I can't.
I can't do it.
Saint Lorcan says nothing. But his hand leaves my hip and slides between my thighs, cupping my pussy with firm, possessive pressure.
I freeze, breath catching.
He doesn't push inside me. Doesn't stroke. Doesn't give me anything except the promise of his touch—hovering right there, so close to what I desperately need but refusing to deliver.
The message is crystal fucking clear.
If you want this, you'll earn it.
I try my best to calm down, my whole body shaking. His hand stays exactly where it is—steady, patient, waiting for me to work through the panic and reach the only logical conclusion.
If I want pleasure tonight—if I want to come—I have to endure this.
All of it.
The pain. The failures. The endless resets.
I have to pray and count through seventeen strikes without losing my place, and if I can't manage that, then I getnothing.
Saint Lorcan's thumb shifts slightly, barely grazing my clit, and I whimper.
You evil Irish bastard.
But also?—
Okay fine yes I'll do it just please touch me properly?—
I take a shaky breath.
Let it out.
My brain scrambles for justification, for some way to make this okay, and what comes out is:
Alright, Emmaleen. Think of it like a video game. You die, you respawn at the last checkpoint. Except instead of Princess Peach, you're rescuing your own orgasm from the castle of an extremely hot monk who's definitely going to hell. And also you. You're both going to hell. But at least you'll have company.
I let out a broken laugh that's half sob.
"All right," I whisper. "I'll—I'll try again."
Saint Lorcan's hand leaves my pussy immediately, and the loss isdevastating.
But then both his palms settle on my hips—grounding, steadying.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Ready?"
I press my forehead harder against the wood.
Close my eyes.
"Yes, my Saint."
CRACK.
The strike detonates across my right cheek, and I shoot straight into a place that isn't quite reality anymore.
