Chapter 8: Aidan's Room
The walk to his bedroom was a short, silent procession through the dark hallway. Aidan’s mind was a white noise of anticipation, the previous hour—the cards, the whiskey, Catriona on her knees—all collapsing into this singular, focused moment. He pushed his door open, the hinges giving a familiar groan.
His room was exactly as he’d left it that morning: a half-read programming manual splayed on the nightstand, a faded band t-shirt slung over the desk chair, the floral quilt his mother had given him bunched at the foot of the bed. It felt intensely private, a diorama of his ordinary life about to be irrevocably altered. The warm glow of his bedside lamp replaced the living room’s chaotic neon, painting everything in softer, more intimate tones.
Jenny entered last, closing the door behind her with a definitive click. She surveyed the space, her paralegal’s mind seemingly cataloging the details. Then her eyes landed on the bed.
“Cat,” she said, her voice calm, instructional. “Lie down. In the middle.”
Catriona didn’t hesitate. She moved past Aidan, her hip brushing his, and crawled onto the mattress. She settled on her back, her fiery hair fanning out against the pale pillow. She looked up at the ceiling, then at Jenny, a slow smile playing on her lips. “Comfy.”
“Freya,” Jenny continued, turning. “Straddle her. Face her.”
Freya, still moving with that liquid grace even now, climbed onto the bed. She swung a leg over Catriona’s torso, lowering herself until she was kneeling over Catriona’s face. Her back was to the foot of the bed, her body poised and waiting. She placed her hands on Catriona’s thighs for balance. Catriona’s hands came up, gripping Freya’s hips, pulling her down until she was exactly where she was needed.
Aidan watched, transfixed, as Catriona’s head tilted up and her mouth found Freya again. Freya’s breath hitched, a soft “oh” escaping as she sank into the sensation.
Then Jenny was beside Aidan. Her touch on his arm was surprisingly gentle. “Your turn,” she murmured, guiding him toward the bed. “From behind. You know how she likes it.”
He did. A memory, unbidden: Catriona laughing months ago after a drunken night out, slinging an arm around Freya and declaring, ‘Nothing better than a proper, deep doggy, feel every fucking inch.’ It had been a throwaway line, then. Now it was a blueprint.
Aidan kicked off his jeans, finally freeing himself. The cool air was a shock. He climbed onto the bed, the springs protesting under the new weight. He knelt behind Catriona, the view staggering: the smooth, freckled expanse of her back, the curve of her hips, and beyond, the intimate join of Freya atop her. Catriona shifted, arching her back, presenting herself to him. “C’mon, programmer,” she mumbled, the words muffled against Freya’s skin. “No more debugging.”
He guided himself into her. She was already wet, impossibly so, and so hot he saw stars for a second. She cried out, the sound vibrating into Freya, who moaned in response. He sank in fully, the sheer, breathtaking tightness making his hands clamp on Catriona’s hips. He was in, completely, buried to the hilt.
For a suspended moment, no one moved. The only sounds were ragged breathing and the low creak of the bed frame. It was a circuit completed, a shocking, living connection.
Then he pulled back and thrust forward again. Catriona gasped, pushing back against him, meeting his rhythm. The room filled with the raw, wet sound of it, of skin on skin, of Catriona’s increasingly desperate pleas lost against Freya’s core. Freya was rocking now, grinding down onto Catriona’s mouth, her own hands fisted in the quilt, her spine a perfect, taut arc.
Jenny stood by the bed, watching. Her analytical gaze was gone, replaced by something hungrier, darker. One hand drifted to the waistband of her own pants, then slipped inside. She bit her lower lip, her eyes tracking the synchronized movement of the three bodies on the bed. “Harder,” she said, not loudly, but with absolute authority.
Aidan obeyed. His thrusts became longer, deeper, driving Catriona forward with each one. Catriona’s moans turned into sharp, rhythmic cries, her fingers digging bruises into Freya’s thighs. The bed began a persistent knock against the wall, a steady, pounding timer.
Jenny watched for another minute, her own breathing shallow. Then, as if she’d reached a verdict, she pulled her hand from her pants and climbed onto the bed. She didn’t join the main tangle. Instead, she knelt beside them, facing Freya’s heaving front. She leaned in and, with a deliberate slowness, took one of Freya’s peaked nipples into her mouth.
Freya jolted as if electrified, a shattered, wordless scream tearing from her throat. The dual sensations—Catriona’s mouth below, Jenny’s above—broke the last of her control. Her orgasm slammed through her, a violent, trembling cascade that made her entire body shudder and shake. Catriona held her through it, drinking her in, her own hips bucking back against Aidan with frantic need.
Feeling Catriona clench around him, hearing Freya’s climax, pushed Aidan to the edge. He was close, so close, the coil in his gut winding to a snapping point.
Jenny released Freya’s breast, her lips glistening. She looked over Freya’s shuddering shoulder, her eyes locking with Aidan’s. Her voice was a low, rough command in the humid air. “Don’t you dare. Not yet.”
The order, the sheer will in it, forced him back from the brink. He slowed, grinding deep, teeth clenched with the effort of holding on. Catriona whimpered in frustration. “Jenny, for fuck’s sake—”
“My IOU,” Jenny interrupted, her gaze unwavering from Aidan’s. “My favor. I haven’t called it in.” She shifted on the bed, moving around the spent, trembling form of Freya. She positioned herself beside Catriona’s head, then looked down at Aidan. “You stop when I say. You finish where and when I say. Understood?”
He could only nod, a blunt, desperate movement.
“Good.” She ran a hand through Catriona’s sweat-damp hair. “Keep going.”
The rhythm resumed, slower now, more torturous. Aidan was a live wire, every nerve screaming. Catriona was chanting a mantra of “please” into the mattress. Freya had collapsed to the side, breathing heavily, watching through half-lidded eyes.
Jenny observed it all, the architect of the chaos. She finally leaned close to Catriona’s ear. Her question was barely audible, but it dropped into the room like a stone.
“Was it worth it? Losing the game?”
Catriona turned her head, her eyes blazing with unspent pleasure and defiance. “Fuck yes.”
Jenny smiled. It was a real smile, not cool or analytical, but wide and bright and full of shared secrets. She kissed Catriona, hard and quick.
Then she turned back to Aidan. “Now,” she said.
It was all the permission he needed. A few more driving thrusts and he was gone, falling over the edge with a choked-off groan, emptying himself into Catriona in deep, pulsing waves. She gasped, her body clamping around him, milking him through his own release until he collapsed forward, bracing himself on shaking arms above her.
Silence descended, broken only by the ragged symphony of their breathing. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat and old books.
Aidan carefully pulled out and rolled onto his back, staring at the familiar crack in his ceiling. Catriona stretched like a cat, a satisfied murmur in her throat. Freya traced idle patterns on the quilt. Jenny simply sat cross-legged on the bed, looking at each of them in turn.
After a long moment, Catriona let out a breathless laugh. “So,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Poker next Thursday?”