Chapter 2: The Second Surge
The second time was slower, but not softer. Aidan’s hands gripped Mei-Ling’s narrow hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of her spine as he moved inside her with a deep, grinding persistence. The initial sharp pain had subsided into a throbbing ache that radiated through her pelvis with every push. She’d turned her face to the side, her cheek against the cool black duvet, her dark hair a tangled curtain. Her eyes were open, fixed on the mirrored ceiling where she could watch the distortion of their bodies, the shadow that was Catriona standing watch.
Catriona had come closer. She perched on the edge of the bed now, her scarlet chemise a splash of violent color in the monochrome room. She watched Aidan’s back, the play of muscle, the sweat tracing the line of his spine. She watched Mei-Ling’s face.
“You feel how tight she is?” Catriona’s voice was a conversational murmur. “Even now. It’s remarkable.”
Aidan’s only response was a choked breath. His rhythm was faltering, the exhaustion beginning to bite at the edges of his stamina already.
“Don’t you dare flag on me,” Catriona said, a sharp edge entering her tone. “This is just the beginning. Find a deeper gear.”
Her words acted like a spur. A low snarl ripped from Aidan’s throat and he pistoned forward, a series of short, brutal thrusts that drove a muffled sob from Mei-Ling’s lips. Her small fists clenched in the bedding.
“Good,” Catriona crooned. She reached out and swept Mei-Ling’s hair back from her damp forehead. The girl flinched at the touch, then stilled. “Look at her, Aidan. Look at what you’re doing. This is my gift to you. Do you like it?”
“Yes,” he gritted out, the word raw.
“Then show me.”
He pulled out, his body shuddering, and spent himself across her lower back with a force that splattered the existing mess. The hot liquid hit her skin and she jerked, a full-body shudder of overstimulation. Aidan sagged back onto his heels, breathing like he’d run a marathon.
Catriona picked up the discarded towel and wiped her hands fastidiously. She didn’t offer it to Aidan this time. “Get her a glass of water. The bottled stuff on the side.”
Aidan staggered up, his movements clumsy, and fetched it. He crouched before Mei-Ling, who had pushed herself up to sit on her heels. Her face was pale, her expression carefully blank again, but a faint tremor ran through her hands. She took the glass and drank in slow, measured swallows, never breaking eye contact with him. There was a silent communication there—professional to client, survivor to force of nature. She drained it and handed the empty glass back.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, just a little hoarse.
The courtesy, in the midst of all this, felt more intimate than anything that had happened so far. Aidan looked stricken for a second, then nodded once, sharply.
“On the bed,” Catriona instructed, her own restlessness beginning to show. She stood and walked to the wall of windows, staring out at the night. “On her back. I want to see her face this time.”
They rearranged themselves. Mei-Ling lay back against the pillows, her hair fanning out. She looked ethereal and broken, a statue awaiting further defacement. Aidan moved between her legs, his weight making the mattress dip profoundly. He braced himself on his elbows, caging her in.
“Wait,” Catriona said from the window.
She came back to the bed, the silk of her chemise whispering. She climbed onto it, kneeling beside Mei-Ling’s head. She looked down at her, a curious, almost scientific interest in her gaze. “This next part,” Catriona said, her fingers toying with a lock of the girl’s hair. “It’s about aesthetics. I want to watch him disappear inside you. I want to see the exact moment it stops being a job for you.”
Mei-Ling met her gaze. “It stopped being just a job the moment he walked in the door.”
A slow, approving smile spread across Catriona’s face. “I knew I liked you.” She looked at Aidan. “Proceed. And take your time. Savour the friction.”
Aidan lowered himself, guiding himself into her with a deliberate, slow push that made Mei-Ling’s breath hitch. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a silent ‘o’. Catriona watched, mesmerized, as he was gradually engulfed by the girl’s slight body. It was obscenely intimate. She could see every tiny reaction on Mei-Ling’s face—the flicker of adjustment, the tightening of her jaw, the way her eyes lost focus for a second before snapping back to Catriona’s, defiantly present.
Aidan began to move, a slow, deep roll of his hips. The sounds were wetter, more personal. Mei-Ling’s hands came up, fluttering for a moment before she placed them on Aidan’s biceps, not pushing him away, just holding on. Her nails, polished a sheer shell pink, dug faint crescents into his skin.
“That’s it,” Catriona whispered, her own pulse hammering in her throat. She was a spectator to her own欲望, but the power was its own potent high. “Look at her. She’s feeling you now. Really feeling you.”
Aidan’s control was fraying. The slow pace was torture. His forehead dropped to Mei-Ling’s shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. His thrusts became less measured, more needy.
“Inside?” he gasped, the question aimed at Catriona, a plea for permission to break the cardinal rule.
“No,” Catriona said, the word absolute. “You finish on her stomach. Let her see it.”
He obeyed, wrenching himself away at the last possible second. This time, the release seemed less violent, more a flood of desperate relief. It painted her flat belly, a stark, pearlescent contrast against her pale skin. Mei-Ling looked down at the mess, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She didn’t move to wipe it away.
Three.
Aidan collapsed beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by their ragged breathing. The candles had burned lower. The city lights outside seemed brighter, mocking their tiny, sweat-drenched drama.
Mei-Ling was the first to move. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and walked, with a slight, sore stiffness, to the en suite bathroom. They heard the tap run.
Catriona lay down next to her husband, curving her body against his side. She placed her hand on his damp chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart. “Half an hour,” she said quietly. “Then we continue.”
He moved his arm, looking at her with eyes that were hollowed with exhaustion and something like awe. “She’s…”
“She’s exactly what we paid for,” Catriona finished, stroking his skin. “And you, my love, are performing beautifully.” She kissed his shoulder, a taste of salt. “Seven to go.”
From the bathroom doorway, Mei-Ling watched them. She had cleaned herself, her face was damp, her hair combed back. She leaned against the frame, a slim ghost in the low light. She didn’t look used. She looked resolved. The night was a mountain, and she had only just begun the climb.
“I’m ready when you are,” she said, her voice clear in the quiet.