Hotline Pleasure

Chapter 4

MADELAINE

Fifteen minutes.

That’s how long I’ve been sitting here, hands folded neatly in my lap, back straight like a good girl.

That’s what I am, right? A good girl? Even if my actual job has nothing to do with client meetings. Even if I should be back at the office, answering emails, organizing schedules, doing things that I actually know how to do.

I shift in my chair, my skirt riding up my thighs. The fabric feels thinner now, my body too aware of how bare my legs are beneath the table. I don’t belong here. The table is too big, the restaurant too nice, the air too quiet.

I can hear the clink of cutlery, the low murmur of business conversations, but I feel exposed in a way I can’t explain. Like someone is watching me. Like someone is deciding what to do with me.

But I can do this. I have to do this. Killian told me to. He told me to handle this meeting, so I will. I don’t know why—this isn’t my job—but maybe if I do it well, he’ll see that I’m capable. That I’m not just some silly, useless assistant who—

My phone rings.

I jolt so hard my knee knocks against the table. My pen rolls off the folder I had carefully laid out in front of me. I scramble to grab it, hands shaking, heart lurching in my throat.

The client gives me a patient smile. “You can take that if you need to.”

“Oh, no,” I say too quickly, too eager to seem polite. “It’s fine. Probably just a wrong number.”

It rings again.

I freeze.

The client’s gaze flicks to my phone, still smiling, still polite, but there’s a hint of amusement now. “You should take it.”

I nod, flustered, fumbling with my phone as I force another smile. “I—I really appreciate your time. Thank you.”

I don’t even know what I’m saying. I barely process her walking away because the number on my screen isn’t saved in my contacts.

I hesitate. But my fingers are already moving, answering before I can think.

“H-Hello?”

A pause.

Then—

“Go down the hall.”

I stiffen.

My stomach twists, something deep and uncomfortable curling beneath my ribs. The voice is smooth, low, certain. It slides down my spine, leaving a slow burn in its wake.

“I—” My breath catches. “Who—?”

“Fire exit.” A slow inhale, then, quieter, like he’s closer than he should be, “The farthest one.”

I grip my phone tighter, pressing it to my ear like I can somehow understand more if I just hold on harder. “I—I don’t—”

Click.

The call ends.

I stare at my screen. My hands are trembling. No, no, no. That wasn’t—That couldn’t be—

I look around the restaurant. No one is watching me. No one is paying attention. The couple in the corner is still laughing softly. The barista is still calling out orders. The world is still turning, still normal, but I’m not.

I don’t know what to do.

What if it was a mistake? A wrong number? But he told me where to go. He told me like he knew I’d listen.

I swallow hard, gripping the strap of my bag like it can anchor me. Then, on weak, unsteady legs, I stand.

The chair scrapes against the floor. Heads turn. My face flames.

I dip my head, apologetic, embarrassed, and hurry toward the hall, keeping my steps light, keeping my movements controlled, because good girls don’t cause a scene.

I reach the door. I push it open. Step inside.

It clicks shut behind me.

My stomach lurches.

I turn back, fingers reaching for the handle—

Locked.

I try again. Still locked.

Oh.

My chest tightens. I don’t like this.

The hallway is long, dimly lit, stretching out in front of me like a tunnel with no end. The air feels colder here. Thicker. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to steady my breath. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

Then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Even. Measured.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my back to the wall. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should move, if I should call someone, if I should—

“Don’t look back.”

I go completely still. The voice is behind me. Closer now. Not rushed. Not uncertain. A breath of warmth ghosted over the back of my neck. A hand trails up my arm, deliberate, knuckles brushing against my skin.

“You came,” he murmurs. His voice is soft, almost approving. Like I passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

I swallow hard. “I—I don’t—”

A sound, low and amused. “Shhh.”

Fingers press lightly beneath my chin. Tilt. A command without words. My body obeys before my brain catches up.

“There’s a good girl.”

My breath stutters.

His hand shifts, fingertips grazing my jaw, then lower—dragging down, testing the line of my throat. I shouldn’t let him. I should slap his hand away, push past him, demand to know what he wants—

But I don’t. I can’t.

A thumb brushes over my pulse. It’s too fast. I know he can feel it.

A deep inhale. “You’re trembling.”

His tone isn’t mocking. It’s pleased. Heat pools low in my stomach. My thighs press together before I can stop myself. He notices. Of course he notices.

His lips brush my ear. “Sensitive little thing, aren’t you?”

I shudder. I don’t mean to. His hand drifts lower and I am losing my mind. W-Why is he doing this to me? “ P-Please…” I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Oh, Madelaine. What have you gotten yourself into?

My throat tightens. I am seconds away from crying. Not because it hurts—but because it’s too much. This is so far different from the phone calls—

“Ah~” I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified because of what I did. He chuckles—low, dark.

“You're really loud, huh?” His fingers drift lower, tracing the edge of my skirt. " Spread your legs little one."

My face burns, my breath stutters, my entire body locks up.He can’t mean—he wouldn’t— Oh, God. Please. “S-Spread…my legs?”

I try to turn, try to look back, to plead with wide, trembling eyes—please don’t do this, not here—but before I can, he presses forward, his broad chest pinning me against the wall. I can feel his rough fingers guiding my palm to flattens against the wall.

He leans in. I feel his breath first. Then—the slowest, softest inhale. “ Be a good girl Madelaine.” His fingers trail down, teasing the hem of my skirt, making my knees go weak. His voice drops, sending a full-body shiver up my spine. “If you let go of that f*****g wall, I’m going to f**k you right here.”

A small, broken sound escapes me. I squeeze my eyes shut, fingers gripping the wall like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening but I hear movements of him dropping to his knees for me.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

I stiffen, sucking in a sharp breath as cool air rushes against my thighs. The rustle of fabric makes my stomach twist. He’s lifting my skirt. My skirt.

My hands tremble. I want to stop him. I should stop him. My lips part, but nothing comes out—only a broken, breathless sound when I feel his fingers hook into my panties.

“N-No, w-wait—”

The air hits my thighs. A whisper of coolness, a cruel contrast to the heat pulsing deep in my stomach.

I barely process it before—he moves my panties.

No. No, no, no.

The lace drags across my skin, slick and humiliatingly damp. He tugs it aside with ease, like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing but something to be handled, adjusted.

A sharp inhale rips through me.

My fingers twitch against the wall, pressing harder like I can disappear inside it—like I can anchor myself to something solid. But my knees are weak, and my stomach is tight, and my whole body is trembling because—

His breath. Right there.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it’s worse. Without sight, all I can do is feel.

The first touch of his nose. A brush—barely there. But I feel it everywhere.

I clamp my mouth shut, choking down a sound that tries to crawl up my throat. My nails press into the wall, my entire body locked, frozen— but my legs…my legs won’t hold me up.

“H-Holy hell,” he groans, like he’s the one wrecked, like he’s the one barely holding on. His fingers dig into my thighs—tight, punishing—before he yanks me wider. “f*****g look at you.”

I shudder.

“You’re dripping,” he mutters. He drags two fingers up my slit, spreading me, showing me exactly how slick I am.

“Tsk. Filthy little thing. Tell me, Madelaine—do good girls get this wet from just a few words?”

I want to deny him. Want to snap my thighs shut. But I can’t. He’s holding me open, forcing me to see—

Then— the first slow, searing drag of his tongue. A sharp cry leaves my lips before I can stop it. My entire body locks up, heat surging straight to my core. My legs try to snap shut, a futile, instinctive attempt to shield myself, but his hands—his strong, unyielding hands—are there, gripping my thighs, spreading me wider.

“I—oh God—I c-can’t—” The words barely escape, choked and broken.

His groan is guttural, wrecked—like a man starved. Then his mouth is on me. A slow, indulgent lick—hot, wet, dragging over my most sensitive flesh like he’s savoring every second. Tasting me. Devouring me.

I jolt, a sharp, strangled sound tearing from my throat. My forehead nearly smacks against the wall as my body locks up, heat slamming straight through me.

And then—then he slurps. Loud. Filthy. So obscenely greedy that my entire body burns.

“Ohh, f**k yes,” he groans against me, voice wrecked, shameless. His grip tightens, fingers bruising into my thighs, holding me wide open, keeping me exactly where he wants me.

“You are—" He drags his tongue up, slow and filthy, savoring, tasting. Then he slurps. Loud. Obscene. My entire body jerks. “—exactly what I f*****g imagined.”

I sob. My fingers claw at the wall, nails scraping, desperate for something to hold onto, something solid—but he’s the only thing keeping me upright.

His breath is molten against my skin, his mouth starving, his tongue messy, eager, wrecking me with long, deep strokes that leave me trembling, shaking, f*****g breaking.

“You know how long I’ve thought about this?” Another lick—slow, teasing, his lips dragging over me like he owns me. “How long I’ve ached for this? For you?”

I whimper, my head tilting back, chest rising in shuddering breaths.

His chuckle is low, dark, so f*****g satisfied. “Oh, you love this.” His tongue flicks, sharp and precise. My spine arches. A wicked hum vibrates against me. “You love knowing I’ve been dreaming about ruining this perfect little pussy.”

I can’t—I can’t. My thighs shake, heat flooding my entire body, but his hands don’t let me move.

His mouth is all-consuming, greedy, licking and sucking, messy, loud.

A sudden, wet pop—his lips pulling off me just long enough for him to groan, “I could f*****g live down here.”

And the worst part?

I think he means it.

And I’ll never be able to live this down.