Work Text:
“Either way, it was horrible.”
The heavy oak door groaned as Aldo turned the key, sealing out the rhythmic drumming of the rain.
“Pedantic,” he added, though the edge was gone from his voice, replaced by the weary satisfaction of a man finally back in his own shadows. He shook his shoulders, a few stray droplets flying from his wool coat. “To spend forty minutes debating the ‘intentionality’ of the late-period text while the salad wilts — it’s a special kind of academic cruelty, wouldn't you say?”
Catherine didn't answer immediately. She leaned against the floral wallpaper of the hallway, the heels of her pumps clicking softly on the hardwood as she stepped out of them. A dull ache began to throb in her arches as her socked toes wiggled in their newfound freedom. She felt tall, far too tall, in the narrow corridor, but at least she was out of the evening cold.
She watched Aldo’s profile in the dim hallway light. It was sharp as his tongue as he was dissecting the evening like a specimen. He thrived on these frictions, on the minor irritations of a life spent among books. He needed something to sharpen his wit against, and she couldn’t deny that the evening offered the perfect whetstone.
Next to him, Vincent had slipped off his shoes as well. He had been quieter on the walk home, not diminishing himself but rather making room for Aldo. He kept that energy, moving in a wiry, effortless shadow as he disappeared into the kitchen. Soon, the sound of the faucet running and the click of the kettle base echoed down the hall. “The faculty seemed happy enough to listen, no?” His voice drifted through the open doorway.
“Unfortunately,” Aldo sighed. He moved into Catherine’s space, his fingers steady as he peeled the heavy silk coat off her shoulders. “They’re all desperate to get in his good graces. Now that the old one’s dead, everyone suddenly believes there’s a corner office waiting for them. ‘Oh yes, Master, please continue quoting Aquinas incorrectly.’ Honestly.”
He draped her coat over his own, hanging them with a practised synchronisation. She rolled her shoulders, grateful to rid herself of the drag of it, while Aldo made quick work of his tie, letting the silk slither through his collar like a shed skin. There was a scholarly precision to his fingers, as if they could make anything orderly, given enough time. At times, she couldn’t help but think that there was truth to it. He did have an answer to anything. Or at the very least a decisive judgement.
“It wasn’t too dreadful,” she finally offered, smoothing the damp crepe of her dress. Her red nails stood out like berries against the dark blue. “I thought he was charming. Not everyone needs to be a specialist in thirteenth century theology to enjoy a dinner party.”
And either way, a work event was rarely a place for stimulating experiences.
Aldo huffed. “Charming is what one calls a mediocre priest with a good singing voice.” His voice still carried flatly, though when he turned to her, she recognised the glint in his eyes. His top button was undone to reveal the hollow of his throat.
“You, however,” he said, “were the picture of diplomatic grace. I saw you nodding through that entire anecdote about his sabbatical in Provence. I don't know how you managed it.”
She smiled. “If I remember correctly, you used to do much the same during sermons.”
Vincent's laugh sounded in the kitchen. He appeared in the doorway again, one shoulder resting against the frame, sleeves pushed back. The glasses he wore out of the house were still sitting on his nose. It was a flimsy disguise, really, but for some reason it worked. His collar hung open, revealing the silver thread of his necklace underneath.
“He did. Always with this very serious expression every time I held a homily. As if the Word of God needed convincing of his attentiveness.”
Aldo scoffed. “I was attentive.”
“Of course. As long as I didn’t ask about it afterwards.”
Catherine escaped a breathy chuckle, and she turned her head just enough to hide it. They fell into this rhythm easily enough, nudging each other with utterly benign intent, and there wasn’t a world in which she’d want to interrupt them.
Aldo clicked his tongue, though the colour rising to his ears betrayed him. “Oh, nonsense.”
Vincent tilted his head.
“…I’d say I retained the broad strokes, at least.”
Vincent hummed, and although his eyes crinkled, his gaze shifted to Catherine. “It was a nice evening, though. I had a few pleasant conversations. Even if the wine didn’t seem to agree with me.” Then, with a faint curve to his mouth: “But perhaps I have grown used to better.”
“I’d say we’ve both become terribly spoiled, haven’t we?” She let her fingers glide across Aldo’s waist, the heavy gold bangle sliding up her arm. His skin was warm and giving underneath the thin shirt. “We’re so very lucky to have somebody who indulges us.”
Aldo leaned into the touch and exhaled through his nose. “Better conversation and better wine at home. I propose we stay in next time. There’s no reason to subject ourselves to less.”
“Hm. I wouldn’t argue with that.” She pulled herself into his side.
Behind Vincent, the kettle began its high, thin whistle. For a moment, though, he just watched them.
“Tea, then?” he eventually asked. “The herbal for you, cariño?”
“Please,” Catherine replied. “Thank you.”
His attention shifted to Aldo, but the older man waved him off before he could ask. “I’ll join you.” He unfurled out of Catherine’s grasp. “Go on then,” he murmured, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “You should probably get out of that dress before it fuses to your skin. We’ll be there in a moment.”
She nodded. Aldo was right. Although her coat and umbrella had caught most of the rain, the fabric of her dress was dark with dampness and clung uncomfortably to her hips. She hoped she hadn’t ruined it. He had bought it for her and had refused to tell her the price, brushing it aside with an easy certainty that made it feel less like a gift and more like something already hers. The flicker of whether she was deserving of it surfaced less often now.
She let her fingers slide over the small of Aldo’s back once more as she withdrew her hand, a touch that lingered a fraction longer than it needed to. He joined Vincent in the kitchen, already talking again about one thing or another, the ease of it familiar enough that she didn’t feel the need to follow it. She stood there just a moment longer, before she moved towards the bedroom.
The door closed behind her with a soft click, shutting out the low murmur of voices and the gentle clatter of porcelain from the kitchen. The sound of the kettle carried faintly through the walls, accompanying the rain hitting the window in a steady patter.
For a moment, she didn’t move. The fabric of the dress brushed against her legs.
Then she crossed the room, her steps, quieter now without the sharp punctuation of her heels, finding the mirror easily enough in the dark. It was full-length, something she had come to appreciate. For most of her life, she hadn’t really felt a need for mirrors, when her wardrobe had once been little more than the same frock repeated in different colours. She hadn’t expected her change of mind nor the satisfaction that came with it.
Perhaps the room had changed as much as she had. It was different from the sparse places she had inhabited before, shaped by more than one set of hands. Fabrics layered where she once would have left surfaces bare, small trinkets sat where they pleased rather than where they were needed. It all centred around a generously wide mattress and the sheer canopy framing it.
She turned from it, reaching instead for the lamp on the dresser. Vincent had brought it home from a flea market years ago. He had spent an entire afternoon convincing Aldo how well its shade complemented the wallpaper, the tassels swinging about as he had presented his find to his partners. Now it cast a warm, diffused light across the room, softening things in a way that felt held rather than exposed. Catherine liked it.
She slipped one bangle over her wrist, then another, the metal catching faintly against her skin before she placed them carefully into the shallow decorative bowl on the dresser. The gold settled against itself with a soft clink, catching the light in curved reflections.
Another. Then the last.
She rubbed her wrists, feeling the lightness of the jewellery’s absence.
From the kitchen, Vincent’s voice rose briefly, something low, indistinct, followed by Aldo’s answering murmur. She didn’t catch the words, but she knew the shape of it. Vincent by the counter, sleeves pushed back, hands busy. Aldo still stuck on workplace gossip, talking instead of helping.
The thought faintly eased the line of her mouth.
She undid the fastening of her necklace and dropped it in the bowl. Then she reached for her earrings. Her fingers caught the clasp easily, nails brushing the curve of her earlobe. She glanced up. She found herself looking back.
For a second, it was almost impersonal. The way one might look at a painting, taking in composition before meaning.
The dress. Dark blue, deep as water in low light, emphasizing the blue in her eyes out perfectly. The fabric, in its dampness, clung more than it had earlier, tracing the line of her waist and the soft give at her hips where the knot gathered in deliberate creases. It hugged her curves where her body offered them and compensated for them where it didn’t. Below, it flared out into an impressive skirt, the folds falling evenly, and the hemline hitting at her ankles.
The bodice beneath held her upright; flush and constrained against her skin, it shaped her into something intentional. It pushed up her breasts, letting them sit fuller in the fabric than they naturally would. The dress’s thick straps reached up over her chest and met at her nape.
It wasn’t a style she would have chosen for herself; it felt too daring, too exposing, too, well... honest, maybe. The first time she had tried it on, she couldn’t help but think she was filling it out wrong, the straps sitting too slim on her shoulders. But Aldo had given her the gift with such loving expectation, she hadn’t been able to deny him trying it on at least . And then, once the fabric had draped over her body, Vincent’s lips had parted with his next breath. He had reached out, hesitation stopping him before he could touch, as if unsure whether he was allowed to. Naturally, Catherine hadn’t had any choice but to keep the garment.
She was glad she had.
She looked good. More than that.
A quiet exhale left her, and rather than loosening the earring, she let her hand drift to her hair instead.
The wig was still in place, a mane — flawlessly pinned with glinting, golden ornaments — that framed her face perfectly before falling over her shoulders. Not a strand out of line. She traced the edge where it met her temple, fingers careful, habitual. The cool brown caught the light differently here; warmer near the crown, darker where it curved toward her neck. She trailed the soft strands until she reached her chest, where they splayed dark over the rich blue.
Her eyes followed the movement and lingered for a moment. Her cherry fingernails really were a beautiful contrast against the fabric. Then she lifted her gaze again.
She had aged. It was in the lines at the corners of her eyes, where the makeup had settled. In the softness beneath her jaw. In the way the evening now lived not just in memory, but in the dull ache in her feet, the tension at the back of her neck, the fatigue behind her eyes.
Her mouth was carefully painted in that same cool red. Still intact, though less sharp now. Her cheeks held a flush that had deepened over the course of the evening. Wine, conversation, too many people in a room too small. Her neckline offered a view of her sternum, the skin speckled from age but warm and alive. Her collarbones were dotted with freckles, and her armpits creased up in fine lines. Her shoulders capped in a way that showed the bones underneath. Usually, she minded the sharp angle. Tonight, though, it seemed to complement the intensity of the dress. Of the hair.
She tilted her head a fraction, taking her figure in once again.
Elegant, she thought. The word came easily.
Her fingers curled, resting at her chest. She hummed to herself, feeling it reverberate underneath her palm.
Still, the exhaustion of the evening sat heavy. Although her elegance earned her a certain amount of respect and approval, it rarely granted her the privilege of going unnoticed..
There had been the dinner table. The hum of conversation. And then the way eyes had moved — never quite lingering, never quite not. The small, polite pauses. The questions that weren’t questions. The carefulness.
You look wonderful, Catherine.
You carry it so well.
We would never have guessed.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
It hadn’t been cruel. Not really. They were Aldo’s colleagues. Academics who either prided themselves on civility and measured curiosity or wanted to stay in her husband’s good graces. Most likely, both applied. If anything, they had been kind, at least in a way they deemed courteous.
And she had been good.
She knew she had.
The right amount of laughter. The right softness in her voice. Smoothing over others’ uncertainty. Engaged, but not overbearing. Warm, but not inviting intrusion. She had navigated the evening the way she always did — like stepping stones across water, each placement considered but instinctive now after so many years.
Still—
Her eyes opened again, tracing the line of her jaw in the mirror. The sharpness of her nose. Had she taken up too much of the room?
Ironic as it was, there was a particular kind of exhaustion that followed being seen correctly. And a sharper one still, born from watching someone else labour to achieve it.
She let out a slow breath, the air feeling thin. And for a moment, she thought she’d rather sleep in her dress than take it off.
The door opened softly behind her. In the mirror, she saw the light spill in.
“I think Vincent has decided we didn’t eat enough,” Aldo said as he stepped into the room, already loosening the cuffs of his sleeves. “He’s cutting bread as if we’ve been starved for days. There may be cheese involved.”
Catherine’s gaze remained on her reflection. She followed his voice, though it seemed to reach her from a distance, softened at the edges.
“That sounds like him,” she murmured.
Aldo huffed as he crossed the room to the bed, setting his cufflinks down on the nightstand with a small clink. “It’s entirely unnecessary,” he went on, though there was no real complaint in it. “I mean, I will eat whatever he puts in front of us, of course. It would be rude not to. But still.”
A faint smile touched Catherine’s mouth.
“Yes,” she said. “Terribly rude.”
Fabric shifted behind her. The hushed sound of buttons slipping free. Aldo’s movements were unhurried as each gesture shed the evening from his body piece by piece. The room settled around the rhythm of it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Catherine’s fingers drifted absently along the dress’s edge at the neckline, brushing against the sturdy surface of the crepe as well as the soft swell of her skin.
Then, without quite meaning to hold onto it—
“Aldo?”
“Yes, my love?”
“Was I too much?”
The question slipped out softly, almost smooth.
Behind her, Aldo stilled.
“What?”
She licked the inside of her teeth. “At the table. Was I... I don’t know.”
“Of course not.”
Catherine’s gaze flickered, just slightly. She hummed, low in her throat, as if acknowledging the answer. As if it were sufficient.
A pause stretched, not long, but long enough.
Then, movement again.
Aldo crossed the room, the soft whisper of fabric against skin the only warning before he stepped up behind her. He slid his arms around her midsection without hesitation, hands settling low and sure, drawing her gently back against him.
The contact was warm and solid through the thin cotton of his undershirt, familiar enough that her body yielded to it before she had quite decided to. She exhaled. Her hands followed, long fingers coming to rest over his forearms, feeling the strength there, the steadiness in the way he held her.
He was shorter than her. He always had been. It didn’t matter.
Aldo’s chin dipped slightly, his gaze finding hers in the mirror. There was a faint crease between his dark brows.
“Not for a moment,” he said, more deliberately now. “You were…” He exhaled through his nose, as if searching for the precise word and finding several instead. “You were composed. Engaging. You carried yourself with more grace than anyone in that room.”
His thumb shifted lightly against her waist, a small, grounding motion.
“You were the only reason that evening was tolerable.”
There it was, that faint edge of humour, threaded through something warmer.
“Well, you and Vincent, of course.” Aldo’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “But he is always too perfect and beautiful for his own good, so at this point I’m not counting him.”
Catherine let out a faint huff. Her fingers tightened just slightly over his arms.
In the mirror, she could see their hands where they rested against her — his broader, hairy and marked with age, the gold band catching the lamplight. Her own, slimmer, the same band circling her finger. She knew Vincent wore the third one as he prepared their nightly morsels.
She let out a slow breath.
“I see,” she murmured, and the tension in her shoulders had already begun to ease, almost despite herself.
Aldo watched her a moment longer, his eyes round and dark behind his glasses and his expression softening as he tracked the shift in her body. She let herself be held, her breathing gradually drifting into rhythm with his.
He pressed a brief kiss to the side of her head, just below her temple.
“You were beautiful,” he added, quieter now. “You always are. But tonight—” A pause. “Especially so.”
Catherine’s eyes lowered for a moment, not quite able to hold her own reflection under his words.
Aldo’s hands loosened at her waist, though he didn’t step away.
“Would you like some help?” he asked after a moment, his tone shifting again, more practical, as if offering something simple rather than naming the care within it.
Catherine looked at herself once more.
At the dress. At the careful construction of it all, the lines, the shape, the effort of the evening still held in fabric and pins and paint.
At the way she hadn’t managed to take off more than her bangles and the necklace.
And God. Now, leaning back into Aldo, she couldn’t help but feel how the weariness had settled into her bones.
She nodded.
“Yes, please.”
Aldo held her for another moment before pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Wait a second for me, would you?”
He let go of her, carefully, as if afraid she would simply fold in on herself. His fears wouldn’t exactly have been unfounded. But Catherine kept standing on her own two feet and watched as Aldo pulled the vanity chair she occasionally used for her makeup closer. He didn’t push it in front of the mirror but instead angled it away from it. It still caught the light from the lamp well enough.
“Sit, darling.”
She did, her knees creaking and her feet grateful for the relief. She sank into the chair, the plushness soft underneath her and catching her back comfortably.
She exhaled. Aldo made a sympathetic sound.
“You’ve been carrying a bit too much today, haven’t you?”
His hands settled warm and broad on her shoulders, his thumbs moving in circles across the knots in her back, careful not to disturb her hair.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“I think so.”
Aldo hummed.
“Would you like Vincent to help as well?”
Catherine thought for a moment.
Vincent was softer in his care. Where Aldo steadied, Vincent tended. He would ask, and ask again if needed, until he understood the exact shape of what she felt. There was a kind of exposure in that too.
“Yes,” she said, quieter now. “Yes, I think I would.”
“Alright.”
He leaned down, pressing yet one more brief kiss just behind her ear before stepping away. Catherine heard his footsteps retreat, the invitation of his voice as he called down the hall.
“Vincent, my dear — would you come here for a moment?”
Catherine couldn’t make out the reply, only a faint clatter of something being set aside. Aldo settled behind her again, and just a moment later, Vincent appeared in the doorway.
He took in the scene at once — Catherine seated, Aldo’s hands on her, the low light that cast deep shadows across the room — and something in his expression softened.
“Oh,” he said gently.
Aldo glanced at him. “Would you bring a towel? And the cleanser.” A small pause, then: “We’re going to take care of her.”
Vincent nodded, already making long strides towards the en-suite. “Of course.”
Catherine listened to him move about the bathroom, taking comfort in the rustle of fabric, the soft opening and closing of drawers. Aldo’s hands had not left her, his thumbs still working carefully into the tension at the base of her neck.
When Vincent came back, he did so quietly.
He folded the cloth across his thigh as he knelt in front of her, the movement too smooth and practised for a man his age. The bottle and a pack of wet-wipes were set aside. From this angle, she could see the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders, the sleeves still rolled back. He had taken his glasses off, his face no longer obscured by the thick frames. It was a shame it ever was.
The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper now than they once were, etched by years of laughter and squinting into the sky and the quiet strain of living. His hair fell lush around his face, still dark, though threaded with grey that seemed to spread with every passing year. Catherine didn’t mind. Quite the contrary. In the diffused lamp-light, the silver seemed to catch the glow, forming a soft, luminous halo around his face.
He was, almost, like a figure stepped out of an old, sun-drenched painting. An angel of the everyday, perhaps — one who smelled of Earl Grey and rain rather than incense.
His dark eyes, always so perceptive, searched hers. He reached out, his hand steady as he tucked a stray lock of her hair back toward the pins. It must have fallen as she had sat down.
“You’re very quiet, corazón,” he murmured, his lilt private and only meant for her. “What is it?”
For a moment, Catherine simply kept looking at him, at the softness there, at the way he had already oriented himself entirely toward her.
“It was just…” she began, then let out a small breath. It came out shakier than she would have liked. “More tiring than I thought it would be.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”
His fingers moved then, gentle as he dampened a corner of the towel. He brought it to her face, pausing just long enough for her to lean into the touch rather than flinch from it.
“May I?” he asked, though he was already so close.
She nodded.
The cloth brushed against her skin, cool at first, then warming quickly. He worked slowly, careful around her eyes, her mouth, as if each part of her face required its own attention. The scent of the make-up remover rose, threading through the remnants of perfume and wine and the evening’s air.
“There we are,” he murmured. “You were very patient tonight.”
Aldo hummed softly behind her, in agreement. “More than anyone deserved.”
Vincent’s mouth curved faintly. His thumb steadied her chin as he wiped the colour from her lips, the red fading into the cloth in soft streaks. He followed with a wet-wipe, making sure the bitterness of the cleanser didn’t linger.
“You looked beautiful,” Vincent said. “You do.”
Catherine exhaled.
The cloth moved again, sweeping away the last of the foundation from her cheek, the powder from her temple. With each pass, the version of her she had presented to the room seemed to loosen, to give way.
It was a relief, in a way, to feel clean again, to be freed up section by section. Nevertheless, she was glad for Aldo’s instincts to turn her away from the mirror. For a moment there, it felt almost like being undone too quickly, as if something essential was being taken with it.
And yet—
She found herself leaning into Vincent’s hand.
His touch gentled further, if that was even possible, his free hand coming to rest briefly against her knee, grounding her there as he continued.
Behind her, Aldo’s hands had slowed, settling into a steady pressure at her shoulders rather than movement.
Vincent’s fingers brushed her earlobe. “These too?”
Catherine blinked, unsure when he had set down the cloth. She gave a small nod.
He worked the clasp free with careful precision, catching the earring before it could slip. Then the other. The weight disappeared, leaving her ears strangely light.
He rose just enough to place them into the bowl on the dresser. They touched the ceramic in a ting, and for a moment, that was the only sound cutting through the rain on the window.
Then Aldo’s voice, closer again:
“Darling,” he muttered.
Catherine felt his hands shift, one coming to rest more fully at her upper arm.
“May I?” A pause. “May we see you?”
Her breath caught, just slightly.
She knew what he meant.
Her eyes flicked to Vincent, still kneeling before her, his gaze steady, open. There was no urgency in it. No expectation.
She hesitated either way.
A flicker of something more fragile than what had come before. The wig sat secure, unchanged, still perfect in its arrangement. Still the version of her she had carried through the evening.
Without it—
She swallowed.
“Yes,” she said, softer now. “Alright.”
They moved meticulously.
Vincent reached first, his fingers light as he began to loosen the small golden pins, one by one. He worked close to her face, tucking strands gently back behind her ears as he freed them, making sure nothing caught or pulled. The ornaments came away in practised succession, each one placed into his palm before he stood to set them beside the others.
Another series of clinks.
Aldo’s hands remained steady and broad as he eased the final holds free. There was a pause — just a breath — before he lifted the wig away.
The air felt different against her scalp instantly, cool and light.
Her own hair lay close to her head, thinner, softer, shaped by time more than intention. It did not frame her face in the same way. Did not offer the same ease of line, the same immediate softness.
For a moment, her fingers curled into the fabric on her tights, her eyes focusing on the dark blue.
Then—
A kiss to the crown of her head. Aldo’s lips were warm against her skin.
Something in her chest loosened.
He withdrew only long enough to place the wig on its stand by the bathroom door, setting it right with the same attention he gave everything else that belonged to her.
Vincent had already returned to her.
He settled again in front of her, closer this time, one hand coming up to cradle her jaw.
“There you are,” he murmured.
His thumb brushed gently along her cheek, where the last traces of makeup had been.
Catherine let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
His other hand found hers, his fingers threading loosely through hers, not holding tightly, but just enough to be there.
“You’re alright,” he said. “We’ve got you.”
Catherine couldn’t help but believe him. Her hand lifted to guide Vincent’s to her lips, and she kissed his knuckles, hoping it would translate for her.
“Thank you.”
Vincent hummed. “Always, my darling.”
Aldo’s presence returned to her back, the weight of his hands resting once again on her shoulders.
Between them, the room seemed to narrow, blurring the sharp edges of the evening. She could feel it, how her neck no longer insisted on holding itself quite so upright, how the soles of her feet rubbed against the fibres of the rug. Their attention gathered around her, wholly devoid of the prickle the evening had left.
So she sank into her seat between them, and let herself be… held.
She closed her eyes once again.
For a moment, neither of them moved from their places. Their breathing filled the space easily enough, drawing Catherine into its rhythm as if enchanting her.
Then, a rustle of fabric. She felt the air in front of her shift as Vincent stood and then stepped closer. For all that quickness in him, all that stubborn determination, he arrived gently, like he was placed rather than compelled. She relished in the warmth he exuded this close up, breathed in his scent, the lingering traces of his cologne. She would reach out if her fingers would respond to her, if her lids didn’t feel so heavy.
She vaguely noticed his pause just within her space. Then, unannounced, a hand settled along her jaw, thumb brushing lightly over her cheek once again.
“Cariño,” Vincent murmured. His voice came from above, and there was something softer in it now, something that bent around her rather than reached for her. “Stand for us, hm?”
Catherine opened her eyes. And for a moment, she just looked at him, towering over her, framed by the light. She swallowed, then nodded.
Vincent leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss just beneath her cheekbone, chaste almost, as one would greet an acquaintance’s wife. His hair brushed against her nose. It lingered only a second, and Catherine found herself missing the warmth once it left her skin.
Instead, Vincent took her palm to help her up. Behind her, Aldo’s hands shifted to her waist, steadying as she rose.
Her knees protested faintly, the familiar complaint of age, but the moment she was upright again, it proved to be worth it: Their bodies bracketed hers at once, making Catherine dizzy with the suddenness. Vincent in front, close enough that she could feel the heat of him even before he touched her again. Aldo behind, his chest a constant against her spine. She sighed at the firmness in his grip, at how easily he seemed to contain her. As if hearing her thoughts, Aldo nosed into her jaw, his lips finding her neck in faint kisses.
Vincent reached up, his fingers gliding over her collarbones. Aldo moved his head to grant him the space to do so, and Catherine couldn’t help but let out a small, discontented hum at the loss of contact. Thankfully, it was quickly replaced with Vincent’s hands at her neck, skillfully finding the clasp at the nape.
“Hold still,” he murmured, though she already had.
The small button slipped free. Aldo’s hand moved a second later, slower, tracing down along her side until he reached the zipper. His fingers brushed her ribs as he worked it down, the sound subtle but unmistakable in the quiet room.
She drew in a breath, shallow at first.
The dress loosened around her, the shape of it beginning to give. Vincent’s hands were at her shoulders, guiding the fabric down, careful not to tug. Aldo followed from behind, easing it lower, his palms warm where they steadied her, where they made sure she didn’t have to think about where to put her weight.
The fabric slipped, caught briefly at her hips, then pooled at her feet.
As if by instinct, her gaze dropped down. She was dimly aware of the absence of hair that should have followed the dip of her head.
She still had her bodice on. It was a longline piece, pale and close to her skincolour, the powder mesh almost disappearing against her as if it had been drawn onto her rather than put on. Fine boning ran down her torso, subtle but insistent, holding her upright, shaping her waist. The structure pressed gently into her, not uncomfortably so, but ever-present nevertheless.
The cups lifted her, rounded her, gave her a fullness she knew was partly her own and partly the garment’s quiet intervention. Below, the fabric extended over her midsection, smoothing, containing, the line of it clean where it met the soft give of her stomach. The garter clips reached down in small, precise lines, fastening her stockings in place beneath the thin layer of her slip, keeping everything aligned and composed.
It kept her arranged into something deliberate. Something she had seen in the mirror and approved of. Without the dress over it, though, the construction became more visible, the edges betraying the effort she had put into the evening.
There was a faded familiarity in the sight of it. A distant memory, half-formed. The suggestion of a doorway glimpsed from another room. Powdered light, the soft rustle of fabric, a garment not unlike her own and the curve of a figure not meant to be looked at for too long, even if only out of fascination — especially if only out of fascination.
Her mother, perhaps.
Before Catherine had known to look away.
Before it had been something she wasn’t meant to see.
The memory didn’t settle fully. It never did. But the shadow of it remained, suspended somewhere between recognition and invention.
Catherine exhaled. Vincent’s gaze had stayed on her face.
“Still with us?” he asked quietly.
She nodded before stepping out of the dress at her feet without having to be asked. Vincent crouched down again and gathered the fabric, moving to the dressing room.
Aldo’s hands shifted again, coming up along her sides, resting briefly at the edge of the bodice. He paused there, just enough for her to feel the question in it.
“May we?” he asked.
Another breath left her, evenly this time.
“Yes.”
Aldo waited for Vincent to return before carefully letting go of Catherine’s waist, handing her over into the waiting grasp of her other husband. She found her hips flush with Vincent’s, hers curved and soft, covered only by her slip, his square and steady. The fabric of his slacks rasped against the smooth nylon of her stockings.
Catherine barely heard Aldo unclip the clasps at her thighs, barely felt him undo the fastenings at her back, until finally the structure loosened and then released.
The lift disappeared first.
Then the shape.
Her body settled back into itself, slower than Aldo had removed the fabric. Her breasts lowered, moving faintly with her breath. The air felt cooler now against her skin. Her shoulders eased, though she hadn’t meant for them to, and with them the tension she’d been holding shifted again, not gone but no longer fixed in place.
She leaned back.
Aldo was there before the movement had fully formed. His chest met her spine, one arm coming around her middle again, his hand spreading across her naked abdomen as if to gather her in.
Catherine’s voice, when it came, was softer.
“You should… get undressed as well.”
She didn’t turn her head when she said it. Didn’t look at them.
And Vincent, oh, perfect, precious Vincent, understood right away.
“Of course,” he said.
He didn’t move away far. Just enough to reach for his own shirt, his fingers working the buttons faster, not carelessly so, but with a kind of contained urgency. His attention kept returning to her between movements, quick glances, as if to reassure himself of her attention.
The fabric parted.
He shrugged it off his shoulders, catching it loosely before setting it aside. His undershirt followed, lifted in one smooth motion. The bronze underneath stretched into a fluid line, almost feline in the movement. His muscles, although softened by age, were sculpted by soft shadows, and the sparse trail of body hair trembled in the low light before disappearing underneath his waistband.
He remained where she could see him.
Aldo let out a quiet breath behind her, something faintly amused. His grip had turned into a slight sway, his chin resting on her shoulder.
“He’s putting on a show for you,” he murmured, close to her ear.
Catherine’s cheeks heated. It was an old, well-worn thought, but Aldo’s words made her glance through her lashes nonetheless, as if it were a hot summer’s day and she a girl watching the neighbour’s boy bathe in a creek.
Vincent’s mouth curved, just slightly, but his focus stayed with her as he made quick work of his belt and got rid of his slacks in a few, decisive motions.
Then, in nothing more than his briefs and the small cross around his neck, he stepped closer again.
Catherine let herself be bracketed once more, this time with Vincent’s naked skin against her own.
She could feel the difference between them. The breadth of Aldo at her back, the weight of his arm around her, the way his body seemed to take up space without apology. In front of her, Vincent’s presence was narrower, warm in a different way, his hands finding her arms, her shoulders, his touch lighter but no less certain.
Between them, she seemed smaller. Held in place without being asked to hold herself there. And, undoubtedly, it was closer to something she recognised as her own.
For a moment, Vincent’s thumbs brushed slowly along her skin. Then, he reached further behind her, but a touch never came.
“I believe it's Aldo’s turn now,” he murmured instead and only then did she register his hold on the other man’s jaw.
Vincent leaned in, his face moving past Catherine. His hair brushed her cheek as he kissed Aldo, soft and deliberate. She felt her blush deepen as warmth spread steady in her chest. Before she could examine it too closely, those dark eyes were back on her again, another kiss placed on her own lips.
“Could you spare our husband for just a moment?” Vincent asked, faint amusement pulling at his mouth and the corners of his eyes.
Catherine’s throat felt hoarse. She swallowed. “Yes.”
Aldo made a low sound before he finally stepped away from her, leaving her back cold and vulnerable.
He did not go far. Just enough to return her bodice to the dressing room, to fold the clothes Vincent had shed.
Vincent’s hands lingered on her arms for a moment longer, then slipped down, guiding her with a gentle insistence toward the bed. There was no question in it, as if the next step had already been decided for her.
“Sit,” he murmured.
Catherine did.
The mattress dipped beneath her weight, soft and accommodating. Before she could settle fully, Vincent had already lowered himself in front of her again, both knees pressing into the rug as he reached for her leg.
His fingers slid beneath the edge of her stocking, careful not to catch.
She let out a small breath.
The fabric gave way effortlessly as he worked it down, his touch attentive in a way that felt almost indulgent. The nylon slipped past her knee, her calf, her ankle, until it gathered in his hand and disappeared.
Then the other.
His hands lingered once the stockings were gone.
They settled on her calves, thumbs pressing in with deliberation. The ache there answered immediately, unwinding under his touch. Catherine’s head tipped back just slightly as she exhaled.
“Oh,” she voiced, barely audible.
Vincent hummed, pleased, his attention flicking up to her face only briefly before returning to his work.
Beside them, Aldo had begun to undress.
She didn’t turn at first, but felt the shift in the room all the same. The quiet rhythm of movement, the soft sounds of a belt sliding through loops, of a watch being set aside. The familiar, intimate language of it.
Then, slowly, her gaze followed.
He stood a few steps away, already reaching for the hem of his undershirt. His posture was relaxed, but there was an awareness to it now, a subtle attention that hadn’t been there before. Not quite a performance, but not entirely private either.
For her.
The cotton lifted, exposing first the line of his abdomen, then the broad plane of his chest. The fabric dragged over the thickness of him.
Catherine watched.
The hair spread across him, dark and full over his chest, tapering down his stomach, thick in the centre and thinning toward his sides. It softened the shape of him, and yet, somehow, made his solidity more apparent rather than less; an unmistakable authority in it.
The shirt fell from his hands onto the vanity chair. His fingers moved to his waistband next, slower this time, as his posture shifted and his gaze returned to her.
Catherine’s eyes lingered, taking in what he was so clearly offering piece by piece: the breadth of his shoulders, thick with strength, the dense line of his torso, the slight give at his middle that spoke of age and Vincent’s adamant care.
His body wore it well, self-assured even, as if it had long since settled into what it was.
Catherine was glad for it. There was nothing delicate about Aldo, and she found her pleasure in it often enough.
A man.
Here, in the dim light of their bedroom, it struck her differently.
Vincent’s thumbs pressed deeper into her calves, grounding her, though his attention had shifted as well. She could feel it in the slight pause between movements. His hands resumed only after Aldo’s had.
Aldo pushed his slacks down, the fabric falling unceremoniously. He stepped free of them without hurry, only briefly glancing down to guide the motion. His briefs were white, his cock a heavy imprint beneath the fabric. Catherine couldn’t help lingering there as she felt her slip snug against her own skin.
She swallowed.
For a moment, she could picture herself — the way she sat, the angle of her knees, Vincent’s hands still working along her legs. The fact that she was being tended to while being looked at.
She supposed it should have made her self-conscious. But instead it felt strangely… right. As if the shape of it had been waiting for her all evening.
Vincent’s touch shifted, less about easing the ache and more about tracing what remained. His hands moved upward, just a few inches, skimming along the curve of her thighs with a kind of deliberate care that bordered on reverence. Her skin pricked under his stroke.
Aldo stepped out of the last of his clothes before reaching, almost absently, to adjust his glasses where they had slipped down the bridge of his nose. The gesture was small. And yet, standing there as he was, bare and broad, there was something in it that felt quietly… commanding.
Catherine exhaled, her breath catching faintly at the end.
Vincent stilled.
For a moment, his hands remained where they were, resting lightly against her legs. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted.
She couldn’t help but think of herself as a pinned butterfly.
His eyes drifted over her, unmistakably gathering every small shift in her expression, every change in her breathing, every flicker of something she hadn’t quite managed to contain.
His head tilted, just slightly.
A small pause.
“…Do you think,” he murmured, his voice threaded with care, “you might need a bit more, cariño?”
Catherine blinked. The air tingled against her naked skin. The flush was still sitting hot on her cheeks and chest. Her cock sat soft in her slip, but she knew — she knew — if it hadn’t been for the cancer and the needle, the fabric would strain to contain it by now. Her breasts heaved in a stuttered breath.
“I don’t... Yes,” she realised.
It was barely a sound, a soft exhalation that surrendered the last of her posture.
Vincent let the word hang in the air as if it were a gift he had been waiting to catch. His hands slid upward, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He remained kneeling between her legs, looking up at her; a position of service that felt, to Catherine, like the highest form of devotion.
"Then we shall give it to you," Vincent murmured, the words vibrating against her as he leaned forward.
He began to press his lips to her thighs, moving with agonising patience toward the reddened imprints left by the boning of her bodice. His mouth was soft and humid as he kissed the places where the day had shoved too hard against her. His hands accompanied him, gently pressing into the give of her stomach. His lips wandered until they reached the two reddened crescent shapes underneath her breasts.
Catherine’s head fell back, her neck arching, her eyes fluttering shut. She felt the heavy, comforting weight of her years in the way her muscles finally let go, a dull ache of relief spreading through her hips.
She was aware of Aldo still standing a few feet away. She could hear his rhythmic breathing, could almost sense the heat radiating from him. She didn't have to look to know he was watching. The weight of his gaze was a garment in itself, thick and protective, as if she were a prize kept behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of the faculty and the sharp light of the world.
“Aldo,” Vincent said, his voice a low command without looking up from her skin. “Come here. Kiss your wife.”
The floorboards groaned under Aldo’s weight. Then he was there, a towering presence that blocked out the light of the lamp. Catherine lifted her gaze to see him looming over her, the white of his briefs stark against his tanned skin. He smelled of the cedarwood soap he favoured and the faint, metallic tang of the cold night air still clinging to his skin.
He leaned down, his large hands framing her face. His palms were slightly calloused, a texture that made her feel all the more delicate. He kissed her, his lips impossibly giving as she opened up to the touch. A reclamation. He tasted of the red wine from dinner, although in his mouth it was rich and smooth.
Catherine’s hand wandered, scratching through the thickness of his chest hair, down his stomach and finally brushing against the front of his briefs. He was hard — a thick, uncompromising heat that throbbed against her touch. Vincent had pressed closer, and, against her knees, she could feel a similar fullness in him. Beneath the silk of her own slip, however, she still sat quiet, a gentle weight that no longer sought to assert itself. There was no shame in it tonight, though. Instead, it felt like a quiet confirmation. She didn't have to be the one to provide the strength or the rigidity. She could simply accept theirs.
Aldo broke the kiss, his breathing ragged as he visibly kept himself from pressing into her touch. With a hand on her shoulder, he guided her backwards. Catherine went willingly, her body unfolding onto the mattress as Vincent rose to help fluff the pillows behind her head, ensuring she was propped up, displayed, and comfortable.
They moved over her like twin tides. Vincent’s hands were back on her legs, smoothing upward, while Aldo’s hand found the centre of her, his palm cupping her through the slip. He began to massage her there, a heavy kneading that sparked bursts of heat.
When Aldo’s fingers hooked into the hem of her slip to draw it down, Catherine’s hand flew out, catching his wrist. Her fingers were pale and thin against his arm.
“My darlings,” she whispered, her voice a breathy thread of sound that seemed to fill the quiet room.
They both stilled, looking down at her, an image so composed it might have belonged on a magazine cover — one that, had she seen it on a store shelf, she would have passed just a bit too quickly. Here, however, she hoped to drown in it.
“My darlings, please.” Her chest heaved as she looked from one to the other, imploring them to understand. “I don’t—” She swallowed. “I don't want to be anything but yours. Just… be my husbands. Make me your woman tonight.”
And Aldo, her sweet Aldo, leaned down to kiss her in a promise, his chin rasping against hers. “Of course, my love. Of course we will.”
He lifted off her swollen lips, and she barely caught air before Vincent took his place. When he broke the kiss, he let his forehead rest against hers, his breath hot against her as his hair fell and shielded her face. “Always,” he said. “You are always our woman, cariño. Our loving wife… how could you be anything else?”
Catherine wanted to sob. She wanted to thank them. Instead, she let her chin lift to meet Vincent’s lips in another brief touch.
When Aldo’s fingers moved back to the silk hem, Catherine didn’t hesitate; she lifted her hips with a trembling motion, helping him draw the garment down her legs and away. The air of the room hit her bare skin for only a second before it was replaced by the overwhelming heat of his proximity.
The bed underneath her shifted as Aldo settled between her knees, his hands sliding beneath her thighs to guide them apart. He moved with practised carefulness, his thumbs hooked just so to support her hips, ensuring the angle didn't pull at the joints.
His hand found her bare cock. A breath escaped her.
His palm cupped her, broad and warm, fitting her in his hold entirely. Catherine's mind went static. He felt close, oh so mercifully close, without the silk separating them and her pulse hot against his calluses. The sensation wasn’t a sharp or demanding thing. It hadn’t been for longer than she could remember. No, instead it moved through her in an insistent thrum, radiating out from her pelvis before it would eventually consume her whole.
But for now, Aldo stayed there, doing nothing more than feeling her weight and denying her the pressure she so desperately craved. Her hips twitched in his grasp. And then, just as she was about to beg, his touch began to move in heavy circles. Her head fell back, relief breaking through her.
Above her, Vincent was like a fever; his body a canopy of heat that seemed to press the very air from her lungs. The stillness of his earlier touch had transformed into a searching urgency. His teeth scraped against the cord of her neck in a nipping hunger that sent a jolt straight to her core. His hands were no longer merely tracing her; instead, they sank into the soft give of her waist, anchoring her to the mattress as if he feared she might float away.
It was a demand, frantic as his chest against her breasts. A wanting that bypassed Catherine’s mind entirely.
Her hips tilted upward, an instinctive, wordless offering. She wanted to pull the tension right out of him, wanted to draw his hunger into her own softness until he was quiet again.
“The lube, Vincent,” Aldo murmured, his voice breaching the thickening fog.
Vincent broke away only long enough to reach for the bedside table, his movements lithe but shaky. He pressed the cool bottle into Aldo’s palm before returning to Catherine’s jawline at once, his breath hot and ragged against her ear.
The cap clicked, followed by the lubricant’s faint squelch. Catherine gasped at the slide of it against her opening. Then came the singular pressure of Aldo’s finger. He was slow, agonisingly so, his touch carrying a patience that made the room fade at the edges.
For a moment, there was only the warmth of his hand as he worked his way inside her. He knew the exact, shallow depth of her entrance, how slowly she needed it, the careful circling that let her open for him. His thumb remained anchored against her thigh, the palm of his free hand still cupping her soft cock, grounding her as he pressed deeper into the tight heat.
“Aldo,” she breathed, the name breaking on a helpless sob. Her head pressed back into the pillow, her eyes fluttering as she felt the stretch give way, the blunt press of him inside her — too much for a second, then not enough at all. “Oh... thank you. Yes.”
He hummed, audibly pleased at her reaction. “You will tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”
“Yes— yes, I will.” How could it ever be?
He didn't rush, but Catherine’s neediness eased things. It wasn’t long before he added a second finger, the slickness sounding softly as he worked to open her, his knuckles brushing against her skin. He moved like a man who had all the time in the world to ensure his wife was ready for what was coming. She fell into the rhythm instinctively, her body softening under his care until she was nothing but a series of shallow, stumbling breaths.
Vincent had travelled downwards, his mouth finding her breasts in delirious presses. His fingers curved around them to feel her give, his thumb occasionally flicking over a nipple, coaxing her to stutter into the touch. The dark hair tingled over her skin, casting his own face in deep shadows. She reached out, her fingers clumsily tucking the strands behind his ear. They would come loose again, but, even if for just a moment, she needed to see him.
His tongue dragged over her flesh.
Her hand gripped the sheets.
And piece by piece, ever so slowly, with her cheeks hot and her mind fraying at the edges, she could feel herself slipping towards a breaking point.
“Vincent, my dear.”
Aldo’s voice made Vincent break contact, but he didn’t look back, his eyes dark and focused on Catherine, his breath heavy and the fabric of his briefs straining against her side.
“Why don’t you go and fetch the candles, hm? Make her more comfortable.”
Vincent stilled. His gaze flickered to Aldo. The exchange was too fast for Catherine to catch its meaning, but significant enough for Vincent to pull his head back by another fraction. His eyes raked her face once more. Closely. And then, with the air of a decision, he leaned down to press one last kiss to Catherine’s lips. It wasn’t much more than a brush, deliberate in its lightness and barely possessing the urgency that had driven him just moments before. She chased after the contact, her head lifting as he broke away — a desperately juvenile attempt to prompt his hunger once more. But all he granted her was a shaky exhale and a final press of his forehead against hers before he rose. Her brows furrowed. It wasn’t right.
Vincent’s departure was a graceful uncurling, and the room seemed to expand as he pulled away. Catherine heard more than she saw his footsteps receding toward the hallway. Cool air rushed over her damp skin. Exposed. Too much so.
Below, the wet, rhythmic drag of Aldo’s fingers ceased. He withdrew them carefully, leaving a sudden emptiness that her muscles closed around before she was ready for it. Her hips gave a twitch, suddenly filled with uncertainty.
“Easy, darling,” Aldo murmured.
The mattress dipped as he moved, shifting upwards until the broad plane of his chest was hovering just above her, his forearms resting on either side of her head, shielding her. Instinctively, Catherine closed her thighs around his middle, pulling him in further. Aldo’s cock pressed against hers, hot and heavy and — she realised with a jolt — unconstricted by fabric. She couldn’t remember when he had shed his briefs.
He was so much.
So much skin, so much heat, a landscape of hair-dusted muscle and the scent of cedar, scaring the unease away before it could take root. He pressed her scattered thoughts right back into her bones.
Her heels dug into his legs, desperate again for more, and uncaring for the click in her knees or the twinge in her hips. His length pressed closer, and she was certain she heard a moan catch in his throat. But as quickly as she had managed to draw him in, he adjusted to the movement, shifting his weight to his knees just enough to take the pressure off her joints and lessening the contact.
A disappointed breath left her as her fingers raked up his shoulder blades, desperate to keep his chest close at least. And once again, her Aldo adjusted for her, indulging her now as he lowered his torso against hers. His body hair scratched against the pale skin of her breasts, his breadth warm against her. Her chest heaved, and her softness was met with blessedly constricting firmness.
His hand settled against the side of her face, his thumb stroking the curve of her cheekbone.
Her eyelashes fluttered, and then, finally, she looked up at her husband.
“How are you doing?” he murmured. His glasses were still perched on his nose, catching the dim lamp light, making him look utterly domestic — absurdly so, for how he had her pinned beneath him. “Is it too fast? Do you need a breath?”
Catherine swallowed, her throat tight. Too much. Not enough. More. “It’s good,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s perfect, Aldo, you’re perfect. Just… everything feels very close.”
Aldo’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile. “Our Vincent is many things, but ‘moderate’ has never been one of them.”
Catherine felt a huff of a laugh catch in her chest, a tiny spark of normalcy that helped the room stop spinning. The flush on her chest began to settle from a frantic red to a deep, blooming pink.
“He’s… he is very devoted,” she managed, her eyes searching his.
“And you deserve nothing less,” Aldo said, his voice dropping an octave and reverberating right through her heart. He shifted his weight, his torso rubbing against her stomach, her breasts, the friction a dull, delicious ache. “So tell me what our wife needs.”
He let the silence hang for a moment.
“Who do you want inside you tonight, Catherine?”
The question hit her like a weight.
Who. The answer was a blurred, impossible thing. She saw the two of them, the twin pillars of her life, and her imagination — wicked and greedy — tried to stitch them together. She wanted the impossible. She wanted to be filled so completely there was no room left for age, illness or an end.
Both of them.
At once.
And perhaps, if she and Aldo had found Vincent forty years ago, if — in that scenario — Vincent would have had the opportunity to relieve them of their shame earlier, well… Then perhaps they would have had the courage to commit to another life, long before any of them could be made cardinal. Perhaps, younger and more forgiving, she would have had the opportunity to realise her wish. Perhaps she would have even had the opportunity for a different kind of penetration altogether.
But there was no sense in dwelling on what-ifs.
She looked at Aldo’s shoulders, then toward the door where Vincent would soon return.
“I don’t… I can’t choose,” she breathed. “I want… I don't know how to pick one of you.”
Aldo didn't look irked. He simply watched her, his thumb continuing its rhythmic stroke against her cheek.
“Then we don't have to decide yet,” he said gently. “Would you like to wait? I can keep my hand on you. I can use my fingers for a while longer.”
“No.”
The word was out before she could think. It was the first clear thing she had felt all night, and its sharpness struck her into soberness.
She blinked. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean—”
“I know. Don’t apologise.” He looked down at her, his gaze steady and untroubled.
She released a breath, steadier now, her hand coming up to grip his forearm. “I want you close. I want—” she faltered, then softer, “please, no more waiting.”
And with that, the decision made itself. She loved Aldo’s size, she did. How completely he took her, how it made her toes curl and her moans high. But it asked something of her in return. More give. A stamina she wasn't sure she could hold onto until the end tonight.
Vincent—
Vincent would fit as she was right now. Her body already knew it.
And as she met Aldo’s eyes, she could see he had followed her line of thought and reached the same conclusion.
He leaned down, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to her lips — a seal of understanding. It tasted of wine and adoration.
“Then we’ll let Vincent go first,” he murmured against her mouth.
First. They both knew there was little chance of a second.
Catherine felt a sob of pure relief catch in her throat.
I love you I love you I love you.
She reached up once more, their lips meeting with such urgency their teeth clicked together. It felt like it might break her.
“Thank you,” she whispered once they parted, his forehead still against hers.
“Don't thank me, my love,” he said. “You’re exactly where I want you to be.”
It didn’t take Vincent long to return, and when he did, it was with a few thick candles in his arms. His brows lifted when he took in their changed position.
He lingered at the edge of the room for a fraction too long. His mouth parted, as if to say something. But it closed again, instead allowing Catherine a few sweet minutes more of Aldo’s weight pressing her into the mattress. A match struck, and soon the nightstand carried an arrangement of flames. Vincent was cast in a soft glow, the light licking along his arms and chest, turning his skin gold.
She had seen it a thousand times. Here, in their bed. In the en-suite, while the tub filled. In those first days, when she had shouted at him, and he had met her with a gentleness that had stunned her right back into silence. The scent of melting wax and burned wicks settled into the room. Home.
Catherine swallowed as she watched him. His hair had fallen in his face again, and she felt her fingers twitch at Aldo’s back, desperate to reach out and tuck it back behind his ears. She wished he would hurry.
At last, Vincent shook the match out, and it expired with a soft hiss. He dropped it back into its box before finally turning towards his partners again.
“Did I miss something?”
Aldo stroked his thumb along Catherine’s cheekbone. “Nothing much.”
Vincent hummed, hovering at the edge of the bed for a moment. Aldo lifted his gaze. “Come on then.”
Vincent did, the bed creaking under his weight as he settled along Catherine’s body, propping himself up on one arm. Aldo slid off her, exposing her and leaving her shivering. He didn’t go far, though, just enough to allow Vincent closer. The loss of his heat was brief and quickly replaced by her other husband. She closed her legs, bracketed by both of them.
Vincent’s eyes found hers.
“Hi.”
Catherine let out a soft breath. “Hi.”
He reached out and let his fingers run up her sternum. “I trust the American delegation has taken good care of you?”
Aldo huffed at her side, although he didn’t reply to break the moment. Catherine’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “Very good care,” she murmured. “As always. You know that.”
“Of course I do,” Vincent said. “But it doesn’t hurt to make sure of it, no? You deserve nothing less.”
Catherine felt Aldo tuck his head in, undoubtedly hiding a smile as he heard his own words repeated back to him.
She reached up, her palm settling around the curve of Vincent’s cheek, her nails flashing with colour as they slid into his dark hair.
“I’m blessed,” she murmured as Vincent leaned into the touch, “so blessed to have my two men take care of me.”
Vincent turned his head just enough to press his lips to the pulse point at her wrist, a quiet confirmation of the commitment he had been abiding by.
A touch grazed her ribs, and she turned to Aldo. His fingertips inched over her torso, up and up and up, making her skin tingle until they found Vincent’s hand still in its place on her chest. He cupped the knuckles with his palm, his fingers sliding between Vincent’s in a hold that let them feel Catherine’s heartbeat, thudding beneath, caught between them, as though it belonged to both.
Vincent stirred in her grasp, although he didn't pull away. Instead, his gaze lifted, catching Aldo’s over the pale slope of Catherine’s breasts. An exchange — and in it an agreement that needed no voice.
They held onto it easily, the intensity worn smooth by time, by habit.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, almost at once, they leaned in.
Their mouths met in a soft, unhurried touch.
Catherine’s breath caught.
God.
She didn’t move. Not at first. Her eyelashes fluttered as she tried to follow the blurred movement — afraid, suddenly, of losing even a second of it. Their faces were so close above her, their bodies surrounding hers, the shift of them felt everywhere at once; through the mattress, the air, her own chest where something had begun to pull tight. Catherine’s toes curled into the sheets.
For a moment there, it seemed Vincent meant to pull back, but Aldo followed, angling his chin further out, keeping him in place with a nip on his lower lip. A request. Vincent obliged without hesitation, his mouth opening hot and willing as he leaned back in, deeper this time. His nose knocked Aldo’s glasses askew. Aldo removed them with impatient fingers, and Catherine took them from him, blindly setting them on the nightstand.
The wet slide of Vincent’s tongue met Aldo’s, slow and sure, the rhythm of it pulling at her breath until she couldn’t quite fill her lungs. The rasp of Aldo’s stubble dragged faintly against the smooth curve of Vincent’s jaw as he changed the angle, demanding more. Vincent answered with a faint moan, and it travelled like a shiver along Catherine’s spine.
This. This. And it was hers, hers alone.
She felt Aldo’s content hum more than she heard it, heard Vincent’s desperate breath more than she saw it, all while disintegrating into something too pliable to hold together. Faintly, through her haze, she wondered if the sight alone could bring her to finish.
Her hands moved before she quite realised, lifting, finding them, one settling into Vincent’s hair, the other against the smooth curve of Aldo’s head. She didn’t push. Just held. Just needed to feel them there, solid beneath her palms.
Heat rose to meet her touch.
She felt it low in her body, sudden and sharp, as if the sight of them — this closeness, this certainty — had somewhere to go inside her, somewhere that opened without asking.
They didn’t stop. Only slowed. Closer, if anything. Their breaths mingling, their movements heavy and sure, as though they had all the time in the world and no reason to rush. Catherine’s chest lifted beneath them, an unsteady rhythm, yet to catch a full breath. She didn’t try very hard to.
Her fingers tightened slightly, and a sound almost escaped her — she swallowed it down, her lips parting instead as she watched them, caught on the shape of them, on the way Vincent leaned in, on the way Aldo held him there.
Too much. And still not enough.
The wet, sliding noise of it only made it worse. Drew it tighter.
Her thighs shifted against the sheets, a small, restless motion she didn’t quite control.
Vincent’s breath stuttered faintly, and then he broke away, a thin string of saliva catching and snapping as his forehead knocked against Aldo’s. His eyelashes fluttered shut as he drew in a measured, unsteady breath. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, softer than before, voice still rough at the edges—
“Who is putting on a show now, hm?”
Aldo’s laugh came low and warm, more breath than sound. He wasn’t faring better by any means, his lips swollen and his cheeks pink with a warmth that forced him to swallow once, then again, before he managed to answer.
“Touché.” He inhaled once more as he steadied himself. “But it’s not as if I heard you complaining.”
Vincent hummed, a melodic sound that Catherine felt in her own bones, her world narrowing down to the wet gleam of his lips.
“Touché.”
They stayed there a moment longer.
Catherine did not dare to disturb it. Not when the sight of them felt so… fulfilled. Perfect.
But the stillness did nothing to soothe the heat gathering low in her body. If anything, it made it ache. Her thighs shifted again, an attempt to quiet what insisted on being felt.
It was, of course, entirely futile.
Vincent’s hum returned, softer this time, his forehead still resting against Aldo’s. His eyes drifted open, heavy-lidded, but the haze in them not quite obscuring their focus.
“I think,” he murmured, his lilt thickening, “you also said we would take care of her.”
Aldo drew in a breath, the sound subtle but distinct.
“Yes,” he said, his voice still rough as it settled back into place. “Although I suspect the greater share will fall to you tonight, my dear.”
Vincent’s brows hitched upwards. He pulled back just enough to break from Aldo, and then — pupils blown wide — his gaze found Catherine.
It struck her full on.
“Is that so?”
Her mouth parted, but nothing followed. She swallowed. Then answered in little more than a small, helpless nod.
“I prepared her for you,” Aldo added. Heat climbed her throat. “Though you may wish to see for yourself. We’ve spent rather a long time… indulging ourselves.”
Vincent’s gaze lingered on her before it shifted — briefly — to Aldo.
“Hm,” he said softly. “We may have been a little selfish, no?”
Catherine swallowed. “No.”
Aldo hummed. “Even so,” he said, “I apologise. You did ask us not to keep you waiting.”
Vincent blinked. His eyes flickered to Aldo again, sharp in their movement but otherwise unreadable.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said. The words were perfectly mild, but still, underneath them was a fine edge of tension.
Aldo exhaled faintly through his nose. “There wasn’t much space for discussion.”
Vincent held his gaze, although only for a moment, before his attention returned to Catherine, settling fully.
“Then we’ll have to be more attentive now,” he murmured, gentler again. “Won’t we, cariño?”
God. Please.
They shifted again, a slow, heavy realignment of heat that Catherine could barely map. Her world narrowed to cedar and candlelight. At some point, the mattress dipped as Vincent settled between her knees, his touch careful and reverent as he guided her thighs open once more.
The lubricant Aldo had applied earlier was still wet at her entrance, and the coarse hairs pulled with it as it stretched. Catherine couldn’t repress a shiver as the air hit her bare skin. Aldo was there to catch it. He remained at her side, his thumb swiping against her cheek in grounding brushes. She nuzzled into his palm, her eyes falling closed as a mewl escaped her.
“Would you like me to touch you again?” Aldo’s voice was a deep rumble.
She gave him a small nod, not trusting her voice to hold. His hand found her cock easily enough, and Catherine couldn’t help her hips tilting upward of their own accord, a wordless search for the pressure as he began to massage her softness with practised fingers. Occasionally, his touch ghosted downward to stroke over her testicles before returning to the centre of her, holding her fast.
Her legs surrendered further, falling open in invitation. Almost instantly, Vincent rewarded her with a wet, insistent pressure against her opening. Her breath caught as a finger slid in; the lubricant was fresh now, velvety and slick against her rim, reactivating the heat Aldo had left behind. For a moment, she was held from both sides, the twin points of pressure pulling and pulling at her until she was sure her very centre would fray to meet them.
She barely noticed the second finger joining promptly after, barely noticed the brush of Aldo’s kiss against her temple. It wasn’t until the pressure inside her vanished that her eyes flickered open, hazily searching for where the sensation had gone.
It was replaced by the sudden, square weight of Vincent’s hips against hers; a solid heat that anchored her to the bed as if this was where he was always meant to settle. She felt the heavy throb of his cock resting against her.
“Look at him.” Aldo stroked the soft hair at her ear, his voice softer now, coaxing.
Her eyes drifted for a beat, desperate to follow the command but struggling to find their focus.
“Do you see how ready he is for you, hm? How hard he is? He’s waiting for you to give the word, my darling.”
Was he? She blinked in rapid succession, the world slowly reassembling itself around his silhouette. Vincent. Her Vincent.
He looked gorgeous, hovering above her like a statue cast in gold. His muscles were thrown into sharp relief by the candlelight, and his hair cut a wild frame for a face that had lost its diplomatic mask. His lips were wet and swollen, rivalled in intensity only by his eyes, blown wide dark with a hunger that swallowed the light.
Beautiful. My beautiful Vincent.
Aldo’s hand remained at her face. “Stunning, isn’t he? I think you’ve quite undone him.”
Catherine swallowed, her throat tight, her chest rising in a shallow breath.
Vincent exhaled, something unsteady in it.
Aldo’s thumb traced once more along her cheekbone.
“Do you want him, Catherine?”
Her cock gave a single, desperate twitch.
“Please.”
And Vincent, ever so intent on her, followed without hesitation.
It was a single, slow push.
Her lips parted as the ring of muscle gave way farther than before, enveloping him eagerly. She bore down, desperate for the stretch, for him.
And then — just as he slid home fully — the air was forced from her lungs — a noise broke from the back of her throat.
Low. Mismatched.
Dragged, really. From somewhere too deep to be softened in time.
The clang of it ground through the heat, and Catherine's teeth clicked together at once.
Her breath followed, pulled short and through her nose, as though she might gather the sound back in before it could be heard.
She turned into Aldo. Her cheek pressed against him, her body tightening in on itself even as the heat still moved through her, rushing up from where Vincent was seated deep inside her.
Aldo caught her jaw before she could bury herself in his scent. He held her there for just a moment. Then his thumb pressed in, firmer than before, redirecting her as she tried to pull away from herself.
“Mm, no,” he murmured, close enough that the sound barely travelled beyond her skin. He tilted her face back enough to guide her out of the crook of his neck. Catherine’s eyelashes fluttered, half her mind longing to reach for the dark once more but not quite daring to ask to do so.
“That’s it.” Aldo’s mouth grazed her temple. “You’re fine.”
Her breath trembled, thin at first.
“My lovely Catherine.” His thumb moved along her jawline. “You really don’t know how beautiful you are, do you? You are. More than you could imagine. And I thank God every day for putting you in my path. For letting me witness you.” The digit swiped once more. “As does Vincent…”
Her next inhale faltered—
“…don’t you think it would be a shame to keep yourself from him, hm?”
—then deepened.
Above her, Vincent folded forward. His chest met hers, his breath coming in hot, fractured hitches against her skin, his pulse thudding against her collarbone. Dizzying. He looked at her with a raw, searching intensity before his lips brushed hers in soft, desperate touches.
“My lovely,” he breathed, the words stumbling in their inflection, his usual precision gone. “My heart... my Catalina...”
A private prayer. A spill.
How could she deny him anything at all.
Her fingers tangled into her husband’s hair, drawing him closer—
And this time, as he began to move, she let the next sound come.
It was instinct more than anything. Her body arched to meet his staggering weight, to pull him in, in, in as the delicious knot in her abdomen drew tighter. At some point, Aldo’s hand slid down again, his palm settling between them, covering her fully. A gasp left her, his pressure a steady, grounding friction that mirrored Vincent’s tentative pace. His thumb moved in rhythmic circles, as the room began to spin.
And there was his voice again. A relentless string of sweetness Catherine couldn’t parse the words of. They reached her as a blur of deep vibration, a veil of sound that told her she was safe, that she was beautiful, that she was exactly where she needed to be.
The candlelight began to smear into golden streaks, the pillow dragging against her shoulder blades with every quickening thrust.
And above her, Vincent’s body trembled. His necklace dangled off his torso, the cross a silver sparkle between them. She wanted to reach out. To take it between her lips. To taste the metal and keep it safe as his control began to fray.
Almost.
Her legs tightened against him in a tremor, and her fingers dug into Vincent’s neck. She must have moaned with the way her lungs stretched, but if she did, Aldo caught it with his own lips. The rhythm pushed her to an edge she could finally see, sharper, brighter, until the air itself felt too thin to breathe.
And then…
Then—
Catherine’s head fell back, her mouth parting in a long, silent cry as the release shattered through her.
A second later, Vincent followed. He let out a choked groan, his body racking with the force of his own finish as he buried himself one last time. He went rigid, his muscles locking in a final, staggering pulse before he finally collapsed, his weight settling into her.
Silence returned to the room, save for the frantic, uneven sound of their breathing and the soft, steady hum of Aldo, who held them both through their dissolution.
For a moment, Catherine couldn’t quite come back. Something in her had gone loose, unfastened, and it left the rest of her trailing after it.
Vincent’s curls were damp in her grasp. His pulse underneath her, above her, surrounding her. Her own threading through his in feverish asymmetry. His cock was still throbbing inside, and she held him close, fingers tightening, then easing, then tightening again, as if letting go might tip her too far off balance.
Her own lap was little more than a quivering warmth that wouldn’t stay in one place, that slipped and returned, soft and insistent and impossible to follow, so Catherine didn’t even try to. She was faintly aware of the dampness between their stomachs, of how it must have caught in Vincent’s trail of hair, but the sensations blurred together, and everything seemed to lag just slightly behind itself.
It was far from an unwelcome experience. No, it was familiar, really, the way the noise dropped out and the constant awareness of herself — the recognition, the adjustment — simply loosened its grip.
Her body knew how to fall into it without asking. So she stayed there. Don’t lose it. Not yet.
It was Aldo’s hum that eventually came soft between them.
“You did well. Both of you.” A kiss brushed Catherine’s temple, then Vincent’s cheek. “Rest a moment. I’ll fetch a cloth.”
The mattress shifted as he rose. Catherine’s gaze followed him, slow and unfocused, as he disappeared toward the bathroom.
His cock was still hard.
“Vincent,” she mumbled, the thought struggling through the haze, “Aldo— he still needs—”
Vincent kissed her before she could finish.
“I know,” he murmured against her lips, his lilt coming with difficulty. “I’ll take care of him. Just… dame un segundo.”
Her forehead tipped to his. Of course he noticed. Of course he would take care of it.
The sound of running water came from their bathroom. Catherine stayed tucked beneath Vincent, her fingers tracing the salt-slicked skin of his shoulder blades as the room came back to her piece by piece.
It didn’t take long for Aldo to return.
When Vincent eased back, so did the weight that had kept her hips splayed. Her joints clicked faintly in protest as her legs drew in.
“Christ,” she breathed.
Vincent winced, sitting back on his knees. “Forgive me, cariño,” he said softly, already reaching as though to steady her. “I should have been more mindful.”
“No, no,” Catherine murmured, though she kept herself from biting her lip. She let herself settle back into the pillows. “It’s quite all right.”
Not for a moment would she have wanted him to hold back more than he already did.
Aldo was there at once. The cloth was warm and damp as he dragged it in careful swipes across her abdomen, around her cock and entrance. The slick seemed to cling to her very pores, and she was glad to have it cleaned off.
She let out a faint, relieved sound.
“There we go,” Aldo muttered, pressing a kiss to her knee. “Our joints don’t forgive us as easily as they used to, do they?” He glanced at Vincent. “Some of us at least.”
Vincent huffed a breath as if in protest, but it broke into a gasp as Aldo’s cloth cupped between his legs. Catherine’s thighs drifted closed, her damp skin growing chilly in the open air. Vincent’s, in turn, inched open under Aldo’s hand, granting the soft passes access to his flaccid cock and the small place nestled in the darkness behind it.
A flush warmed Catherine’s cheeks. The slickness Aldo was cleaning there could certainly not be artificial.
She watched through half-lidded eyes as the last remnants of their arousal were wiped away. She sank deeper into the pillows, her limbs heavy, her movements slow with the certain trust that nothing more was required of her than to rest. And then — at last, with his own arousal still unmistakable — Aldo set the cloth aside on the nightstand.
“Vincent,” she mumbled. “Please.”
“Of course.”
His lips found Aldo’s in a graze.
“Sit back, would you?”
Aldo exhaled, a long surrender of air, and did as he was told, leaning back against the headboard.
Catherine watched as Vincent shifted, as his face lowered between Aldo’s thighs, as Aldo’s head tipped back with the first touch.
Fulfillment, deep and steady, settled through her. Thy will be done. Here it was neither plea nor sheer belief anymore.
Her husbands. Her home.
Catherine let her eyes close as the quiet sounds of them filled the room — her breath slowing, her pulse softening, held safely where she belonged.