"You do, my Saint," comes out without hesitation. And I didn't even tell her to say that.
My god.
"Who holds ya when ya fall?"
"You do, my Saint."
"Who sees the truth of what ya are beneath the lies ya tell yerself?"
Emmaleen's breath hitches, but she doesn't hesitate. "You do, my Saint."
Fuck, that's good.
The power exchange thrums between us like a live wire—her submission freely given, my dominance carefully restrained. Every word deepens the connection, pulls us further into whatever dangerous game we're playing.
"Then speak your confession, a stór," I murmur against her forehead. "Name what ya need."
She's quiet for a heartbeat.
Two.
She's thinkin'. Which is what she's supposed to be doin' the first time through. We didn't go over this, obviously. I didn't think we'd get this far. But now that we're here, I'm interested in how she'll fill in the blanks.
Finally, she says, "I need your hand to guide me. Your voice to steady me. Your discipline to free me."
I place my other hand on her cheek, looking deeply into her green eyes. "You are so fuckin' perfect. Don't ever let anyone tell ya otherwise."
She nods, her body's trembling against mine, her pussy clenching around my cock in rhythmic pulses.
"And what do ya offer in return, a stór,? What will my guidance and discipline get me?"
"My body, freely given, my Saint," Emmaleen whispers. "My trust, willingly placed. My submission, honestly surrendered."
Her forehead presses harder against mine, like she's trying to crawl inside me. A tear leaks out of her eye, sliding down under my palm on her cheek.
So earnest. So real.
"Your body is a temple," I tell her, voice roughening. "Will ya keep it sacred for me?"
"I will, my Saint."
"Your mind is a garden. Will ya tend it with care for me?"
"I will, my Saint."
Christ, the way she says it—no hesitation, no doubt, just absolute certainty that I'm worthy of this devotion.
It's intoxicating.
Dangerous.
Exactly what I swore I'd never let myself have again.
I force myself to continue.
"Your soul is a flame. Will ya let me shelter it from the wind?"
Emmaleen's answer comes out broken, desperate: "I will, my Saint."
