“Why? You’re not my boyfriend.” Why? Why am I riling him up? I want him to claim me. I want him to let me in, to be his friend who he also fucks unconscious. Why am I the one fighting this now? Self-preservation. Preston throws off his blanket and in two steps is climbing over me. He grabs my hands and pushes them against the mattress next to my head and straddles my hips. “Those marks on your body say otherwise.” Fury is radiating off him in the heat of his skin against mine, in the tremble and strength of his fingers. I look him dead in the eye when I respond. “Those marks mean nothing.”
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