Worship Me, Duncan

CHAPTER ONE

-Aphrodite-

They don't worship gods anymore.

They worship me.

Not for talent. Not for genius. Not for anything earned.

Just this body. This face. This perfect illusion.

I walk into the gala, and the room stills-like it always does. Eyes widen, lips part, hands twitch toward phones they try to pretend aren't already recording me. A million-dollar dress clings to my curves like it was painted on, black silk dipping scandalously low between my breasts and high enough on my thigh to tempt scandal.

I'm not famous for anything but being wanted.

But that's enough in this world. That's everything.

"Aphrodite," someone gasps as I pass. A whisper, a prayer.

I smile.

That name was a prophecy the moment it was inked onto my birth certificate. And I made damn sure it came true.

Men don't see me. They crave me. I don't walk-I glide. I don't speak-I seduce. Even when I'm silent.

I don't need to act. I don't need to sing. My body is my performance.

I fucked my way into the role they said I'd never get. Onto covers, into editorials, beneath rich men with hard cocks and hollow souls.

I never fake it. I don't need to.

I take what I want, use what I have, and when I'm done, I leave them ruined.

And yet... tonight, I sense something different. A pull. A weight in the room that doesn't bend to me.

My eyes find him instantly.

Duncan Moretti.

He's not looking at me.

He's the only one not looking at me.

Seated at the far end of the lounge area, surrounded by wolves in tuxedos and women dripping in designer desperation. His body is still, composed. Power carved from stone. Black suit sharp enough to wound, dark eyes cold enough to make ice flinch.

He sits like a man used to being obeyed.

I want him to disobey me.

I make my way toward him, each step a calculated temptation, hips moving with hypnotic intent. Champagne flutes tilt. Conversations falter.

He doesn't glance my way until I'm directly in front of him.

Then... slowly... his eyes lift.

And everything in me tightens.

That look. Like he's dissecting me. Like he sees past the perfection and into the rotting hunger beneath.

"Mr. Moretti." My voice is honey dipped in heat. "You're the only man here who hasn't tried to undress me with his eyes."

He lifts his glass, sips. "Maybe I'm patient."

"Or maybe you're not interested."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I lean in, just enough for him to catch a whiff of my perfume-night-blooming jasmine, forbidden fruit, a hint of skin. "Most men fall to their knees."

"I'm not most men."

No, he's not. I feel it. His calm is dangerous. His stillness, a loaded gun.

I cross one leg over the other, my thigh grazing his, the slit of my dress parting wider.

"I've heard the rumors," I whisper. "You don't chase women."

"I don't have to," he replies without missing a beat. "They come to me."

"Do they come for your money?"

"They stay for how I fuck."

I inhale sharply, desire coiling low and hot.

"And you?" he asks. "Do you always approach men this way?"

"Only the ones I want to fuck."

His lips twitch.

Then, without a word, he stands.

He offers me his hand.

I take it.

And the moment our skin touches, I know-

I'm not in control anymore.

---

His penthouse is silence and skyline. Floor-to-ceiling glass, charcoal stone, sleek darkness softened only by the faint gold glow of midnight city light. He doesn't ask me to sit. Doesn't offer a drink.

He shuts the door behind me, then circles slowly.

Like a predator.

I let my coat fall, revealing the black silk gown beneath. My back is bare. The gown held up only by faith and sin.

"You're not wearing anything underneath that," he says softly.

"No."

"Good."

He steps forward and brushes my hair aside. His fingers trail down my spine.

"This body..." he murmurs. "Men fall apart for it."

"They do."

"You use it to get what you want."

"I always get what I want."

"Not tonight."

I laugh. "You think you're different?"

"I know I am."

He steps in front of me. Lifts the straps of my gown and pulls them down slowly, deliberately, watching every inch of exposed skin like a starving man. The dress slides down my hips and pools at my feet.

I stand naked in front of him, heels still on, nothing between us but tension.

"You're fucking perfect," he says. "But that's not why I want you."

"No?"

"I want to see what's underneath the mask."

"There is no mask."

He smirks. "Lie better."

He grips my chin and kisses me.

Hard.

Possessive.

His tongue slides into my mouth, claiming without asking, tasting without apology. I moan into him, nails scraping down his chest as I feel his arousal press against my belly.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, lays me across his dining table, pushing aside crystal and cutlery like I'm the feast.

And then he spreads my legs.

"You're already wet," he says darkly.

"I've been wet since you looked at me."

His eyes burn. "Good."

His mouth descends.

He licks me slowly. Torturously. Tongue teasing, teeth grazing, until I'm arching, gasping, trembling beneath him. He grips my thighs and eats me like he owns my orgasm.

I scream his name when I come. I can't help it.

It tears out of me raw and loud and real.

And he doesn't stop.

He fingers me through it, slow and deep, while he kisses me again. When he finally unzips his pants and reveals the thick length of him, I moan.

It's not just big. It's obscene.

"Scared?" he murmurs.

"Ruin me."

He thrusts in one hard, brutal stroke. And I break.

The stretch is too much, the friction too perfect, the pace too punishing. He pounds into me like a man unchained. Like I'm his possession. Like my body was made for this-for him.

And I let him take it.

He bends over me, breathing into my mouth, his hand wrapped around my throat-not choking, just owning me.

"You don't get to leave until I'm finished."

"Then don't finish," I whisper. "Fuck me until I forget my name."

He flips me over, ass in the air, cheek pressed to the cold table, and slams into me again. My body jerks forward with each thrust. I can't think. I can only feel.

And I feel everything.

He grabs my hair, pulls my head back, and growls into my ear.

"You're mine now."

I almost believe it.

---

Later, I lie naked on satin sheets, his scent on my skin, his come dripping between my thighs.

His arm rests possessively across my waist.

But I'm already planning my escape.

His fingers tighten as I move. "Where are you going?"

"I have to leave."

"No," he says flatly.

"I don't belong to you."

"You do now."

I look over my shoulder and smile softly. "Someone's waiting for me."

His eyes narrow.

"Who?"

I pause. I could lie.

But what's the point?

I rise slowly, dress crumpled in my hand, and walk toward the door.

"Aphrodite," Duncan says again, voice low and dark. "Who the fuck is he?"

I turn and meet his gaze.

"The one who really owns me."

And I leave him with that.

Because Duncan might have my body.

But the man waiting in the shadows...

He owns everything else.

CHAPTER TWO

-Duncan-

The city lights spilled into my penthouse like liquid gold, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted with the rhythm of the night. Yet, no glow or glitter could match the fire burning inside me-the fire that Aphrodite ignited every time she stepped into my world.

She was unlike any woman I'd ever known. More than just a name, more than just beauty-she was an enigma wrapped in silk and temptation, a goddess whose body and mind were locked in a struggle I couldn't begin to understand.

The first time she came back to me that night, it was like a storm breaking through a fragile calm. The door opened, and she was there-bold, fierce, irresistible. Her dress hugged her every curve like it was painted on, black silk shimmering in the dim light, falling just enough to tease and reveal. Her eyes held a fire that matched the wild hunger in mine, but behind that blaze, I caught a flicker of something else. Something darker. A shadow that didn't belong to the goddess everyone else saw.

Without a word, she crossed the room and pulled me into a kiss so demanding and fierce it stole my breath. Her lips were soft yet commanding, her tongue exploring mine with a hunger that matched my own. I let my hands roam, memorizing the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts beneath the thin silk. Her body pressed against mine like a live wire, every inch sparking with electricity.

I lifted her onto the cold marble countertop, the sharp contrast between the chill beneath her and the heat radiating from her skin driving me wild. She didn't resist as her dress slipped down her arms, pooling around her waist, revealing skin so flawless it was almost unreal. I traced my fingers along her collarbone, down the slope of her breasts, feeling her shiver beneath my touch.

"I want you, Duncan," she whispered, her voice thick with need and something unspoken-fear, maybe? Or defiance?

"I want you too," I growled, capturing her mouth again.

Our kiss deepened, urgent and wild. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, as if she wanted to fuse us into one. I slid my hands lower, caressing the softness of her waist and hips, feeling the silk fall away to reveal the smooth expanse of her thighs. Her legs wrapped around me, a promise and a challenge all at once.

I lowered my mouth to her neck, biting and sucking gently, marking her as mine. Her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping her lips as I traced a slow path down her stomach, finally reaching the apex of her thighs. The scent of her arousal was intoxicating-musky, sweet, utterly addictive.

I parted her legs wider and flicked my tongue out to taste her. Her gasp was music to my ears, fingers digging into my scalp as I licked and swirled, drawing her closer to the edge. Her hips lifted, pressing into my mouth, desperate for more. When she shattered, her cries echoed in the room-raw, beautiful, consuming.

But I wasn't finished.

Sliding two fingers inside her, I curled them deep, driving her wild. Her nails raked down my back as I increased the pace, hearing her breathless moans turn into cries of release. I pulled up to her lips, kissing her fiercely. She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me inside with a force that left me gasping.

Our bodies moved together in a savage rhythm-hard, fast, relentless. The slick sound of skin on skin filled the room as we chased the storm of pleasure. Her moans grew louder, voice trembling with need, and I gripped her hips tighter, driving her over the edge again. When we finally exploded together, it was like the world caught fire.

Collapsed in a tangled heap on the marble, sweat-slick and breathless, I traced lazy circles on her back, desperate to memorize every inch. But beneath the heat and passion, I saw it again-that shadow in her eyes. The secret she carried. Someone was controlling her. Someone powerful enough to bend the goddess of beauty herself.

Who was he?

What did he want?

I didn't know yet, but I was going to find out.

---

Days passed, each one heavier with longing and frustration. Aphrodite was a storm I couldn't resist, but she was also a puzzle I couldn't solve. She came to me in bursts of fire and passion, then vanished like smoke whenever I tried to hold on.

Her teasing smile would haunt me, those deep brown eyes flashing with a secret she refused to share. I could see the walls she built-impenetrable, cold, designed to keep the world out. But I wanted to be the one she let in.

One evening, she arrived unexpectedly, her presence filling the room like a charge in the air. She moved toward me, slow and deliberate, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.

"I'm tired of hiding," she said, voice low, vulnerable.

I cupped her face in my hands. "You don't have to hide from me."

Her laugh was bitter, a sound that didn't belong to the goddess I adored. "You don't understand. There's someone... someone who holds me. Who knows things I can't risk anyone else knowing."

I swallowed hard, heart pounding. "Who?"

She looked away, biting her lip. "I can't tell you. Not yet."

The tension between us thickened, the unspoken words hanging like a blade.

I needed to break through her walls, but I knew it wouldn't be easy.

Instead, I pulled her close, running my hands along her bare back, feeling the heat beneath her skin.

Our bodies pressed together, hungry and desperate.

Her lips parted in a sigh as I trailed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone.

She moaned softly, arching into me.

I lowered her to the floor, the silk of her dress brushing against the cold wood.

My hands roamed every inch of her, committing her to memory-the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the curve of her thighs.

I kissed a trail from her stomach to the apex of her legs, tasting her skin, savoring the sweet salt of desire.

Her fingers tangled in my hair as I flicked my tongue over her clit, teasing, coaxing her higher and higher.

Her moans grew louder, breath ragged.

I slid two fingers inside her, curling them in slow, deep strokes that made her shiver and gasp.

Her hips lifted, pressing into my hand, desperate for release.

When she came apart around me, her cries were fierce and wild, shaking the room with their intensity.

I rose, capturing her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss.

She wrapped her legs around me, pulling me inside her with a force that stole my breath.

We moved together, slow at first, then faster, harder, chasing the fire that burned between us.

Her nails raked down my back as she clung to me, voice breaking with need.

When we both reached the edge again, it was with a scream-a promise, a confession, a surrender.

---

But just as dawn crept through the windows, painting the room in pale gold, Aphrodite pulled away, slipping out of my arms like a ghost.

"I have to go," she whispered, eyes dark with secrets.

"Don't leave me like this," I demanded, voice raw.

She shook her head, stepping back, her gaze unreadable.

"I'm not yours," she said simply.

Yet I knew that wasn't true.

She was mine as much as I was hers-tied together by a desire that neither of us fully understood.

As she disappeared into the night, I vowed to uncover the truth behind the man who held her in his grip.

Because no one controlled Aphrodite-not even her.

---

The days that followed were a relentless dance of passion and distance.

She appeared when she wanted, vanishing before I could claim her fully.

Each encounter burned hotter than the last, the sex between us raw and urgent-a clash of wills, bodies, and emotions.

One night, after a party that left the city buzzing with gossip, she came to me drenched in sweat and perfume.

Her eyes were wild, dangerous.

She pushed me against the wall, lips crashing onto mine with desperate hunger.

Her hands roamed fiercely over my body, pulling me closer, claiming me.

I lifted her, pressing her back against the cold marble.

She wrapped her legs around me, dragging me into a frenzy of need.

Our bodies moved in perfect chaos-thrusts deep and fast, moans mixing with the sound of skin against skin.

Her nails dug into my shoulders, marking me, owning me.

I bit her shoulder, tasting the salty heat of her skin.

We lost ourselves in each other-nothing else existed but the fire between us.

When we came together, it was an explosion-a perfect storm of pleasure and release.

Afterward, she traced lazy patterns on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.

"I'm not free," she said quietly, eyes locked on mine.

"Who holds your chains?" I demanded.

She closed her eyes, pain flickering across her face.

"I can't tell you."

But I would find out.

I had to.

---

That's the woman Aphrodite was-seductive and untouchable, fierce yet fragile.

And I was obsessed with every part of her.

With her body, her secrets, her soul.

No matter what it took, I would claim her.

Because Aphrodite wasn't just a goddess of beauty.

She was a goddess of fire.

And I was ready to burn.

CHAPTER THREE

-Aphrodite-

He doesn't knock.

He never knocks.

The moment I step into my penthouse, I already know he's inside. The lights are off, but he doesn't need them. Shadows are his territory. Silence is his announcement.

I don't speak. I don't breathe too loudly. I just wait.

And then, like gravity shifts around me, I feel him.

His presence, vast and unrelenting, sweeps through the room like smoke. It curls into my lungs, wraps around my ribs, presses down on my skin. He's always been like this-more force than man. He doesn't need to touch me to make me feel owned. He doesn't need to say a word to command my body.

But tonight, he speaks.

"Strip."

One word. No inflection. No room for negotiation.

I obey.

My coat slips from my shoulders. My heels come off one at a time. I reach behind me and unzip my dress slowly, letting the satin fall. It pools at my feet, whispering against the marble.

I'm left standing in nothing but the delicate scrap of lace between my legs and the tension crackling in the air.

His footsteps echo behind me-measured, soft, terrifying.

"You wore this to see him?"

"Yes," I whisper.

His fingers trail down my spine like a knife grazing skin. My breath catches.

"Did you let him take it off you?"

"No. I took it off myself."

"And did he thank you for the gift?" His voice dips, amused. "Did he grovel for it? Did he worship you, like the good little boy he's becoming?"

"He wanted to," I say. "I didn't let him."

He laughs-low, dark, and pleased.

I shouldn't be proud of that. But I am.

Because with him, pleasing is survival.

"You're learning," he murmurs, coming to stand in front of me. "That's good. You're almost ready."

"Ready for what?" I ask before I can stop myself.

His smile fades. Just slightly.

And then he slaps me.

Not hard enough to leave a bruise. Just enough to remind me.

I don't ask questions.

"I'll tell you when you need to know," he says flatly. "Until then, you keep doing what I told you. Make Duncan Moretti yours. Make him so obsessed he can't breathe without you."

I nod, eyes stinging. "Yes."

"And then?" he says, grabbing my jaw, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, "You break him."

His mouth crushes mine before I can respond.

There's no warmth in the kiss. No tenderness.

Just domination.

Just punishment.

He tastes like wine and smoke and sin. His tongue forces mine down, his teeth nip my lip until I whimper. He drinks the sound, presses me back until my thighs hit the glass dining table.

With one hand, he sweeps the surface clean-papers, candles, my handbag-all crashing to the floor. With the other, he rips the lace panties down my legs.

Then he lifts me and tosses me onto the glass like I weigh nothing.

His coat drops. His belt unbuckles.

He doesn't even take his shirt off.

I brace myself, but it's not enough. The first thrust is brutal, nearly knocking the breath from my lungs. He buries himself deep, impossibly deep, stretching me, splitting me open around his cock like I was made for this.

Like I was made for him.

"You're dripping," he growls, thrusting again, deeper. "Do you get this wet for him?"

"No," I cry out.

He fucks me harder.

My back arches. The glass table creaks beneath us.

His fingers find my throat again-tightening, owning, grounding me in pain and pleasure that blur into something holy.

"Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns you."

"You do," I gasp. "You own me."

"Louder."

"You own me!"

He growls in satisfaction, one hand gripping my waist, the other forcing my legs wider. He drives into me like he wants to carve his name into my womb. And maybe he is. Maybe he already has.

The table rocks violently beneath us, his thrusts growing erratic, vicious. Each time he slams into me, a scream claws its way from my throat. My legs shake. My vision blurs.

I'm not Aphrodite anymore.

I'm nothing but a body beneath his.

I shatter with a cry that tears from the core of me. My orgasm blinds me, burns me, drowns me in the heat of his control. I've never come like this. Not even with Duncan.

Especially not with Duncan.

He doesn't stop.

Even as I tremble, he flips me over, yanks my hips up, and drives back into me from behind.

"Does Duncan know what a filthy little toy you are?" he breathes against my ear, slamming into me over and over. "Does he know how easily you break for me?"

"No," I sob.

"He will."

His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat. He sinks his teeth into my shoulder-hard enough to mark. A territorial bite.

"You'll keep playing sweet for him," he whispers. "Keep letting him think he's saving you. Let him kiss your pain. Let him love you."

"Yes," I whisper, body quaking.

"Then I'll rip it all away."

He comes with a growl, thick and hot and possessive, flooding me like a claim. My name on his lips isn't a plea.

It's a command.

He pulls out and steps back.

I collapse onto the cold table, spent, sore, shaking.

And he... buttons his shirt like none of it happened.

I stay still, too afraid to move, too broken to think.

"You'll text him tonight," he says as he zips his pants. "Tell him you want him."

He pauses at the doorway.

Then, in a voice laced with quiet poison, he says, "And remember, Aphrodite-if he ever finds out who you really are, I'll bury him before sunrise."

The door closes behind him.

I don't cry.

I don't scream.

I just slide off the table, legs weak, skin marked, lips swollen. I wrap a robe around myself, walk barefoot across the glass and broken candlewax.

I pick up my phone.

I stare at Duncan's name.

And I do what I'm told.

Come over. I need you.

Because he needs to believe he can save me.

And I need to believe I haven't already been damned.