He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he picks up his cigarette, takes a drag, and stubs it out. His smile fades as he exhales the smoke in a soft stream.
Poised, he grabs his jacket and strolls out of the kitchen.
“Jaden??”
Blind with fury, I march behind him.
He turns around fast, and our bodies touch for a moment, my skin burning as if catching on fire.
I step back, my eyes floating over him.
I’m so losing this battle.
I feel so lousy, yet the words fall from my lips.
“Don’t leave,” I say.
He ponders, his eyes changing colors, looking silver between his long lashes.
There’s no smile on his face, and a muscle pulses in his jaw.
I can’t see a damn hint on his face, but my gut tells me he is a second away from leaving for good.
“Please,” I say.
Never in my life have I felt so torn.
A few moments of silence dance around us. They feel like hours. He tosses his jacket back on the armchair and, with a few strides, erases the space between us.
I retreat until my back meets the washroom entrance.
His palms slide onto the wooden door guarding my back.
“I won’t leave if you tell me why it hasn’t worked out for you this evening,” he says quietly.
My eyes dart back and forth, my throat tight with emotions.
“Answer me, Senna,” he says, still quiet but firm.
I don’t see a way around this.
As I struggle to come up with an explanation, he slides his hand down to my wrap skirt and pops the only button open. The skirt drops to the floor.
His eyes dip as he takes in the small strip of fabric barely covering my slit and the garters outlining my waist and hips.
“It’s not working since we, um...”
He flicks his eyes up.
“Fucked?”
“Yes,” I say. “It no longer works.”
He looks down again.
His fingers trace my garter slowly, his knuckles brushing my skin. I press my thighs together, my core pulsing.