Chapter 4: The Unexpected Call
The silence after Elena’s taxi pulled away was thick and humming. Catriona stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the tiny yellow car merge into the distant river of traffic. Aidan was cleaning up in the kitchen, the soft clink of glassware a domestic counterpoint to what had just transpired. The complex note inside her hadn’t faded; it had matured into a low, persistent chord.
Her phone, face-down on the marble console table, buzzed.
She scooped it up, expecting Elena’s post-coital poetry. The preview text was indeed from Elena: I think part of my soul is still on your counter. Thank you.
Catriona’s mouth quirked. Before she could type a reply, a second notification slid over the first.
Unknown Number.
Her thumb hovered. A twist of intuition, cold and sharp, pricked at her. She opened it.
It was a photo. Grainy, dimly lit, taken in what looked like a generic hotel room. The subject was unmistakable: Aidan’s cock, thick and heavy in a state of half-arousal. The angle was intimate, possessive. The attached text was a single, calculated sentence:
I’ve had better.
The world didn’t tilt. It sharpened. Every edge in the penthouse—the line of the counter, the seam of the window, the corner of the table—became a knife. The warm, sated glow in her veins evaporated, replaced by a flood of something icy and violent. It wasn’t jealousy of the shared, celebratory kind. This was a pure, territorial rage.
“Aidan.”
Her voice didn’t sound like hers. It was flat, a stone dropped in still water.
He appeared in the archway, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, his expression shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
She turned the screen toward him. She watched his face. The initial confusion, the flicker of recognition, then a dawning, hard anger. His jaw tightened.
“That’s from the conference in Chicago,” he said, his voice low. “Three months ago. The history symposium.”
“Who took it?”
“I don’t know. A grad student from Columbia. She was… persistent. It was a mistake. One drink too many, a lonely hotel room. It happened once. I ended it before it began, frankly.” He ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration. “I told her it was a mistake. I haven’t spoken to her since.”
“‘I’ve had better,’” Catriona read aloud, the words tasting like acid. She locked eyes with him. The mischievous spark in her amber eyes was gone, replaced by a cold fire. “She doesn’t get to have an opinion. She doesn’t get to keep souvenirs.”
She dropped the phone. It clattered on the marble. In three strides she was on him, fisting her hands in the soft cotton of his shirt. The possessiveness that usually danced as joy now burned as fury. “You’re mine. Every single part of you. Especially this.” Her hand slid down, palming him through his sweats, feeling him stir involuntarily. “Especially this legendary fucking cock that I share. Not some anonymous bitch in a hotel room.”
“Cat—”
“No.” She shoved him backward, toward the hallway. “Bedroom. Now.”
He didn’t resist. He let her propel him down the hall, his own anger at the violation simmering beneath her hotter rage. She kicked the bedroom door shut behind them. The silk sheets from the morning were still in a heap.
“Strip,” she commanded, her voice a whip-crack.
He obeyed, pulling his shirt off, pushing his sweats down. He stood before her, fully erect now, his body a monument of muscle and tension under the soft afternoon light filtering through the blinds.
Catriona didn’t bother with her clothes. She simply pushed her loose cotton shorts and panties down her thighs, let them fall to the floor. She was already wet, a visceral, angry slickness that had nothing to do with gentle arousal. This was about erasure. Reclamation.
She pushed him backward onto the bed. He landed with a soft grunt, his head on the pillows. She climbed over him, her auburn hair a curtain around their faces. She didn’t kiss him. She stared down into his green eyes.
“She doesn’t exist,” Catriona whispered, her breath hot on his lips. “That memory doesn’t exist. The only thing that exists is right here. My pussy. Your cock. My rules.”
She reached between them, grasped him, and guided him to her entrance. There was no careful preparation, no teasing build. She aligned the broad head and sank down in one brutal, driving motion.
They both gasped. The fit was incredibly tight, a sharp, stretching fullness for her, a hot, clutching vise for him. It was almost too much. Perfect.
“You feel that?” she hissed, not moving, impaled on him. “That’s where you belong. Not in some blurry photo. Here. Where I put you.”
She began to move. It wasn’t the rhythmic, shared ride of before. It was a frantic, piston-driven fury. She used her thighs to slam herself down onto him, over and over, each impact jolting through them both. The bedframe knocked a steady, angry rhythm against the wall. Her nails dug into the hard planes of his chest.
Aidan’s hands came up to grip her hips, not to guide her, but to hold on, his fingers pressing into her flesh hard enough to leave new marks. His eyes were locked on hers, reflecting her fire. “She’s nothing,” he gritted out, his body arching to meet her punishing pace. “You’re everything.”
“Prove it,” Catriona demanded, riding him harder, her breaths coming in ragged sobs. “Come in me. Fill me up. I want you to forget her number, forget her face, forget everything that isn’t this.”
His control, usually so steadfast, shattered. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat as he thrust up into her one last, deep time, his body bowing off the bed. She felt the hot, pulsing release inside her, a claim answered. It tipped her over the edge immediately, her own climax a sharp, blinding seizure that ripped through the anger, leaving her trembling and hollowed out.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, their sweat-slick skin sticking together. The only sounds were their ragged, syncopated breaths and the distant whine of a city siren.
Minutes passed. The ice in her veins had melted, leaving a strange, exhausted tenderness. Aidan’s hand came up, stroking her damp hair.
“I should have told you about Chicago,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said, her voice muffled against his skin. “But telling me wouldn’t have felt this good.”
A faint chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You’re terrifying.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” He shifted, carefully rolling them to their sides, still joined. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “What are you going to do about the number?”
Catriona’s eyes, now weary but clear, met his. The director was back, assessing a new problem. “I’m going to find out who she is. And then I’m going to invite her over.”
Aidan blinked. “What?”
“She sent that photo to provoke me. To hurt what we have.” A slow, dangerous smile touched Catriona’s lips. “So I’m going to show her exactly what she’s not a part of. I’m going to have her watch. I’m going to have her see what ‘better’ really looks like, up close, until she understands that she’s not even a footnote in our story.”
She felt him stir, still deep inside her, responding to the dark, orchestral sweep of her plan. The complexity she’d felt earlier had found its form. It wasn’t just about sharing pleasure anymore. It was about defending its sanctity. On her terms.
“You’re a genius,” he whispered, echoing his words from the morning, but now with a tone of awe and trepidation.
“I know,” she said, settling her head back on his shoulder, already planning the guest list.