The first time I heard them, I thought I was imagining it.
I had just checked into the penthouse suite, dropped my bags, and kicked off my shoes. I was bone-tired, lying back on the plush bed, when the sound bled through the wall—low, guttural, unmistakable. A man’s growl. Then the sharp gasp of a woman, followed by a moan so filthy it had me sitting upright instantly.
The walls were too thin.
I shouldn’t have listened. I should’ve put on the TV, drowned them out. But I froze there, heart hammering, my ear tilted toward the wall.
“On your knees,” his voice came—deep, commanding, the kind of tone that didn’t ask, it ordered.
I swallowed hard.
There was a shuffle, then a wet sound, rhythmic, sloppy. The woman whimpered, choked, gagged around him. He laughed darkly. “Take it. Open that
