Page 101 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim

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 medidwant 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 allheavy 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…”

“Too what?” Dorian’s tone is sharp, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Too revealing?” His eyes narrow, and he pins me with his gaze. “You’ve been fighting yourself since the moment you walked down that aisle, Isla. Mademoiselle told you to get out of your own way. Remember?”