Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
My frown deepens.
Do I want to fuck someone else?
I’ve always gotten bored with just one dick. Always.
But it’s not just one dick, is it? It’s his dick. And his fingers. And his mouth. And the fucking way he looks at me when he steps through the door like he’s about to eat me alive.
Bane hasn’t gotten boring yet.
But he doesn’t know me, know me.
I scrub harder.
That’s the other reason I’ve lost jobs. Not just the sex but the… shutdowns. Once or twice a year, everything slows down, my thoughts get sticky like tar, and my body? My body turns into a ten-thousand-pound sack of useless meat.
I want to get out of bed, don’t get me wrong. I just… can’t.
Getting up feels impossible. Showering? Laughable. Leaving the house? A cruel joke. Talking to people? Fucking kill me.
I scrub the counter with so much force I could wear a hole through it.
People suck. Usually, I think all they’re good for is fucking. That way, I get my socialization and my human contact while also getting myself and someone else off. Foolproof system. No expectations. No disappointments.
So, where’s the disillusionment with Bane?
If this is all just an illusion, why am I still so into it?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart starts beating stupid fast. Is it him?
I rip off my gloves like they’ve personally offended me, fumble my phone out, and—
Oh.
It’s just a jewelry ad.
I deflate like a goddamn punctured balloon. Then I get pissed.
What, like I have to wait for a man to text me? Fuck that.
Me: Have you been thinking about me?
The response is immediate and deeply satisfying.
Bane: Yes.
Me: Then why haven’t you texted?
Bane: I’m trying to be a good boy.
Why does my brain immediately go to him on his knees, naked, wearing nothing but that cock ring I love when he wears, waiting for me to milk his prostate?
I bite my lip and let my thumbs fly over the phone screen.
Me: I know how you could be my good boy.
Bane: By not texting.
Me: Why?
Bane: Because I’m about to meet with the bishop.
My eyes go wide.
Me: So you’re in your collar right now? Kinky. Go in the bathroom and send me a picture of your dick before the bishop gets there.
Bane: Are you touching yourself?
Me: No. Do you want me to be?
Bane: Not if you want to go to Carnal tonight.
I groan. I hit a g, then stab the R button over and over so he feels my frustration through the screen.
Me: Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Me: Going back to work now. Have fun with the bishop.
Bane: I’ll have more fun picturing your frustrated, throbbing clit.
I slam my phone back in my pocket and attack the counter like it’s personally responsible for my lack of orgasms today.
But now all I can think about are Bane’s shoulders, Bane’s fingers, Bane’s fucking voice when he steps through the door after being away.
Goddamn him.
My clit is throbbing.
Kinky motherfucker.
I scrub harder.
NINETEEN
BANE
The downtown coffee shop bustles with the easy lull of morning business. Machines hiss and churn, voices rise and fall, and the smell of roasted beans fills the air.
Bishop Caldwell sits across from me, sharp-eyed and patient, her hands curled around a porcelain cup. She’s a steady woman, both in faith and presence, but even she can’t quite keep the curiosity from her gaze as I chuckle and put my phone away.
“So?” she prompts, lifting a brow. “How are things? With the congregation, I mean.”
I clear my throat and take a slow sip of my black coffee. “Steady. No great changes, but no great losses either.”
She hums, watching me over the rim of her cup. “And yet you seem... distracted.”
Fuck. No more thinking about Moira’s pink little pussy that’s probably all wet and pulsing right now. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to focus. “The budget is tighter than ever. We had to push back the repairs on the rectory roof another month. And Mrs. Pearson has, once again, taken issue with Agnes over pew placement.”
Her lips twitch in wry amusement. “As I recall, she’s been fighting that war since long before you arrived.”
“I suspect it will outlive us both.”
She chuckles, but the knowing gleam remains in her eye. “And yet still, your mind is elsewhere.”
It is. It absolutely is. Three weeks ago, I laid down the law for Moira. Set expectations and stripped her of choices that had been leading her down a path of chaos. And she—
She’s flourished.
I roll my thumb over the lip of my coffee cup, the warm ceramic grounding me as flashes of the past weeks fill my mind. The first few days, she fought the structure I gave her, bristling, testing boundaries with a sharp tongue and restless hands. But discipline and consistency won out. By the second week, her obedience no longer felt forced. By the third, something in her settled, her edges smoothing, her wildness tempered—not extinguished, never that, but refined.