Chapter 9: The Lesson Begins
The whiskey was a fire in Jenna’s belly, but it did nothing to melt the cold knot of shame clenched tight beneath her ribs. Catriona’s words echoed, sharp and definitive: a lesson. Not a gift. Not a reunion. An instruction.
“Stand up,” Catriona said. Her voice wasn’t loud. It was just… there, filling the space between the drumming rain and Jenna’s own ragged breath.
Jenna stood. Her legs felt like wood.
“Those wet clothes are depressing. And they’re getting my rug damp.” Catriona took a slow sip from her own glass, her amber eyes watching over the rim. “Take them off. All of them.”
Aidan hadn’t moved from his place by the bar. He was a statue, his expression unreadable, that imposing physical presence somehow both a magnet and a wall. Jenna’s fingers fumbled at the button of her jeans, stiff with dried rainwater. The denim hit the floor with a sodden thud. The sweater followed, peeled over her head, catching in her hair. Soon she was just a woman in plain, practical underwear, shivering in the penthouse’s curated climate, arms crossed over her chest.
“All of them,” Catriona repeated, a hint of boredom in her tone, as if dealing with a slow child.
The bra clasp gave way. The cotton briefs slid down her thighs. The air touched every part of her, a cruel, even caress. She kept her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere near the cold fireplace.
“Arms at your sides, Jenna. You don’t get to hide here. Look at him.”
She forced her arms down, let them hang useless. She made herself look at Aidan. The last time she’d been naked before him, it had been in his cramped office after hours, all fumbling passion and whispered promises he’d later broken. This was different. This was an exhibit. His green eyes scanned her, not with lust, but with a detached, clinical assessment. It was worse.
“Better,” Catriona murmured. She gestured to the low-backed leather chaise lounge positioned to face the windows. “Aidan, sit.”
He moved then, with a silent, muscular grace that made Jenna’s stomach twist. He settled onto the chaise, his large frame making the furniture seem smaller. He leaned back, legs parting slightly, hands resting on his thighs. He was still fully dressed in his dark jeans and a grey henley, the fabric stretching across his shoulders. The contrast was devastating.
Catriona walked toward Jenna, stopping just close enough that Jenna could smell her perfume—something expensive and spicy, utterly foreign. “You said you couldn’t stop thinking about how it felt. About him.” She placed a hand, cool and dry, on Jenna’s bare shoulder, steering her gently toward the chaise. “So go ahead. Remember.”
Jenna’s knees hit the plush rug. The pile was soft, alien against her skin. From here, the view was overwhelming: the dense fabric of his jeans, the obvious, heavy bulge beneath the zipper. A tremor ran through her, part fear, part a dark, unwelcome thrill.
“Go on,” Catriona said, from somewhere behind her. A spectator. A director.
Jenna’s fingers trembled as she worked the button, the zipper. She pulled the rough denim down just enough, and he sprang free, thick and already hardening, a pale, veined weight against his stomach. Her mouth watered traitorously. The memory was a physical punch—the stretch, the fullness, the way he used to murmur her name.
She leaned in, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. She took the head into her mouth, the taste of him, salt and skin, flooding her senses. It was familiar and utterly alien at once.
“Slow,” Catriona’s voice cut through the fog in her head. “You’re not starving. You’re savoring. Or you’re supposed to be.”
Jenna forced herself to slow, to lick a slow stripe along the underside. A low, rough sound escaped Aidan. His hand twitched on his thigh, but he didn’t touch her.
“Use your hands. You’ll need them. He’s a lot to take.” Catriona’s instruction was calm, instructional, as if teaching someone to fold a napkin. “Wrap your fist here, at the base. Good. Now take him deeper. Let your throat open.”
Jenna obeyed, bobbing her head, trying to relax her jaw. It was a stretch, a beautiful, aching burn. She remembered this, too—the challenge of it, the pride she’d felt when she could take him all. She hollowed her cheeks, sucked.
“There,” Catriona said, satisfaction purring in her voice. “See how his abdomen tightens? That’s the rhythm. Keep it.”
Jenna lost herself in the mechanics, in the goal. The shame began to blur at the edges, smothered by the physical reality of the task. She was good at this. He’d told her she was. His breath was coming quicker now, a series of deep, controlled inhales. A bead of moisture gathered at his tip and she lapped at it, a small, claiming gesture.
She tried to take him deeper, pushing past her own gag reflex. Her eyes watered instantly, a strangled sound catching in her throat.
Suddenly, a fist tangled in her hair, not painfully, but with absolute authority. It pulled her head back, breaking the contact with a wet pop. Catriona’s face filled her vision, upside down, those mischievous eyes now hard and bright.
“You choke because you’re greedy,” Catriona whispered, her breath warm on Jenna’s forehead. “You’re taking for yourself. That’s not what this is. You serve. You adapt. You take what he gives you and you thank him for it.” She tightened her grip. “Now, again. And mind your teeth.”
She was released. Jenna gasped, tears spilling hot down her cheeks, mingling with saliva. She felt exposed, owned, more naked than she’d ever been. She looked up at Aidan. His gaze was locked on Catriona, a deep, hungry understanding passing between them that excluded Jenna completely. In that moment, she saw the truth. She was the instrument. The vessel. The lesson.
A raw sound escaped her, half sob, half surrender. She opened her mouth and leaned forward, letting Catriona’s words rewrite the script in her head. You serve. You adapt.
This time, when she took him, it was different. It wasn’t about reclaiming a memory. It was about fulfilling a function. The tension in Aidan’s body was her metric. The faint groan was her reward. She became a perfect, attentive student, learning the specific geography of him under this new, ruthless curriculum.
Catriona watched, one hand finally, casually, slipping beneath the waistband of her own silk trousers. A soft sigh escaped her lips, her head tilting back as her fingers moved in small, knowing circles. Her other hand rested on Aidan’s shoulder, possessive, proud.
“Yes,” Catriona murmured, to both of them, to the room itself. “Just like that. Now you’re learning.”