Chapter 15 #2
She nods, returning the smile with one of her own.
"For the record… when I imagined my spiritual awakening, I thought it would involve yoga retreats and meditation apps.
Instead, I'm about to pray the Act of Contrition while a mobster nicknamed 'the Saint' absolves me with his dick.
Pretty sure this isn't what my Catholic school teachers had in mind, but honestly? I'm into it."
I just stare at her for a moment. Unable to look away. "Who are you?"
She laughs. This time, it's big. "Little Miss Take. Word Collector, disaster magnet, and—turns out—the kind of girl who hears 'blasphemous sex ritual' and screams 'sign me up.' Character development nobody asked for, but here I am."
"I could get used to you."
She blushes. Actually fuckin' blushes. "Well…" Then doesn't finish.
Which means… she wouldn't mind if I got used to her and she could probably get used to me too.
Which is dangerous. Since she doesn't belong to me.
But I've got one week. Free and clear. And I have no intention of wasting it.
"Ready to sin again," I ask, letting the promise hang between us.
Emmaleen's inner muscles clench around my cock—a full-body reaction that nearly shatters my control—and I have to close my eyes briefly, breathing through the sensation.
Christ.
When I open them again, she's back in character, the craving she has for my cock right now is presenting as a desperate ache in her eyes.
Perfect.
"I'll speak a line," I explain, shifting my grip slightly on her throat. "Then you'll answer. We go back and forth until the prayer is complete. And Emmaleen?" I'm back in character too.
She makes a soft questioning sound.
"You don't move until I tell ya to," I warn. "You stay exactly like this—impaled on my cock, forehead pressed to mine, completely still—no matter how badly ya want to ride me. Understand?"
"Yes, my Saint," she whispers.
Good girl.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in the space between us. My hand slides from her throat to cup the back of her neck—controlling, anchoring—while my other hand grips her lower back, holding her flush against me.
Completely connected.
Completely mine.
For the next few minutes, at least.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," I begin. "Who delivers ya from darkness?" I ask, keeping my voice low and steady.
"You do, my Saint," comes out without hesitation. And I didn't even tell her to say that.
My god.
"Who holds ya when ya fall?"
"You do, my Saint."
"Who sees the truth of what ya are beneath the lies ya tell yerself?"
Emmaleen's breath hitches, but she doesn't hesitate. "You do, my Saint."
Fuck, that's good.
The power exchange thrums between us like a live wire—her submission freely given, my dominance carefully restrained. Every word deepens the connection, pulls us further into whatever dangerous game we're playing.
"Then speak your confession, a stór," I murmur against her forehead. "Name what ya need."
She's quiet for a heartbeat.
Two.
She's thinkin'. Which is what she's supposed to be doin' the first time through. We didn't go over this, obviously. I didn't think we'd get this far. But now that we're here, I'm interested in how she'll fill in the blanks.
Finally, she says, "I need your hand to guide me. Your voice to steady me. Your discipline to free me."
I place my other hand on her cheek, looking deeply into her green eyes. "You are so fuckin' perfect. Don't ever let anyone tell ya otherwise."
She nods, her body's trembling against mine, her pussy clenching around my cock in rhythmic pulses.
"And what do ya offer in return, a stór,? What will my guidance and discipline get me?"
"My body, freely given, my Saint," Emmaleen whispers. "My trust, willingly placed. My submission, honestly surrendered."
Her forehead presses harder against mine, like she's trying to crawl inside me. A tear leaks out of her eye, sliding down under my palm on her cheek.
So earnest. So real.
"Your body is a temple," I tell her, voice roughening. "Will ya keep it sacred for me?"
"I will, my Saint."
"Your mind is a garden. Will ya tend it with care for me?"
"I will, my Saint."
Christ, the way she says it—no hesitation, no doubt, just absolute certainty that I'm worthy of this devotion.
It's intoxicating.
Dangerous.
Exactly what I swore I'd never let myself have again.
I force myself to continue.
"Your soul is a flame. Will ya let me shelter it from the wind?"
Emmaleen's answer comes out broken, desperate: "I will, my Saint."
The confession hangs between us—heavy, binding, terrifying in its sincerity.
This is the moment.
The transition point where ritual becomes reality, where performance becomes truth.
I slide my hand from her neck to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone with surprising gentleness for how hard my cock is inside her, how badly I want to just move.
"Then rise, beloved," I murmur.
She lifts up, slowly and deliberately. Looking down at me, completely enthralled with our ritual.
"Blessed you are, Emmaleen," I whisper against her temple, "for you have chosen the narrow path of guidance. May you find strength in surrender, clarity in obedience, and freedom in the chains ya wear by choice."
One hand slides to her hip—firm, possessing—while the other slips to exactly where it belongs: wrapped around her gorgeous, trembling throat, feeling every desperate pulse beneath my palm.
With deliberate, unrelenting pressure, I push her hips downward, guiding her body until she's taking me completely—every single inch of my cock buried inside her wet heat, stretching her, filling her so fully there's no space left between us.
She whimpers—a broken, needy sound that vibrates against my palm.
Her entire body shakes in my lap, thighs trembling where they bracket my hips.
She tries to move—just the slightest shift of her hips seeking friction, seeking relief from the maddening fullness—
"Not yet," I command sharply, my voice cutting through the candlelit silence like a blade. My fingers tighten fractionally on her throat—not restricting air, just holding, reminding her who controls this moment. "We finish the prayer first, a stór. Every word. Then ya get what ya need."
Emmaleen stills immediately, though I can feel every muscle in her body straining against the command, desperate for friction, for release, for something.
I let the tension build.
Let her suffer in stillness.