Page 69 of Sexting the Pakhan
I ignore all of it for another minute. Just one.
Then I pull out carefully, tie off the condom, and leave the bed long enough to clean up. When I come back with a warm cloth, she looks away, embarrassed again, which makes something tighten in my chest.
“Zoya,” I say.
She peeks at me. “What?”
“Let me.”
Her blush deepens, but she nods.
I clean her gently, and she lies there pretending not to be affected by it, though every time the cloth brushes the inside of her thigh, her breath catches.
When I’m done, I pull the blanket over her and sit on the edge of the bed.
She watches me with tired eyes. “Are you going to leave?”
“No.”
“You have work.”
“Yes.”
“Important mafia work?”
“Yes.”
She waits. I don’t move.
Finally, she says, quieter, “You’re staying?”
“For now.”
“For now,” she repeats, like she’s deciding whether that’s enough. Then she shifts under the blanket and looks at the empty space beside her.
The invitation is small. It still gets to me.
I turn off the lamp and lie beside her, not touching at first.
After a minute, she moves closer. Not all the way. Just enough that her shoulder brushes my arm.
I let her.
Then, in the dark, she says, “This was probably stupid.”
“Yes.”
She lets out a soft, tired laugh. “You’re supposed to lie.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“That’s definitely not true.”
I look toward the ceiling.
No. It is not true. But with her, I seem to keep making exceptions.
She falls asleep before I do, breathing evening out slowly beside me, one hand curled near her face.
