The Room
"He rents a room in her house. Shared kitchen. Shared bathroom. Thin walls. After three months of hearing each other through the door, they stop pretending the walls exist."
The ad said: Room for rent. Quiet house. Female landlord. $600/month utilities included.
It didn't mention that the landlord was gorgeous.
Mrs. Okafor—Adanna, she corrected me on day one—is forty-eight, Nigerian, and built like a fertility goddess. She's maybe five-seven, two-forty, with curves that fill every doorway. When she showed me the room, I barely looked at it. I was too busy trying not to stare at the way her hips swayed when she walked.
"Quiet tenant," she said. "That's all I ask. My husband passed two years ago. I'm not used to noise."
"I'm quiet," I promised.
I lied.
The walls are thin.
Paper thin. I can hear her television through the floor. Can hear her humming in the kitchen. Can hear—
Can hear her in the shower.
The bathroom is down the hall from my room. Every night, around eleven, she takes a shower. And every night, I lie in bed and listen to the water run. The soap hitting the tiles. The soft sounds she makes when she thinks no one's listening.
Sounds that might be moans.
I've started timing my bathroom trips accordingly. Started lingering in the hallway. Started imagining what she looks like in there—water running down her curves, soap sliding over her breasts, her hand between her thick thighs.
I imagine too much.
Three months in, I'm going insane.
She hears me too.
I know because she brings it up over breakfast one morning.
"You were up late last night," she says, not looking at me.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Sounded like you were... busy."
My face burns. I know what she heard. I was touching myself. Thinking about her. Probably not as quiet as I thought.
"I'm sorry. The walls—"
"Are thin. I know." She finally looks at me. "I hear everything, Marcus. Everything you do in that room at night."
"I can try to be—"
"I hear what you're saying, too." Her voice is strange. Low. "The names you call out. Or... the name. Singular."
I freeze.
"You say my name when you finish."
There's no point denying it.
"I'm sorry. I'll move out. I'll—"
"Did I ask you to move out?" She sets down her coffee cup. "I said I hear you. I didn't say I minded."
"You don't—"
"I said my husband passed two years ago. Did you think I stopped having needs?" She stands. Walks toward me. "I hear you moaning my name, Marcus. And I lie in my bed on the other side of the wall and touch myself wondering what you'd do if you were in there with me."
"Adanna—"
"We've been doing this dance for three months. Listening to each other. Wanting each other." She stops in front of me. "I'm tired of the wall between us."
She takes my hand. Places it on her hip.
"There's no wall now."
I kiss her.
She melts into me, her body soft and warm and pressing against mine. My hands find her curves—explore them, memorize them, lose themselves in the abundance of her.
"My room," she breathes. "The bed's bigger."
Her room is upstairs. The bed is king-sized. And when she strips off her clothes, I finally see what I've been imagining for three months.
She's magnificent. Heavy breasts with dark nipples. Soft belly with stretch marks. Thick thighs and wide hips and an ass that makes my mouth water.
"This is what you've been thinking about," she says.
"Every night."
"Then stop thinking." She lies back on the bed. "And start doing."
I worship her.
Start at her feet, kiss my way up. Her calves. Her thighs. The soft curve of her belly. I bury my face in her breasts, then keep going—her neck, her jaw, her mouth.
"Marcus—" She's already panting. "Please—"
I slide down her body. Settle between her thighs. Taste her.
She screams.
"Oh God—" Her hands find my head. "Two years—I haven't—"
I lick her through her orgasm. Then again. Then a third time. By the time I rise up, she's boneless and begging.
"Inside me—please—I need to feel—"
I push in.
The bed doesn't creak through the walls anymore.
Because we're in it together. Her body surrounding me, her moans in my ear, her legs wrapped around my waist.
"Yes—harder—"
I fuck her harder. The headboard hits the wall. The whole bed shakes.
"Tell me what you heard," I growl. "Through the walls."
"I heard you stroking yourself—God—heard you grunting—heard my name when you—fuck—"
"And what did you do?"
"I touched myself—imagined you breaking down the door—taking me—exactly like this—"
She comes screaming. I follow her, filling her, collapsing onto her soft body.
Afterward, we lie tangled together.
"So," she says. "About your rent."
"What about it?"
"I think we need to renegotiate." She rolls on top of me. "The room's nice, but this bed is bigger. Better view. More... amenities."
"You want me to move in here?"
"I want you in my bed every night." She grinds against me. I'm already getting hard again. "I'm tired of the wall. I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
"What about being quiet?"
She laughs—loud, bright, alive.
"Quiet is overrated." She sinks down onto me. "Let's make some noise."
I move into her room that weekend.
The old room becomes storage. We don't need the separation anymore.
The neighbors probably hear us. The thin walls work both ways.
Neither of us cares.
We've spent three months listening to each other.
Now we make the noise together.