Chapter 2: The First Night
The stale, floral scent of the room hit Aidan the moment Jenny opened the door. Lavender, and beneath it, that faint coppery tang. It felt like stepping into a secret.
“Hi,” she said, her voice small. She was hugging herself in a robe of sheer navy silk. He could see the shadow of her hips, the pale curve of her breasts underneath. Her honey-blonde hair was down, damp at the ends as if she’d just showered.
“Hey.” He kicked off his boots on the mat, a habit. The domesticity of the gesture felt absurd. This wasn’t a social call. He had a small duffel bag in his hand. Clean clothes, toiletries. Cat’s idea. Make it normal. Make it routine.
She led him wordlessly up the creaking stairs, the robe whispering against her thighs. He followed, his eyes on the nervous tension in her shoulders. Mark was away. A conference. The timing had been surgical. The house felt hollow without him, a vessel waiting to be filled with something else entirely.
Her bedroom was exactly as Catriona had described. A four-poster bed, its dark wood dominating the space, curtains half-drawn. A single lamp on the nightstand fought a losing battle against the deep shadows. It was warm, the air still and heavy.
Jenny stopped in the center of the room, turning to face him. She looked achingly young. “I don’t really know what… the protocol is,” she said, attempting a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“There isn’t one.” He set the duffel down by the dresser. “Cat said to be thorough. To stay as long as it takes. That’s the only protocol.”
He stepped closer. The robe’s belt was tied in a limp bow. He didn’t untie it. He just hooked a finger into the V at her chest and gently pulled the fabric apart. It slipped from her shoulders, puddling on the worn rug at her feet.
She was naked beneath. Her skin pebbled in the cool air. He took her in, his gaze clinical for a moment—the soft swell of her belly, the slight curve of her hips, the pale pink of her nipples. Different from Catriona. Softer, less defined. A body that hadn’t borne children, but had yearned for them. The sadness was etched into her, a quiet geography he felt compelled to map.
“You’re beautiful, Jenny,” he said, and meant it. It was a fact, relevant to the task.
A blush swept over her chest. She looked down, then seemed to gather a shred of courage, her eyes lifting to his. “Should I… get on the bed?”
“In a minute.”
He reached out, tracing the line from her collarbone to the tip of her breast. She shivered. He cupped her, his hand engulfing the gentle weight. He leaned down and took the nipple into his mouth, not gentle, not rough. Purposeful. He sucked, lapped, bit down just enough to make her gasp. His other hand slid down the plane of her back, over the dip of her waist, to grip the full swell of her backside, pulling her against him. He was already hard, a thick pressure against the fly of his jeans.
He could feel her heart hammering against his lips. Her hands came up, fluttered, then settled on his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt.
He switched to her other breast, paying it the same deliberate attention. Her breathing grew ragged. The shyness was being burned away, replaced by a dazed, physical focus. That was good. She needed to be here, in her body, not in her head.
When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went pliantly. The sheets were cool, smelling of her soap and that underlying metallic note. He stripped quickly, his clothes joining her robe on the floor.
In the lamplight, her eyes went wide, fixed on him. That familiar look of awe, edged now with a lick of pure hunger. She’d taken him once, but seeing him like this, fully erect and looming over her in the intimate cave of her own bed, was different. It was a possession of her space as well as her body.
He didn’t push her onto her back. Instead, he lay beside her, propped on an elbow, and kissed her. Properly. Deeply. His tongue stroking into her mouth, mimicking the act to come. She tasted of mint tea and nervousness. Her response was clumsy at first, then ardent, her hands sliding into his hair.
His hand trailed down between them. She was wet, slick heat greeting his fingers. He circled her clit, felt her jolt, then pressed two fingers inside. She was tighter than Cat, a different, clutching warmth. He worked her, slowly, watching her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open on silent, panting breaths.
“Look at me, Jenny.”
Her hazel eyes flew open, glazed.
“This is what you wanted. What you asked for.”
She nodded, frantic.
“Tell me.”
“I want it,” she whispered. “I want you to… put it in me. Please, Aidan. I need you to.”
That was all he needed. He shifted over her, his weight settling between her thighs. He used his hand to guide himself, the broad head nudging against her soaked entrance. He pushed, just an inch, stretching her unbearably. She cried out, her nails digging into his biceps.
He stopped. “Breathe. Take it. It’s all for you.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath, her body consciously relaxing, opening. He sank deeper, a slow, relentless invasion until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against hers. The feeling was profound. A perfect, airtight fit. She was so full she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could only feel the staggering reality of him buried inside her.
He began to move. A deep, patient rhythm. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a deliberate, punctuating return to the hilt. The bedframe gave a faint, rhythmic tap against the wall. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet house.
He watched her lose herself. The quiet, sad Jenny was gone. In her place was a woman unraveling. Her head thrashed on the pillow. Whimpers became broken sobs of pleasure. Her legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him even deeper, impossibly deeper.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his own control starting to fray. The animal part of him, the part Cat had unlocked, wanted to pound, to claim, to breed in a frenzy. But the methodical man, the astronomer, knew the importance of the right conditions. Deep, steady, prolonged contact. Maximizing the chance. “Take all of it. It’s yours.”
His pace increased, driven by her tightening around him, by her choked pleas. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, her frantic gasps for air. He felt the telltale flutter deep inside her, the first tremor of her climax. He drove into it, relentless, triggering a cascade. She came with a shattered scream, her body convulsing, clamping around him in rhythmic, milking pulses that ripped his own orgasm from him.
He poured into her, a hot, surging flood, his hips pumping through the pulses until he was spent, utterly drained. He collapsed onto her, careful not to crush her, but buried to the root. He stayed there, pulsing softly inside her, until he began to soften. Only then did he slip out, a gush of their combined release following onto the sheets.
They lay in the wreckage, sweat-slicked, breathing in ragged unison. The room smelled of sex now, salt and musk overwhelming the lavender.
After a long while, he shifted, pulling her back against his chest, her spine to his sternum. He draped an arm over her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her lower abdomen. He could feel the faint, residual tremors in her muscles.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” he said into her hair, his voice hoarse. “Before I go to work. We’ll do it again then.”
She didn’t speak. Just nodded, her hand coming up to lie over his. She was already half-asleep, a floaty, emptied-out exhaustion claiming her. As her breathing evened into sleep, he stared at the pattern of light and shadow on the bed curtain. He thought of Catriona, asleep in their bed across town. He thought of the seed he’d just planted here in this strange, sad room.
He held Jenny tighter, his body curving around the potential he’d left inside her. The promise, and the weight of it, finally felt real.