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)
I let out another wet, shaky laugh.
"I just—" My voice cracks. "I just survived Catholic BDSM boot camp and now you're about to give me your blessing, and I don't know if that means I'm going to heaven or hell but honestly at this point I'll take either."
Saint Lorcan's mouth curves into a small, genuine smile.
"Aye, beloved," he murmurs. "You'll take both."
15
She did it.
She actually fucking did it.
Seventeen strikes. Seventeen prayers. Zero resets.
I expected failure. Expected her to lose count around strike nine, maybe ten if she was stubborn. Expected to have to stop the session entirely, carry her trembling body out of the chapel, feed her, hydrate her, encourage her while she recovered on my couch. Then try again hours later after she rebuilt enough strength to attempt round two.
Instead, she gave me perfection.
A flawless performance.
Complete surrender wrapped in the kind of grit that makes a man question whether he's the one in control or just participating in something far bigger than his own ego.
Who the fuck is this woman?
Because she's not just submissive. She's not just willing.
She's extraordinary.
The perfect partner for this exact brand of spiritual fuckery I've built in my home—desperate to succeed, willing to try, capable of enduring seventeen strikes of genuine punishment without breaking the rhythm once.
Her failure equals my denial.
If she can't complete her penance, I can't deliver my absolution.
Which means no communion. No benediction. No sliding inside her while she prays my name like I'm salvation instead of damnation.
Let's be honest about what this ritual actually is—punishing is fine, structure is necessary, but I'm here for what comes after.
For her total submission.
For my cock inside her while she recites prayers I've corrupted into foreplay.
For the moment where the chapel stops being metaphor and becomes exactly what it looks like—me playing god while a beautiful woman worships me on her knees.
I stand slowly, my legs steadier than they should be given how hard I am beneath this robe.
"Up, beloved," I murmur, helping Emmaleen straighten from her bent position over the prayer desk. "Turn to face me now."
She's trembling. Shaking so hard I can feel the vibrations when my hands settle on her hips. Barely able to stand—her legs threaten to give out twice before I turn her around to face me.
Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. Still deep in whatever headspace seventeen strikes and repetitive prayer sent her to.
Perfect.
I open my robe.
Let it fall completely, exposing my rock-hard cock that's been straining against fabric for the last twenty minutes.
Her gaze drops immediately. Locks onto my erection. Her mouth parts slightly, and I watch her tongue dart out to wet her lips in pure instinct.
Fuck.
I sit back down on the throne, legs spread, cock jutting upward like an offering—or a demand.
"Come here, a stór," I say quietly. "Time for yer communion."
She steps forward on unsteady legs, and I guide her with my hands on her hips until she's standing directly in front of me.
"Straddle me," I command.
Emmaleen obeys, climbing carefully onto the throne, knees finding purchase on either side of my hips on the wide seat. Her inner thighs press against my outer thighs. Her pussy hovers just above my cock—so close I can feel the heat radiating from her core.
She's soaking wet.
I can see it glistening on her skin, smell the sharp musk of her arousal.
"Good girl," I murmur, one hand sliding up her spine to cup the back of her neck. "Now lift yer hips higher."
She rises slightly, giving me room to grip my cock with my free hand and guide it to her entrance.
The head of my cock parts her folds.
Finds her opening.
Presses against slickness and heat and—
"Now take me inside ya," I whisper. "Impale yourself on yer Saint's cock, beloved. Nice and slow."
Emmaleen sinks down—slow, deliberate, torturous in its precision—and the first inch of my cock disappears inside her.
The sensation steals the breath from both our lungs.
She gasps—a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the stone walls—and her inner muscles clench around me like a fist. Hot. Slick. Perfect.
I nearly groan aloud before I get myself under control and try to focus on the ritual, not the feeling of her tight pussy swallowing me inch by inch.
But Christ, it's impossible to think when she's lowering herself onto my cock with such agonizing slowness. She's tight—so tight I have to fight the urge to just grab her hips and slam her down.
But this is a ritual.
Not a frenzy.
So I hold perfectly still—every muscle locked down, control clamped tight over the screaming need to move—letting her take what she needs, letting her set the pace.
My hand remains at her lower back, steadying without pushing, anchoring without forcing. I watch her face intently as she sinks another fraction lower, cataloging every expression.
The way her lips part on a silent exhale, the flutter of her eyelashes, the delicate crease that forms between her brows as her body stretches to accommodate me.