Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Then another.
Her whole body starts shaking.
Her mouth falls open on a broken gasp.
Eyes squeeze shut.
Head tilts back—
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 absolutely battering against 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 to claim.
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 just move, 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. "My God, 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 working so 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 in love.
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.
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."