The morning after the storm broke clear and blazing hot, as if the island itself had been cleansed for their pleasure. Becky woke sore in the best possible way—delicious aches between her thighs, faint rope marks on her wrists, and love bites scattered across her breasts and inner thighs like badges of honor. The men had already been up, preparing a lavish beach setup while she slept.
Ryder carried her down to the sand on his shoulder like a conquering prize, her naked body draped over him. The others followed with blankets, towels, a massive beach umbrella, and bottles of scented tanning oil.
“Our wife deserves a full day of worship,” Mason announced, spreading out the largest blanket on the pristine white sand. The private beach stretched endlessly in both directions—no footprints but
