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)
I like my lane.
I get Emmaleen Rourke all week long. It's just her and me, doing our thing, . She's quite literally my best friend these days.
No, she doesn't write me poetry.
No one is giving her lessons on how to please me.
But Saturday mornings are mine.
And I don't want to waste it on a stupid blow job.
Epilogue
The black limo navigates the South Boston waterfront as I watch from my bedroom window, still stripped bare from the shower I took in preparation for her arrival.
My skin's still damp, droplets tricklin' down my spine, and I haven't bothered with clothes because what's the fuckin' point? She's naked underneath that yellow coat I know she's wearin'—Giovanni's particular brand of psychological theater—and just the thought of how I'll spend the next eighteen hours with her is enough to make my cock thick and hard against my thigh.
I make the most of every minute with Emmaleen. Every second. Every heartbeat. Because I'm not in charge of when she comes next, am I?
Giovanni is.
He's in charge of the schedule, the timetable, the whole bloody operation. Mr. I-get-to-tell-ya-when-ya-can-see-her-and-when-ya-can't. Mr. I-own-her-time-and-you're-just-borrowin'-it.
Control freak bastard, whispers Father Patrick in my head.
Aye, Father. That he is.
And let me tell ya—Giovanni's rather stingy with these visits. Territorial. Guards his assets like a dragon hoardin' gold.
Once a month is standard protocol—if he's out of town on business, maybe twice if the stars align and he's feelin' generous. And I've got a better chance of winnin' the fuckin' Powerball, claimin' the jackpot, and retirin' to the Cayman Islands than gettin' this girl all to myself three times in a single month.
So I plan our visits like I'm a goddamned cruise director. Every activity scheduled. Every moment choreographed. Maximum efficiency, maximum impact, maximum—
The limo stops in front of my gate.
I walk to the security panel at the top of the stairs, press the button to open the gate, then make my way to the front door, my cock bobbin' against my thigh as I descend the stairs.
I watch on the security screen as she gets out of the limo. I would not call Emmaleen graceful in most situations. Most of the time she's a goddamned catastrophe. But when she's in character—when she's in scene—she moves like a fuckin' gazelle. It's Jino's trainin'. When that shit kicks in, it kicks in hard.
So I'm watching her unfold out of this limo with the grace of a damn butterfly emergin' from a chrysalis, burnin' with desire to get this girl in my chapel so I can wreck it.
Shatter that fuckin' polish Jino put on her and replace it with sweat, and welts, and handprints.
I take photos after every session, just before Giovanni picks her up. I put the best one in a journal I'm keepin'. I don't have many pages—yet. The stingy fuckin' mobster's ta blame for that. But little by little, my collection is growin'.
And Emmaleen—the slutty little word collector who can't help herself—documents our time here with a few lines of poetry. Sometimes just fragments. Pieces of verse that capture what her body's learned in ways her mind won't admit.
She dictates them in that thoroughly fucked, exhausted voice while I write them down on the page in me own hand. Her words in me best, most perfect St Augustine's penmanship.
It's like me own personal Book of Kells.
If the Book of Kells was a wrecked woman's body illuminated by the sun rising up over the Boston Harbor instead of Celtic mythology in gold leaf.
Our own private liturgy, each session together preserved with a photo, a bit of verse, and ink.
We've made it through nine Stations of the Saint since she started comin' here.
Tonight, we go all the way to ten.
Decimatio.
I reach for the door, pullin' it open just before she reaches my threshold. And there she is, smilin' that smile, eyes cast down, cute fuckin' freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like constellations.
"My Saint," Emmaleen whispers, entering my home with a small bow.
I don't respond. Just close the door and extend my hand.
She places the notebook in my palm—Jino's meticulous record of the week's trainin', Giovanni's notes on her performance, her own confessions written in the margins that come with doodles, and pieces of poetry, and colors. Like her demerits notebook is a dark romance she plans on reviewin' on BookTalk.
She drops the coat, letting it pool at her feet on the floor. Then looks up at me with a barely-hidden smirk. No shame at all in that look, even though her nipples are so peeked and tight, they could cut glass.
I circle her slowly, obsessin' over every line and curve. "Beautiful," I murmur.
And she is. God, she is.
The monster in me wants to drag her to the windows immediately, skip the ritual entirely and just press her face first against the glass and fuck her until she forgets every prayer.