Chapter 13: The Double Booking
The elevator at Sutter-Green LLP chimed with a sound like a cash register. Aidan stepped out into a reception area of cold marble and abstract art. His stomach was a tight knot, but it felt familiar now, a standard pre-meeting condition. Marilyn at Theron had been brisk, businesslike, using him against her desk with the efficiency of someone signing a stack of forms. Sofia at Jax had been all whispered directions and iPhone lights, more interested in angles and close-ups than actual touch. He’d performed. That was the word Catriona used. He’d performed.
“Aidan? For Linda and Vanessa?” The receptionist didn’t look up from her screen. She pointed a manicured nail down a hallway. “Conference Three. They’re expecting you.”
The walk was silent, his dress shoes sinking into the plush corridor carpet. He could see his faint reflection in the glass walls of empty offices—a tall, broad-shouldered shape in a suit that felt like a costume. Conference Three had a brushed steel nameplate. He knocked, once.
The door opened. Two women stood there, both in sharp, tailored skirts and silk blouses unbuttoned one notch too low for a standard meeting. They were a study in contrasts. Linda was darker, her hair in a severe bob, her eyes assessing. Vanessa was blonde, softer in frame, with a smile that didn’t reach her watchful gaze.
“Right on time,” Linda said. Her voice was smooth, like black coffee. “Come in. Close the door.”
The room was as Catriona had described in her clinical way: vast windows, a mahogany table that could seat twenty, the ghosts of decades of deals lingering in the wood grain. A crystal decanter of amber whiskey sat on a sideboard with two empty glasses.
Vanessa circled him. “Catriona wasn’t exaggerating about the… presentation. The boy-next-door thing. It’s a good contrast.”
“It’s the point,” Linda said, leaning back against the table. “The contrast. So, Aidan. You’ve read the brief? This is a collaborative session. Synergy is the goal.”
He just nodded. Words often failed him at this point.
“Clothes off. On the table. The center, please,” Linda instructed, gesturing.
He obeyed, the ritual of it numbing. The tie, the shirt, the trousers, the briefs. The cold air of the climate-controlled room hit his skin. He hoisted himself onto the massive table, the polished surface icy against his thighs. The city’s neon glow painted colored streaks across his torso.
“My god, Linda,” Vanessa breathed, her professional cool slipping for a second into pure avarice. “She really didn’t exaggerate.”
“Lie back,” Linda said. She wasn’t asking.
He did, staring up at the recessed lights in the ceiling. He heard the rustle of clothing, zippers, the soft thump of heels being kicked off. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision.
“We’ve decided on a division of labor,” Vanessa’s voice came from near his head. Her perfume was floral, overwhelming. “I’m starting with the mouth. Linda’s taking the main event. Then we’ll switch. Equity.”
Linda’s laugh was a short, dry sound. “Equity. Right.”
Then Vanessa was straddling his face, her thighs framing his vision, blocking out the light. She lowered herself without ceremony. “You know the drill, junior associate. Earn your keep.”
He worked. It was mechanical now, a skill he’d developed. Breathe through the nose. Pace yourself. Listen for the cues. Vanessa was vocal, grinding against his mouth with a focused intensity, her hands gripping his hair. “Yeah, just like that… good… see, Linda, he’s trained.”
At the same time, he felt Linda climb onto the table, her knees bracketing his hips. Her touch was different—cool, deliberate. She guided him into herself with one hand, a slow, inexorable pressure that made his breath hitch even through Vanessa’s weight. She was tight, and she didn’t move at first, just sat fully impaled, letting out a long, controlled sigh.
“Substantial,” she said, almost to herself.
Then she began to ride him, a deep, rolling rhythm that was entirely her own. The table groaned softly with the motion. Two distinct sensations overwhelmed him: the suffocating, perfumed wetness over his mouth, and the deep, demanding clasp around his cock. He was a device, split between two users.
Vanessa came first, shuddering, her thighs clamping against his ears. She rolled off him, gasping, and slapped his cheek playfully. “Solid work.”
Without pause, she switched positions. Now Vanessa took him, her rhythm faster, more frantic, while Linda lowered herself onto his face. Linda tasted different, assertive, like the whiskey on the sideboard. She moved with command, controlling the pace, muttering instructions. “Tongue up. Right there. Don’t stop.”
They swapped again. And then again. Time dissolved into a cycle of grasping hands, sweaty skin slipping on mahogany, and the alternating, crushing weight of them. His body was a live wire, every nerve alight, but his mind had floated somewhere near the ceiling lights. He was logging the data: Linda likes a thumb pressed here. Vanessa’s right hip has a scar. The table is leaving a burn on his lower back.
They were relentless, wringing climaxes from each other and edging him toward his own, stopping him with a sharp command or a slap to the stomach whenever they sensed he was close.
“Not yet,” Linda panted, her composure finally cracking into something raw. “This is our meeting. You don’t get to adjourn it.”
Finally, after what felt like hours, they were both spent, collapsed on either side of him on the vast table, their skin shining under the lights. Linda propped herself up on an elbow.
“Now,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Finish it. On us. Equally.”
Vanessa scrambled for her purse, pulling out a phone. She positioned herself on one side of his hips, Linda on the other. They took him in hand together, their fingers overlapping, a unified, demanding friction.
It was too much. The climax tore through him, a wave of involuntary release that left him seeing white stars. He was aware of them angling him, directing the pulses, making sure the evidence landed across both of them.
The click of a camera shutter broke through his haze.
Vanessa was holding her phone up, capturing the messy, glistening proof on their stomachs and thighs. Linda took the phone, typed swiftly, and hit send. She held the screen up for Aidan to see.
The photo was sent to Catriona. The message below it read: Partnership secured.
“You can get dressed,” Linda said, already sliding off the table, reaching for her clothes as if she were simply putting her jacket on after a long day. “The receptionist will call you a cab. Send the invoice to accounting.”
Aidan sat up, the room tilting. His body felt hollowed out, used up. He dressed with clumsy fingers. The two women were already composed, sipping the whiskey now, discussing a real estate portfolio as if he’d already left.
He let himself out. The hallway carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps. In the elevator, he caught his reflection again in the brass doors. The boyish face was still there, but the eyes looked older, farther away. He leaned against the wall, feeling the dull ache in his muscles, the chafe of his collar against his neck.
The elevator descended. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A single message from Catriona.
Received. Quarterly client satisfaction scores are projected to rise 18%. Your performance is noted. Return to the office for debrief tomorrow, 9am.
He put the phone away. The doors opened to the lobby. He walked out into the city night, the neon signs now bright and chaotic. He hailed a cab, gave his address. As the car pulled into traffic, he rested his head against the cool window.
He was an ambassador. A resource. A tool that had just successfully facilitated a partnership.
He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the brilliant, clinical flash of the camera, freezing the moment forever for the ledger.