Chapter 43: The Invitation
The door to Jenny’s room didn’t make a sound. It just opened, and Catriona was there, backlit by the weak hall light, her silhouette cutting a clean line through the chaotic glow of neon posters and fairy lights. She stepped inside and closed the door with a quiet, definitive click.
Jenny, sitting on the edge of her unmade bed in just a thin t-shirt, froze. Her body was still humming, every nerve alight from Aidan, from the feel of him, the taste, the staggering fullness and the broken way he’d cried against her neck. She’d been staring at the worn pattern on her rug, trying to parse the guilt from the glory, when the door moved.
Catriona didn’t speak. She let the silence stretch, her eyes moving over the room—the medical textbooks stacked precariously on the desk, the vibrant rebozo draped over a chair, the suitcase spilling jeans and tank tops. Her gaze was appraising, not judging. Like she was inventorying a new showroom.
Then the silk robe, the same one from minutes before, sighed open and pooled at her feet. She stood naked, her skin pale marble in the dimness, and sat on the bed beside Jenny. The mattress dipped. Jenny could smell her own scent on the air, and over it, the crisp, expensive fragrance of Catriona’s shower gel.
“You’re shaking,” Catriona observed. Her voice was calm, almost bored.
“I’m… it’s cold,” Jenny whispered, which was a lie. The room was stifling.
Catriona smiled, a faint curve of her lips. She reached out and placed her hand on Jenny’s bare thigh. Her palm was warm, dry, assured. Jenny flinched, but didn’t pull away. The touch was a brand.
“I watched you with him,” Catriona said, her thumb stroking a slow arc on Jenny’s skin. “I saw the way you looked at him. Like he’d hung the moon just for you. It was very convincing.”
Jenny’s throat closed. “Mrs. Walters, I am so sorry, I never meant—”
“Catriona. And I know you did mean to. Every second of it.” She leaned in closer. Jenny could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the intelligent, hungry spark in the green. “You called him your heart’s husband. That’s a big claim for a girl who washes his towels.”
The shame was a hot wave. Jenny looked down at her own hands, clenched in her lap. “I love him.”
“I believe you.” Catriona said it simply. “And he’s clearly… enamored with the situation. The guilt is eating him alive, which is making him even more voracious. It’s a fascinating feedback loop.”
Her hand slid higher, past the hem of the t-shirt. Jenny’s breath hitched. “What are you doing?”
“Proposing a new arrangement. You move in. Officially. Live here. Your cleaning duties would be light. Your primary duty,” Catriona’s fingers traced the sensitive skin of Jenny’s inner thigh, “would be him. You would be available to him. Whenever he wants. However he wants.”
Jenny’s mind was a white static. “You’re… offering me your husband?”
“I’m offering you a purpose. And in return, I get a front-row seat.” Catriona’s eyes glittered. “I direct the passion. I choose the when, the where, the how. You learn to please us both, but first, you learn to please him. Perfectly.”
“This is crazy.” The words escaped in a rush.
“Is it?” Catriona’s hand finally found the heart of the heat between Jenny’s legs. Jenny gasped, her back arching. She was still swollen, sensitized from Aidan. “You’re already wet for him again. Just from talking about it. From me touching you and talking about him.” She leaned in, her lips a breath from Jenny’s. “Let me taste what my husband left you with.”
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was exploratory, possessive. Catriona’s tongue swept into Jenny’s mouth, and Jenny moaned, a helpless sound. She could taste herself, and underneath it, the faint, familiar trace of Aidan’s skin. Catriona was consuming the evidence, claiming it.
When she pulled back, her lips were damp. “You’ll need to be more creative. He has a fantasy of being surprised. Of losing control. We’ll exploit that.” She took Jenny’s hand, which was trembling violently, and guided it between her own legs. “See? It’s not just you. This… arrangement… it does something for me, too.”
Jenny’s fingers met slick, heated skin. Catriona was soaked. The reality of it—this elegant, composed woman, aroused to this point by the idea, by the watching—shattered Jenny’s last fragment of understanding. This wasn’t forgiveness. It was an escalation.
“He’ll never agree,” Jenny breathed, her fingers curling instinctively against Catriona’s wetness.
“He already has.” Catriona’s voice was a low, satisfied hum. “He’s in his room right now, hard and aching and hating himself for wanting it again. For wanting you again. He’s mine. And now, so are you.” She pressed Jenny’s hand more firmly against herself, a silent instruction. “Think of it as job security. With unparalleled benefits.”
She stood up, leaving Jenny’s hand hovering in the empty air. She picked up her robe, sliding it back on without haste. She looked at Jenny, who sat stunned, her fingers glistening.
“Clean yourself up. Get some sleep.” Catriona tied the sash with a precise, elegant knot. “We’ll discuss the practicalities in the morning. Rent, schedule, expectations.” She paused at the door. “And Jenny? Don’t touch him until I say so. The anticipation will make it better for everyone.”
The door closed.
Jenny stared at the spot where Catriona had been. The scent of lavender and sex and her own shock hung in the air. She looked down at her trembling, wet fingers. Slowly, she brought them to her nose, then her mouth. The taste was complex: herself, Catriona’s arousal, and underneath it all, the ghost of Aidan.
A wild, trembling laugh bubbled up in her chest. It was madness. It was a trap. It was the most exhilarating thing she had ever been offered.
She got up, her legs unsteady, and walked to her small ensuite. She turned on the faucet and watched the water run over her hands, washing the physical proof away. But the feeling, the searing, electric imprint of Catriona’s touch and proposition, remained.
She looked at her reflection in the smudged mirror—her dark eyes wide, her lips kiss-bruised, her hair a mess from Aidan’s hands. The shy cleaner was gone. In her place was someone who had been seen, chosen, and given a forbidden purpose.
She didn’t text her sister Lucia. Not yet. She needed to sit with this alone, to let the shape of it settle in her mind. She turned off the light and crawled back into her bed, the sheets still tangled from when she’d rushed back here, giddy and overwhelmed, after leaving Aidan.
Now, she curled on her side, the emptiness inside her a persistent ache. Catriona’s words echoed. Don’t touch him until I say so.
Her hand slid between her own legs, a poor, frantic substitute. She imagined his face, the agony and ecstasy, the sheer size of him stretching her. She imagined Catriona’s cool, observing eyes watching from a chair in the corner, directing the scene with a slight nod.
Jenny came quickly, silently, biting her own wrist to stifle the cry. The orgasm was sharp, laced with fear and a dark, thrilling complicity.
She lay in the dark afterward, spent and buzzing. The house was silent, but it felt different now. It wasn't just a house she cleaned. It was a stage. And she had just been given a leading role.