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She cries out, nails digging into my back as her cunt clamps down. Her entire body convulses, muscles locking as she comes—hard. Her pussy flutters and pulses around my cock like it’s trying to pull me in deeper.

“Oh God,” she sobs. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” I growl. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

And she does.

Her body goes wild, and I follow, one final thrust driving me over. I come hard, cock jerking deep inside her, hot spurts of cum flooding her tight pussy. I hold her tight, every muscle locked as I empty into her.

Chapter Twenty-Two – Lunetta

The water’s gone cool in the bathtub. My knees are pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them. The rosary’s pressed between my fingers, each bead digging into my palm like tiny punishments. My thumbs glide over the smooth surface of the cross again and again, but the words… they won’t come.

I open my mouth.

Hail Mary….

Soap suds slip down my arms in lazy trails, and all I can feel is the ache—between my legs, the soreness from my sin.

From when he was inside me.

Last night wasn’t a dream. He told me I would give myself to him.

I did.

And the worst part—what makes bile rise in my throat—is that I don’t regret it. I should be on my knees, begging forgiveness. I should feel the pain of sin. But all I feel is…

Nothing. At least not the things I should be feeling.

I press the rosary harder, knuckles paling. I can’t stop thinking about the life I always imagined—marrying a kind man of God, raising children in a house filled with light, my hands covered in flour and grace, not bruises and heat and the memory of a man like him.

I want to scrub the memory away, to wash it down the drain with the soap and steam, but it’s inside me now.

I clutch the beads tighter until they creak beneath the pressure, and then—I scream.

It rips out of me, from the depths of my soul. My fingers snap open and the rosary flies from my hand as I toss it against the tiled wall. It falls with a sharp clatter before scattering across the floor.

My heart hammers.

What have I done?

I stare at the tiny crucifix lying face-down on the cold tile.

I don’t even realize when I step out of the bathtub. Water runs in rivers down my thighs, leaving me cold and shaking. My foot slips once, and I catch myself against the wall. The soap hasn’t been rinsed from my skin—bubbles still cling to my shoulder, the curve of my waist.

I lower myself slowly, my knees hitting the floor harder than I mean to. I reach and I gather the rosary into my wet hands. A single tear falls onto the crucifix, and then another. Until I can’t hold it in anymore.

I bow my head. And I sob.

Realizing that I just lost a part of me that I won’t get back. I press the beads to my lips, shaking so hard it hurts, and try again to pray.

I step out of the bathroom, the towel clutched high on my chest, my skin still damp, my hair clinging down my back.

He's there even though I hoped he wouldn’t be.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless. His elbows rest on his thighs, hands folded loosely between his knees. He looks like he hasn’t moved since I locked the door behind me. His eyes flick up, tracing the water gliding down my collarbone.

Memory cuts through me like glass: