moaning till you get hard begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so moaning till you get hard becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In moaning till you get hard, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in moaning till you get hard, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that moaning till you get hard worked better than any sleeping pill.