Chapter 8: The Ninth Surge
The number ‘two’ became a shared heartbeat in the silent room. It pulsed in the ache of Aidan’s muscles, in the raw heat between Mei-Ling’s legs, in the focused gleam of Catriona’s eyes. It was no longer a countdown, but a living pressure.
Catriona let them breathe. She moved to the window, drawing back a sheer panel to reveal the first bruise-colored hints of dawn smudging the skyline. The city was quiet. Their world was not.
“Water,” she stated, not asked. She brought back two chilled bottles from the minibar, pressing one into Mei-Ling’s limp hand, the other against Aidan’s sweaty chest. “Drink. All of it.”
They obeyed, the gulps loud in the stillness. Catriona watched them, a sculptor assessing her materials. Aidan was flagging, his earlier voracious hunger dulled by sheer physical depletion. Mei-Ling was a pliant, used thing, but a flicker of defiance—or perhaps just professional pride—remained in the set of her jaw. The dynamic needed a shift.
“We’re changing the script,” Catriona announced, her tone conversational, as if suggesting a new restaurant. She took Aidan’s empty bottle and tossed it toward a bin. It clattered in. “That last one was… efficient. But nine should be memorable. For all of us.”
She approached the bed and placed a hand on Mei-Ling’s stomach, feeling the gentle, rapid flutter beneath the skin. “On your back, sweet thing. Let him see you.”
Mei-Ling shifted with a soft wince, rolling onto her back, her dark hair fanning out like spilled ink on the silk. Her eyes were wide, watchful.
Catriona didn’t address Aidan directly. Instead, she climbed onto the bed, positioning herself between Mei-Ling’s splayed thighs. She looked down at the girl’s spent body, then up at her husband, who stood by the bed like a phantom.
“Watch,” Catriona instructed him, her voice low.
She bent, her fiery hair brushing Mei-Ling’s inner thighs. Using her fingers, she carefully parted the swollen, slick folds. The evidence of his previous eight releases was there, a mingled wetness. Catriona collected it, coating her fingers, the act deliberate and clinical. She held Aidan’s gaze as she brought her glistening fingers to her own lips, tasting. Her expression was unreadable.
“It’s different this time,” she said, her voice now a rough whisper. “It’s you, and me, and her. All together.”
She leaned over Mei-Ling, bracing herself on one arm, her body caging the girl. Her other hand guided Aidan as he finally moved, kneeling clumsily between her spread thighs. From this angle, as he pushed into Mei-Ling, Catriona could feel the drive of his hips against her own sex, a breathtaking friction through the damp cleft of her body.
“That’s it,” Catriona gasped, the sensation short-circuiting her carefully maintained control for a second. She recovered, her mouth hovering above Mei-Ling’s. “He’s in you, but he’s moving me. Do you feel that?”
Mei-Ling could only nod, a sharp gasp escaping her as Aidan found a deeper angle. Catriona captured the sound, covering the girl’s mouth with her own in a kiss that was less about passion than possession. It was deep, wet, a sharing of breath and the bitter-champagne taste of the night. Mei-Ling’s hands came up, tangling weakly in Catriona’s hair, not pushing away but holding on.
Aidan watched, mesmerized, the sight of his wife kissing the girl he was fucking igniting a final, desperate reservoir of energy. His thrusts gained purpose, a hard, driving rhythm that jolted through their connected bodies. The slap of skin was a metronome.
Catriona broke the kiss, her lips trailing to Mei-Ling’s ear. “You’re taking everything he has left,” she murmured, the words vibrating against the girl’s skin. “Every drop. It’s your job. It’s what you’re for. And you’re so good at it.”
She shifted her weight, grinding back against Aidan’s pounding rhythm, chasing her own peak now, letting it build openly. Her breaths came in ragged sync with theirs. “Aidan… now. Give it to her. Fill her up. I want to feel you come.”
Her command, fused with the overwhelming sensory overload, shattered him. A broken sound tore from his throat. He drove forward once, twice, a third time, and seized, his body locking as the ninth release poured into Mei-Ling’s clutching heat. The pulses seemed to go on forever.
Catriona cried out, a short, sharp sound, as the violent trembling of his climax triggered her own. She collapsed onto Mei-Ling, their sweat-slick bodies pressing together, with Aidan’s weight heavy and complete atop them both.
For a long minute, the only sound was the ragged symphony of their breathing.
Slowly, Aidan slid out and rolled aside, landing on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes. Catriona pushed herself up on trembling arms. She looked down at Mei-Ling. The girl’s eyes were closed, tears or sweat glistening at her temples. Catriona smoothed a strand of black hair from her forehead, a gesture surprisingly tender.
Then she turned, looking at the wreckage of her husband, at the beautiful, used girl, at the dawn light now strengthening behind the glass.
She held up one hand, folding all but a single finger into her palm.
“One.”