Chapter 115: Mrs. Harriet’s Temptation! [FIXED!]
The click of the electronic lock echoed through the quiet hallway as Liam pushed open the door to the executive suite. As they stepped inside, the sheer scale of the room became apparent.
It was a sanctuary of muted gold tones, deep mahogany, and plush cream carpets that swallowed the sound of their footsteps.
The suite was sprawling, featuring a wide sitting area with several oversized velvet couches and a mahogany coffee table, but as Liam’s gaze drifted toward the bedroom area, he felt a sudden jolt of anxiety.
He had booked this room for himself, and in his haste, he hadn’t accounted for a guest. There was only one bed—a massive, king-sized slab of luxury draped in Egyptian cotton and silk pillows.
Liam felt a bead of sweat form at his temple. The air in the room suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. He knew he could sleep on one of the couches; they were more than comfortable enough for a man of his size. But the psychological weight of knowing Mrs. Harriet was just a few feet away, in the same private sanctuary, made his pulse hammer against his ribs.
Mrs. Harriet, however, didn’t seem phased. She glided into the room with a grace that was almost predatory, her heels clicking softly before she stepped onto the carpet. She didn’t look for the bed or question the sleeping arrangements. Instead, she walked to the center of the room, slowly removing her clutch and placing it on the table. She looked around the suite not as a guest, but as someone who belonged in such opulence.
“It’s a lovely space, Liam,” she murmured, her voice a low, melodic hum that vibrated in the small of his back. “You have a taste for the finer things.”
Liam cleared his throat, feeling a sudden, desperate need to distance himself from her scent—that intoxicating mix of jasmine and expensive wine. He was feeling heated, his skin itching with a tension that was rapidly shifting from emotional to purely physical.
If he stayed in her immediate orbit for another five minutes, he knew he would fumble. He would say something wrong, or worse, he would do something impulsive that would shatter the fragile trust they had built in the car.
At the end of the day, he was a man and Mrs. Harriet exuded a natural sex appeal.
“I… I’m going to head into the shower,” Liam said, his voice slightly strained. “I need to freshen up for a bit. Please, make yourself at home.”
He expected her to be flustered, perhaps to blush or look away, acknowledging the intimacy of the situation. Instead, Mrs. Harriet simply nodded, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
She leaned back against one of the couches, crossing her long, lace-clad legs, her gaze remaining fixed on him with an intensity that made him feel completely exposed.
“Don’t be too long, Liam,” she replied softly. “I might need the facilities myself.”
Liam practically bolted toward the bathroom. When he pushed the door open, he stopped dead in his tracks. The bathroom was an architectural marvel—a sprawling expanse of white marble and gold fixtures. It was so large that he joked to himself that a small family could live in here comfortably. There was a deep soaking tub that looked like a piece of art and a walk-in shower with multiple rainfall heads and frosted glass walls.
The moment he stripped off his clothes, his body betrayed him. The memory of Mrs. Harriet’s thighs, the way her dress clung to her curves, and the raw honesty of their conversation in the car had left him in a state of high alert. His cock was already straining, a hard, throbbing weight that demanded attention.
He stepped into the shower and turned the handle. The water hit him with a sudden, powerful force, the temperature perfectly calibrated to a searing heat that mirrored the fire in his blood.
He groaned, leaning his forehead against the cool marble wall as the water cascaded over his shoulders. For a moment, he felt a wave of relief; the physical sensation of the water washing over him seemed to rinse away the anxiety and the professional masks they had both been wearing.
But as he closed his eyes, all he could see was Harriet. He imagined her in this room, perhaps sliding out of that provocative dress, the lace panels falling away to reveal the pale, smooth skin he had been dying to touch. He imagined her walking into the bathroom while he was still under the spray, the steam blurring the lines between them.
The thought was too much. His breath hitched, and his hand instinctively drifted down. He gripped his length, his fingers curling around the hot, pulsing skin. He began to jerk off lightly, the friction of his palm combined with the drumming of the water creating a sensory overload. He wasn’t looking for a full release—he knew that if he came now, he would be spent, and the tension that was fueling his confidence would vanish. He just needed to take the edge off, to quiet the roar in his head.
“God, she’s incredible,” he thought, his hips twitching rhythmically. He pictured her eyes—the way they had searched his in the car—and the way she had smiled when he told her she was worth the consequences. He increased the pace slightly, a low hiss escaping his teeth. He was on the precipice, the heat building in his gut, the pleasure curling tight in his loins.
But then, a flash of reality hit him. He remembered her vulnerability, the way she had admitted her neglect, and the respect he had promised her. He didn’t want to treat her like a fantasy; he wanted her. Truly.
With a sharp intake of breath, Liam forced his hand away. He stopped abruptly, the sudden cessation of pleasure leaving him aching and frustrated, but mentally clearer. He spent the next few minutes scrubbing every inch of his body with the hotel’s luxury soap, the scent of sandalwood filling the steam. He worked quickly, knowing that the longer he stayed in here, the more likely it was that Harriet would grow impatient or curious.
Once he was finished, he stepped out of the shower, the steam clinging to his skin. He reached for a plush white towel and tied it securely around his waist, the fabric clinging to his damp hips. It was a subconscious action, a lingering instinct to maintain some semblance of modesty, though he knew the towel did little to hide the lingering evidence of his arousal should it occur.
He walked back into the main suite, his skin still glowing from the heat.
“Mrs. Harriet?” he called out softly. “The shower is all yours if you’d like to—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Mrs. Harriet wasn’t on the couch. She had migrated to the bed. She was lying on her side, curled up in a way that looked unexpectedly fragile. She was napping lightly, her breathing slow and rhythmic.
A tiny, almost imperceptible sliver of drool had escaped the corner of her lips, a detail so human and unrefined that it completely stripped away the “Ice Queen” persona she projected to the world.
Liam felt a surge of tenderness that caught him off guard. He stepped closer, his gaze softening. She looked so damn cute, her face relaxed, the tension finally gone from her brow. As he looked down, he noticed that the hem of her dress had ridden up, exposing the creamy, smooth expanse of her thighs, reaching high toward the curve of her hip.
“So smooth,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a ragged whisper.
The temptation to reach out, to run his hand along that silk-soft skin, was almost overwhelming. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he felt the familiar stir of desire returning. But as he looked at her sleeping form, he remembered the man he wanted to be for her. He didn’t want to be just another man who took what he wanted because she was vulnerable.
Carefully, with a steady hand, Liam reached for the heavy duvet at the foot of the bed. He leaned over her, the scent of her perfume hitting him again, and gently pulled the blanket up, covering her exposed legs and tucking it around her shoulders. He made sure not to touch her skin, though the proximity made his skin prickle.
“I guess I’ll be taking the couch,” he thought to himself, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. He felt a strange sense of pride in his own restraint.
As he turned to walk away, he didn’t notice that Mrs. Harriet’s eyelid fluttered.
She had woken up the moment he leaned over her. Through the slit of one eye, she watched him—watched the way the towel clung to his lean, muscular frame, the way the water droplets still clung to his chest, and the gentle, protective way he had covered her.
She felt the warmth of the blanket and, more importantly, the absence of any wandering hands. She had spent her entire adult life around men like Richard—men who viewed her as a trophy, a possession, or a challenge to be conquered. She had expected Liam to take advantage of the situation; she had almost expected him to try and sneak a feel while she pretended to sleep.
But he hadn’t. He had treated her with a tenderness that felt foreign and terrifyingly intoxicating.
As Liam walked toward the couch, his back to her, Harriet let out a long, slow breath. She closed her eye again, a genuine, private smile spreading across her face.
“Such a gentleman,” she whispered to the empty air, her voice thick with a newfound longing.
She lay there for a few more minutes, listening to the sound of him settling onto the couch, the rustle of the fabric, the heavy sigh of a man fighting his own desires. The emotional seed he had planted in the car had now bloomed into something far more dangerous.
She knew she needed a shower, but for the first time in years, she wasn’t in a rush to hide. She wanted to linger in this tension, savoring the knowledge that for the first time, she was with a man who saw her—not just as a beautiful woman, but as someone worth the wait.