One Night With The Billionaire

By: Lauren Hawkeye

Chapter One




“Oh my God, yes!”

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop!”

“You are the king!”

Rolling my eyes, I sit straight up in bed. The pillow I’ve been holding over my ears gets tossed across the room in an uncharacteristic fit of anger, allowing the previously muffled sounds to penetrate straight to my eardrums.

Penetrate. Bad choice of words. Because unless my ears deceive me, there is a whole lot of penetrating going on next door.




“Noooo.” Covering my face with my hands, I slide over to the edge of the bed. I can’t handle this... this going on next door. I just can’t.

Raising a fist, I briefly contemplate knocking on the wall... not loudly enough to be rude, although clearly they’ve thrown that convention out the window. No, just loudly enough to point out that maybe, possibly, some of their neighbors are trying to sleep.

Instead, I let my hand fall back into my lap, but no matter what I do, I can’t block out the sounds. The intercourse sounds.

It shouldn’t be such a big deal—shouldn’t bother me so much. I shouldn’t be straining, trying to overhear. I should just buy some earplugs and go back to sleep.

I can’t. And it’s not logical to lie to myself, so I admit—within the confines of my skull—that I’m fascinated because I’ve never been this close to such shenanigans before.

The thumping stops momentarily, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Surely this can’t continue forever. Tonight is my third night in my new apartment, and I’ve endured the nocturnal party each evening. But surely my new neighbors aren’t that avid. Right? It’s not possible to have that kind of stamina. Surely there would be fatigue involved at some point. Possibly some chafing.

I chose this apartment building after extensive research because it was clean, in a new neighborhood, and represented the ideals I wished to embody as I embarked on my career. It wasn’t cheap, but I had a substantial amount in my bank account. The funds deposited by my mother before she’d deemed me an adult and sent me out into the world were largely untouched since I’d received full funding for school. And now, twenty-one years of age, with a doctorate in each hand, I had numerous lucrative paths to pursue.

Point being, I do not find it acceptable to have to listen to the cat-like yowls of my neighbors fornicating at three in the morning, every morning. A human needs seven hours of sleep to perform at maximum capacity.

As if they have a direct line to my thoughts, the thumping starts up again. At first it’s just a few soft bumps that could be construed as the bed settling under the weight of their inhabitants.

But then the thumping starts again. And the yowls.

“Hold on to the headboard. If you move your hands, I’ll spank your ass.” The male voice is so clear it could be right there in the room with me. My mouth falls open with disbelief.

Did he just threaten to hit her? Is she in trouble? Should I call for help?

But within moments, her mewls of pleasure answer my question. She’s not in trouble. Not even a little.

A sense of melancholy descends into my chest, and at the same time an ache appears between my thighs. Surely it’s just a primal response to the sounds of mating. That’s what my intellect tells me.

My body says something entirely different. If a twenty-year-old virgin body is to be trusted.

Virgin. Yes, I’m twenty years old and have never been touched. And when I say never, I do mean never. I’ve never had sex, never been kissed, never even held hands or gone on a date with a boy. Starting college at fifteen hinders one’s opportunities, after all. Plus, I’ve never deluded myself—my purpose in this world is in the ranks of academia. Not in the pleasures of the flesh.

But listening to grunts and groans of ecstasy, it’s more than I can handle.

I’ll go knock on the door. I’ll just request that they keep their... ahh... amour to a quieter level.

Just a few deep breaths to calm myself first. I’ll never survive if my new neighbors knew that my body has grown aroused from listening to them make love.

Wiping damp palms on the thighs of my pajamas, I slide my glasses onto my nose and make my way across the hall. The ruckus is even louder out here, and I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

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