Chapter 119: The First Move!* [FIXED!]
An hour had passed since they had slid under the cool, high-thread-count sheets, and for Liam, it had been an hour of absolute torture. He lay rigid, his muscles coiled like a spring, every single nerve ending screaming for contact. Beside him, he could hear the rhythmic, steady cadence of Mrs. Harriet’s breathing. She had fallen asleep with a deceptive ease, her respiration slow and deep, signaling a level of tranquility that Liam found almost insulting.
He was the opposite of tranquil. He was a storm of libido and desperation. He could practically taste the rebate of his own desire at the tip of his tongue—a metallic, sharp tang of longing that made his mouth dry.
He was acutely aware of her presence; he could feel the radiant heat of her body emanating from just inches away.
He sighed, a low, shaky sound that he hoped she wouldn’t hear. He was a man of principle, or at least he tried to be. He knew he couldn’t do anything if she didn’t want it; the boundaries she had set were fragile, and he didn’t want to be the one to shatter them prematurely.
But the biological imperative was winning. His cock was a throbbing, insistent weight against his thigh, pulsing with a need so violent it felt like it might actually burst. He turned his face away from her, staring into the darkness of the room, but he knew he had reached his limit. If he didn’t find a release, he wouldn’t get a single second of sleep; he would simply lie there, vibrating with lust until dawn.
With a trembling hand, Liam reached beneath the waistband of his boxers. He carefully, slowly, slid his cock out into the open air. The sudden coolness of the room against his heated skin made him hiss. He looked down in the dim light and realized just how messy things had become. He was leaking; thick, clear beads of precum were literally dripping down the length of his shaft, glistening like diamonds in the shadows.
He hadn’t been this aroused in years—perhaps ever. Even his time with Vanessa, who had been a whirlwind of explicit hunger, hadn’t pushed him to this extreme of physiological desperation. This wasn’t just lust; it felt like something else entirely.
He began to stroke himself. He started with a gentle, tentative grip, his fingers curling around the base of his shaft. The first slide upward was an explosion of sensation that nearly made him moan aloud. He closed his eyes, imagining it wasn’t his own hand, but Mrs. Harriet’s soft, manicured fingers. He imagined her looking at him with that hungry gaze he had seen earlier, her lips parted, her breasts swaying as she watched him pleasure himself.
He increased the pace, but only slightly. He was terrified of the physics of the bed. He knew that if he became too vigorous, the mattress would begin to jerk back and forth, the rhythmic thumping acting as a dinner bell to wake her up. He had to be a ghost, a shadow of pleasure. He bit his lower lip hard, the pain helping to anchor him as the pleasure threatened to sweep him away. Up and down. Slow. Steady. Each stroke felt like a lightning bolt traveling from his groin to his brain.
He could feel the head of his cock swelling, the skin stretching tight, the precum lubricating his grip until the sound of the friction became a wet, sliding noise that seemed deafening in the silence.
He was drifting into a trance of self-gratification, his mind filling with images of Mrs. Harriet’s perky breasts and the curve of her hips, when he felt it.
A sudden, subtle movement from behind him.
Liam froze instantly. He let go of his cock as if it had turned into a red-hot iron, his heart leaping into his throat. He stayed absolutely still, barely daring to breathe. However, his body had a mind of its own. Deprived of the grip, his erection didn’t subside; instead, it jerked violently, pulsing against his stomach in a rhythmic, desperate dance. It was a physical manifestation of his need, a cock that was screaming for something—anything—to stay inside of.
Then, he felt it. A soft, warm hand slid across his chest.
Liam’s heart rate spiked, hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He thought she had woken up and caught him in the act. He braced himself for the shock, the anger, or the awkwardness. But then, a sound escaped her—a soft, airy whisper that barely disturbed the air.
“Richard…”
The name hit Liam like a physical blow, but the sensation that followed was far more potent. Mrs. Harriet’s hand didn’t stop at his chest. It began to migrate downward, sliding over the ridges of his abdominal muscles, tracing the line of his V-taper with a slow, unconscious curiosity. Her touch was light, almost ethereal, but to Liam, it felt like fire. Her hand continued its descent, moving lower and lower, slipping past the waistband of his underwear until she finally reached the epicenter of his arousal.
“What the fuck…!” Liam muttered under his breath, his voice a strangled rasp.
He was paralyzed by a mixture of shock and ecstasy. He could feel her body shifting behind him; she had moved closer, her small, perky breasts pressing firmly against his shoulder blades. One of her legs had swung over his hip, hooking around him in a possessive, intimate embrace. She was molding herself to him, her warmth seeping into his skin, her scent—a mix of expensive soap and feminine musk—filling his nostrils.
And then, it happened. Her soft hand wrapped around his precum-soaked shaft.
Liam nearly jumped out of his skin. The contrast was staggering; her palm was velvet, her grip firm yet gentle. He expected her to wake up at that moment, to realize she was gripping a stranger’s cock and recoil in horror. But she didn’t. She remained in the depths of her sleep, her subconscious taking over, her body reacting to the heat and the hardness she had found.
She began to stroke him.
It was a slow, rhythmic motion, a mindless mimicry of the act he had been performing seconds before. The sensation was a thousand times more intense than his own hand. The way her fingers curled around him, the slight pressure of her thumb against the crown of his glans—it was pure, unadulterated eroticism.
Liam was on the verge of exploding. Every nerve in his body was firing at once, his vision blurring as he fought the urge to scream.
He knew he should stop her. He knew he should wake her up and end this before it became something he couldn’t handle. But as she continued to slide her hand up and down his length, Liam felt every semblance of control he had spent the entire evening building simply vanish. He wasn’t a pervert, but in this moment, the lines of morality were blurred by the sheer intensity of the physical connection.
He couldn’t just lie there and take it; he needed more. Driven by a primal instinct, Liam began to thrust his hips lightly, pushing back into her hand. He was fucking her palm, using her unconscious grip as a surrogate for the pussy he craved. He groaned softly, the sound muffled by the pillow, as he accelerated the pace. He felt the build-up starting in the base of his spine, a tidal wave of pleasure that was rushing toward the shore.
His mind went blank. There was no Richard, no business settlement, no professional boundaries. There was only the wet slide of her hand, the pressure of her breasts against his back, and the agonizing need to cum.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the hand vanished.
Liam froze, his body still vibrating from the friction. He stayed perfectly still, pretending to be in a deep slumber, his breath shallow. He could tell that Mrs. Harriet had woken up—at least partially. He felt her body stiffen, the warmth of her breath hitching against his neck.
Inside Mrs. Harriet’s mind, a storm of panic had erupted. She had been dreaming of Richard—a younger, more passionate Richard—and in her dream, she had reached out to claim him. But as she regained a sliver of consciousness, the tactile reality hit her. The thing in her hand wasn’t a dream. It was a thick, pulsing, wet cock. It was far larger and harder than anything she had felt in years. No, in her life.
“Oh my god,” she thought, her heart racing. “What am I doing?”
The realization crashed over her like a wave of ice water. She had been masturbating a man who wasn’t her husband. She had been thrusting against a hand that wasn’t hers. The sheer taboo of the act sent a jolt of adrenaline through her, but beneath the panic, there was a simmering, undeniable heat. Her own core was throbbing, her pussy drenched in a sudden, heavy flow of arousal. The act of touching him had awakened a hunger in her that she had spent years suppressing.
She felt the man—Liam—staying still. He didn’t move; he didn’t speak. To her, it seemed as though he had been asleep the entire time, an innocent participant in her subconscious exploration. A wave of relief washed over her, followed immediately by a surge of intense embarrassment.
Slowly, carefully, Mrs. Harriet withdrew her leg from over his hip. She slid away from him, moving back to her own side of the bed with the stealth of a thief. She lay there in the dark, her chest heaving, her hand still tingling from the sensation of his hardness. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and dangerously aroused.
She stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. She had started something. She had crossed a line, even if it was in her sleep. She knew that the dynamic between her and Liam had shifted irrevocably. The tension was no longer just a game of subtle cues; it was a physical reality. But in her hand was his precum and she was in no hurry to wipe it off.