Page 27 of Flesh & Divinity

I don’t know if they are actually related. The fact I have never seen them touch or engage in any act in the bedroom that doesn’t involve me or boyfriend has me believing they really are related. That adds an element of taboo and that shit adds to this fucked up situation is orgasmic.

I feel the orgasm building from somewhere deep and central, slow, enormous, inevitable and I stop fighting it.

Forgive me, Father, for wanting this fairytale, I have created on my own, to end with me being fucked hard by three men in masks. I only pray that they are really related and I can finally embrace this daddy fetish I have to the fullest.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JAQ

I can see it in the strain of her face, she is right on the edge, teetering between breaking and shattering. The war playing out behind her eyes is more intoxicating than anything her body is doing.

She doesn't want to give us this.

That is the most depraved part of all of it. It’s not the cabin, the darkness or the things we are doing to her, but the fact that she is fighting the pleasure even as she drowns in it. Fighting the surrender even as her body betrays her completely.

She hates how much she wants this.

Hates that it's us. Hates that after everything—the island, the collar, two years of consequences she doesn't even fully understand yet—she is on her hands and knees in our kitchen, choosing to stay.

That battle behind her eyes is the thing I cannot look away from.

Gus steps back and leans against the far counter, arms folded. She makes a small, fractured and involuntary sound that moves through me like a current. She didn't mean to make it. She would take it back if she could. The fact that she can't is its own particular cruelty and I relish every second of it.

Duke is unhurried in the way that only Duke can be, the kind of patience that isn't calm, it's controlled devastation. He works her with the focused intensity of someone who has thought about this specific moment for a long time and intends to make it last. The sounds she makes are continuous now, layered, each one more unguarded than the last. I watch her try to suppress them and fail, then hate herself for failing.

Good.

I want her unguarded. I want every wall she has ever built stripped down to nothing in this room.

I drop to my knees in front of her and grip her chin, not gently, and force her eyes to mine. What I find there is devastating. Not just want. Not just the blissed out vacancy of someone lost in sensation. There is something rawer underneath it. Something that has been living in her since before this island, since before whatever she did to us. Something desperately hungry for exactly this: to be seen, to be chosen, to matter enough to be ruined by someone who knows exactly what they are ruining.

She thought she had buried that part of herself.

We found it anyway.

“Look at me,” I say quietly. The quiet is worse than shouting and we both know it.

She looks.

“Every wall you have,” I murmur, dragging my thumb across her lip, feeling her breath fracture against my skin, “every plan, every scheme, every carefully calculated move, none of it matters here. In here you are exactly what you are and nothing else.” I hold her gaze while Duke positions himself at her entrance. “And what you are is our dirty, filthy, depraved little slut.”

The shudder that moves through her is not from cold.

“Say it,” I growl.

She presses her lips together. Defiant even now.

Duke thrusts inside her and the defiance dissolves into a cry that bounces off the kitchen walls and fills the space completely. Gus makes a sound from across the room that he immediately suppresses and I file that away with savage satisfaction.

I watch her fight the pleasure and lose. Watching her try to hold onto some last shred of herself and feel it slip through her fingers like water. There is something in witnessing that, something in being the person who gets to see exactly what lives underneath all that armor, that is more intoxicating than anything else this island has offered.

This is the real punishment.

Not the collar, the chain, the chores or any of the things we planned to do to her. Those were parlor tricks. This… watching her choose us despite everything, watching her body and her heart betray every wall her mind tried to build, this is the actual reckoning.

She is falling apart in the dark of this kitchen and the worst part for her, the most devastating part, is that it feels like coming home.

I can see it in her face. The recognition of it. The fury at the recognition.