Chapter 37 Liam's Wish
Claire
He sucked on my nipple with a patience he hadn’t shown before—slow, deliberate pulls, tongue swirling lazily as if memorizing the taste, the texture, the way my body responded with every gentle tug. Low moans vibrated deep in my belly, soft and helpless.
He released it with a wet pop, only to latch onto the other one, giving it the same reverent attention. My back arched off the mattress, fingers twisting in the sheets.
Then his mouth was moving again—kissing a slow path down my sternum, across the soft curve of my belly. His tongue traced every dip and rise he could reach, sucking lightly here, pressing open-mouthed kisses there, until I was trembling beneath him.
He paused, lips hovering just above my navel. “Did he touch you, Claire?” His voice was calm, almost conversational, but there was steel underneath.
“No,” I answered without hesitation, the word slipping out in the haze of the moment. I wouldn’t have let Ian near me even if he’d begged on his knees. The thought of his hands made my skin crawl; that hadn’t changed and probably never would.
“Good,” Liam murmured, the single word heavy with satisfaction.
He straightened, bringing his face level with mine again. His eyes locked on me—dark, possessive, unblinking. “You see this body, Claire?” One hand slid up my thigh, lifting it higher, opening me wider. The blunt head of his cock nudged my drenched entrance. “It belongs to me. You might not fully know it yet. You might not want to admit it. But I own you.”
He pushed in slowly—smooth, inexorable—stretching me open inch by thick inch. I parted my lips on a silent gasp as he filled me completely.
“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You feel that? How perfect we fit? You and me—it’s so damn good, Claire.”
His mouth crashed down on mine again, hungry but controlled, swallowing my whimpers as he began to move. Slow, rolling thrusts that dragged along every sensitive wall inside me, letting me feel him everywhere.
My arms wound around his neck instinctively, holding on as he rocked into me with devastating patience.
“Liam,” I breathed his name without thinking, the sound slipping out like a confession.
“Yes?” he answered softly, never breaking rhythm.
“Faster,” I pleaded, already teetering on the edge. “Please—I need you deeper, faster.”
“Not yet,” he whispered against my cheek, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Sometimes the slow build… It makes everything sharper. Let it build, Claire.”
My legs hooked around his waist, locking us together as we moved in perfect, torturous sync. Each measured thrust sent my heartbeat racing higher, pleasure coiling tighter in my core. When I finally opened my eyes fully, I found him staring straight into me—intense, unwavering, like he’d been watching my face the entire time.
The intimacy of it hit me like a shock. This started from blackmail, from a mistake, from anger and desperation. And yet here I was—under him, willingly, begging him to make love to me like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Claire,” he said quietly, voice rough with something deeper than lust. His hand clamped around my waist, holding me steady. “How I wish you weren’t an older woman… and that I’d met you in your prime.”
My eyes widened at his unexpected words.
Then he thrust in hard—deep, sudden, stealing my breath.
“Don’t you wish for that too?” he asked, voice low and dark.
Before I could answer he picked up speed, slamming into me exactly the way I’d begged for—fast, deep, relentless. His hips drove down with bruising force, skin slapping against skin, as I screamed from the top of my lungs in ecstacy.
“Yes—yes—yes—give me more, Liam,” I cried out, voice breaking as he hurled me toward the edge. My body bounced beneath him, breasts swaying with each powerful thrust.
“Ah, Mrs. Claire… you’ll be the death of me,” he groaned, pounding even deeper. “You’re too fucking sweet.”
I felt him swell thicker inside me, stretching me to the limit. My walls fluttered, clenched, signaling I was right there.
“I’m gonna come—” The words tore from my throat.
Then it hit—hard. My body seized, convulsing around him in violent waves. Pleasure crashed through me, white-hot and blinding, leaving me shaking and gasping beneath him.
But even as the aftershocks rippled through me, I knew it wasn’t over.
He hadn’t come yet.
And a man like Liam—with his stamina, with the way he still throbbed hard and hot inside me—was nowhere near done. He wasn’t letting me go.
Not until he’d wrung every last drop of surrender from me.
I lost count of how many times we’d come together—my body felt boneless, slick with sweat and release—but Liam still wasn’t done. He stood tall while I knelt before him, knees aching against the carpet, taking him deep into my mouth again. One hand fisted my hair, holding my head steady as he fucked my throat with measured, relentless strokes.
My earlier orgasms still dripped from my swollen pussy, trailing warm down my inner thighs. Every time he hit the back of my throat I gagged, saliva spilling in thick waves over my chin, dripping onto my breasts. His rhythm stayed even, fast, controlled—until he pushed too deep again. I choked hard; he pulled out immediately.
I coughed, gasping for air, chest heaving. He was still rock-hard, veins pulsing, tip glistening with my spit.
“Use your hands, Claire,” he ordered, voice rough but calm.
I wrapped both palms around him without hesitation, stroking fast and firm—twisting at the head, sliding down to the base, milking him the way I knew he liked. When is he finally going to break? I wondered. Is he holding back on purpose?
“Get up, Claire. I want to be inside you again.”
I looked up at him, a flicker of triumph in my chest, and rose on shaky legs. Before I could steady myself, he scooped me up—strong arms under my thighs. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, locking my ankles behind him. He positioned himself at my entrance—still so wet, so ready—and with one hard upward thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
I moaned loud and broken, head falling back as he started ramming into me again—deep, forceful, hips snapping up to meet mine with every stroke. The angle had him hitting that spot inside me over and over; I lost myself completely, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in, crying out his name without shame.
He kept fucking me like that—standing, holding me effortlessly—until I felt the change in him. His breathing turned ragged, chest heaving against mine. I glanced at his face: eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, he looked so manly and hot.
I dropped my head to his shoulder, lips brushing his neck, feeling my own climax building again—tight, inevitable.
One last brutal thrust and he grunted low in his throat, hips jerking as he spilled inside me—hot, thick pulses flooding deep. His whole body shook, arms tightening around me like he was afraid I’d slip away, holding me pinned against him while he rode out every wave.
“Ah… ah, Claire…” His voice cracked, raw. “I can’t believe I’m saying this… you’re the best I’ve ever had.”
He stayed buried inside me, softening slowly, both of us panting, slick with sweat and each other. For once, the room felt quiet—only our breathing, the faint wet sound of him still inside me, and the thunder of my heartbeat against his chest.
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
He walked us both to the bed, still carrying me in his arms like I weighed nothing. Gently, he lowered me onto the cool sheets and settled beside me, body stretched out long and warm next to mine.
I was breathing hard, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls, every muscle heavy and spent from everything we’d just done. My skin felt flushed, oversensitive, marked in places by his hands and mouth.
“You can sleep, Claire,” he murmured, voice low and rough from exertion, one hand idly tracing lazy circles on my hip.
But I couldn’t. I felt sticky—sweat, his release still leaking slowly from between my thighs, my saliva and his on me, the remnants of multiple orgasms coating my inner legs. The sensation was too much, too intimate, too messy to ignore.
I turned my head on the pillow, looking up at him. His eyes were already half-lidded, watching me with that quiet intensity he carried even when exhausted.
“I want to wash,” I whispered, almost shy about it now.
He let out a soft, tired chuckle—the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “As you wish, Claire.”
Here we are in the bathtub, my back flush against his chest in the warm, foamy water. His lips brush the sensitive skin behind my ear in a soft, lingering kiss.
“You’re not going home tonight, Claire,” he murmurs, voice low and close, breathing warm against my damp hair.
And honestly, I don’t want to. Not even a little. I want to stay right here—curled in his arms, sleeping beside him, letting everything else fall away. No more Mrs. Claire for today, the perfect wife and devoted mother. Just Claire. A woman who deserves to be held, to be wanted, to feel loved—even if that love comes from a younger man.
A man who happens to be my husband’s mistress’s boyfriend, how ironic.