Six days ago, Emmaleen was in throne position between my thighs, her cheek pressed against my leg, breath warming the tip of my hard cock inside my pants as I fed her tiny bits of perfectly seared steak.
Every time I placed a morsel on her tongue, she would close her lips around my fingers in a seductive way, teasing me with an implied promise of a blowjob if I would just order her to do it.
Her pupils were dilated and gleaming with that particular fever that foreshadowed a tangent, and that night's digression was on octopi.
She was about to wreck my evening with whatever chaos lived in her head and I was completely captivated.
I didn't tell her that. I never told her how much I liked listening to her talk, and now she's in Boston laughing about books with Lorcan Ó Fearghail while I'm staring at ceiling texture, wondering if octopi feel heartbreak three times harder than the rest of us.
The octopus shifts slightly when I blink, tentacles rearranging themselves across the plaster.
Emmaleen told me octopi can fit through any opening larger than their beak—the only hard part of their entire body. They're escape artists. Contortionists. Masters of disappearing through impossibly small spaces.
She said it while kneeling between my legs, her tongue darting out to catch a drip of butter from my thumb.
"That's me,"she whispered, grinning up at me with that crooked smile that made my chest feel too tight."I'm the octopus. Give me one crack in your heart and I'll squeeze through. Three hearts means I love you three times harder when I do."
I gripped her hair and told her to shut up and eat.
Because the truth is, there isn't just one crack in my heart for her. There's a fucking cavernous gap as wide as the distance between us right now.
Last night I watched Lorcan position her in his blasphemous chapel kneeler while I sat in my surveillance room, hand wrapped around my cock.
Part of the deal. My condition for allowing her to stay in Boston.
Lorcan gets to close her punishment loop. I get cameras.
I watched him teach her Position Secunda—ass up, legs spread, hands in prayer—and felt something break open in my chest when she struggled to hold it.
He was patient. Grounding. Everything I'm not.
He spanked her seventeen times while she counted and prayed, and I came twice before he even slid inside her.
The first time was when she lost count and didn't manipulate him, didn't beg or deflect—she just cried and willfully started over with only Lorcan's encouragement as a salve.
The second time was when Lorcan wrapped his hand around her throat.
I told him not to touch her there. Made him promise not to choke her.
He did it anyway.
And how did she respond? She pressed his hand tighter against her own neck, choosing it, wanting it, the same way she chose the collar I gave her.
I should've fantasized about killing him for that.
Instead I jerked off again, furious and hard and completely fucking broken, because watching her surrender to Lorcan felt like watching her choose someone better than me.
Someone who bathes her like it's worship instead of maintenance.
Someone who reads.
Someone who doesn't have a monster living inside him that whisperstake, take, takeuntil there's nothing left.
I was certain Emmaleen would find the whole chapel performance absurd. That she'd crack jokes about Catholic guilt repackaged as kink, compare Lorcan to some obscure character from a novel I've never read, earn herself three more demerits for commentary before he even got the candles lit.
She'd been irreverent about everything else—my notebooks, my Lamborghini, my entire operation. Why would a sex chapel in South Boston be any different?
But she wasn't.
