Chapter 116: Is It Tonight? [FIXED!][09/08!]
The silence of the suite was not a peaceful one; it was a heavy, suffocating blanket of anticipation that seemed to vibrate with every beat of Liam’s heart. He had retreated to the velvet couch, the fabric cool against his skin, but the luxury of the furniture did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside him. He lay there, staring up at the muted gold ceiling, his mind a chaotic loop of the evening’s events.
He had no idea how he had managed to maneuver himself into this precarious position. He was a man who prided himself on control, on the ability to read a room and play his cards with surgical precision. But Mrs. Harriet was a variable he hadn’t accounted for. She wasn’t just a partner or a former boss; she was a force of nature wrapped in lace and poise. As he lay there, the physical manifestation of his desire was impossible to ignore. His cock was throbbing in a slow, rhythmic pulse, straining against the fabric of his trousers.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the image of her napping on the bed—the soft curve of her lip, the ivory expanse of her thighs. The memory acted like fuel on a fire, leaving him breathless and aching.
The quiet was suddenly broken by the soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps. Liam froze, his muscles locking up. He listened intently, his senses heightened to a painful degree. The footsteps moved toward the bathroom. He knew instinctively that she had woken up, and as the distant sound of the shower turning on echoed through the suite, a surge of adrenaline spiked through his veins.
The sound of the rushing water was a torture device. It was a constant, white-noise reminder of what was happening just a few walls away. A dark, intrusive thought began to take root in his mind—a flicker of temptation that he fought with everything he had.
“Should I steal a peek?” The thought was a whisper, a siren song of curiosity and lust. He told himself that in this heightened state of tension, anyone would be tempted.
He imagined the frosted glass, the steam, the possibility of seeing a silhouette of the woman who had occupied every single one of his thoughts for hours.
But as quickly as the thought arrived, Liam crushed it. He was a man of honor, or at least, he wanted to be the man Mrs. Harriet deserved.
To peek would be a violation, a criminal offense in the eyes of the law and a moral failure in his own. He let out a long, frustrated sigh that sounded more like a groan, rolling onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut.
Yet, the imagination is a treacherous thing. Even with his eyes closed, he could almost see it: the water droplets clinging to her collarbones, sliding down the slope of her breasts, tracing the dip of her waist and the curve of her hips. He could almost smell the scent of the hotel’s sandalwood soap mixing with her natural musk. The mental image was too vivid, too potent.
Driven by a desperation that bordered on agony, Liam’s hand drifted downward. He didn’t unzip his trousers—he couldn’t risk the noise—but he began to stroke himself through the fabric.
The friction was coarse, but it was the only relief available to him. He moaned softly, the sound muffled by the pillow, as he worked his hand in a slow, agonizing rhythm. He wasn’t trying to reach a climax; he was simply trying to survive the night without losing his mind.
He was sexually frustrated to the point of physical pain, his body humming like a live wire. Every slide of his palm against the hard ridge of his cock felt like a spark hitting gunpowder.
–
Meanwhile, inside the sanctuary of the bathroom, Mrs. Harriet stepped into the steam. The air was thick and humid, the remnants of Liam’s shower still clinging to the marble walls. She felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion that seeped into her very bones, a weariness born from years of playing a role, of being the perfect wife to a man who viewed her as an ornament. But beneath that fatigue, there was something else. The alcohol still swirling in her system had stripped away her usual inhibitions, leaving her feeling strangely energetic, almost electric.
She paused for a moment, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. She reached for her phone, but it wasn’t in her hand, nor was it on the counter. She realized with a start that she had left it in the room—or perhaps it had slipped somewhere. For a woman whose life was governed by schedules, alerts, and the constant surveillance of her social standing, being disconnected was a terrifying and exhilarating prospect. She hadn’t felt this reckless since her high school days, a time before the law degrees and the marriage vows.
She stripped off her clothes with slow, deliberate movements, letting the black dress pool at her feet like a shadow. Stepping into the spray, she let the hot water hammer against her skin, washing away the grime of the city and the tension of the day. She took the soap and began to wash herself, her movements methodical and thorough. She scrubbed her neck, the swell of her breasts, and the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.
As she lathered her skin, a stray thought drifted into her mind: How would it feel if Liam’s hands were doing this?
The image of his strong, capable fingers tracing the lines of her body flashed through her mind, and for a split second, her breath hitched. She felt a sudden, sharp throb of desire between her legs, a longing that she hadn’t felt in years. But unlike Liam, Mrs. Harriet was a master of her own internal architecture. She recognized the feeling for what it was—sexual frustration amplified by wine and a sudden burst of attention.
She pushed the thought away with a mental flick, refusing to let herself spiral.
To her, the physical urge was a biological itch, something that could be satisfied by anyone. She didn’t want to admit that the object of her interest was specifically Liam. She told herself that the alcohol had lowered her defenses, but as the cool air hit her skin when she stepped out of the stream, she felt a sudden clarity. She closed her eyes, savoring the lingering heat.
She realized that what she truly craved wasn’t just the sex; it was the way Liam looked at her. He didn’t look at her with the possessive hunger of Richard; he looked at her with a mixture of reverence and raw desire. He saw her. The look in his eyes reminded her of a younger Richard—before the power and the arrogance had hollowed him out. Perhaps that was why she had allowed herself to come here.
She dried herself off and reached for the plush, white towel-gown provided by the hotel. She wrapped it tightly around her body, tying the sash firmly at her waist. As she stepped out of the bathroom and into the dimly lit suite, she noticed Liam on the couch.
–
The moment the shower stopped, Liam had snapped back to reality. He ripped his hand away from his crotch, his heart hammering. He knew she had to pass by him to get back to the bedroom. He shut his eyes tight, praying that the darkness would hide his state.
He heard her footsteps—soft, barefoot on the carpet. He held his breath, his body rigid, expecting her to glide past him in the shadows and disappear into the bed. Because of this expectation, he didn’t bother to shift his position or try to flatten the obvious, throbbing tent in his trousers.
Then, the world turned white.
Mrs. Harriet reached over and flicked on the main lights shortly after entering the bedroom.
Liam’s breath caught in his throat, a strangled gasp escaping him. He froze, his eyes snapping open in a panic. He looked down and realized with a jolt of horror that he was completely exposed. While the fabric of his trousers provided a barrier, the outline of his erection was unmistakable—a hard, pulsing ridge that pointed directly toward her.
He felt a wave of heat rush to his face, a mixture of embarrassment and raw, unfiltered lust. He was certain he was fucked. He had been so careless, so consumed by his own frustration that he had forgotten the most basic rule of discretion.
He risked a sneak peek, glancing up at her through his lashes. Mrs. Harriet was standing just a few feet away, the white towel-gown clinging to her curves in a way that was almost criminal.
The fabric was thick, but it couldn’t hide the swell of her breasts or the narrowness of her waist. She seemed to be searching for something on the side table, her body angled away from him.
As she leaned over to check behind a lamp, the gown shifted. For a heartbeat, the hem rose, and Liam caught a glimpse of her buttocks—the smooth, rounded outline of her lower cheeks, pale and perfect against the white fabric.
In that instant, any remaining shred of control Liam possessed vanished. His cock didn’t just throb; it pulsed violently, straining against the cloth as if trying to break free. He felt a surge of electricity shoot from his loins to his brain, leaving him lightheaded. He was in a desperate race against time, his heart drumming a frantic beat against his ribs. If she turned around now, she would see exactly what she did to him. She would see the evidence of his desperation, and his lack of control
But as he watched her, a nagging question entered his mind. Was this accidental? Was the leaning, the shifting of the gown, the sudden flick of the lights all a calculated move? He looked at the back of her head, the elegant curve of her neck, and realized he had no idea who this woman really was. She was a riddle wrapped in a luxury hotel gown, and as he lay there, pulsing and desperate, Liam realized he was completely and utterly at her mercy.