My key had barely turned in the lock when the sounds slammed into me — wet, rhythmic, filthy. The sharp slap of skin meeting skin. A woman’s throaty moan rising and falling like she was chasing the kind of pleasure that made her forget her own name. Then Nathan’s low, guttural grunt.
My stomach plummeted. I should have turned around and walked away. Instead, my hand pushed the apartment door open the rest of the way, my sneakers silent on the hardwood floor.
There they were.
On the couch where we’d shared takeout and lazy kisses just two nights ago, my own mother was riding Nathan reverse cowgirl, her back arched like a porn star, thick auburn hair spilling down her spine. H
er skirt was bunched uselessly around her waist, panties dangling from one ankle like a cheap trophy. Nathan’s j
