Chapter 36 We're Just Getting Started, Claire.
Claire
Love? The word still echoed in my skull like a mistake I couldn’t take back. I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it—out loud, to him. I must have lost every shred of sense I had left.
Do I crave real tenderness that desperately? Enough to beg Liam for something gentle when our entire history has been built on bruises, commands, and raw hunger? He’d heard every syllable; there was no pretending otherwise.
A long, heavy silence stretched after my plea. Long enough that shame crawled hot up my neck and I wished the floor would swallow me.
“Is that so?” he finally said, voice quiet, unreadable.
I couldn’t repeat it. My throat locked tight.
He gave a soft, dry chuckle. “I don’t do love-making, Claire,” he said, sarcasm lacing the edges like a thin blade. “But for you… I’ll make an exception.”
One hand clamped around my waist—firm, possessive—while the other guided the blunt head of his cock back to my entrance. I was still drenched, swollen from everything before, so when he pressed forward it was slow, deliberate, the slick sound of him parting my folds obscenely loud in the quiet room.
I clenched around him instinctively, feeling every thick ridge, every vein as he sank in deeper. The stretch was exquisite, almost too much.
“Do you want to cut it off?” he hissed through his teeth, voice strained.
My mind had already drifted—lost in the slow burn of pleasure building low in my belly—so I barely registered the joke.
He bottomed out, hips flush against my still-tender ass, then paused. “Do you want me to make love to you hard… or slow?”
He started moving—slow, measured rolls of his hips that dragged every inch of him along my walls. I parted my lips, fighting to keep silent, but the friction was maddening.
“I want you to fuck me hard,” I breathed, the words almost a plea.
He stilled for a heartbeat, then corrected me gently, voice low and dark. “No, Claire. Say it properly: ‘Make love to me hard.’”
He withdrew almost all the way—agonizingly slow—until just the tip remained inside. Then he slammed back in with one sharp, deep thrust.
“Ah—” The sound tore out of me before I could stop it.
I clamped my mouth shut instantly, mortified. He froze, buried to the hilt again, not moving.
The silence that followed felt heavier than any command he’d ever given. My pulse thundered in my ears; my walls fluttered helplessly around him, betraying how badly I still wanted more.
He leaned over me, breath hot against my ear. “Try again,” he murmured. “The right words, Claire. Or I stop right here.”
Shame clamped down hard as I forced the words past my lips, voice trembling. “Make love to me hard… Liam.”
The name slipped out before I could catch it—raw, instinctive, wrong.
He grunted low in his throat, body going rigid. In the next heartbeat his fingers twisted into my hair, yanking my head back sharply enough that my scalp burned. “Liam?” His voice was dark, dangerous. “Was that what we talked about?”
“Sorry, Mr. King,” I gasped, the apology tumbling out in a rush.
He held me there, arched and exposed, letting the silence stretch until it hurt. “Next time you make that mistake again, Claire, you go home unsatisfied. Do you understand me?”
“Yes—I do,” I blurted, breathless.
His grip loosened just enough for me to breathe. Then he lined himself up again and slammed back inside in one brutal thrust. I bit down on the cry that tried to escape, swallowing it whole. My insides melted around him, slick and greedy, as he set a punishing rhythm—hard, relentless, hips snapping forward with enough force that the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room.
Every stroke dragged along that perfect spot inside me; his balls slapped against my swollen clit with each deep plunge. The pleasure built like a storm I couldn’t outrun, coiling tighter, hotter, until oblivion pressed in from every side. I wanted to scream, to beg, to shatter—but he hadn’t given permission, and I was terrified he’d stop if I broke the rules.
Suddenly he released my hair. Both hands clamped onto my hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, anchoring me as he pounded even deeper, faster. My legs shook violently, barely holding me up.
“You’re gonna come, Claire?” His voice rasped against my ear, rough and commanding. “Do it.”
That was all it took.
I broke.
“Ah—ah—nmm—” The sounds tore free at last, fractured and desperate, as the orgasm ripped through me. Wave after blinding wave crashed over me, pleasure so intense it short-circuited everything—mind numb, body convulsing, walls clenching around him in helpless spasms.
He kept thrusting through it, drawing it out until I was shaking, oversensitive, gasping.
Then he slid out of me in one slow withdrawal.
My legs gave way instantly. I collapsed to the floor, my head rested on the sofa, knees hitting the carpet, chest heaving, sweat slicking my forehead. Every muscle trembled; my pulse roared in my ears.
I lay there, wrecked and boneless, trying to remember how to breathe.
He crouched down, arms sliding around my waist and under my thighs in one smooth motion. He lifted me effortlessly off the floor, cradling me against his chest as he straightened to his full height.
“We’re just getting started, Claire,” he murmured low against my ear, voice dark and velvet. “There’s still so much I want to do to you.”
He carried me across the room to the bed, steps steady, deliberate. “I won’t fuck you tonight,” he continued softly, almost reverently. “I’ll make love to you exactly the way your heart wants it. You can call me whatever you need to—scream it, whisper it, whatever comes out. No rules. No holding back.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, then lowered me onto the soft sheets with surprising care. I lay there, still trembling from the aftershocks, trying to pull air into my lungs while he reached for the red ribbon still binding my wrists. His fingers worked the knot loose quickly, freeing my hands. The silk fell away, leaving faint red lines on my skin.
He climbed onto the bed with me, settling between my parted legs. I watched him through half-lidded eyes, heart still racing, wondering why this sudden gentleness felt so disarming—why it made something inside me ache in a different way.
He leaned down until our faces were inches apart. I braced for the usual hunger, the bruising claim of his mouth, but instead his lips brushed mine feather-light—soft, almost tentative, the kind of kiss a lover gives when the world has narrowed to just the two of you.
Maybe this was what I’d been starving for all along. Not the pain, not the commands, but this quiet tenderness that could drown out the noise in my head—the failing marriage, the exhaustion, the depression that had settled like lead in my chest lately.
He kissed me again, slow and sweet, before his tongue slipped past my lips. I opened for him willingly, meeting him halfway. It wasn’t frantic this time; it was languid, delicious, tongues sliding together in a lazy dance. One hand cradled the back of my neck, supporting my head as he deepened the kiss, tasting me like he had all the time in the world. His cock—still hard, still burning—pressed hot against my stomach, a steady reminder of how much he wanted me.
For the first time in what felt like forever, every thought of Ian, the kids, the perfect-family lie I’d been living—it all dissolved into nothing. There was only him: the man above me, kissing me like he couldn’t get enough, body taut with raw arousal.
He broke the kiss slowly, lips trailing to my cheek, then along my jaw. Soft moans slipped from me unbidden; my chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. He moved lower, mouth tracing the sensitive skin of my neck, sucking gently until I arched beneath him with a breathy “hmm.”
His tongue followed the path his lips had made, licking slow, wet stripes down my collarbone, my chest. When he reached the fragile lingerie, he hooked his fingers under the delicate straps and tore it away in one easy rip. The fabric gave way like paper; as my breasts spilled free—nipples already swollen, aching, begging for attention.
“Liam,” I breathed, the name escaping in a voice thick with lust, one I barely recognized as my own.
His eyes lifted to mine, dark and molten. He bent his head low, hovering just above one peaked nipple. “Yes, Mrs. Claire,” he murmured, the title soft now, almost teasing, before he closed his mouth over the sensitive bud, my back arched from the bed as I moaned out loud.