Chapter 10: The Aftermath and the Invitation
The smell of toast and coffee had finally overtaken the scent of sex and old paper. They were clustered in the vast, now-sunlit kitchen, a universe away from the shadowed library. Catriona, wrapped in one of Aidan’s flannel shirts, scrambled eggs at the AGA. Aidan sipped black coffee, leaning against the granite counter. Isla, still naked save for a pair of Aidan’s socks, was curled on a barstool, her camera in her hands, scrolling.
Her soft snort of laughter broke the comfortable silence.
“What?” Catriona asked, turning with the spatula.
Isla tilted the screen. “The reviews are in. My friends are… appreciative.”
Aidan raised an eyebrow. “Appreciative?”
“Graphic.” Isla’s grin was all teeth. She cleared her throat, adopting a dramatic tone. “Message one: ‘That cock is massive, did you edit it?’” She scrolled. “Two: ‘Your mouth barely fits round it. Looks painful in a good way.’ Three, from Sophie, always the poet: ‘How did your pussy even stretch enough to take that monster? You look properly split open.’”
Catriona laughed, a bright, unembarrassed sound. She caught Aidan’s eye, seeing the primal satisfaction that flickered there. It wasn’t ego, not just ego. It was the thrill of the secret being told, and told well.
Isla kept going, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “Four: ‘How long did it take to orgasm with that in your tight little pussy? Bet it was, like, two seconds.’ And the encore…” She paused for effect, her finger tracing the text on the screen. “‘You’re so lucky to take a creampie from such a gigantic cock. Your well-fucked, cum-filled pussy looks so satisfied.’ Sent with three fire emojis and a dripping eggplant, obviously.”
Aidan took another sip of coffee, the heat of it a contrast to the cool arousal threading through him. “They have a way with words.”
“They’re horny and jealous,” Isla corrected cheerfully. “It’s a potent combo.” She set the camera down, her expression shifting to something more pointed, more playful. “They’re also demanding more. Like, immediately.”
Catriona divided the eggs onto three plates. “More what?”
“Content.” Isla hopped off the stool, the socks slipping on the flagstones. She padded over to Aidan, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. “They saw the aftermath. They saw me. They saw… the abstract artistic shots of joined bodies. But they didn’t see you, Cat. Not really.”
Catriona brought the plates to the worn oak table. “My face isn’t part of the deal.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Isla’s eyes sparkled. “But what about the rest of you? What about the part of you that wanted this too?” She looked from Catriona to Aidan. “They’re dying to see the wife. The mysterious, lucky woman who gets this every night. They want to see you take him.”
The kitchen was quiet save for the distant drip of a tap. Catriona sat, picking up a fork. She felt a familiar, warm hand on her shoulder—Aidan’s. His thumb stroked the flannel.
“What did you have in mind?” Catriona asked, her voice calm. This was the negotiation, the careful plotting that had made the night before possible. Trust, respect, boundaries.
Isla retrieved her camera. “Something simple. Intimate. You, on your knees for him. Here. The morning light in this kitchen is insane.” She gestured to a patch of sunlight streaming onto a Persian rug by the pantry door. “I film it. Close-up. Your lips, your throat working. Your hands on his arse. His hand in your hair. No faces. Just… the act. The gift.” She smiled, a genuine, bright thing. “They’ll lose their minds.”
Aidan felt Catriona lean back into his touch. He knew that silent language. It was consideration, then a slow-burning yes.
“You want to do that?” he murmured into her hair.
She looked up at him, her smile warm and a little wicked. “I want to see you watch me do it while she films. I want to know you’re both watching.”
That was all he needed.
Breakfast was eaten quickly, a fuel for what was to come. The plates were pushed aside. Isla moved a vase of dried lavender, framed the shot on her camera’s screen, adjusting the focus until the dust in the sunbeams looked like gold glitter.
Aidan stood in the pool of light. He was already hardening, the descriptions from Isla’s phone, the eager anticipation in the room, making his blood thick.
Catriona came to him. She didn’t rush. She undid the buttons of the flannel shirt, let it fall open, then let it slide off her shoulders to the rug. The sunlight loved her skin, the curve of her hip, the soft swell of her stomach. She knelt, the pose naturally elegant, and looked up at him, her curls tumbling over her shoulders.
“Ready?” Isla whispered, her finger hovering over the record button.
Catriona nodded, her eyes never leaving Aidan’s.
The soft digital beep signaled the recording had started.
Catriona’s hands went to his thighs, steadying herself. She leaned in, nuzzling him first, a tender gesture that made his breath catch. Then she took him into her mouth, slowly, accommodating his girth with a practiced, loving ease he knew so well.
Isla moved silently, a phantom behind the lens. She zoomed in on the point of connection, the stretch of Catriona’s lips, the way her throat convulsed as she took him deeper. The camera caught the flex of Aidan’s stomach, the tight clutch of his hands at his sides before one lifted to thread gently through Catriona’s hair, not pushing, just holding.
The only sounds were the wet, soft sounds of Catriona’s mouth, Aidan’s increasingly ragged breathing, and the faint whir of the camera’s autofocus. It was profoundly intimate, yet performative. Every swallow, every flick of her tongue was for him, but also for the lens, for the unseen, hungry audience.
Aidan watched, mesmerized. He saw the concentration on his wife’s face, the flutter of her eyelashes, the blissful surrender in her posture. He saw Isla’s intense focus, her biting her own lip in concentration. The dual attention was an aphrodisiac more potent than anything he’d ever known.
“God, Cat,” he groaned, the words torn from him.
That seemed to be the cue Isla was waiting for. She moved the angle, getting a profile shot of Catriona’s jaw working, then panned down to capture her free hand clutching at his hip, the knuckles white.
It couldn’t last. The tension was too coiled, too visual. With a sharp, guttural cry, Aidan came. Catriona took it all, her body shuddering with the force of his release, until he gently pulled back.
Isla kept filming, zooming in on Catriona’s swollen, glistening lips, a stray trickle escaping the corner of her mouth. Catriona caught it with her finger, then sucked it clean, her eyes holding Aidan’s with a dark, smug triumph.
The camera beeped again, stopping.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing in the sunlit silence.
Isla finally lowered the camera, her cheeks flushed. “Okay,” she breathed. “That was… fuck. They are not going to believe that’s real.”
Catriona stood up on slightly wobbly knees, accepting the shirt Aidan handed her. She shrugged it back on, not buttoning it. “Send it,” she said, her voice a little hoarse.
Isla blinked. “Now?”
“Now,” Aidan said, pulling Catriona into his side, his own voice rough with satisfaction. “Let them see what a lucky man I really am.”
Isla’s thumbs flew over the screen, attaching the video file. She hit send. Almost instantly, her phone began to vibrate, a torrent of notifications lighting up the screen. She didn’t read them aloud this time. She just stared at the cascade, a slow, awed smile spreading across her face.
The secret was out. And it was better than any of them could have imagined.