We were here alone and didn’t even bother closing the bedroom door. My daughter stands there, rooted to the spot, eyes like saucers, darting between me—shirtless, in jeans that are zipped, not buttoned, belt hanging loosely around my waist—and Yasmen, draped toga-style in love-mussed sheets with actual hickeys visible at the top curve of her breast and scattered along her neck and shoulders.
Oh, look... consequences
