Her gaze drops immediately. Locks onto my erection. Her mouth parts slightly, and I watch her tongue dart out to wet her lips in pure instinct.
Fuck.
I sit back down on the throne, legs spread, cock jutting upward like an offering—or a demand.
"Come here, a stór," I say quietly. "Time for yer communion."
She steps forward on unsteady legs, and I guide her with my hands on her hips until she's standing directly in front of me.
"Straddle me," I command.
Emmaleen obeys, climbing carefully onto the throne, knees finding purchase on either side of my hips on the wide seat. Her inner thighs press against my outer thighs. Her pussy hovers just above my cock—so close I can feel the heat radiating from her core.
She's soaking wet.
I can see it glistening on her skin, smell the sharp musk of her arousal.
"Good girl," I murmur, one hand sliding up her spine to cup the back of her neck. "Now lift yer hips higher."
She rises slightly, giving me room to grip my cock with my free hand and guide it to her entrance.
The head of my cock parts her folds.
Finds her opening.
Presses against slickness and heat and?—
"Now take me inside ya," I whisper. "Impale yourself on yer Saint's cock, beloved. Nice and slow."
Emmaleen sinks down—slow, deliberate, torturous in its precision—and the first inch of my cock disappears inside her.
The sensation steals the breath from both our lungs.
She gasps—a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the stone walls—and her inner muscles clench around me like a fist. Hot. Slick. Perfect.
I nearly groan aloud before I get myself under control and try to focus on the ritual, not the feeling of her tight pussy swallowing me inch by inch.
But Christ, it's impossible to think when she's lowering herself onto my cock with such agonizing slowness. She'stight—so tight I have to fight the urge to just grab her hips and slam her down.
But this is a ritual.
Not a frenzy.
So I hold perfectly still—every muscle locked down, control clamped tight over the screaming need tomove—letting her take what she needs, letting her set the pace.
My hand remains at her lower back, steadying without pushing, anchoring without forcing. I watch her face intently as she sinks another fraction lower, cataloging every expression.
The way her lips part on a silent exhale, the flutter of her eyelashes, the delicate crease that forms between her brows as her body stretches to accommodate me.
Then another.
Her whole body starts shaking.
Her mouth falls open on a broken gasp.
Eyes squeeze shut.
Head tilts back?—
