Throat exposed.
My hand moves before conscious thought catches up—rising from her lower back in one fluid motion, fingers spreading as they travel up the curve of her spine, over the trembling knot of her shoulder blade, along the side of her neck where sweat is beginning to gather in the hollow beneath her ear.
Then my palm settles against her throat—wraps around the delicate column with deliberate care, thumb pressing against one side of her windpipe, fingers splaying across the other, the heel of my hand resting in that vulnerable hollow at the base where her pulse is absolutelybatteringagainst my skin like a trapped bird trying to break free.
The sensation is overwhelming.
I can feel every frantic beat of her heart transmitted through my palm.
Every desperate swallow she makes as her body continues its agonizing descent onto my cock.
Every shallow, gasping breath she manages to pull in despite the gentle but undeniable pressure of my grip.
Oh fuck.
My cock jerks violently inside her—a brutal, involuntary convulsion of pure animal need that nearly shatters every shred of control I'm clinging to. The feeling of her pulse thundering beneath my hand while her pussy grips me like a vice is so intensely primal it short-circuits every rational thought, reduces me to nothing but sensation and instinct and the overwhelming urge toclaim.
She moans, the sound vibrating against my palm.
We're both about to lose control.
I can feel it building—the frenzy threatening to consume the ritual, turn communion into chaos.
No.
Not yet.
I force myself to breathe.
Force the words out before the monster takes over completely.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," I begin, voice rough but steady.
Emmaleen's eyes snap open, finding mine.
I keep my hand wrapped around her throat—firm, possessive, grounding—as I force the words out despite how badly I want to justmove, just fuck her properly instead of maintaining this agonizing stillness.
"Listen carefully, a stór," I murmur, watching her pupils dilate further. "We're going to recite the Act of Contrition together. D'ye understand?"
She nods against my palm, the movement small but deliberate.
"This is how we absolve ya of your sins," I continue, thumb stroking along her pulse point. "When the prayer is finished,your demerits will be wiped clean. All seventeen gone. You will leave this chapel born anew."
Her breath catches, then words spill out—raw and unfiltered. "MyGod, you're hot. I don't know how the hell you came up with this shit, but it's working on me, my Saint. It's workingso hard."
Under normal circumstances—with any other woman who'd dared speak like this in the sacred moments before the Contrition—I'd have already withdrawn, broken the ritual entirely, and sent her packing for profaning what we were about to do. For treating devotion like dirty talk. For reducing the liturgy to bedroom banter.
But clearly, Emmaleen Rourke isn't any typical woman.
No wonder Giovanni is letting me fuck her.He wants to keep her happy. Wants to give her everything she needs, even if that means handing her over to someone else when he can't be here.
This is all about her. Which says more than it should about where Giovanni's head is at. Most men do what they can to keep their women happy—it's basic maintenance, part of the arrangement. But this level of accommodation, this willingness to share something he's clearly claimed as his own, isn't just control. It's something deeper.
Giovanni Bavga is inlove.
That's the only possible reason he's letting me do this right now.
He's so fucking in love with this girl, he's willing to orchestrate her satisfaction even if it means watching another man provide it. He wants to take care of her. In every way imaginable, apparently. Every need met, every desire fulfilled, every dark craving satisfied—even the ones his particular brand of dominance can't address.
