I breathe.
He pets me.
Not sexually—at least notovertlysexually—but like he's gentling a spooked animal. His palm slides from my belly to my side, then up my ribs in a slow, grounding stroke. Down my spine. Along my hip.
"You're doin' so well, a stór," he says quietly. "Just need to get used to the position. To the vulnerability. Give yerself a moment."
There's no impatience in his voice.
No frustration.
Nodisappointment.
I feel the shift inside the prie-dieu as he settles into the seat behind me, an Irish throne, if you will. I register the faint creak of old wood, the rustle of fabric. His knees must be on either side of mine now, his body positioned so he can reach me easily.
"That's it," he murmurs, and his hand slides down the back of my thigh—slow, deliberate, letting me feel every inch of contact. "You're goin' to learn my touch, lass. Before we begin, ya need to know my hands."
His palm cups the front of my knee.
Slides up my thigh.
Curves over my hip.
Trails along my ribs.
Every touch is measured. Intentional. Not teasing—teaching.
He wants me to recognize his hands. To know the weight and pressure and rhythm of him before he starts delivering consequences.
His fingers skim the underside of my breast, and I bite down on a whimper.
"Good," Saint Lorcan says. "Ya feel that? How your body responds to touch when you're not fightin' it?"
I'm not fighting it because I'm too busy having a religious crisis while being fondled by a man in a monk costume.
His hand moves lower, sliding between my thighs, and I tense?—
But he doesn't push inside me.
Just lets his fingers rest there, barely grazing my pussy, the touch so light it's almost not there.
"This is mine to touch," he says quietly. "Mine to care for. Mine to punish or pleasure as I see fit. Do ya understand?"
"Yes, my Saint," I whisper.
Wow, Emmaleen. 'Yes, my Saint' to a stranger fondling your vagina in a chapel. Really setting the bar high for personal dignity.
His hand moves again—up my belly, along my ribs, cupping my breast with careful pressure.
"And this," he murmurs. "Mine."
"Yes, my Saint."
He leans forward slightly, and I feel the brush of his robe against my bare ass, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric.
"Now," Saint Lorcan says, "we're goin' to learn a new prayer. One for penance."
Of course there's a prayer. Because why have regular BDSM when you can have BDSM with a liturgical soundtrack?
