Chapter 3: The Morning Ritual
The dawn light was a pale, cold blade slicing through the gap in Jenny’s curtains. Aidan let himself in with the key she’d left under the potted fern, the metallic click echoing in the silent house. He’d kissed Catriona asleep just an hour before, her murmured “good luck” a ghost on his lips.
Upstairs, the bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it open.
Jenny was sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed, wrapped in the same sheer robe. She wasn’t asleep. She looked expectant, her hands clenched in her lap, the shadows under her eyes a testament to a night spent thinking, feeling. The air still held the ripe, intimate scent of them.
“You’re early,” she whispered.
“Optimal window,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. He shrugged out of his jacket. “Basal body temperature is highest just after waking. Increases motility.”
A faint, real smile touched her lips. “You’ve been reading.”
“I’m an astronomer. I study cycles.” He came to stand in front of her. “How do you feel?”
“Sore,” she admitted, looking down. “Full. It’s… a lot.”
He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up. Her hazel eyes were wide, vulnerable. “It’s supposed to be.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “You were incredible last night.”
The praise made her blush. She leaned into his touch, just slightly. The shyness was still there, but it was softer now, layered with a new familiarity. He untied the belt of her robe. It fell open. In the grey morning light, he could see a faint bloom of colour on her hips—the ghost of his grip from the night before. The sight sent a primal thrill through him.
He didn’t lead her back to the bed. Instead, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me.”
She followed him, barefoot and compliant, down the stairs to the kitchen. The room was steeped in quiet, the world outside not yet awake. Golden afternoon light was still hours away; this was a blue-hour world, all cool shadows and muted tones. He guided her to the central island, its granite surface cold under her palms when he pressed her against it.
“Here?” she breathed, a note of shock giving way to something darker, more intrigued.
“Here.” His hands went to the belt of his own jeans. The denim was stiff. He shucked them down, along with his boxers, freeing himself. He was already thick and heavy, arousal a blunt, insistent truth. The morning air kissed his skin.
He nudged her feet apart with his own. His hands smoothed the robe from her shoulders, baring her back, the elegant curve of her spine, the full swell of her backside. He leaned over her, his chest warming her skin, and reached around to find her already wet and slick. Last night’s aftermath, and fresh desire. He groaned into her hair.
“You’re ready for me.”
“I think I’ve been ready since you left,” she murmured, the confession muffled against her own arm.
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her heated entrance. He entered her with a single, deep, uninterrupted push. She cried out, a sharp sound that shattered the kitchen’s silence, her back arching. She was still impossibly tight, but she yielded, stretching around him, accepting the relentless fullness.
He set a punishing pace from the start. This wasn’t the slow, worshipful rhythm of the night before. This was urgent, possessive. Each deep drive pushed a gasp from her lungs. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place, the slap of skin against skin a stark, rhythmic beat. The ceramic canisters on the counter rattled softly in time.
“Oh, god, Aidan… it’s so deep.”
“That’s the point,” he gritted out, his own control thinning. The animal was closer to the surface now, in the stark light of morning. He watched himself disappear into her, watched her body struggle to accommodate him, and it was the most brutally beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His balls tightened, slapping against her clit with every thrust, and she began to shake.
Her climax took her violently. It was a silent, seizing thing for a second before the sound broke free—a raw, torn scream that she buried in the crook of her elbow. Her inner muscles fluttered and gripped him like a fist, a hot, milking pressure that had him seeing stars.
He pulled out almost all the way, just the tip remaining. They both watched, panting, as a thick, pearlescent trickle of his release leaked from her swollen flesh and dripped onto the slate floor. The sight was obscenely clinical and deeply erotic.
“Not enough,” he growled, and surged back into her, burying himself to the hilt on a single thrust. She sobbed, oversensitive, but her hips pushed back against him, demanding more. He fucked her through it, through the sensitivity, until her sobs turned to moans again. His second orgasm was a slower, deeper eruption, a hot flood that felt like it would never end. He ground his hips against her, ensuring every last drop was deposited as deeply as possible.
He stayed there, buried inside her, both of them slumped over the counter, breathing in ragged unison. The first proper rays of sunlight streamed through the window, catching the dust motes and the sweat on their skin.
After a long moment, he softened and slipped out. Another gush followed. He righted his jeans, not bothering to fasten them. Jenny slowly straightened, wincing. She turned, leaning back against the counter for support. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. She looked thoroughly used, and there was a profound peace in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
He reached for the electric kettle, filled it, and clicked it on. The mundane sound was surreal.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Yes. Please.”
He found the grounds, the filters. He moved around her kitchen with a strange domestic ease. She slid down to sit on the floor, her robe tented around her, and watched him.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said quietly.
“I know.” He set two mugs on the table. The jar of honey sat between them, unopened, golden in the now-strongening light. “But I’m going to. For a bit.” He looked at her, really looked. “We should talk. Not about cycles. How’s your head?”
She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Quieter than it has been in years.” She met his gaze. “Is that awful?”
“No.” He brought the mugs over, sat on the floor beside her, his back against a cupboard. Their shoulders touched. “It’s the point, isn’t it? To stop the thinking.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. They sat in silence, drinking coffee in the sunlit kitchen, the evidence of what they’d just done drying on the floor between them. It was horrifying. It was perfect.
“You’ll come back tonight?” she finally asked, her voice small.
He stared into his black coffee. Catriona was expecting him home for dinner. He pictured her face, the eager, anxious hope in it. Then he pictured Jenny, here alone in this quiet house, waiting.
“Yes,” he said, the word settling something in the room, and in himself. “I’ll be back tonight.”