His lips ghost my neck, “You smell like marshmallows, do you know that?”
I twist, I punch with my free hand.
He grunts. I shove my knee up, but he blocks it, laughing low in his throat.
“You think I haven’t been hit harder?” he growls. “You’ll have to do better than that, Beda.”
He reaches down. Unbuttons my jeans.
I freeze. I panic.
No.
No nono.
“Don’t,” I breathe.
He doesn’t stop. His fingers tug the waistband down an inch. Two.
My vision goes white.
I lurch forward with everything I’ve got, slam both hands into his chest, shove with all the strength I’ve buried for years—
He stumbles back.
Breathless.
Eyes wild.
And I scream at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I said no!”
His chest rises and falls. He stares at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. A game that didn’t play fair.
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he says. “Fornow.”
“No,” I snap. “Forgood.I’mnotfucking you.”
I drag up my jeans and button them.
His eyebrows lift, like I just said something confusing.“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
He shrugs again. In that infuriating, casual way.
He throws himself onto the couch, arms draping over the back. “Is it because you wear boy underwear?”
I blink. “What?”
He points at me. Like I’m a joke. “I saw them. You’re wearing briefs, not panties. Walking around in your ex’s shit. Or is it laundry day?”
I stare at him. Heat floods my face—humiliation, fury, something I can’t name.
“They’re comfortable,” I snap. “And cheaper. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying me like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. “Youreallydon’t want to fuck me?”
