I let out another wet, shaky laugh.
"I just—" My voice cracks. "I just survived Catholic BDSM boot camp and now you're about to give me your blessing, and I don't know if that means I'm going to heaven or hell but honestly at this point I'll take either."
Saint Lorcan's mouth curves into a small, genuine smile.
"Aye, beloved," he murmurs. "You'll take both."
15
She did it.
She actually fucking did it.
Seventeen strikes. Seventeen prayers. Zero resets.
I expected failure. Expected her to lose count around strike nine, maybe ten if she was stubborn. Expected to have to stop the session entirely, carry her trembling body out of the chapel, feed her, hydrate her, encourage her while she recovered on my couch. Then try again hours later after she rebuilt enough strength to attempt round two.
Instead, she gave me perfection.
A flawless performance.
Complete surrender wrapped in the kind of grit that makes a man question whether he's the one in control or just participating in something far bigger than his own ego.
Who the fuck is this woman?
Because she's not just submissive. She's not just willing.
She'sextraordinary.
The perfect partner for this exact brand of spiritual fuckery I've built in my home—desperate to succeed, willing to try, capable of enduring seventeen strikes of genuine punishment without breaking the rhythm once.
Her failure equals my denial.
If she can't complete her penance, I can't deliver my absolution.
Which means no communion. No benediction. No sliding inside her while she prays my name like I'm salvation instead of damnation.
Let's be honest about what this ritual actuallyis—punishing is fine, structure is necessary, but I'm here for what comesafter.
For her total submission.
For my cock inside her while she recites prayers I've corrupted into foreplay.
For the moment where the chapel stops being metaphor and becomes exactly what it looks like—me playing god while a beautiful woman worships me on her knees.
I stand slowly, my legs steadier than they should be given how hard I am beneath this robe.
"Up, beloved," I murmur, helping Emmaleen straighten from her bent position over the prayer desk. "Turn to face me now."
She's trembling. Shaking so hard I can feel the vibrations when my hands settle on her hips. Barely able to stand—her legs threaten to give out twice before I turn her around to face me.
Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. Still deep in whatever headspace seventeen strikes and repetitive prayer sent her to.
Perfect.
I open my robe.
Let it fall completely, exposing my rock-hard cock that's been straining against fabric for the last twenty minutes.
