Ana
There was silence. The kind that suffocates.
My breath came in short, shallow gasps, my body still tangled with Christian’s, heat still clinging to my skin. But all of that slowly disappeared when I fully processed what I saw.
My mother standing in the doorway.
The shattered glass lay at her feet, the liquid from it spreading across the floor. But she didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
And that was what made my stomach churn. It wasn’t anger written across her face. It was something much, much worse.
Amusement.
I scrambled off of Christian, yanking the blanket from the couch, clutching it to my chest to cover what I could, my face filled with shame. My skin burned with the remnants of his touch, of what we had just done—what my mother had just witnessed.
But Christian?
He didn’t move.
