Chapter 17: The Morning After and the New Protocol
The silence in the sunlit bedroom was total, a deep, contented hum felt in the bones. Then Isla’s phone, discarded on the rug, buzzed. Then buzzed again. A stark, digital insect in the warmth.
“Ignore it,” Aidan murmured, his face buried in the junction of Catriona’s neck and shoulder.
“Can’t,” Isla sighed, unwinding herself from Elara’s back with a groan. “Might be a client. Or my mum. Both are terrifying in their own way.”
She padded across the room, her naked skin painted gold by the light. She scooped up the phone, squinting at the screen. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “It’s from our resident genius. She’s halfway back to the city already.”
Catriona propped herself up on an elbow. “Elara? What does she say?”
Isla’s thumbs flew over the screen. “She says… okay, it’s a lot. ‘Post-coital analysis and proposed framework for a sustainable multi-partner arrangement.’ There are bullet points. And sub-bullets.” She began scrolling, her eyes widening. “There’s a color-coded shared calendar proposal. Communication protocols. A whole section on ‘resource allocation and logistical considerations.’ Oh, this is brilliant.”
“Read it,” Aidan said, sitting up. The sheet pooled in his lap.
Isla cleared her throat, adopting a pitch-perfect imitation of Elara’s precise, measured tone. “‘Protocol 1A: Weekly check-ins, verbal, non-sexual environment. Protocol 2C: Disclosure of external engagements mandatory, with a 48-hour advance notice where feasible.’ Feasible,” Isla giggled, breaking character. “She’s magnificent.”
Catriona was smiling, a real, deep smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “She was thinking about this while we were sleeping. Or instead of sleeping.”
“There’s more,” Isla said, scrolling. “A note appended. Less formal.” Her voice softened, losing the mimicry. “‘Personal preference, for consideration: I find I prefer to be filled last. The continuity of sensation, the closure of the circuit, is… optimal. -E.’”
Aidan’s green eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the jade. He ran a hand through his dark auburn hair. “Optimal.”
The single word hung in the air, charged. The tender haze of minutes before coalesced into something sharper, more directed.
Isla tossed her phone onto an armchair. It landed with a soft thud. “Well, the committee has received the proposal. Seems only right we… test the revised parameters. In the spirit of rigorous experimentation.”
Catriona swung her legs out of bed. “The library. The light is perfect in there at this hour.”
They moved through the quiet mansion, a procession of bare skin and purpose. The library was a cathedral of quiet, floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with leather-bound books and modern novels alike. Dust motes danced in shafts of morning light that cut through the tall windows, illuminating the deep burgundy of a worn Persian rug. In the center sat a large, cognac-colored leather chaise.
Catriona went to it, running her hand over the cool, supple surface. She looked over her shoulder at Aidan, a playful challenge in her gaze. No words were needed. She bent over the high back of the chaise, her chestnut curls spilling down. The curve of her back, the swell of her hips, were a flawless architecture in the honeyed light.
Aidan approached, his hand smoothing down her spine. He looked at Isla, who was already retrieving her camera from its bag on a side table. “Documentation,” she said simply, her expression one of focused artistry.
He positioned himself behind Catriona, his hands gripping her hips. There was no frantic rush, only a deliberate, confident alignment. He entered her in one slow, profound stroke that made her gasp, her fingers clutching the leather. The sound was soft, wet, intimately audible in the silent room.
Isla circled them, the camera shutter clicking softly. She captured the strain of Aidan’s thighs, the way Catriona’s body accepted him, the focused intensity on both their faces. She moved closer, focusing on the point where they joined.
Aidan set a deep, measured rhythm, each thrust a deliberate claiming. The only sounds were skin on skin, Catriona’s shuddering exhales, and the faint creak of the chaise.
“Isla,” Aidan grunted, his voice thick.
She understood. She slid onto the rug beneath them, onto her back, looking up. The perspective was dizzying, vulnerable. Catriona looked down at her, eyes glazed, and managed a breathless smile.
Aidan’s pace increased, the slow, deep pumps becoming more urgent. His breath hitched. “Now,” he commanded, his voice a rough scrape.
He pulled out, his length glistening, and Isla was there. Her mouth opened, her tongue outstretched to meet the hot, urgent pulses that painted her throat and chin. She swallowed, her eyes closed in concentration, then opened them to see Catriona watching, rapt. Isla’s tongue darted out to catch a stray drop on her lip, a wicked, satisfied gleam in her eye.
From the floor, Isla’s phone began to vibrate, the screen lighting up with a video call request. Elara’s name flashed.
Panting, Aidan saw it. He nodded to Isla, who scrambled up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She accepted the call and propped the phone against a stack of books on a nearby table, framing the scene.
Elara’s face appeared, cool and composed against the backdrop of a sleek, modern train interior. Her analytical gaze swept the screen, taking in Aidan still standing behind the chaise, Catriona draped over it, Isla with her flushed face and knowing smile.
“I see the testing phase is underway,” Elara said, her voice dry but not unkind.
“Protocol 2C,” Catriona managed, turning her head to smile at the phone. “Consider this your 48-hour notice for… this.”
A low, genuine laugh escaped Elara, a rare sound. “Noted. The visual data is compelling. Aidan, you appear… satisfactorily spent.”
He laughed, a rich, full sound that filled the library. “You could say that.”
“Isla,” Elara continued, her eyes sharpening. “The documentation is for private archives only. Explicitly understood?”
“Cross my heart,” Isla said, though her smile was pure mischief.
Elara’s expression softened, just a fraction, the hard edges of analysis melting into something warmer. “I’ll be home by dinner. I’ve already made reservations for four at Olivio. I expect a full debrief.”
The screen went black. The three of them stood in the suddenly quieter library, the air heavy with the scent of sex, old paper, and leather.
Catriona straightened up, wincing slightly, and turned to embrace Aidan. He held her close, kissing her temple. Isla picked up her camera, reviewing the shots, a curator of their pleasure.
Outside, a cloud passed over the sun, momentarily dimming the brilliant library light before moving on. The new framework wasn’t just a proposal on a screen anymore. It was breathed into life, tested, and ratified in the most visceral way possible. The calendar was filled, the protocol was initiated, and the promise of dinner hung ahead of them, a new kind of checkpoint in their uncharted world.