Chapter 2: The Librarian's Secret
Fiona stood there for a moment, the candlelight painting her slender frame in gold and shadow. Her breath was a little shallow, her eyes fixed on Aidan’s. The quiet librarian was gone, replaced by someone braver, hungrier.
“Can I…” she started, her voice soft. She cleared her throat. “Can I just look? For a minute?”
From her perch on the bed, Catriona let out a low, delighted laugh. “By all means. He’s a work of art. Study him.”
Aidan felt exposed in a way that went beyond the physical. This wasn't the frantic heat of sex with Cat; this was a slow, deliberate inspection. Fiona stepped closer, her gaze analytical, almost shy. Her fingers, when they first touched his chest, were cool. They traced the line of his collarbone, the hard swell of his pectoral, the dark trail of hair leading down his abdomen.
“You’re so much harder than you look,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her palms smoothed over the defined ridges of his stomach. “I mean, you look hard. But this is like… stone.”
He flinched when her thumb brushed his nipple. A small, appreciative smile touched her lips.
“Sensitive?”
He just grunted, the muscles in his arms corded as he gripped the silken bonds. Her exploration continued, mapping the powerful V of his hips, the dense muscle of his thighs. She avoided his cock, which stood straight up, glistening at the tip, an obvious and aching centerpiece. She was circling it, studying everything around it first, the architecture that supported it.
“Fiona,” Catriona prompted, her tone playful. “The main exhibit is waiting.”
Fiona nodded, her blonde hair slipping over her shoulder. Finally, she looked at it. She wrapped her hand around the base, her fingers not quite meeting. A soft, incredulous sound escaped her. “God, Cat. You weren’t exaggerating.”
“I never do,” Catriona said, sipping her champagne.
Fiona’s touch was firmer now, a slow, exploratory pump. She leaned in, her breath ghosting over the head. “I’ve thought about this,” she confessed, her voice so low Aidan almost didn’t catch it. “At your barbecue last summer. When you were manning the grill. No shirt. Sweat on your back.” She looked up at him, her eyes clouded with a guilty kind of lust. “I pictured it.”
Then she took him into her mouth.
The heat was shocking. The wet, silken pressure, perfect. Aidan’s head slammed back against the velvet, a sharp gasp torn from him. She wasn’t tentative. She took him deep, her throat working around him, her nose pressing into the dark hair at his base. The sight alone was obscene, breathtaking. The quiet, polite Fiona, devouring him with a focused, scholarly intensity.
Catriona watched, her green eyes gleaming. She set her glass down and moved. She didn’t join Aidan; she joined Fiona. She knelt beside her friend, cupped her face, and turned it towards her. She kissed her, deep and slow, her tongue sliding against Fiona’s even as Fiona’s mouth was full of Aidan.
The moan that vibrated through Fiona’s throat and into Aidan’s core was primal. Catriona’s hand joined Fiona’s on his shaft, guiding the rhythm, her fingers interlacing with her friend’s. It was a messy, shared control. Aidan was a instrument they were playing in unison. The dual sensation—the physical and the visual—drove him towards the edge with terrifying speed.
“Stop,” he ground out, his hips straining upward. “I’ll… too soon.”
Catriona broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting her to Fiona’s swollen lips. “He’s right. Rules are rules. He has to finish inside you, Fi. Properly.”
Fiona released him with a wet pop, breathing heavily. She looked wrecked, beautiful. She climbed onto the bed, her knees settling on either side of his hips. She positioned herself, the head of him nudging against her. She was slick, ready. She looked down at him, her expression a mix of awe and triumph.
“Okay,” she whispered, either to him or to herself.
She sank down.
It was a slow, inexorable conquest. Aidan bit back a shout, his entire world narrowing to the unbearable, perfect tightness surrounding him, heat enveloping him inch by inch. Fiona’s head fell back, a choked gasp in her throat as she took him all the way, until she was seated fully against him.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, her hands braced on his chest. “Holy shit, Aidan.”
She began to move. A slow, rolling grind at first, learning the fit of him. Then the pace quickened. Her hips found a rhythm, driving down onto him with increasing fervor. The bed began to creak in a steady, urgent protest. Her moans lost their shyness, becoming loud, unfiltered cries that echoed in the candlelit room.
Aidan was lost. The sensation, the sheer forbidden act of it, the sight of his wife watching with rapt, approving eyes—it coalesced into a white-hot pressure in his gut. He was a passenger, bound and helpless, being ridden hard towards a cliff.
“That’s it,” Catriona urged from the sidelines, her voice husky. “Take it. Take all of him.”
Fiona’s movements became frantic, jerky. Her inner muscles began to flutter and clench around him, a rhythmic, milking pulse. Her cries pitched higher, breaking apart. “I’m… I’m coming… oh god, Aidan…”
The sound of his name on her lips, ragged with pleasure, was the trigger. The coil in his belly snapped. With a roar that was mostly air, he erupted into her, deep and pulsing, his body bowing against the restraints. Fiona clenched around him, milking every last drop, her own climax shuddering through her in wave after wave until she collapsed forward, sweaty and panting, onto his chest.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint hiss of a candle. Aidan felt spent, hollowed out, a deep, warm lassitude seeping into his bones. Fiona’s weight was a comforting heat.
Then, the doorbell rang again.
Fiona flinched. Catriona’s smile returned, wider than before. She gracefully stood and walked to the window, peeking through the drapes.
“Lisa’s here,” she announced, her tone bright and conversational. “And she brought someone. Megan, I think.” She turned back to the bed, her gaze sweeping over the tangled, spent bodies of her husband and her best friend. “Fi, darling, you’ll want to clean up. The queue is forming.”
Reality crashed back in. One down. Aidan looked at Catriona, then at the soft, damp hollow where Fiona still lay joined with him. The silk on his wrists felt less like a restraint and more like an anchor. He was tied to this. There was no going back.
The party had only just begun.