Chapter 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.
Then another.
Her whole body starts shaking.
Her mouth falls open on a broken gasp.
Eyes squeeze shut.
Head tilts back—
Throat exposed.
My hand moves before conscious thought catches up—rising from her lower back in one fluid motion, fingers spreading as they travel up the curve of her spine, over the trembling knot of her shoulder blade, along the side of her neck where sweat is beginning to gather in the hollow beneath her ear.
Then my palm settles against her throat—wraps around the delicate column with deliberate care, thumb pressing against one side of her windpipe, fingers splaying across the other, the heel of my hand resting in that vulnerable hollow at the base where her pulse is absolutely battering against my skin like a trapped bird trying to break free.
The sensation is overwhelming.
I can feel every frantic beat of her heart transmitted through my palm.
Every desperate swallow she makes as her body continues its agonizing descent onto my cock.
Every shallow, gasping breath she manages to pull in despite the gentle but undeniable pressure of my grip.
Oh fuck.
My cock jerks violently inside her—a brutal, involuntary convulsion of pure animal need that nearly shatters every shred of control I'm clinging to.
The feeling of her pulse thundering beneath my hand while her pussy grips me like a vice is so intensely primal it short-circuits every rational thought, reduces me to nothing but sensation and instinct and the overwhelming urge to claim.
She moans, the sound vibrating against my palm.
We're both about to lose control.
I can feel it building—the frenzy threatening to consume the ritual, turn communion into chaos.
No.
Not yet.
I force myself to breathe.
Force the words out before the monster takes over completely.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," I begin, voice rough but steady.
Emmaleen's eyes snap open, finding mine.
I keep my hand wrapped around her throat—firm, possessive, grounding—as I force the words out despite how badly I want to just move, just fuck her properly instead of maintaining this agonizing stillness.
"Listen carefully, a stór," I murmur, watching her pupils dilate further. "We're going to recite the Act of Contrition together. D'ye understand?"
She nods against my palm, the movement small but deliberate.
"This is how we absolve ya of your sins," I continue, thumb stroking along her pulse point. "When the prayer is finished, your demerits will be wiped clean. All seventeen gone. You will leave this chapel born anew."
Her breath catches, then words spill out—raw and unfiltered. "My God, you're hot. I don't know how the hell you came up with this shit, but it's working on me, my Saint. It's working so hard."
Under normal circumstances—with any other woman who'd dared speak like this in the sacred moments before the Contrition—I'd have already withdrawn, broken the ritual entirely, and sent her packing for profaning what we were about to do.
For treating devotion like dirty talk. For reducing the liturgy to bedroom banter.
But clearly, Emmaleen Rourke isn't any typical woman.
No wonder Giovanni is letting me fuck her. He wants to keep her happy. Wants to give her everything she needs, even if that means handing her over to someone else when he can't be here.
This is all about her. Which says more than it should about where Giovanni's head is at.
Most men do what they can to keep their women happy—it's basic maintenance, part of the arrangement.
But this level of accommodation, this willingness to share something he's clearly claimed as his own, isn't just control. It's something deeper.
Giovanni Bavga is in love.
That's the only possible reason he's letting me do this right now.
He's so fucking in love with this girl, he's willing to orchestrate her satisfaction even if it means watching another man provide it.
He wants to take care of her. In every way imaginable, apparently.
Every need met, every desire fulfilled, every dark craving satisfied—even the ones his particular brand of dominance can't address.
I can see why.
If she were mine—mine first, before Giovanni ever touched her—I'd lock her up and throw that key into Boston Harbor.
Claim every part of her, body and soul, until she forgot what freedom even tasted like.
He had the right idea with the collar and the dungeon, honestly.
The man's instincts aren't wrong, just his execution.
And her words—honest, and playful, and utterly lacking in pretense—don't feel like mockery or disrespect.
It's just another kind of worship, I realize.
The kind that comes not from perfect performance or scripted devotion, but from absolute honesty. From speaking your truth in the moment, even if it breaks the ritual's formal structure. From offering yourself exactly as you are—profane and sacred all at once.
Maybe that's what makes her dangerous.
I smile at her, letting a bit of warmth creep into my expression. "It's workin' on ya, is it?"