Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Kiara’s soft pants come faster when the sound of her bed creaking fills the air. She laughs, and a sudden bang sounds through my apartment, almost as though somebody just threw her down against the bed. She laughs again, a soft, subtle laugh, before the sound is quickly swallowed by desperate moans.
I find myself listening for far too long when it occurs to me that I’m only hearing one voice. Hers. Where’s this dude? Is he awkwardly silent? A mute? Does she have a ball gag shoved in his mouth? Surely he would grunt around it, right?
“Oh fuck,” she groans just as I hear a body being slammed against the wall. “YES!”
The sound comes again and again, and I drop to the edge of my bed, really breaking it down. Something doesn’t feel . . . natural about it. There’s nothing rhythmic about it, just straight forward banging against the wall. No other sounds to come along with it. No shuffling of feet on the ground. No elbows accidentally ramming back against the wall. No clap of his balls against her sweet little cunt, and I find myself laughing.
Fuck, she’s in there alone. This is a performance, and she almost had me. But if anybody knows the ins and outs of sex sounds, it’s me. Hell, I’d bet everything I have that she’s not even touching herself. The whole thing is fake. She’s probably scrolling social media while throwing herself against the wall. But hell, she did mention that she’s into aerobics now. Who knows, this might be a part of her new exercise regime.
Knowing I’m not about to hear how she truly sounds when she comes, I lose interest and get up off the edge of my bed while grabbing my phone and turning it on. There’s no chance it’ll be fully charged by now, but there should be more than enough to get the day started.
As the screen loads, I begin rifling through boxes of clothes, trying to find something for work. By the time my phone chimes with a new email, I’m still standing in my bedroom in my birthday suit, and I scan over it before letting out a heavy sigh.
Work doesn’t wait for anybody. Looks like I’ll be heading out for a few days.
A groan rumbles through my chest, and as I glance over the details of my latest trip, the date in the top corner of the screen catches my eye. I pause.
That’s not right.
It’s saying today is the twentieth, only my date with the potential drug fiend was on the eighteenth, which means I wasn’t out cold for just a few hours. I was out for a day and a half.
What the ever-loving fuck? How do I just lose thirty-six fucking hours?
Panic grips my chest, and I hastily exit the email to check what else I’ve missed. My stomach sinks as I find a whole array of new emails. Just fucking great.
I scan over the important ones and try to wrap my head around everything that needs to be done, and with my free hand, I reach for the bag at the top of my closet that stays packed for these last-minute business trips.
It’s not ideal, but work is work, and when there’s a job that needs to be done, I’m the one they call . . . or email, in this case. And unlike many others, I actually enjoy my job, plus I’m at the top of my field. Nobody is better than getting those clients across the line. Getting to close a contract gives me a thrill, and there’s nothing that could ever convince me otherwise.
As for Kiara, I guess the game is on pause for now. She might even get a few nights of peace and quiet, assuming she doesn’t give herself a concussion with all that throwing herself against the wall bullshit she’s currently got going on. But hey, if she’s having fun, then who the hell am I to stop her?
Listening to Kiara’s third fake orgasm for the morning, I grab my wallet and keys off the counter before sliding my phone into my pocket and double-checking I have everything I need. My jet will already be ready and waiting, and with nothing else left to do, I haul ass out the door.
Making my way to the parking garage, I search for spot 305. Only as I turn the corner and raise my key fob, I glance up and come to a complete stop.
“Where the fuck is my car?”
A black Lamborghini Urus is parked diagonally across both the available spaces, and I can only assume that it belongs to Kiara St. James.
Fuck me, how is this woman always five steps ahead? Better yet, how the fuck did she pull this off? My key was on my kitchen counter, exactly where I left it. Did she come in and steal it, maybe take my RS7 for a joyride?