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“Wonderful,” I murmured. “I’m in a haunted cowboy palace.”

Another faint moan drifted through the room. That definitely sounded more human than ghost-like. My mind, clearly desperate, leapt to literature. “Maybe he has someone hidden in the attic,” I muttered. “Wouldn’t that be just my luck? A Brontë special.”

A second moan later, and I realized that the sound wasn’t floating through the ceiling or the floorboards. It was coming from the wall across from me. From Sterling’s room.

“Oh,” I breathed, and the word barely made it out. Because I had figured out what the sound was. I knew it in the biblical sense, as a matter of fact, since just a few hours ago that same low rumble had been pressed right against my center, rolling through me until my vision blurred and I had forgotten my own name.

Sterling Hayes was masturbating.

In his massive, mansion-sized ranch that had no business allowing noise to travel like this. Of course, he’d chosen the one wall between us as the prime location for his…evening fitness routine.

Another throaty moan slid into my room like an invitation, and my whole body heated in a slow, melting sweep.

“Oh no,” I whispered, except it came out more like a prayer someone naughty would stitch on a sampler. The real catastrophe wasn’t that Sterling was touching himself. The real catastrophe was my body’s Olympic-level enthusiasm about it.

My thighs pressed together, like they had their own agenda, and it involved volunteering as tribute.

I should have rolled over, smothered myself in the pillow, and forced my brain to count sheep or cattle or yachts or whatever Sterling Hayes kept in his accountant’s nightmares.

Instead, I stayed perfectly still, my ears straining to not miss a single sound.

Another low groan drifted through the wall, edged with something almost frustrated. And just like that, the picture formed behind my eyes, vivid and merciless.

Sterling sprawled across his bed, completely naked. Moonlight was probably spilling over all those hard muscles, turning the ridges of his abs into shadows I wanted to trace with my tongue. Those tattoos I hadn’t had time to study earlier…the dark ink curling over his ribs like thorns, the sharp lines disappearing beneath his arm, another one low on his hip that pointed like an arrow straight to the part of him I couldn’t stop remembering. His big hand wrapped around his thick, engorged cock, stroking in a steady, hungry rhythm, head tipped back, throat working as he let out those sounds that were currently ruining my life.

My hand moved before my brain caught up, slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. I was already soaked and embarrassingly ready, my fingers sliding easily through the slick heat as I pictured myself watching him. I thought about the flex of his forearm, the subtle rise of his hips with each stroke, the bead of wetness gathering at the tip…the one my mouth suddenly ached to taste.

I stroked my clit in slow circles, biting down hard to stay quiet, imagining him pumping faster on the other side of the wall, breath unraveling, maybe even saying my name like a prayer.

Stop it, Sienna. You do not want that man moaning your name.

The pulse between my thighs argued otherwise.

A final, deep moan came through the wall, longer and louder this time, and it hit me like a match to gasoline.

I came hard and moaned loudly as my thighs clamped around my hand. My back arched off the mattress as pleasure crashed through me. The climax swept through in a hot, dizzy wave, leaving my breath tangled and my pulse echoing loudly in my ears.

A lazy, liquid warmth spread through my limbs, and the fear, the tension, the way Sterling’s mouth had haunted every breath I’d taken tonight…it all softened under the afterglow, humming low in my belly.

I should have felt embarrassed, or guilty, or something sensible. Instead, I just lay there, breathing hard, with my hand still resting between my thighs as if my body wasn’t ready to let go of the moment.

The room felt full of quiet again. Not peaceful, exactly…but settled. Like the house had exhaled with me.

Then a sound tapped through that stillness. A firm knock against the wall we shared.

My body went rigid in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with arousal this time.

Fuck. He knew.

Heat rushed up my neck so fast it felt criminal. I slapped a pillow over my face and let out a strangled noise that was somewhere between a groan and a prayer for death.

“Why am I so weak?” I screeched into the cotton.

The pillow muffled the world, but not enough to keep me from imagining him on the other side of that wall, relaxed and smug, fully aware of what I’d just done…and most definitely pleased that I’d done it because of him.

Which was really unhelpful.

I pressed the pillow harder over my face. Was it possible to smother yourself?