I can see why.
If she were mine—mine first, before Giovanni ever touched her—I'd lock her up and throw that key into Boston Harbor.Claim every part of her, body and soul, until she forgot what freedom even tasted like. He had the right idea with the collar and the dungeon, honestly. The man's instincts aren't wrong, just his execution.
And her words—honest, and playful, and utterly lacking in pretense—don't feel like mockery or disrespect.
It's just another kind of worship, I realize.
The kind that comes not from perfect performance or scripted devotion, but from absolute honesty. From speaking your truth in the moment, even if it breaks the ritual's formal structure. From offering yourself exactly as you are—profane and sacred all at once.
Maybe that's what makes her dangerous.
I smile at her, letting a bit of warmth creep into my expression. "It's workin' on ya, is it?"
She nods, returning the smile with one of her own. "For the record… when I imagined my spiritual awakening, I thought it would involve yoga retreats and meditation apps. Instead, I'm about to pray the Act of Contrition while a mobster nicknamed 'the Saint' absolves me with his dick. Pretty sure this isn't what my Catholic school teachers had in mind, but honestly? I'm into it."
I just stare at her for a moment. Unable to look away. "Whoareyou?"
She laughs. This time, it's big. "Little Miss Take. Word Collector, disaster magnet, and—turns out—the kind of girl who hears 'blasphemous sex ritual' and screams 'sign me up.' Character development nobody asked for, but here I am."
"I could get used to you."
She blushes. Actually fuckin' blushes. "Well…" Then doesn't finish.
Which means… she wouldn't mind if I got used to her and she could probably get used to me too.
Which is dangerous. Since she doesn't belong to me.
But I've got one week. Free and clear. And I have no intention of wasting it.
"Ready to sin again," I ask, letting the promise hang between us.
Emmaleen's inner muscles clench around my cock—a full-body reaction that nearly shatters my control—and I have to close my eyes briefly, breathing through the sensation.
Christ.
When I open them again, she's back in character, the craving she has for my cock right now is presenting as a desperate ache in her eyes.
Perfect.
"I'll speak a line," I explain, shifting my grip slightly on her throat. "Then you'll answer. We go back and forth until the prayer is complete. And Emmaleen?" I'm back in character too.
She makes a soft questioning sound.
"You don't move until I tell ya to," I warn. "You stay exactly like this—impaled on my cock, forehead pressed to mine, completely still—no matter how badly ya want to ride me. Understand?"
"Yes, my Saint," she whispers.
Good girl.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in the space between us. My hand slides from her throat to cup the back of her neck—controlling, anchoring—while my other hand grips her lower back, holding her flush against me.
Completely connected.
Completely mine.
For the next few minutes, at least.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," I begin. "Who delivers ya from darkness?" I ask, keeping my voice low and steady.
