BENEATH HIS MOANS 3

There was no going back.

My index finger circled my clit in slow, soft motions, moans slipping from my lips as heat spread through me.

Upstairs, the woman was still moaning. Loud, wanton, shameless. He was doing this on purpose. He wanted to break me. To see how long I could cling to my so-called morals.

As much as I hated to admit it, he was winning.

"That's it… slide your finger into your cunt," he ordered, voice low and commanding.

He liked it when women touched themselves. That much was clear. And that alone made me wetter, because that was exactly what I was doing.

I slid my finger into my pussy. My walls clenched around it, needy and desperate. I had done this before, years ago, but never like this. Never with someone like him in my head.

"Pull your finger out and taste yourself," he said again.

My breath trembled as I obeyed, sucking my finger clean. The smell and taste of myself made my hips roll without control.

"You're such a good whore," he praised the woman.

Maybe she was. But in that moment, so was I.

A good girl gone soaking and sinful.

It did not take long before I heard it—skin slapping against skin. Her cries. His grunts. His filthy words echoing through my ceiling like a siren's song.

I pushed two fingers in and curved them, finding that sweet, sensitive spot.

"Mmm…"

I bit my lip to hold in the sounds, not wanting him to hear how easily I surrendered.

My fingers moved faster. My breath caught. Their moans wrapped around me like a second skin.

And then I was coming. Hard.

My body shook and my toes curled as the wave washed over me, relentless and overwhelming.

When it was over, I lay limp in bed, wet, warm, and undone. Sleep crept in quietly as my body drifted into calm, spent silence.

***

The scent of detergent and something faintly floral hung in the air as I stepped into the laundry room, clutching my basket tight. My camisole clung to my skin from the humidity of the morning, and I could still feel the dull ache between my thighs from last night. I told myself it would go away. That I would forget the sounds. That I would forget how I gave in.

But then I saw him.

Alejandro was already there, pulling his clothes from the dryer. A few towels were slung over his shoulder, and he looked freshly showered, hair damp and curling at the edges. He did not glance up when I walked in. Not immediately.

I busied myself with loading the washer, back turned to him, hoping he would leave.

But I felt his eyes on me.

"Sleep well?" His voice rolled over the silence, deep and careless, as if it was just polite conversation.

I froze. My fingers slipped on the lid of the detergent bottle.

I didn't answer.

When I finally turned around, his arms were crossed over his chest, the towel now gone. He had changed into black sweatpants and a fitted white tee. I hated how clean he looked. How dangerous.

"You look… rested," he said, eyes dragging slowly from my face down to my feet and back up again.

I wanted to scream at him. Or melt. I was not sure which.

"I'm fine," I said, barely above a whisper. I forced myself to turn back to the washer.

"Good," he said behind me. "Nothing like a peaceful night's sleep."

My fingers tightened around the edge of the machine. He knew. Maybe not exactly what I did. But he knew he got to me.

He moved past me, close enough that his scent clouded my thoughts. I didn't turn around, not even when I heard the soft chuckle that followed.

The door opened. Then closed.

I let out a shaky breath I did not realize I had been holding.

God help me.

***

I was prepared.

Cleaned.

Shaved.

Moisturized.

I lit a candle by the edge of my bed and dimmed the lights just enough to leave shadows dancing on my wall. I had finished my nightly prayers, asked for forgiveness in advance, and slipped into a silk camisole with no panties underneath.

All I had to do now was wait.

Wait for the bed above to creak. Wait for the woman to moan. Wait for his voice, telling her what to do so I could pretend he was telling me.

But it was quiet. Too quiet.

I flipped through a book. Then scrolled through social media on my phone. Then closed my eyes and listened harder.

Still nothing.

No laughter. No footsteps. No headboard. No him. No commands.

Maybe he was tired or maybe he had gone out. No, I heard him come in earlier. Or maybe he knew.

My heart twisted at the thought. Was I really that obvious?

I turned on my side, pressing my thighs together. The absence of sound made everything worse. There was nothing to drown out the throb between my legs. No excuse to touch myself. No command to obey.

I waited an hour. Two. Then finally gave up, throwing the covers off and padding barefoot into the kitchen for cold water. I drank from the glass like it could wash the heat away.

The silence followed me back to bed. It was loud and mocking.

And yet… when I closed my eyes, I could still hear his voice.

Touch your fucking nipples. Slide your finger into your cunt.

My body responded without permission. But I didn't let myself go. Not tonight.

He wanted to see how long I would hold on to my beliefs? Let's see how long he could ignore me.