Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Isla
“I…” I freeze for a moment, but Brennan and Dorian are both determined.
The SUV continues to hum through the dark, making New Orleans nothing but a blur of distant lights beyond the tinted windows.
I’m naked—completely, maddeningly exposed—while Dorian and Brennan sit fully dressed, their tailored suits a stark contrast to my vulnerability. The collar at my throat feels tighter than ever, and its silver weight an awful reminder of their claim on me.
I’m trembling from hours of being teased, edged, and denied. Back at the restaurant, the ache between my legs started to pulsate, demanding release.
Brennan forces my legs farther apart with a possessiveness that makes me suck in a deep breath. “Put your legs on my shoulders.” His low, commanding voice leaves me no room for hesitation.
My tummy twisting, I glance at the driver’s partition. He’s there, just feet away, eyes fixed on the road—or so I hope. The thought of him hearing, knowing, sends a flush of shame crawling up my chest.
I can’t believe Dorian is okay with this.
And beneath the flash of a streetlight, I notice that his cock is hard.
“You were warned.” Dorian reaches between my legs and pinches my clit.
Yelping, digging my fists into the leather beside me, I squirm, desperate to escape, but Brennan seizes the opportunity to place my legs where he wants them.
Then his mouth finds the nub of flesh that Dorian had just tormented. With his tongue, he soothes away Dorian’s punishment.
Moments later, he lifts his head. “I think she likes being disobedient.”
“No!” But again, my body betrays me. I’m so wet it’s embarrassing. And I hate that small amounts of pain turn me on.
When Dorian first mentioned BDSM, I’d been appalled. But the more I experience, the more I want.
Brennan’s lips graze the sensitive skin just above my swollen clit, a deliberate tease that pulls a whimper from my throat.
He doesn’t dive in, doesn’t give me what I crave.
Instead, he trails soft kisses along my folds, slow and torturous, savoring every shudder I can’t suppress.
My hips twitch, seeking more, but his hands clamp down, holding me still.
“Fuck his face, little one.” The dark purr in Dorian’s tone sends a jolt straight to my core. “Show him how much you want an orgasm.”
How can I?
How can I not?
My cheeks burn, but his rough command has unlocked something wild in me. I think of Vieille Rivière, the topless dancer swaying with untamed grace, her body free in a way I’ve never dared to be. Could I let go like that? Just surrender to this, to them?
Dorian’s right—I’ve been fighting my own desires, clinging to inhibitions that only make this more difficult. Maybe if I stop resisting, I’ll find something…more.
“Isla…” My name is a growled warning.
I roll my hips, tentatively at first, pressing myself against Brennan’s mouth. He groans, and the vibration shoots through me. Brennan rewards me with a long, slow lick that skirts my clit without touching it.
My head falls back, a moan slipping free despite the driver, despite everything. Brennan’s tongue is relentless, lapping at my folds, sucking gently, exploring every inch except where I need him most. It’s exquisite torture, and I’m drowning in it.
“Harder,” Dorian snaps, his hand landing on my thigh, fingers digging in. “Ride his face like you mean it.”
His words are a lash, spurring me on. I grip the seat, my nails biting into the leather as I grind against Brennan’s mouth, chasing the pressure I’ve been denied all night.
He matches my rhythm, his lips and tongue working me with devastating precision, still avoiding penetration. It’s maddening—his refusal to fill me, to give me that final push—but it only sharpens the edge of my need.
I steal another glance at Dorian. His jaw is tight, and his gaze is locked on the place where Brennan’s mouth meets my skin.
The thought of him watching, directing, wanting, sends a fresh wave of heat through me. “Please.” I gasp, not sure who I’m begging—Brennan to finish me or Dorian to let me fall apart.
“Let go, little one.” Dorian is softer now, almost coaxing. “ You’ll enjoy life more when you stop fighting me. When you stop fighting what you crave.”
His words hit deep, cracking something open inside me. I’m tired of holding back. “Yes.”
“Yes, Sir,” he corrects.
Dutifully I repeat him. “Yes, Sir.” It’s as if the words set me free.
My movements are desperate as I boldly arch into Brennan’s mouth.
He finally closes his lips around my clit, sucking hard, and my world explodes. My orgasm crashes through me, a white-hot wave that leaves me shaking, gasping, my legs clamping around Brennan’s head as he drinks me through every pulse.
It’s earth-shaking, perfect, but as the aftershocks fade, I’m still hungry.
My traitorous body aches for more—to have them inside me, filling the emptiness Brennan’s tongue couldn’t touch. I slump against the seat, panting, my skin flushed and damp.
Brennan pulls back, his lips glistening, a satisfied smile curling his mouth. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving mine.
“Such a good girl.” Dorian’s voice is a low rumble that makes my insides clench again. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t offer comfort, just watches with his unyielding intensity.
Brennan resumes his seat, still focused on me.
Shaking from the aftermath, I reach for my crumpled dress, but Dorian shakes his head sharply.
“Remain as you are.”
What?
Then I realize he means that he doesn’t want me to get dressed.
Humiliation wars with the lingering heat in my veins as I sit there, exposed, my nipples hard, my pussy wet while they remain casual, untouchable .
The driver’s presence looms in my mind, a silent witness to my breathless unraveling. But there’s a strange thrill in it too—this reckless vulnerability, knowing Dorian and Brennan have stripped me bare in every sense.
The drive stretches on, the city’s lights fading as we near the Parthenon. I’m hyperaware of every shift in my body, every brush of air against my skin.
When we finally pull up to the Jasmine Cottage, Brennan exits first, shrugging off his suitcoat with a fluid motion.
As I step out, legs unsteady, he drapes it over my shoulders, the fabric warm and heavy with his scent—leather, spice, and dangerous power.
Covering me is a small gesture, but it feels like a shield, a tenderness I didn’t expect.
Now that we’re back, I feel disoriented, like I’m caught between worlds—of their debauchery and dominance. And it’s all mixed with a confusing tenderness.
We step inside, and Calypso is sprawled on her perch, snoozing, oblivious to the tumultuous experience I’ve just gone through.
The door clicks shut behind us, and Dorian locks it with a deliberate turn of his wrist. His eyes find mine, and I can’t read his expression.
“Take off the coat.” He folds his arms.
For a moment, I hesitate, my fingers on the lapels, Brennan’s warmth still clinging to me. But I know what’s coming—more of them, more of this dance we’re locked in.
No longer capable of resisting, I let the coat slip to the floor.
I stand bare before them again, my pulse racing with anticipation and a flicker of fear. Whatever’s next, I’m not sure I’m ready, but I’m fucking owning this. Dorian demanded it. Now he’s got it .
Unknotting his tie, Brennan starts toward the bedroom, and Dorian indicates that I should follow.
He closes the bedroom door behind us with a soft thud, sealing us all in together.
My skin is chilled, and the metal around my throat is a cool, unyielding weight. My thighs are slick, and my body feels like a live wire after the way Brennan satisfied me orally.
Dorian moves toward the mirror, and its gilded frame catches the soft lamplight. He turns, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine. His expression is searing, but otherwise unreadable.
“You watched that dancer at Vieille Rivière.”
I frown. Where is he going with this?
“The way she moved—free, unafraid. You wanted to be her, didn’t you?”
My breath catches. The memory of her hips swaying, her body a fluid shadow against crimson silk, floods back.
She was untamed, confident, everything I’m not.
I open my mouth to deny it, but the lie sticks in my throat.
Part of me did want that—to shed the weight of my inhibitions, to own my desire like she did…
to be the shameless woman I was in the SUV on the way back.
My cheeks burn, and I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly hyperaware of my nudity, the symbol of their ownership, the way my nipples are pebbled beneath their gazes.
“Don’t hide,” Brennan says, his gravel-rough voice softer but firm. He’s leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, icy blue eyes tracing every inch of me. “Show us you’re free, Isla.”
Dorian pulls out his phone and brushes over an icon. “You need the right mood.”
A beat later, Billie Eilish’s “Oxytocin” pulses through the room—deep, thumping, with a dark, BDSM edge. It’s all heavy bass and slow, sensual synth, like a heartbeat synced to something forbidden.
The sound, the lyrics, wrap around me, vibrating in my chest, urging my hips to sway despite myself. It’s the kind of music that could’ve played at Vieille Rivière, underscoring the dancer’s every move.
“Touch yourself.” Dorian’s command is rough as he steps back to sit in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed but predatory. “Move like she did. Dance for us.”
I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs. Masturbate? Here? In front of both of you?
The idea is mortifying—standing exposed, performing while they watch, my reflection staring back from the mirror. My hands tremble, and I press them against my thighs. “I—I can’t.” My voice is high, thin. “It’s too…”