Chapter 17: Siobhan's First Taste
The following Wednesday smelled of impending rain and cut grass. Aidan stood at their bedroom window, watching a neighbor mow precise stripes into a lawn. His stomach was a tight coil.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Catriona said from behind him. She was a vision in deliberate contrasts: a simple black linen dress, but with a neckline that plunged. Her hair was a controlled riot of crimson waves. She looked like she was going to a gallery opening, not to her friend’s house to watch her husband fuck.
“Just running the rules,” he said, not turning around.
Her rules. His rules. They’d drafted them over the last few days, a strange, erotic treaty. Catriona would watch, but not participate. Siobhan would not kiss him on the mouth—that was Catriona’s territory alone. A specific safe word, “Hedge,” for any of them. And the final, biggest rule: it happened where and how Catriona directed. She was the conductor.
“Good,” Catriona murmured, slipping her arms around his waist. Her perfume, something dark and floral, enveloped him. “Remember them. Then forget them. I need you to be present, not in your head.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one performing.”
She pinched his side, a sharp, playful correction. “You’re not performing. You’re giving. To her. To me. There’s a difference.” She rested her cheek against his back. “And Siobhan’s a wreck. She’s texted me seventeen times since breakfast. She vacuumed the entire house twice. She’s trying to pick between two sets of sheets.”
That drew a short laugh from him. The normal, human nerves of it were grounding. “Which sheets won?”
“The dark grey percale. Practical, but sexy.” She spun him around, her hands flat on his chest. “You look good. Trust me.”
He’d worn what she’d laid out: dark jeans, a simple grey henley that stretched across his shoulders. No armor, just him.
The drive to Siobhan’s was quiet, filled with the swish of wipers against a light drizzle. The house was a tidy brick colonial in a neighborhood of identical tidy brick colonials. A single porch light was on, a beacon.
Siobhan opened the door before they could knock. She was in a silk camisole and leggings, her feet bare. Her eyes were huge. “Hi. Come in. It’s wet.”
The familiarity of her entryway—the messy basket of kid’s shoes, the framed family photo from a beach vacation—hit Aidan with a wave of surreality. He was here to do this here, in the heart of her domestic life.
“Wine?” Siobhan asked, already heading toward the kitchen. “I have a Pinot open. Or whiskey? Aidan, you drink whiskey.”
“Whiskey would be great,” he said, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet house.
Catriona followed Siobhan, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “Just water for me. I want a clear head.”
They regrouped in the living room. Aidan took a heavy swallow of the whiskey, feeling its heat trace a path down his throat. Siobhan perched on the edge of an armchair, curling her toes into the plush rug. Catriona sat gracefully on the sofa, crossing her legs.
“So,” Catriona said, smiling. “How was your day, Siobhan?”
Siobhan let out a burst of hysterical laughter, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s just… this is so weird. I made banana bread this morning. I have two loaves of banana bread on the counter.”
“We’ll take one home,” Catriona said smoothly. “Now. Are you ready?”
Siobhan looked at Aidan. The hunger he’d seen in her eyes before was there, but so was a profound vulnerability. She nodded.
“Good.” Catriona’s tone shifted, becoming soft but utterly commanding. “Aidan, go to her. Help her up.”
Aidan set his glass down. The floor seemed to tilt as he walked the few steps to Siobhan’s chair. He held out his hand. She took it, her fingers cool and slight in his. He pulled her gently to her feet. She was trembling.
“Now,” Catriona instructed from her throne on the sofa. “Just stand there. Look at each other.”
They did. Aidan saw the faint spray of freckles across her nose, the rapid flutter of a pulse in her throat. She smelled like lavender and nervous sweat. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
“Touch his chest, Siobhan,” Catriona said, her voice a low murmur. “Feel how solid he is.”
Siobhan raised her other hand, pressing her palm flat against the cotton over his pectoral. She exhaled, a shaky release of breath.
“Now, kiss his neck. Just there, below his jaw.”
Siobhan rose on her toes, her lips soft and tentative against his skin. A shiver ran through him, involuntary. Her breath was warm.
“Good,” Catriona purred. “Aidan, put your hands on her waist.”
He did, his fingers spanning the delicate curve. He could feel the heat of her through the thin silk.
“Siobhan, take off his shirt.”
Her hands went to the hem of his henley, fumbling slightly as she pulled it up and over his head. She dropped it to the floor. Her eyes traveled over his torso, the broad shoulders, the definition of his abdomen. “Jesus,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“You can touch him,” Catriona encouraged. “He’s yours to explore right now.”
Siobhan’s hands grew bolder, mapping the planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. Her thumbs brushed his nipples, and he tensed. She looked up, questioning.
“It’s okay,” he grunted. “Sensitive.”
A small, knowing smile touched her lips. She did it again, watching his reaction. A current of pure, electric lust began to override his nerves.
“Enough teasing,” Catriona said, her own breath coming a little faster. “Siobhan, lose the leggings. Aidan, your jeans.”
They moved in a silent, efficient dance. Fabric whispered to the floor. Soon, they were standing barefoot in the lamplight, skin to skin from the waist up. Aidan was already hard, the thick length of him pressing insistently against his boxer briefs. Siobhan’s eyes were locked there, her lips parted.
“On the rug,” Catriona directed. “Slowly. Aidan, lie back.”
The rug was soft, wool over pad. Aidan lay down, the ceiling fan a slow, silent circle above him. Siobhan knelt beside him, her camisone strap slipping off one shoulder.
“Now,” Catriona said, and her voice had changed again, thick with arousal. “Siobhan. Take him in your mouth. Just like I showed you. And look at me while you do it.”
Siobhan’s gaze flicked to Catriona, then back to Aidan’s cock. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled them down. He sprang free, fully erect. She inhaled sharply, a mix of awe and apprehension.
Then she bent her head.
The warmth of her mouth was enveloping, tentative at first, then more assured as she found a rhythm. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, stayed fixed on Catriona, who had leaned forward on the sofa, her own hand discreetly moving beneath the hem of her dress. The visual was utterly obscene, utterly captivating: his body reacting intensely to one woman’s touch, while his wife watched, master of the ceremony.
Catriona’s lips were curved in a smile of profound ownership. “Yes,” she breathed. “Just like that. See how he responds to you? He’s all yours.”
Aidan surrendered to the sensation, the coil in his stomach melting into a deep, pooling heat. This was the point of no return. The rules, the morality, the strange jealousy—it all dissolved under the skillful, worshipful pull of Siobhan’s mouth and the searing knowledge of his wife’s approving gaze.
After several minutes, Catriona spoke again, her voice husky. “Stop.”
Siobhan pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connecting her lips to him for a second before it broke. She was panting.
“Stand up, both of you,” Catriona said, rising from the sofa herself. “We’re not finishing here. We’re going upstairs. To your room, Siobhan. To your bed.”
The finality of it landed in the quiet room. The guest room had been the original suggestion, a neutral space. The marital bed was the deepest violation, the ultimate capitulation to the fantasy.
Siobhan looked stunned, then a wild, reckless light ignited in her eyes. She nodded.
The procession up the carpeted stairs was silent. Aidan followed Siobhan, with Catriona behind him. He could feel the weight of her attention on his back.
Siobhan’s bedroom was neat, floral, illuminated by a single bedside lamp. The grey percale sheets were indeed sleek and inviting. The headboard was a large, upholstered thing. A photo of her and Andrew, smiling on a ski lift, sat on the dresser.
Catriona walked to the far side of the room, leaning against the dresser, deliberately placing herself in the sightline of the bed. “Don’t mind me,” she said softly.
Siobhan turned to Aidan. All hesitation was gone, burned away. She reached behind her, unclasped her camisole, and let it fall. She was beautifully, delicately naked. “Please,” she said, the single word loaded with years of suppressed wanting.
She lay back on the sheets, and he followed, covering her body with his. The feeling was different now—less performance, more urgent need. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, as his hand slid between her legs. She was soaking wet, and she gasped, arching into his touch.
“Look at me,” Catriona commanded from the shadows. “When you enter her. Look at me.”
Aidan braced himself above Siobhan. He met his wife’s eyes across the dim room. They were blazing, voracious. He positioned himself, and with a slow, inexorable push, he sheathed himself fully inside another man’s wife.
Siobhan cried out, a sharp, muffled sound against his shoulder. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper.
“Now,” Catriona whispered, her hand no longer hidden, moving openly against herself. “Fuck her, Aidan. Fuck her for me. And don’t you dare pull out.”
It was the permission, the order, that broke the last dam. He began to move, a deep, driving rhythm that made the bedframe tap softly against the wall. Siobhan matched him thrust for thrust, her nails digging into his back, her pleas and whimpers a frantic music. But his anchor was Catriona’s face, the naked ecstasy and power he saw there, the unbreakable thread of complicity that connected the three of them in this act.
He felt the climax gathering, a tidal wave building at the base of his spine. “Cat,” he grunted, a warning.
“Yes,” she hissed, her body taut. “Now. Give it to her.”
The wave crashed. With a raw, guttural shout, he buried himself as deep as he could go and emptied himself into Siobhan, pulse after pulse, a profound, liquid surrender.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant patter of rain against the window. Aidan collapsed, rolling to the side but staying entwined with Siobhan, his spend already leaking out onto the grey sheets beneath them.
Catriona was perfectly still for a ten-count. Then she pushed off from the dresser, walked to the foot of the bed, and looked down at the evidence of her fulfilled fantasy. Her expression was one of awe, of satiation so deep it bordered on peace.
She reached out and touched Aidan’s damp ankle, a brief, possessive contact.
“Perfect,” she said. Her voice was raw, but utterly satisfied. “Just perfect.”