Chapter 14: The Invitation
The amber scotch in Aidan’s glass caught the last of the sunset, holding a captive flame. He hadn’t moved from the armchair for an hour. The quiet of the house was a physical presence, thick and humming with the ghost of mint cleaner and sex. His skin still felt electrified, raw, as if the morning’s events had sanded away a layer.
His phone buzzed on the side table, a violent tremor against the wood.
It was a text from Catriona. She was upstairs, in her study. She might as well have been in the chair opposite him.
Dinner tomorrow. 7 PM. Jenny is invited. I want to watch you two properly. No distractions.
He read it three times. The words didn’t change. Properly. What did that even mean now? The kitchen had felt feral, improvised. This was a calendar invite.
His thumb hovered over the screen. A dark, liquid thrill uncoiled in his gut, immediate and shameful. It warred with a cold wave of dread. This was the point of no return. A scheduled transgression.
He typed a reply to Catriona: OK.
Then he pulled up Jenny’s number. His last text to her, from weeks ago, was about a missing package. He wrote: Catriona has invited you to dinner tomorrow at 7.
The three dots appeared instantly. She was waiting. I’ll be there. A pause. Then: What should I wear?
He almost laughed. The absurdity was perfect. I don’t know, he typed back. Something nice.
For her? Or for you?
He didn’t answer. He put the phone down and drained the scotch, letting it burn the question away.
The following evening, the dining room was a stage. Catriona had lit the two silver candlesticks she usually saved for Christmas. The light danced over the polished walnut, casting long, wavering shadows. She moved between the kitchen and the table, placing cutlery with geometric precision. She wore a simple sheath dress, emerald green, and her auburn hair was down. She looked like the hostess of a very sophisticated, very quiet war.
Aidan stood by the window, adjusting his cufflinks for the third time. He felt like an actor who hadn’t seen the script.
The doorbell rang.
“You get it,” Catriona said, not looking up from straightening a napkin.
Aidan opened the door. Jenny stood on the step, the porch light haloing her. She wore a simple black dress that clung to every curve, stopping just above her knees. Her hair was loose, falling in a dark wave over her shoulders. She held a bottle of wine. She looked not like a cleaner, but like a date.
“Hi,” she said, her voice soft.
“Hey. Come in.” He stepped aside. The scent of her perfume—something jasmine and night-blooming—wrapped around him as she passed.
Catriona appeared in the hallway, a smile on her face that didn’t touch her eyes. “Jenny, you look lovely. Thank you for coming.” She took the wine, her fingers brushing Jenny’s. “Aidan, pour her a drink. We’re having the burgundy.”
The meal was a surreal pantomime of normality. Roast chicken, rosemary potatoes, haricots verts. Catriona asked Jenny polite questions about her medical studies. Jenny answered, her voice growing steadier with each sip of wine. She talked about pathophysiology, her eyes occasionally flicking to Aidan, who pushed food around his plate.
Under the table, Catriona’s hand found Aidan’s thigh. Her touch was warm, possessive. Her fingers walked slowly up his inner leg, applying a firm, knowing pressure. He froze, a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth.
Catriona was leaning forward, listening intently as Jenny described an exam. But her thumb was circling, stroking him through the fabric of his trousers. Aidan felt himself hardening under her casual, hidden control.
“The workload sounds immense,” Catriona said sympathetically to Jenny. Her eyes, however, were fixed on the cleft of Jenny’s breasts, revealed by the dip of her neckline. “You must have incredible discipline.” Her hand squeezed Aidan, once, hard.
Aidan put his fork down. It made a faint clink against the china.
Dessert was a lemon tart. Tart, sweet, bracing. They ate it in near silence. The candles had burned halfway down.
Catriona dabbed her mouth with her napkin, set it aside. She turned her chair slightly, just enough to face them both. The hostess was gone. Something else was in her place.
“That was perfect,” she said. Her voice was low, intimate. “Now, Jenny, clear the plates to the kitchen. Just the plates. Leave everything else.”
Jenny stood, gathering the dessert dishes without a word. Her movements were efficient, quiet. She disappeared through the doorway.
Catriona waited. The sound of running water came from the kitchen.
She then rose and walked around the table to Aidan’s side. She bent down, her lips close to his ear. Her perfume, usually so light, was dense, all he could smell. Her whisper was a blade of heat.
“I want you to take her on the dining table. Right now. Where we eat.” A pause. Her tongue touched his earlobe. “No condom. I want to see every drop. I want to watch it happen on my grandmother’s linen.”
She straightened up, her expression serene. She walked to the head of the table and pulled out the chair. She sat, crossing her legs, a queen on her throne. She looked at the empty space of polished walnut before her, then at Aidan.
Jenny returned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She stopped in the doorway, sensing the shifted air.
Catriona nodded to the table. “Jenny, dear. Lie down.”
Jenny’s luminous eyes widened for a second. Then, without hesitation, she walked to the table. She placed her palms on the edge and hoisted herself up, the wood cool through her dress. She scooted back until she was lying in the center, amid the forgotten silverware and empty wine glasses. The candles flickered beside her head, painting her face in gold and shadow.
Aidan’s heart was a hammer against his ribs. He looked at his wife, who gave him a slow, deliberate blink. Now.
He stood. His legs felt untethered. He walked to the table, to where Jenny lay waiting, her chest rising and falling too fast. He pushed the hem of her dress up, past her thighs, past her hips. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The sight of her, exposed on the formal table, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him.
He freed himself, the weight and heat of his own arousal feeling alien, monstrous in this setting. He positioned himself, guiding himself to her. He looked at Catriona one more time.
Her green eyes were blazing. Her lips were parted. One hand rested in her lap, the other gripped the arm of her chair, knuckles white.
He pushed in.
Jenny gasped, her back arching off the table, making a water glass tremble. The fit was obscenely tight, a shocking, wet heat. He began to move, each thrust rocking her body, making the cutlery jump and chime softly against the wood.
Catriona watched. She didn’t blink. Her gaze was a physical touch, tracking the joining of their bodies, the flush spreading over Jenny’s chest, the desperate clench of Jenny’s fingers on the table edge.
“Harder,” Catriona breathed, the word slicing through the wet, rhythmic sounds. “I want to see it. I want to see you lose it in her.”
Aidan obeyed, his control snapping. The world narrowed to heat, to pressure, to the forbidden spectacle of it. Jenny cried out, a sharp, broken sound that seemed to break something in Catriona, too. A low moan escaped Catriona’s throat, her own hand moving suddenly to her mouth, her teeth biting into her knuckle.
It was that sound, his wife’s unrestrained hunger, that undid Aidan completely. With a choked, guttural groan, he drove deep and spilled into Jenny, his vision whiting out at the edges.
He stayed there, slumped over her, for several long seconds, the only sound their ragged breathing. Slowly, he pulled back.
Catriona was already moving. She stood, came to the table, her eyes riveted to the slick, leaking proof of the act. She leaned over Jenny, her face inches from the mess.
“Perfect,” she whispered, her voice ragged with awe. She looked at Aidan, her eyes shining with something like triumph, like madness. “Look at that. On my table.”
She reached out a single, trembling finger and traced through the mingled fluids on Jenny’s inner thigh. She brought her finger to her mouth, her eyes locked on Aidan’s, and sucked it clean.
“Now,” she said, the command returning to her voice, raw but firm. “Jenny, you can clean this up. Properly this time. There’s a new sponge under the sink.”