"Twelve."
My cock's thickenin' beneath the robe, and I hate myself for it. Hate that this does somethin' to me—the ritual, the submission, the precise choreography of dominance disguised as absolution.
"Seventeen," she whispers, touchin' the final candle.
Seventeen flames now. Seventeen sins. Seventeen marks against her submissive soul that Giovanni and Jino decided warranted punishment.
Emmaleen turns to me, and the candlelight catches her face—illuminates the tears on her cheeks, the desperate need in her eyes, the complete surrender in every line of her body.
And it's like… she knows me. Like she and I aren't brand new to each other.
Because she repeats her prayer, lookin' me right in the eye.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me. Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan,free me."
My cock is throbbin'.
My mind is spinnin'.
She's still lookin' at me. Waitin'. Trustin'. "Please." It's just a whisper, really. Something barely there. But there it is.
Permission?
Oh, it'smuchmore than that.
It's the willingness to kneel before somethin' greater than herself and beg for salvation.
"Come here, beloved," I murmur. "Step back inside the prie-dieu. Let's see if ya pray as pretty as ya beg."
14
I'm standing in a sex chapel disguised as Catholic cosplay, seventeen candles burning behind me like some kind of confession board tracking my failures, and a half-naked Irishman in a crimson monk robe just called me "beloved" while his dick is visibly hard underneath the fabric of his robe.
This is it. Rock bottom has a basement, and that basement is a sex chapel with a dominant monk who gets off on being prayed to.
Saint Lorcan steps into the prie-dieu behind me—actuallyinsidethe kneeling space, which I didn't realize was possible until his legs bracket mine, his chest brushing against my bare shoulders.
Oh. I see.Thisis why it's so wide.
It's designed for two bodies.
One kneeling.
One standing behind.
My brain does that thing where it tries to be helpful by supplying extremely unwelcome information:This is sacrilege. You're literally desecrating Catholic prayer furniture for kinky sex rituals. Your Nana Rourke is spinning in her grave so fast she could power a small city.
But my pussy doesn't care about Nana Rourke's eternal disappointment.
My pussy is, however,very interestedin whatever Saint Lorcan is about to do.
"That's good, a stór," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into that command register that makes my knees want to buckle instead of straighten. "Now we're goin' to learn Position Secunda."
Position Secunda sounds suspiciously like a Harry Potter spell for summoning orgasms.
But I don't say that because my mouth has finally learned to shut up when dominants are touching me, which is either personal growth or complete psychological breakdown. The jury's still out.
Saint Lorcan's hands slide up my sides, skimming my ribs, then back down to my hips. "This position is about surrender, lass. About offerin' yerself for correction while maintainin' yer devotion."
