Chapter 8: The Call of the Wild
The storm rolled in just after dusk, a sudden violence that made the old windowpanes rattle in their casements. One moment there was the gentle fade of evening, the next a cannonade of thunder, a flash that bleached the world white, and a darkness that was absolute.
The hum of the fridge, the soft glow of the router, the background pulse of modern life—it all died. In its place was the drumming rain and the crackle of the fireplace in the library, where they’d been sharing a bottle of red.
“Well,” Catriona said, her voice a warm point in the black. “That’s that, then.”
Aidan struck a match, the sudden flare illuminating his focused face for a second before he touched it to the wick of an old oil lamp on the table. A softer, wilder light bloomed, pushing the shadows back into the velvet drapes and the towering bookshelves. It danced over the cracked leather spines of forgotten novels and gleamed on the wet glass.
Isla shivered, hugging herself. “It’s like a fucking Gothic novel in here. I love it.”
The firelight did something to the space. It carved hollows under cheekbones, gilded curves, turned the room into a cave of amber and jet. Aidan felt the shift inside himself too. The digital leash was gone. The world had shrunk to this room, this light, these two women watching him.
He took a slow sip of wine, then set the glass down with a deliberate click. The authority in the sound was new. It wasn’t his daytime voice, the one that discussed zoning laws and load-bearing walls. This was something lower, older.
“Stand up,” he said.
It wasn’t loud. But it carried.
Catriona’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise that quickly melted into something darker, more receptive. She rose from the armchair, the firelight licking the lines of her body through her thin jumper.
Isla just grinned, all teeth and challenge. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?”
“I am,” Aidan agreed, his gaze holding hers. He remained seated, the king in his worn leather throne. “Strip. Both of you. Then kneel.”
The rain lashed the windows. A log shifted in the grate, sending up a shower of sparks.
There was a beat of perfect silence. Then the soft rustle of fabric. Catriona pulled her jumper over her head, shimmying out of her jeans. Isla, never one to shy away from a performance, did it slower, letting her clothes pool around her ankles one piece at a time, her eyes locked on his.
They knelt on the worn Persian rug between the table and the fire, the heat painting their skin in moving gold. Catriona’s curls were a tangled flame. Isla’s freckles looked like dusted cinnamon in the glow.
Aidan rose. He walked a slow circle around them, his shadow enormous and swaying on the bookshelves. He let the silence stretch, filled only by their breathing and the storm.
“Look at you,” he said finally, his voice a rough caress. “Perfect. Both of you. Mine to appreciate. Mine to enjoy.” He stopped behind Catriona, his hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders. He felt her tremble. “Cat. On the chaise. Now.”
She moved, leaning over the back of the deep leather chaise longue, her arms outstretched. The pose arched her back, presented her completely. Aidan glanced at Isla, who was watching, rapt, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “You. Here. Don’t just watch. Taste her.”
With a hungry little sound, Isla scrambled forward on her knees, positioning herself between Catriona and the chaise. Her hands slid up Catriona’s thighs.
Aidan didn’t wait. He pushed into his wife with a single, deep stroke that punched a choked cry from her throat. There was no finesse now, no careful build. This was claiming. The slap of skin, the creak of leather, Catriona’s muffled cries against the cushion—it was a raw, driving rhythm synced to the thunder outside.
He looked down. Isla’s head was buried, her auburn hair a spill over Catriona’s skin, her shoulders working. Catriona’s fingers were tangled in that hair, holding on.
The sight was an ignition. His control, so carefully measured all day, frayed and snapped. His thrusts became harder, deeper, a relentless piston. He was chasing it, chasing that sublime release that felt like ownership and gift all at once. His fingers dug into Catriona’s hips, anchoring her, as he drove himself over the edge with a guttural roar, spilling into her, flooding her, marking her as his in the most fundamental way he knew.
He stayed sheathed in her, breathing hard, as the pulses subsided. Gently, he pulled out. He turned, his energy transmuted but not spent.
Isla sat back on her heels, her mouth glistening, her eyes wide and wild. She looked from the evidence of Aidan’s possession on Catriona’s inner thigh to Aidan himself.
“My turn,” he stated, his voice still thick.
He didn’t guide her to the chaise. He simply took her shoulders and lowered her onto the thick bearskin rug before the fire. The fur was a primal contrast against her smooth skin. He covered her body with his, his weight pinning her, and entered her in one fierce, breathtaking push.
Isla gasped, her back arching, her nails scraping his shoulders. “Fuck. Yes.”
Catriona, still draped over the chaise, recovered enough to turn her head. She watched them, a sleepy, sated smile on her face. She reached out a hand, brushing Isla’s ankle. “Take it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Take everything he gives you. He’s incredible, isn’t he?”
Isla could only nod, her world reduced to the feeling of being utterly filled, utterly consumed. Aidan set a brutal, punishing pace, the firelight throwing their conjoined shadow, a monstrous, beautiful creature, against the wall of books. He was quieter this time, all his focus inward, on the exquisite tightness, on the building pressure.
He felt Catriona shift, then her warm presence was beside them, her lips at his ear. “Give her what you gave me,” she murmured, her tongue tracing the shell of his ear. “Drown her in it. I want to see it.”
Her words were the final key. With a final, deep surge, he buried himself to the hilt and let go, a hot, endless rush that had Isla crying out, her body clamping around him in rhythmic waves. He collapsed onto her, then rolled, pulling her with him, keeping her impaled as the last tremors passed.
For a long time, the only sounds were the crackling fire and the slowing rain. They lay in a heap on the fur, limbs tangled, sweat cooling.
Isla stirred first, a languid stretch that ended with her head on Aidan’s chest. She let out a breathless laugh. “Okay. The power can stay off forever.”
Catriona curled against his other side, her hand resting on his stomach. She didn’t speak. She just nuzzled into his shoulder, a contented sigh escaping her.
Aidan stared up at the dark, coffered ceiling, the firelight painting moving shapes across it. The primal fever was receding, leaving a profound, settled quiet in its wake. He had crossed a new line, led them all across it. And in the silent, understanding press of their bodies against his, he found not chaos, but a deeper, more complex harmony.
The oil lamp guttered. Outside, the storm was moving on.