Chapter 14: A Request from Siobhan
The smell of fried eggs and coffee had almost, but not quite, overwritten the memory-scent of sex in the air. Aidan stood at the sink, his hands submerged in soapy water, watching through the window as a magpie pecked at the lawn. The domestic normalcy of it was a bizarre counterpoint to the feeling humming in his veins.
Behind him, the low murmur of conversation had stopped.
He heard the soft pad of bare feet, then Siobhan’s voice, hushed but clear. “Cat. Can I…?”
Aidan didn’t turn, but his spine stiffened. He stared at the plate in his hands, scrubbing at a spot that wasn’t there.
“Of course,” Catriona’s reply was a smooth, warm stone. “Bedroom’s free. I’ll get more juice.”
The kitchen door swung softly. Aidan felt a presence at his elbow. Siobhan. She smelled of their shower gel, of jasmine from Catriona’s perfume, of sleep. She placed her empty juice glass on the counter with a delicate clink.
“Thank you,” she said, not for the glass. Her voice was different. Less of the book club friend, more of the woman from the rug. “For breakfast. For… everything.”
He nodded, still not looking at her. “Sure.”
She lingered a moment longer. He could feel her gaze on his profile. Then she was gone, her footsteps receding down the hall. The bathroom door clicked shut.
Catriona materialized beside him, leaning her hip against the counter. She took a slow sip of orange juice, her eyes on the closed hallway door. “She’s borrowing my dry shampoo. Her hair’s a state.”
“Right.” Aidan pulled the plug, watching the greasy water swirl and gurgle down the drain.
“Aidan.”
He finally looked at her. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of calm curiosity. But her eyes were blazing.
“She pulled me aside. When you were getting the eggs.”
“I noticed.”
“She wants to talk. Just us.” Catriona set her glass down. “I think the student wants to become a collaborator.”
Before he could process that, the bathroom door opened. Siobhan emerged, her auburn hair now loosely piled, a few damp tendrils curling at her neck. She’d put on one of Catriona’s silk kimonos, deep emerald green. It swam on her slightly, making her look younger, more vulnerable. The effect was deceptive.
“Your garden is lovely, Aidan,” she said, wandering to the French doors and looking out. “So wild. Not pruned into submission like ours.”
“I like things that grow where they want,” he said, drying his hands on a towel.
Catriona smiled, a slow, cat-like thing. “Come on, Siobhan. Let’s let the man finish cleaning his kitchen. We’ll have our chat in the living room.”
Aidan was left with the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of their voices, a low, indistinct murmur from down the hall. He wiped down every surface, rearranged the spice rack, took out the trash. The mundane tasks were a bulwark. Finally, he couldn’t avoid it. He moved to the hallway, pretending to check the thermostat.
Their voices drifted from the living room, clearer now.
“…never felt like that,” Siobhan was saying, her voice earnest, stripped bare. “Like I was the only thing that mattered. Even though I knew I wasn’t. It was an illusion, but Christ, it was a good one.”
“It wasn’t an illusion,” Catriona replied, her tone soft but absolute. “In that moment, you were.”
A silence. Then Siobhan’s voice, lower, tinged with a new kind of boldness. “Can I… can I be the one to set the rules next time?”
Aidan stopped breathing. He pressed his back against the cool wall of the hallway.
“What do you mean?” Catriona asked, but there was no surprise in it, only intrigue.
“I mean…” A rustle of silk. “You directed everything last night. It was perfect. It was what I needed. But now… I know what he feels like. I know what you look like watching. I have ideas.”
“Tell me.”
“I want him…” Siobhan’s voice dropped to a whisper Aidan had to strain to hear. “I want him blindfolded.”
A long pause. Aidan’s heart hammered against his ribs. Blindfolded. Powerless. The tool, utterly controlled.
“Why?” Catriona’s question was a blade, precise.
“Because then he has to listen. He has to feel. He won’t know which of us is touching him. He won’t know whose mouth, whose… He’ll just have to take it. What we give him.” Siobhan’s words came faster now, painting the scene. “And you and I… we’ll be looking at each other. We’ll know. We’ll be in charge of what he feels.”
The silence that followed was thick, charged. Aidan imagined Catriona’s face, that glint in her green eyes hardening into a diamond edge.
“You want to turn my husband into our instrument.”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
A soft, breathy laugh from Catriona. It wasn’t mockery. It was admiration. “You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Since about 4 AM.”
Another rustle, the sound of someone moving closer. “Okay,” Catriona said, the word final. A deal struck. “Your rules. Your scene. But I watch. I always watch.”
“That,” Siobhan whispered, “is the whole point.”
Aidan slid silently back into the kitchen, his palms sweaty. The power had shifted. It had been a seismic, silent shift. He was no longer the fulcrum. He was the weight they would swing.
Minutes later, they returned. Catriona’s cheeks were flushed. Siobhan looked serene, possessed of a secret. She went straight to the French doors and opened them, letting in a gust of cool, leafy air.
“I should probably think about heading back eventually,” she said, but the statement was hollow, a formality. She turned, leaning in the doorway, the green silk parting to show a slash of pale thigh. Her eyes found Aidan’s across the room. “Andrew will be wondering why Claire’s crisis is taking all weekend.”
Catriona flopped onto the sofa, tucking her legs under her. “Stay for dinner, at least. Aidan makes a ridiculous mushroom risotto.”
“Does he?” Siobhan’s gaze never left Aidan. It was a direct, testing look. “I’d like that. I’d like to see… what else he can do.”
The challenge hung in the air, mixing with the scent of garden soil and possibility. Aidan felt the familiar, stubborn pride rise in his chest, hot and bright. They thought they could orchestrate him? They thought he’d just be a passive recipient?
He met Siobhan’s gaze, then Catriona’s. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, one he usually reserved for overcoming impossible obstacles during his deployments.
“Risotto it is,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But it’s a tedious process. Requires a lot of patience. And attention.”
He saw the flicker in both their eyes—surprise, then a dark, shared delight. He had just accepted their terms, but in doing so, he’d subtly redrawn the lines. The game wasn’t theirs alone. Not anymore.
The afternoon sun climbed, bathing the room in gold, and the three of them existed in a new, fragile, and electrifying peace.