Chapter 8: The Symphony Begins
Fiona stood in the doorway, her knuckles pale where she gripped the strap of her handbag. The cheerful, booming laugh from the barbecue was gone. In its place was a wary stillness, a held breath. She’d dressed carefully: a simple black wrap dress, heels that added a nervous click to her step, a perfume that was all citrus and clean linen, trying too hard to smell innocent.
“Hey, stranger,” Catriona said, her voice a warm landing pad. She crossed the room barefoot, the sun through the sheers making her red hair a halo of fire. She didn’t hug Fiona. She just took her hands, squeezing them. “You made it.”
“I almost didn’t,” Fiona blurted, her eyes darting past Catriona to where Aidan sat in the armchair. He’d chosen it deliberately, a spectator’s seat. He gave a small, tight nod. His own heart was a trapped bird behind his ribs.
“But you did,” Catriona said, leading her in. “And that’s what matters. Wine?”
“God, yes.”
The pop of the cork was obscenely loud. Catriona poured three glasses, her movements economical and sure. She handed one to Fiona, placed one on the coffee table for Aidan, and kept one for herself. She didn’t sit. She prowled.
“So,” Fiona said after a long sip. “This is weird.”
Catriona laughed, a genuine, sparkling sound. “It’s bonkers, is what it is. But ‘weird’ implies judgment. We’re past judgment here, Fi. We’re in the laboratory of pleasure.” She swirled her wine. “How was Mark this morning?”
Fiona’s smile was brittle. “Distracted. Packed his blue tie. Kissed my cheek like I was his sister. Drove off.” She took another drink. “It was perfect.”
Aidan watched the words land. This wasn’t about passion alone; it was about revenge. A quiet, liquid revenge served in his living room.
“Good,” Catriona purred. She set her glass down. “Then let’s not waste his efficiency. Aidan, come here.”
He stood, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He felt enormous, clumsy, in the suddenly intimate space. Fiona’s eyes widened, tracking him.
“No,” Catriona said softly, touching Fiona’s chin, turning her gaze back. “Look at me. This is for you. But it’s through me. Understand?” Fiona nodded, a quick jerk of her head. “Okay. Now, I want you to let go of that bag. Let it drop.”
The handbag thudded softly on the rug.
“Now the dress. Slowly. For us.”
Fiona’s fingers trembled at the knot of the wrap dress. She fumbled, a flush spreading from her chest to her throat. Catriona didn’t help. She watched, sipping her wine, a curator observing the unveiling. The fabric parted, and Fiona shrugged it off her shoulders. It pooled around her feet. She stood in matching black lace bra and panties, her body lush and full, skin pale against the dark fabric.
“Beautiful,” Catriona breathed. “Now the rest.”
Piece by piece, the armor came off. The bra clasp released, and her breasts spilled free, heavy and tipped with tight, pink nipples. The panties were slipped down her thighs. She stepped out of them, and then there was only her, bathed in the dusty gold light, one arm crossing instinctively over her stomach.
“None of that,” Catriona chided gently. She took Fiona’s wrist, moved it away. “Let him see. Let yourself be seen.” She guided Fiona to the center of the room, on the Persian rug that was older than their marriage. “Aidan. Kneel.”
He lowered himself to his knees before Fiona. The musky scent of her arousal hit him, clean and sharp. He could see the faint tremor in her thighs.
“Worship her,” Catriona instructed, her voice now a low conductor’s baton. “With your mouth. Everywhere but there. Not yet.”
Aidan leaned forward. He pressed his lips to the inside of Fiona’s knee. She gasped. He mapped a trail with his tongue and lips, up the silken skin of her inner thigh, feeling the muscle jump under his touch. He nuzzled the soft curve of her hip, kissed the dip of her navel, took the weight of one breast in his hand and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Fiona’s hands came down, tangling in his hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on.
He lost himself in the taste of her, in the ragged sound of her breathing. The guilt was a distant echo, drowned out by a roaring, singular focus. To do this well. To perform.
“Enough,” Catriona said. Her voice was thicker. “On the rug, Fi. On your hands and knees.”
Fiona moved like she was in a dream, lowering herself onto all fours. The arch of her back was profound, an offering. Aidan looked up at Catriona. Her green eyes were black, her cheeks flushed. She gave him a single, imperious nod.
He moved behind Fiona, freeing himself. Her head dropped between her shoulders, a muffled sound escaping her as she felt him, the broad, blunt pressure where there had only been empty air. He pushed, and the resistance was breathtaking, a hot, velvet vise that made his vision speckle. He sank in to the hilt, a single, devastating stroke.
“Oh, Christ,” Fiona sobbed, her fingers clawing at the rug.
Catriona was suddenly there, kneeling beside Fiona’s head. She gathered Fiona’s sweat-damp hair in one fist, not yanking, just claiming. “Look at me, beautiful,” she whispered. “Look at me while he ruins you for any other man.”
Fiona’s tear-filled eyes found Catriona’s. Aidan began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that shook Fiona’s entire body. The wet slap of skin filled the room, syncopated with their ragged breaths. Catriona held Fiona’s gaze, whispering a constant, filthy stream of praise and possession. “That’s it. Take it. Take all of him. You’re so greedy for it. You’re mine like this.”
Aidan was a piston, a machine of flesh and need. The world narrowed to the exquisite friction, to the broken sounds from Fiona’s throat, to the fever-bright gaze of his wife. He was a tool, and he was a god.
He felt the storm gathering, deep in his gut. “Cat,” he grunted, a warning.
“Now,” Catriona commanded, her voice guttural. “Fill her. Mark her. Do it.”
The release was a seismic event. He drove in one last, brutal time, shuddering as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing waves, buried to the root inside another man’s wife. He stayed there, locked, as Fiona cried out beneath him, her own body clenching in erratic, helpless spasms.
Silence, except for their panting.
Catriona released Fiona’s hair. She didn’t look at Aidan. Her focus was entirely on the place where their bodies were still joined. She leaned in, her movement reverent. She slid two fingers into Fiona, alongside him, and slowly withdrew them, glistening and streaked with white.
Fiona watched, mesmerized, as Catriona raised her fingers to her own mouth and licked them clean, slowly, making sure every last trace was gone. A long, deliberate swallow.
“Perfect,” Catriona sighed, a painter stepping back from a finished canvas. She kissed Fiona’s slack, parted lips. “My perfect girl.”
Aidan finally pulled away, collapsing back onto his heels. Fiona folded onto her side, curling into herself, spent. The room hummed with spent energy, with the stark, naked truth of what they’d done.
Catriona stood, wiping her hands on her thighs. She looked down at both of them, a satisfied, almost maternal smile on her face. “The first movement is complete,” she said. She picked up her wine glass, finishing the last swallow. “Fiona, the guest shower is all yours. Towels are on the rack.” Her tone was casual, light, as if discussing the weather.
Fiona nodded, gathering herself, moving stiffly towards the hallway without a word.
Only then did Catriona look at Aidan. Her eyes held a triumphant, blazing fire. She walked over, crouched in front of him, and kissed him softly. He could taste Fiona on her lips, and something else, metallic and primal.
“You were magnificent,” she whispered against his mouth. “Just wait until Saturday.”