Chapter 120: Behind the Wall: Voice of Sin

She was still slumped against the wall of the bathroom stall, legs half-spread, skirt wrinkled around her hips like she’d just survived a war.

Her chest was heaving, skin flushed, hair clinging to her forehead. Her phone had slipped from her hand and landed on her lap, screen tilted just enough for Peter to see the damage.

He let the silence hang—let her feel the weight of what she’d just done in a mall bathroom because he told her to.

Then, low and wicked: "Pick it up."

Her breath hitched.

"Wha—"

"You heard me, baby. Pick it up. Look at me."

She obeyed. Slowly. Like her body was still remembering how to move. Fingers trembling, she lifted the phone, her eyes glossy with the aftershocks of pleasure still dancing through her.

Peter was calm on the screen. Too calm. The kind of calm that made your stomach twist in anticipation.

"I want to see it," he said, eyes dark with hunger. "The mess you made. Show me the chaos."

Her breath stuttered, but she didn’t hesitate. That part of her—the obedient part, the ruined part—was in full control now.

She tilted the camera. Lower. Lower. Until he saw it.

Her soaked thighs. The ruined lace between them. The blush that spread all the way down her chest.

"Look at you," he said, voice a low growl. "Absolutely wrecked. You didn’t even touch yourself properly. You just listened. And you came like I’d carved my name into your skin."

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just a soft whimper.

"Spread your legs wider," he commanded, voice low and unshakable. "I want to see what’s mine."

Her breath hitched, but she obeyed—slow, deliberate. Her thighs trembled as they peeled apart like petals hesitant to bloom, vulnerable but unstoppable. It was like even her body was shy, caught between shame and craving, but she gave him everything anyway.

Every inch revealed—soft skin flushed with heat, glistening with need. Every subtle quiver a silent confession. The raw, undeniable proof that she was his, down to the very core of her.

He saw the subtle sheen of moisture glistening of her pussy, catching the light like tiny droplets of juice leaking out of the pink lips as she spread them with her two finger. The way her pussy muscles tensed with every breath, every heartbeat, her body betraying her need even if her eyes were still shy.

Her inner thighs flushed and warmed, barely hiding the heat pooling at the center, the place where she was utterly his—exposed, vulnerable, and aching.

Every inch laid bare, a silent surrender that throbbed through the screen and into him.

Peter’s jaw flexed. "That’s it. That’s the chaos I cause. And you love it, don’t you?"

She nodded. "I do," she whispered. "I love it, Peter."

"Say it louder."

"I love it!" she gasped, body twitching again. "I love what you do to me. I love being yours. I love being ruined by you—"

He smirked, but it wasn’t sweet. It was sharp. Possessive.

"I haven’t even touched you yet, and look what you’ve become," he said. "You’re going to remember this every time you sit down for the next three days."

She whimpered again, biting her bottom lip like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Then his voice softened—deadlier that way.

"Clean yourself up. But don’t change those ruined panties. I want you wearing them all day. Dripping. Remembering."

She blinked, dazed. "But I— I’ll make a mess—"

He leaned in, eyes devouring her through the screen.

"Exactly."

While everything was going down, Eros (Peter) caught something—soft, breathy gasps—from the stall next to his. At first, he brushed it off. But then the sound hit different. Feminine. Desperate. Familiar?

Wait...

Janet?

The same gorgeous attendant from earlier?

No way.

In his rush to get away from Isabella’s spiraling drama, he hadn’t even realized—he’d stormed into the

women’s

bathroom.

Huh. Ain’t that something?

He ended the call as Isabella told him goodbye, her voice fading into static. He chuckled under his breath, lips curling in that devil-may-care smirk as he reached to unlock the stall door—

But paused.

Hold up.

That sound again. Louder now. More... honest. Like she didn’t think anyone was listening.

Janet was

touching herself

. Right there. In the next stall.

And not just that—she was doing it because of

him

. Because of that call with Isabella. His voice, his words, the dark, teasing tone he used when he was in that zone...

God.

That smell hit him like a freight train. Sweet. Raw. Her arousal was thick in the air, like perfume laced with sin. It clung to his lungs and made something primal stir deep in his chest.

She was soaked. Aching. And her fingers? They weren’t cutting it.

"Ahhh~"

The way she moaned like that?

No damn way he was walking out.

What kind of liberator would he be, leaving a woman that starved, that worked up, trembling and unsatisfied?

Knock! Knock!

He rapped twice on the divider between them, voice low, warm, and dripping with promise.

"Janet... you sure you wanna do that all by yourself?"

The moment stretched thin.

Silent.

Hot.

The only sound was breathing—hers—fluttery and uneven, like she didn’t know whether to hold it or let it go. Eros stayed still in his stall, back pressed casually against the cool divider like he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did. But her?

She was crumbling.

The air was thick now, laced with the scent of her arousal—raw and heavy. That scent hit him like perfume made from sin and secrets.

He didn’t speak right away.

He let the tension sink in, let her feel the weight of being heard. Of being

caught

—but not judged. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Velvet-wrapped steel.

"Janet~..."

A sharp breath sucked through her nose on instinct. Like her lungs weren’t ready to hear him say her name like that.

"I can hear you breathing," he continued, his tone smooth, deep, unapologetically male. "The way it spikes... then drops like you’re trying to hide it."

Another shaky inhale from her side. A soft, involuntary shift of movement. Her knees maybe. Or the slightest slip of fingers against slick skin.

He tilted his head, smiling to himself.

"You’re doing it wrong," he said gently. "Too fast~ Too frantic~ You’re chasing the edge like it’ll disappear if you don’t catch it in time."

Silence.

But she didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t leave.

He took that for what it was:

permission

.

"I could walk you through it," he offered. "If you want."

Still no words from her—only breath. But it deepened. Became shaky. Vulnerable. Hungry.

Eros exhaled like a man stretching before a performance.

"Alright then," he murmured. "Close your eyes. Block everything out. Not the walls. Not the lights. Just you. Me. And the way your body feels right now."