Kafka already had a sinking feeling the moment she hesitated like that.
He'd seen that look before, the coy smile, the pink in her cheeks, the way she fidgeted like someone keeping a secret too sweet to contain.
Still, she was his mother, and her anticipation was genuine, so he couldn't bring himself to ruin it.
He took the photo carefully, his fingers brushing against hers, and slowly turned it over.
And the moment his eyes landed on it, he froze. Then sighed.
Exactly what he thought.
There she was—Vanitas, in lingerie so perfectly tailored it might as well have been poured over her on a beach
Midnight-black lace clung to her plump, indulgent body like it was made to kneel for her.
The corset hugged her soft belly, cinched just enough to emphasize the fullness beneath, while her tits—heavy, overflowing—swelled against the cups like they were aching to be free.
