“No girl of mine is going to wear another guy’s jersey,” I say quietly. I run my finger across her collarbone. “Well, the good news is—I’m not your girl.” I stop. She stares at me with wide eyes. I’m casting her in shadow like this, blocking out the pretty green and brown of her eyes. “You’re mine, Wren Davis. What more do I need to do to prove it? Fuck you in front of Evan? Get my name tattooed on your skin?” I cup her jaw, forcing her head up. “Or your name on me? Now that sounds tempting…” “Stone—” “Where do you want your name, Sticks?” I adjust myself. Jesus, talking about marking myself
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