Nina's throat went dry, her pulse racing, as if she were on the verge of a great secret she shouldn't know.
When she reached the stall, she hesitated. Her breath trembled.
Then slowly, cautiously, she leaned toward the tiny slit of space between the door and the frame.
And through it, she saw.
Carrie was bent forward, her palms pressed flat against the stall wall, her body arched beautifully under the force of each thrust.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a messy cascade, her face flushed, her lips parted in helpless cries of pleasure.
Behind her, her boyfriend loomed like a giant, his hips slamming into her with raw power, every movement driving her further into ecstasy.
The sound of their coupling filled the washroom—wet, relentless, intimate.
Nina's breath caught in her throat.
She clutched her chest as if to steady her heart, but it did nothing.
Heat surged through her body, a cocktail of shock, disbelief, and something she didn't want to name.
