Chapter 3: The Morning After
The scent of vanilla and sex had faded, replaced by the clean, grey light of morning and the faint perfume of lavender from the garden below. Aidan woke to an empty space where Isla had been, the sheets on her side cool. Catriona was still asleep, curled against him, her chestnut hair a wild cloud on the pillow.
On Isla’s vacant pillow lay two items. A square of thick, cream paper, and a single Polaroid, facedown.
Aidan reached for them, his movement stirring Cat. She blinked awake, her eyes soft and sleepy until they focused on what he held.
“She’s gone,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
“I know she would be. It’s better this way, for a first time.” Catriona propped herself up on an elbow. “What’s that?”
He handed her the note first. The handwriting was bold, looping.
Cat, A—
Last night was everything. Thank you for the trust, the freedom, the spectacular cock. Don’t worry, I’m a ghost until you call. But I’m also a photographer. I couldn’t resist one proper shot. For my private collection. Xx Isla
Catriona smiled, a private, pleased thing. Then she flipped the Polaroid.
It was artfully composed, all shallow depth of field and intimate shadow. A close-up of the inside of a freckled thigh, glistening. Aidan’s softened, thick cock lay against it, a stark contrast of skin tones. And over them both, Isla’s own hand was splayed, fingers pressing into her flesh, smearing the evidence of his creampie across her skin and his shaft.
“Christ,” Aidan breathed, a fresh heat stirring in his gut at the blatant, preserved evidence.
“She’s good,” Catriona said, her tone analytical, almost clinical. But her pupils dilated as she stared at it. She set it carefully on the nightstand, next to the wilted rose. “Come on. I’m starving.”
The breakfast nook was a sunlit sanctuary, a world away from the storm-draped bedroom. Aidan moved quietly, brewing strong coffee while Catriona assembled pastries and fruit on the delicate china. The quiet was comfortable, laden with unspoken words. They ate in peaceful silence for a while, the events of the night hanging between them not as a barrier, but as a shared, weighty secret.
“So,” Aidan said finally, watching the light catch the red in her hair. “How do you feel?”
Catriona considered, licking jam from her thumb. “Full,” she said, then grinned at his expression. “Emotionally, I mean. It was… right. It felt safe. And incredibly hot. You?”
“Same. It was intense. Watching you with her…” He shook his head, searching for the words. “It didn’t feel like I was losing you. It felt like I was being given more of you.”
Her smile was radiant, relieved. She reached across the polished mahogany and took his hand. “That’s exactly it.”
His phone buzzed on the table, a stark, digital intrusion in the quiet, sun-dappled room.
Aidan glanced at it. A text from an unsaved number. He unlocked it.
The image loaded instantly. It was Isla, clearly in a taxi or an Uber, the city blurring past the window behind her. The angle was self-shot, looking down her own naked body. Her other hand was hooked under a knee, pulling it wide. The photo was explicit, obscene, and beautifully lit. Everything was slick, swollen, used. The caption below read: I can still feel you, Mr. Architect. Want to see the rest?
A flood of pure, visceral arousal hit Aidan like a physical punch. He swallowed.
“What?” Catriona asked, her gaze sharpening.
Wordlessly, he turned the phone screen towards her.
Catriona’s eyes scanned the image. Her breath hitched. A complex series of emotions flashed across her face—shock, a spike of something feral, then a dark, possessive hunger. She didn’t look away. She studied it.
“She’s not wasting any time,” Catriona murmured, her voice low. She took the phone from his slack fingers, her thumb hovering over the screen. Then she set it down, face up, the image glaring up at them from the fine china.
She stood up. The legs of her chair scraped loudly on the hardwood. She came around the table, her movements deliberate. The morning sun bathed her in gold, highlighting the determined set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes.
“She can feel you,” Catriona said, not a question. She placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back into his chair. Her strength surprised him. “I want to feel you. Right now.”
She didn’t ask. She hiked her sundress up around her waist, revealing she’d worn nothing beneath. Then she climbed onto him, straddling his lap on the dining chair, her knees pressing into the upholstery on either side of his hips. The fine china rattled.
“Cat, the table—”
“Fuck the table.” She grasped his face, forcing him to look at her. “I need you to fill me. I need to taste you on my own lips. I need you so deep inside me that I forget what anyone else feels like.”
Her words were a match to gasoline. All the simmering tension from the photo, from the night, exploded. He fumbled with his sweatpants, freeing himself. She was already wet, her heat pressing against him. She guided him in, sinking down in one smooth, relentless motion, taking every inch with a gasping cry that echoed in the sunlit alcove.
This was different. Last night had been a sharing, a collaboration. This was a reclamation. Catriona moved on him with a furious, grinding rhythm, her nails biting into the muscles of his shoulders. Her eyes were locked on his, unwavering.
“You’re mine,” she growled, the words hot against his mouth. “That,” she jerked her chin towards the phone on the table, “is just a souvenir. This is the real thing. This is forever.”
He gripped her hips, helping her drive down onto him, each impact jolting the chair. A portrait of some stern-faced ancestor seemed to watch from the wall. Aidan didn’t care. He was lost in her, in the fierce, possessive love pouring out of her. He could smell the faint, lingering scent of Isla’s perfume on Cat’s skin, and it only made him harder, made the possessiveness in Cat’s eyes burn brighter.
He felt his orgasm building, a tighter, faster coil than the night before. “Cat…”
“Do it,” she commanded, her voice breaking. “Give it to me. I want to feel it for days.”
He came with a shout, his body arching, pressing her down onto him as he emptied himself deep into her core, claiming her just as she was claiming him. She cried out, her own climax wrenching through her, her internal muscles pulsing around him in rhythmic, milking waves.
She collapsed against him, her face buried in his neck, her body shuddering. They sat there, tangled and breathing raggedly, the smell of sex and lavender and coffee weaving around them.
Slowly, Catriona lifted her head. Her eyes were clear, sated, peaceful. She leaned over, her movement causing him to slip out of her, and picked up his phone from the table. With a calm, deliberate swipe of her thumb, she deleted Isla’s text and the photo. She blocked the number.
She dropped the phone onto the table with a soft clatter.
“Ours,” she said simply, kissing him softly. A taste of salt, of coffee, of her.
From the table, the blocked phone buzzed once more, a muffled, ignored thing. They didn’t look. Aidan just held his wife, feeling the warm proof of his love seeping inside her, and knew the chapter with Isla was beautifully, definitively closed. The story, however, was just getting started.