Chapter 6: A New Invitation
The rain had moved on, leaving a scrubbed-clean sky and a sharp, golden light that poured into the penthouse like honey. Catriona padded across the cool marble of the kitchen island, the hem of Aidan’s discarded shirt brushing her thighs. She was making coffee, the rich smell cutting through the lingering ghosts of whiskey and fire.
Aidan sat at the island, shirtless, scrolling through news headlines on a tablet. A comfortable, post-confrontation quiet lay between them, the kind that follows a successfully executed plan.
Then her phone buzzed, a sharp vibration against the stone.
She glanced at the screen. An unknown number. The preview text made her pause.
Unknown: It’s Chloe. I can’t stop thinking about it. About how wrong I was. I’m so sorry. It was pathetic. What you have… it’s not even in the same universe.
Catriona didn’t pick it up. She watched the words sit there, a little digital artifact of shattered pride.
“Who is it?” Aidan asked, sensing her shift in posture.
“Our little sparrow,” Catriona said, a slow smile spreading. “She’s sending an apology. A good one.” She read the rest aloud, her voice cool and clear in the sunlit space. “I’d give anything for five minutes of his time, just to apologize properly. To try and get it right. I know I don’t deserve it.”
Aidan set his tablet down. “You believe her?”
“I believe her fear. I believe her curiosity. I believe she’s been jerking off to the memory of you in my mouth for three straight days.” Catriona picked up her phone, her thumbs flying over the glass. “The question is what we do with it. Punishment was last week. That was fun. This is… an opportunity.”
“For what?”
“Re-education.” She hit send and placed the phone face down. “I told her to come over. Now.”
Aidan’s eyebrows rose. “You’re full of surprises.”
“She wants to apologize properly. To get it right.” Catriona came around the island, sliding onto the stool next to him. She traced a finger along his shoulder. “So we’re going to let her. But on our terms. My curriculum.”
When the elevator chimed forty minutes later, the scene was set. The jazz on the hidden speakers was smooth, unhurried. Two glasses of whiskey sat on the island, condensation beading on the crystal. Chloe stepped out, looking cleaner, more deliberate than she had in the storm. She wore simple jeans and a cream-colored sweater, her hair dry and brushed. Her eyes found them immediately, wide and mortified and hungry.
“Thank you for letting me come,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Sit,” Catriona said, not unkindly, pointing to a stool. “Have a drink. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Chloe obeyed, her movements stiff. She took a gulp of the whiskey, her throat working. “I am so sorry. For the photo. The text. Everything. It was disrespectful and small.”
“Yes, it was,” Aidan agreed, his tone matter-of-fact. Not cruel, just final.
“But you’re here now,” Catriona interjected, leaning back against the counter. The sun warmed her back through the thin shirt. “And you said you wanted to get it right. To apologize properly. Words are cheap, Chloe. I’m an event planner. I believe in experiences.”
Chloe’s gaze flickered between them. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re going to show us.” Catriona nodded toward Aidan. “You’re going to apologize to him. Physically. The way you should have the first time, if you’d had any class.”
A flush burned up Chloe’s neck. “You want me to… with you here?”
“Especially with me here,” Catriona said, her amber eyes glinting. “I’m the director. He’s the prize. And you’re the student who needs a lesson in appreciation. Consider it a masterclass. One-on-one instruction.” She tilted her head. “Or you can leave. Again. For good.”
The silence stretched. The hum of the refrigerator. A distant siren. Chloe’s fingers tightened around her glass. The memory of Catriona on her knees, the sheer competence of it, the ownership, played behind her eyes. She wanted that knowledge. She wanted to erase her own clumsy, resentful attempt.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Teach me.”
Catriona’s smile was triumphant. “Aidan. The stool.”
He understood. He moved to a central, backless stool near the kitchen’s open space and sat. The afternoon light carved the lines of his torso, catching the dusting of blond hair across his chest. He was already half-hard, anticipation doing its work.
“On your knees,” Catriona instructed Chloe, her voice dropping into a calm, instructive register. “In front of him. Hands behind your back. For now.”
Chloe slid from her stool, the marble floor cool against her knees. She assumed the position, her back straight, eyes level with his groin. Up close, the reality of him was even more daunting.
“Look at me, not at him,” Catriona said, circling them. She stopped beside Aidan, her hand resting on his shoulder. “The first mistake amateurs make is treating it like a task. A chore. It’s a privilege. Your goal isn’t to make him come. Your goal is to make him lose his breath. To make his hands fist like this.” She tapped Aidan’s thigh; his hand had indeed curled into a loose fist. “Watch.”
Catriona bent, not taking him in her mouth, but nuzzling along the length of him, her auburn hair sweeping across his stomach. She placed a single, open-mouthed kiss on the tip, her tongue darting out to taste the salt-slick bead already gathered there. Aidan’s abdomen tightened. A soft sigh escaped him.
“See that?” Catriona said, looking at Chloe. “That’s a reaction. Now you. Just that. No deep-throat dramatics. Just contact. Worship.”
Chloe leaned forward, her movements hesitant. She mimicked the kiss, her lips softer, less confident. She did it again.
“Good. Now use your tongue. Flat. Like you’re tasting something exquisite.” Catriona’s voice was a hypnotic guide. “Slow. He’s not a lollipop.”
Chloe obeyed, her technique awkward at first, then smoothing into a rhythm as she watched the effect—the way his skin flushed, the way the thick vein beneath her tongue pulsed. A low, approving rumble came from Aidan’s chest.
“Hands,” Catriona said. “You can use them now. One on the base, like you’re holding the hilt of a sword. The other on his balls, gentle, just a cradle of warmth. Yes. Now take him into your mouth. Just the head. And suck. Like you’re pulling the essence out of him.”
Chloe opened her mouth, taking him in. Her eyes watered instantly, but she held, her cheeks hollowing.
“Eyes open,” Catriona commanded. “Look at him. Let him see you working for it.”
Chloe’s pale blue eyes rolled up to meet Aidan’s. The connection was electric, a circuit completing. This wasn’t a stolen photo in a dark room. This was a sanctioned act, observed, corrected, approved. A shudder ran through her, part humiliation, part raw, unbidden thrill.
“Deeper now, an inch at a time. Let your throat open. Don’t force it.” Catriona was right beside her ear now, a stage whisper. “That’s it. Feel him? That’s what ‘better’ feels like. Remember that.”
Chloe managed another inch, then another, her body adjusting, learning. The sounds were different this time—less performative, more earnest, wet and desperate. Catriona watched, a curator before a perfect living diorama. She saw the moment Chloe’s shame dissolved into focus, into a determined, hungry need to please. To be good at this.
Aidan’s hand came down, not to guide, but to gently cup the back of Chloe’s head, threads of her dark hair weaving through his fingers. His other hand was white-knuckled on his own thigh.
“She’s learning,” he gritted out, his voice thick.
“Of course she is,” Catriona murmured, her own arousal a warm, heavy pulse between her legs. She wasn’t touching herself. This was the pleasure: the control, the transformation, the sight of this woman truly seeing her partner for the first time. “Okay, Chloe. Now the rhythm. Follow my count.”
Catriona began a soft, steady beat. “One, two, three… down. One, two… up. Again. Good. Now add your tongue on the upstroke. Yes.”
The sun climbed higher, blazing a path across the floor, illuminating the dust motes and the three of them locked in this silent, intense transaction. Chloe lost herself in the count, in the weight and heat of him, in the approving hum from Catriona. She was no longer apologizing. She was participating.
Catriona watched Aidan’s control begin to fray, his hips giving the smallest, involuntary thrusts. She saw the pleading in his green eyes, fixed on her.
“Stop,” Catriona said softly.
Chloe pulled off with a gasp, disoriented, her lips swollen and glistening.
“Stand up,” Catriona told her. Chloe rose on unsteady legs. “You did well. You can go to the bathroom and clean up. The guest bath, down the hall.”
Chloe just nodded, dazed, and walked away, her footsteps unsteady on the marble.
The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, Catriona was on Aidan’s lap, her mouth on his in a fierce, possessive kiss. She could taste herself on him, and Chloe, and him, a composite flavor of her own design. “You,” she breathed against his lips, grinding down on the hard ridge of his cock still trapped in his jeans, “were magnificent.”
“That was… intense,” he managed, his hands gripping her hips.
“It was a foundation,” Catriona corrected, nipping at his lower lip. Her mind was already racing ahead, reviewing the footage of the morning, editing, planning the next scene. Chloe’s eager, submissive focus had been genuine. A usable quality. “I think,” she whispered, “our little sparrow might just be trainable after all.”