Chapter 4: The Fifth Claim
The champagne flute felt cool and impossibly delicate in Catriona’s hand. She took a slow sip, letting the bubbles effervesce on her tongue, a bright, civilized counterpoint to the animal musk that now hung permanently in the air. Aidan was on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in deep, slow heaves. Mei-Ling was curled on her side near the foot of the bed, a pale comma against the dark sheets.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was the dense, loaded quiet of a engine cooling, of resources being assessed.
“You’re both thinking about the number,” Catriona said, her voice cutting through the stillness. She placed her flute on the nightstand with a precise click.
Aidan’s arm slid away from his face. He looked at her, his hazel eyes dark with fatigue and something else—a wary awe. Mei-Ling simply turned her head, her gaze luminous and unreadable in the low light.
“Halfway would be five,” Catriona continued, walking to the bed. She trailed her fingers along Aidan’s leg. “But we’re not at halfway. We’re at four. That means the next one… is the pivot. The cornerstone.” She smiled, and it was all teeth. “It should be memorable. Don’t you think?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her touch moved to Mei-Ling’s ankle, circling the fine bone. “On your back. Center of the bed.”
Mei-Ling uncurled, a slow unfolding of limbs. She obeyed, settling against the pillows, her black hair fanning out like spilled ink. She was breathing carefully, deliberately, as if conserving strength. Catriona admired the view: the slight tremble in her thighs, the faint sheen across her stomach.
“Aidan. Kneel.”
He pushed himself up, the muscles in his arms corded with the effort. He moved between Mei-Ling’s spread legs, his own knees sinking into the mattress. He looked from the girl’s body up to his wife’s face, seeking direction, permission, a thread to hold onto.
Catriona sat beside Mei-Ling’s head, leaning back against the carved headboard. She picked up her champagne flute again. “Slowly,” she instructed, her voice a low murmur. “You’re not trying to break anything this time. You’re trying to feel everything. Every inch. Understand?”
Aidan nodded, his jaw tight. He positioned himself, and with a controlled, almost painful deliberation, he pushed into her. A sharp gasp escaped Mei-Ling’s lips, her back arching slightly off the bed. Her hands fisted in the sheets.
“Good,” Catriona breathed. She watched Aidan’s face—the flutter of his eyelids, the tension in his neck as he held himself back, maintaining that torturously slow rhythm. The mirrors above multiplied the scene into infinity: the man moving with ragged control, the girl taut beneath him, the woman watching from the sidelines, a conductor of flesh.
Catriona reached over. She curled a hand under Mei-Ling’s head, lifting it gently. “You’re thirsty,” she said, not asking. She brought the rim of the flute to the girl’s lips. Mei-Ling’s eyes, wide and dark, met hers as she took a small sip, the liquid gold catching the light.
“Swallow.”
Mei-Ling obeyed, her throat working. A drop escaped, tracing a path down her chin. Catriona watched it, fascinated.
Below them, Aidan’s control was fraying. The slow, deep strokes were becoming uneven, his hips stuttering. A low groan vibrated in his chest. Mei-Ling was tightening around him, a slow, involuntary clench that seemed to pull the air from the room. Her professional silence had finally cracked; soft, rhythmic whimpers accompanied each of his movements now, syncing with the creak of the bed.
“Look at him,” Catriona whispered to Mei-Ling, tipping her head so their cheeks were almost touching, both women staring at Aidan’s straining form. “Look at what this is doing to him. This is for him. All of it.”
Aidan’s rhythm broke completely. With a choked-off cry, he drove deep and held there, his body bowing as the fifth release tore through him. His shoulders slumped, spent.
For a long moment, the only sound was their mingled, ragged breathing. Catriona disentangled herself from Mei-Ling. She placed the flute down, then leaned over the girl again. But this time, it wasn’t for instruction.
She kissed her.
It was a deep, probing kiss, her tongue sweeping into Mei-Ling’s mouth. She tasted the crisp, bright ghost of champagne and, underneath, something earthier, saltier—the faint, metallic echo of Aidan. It was the taste of the entire night, distilled. When she pulled back, Mei-Ling’s lips were parted, her breath coming in quick, shallow puffs.
“Five,” Catriona said, the word a hot whisper against the girl’s damp skin.
She looked across at her husband. He had collapsed onto his side, one hand still draped possessively over Mei-Ling’s thigh. His eyes were closed, but a tremor ran through his frame.
Five down. Five to go.
The arithmetic was simple. The reality of it was a chasm. The earlier fervor was gone, replaced by a grinding, physical necessity. The fantasy was wearing thin, showing the machinery underneath. Catriona felt a sharp, thrilling pang of doubt—not in her plan, but in their collective endurance. She saw it in the glassy, faraway look in Mei-Ling’s eyes, in the profound emptiness on Aidan’s face. They were reaching the raw edge of the gift.
And the night, the endless mirrored night, was only half over.