The confession hangs between us—heavy, binding, terrifying in its sincerity.
This is the moment.
The transition point where ritual becomes reality, where performance becomes truth.
I slide my hand from her neck to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone with surprising gentleness for how hard my cock is inside her, how badly I want to justmove.
"Then rise, beloved," I murmur.
She lifts up, slowly and deliberately. Looking down at me, completely enthralled with our ritual.
"Blessed you are, Emmaleen," I whisper against her temple, "for you have chosen the narrow path of guidance. May you find strength in surrender, clarity in obedience, and freedom in the chains ya wear by choice."
One hand slides to her hip—firm, possessing—while the other slips to exactly where it belongs: wrapped around her gorgeous, trembling throat, feeling every desperate pulse beneath my palm.
With deliberate, unrelenting pressure, I push her hips downward, guiding her body until she's taking me completely—every single inch of my cock buried inside her wet heat, stretching her, filling her so fully there's no space left between us.
She whimpers—a broken, needy sound that vibrates against my palm.
Her entire body shakes in my lap, thighs trembling where they bracket my hips.
She tries to move—just the slightest shift of her hips seeking friction, seeking relief from the maddening fullness?—
"Not yet," I command sharply, my voice cutting through the candlelit silence like a blade. My fingers tighten fractionally on her throat—not restricting air, justholding, reminding her who controls this moment. "We finish the prayer first,a stór. Every word. Then ya get what ya need."
Emmaleen stills immediately, though I can feel every muscle in her body straining against the command, desperate for friction, for release, forsomething.
I let the tension build.
Let her suffer in stillness.
Then I lean close to her ear and whisper the final benediction: "Surrender in peace, beloved?—"
I begin to move her hips.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Lifting her slightly before pulling her back down onto my cock in one devastating stroke that tears a broken moan from her throat.
"—you are forgiven so ya may sin again."
"A-fuckin'-men," Emmaleen gasps.
"Amen," I echo, smiling. And then the ritual shatters completely.
I lose control. I'mmoving—lifting her hips and slamming her back down onto my cock with brutal force, no grace, no patience, just raw desperate need.
She cries out, nails digging into my shoulders.
I do it again.
Again.
My hand tightens on her throat—instinct, addiction, the monster clawing its way to the surface after nearly two years of suppression.
This is why ya stopped,Father Patrick warns.This is how it starts.
