Chapter 22 Not Satisfied
Claire
The moment he asked, a hiccup escaped me—half surprise, half confession.
Do I want to touch myself?
God, yes.
His voice alone, low and rough through the phone, sent heat pooling between my thighs.
A secret part of me had been waiting for this, a call, a text, anything.
I craved what he could give me.
Right now, hearing him, I wanted nothing more than to slide my hand down and ease the ache he’d planted.
But I couldn’t let him know.
Couldn’t let him see the hold he had on me.
So I lied.
“No, not really,” I said, but even I, didn’t believe the words. My voice trembled, betraying me.
He chuckled—slow, dark, knowing.
“What are you wearing right now?” he asked, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that licked along my skin.
I bit my lip, leaning back against the headboard, the phone pressed tight to my ear.
“A red nightgown,” I breathed, the words shaky, slow.
“What material?” he pressed.
I swallowed.
Truth was, this nightgown was new.
After he’d sent that scandalous lingerie, I’d worn it again at home—alone, in the dark—and liked it.
The way it made me feel: bold, desired, alive.
So I’d gone online, ordered more—lace, silk, things I never thought I’d dare wear.
“It’s lace,” I whispered.
“Good, Mrs. Claire,” he murmured, the praise sending a shiver straight to my core. I sighed, body already growing hot under the weight of his voice.
“Are you turned on, Mrs. Claire?” he asked, velvet and dangerous. “You sure you don’t want to touch those hardened nipples and imagine it’s me?”
A soft moan slipped out before I could stop it. My pussy clenched, aching.
“Touch your nipples for me,” he commanded.
My hand moved on its own, nails grazing the lace as I cupped one breast.
He knew.
“Pinch it hard, Mrs. Claire. Imagine my mouth sucking it in.”
I did. I closed my eyes.
Pinched—hard, the sting shot straight between my legs.
I pictured him, his tongue, his teeth, his heat.
The fingers found my second nipple, twisting, pulling.
Little moans spilled from my lips, unbidden.
“Take off your nightgown, Mrs. Claire. Now.”
His voice was pure command, and I obeyed.
Fingers fumbled with the straps, sliding them down my arms.
The lace pooled at my waist, baring my breasts to the cool air.
“Wet those fingers,” he said, breath hitching.
I brought two fingers to my mouth, sucked them slowly.
“Good, Mrs. Claire. That’s it. Suck on them.”
I did, a frustrated whimper escaping as I took them deeper.
“Deeper. Choke on them.”
God. I pushed them to the back of my throat, gagging softly, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Wrong.
So wrong. But good.
“Ah, Mrs. Claire,” he groaned, voice ragged. “You have no idea how hard your sounds make me. Take those wet, dirty fingers and touch your nipples again.”
I dragged them down, slick and shining, circling my stiff peaks.
The wet touch made me arch.
“Mmm,” I moaned, muffled behind my hand.
“Now trace them down, Mrs. Claire,” he ordered, voice thick. “Further down. Like the good little slut you are.”
I slid my hand lower, the lace nightgown suddenly a maddening barrier. I lifted my hips, the silk sheets whispering against my skin as I shimmied the fabric down my thighs and kicked it aside. No hesitation now. I was in too deep, drowning in the heat of his voice.
This is my first time having a phone sex, the thought flickered, sharp and electric. It should’ve shocked me. Instead, it sent a thrill racing through my veins. I never imagined I’d crave it.
“Spread your legs wider, Mrs. Claire,” he commanded, his voice a low growl, rough with barely-leashed hunger.
I wondered where he was—sprawled on his bed, shirt unbuttoned, hand wrapped around himself? In some dark office, tie loosened, stroking to the sound of my gasps? The image seared into my mind, making my mouth water, my core clench.
“Are they spread?” he demanded, breath hitching.
“Yes,” I whispered, thighs trembling as I spread myself wider, the cool air kissing my slick, heated skin.
He hummed—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the phone, through me, sending shivers racing down my spine. “Take your fingers back to your mouth, Claire. Wet them again.”
I obeyed, sliding two fingers past my lips, sucking them deep, “Suck harder.”
I did, a frustrated whimper escaping as I took them deeper, tongue swirling.
“Ah, Mrs. Claire,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. “Take those wet, filthy fingers and circle your clit.”
I dragged them down, slick and shining, finding the swollen bud. My head fell back against the headboard with a soft thud, a gasp tearing from my throat as I circled—slow, then faster, the friction electric.
“That’s it,” he growled, breath ragged. “I’ve got it in my mouth now. Licking you slow, then fast, just the way you like. Nibbling. Sucking until you’re dripping, begging me to stop because you’re soaked.”
I pictured it—his tongue, hot and relentless, his teeth grazing, his lips pulling. My hips rolled on their own, chasing the phantom mouth, the sheets twisting beneath me. Soft, desperate moans spilled from my lips, unbidden, unstoppable. I was close. So close.
“Don’t cum, Claire,” he snapped, voice jagged with need. “I haven’t fucked you yet.”
I whimpered, fingers freezing, the ache in my core almost painful.
“Slide them in—like it’s me inside you.”
I pushed two fingers deep, gasping at the stretch, the slick heat.
“Push them in and out, Claire. You know I don’t do slow.”
I obeyed.
In. Out. Faster. Harder.
The wet sounds of my fingers filled the room, obscene and intoxicating.
I imagined his cock—thick, pulsing, ruining me. My hips bucked wildly, free hand clawing the sheets, nails digging into the fabric.
“Hmm, I want to cum, Liam—please,” I begged, voice breaking, raw.
“Not yet,” he rasped, breath hitching, strained. “A little more.”
I knew he was stroking himself—his voice was wrecked, desperate, lost. The thought alone pushed me closer to the edge.
“Now, Claire.”
I was shattered.
Body convulsing, thighs clamping around my hand, juices flooding out in a hot, slick rush.
“Ah—ah—ah—” I gasped, riding the waves, every nerve alight, the world narrowing to the pulse between my legs.
For the first time ever, I came from phone sex.
And it wasn’t just good.
It was devastatingly so.
“Ah, Mrs. Claire, I’m not satisfied,” his voice rasped through the phone, rough and ragged, like gravel dragged over silk.
The words sank into me, heavy and hot.
I wasn’t satisfied either.
I craved him—his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning me down.
Even his—No.
I shook my head, banishing the thought. Was I about to say spank?
I sighed, shaky.
“This is it for now, Liam.”
He forced a low chuckle, dark and dangerous.
“Oh, you’re so lucky I’m busy these days, Mrs. Claire. The next time I call you over… you won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you.”
My eyes widened.
That was a promise I wanted him to keep.
“Okay,” I whispered, breathless.
He chuckled again, softer, almost tender.
“Until then, Mrs. Claire.”
The line went dead.
I lay back in bed, chest heaving, skin flushed and tingling, like his hands were on me.
At least tonight I could sleep—deep, dreamless, sated.
Ian?
God knows where he was, probably seething, knowing the woman he’d poured a year into had walked out without a backward glance.
I closed my eyes and let the dark take me.
Ian
I sat hunched at the bar in a dim, forgotten corner of the city, tie loose, jacket slung over the chair across from me like a defeated flag.
The glass in my hand trembled slightly.
Pattie was gone.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I’d told myself it was a mistake, a fight, something forced.
But the CCTV footage didn’t lie.
There she was—packing her bags into the trunk of her car, bouncing with excitement.
She stopped right under the camera, stuck out her tongue, flipped me the bird with a dazzling smile, and drove off.
Just like that.
I was a means to an end.
A wallet. A stepping stone. She never took me seriously.
Claire could never know.
She’d laugh, laugh—at the man who swore his mistress made his life exciting, only to be dumped like yesterday’s trash.
I knocked back another shot.
The vodka burned down my throat, hot and punishing, pooling in my chest like liquid fire.
I’d find Pattie, she’ll explain.
I wouldn’t let her go. I love her.
She made me feel alive again, young, wanted, powerful.
And she thought she could just discard me?
Never.
I took another shot, the glass clinking hard against the bar, my vision blurred, I sniffled, pathetic, like a damn teenager—and signaled for another.