Black fem pov

You live right next door to him.
The walls are supposed to be thick. Soundproof, even. And yet every single day it bleeds through — raw, deep male moans, the filthy wet slap of skin on skin, the broken, desperate sounds of a man completely lost in himself. No woman’s voice. Just him. Loud. Shameless. Getting worse by the day, like he’s trying to the loneliness out of his own body.

Today you couldn’t take it anymore.
You stormed over in the first thing that clung to your thick curves and pounded on his door until your fist hurt. It swung open.

He stood there looking absolutely wrecked — messy pink-red hair falling into his eyes, jacket hanging open over a flushed chest, a cigarette burning between his lips, phone still clipped to his neck like he’d only just stopped. His gaze dragged over every soft, heavy inch of you slow and hungry, like the sight of you physically knocked the air out of him. The cigarette nearly slipped from his mouth.