Chapter 11: The Verdict
The phone’s screen glowed, a harsh rectangle of light in the gloomy kitchen. Aidan didn’t move for a long moment, his hand still resting on the back of Catriona’s chair. Then, with a slow exhalation, he pushed himself up and went to the counter.
He picked it up, thumb swiping. Catriona watched the line of his shoulders tense, then settle into a different kind of rigidity. Not guilt. Something else.
“It’s work,” he said, without turning around. His voice was flat, professional. “A cascade failure on a prototype pressure system. Aberdeen. They need me on-site to tear it apart.”
“Aberdeen.” The word felt foreign in her mouth.
“Flight’s in three hours. I’ll be gone a week. Maybe ten days.” He finally turned. His expression was unreadable, a mask of practical focus, but his eyes held a frantic, calculating energy. “Dave’s back tonight. I won’t be here.”
The implications landed one after another, like stones dropping into still water. A reprieve. An agonizing delay. A week of staring at Dave across the breakfast table, knowing what she’d done, with nothing to anchor her to the reality of it except memory.
Aidan crossed the space between them in two strides. He didn’t touch her. He stood close, the heat of him a tangible force. “Seven days, Cat. While I’m up to my elbows in hydraulic fluid and stressed-out officers, you’ll be here. Thinking. Second-guessing. Getting scared. Building this up in your head until it becomes a monster we can’t face.”
“That’s not fair,” she whispered, but it was a weak protest. He was right.
“It’s not about fair.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a rough murmur that vibrated in the air between them. “I don’t want you to think. I want you to know. So here’s the new rule.”
He reached past her, his arm brushing her chest, and yanked open the fridge door. The cool light spilled out, illuminating the determined set of his jaw. He pinned her gently against the chilled metal, his hand settling on her hip, thumb stroking the jut of bone.
“You have that journal,” he said. “The one you think I’ve never seen. The little black Moleskine you hide under your mattress. Filled with every filthy, beautiful, twisted thing you’ve ever wanted to try but were too afraid to say out loud.”
Catriona’s breath hitched. The violation should have felt catastrophic. Instead, it felt like being seen.
“I want it,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m taking it with me. And every night, from whatever shitty hotel room they stick me in, I’m going to call you. You’ll answer. And we’re going to work through it. Page by page. Fantasy by fantasy. We’re going to talk about them. Detail for detail. And the ones that don’t make you hang up in shame, the ones that make your breath go short over the phone… those are the ones we do. For real. When I get back.”
The proposition was absurd. Obscene. A week-long descent into coordinated depravity. It was also the most thrilling thing she’d ever heard.
“And Dave?” she breathed.
“That’s what the week is for. To find out if this is just a fucked-up game we’re playing to avoid our lives, or if it’s something we’re willing to burn a good man down for. We’ll know by the end. No more guessing.”
His hand slid from her hip, around to the back of her thigh, hiking up the rumpled shirt she still wore. His fingers brushed bare skin, making her jump. His touch was firm, possessive.
“This is the last freebie,” he said, his mouth so close to hers she could taste the whiskey and coffee on his breath. “Before the rules start.”
He kissed her, hard and consuming. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders as he lifted her, turning them, pressing her back against the cold fridge. The condensation seeped through the thin cotton, a shocking contrast to the heat flooding her own skin.
He freed himself from his jeans, that thick, heavy length she could still feel aching inside her from the night before. There was no preamble, no softness. Just the blunt, stretching pressure as he pushed into her, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat that melted into a low moan. He set a relentless, driving rhythm, each thrust punctuated by the soft thud of her body against the appliance. The half-empty bottle on the counter rattled.
Her head tipped back, thumping against the fridge door. Through the window, the grey afternoon light was bleeding away into early dusk. The rain streamed down the glass, distorting the world outside into something unrecognizable.
“A week,” he growled into the curve of her neck, his hips pistoning. “A week of you being my good girl on the phone. And then I come home, and we finish this. Whatever this is.”
She could only nod, a broken, repetitive motion as the friction built a devastating heat low in her belly. It was too much, too fast, a frantic punctuation mark on a conversation that had upended her world. Her climax ripped through her, sharp and sudden, a silent scream against his shoulder. He followed seconds later, a harsh groan muffled in her hair, his body rigid against hers.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the relentless rain.
He softened inside her, but didn’t pull away. Just held her there, pinned between his weight and the cold metal. Finally, he stepped back, helping her stand on shaky legs.
“Go get your journal,” he said, tucking himself away, his voice already shifting back to that practical tone. “And pack me a bag. I need to shower and go.”
She moved on autopilot, the stickiness between her thighs a secret testament. In her room, she pulled the little black notebook from its hiding place. The cover was soft, worn. It contained every shadowy corner of her mind. Handing it over felt more intimate than anything they’d done with their bodies.
He was in the hallway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, when she gave it to him. He took it, his fingers brushing hers. He didn’t open it. Just shoved it into the side pocket of his bag.
“Answer the phone, Cat,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “Every time.”
Then he was gone, the front door clicking shut with a finality that echoed through the suddenly cavernous flat.
She stood in the silent kitchen. The cracked mirror on the counter reflected a fragmented version of herself—hair wild, lips swollen, wearing nothing but a man’s shirt, standing in the wreckage of a normal Thursday afternoon. The promise of the week stretched before her, a tightrope woven from whispered filth and looming consequence.
Outside, the rain kept falling, washing everything clean and muddy all at once.