Page 169 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

I hold her gaze. “Because I wanted you. Because I have wanted you for six years without knowing I already had you in the only way you would let me.”

Her mouth opens, then closes.

Anger is there, but so is something else. The thing that has always been between us, even when we tried to bury it.

I shift forward, and pain cuts through my leg. I grip the couch, breathe once, and stand badly.

Zoya steps back. “Don’t.”

I stop.

Not because I want to. Because she said it.

The room goes very quiet.

I say, “Tell me to sit down, and I will.”

She stares at me.

Her chest rises and falls too fast.

I say, “Tell me to leave you alone.”

She doesn’t.

I take one slow step. Then another.

My leg protests, but I stay upright.

When I reach her, I don’t touch her. I look down at her hand, still trembling beside her thigh. “Did you want to stop?” I ask.

Her throat moves.

She hates the question.

She hates the answer more.

“No,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to stop.”

I place one hand on the table beside her, close enough to trap nothing, close enough that she can move away.

She doesn’t.

“Then don’t,” I say.

Her breath catches.

I wait. For once in my life, I wait.

Zoya looks toward the door. Toward the hallway. Toward the empty apartment. Then she looks back at me and slides her hand under her waistband again.

My hand tightens on the table.

I watch her face.