“I’m clean,” he mutters against my neck. I huff, pulling away. My anger is growing with each passing second, and if I don’t get away from him, I know he’ll see me cry, and I’m not ready for that. “Bullshit,” I snap, shoving away again. I grab my clothes off the floor and pull them on. Just as I’m about to tell him to leave, he stands up and walks to the door. “I’m sorry, Zara,” he mutters, and I barely got a word out before he’s gone.
