I didn’t mean to open his door.
I was drunk. Maybe a little high with heels in one hand, phone in the other, mascara smudged from hours of dancing and smiling at men I didn’t care about. The hallway was dark, the carpet soft under my bare feet, and my bedroom was supposed to be the second on the left.
I opened the third.
What stopped me wasn’t the soft creak of the door or the heat spilling from the room. It was the sound, wet and rhythmic, low and filthy. Then I saw it. Him.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, hand wrapped tight around his c**k, stroking himself in long, steady pulls. His head was tilted back, mouth parted, breath ragged, and his phone was glowing in the other hand.
I should’ve looked away.
But I didn’t.
Because the photo on his screen was me.
Not nu
