Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
"That's it," he murmurs, and his hand slides down the back of my thigh—slow, deliberate, letting me feel every inch of contact. "You're goin' to learn my touch, lass. Before we begin, ya need to know my hands."
His palm cups the front of my knee.
Slides up my thigh.
Curves over my hip.
Trails along my ribs.
Every touch is measured. Intentional. Not teasing—teaching.
He wants me to recognize his hands. To know the weight and pressure and rhythm of him before he starts delivering consequences.
His fingers skim the underside of my breast, and I bite down on a whimper.
"Good," Saint Lorcan says. "Ya feel that? How your body responds to touch when you're not fightin' it?"
I'm not fighting it because I'm too busy having a religious crisis while being fondled by a man in a monk costume.
His hand moves lower, sliding between my thighs, and I tense—
But he doesn't push inside me.
Just lets his fingers rest there, barely grazing my pussy, the touch so light it's almost not there.
"This is mine to touch," he says quietly. "Mine to care for. Mine to punish or pleasure as I see fit. Do ya understand?"
"Yes, my Saint," I whisper.
Wow, Emmaleen. 'Yes, my Saint' to a stranger fondling your vagina in a chapel. Really setting the bar high for personal dignity.
His hand moves again—up my belly, along my ribs, cupping my breast with careful pressure.
"And this," he murmurs. "Mine."
"Yes, my Saint."
He leans forward slightly, and I feel the brush of his robe against my bare ass, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric.
"Now," Saint Lorcan says, "we're goin' to learn a new prayer. One for penance."
Of course there's a prayer. Because why have regular BDSM when you can have BDSM with a liturgical soundtrack?
"Repeat after me," he says. "I am held."
"I am held," I whisper.
"I am seen."
"I am seen."
"I am forgiven."
My throat tightens. "I am forgiven."
"I am yours."
Oh god.
"I am yours."
"Good girl," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "Now again. All of it. Find the rhythm."
I take a breath.
"I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Again."
"I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Louder, a stór. Let me hear ya mean it."
I push more air behind the words. "I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Perfect," he says.
And then his palm cracks across my ass—hard, sudden, loud in the quiet chapel.
I yelp, my whole body jerking forward, hands scrambling against the prayer desk.
JESUS FUCK—
"Pray," Saint Lorcan commands. "Don't stop."
My brain is static and alarm bells and ow ow ow, but I force the words out. "I am—I am held—"
Another strike. Same cheek. Just as hard.
"Fuck!"
"Pray harder, Emmaleen. Louder."
"I am held! I am seen!"
CRACK.
The next one lands on my other cheek, and tears spring to my eyes immediately.
"I am forgiven! I am—"
CRACK.
"—yours!"
"Again," he says, and there's no mercy in his voice now. Just calm, relentless authority.
"I am held—"
CRACK.
"—I am seen—"
CRACK.
"—I am forgiven—"
CRACK.
My voice breaks on the last line. "I am—I am—"
CRACK.
"Yours!"
Tears are streaming down my face now, my ass is on fire, and I can't remember what comes next in the prayer because my brain has officially abandoned ship.
"I am—Saint Lorcan, I can't—"
The strikes stop. Immediately. Saint Lorcan's hands settle on my hips again—gentle, grounding. "Easy, beloved," he murmurs. "Breathe for me."
I'm sobbing into the prayer desk, my whole body shaking, and he just... pets me.
Strokes my back.
Cups my hip.
Waits.
"Focus, a stór," he says quietly. "The prayer is your anchor. When the pain gets too much, the words hold ya steady. But ya have to trust the words. Trust that they're true."
His hand slides between my thighs again—not sexual, just there. Grounding me.
"I am held," he says. "Do ya feel my hands on ya?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Then you're held. Say it."
"I am held."
"I am seen," he continues. "Do I see ya, lass? Every part of ya—the fear, the need, the tears?"
"Yes."
"Then you're seen. Say it."
"I am seen."
His thumb strokes along my inner thigh. "I am forgiven. When ya fail, when ya break, when ya can't remember the words—do I punish ya for it, or do I stop and help ya?"
My breath hitches. "You help me."
"Then you're forgiven. Say it."
"I am forgiven."
"And the last line," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "I am yours. Not because I own ya, lass. Because you've given yourself to me. Freely. Do ya understand the difference?"
I nod against the wood.
"Say it," he commands.
"I am yours."
"Good girl," he says. "Now we're goin' to try again. And this time, when the pain comes, ye'll let the prayer hold ya instead of fightin' it. If it overwhelms ya, I'll stop again and we'll have a moment. I'll always give ya what ya need, Emmaleen."
I let out a long breath, his words gentling me. Helping me relax. Then—suddenly he's right there, leaning over me, his chest pressed against my back, his cock hard and thick beneath the robe, pressing against my ass.