Chapter 15 #3
Then I lean close to her ear and whisper the final benediction: "Surrender in peace, beloved—"
I begin to move her hips.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Lifting her slightly before pulling her back down onto my cock in one devastating stroke that tears a broken moan from her throat.
"—you are forgiven so ya may sin again."
"A-fuckin'-men," Emmaleen gasps.
"Amen," I echo, smiling. And then the ritual shatters completely.
I lose control. I'm moving—lifting her hips and slamming her back down onto my cock with brutal force, no grace, no patience, just raw desperate need.
She cries out, nails digging into my shoulders.
I do it again.
Again.
My hand tightens on her throat—instinct, addiction, the monster clawing its way to the surface after nearly two years of suppression.
This is why ya stopped, Father Patrick warns. This is how it starts.
I know. Fuck's sake, I know.
But I can't stop myself from pressing harder, watching her eyes widen as her airway narrows, feeling her pulse absolutely racing beneath my palm while her pussy clenches around my cock like she's trying to pull me deeper.
The power rush hits like cocaine straight to the brain.
Better than cocaine.
More dangerous.
This is the addiction Giovanni saw in me at seventeen. Why he made me promise not to touch her throat while she's here.
Promise broken.
I'm choking her while fucking her in a desecrated chapel, and I can't—
Emmaleen's hand covers mine.
Presses it harder against her neck.
I blink.
Wake up slightly from the frenzy.
She's not fighting.
She's asking for more.
Her eyes lock onto mine—hazy but present, desperate but certain—and she increases the pressure herself, using my hand to restrict her own airway while she rides my cock.
She likes it.
Wants it.
Chose it.
The recognition slices through my spiraling thoughts with sudden, crystalline clarity. I don't have to tear through this like a man possessed.
Don't have to barrel toward catastrophe and destruction the way I've done every other time before—the way I always thought was inevitable, hardwired into my DNA, an inescapable fate written into my very bones.
This doesn't have to end with damage.
With her broken.
With me hating myself in the aftermath, kneeling in this exact spot hours later, rosary beads cutting into my palms while I beg forgiveness for sins I knew I'd commit the moment I started.
Not this time.
Not if I choose differently.
The concept feels revolutionary—almost laughable in its simplicity. Choice. Agency. The radical notion that I could acknowledge the addiction, and make a different decision about how to feed it.
Or whether to feed it at all.
Or—and this is the thought that stops my breath entirely—whether I could train it. Tame it. Turn this dangerous compulsion into something controlled, ritualized, safe.
The way I've ritualized everything else in my life to keep the chaos at bay.
Why not this?
Why not her?
Giovanni's voice echoes in my head from the phone call… If I can keep my dick out of her mouth for six weeks surely you can handle not choking her for one.
That's Giovanni's addiction—throat-fucking so hard he leaves bruises, makes them gag and cry, pushes until they can barely swallow the next day.
I've watched him lose control of it.
Just like he's watched me lose control of this.
But what if we didn't?
What if I trained her—trained myself—properly this time instead of rushing toward the inevitable disaster?
I ease the pressure on her throat.
Just slightly.
Watch her eyes refocus.
Then I press again—just a little more, just enough to make her… flutter.
She starts to collapse, and the moment she does this—the instant I see her consciousness beginning to slip—I release completely.
She gasps, dizzy, returning to herself with a sharp inhale.
"Again," I murmur against her forehead, still fucking her slowly now, deliberately. "We'll do it again, a stór. Nice and easy. I've got ya."
I press.
Watch her eyes.
Wait for the flutter.
Release.
She comes back gasping—
And then she shatters.
Her orgasm hits like a freight train, entire body convulsing in my lap, pussy clamping down on my cock so hard I see stars. She screams—wordless, broken, beautiful—and I hold her through it, forehead pressed to hers, hand still resting gently on her throat.
"That's it, beloved," I whisper, voice rough. "I've got ya. You're safe. I won't lose control. I promise."
The words are for both of us.
Her inner muscles are still pulsing when my own orgasm slams into me—brutal, overwhelming, stealing every coherent thought as I come deep inside her, filling her completely while she trembles and gasps against my chest.
I hold her close through the aftershocks.
Keep my forehead pressed to hers.
Keep whispering promises I desperately hope I can keep.
"Never too much," I murmur. "Never too far. We'll train together, a stór. Slow and careful. One day we'll do it right."
She nods weakly, collapsed against me.
I'm still inside her.
Still hard somehow.
Still wanting more.
But this time—this one time—I choose patience over frenzy.
Control over chaos.
Training over destruction.
Please God, let me mean it.