Chapter 3: The Proposition Accepted
The knock on her door was too loud, a jarring sound in the quiet apartment. Aidan’s knuckles stung. He almost turned and walked away, his heart hammering against his ribs.
But the door opened before he could flee.
Catriona leaned against the frame. She’d changed; his t-shirt was gone, replaced by a soft, worn tank top and thin cotton shorts. Her hair was a wild halo around her shoulders. She didn’t look surprised. Her green eyes were dark, unreadable.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. The words he’d practiced vanished. All he had was the taut wire of desire strung tight from his chest to his gut.
She tilted her head, waiting. A faint smile touched her lips. “Coffee go cold?”
“Yeah. Sort of.” He took a breath. “I’ve been thinking.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to think anymore.”
The air between them seemed to solidify. The playful confidence on her face softened into something more serious, more receptive. She stepped back, a silent invitation.
He crossed the threshold into her space. It smelled like her—lavender, the graphite of her pencils, the faint, sweet staleness of coffee from a cup on the nightstand. The room was a warm chaos of art supplies and knit blankets, sunlight painting stripes across the tangled duvet on her bed.
She closed the door. The click of the latch was final.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. The tension wasn’t playful now; it was a deep, humming current. Aidan reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of red hair from her cheek. The touch was electric. She leaned into it, her eyes closing briefly.
Then her hands were on his chest, pushing his shirt up. He helped her, pulling it over his head and letting it fall to the floor. Her palms were warm and slightly rough as they slid over his shoulders, down the muscles of his arms from climbing. Her gaze was a physical weight.
“Your turn,” he murmured, his voice rough.
He hooked his fingers under the hem of her tank top. She raised her arms, and he drew it up, revealing the sprinkle of freckles across her collarbones, the graceful line of her ribs, the small, perfect curves of her breasts. A whimsical tattoo of a fox curled around her side. She was breathtaking.
He pulled her against him, skin to skin, and her gasp was hot against his neck. He kissed her. It wasn’t gentle or exploratory; it was a release of all the pent-up tension from the morning, from the moment he’d woken with her weight on him. Her mouth opened under his, hungry and yielding, her fingers tunneling into his hair.
They stumbled toward the bed, legs tangling, mouths never parting. The back of his knees hit the mattress and they fell onto the soft expanse of her duvet in a tangle of limbs.
Aidan rolled, pressing her into the warmth of the sheets. He kissed a path down her throat, over the freckled slope of her breast, taking her nipple into his mouth. She cried out, back arching, her hands gripping his shoulders. Her skin was fever-hot. He licked and sucked, his own need a pounding drumbeat in his veins, while his hand slid down the flat plane of her stomach, under the waistband of her shorts.
He found her wet, slick and ready. She jerked against his touch, a broken sound escaping her lips. “Aidan…”
He looked up, meeting her gaze. Her green eyes were glazed, her lips swollen. He watched her face as he slid a finger inside her, then another. Her eyelids fluttered, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.
“Please,” she whispered, hips moving against his hand. “Don’t make me wait. I need…”
Her own hand fumbled between them, palming him through his jeans. The pressure was agony and ecstasy. He groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.
She pushed at his jeans. “Off. Now.”
They separated just long enough to shed the rest of their clothes, a frantic, clumsy dance. Then he was over her again, both of them naked, the morning light painting their skin in gold. He let his eyes travel the length of her—the athletic curve of her thighs, the dark red triangle of hair, the quick rise and fall of her stomach. She reached for him, her hand wrapping around his cock, her touch firm and sure. Her eyes widened, a fresh shock of pure want darkening her expression.
“Jesus,” she breathed, her thumb stroking the head. “You’re…”
He couldn’t speak. He guided her hand away, settling his weight between her legs. He nudged at her entrance, the tip of him slick with her wetness. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into the back of his thighs, pulling him closer.
“Look at me,” she said.
He did. He pushed inside her, one slow, inexorable inch, then another, stretching her, filling her. Her mouth fell open on a silent gasp, her eyes locked on his, wide and vulnerable. He sank deeper, deeper, until he was fully sheathed, buried in her incredible, clutching heat. They were both still, breathing raggedly, connected in the most profound way.
“Okay?” he managed to ask, the word strained.
“More than okay,” she choked out, tightening around him. “Move. Please, move.”
He withdrew almost all the way, then thrust back in. A sharp, delicious cry tore from her throat. He set a rhythm, deep and relentless, each drive wringing a gasp or a moan from her. The headboard tapped a soft, steady beat against the wall. The room filled with the sounds of them—skin slapping, ragged breathing, the creak of the bed.
Catriona’s hands were everywhere—clawing at his back, gripping his ass, threading through his hair. She met every thrust, her hips rolling, taking him even deeper. “There,” she chanted, “right there, don’t stop…”
He was losing himself, the world narrowing to the feeling of her around him, the sight of her coming apart beneath him. Her freckles seemed to glow. A sheen of sweat made their skin slide together. He felt the coil of his own climax tightening, a white-hot pressure building at the base of his spine.
“Catriona,” he growled, a warning.
“I’m close,” she gasped, her eyes squeezing shut. “Just… don’t stop.”
He drove into her, again and again, the pace becoming frantic, urgent. She let out a sharp, bitten-off scream, her body locking around him, pulsing violently. The sensation shattered his last thread of control. With a final, shuddering thrust, he came, spilling into her with a groan that was ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
The world blurred. He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his weight on his elbows, his forehead pressed into the pillow beside her head. Their hearts hammered against each other, a frantic, syncopated rhythm slowly easing into something slower, heavier.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by their slowing breaths. The scent of sex and lavender filled the air. Sunlight warmed his back.
He started to pull away, but her legs tightened around him, holding him inside her for a moment longer. Then she relaxed, her limbs falling bonelessly to the sheets.
He rolled onto his side, facing her. She kept her eyes closed, one arm flung over her forehead. A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips. She looked well-fucked and utterly at peace.
Aidan’s mind, quiet for so long, began to whirr back to life. The ‘no strings’ agreement. The reality of what they’d just done. The fact that she was his roommate, and he was now inside her in every possible way.
He watched her, the rise and fall of her chest, the delicate flutter of a pulse in her throat. The fox tattoo seemed to curl possessively around her ribs.
“So,” she said, her voice husky and raw. She didn’t open her eyes. “Release valve officially activated.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah.”
She turned her head, finally looking at him. Her expression was unreadable again, but softer. The boldness was tempered by something quieter, something that looked like recognition. “It was a good idea.”
“It was,” he agreed.
But as he lay there in her sunlit bed, the complicated truth settled over him. Valves, once opened, were hard to close. And some connections, no matter how casual the intent, left a permanent mark.