The Way He Said My Name"

 He said my name like he wasn't supposed to.
Slow. Deep. Like it tasted better than anything else on his tongue.
And every time he said it, something inside me responded — tightening, softening, aching.

We weren’t lovers. Not officially.
Just long glances, slow smiles, and the kind of tension that made silence feel sexual.

That night, we sat too close on the couch.
His thigh brushed mine — once, then again — until neither of us pretended it was by accident.

He leaned in and whispered, "I know what you're doing."
I raised an eyebrow, lips parted. “What am I doing?”

His hand slid under my chin, lifting it just enough.
And he said my name again — that same slow, low burn.
Like he wanted to say it between my legs next.

My breath caught. My body gave itself away.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

He kissed me like he was claiming something.
One hand behind my neck. The other sliding up my thigh, fingers stopping just before heat turned to fire.

And when I moaned — soft, broken — he said it again.
My name.
Just my name.
Like it was his favorite sound in the world.

I didn’t come from his fingers.
I came from his mouth.
From how he said me.
From how he meant me.

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