The muddy message sends a swooping blast of lust to my ravenous pussy. I soak my panties, wanting his cock like he claimed me in the water in Japan. It was our last time together.
“Do it. Now. Fuck me.”
On his knees, Deacon heaves with a ragged breath, his eyes still locked with mine as he thrusts hard into Sal’s ass.
There are no words for the ownership in his eyes. Sal is his territory, and I only borrow a tract in his heart. There are acres of space, and Cruz, the real estate mogul, monopolizes them all, denying anyone’s purchase, as he prepares his next move, threatening to encroach on my shores.
“You’re fucking tight,” he huffs as my eyes remain imprisoned by his, and the words are directed at me. I am too stressed and jumbled to be able to enjoy his spiritual guru. He purifies me, rousing every drop of my being with his love as he possesses my oceans. And I won’t have a choice about the sale because I’ll be too addicted to his defense, also drawn in by his promises of preservation. “Loosen up, lover. I have got you.”
“Maybe you’re too fat.”
Deacon stops and grins. “Maybe your ass is too narrow,” I smirk as he charms me, but doesn’t miss a beat with Sal, conquering all the bases with one strategic, devious assault. “You tell me I have a fat dick one more time, and I am knocking you one, Nero. You just need to be more accommodating to my methods.”
“I would probably enjoy that.”
“Masochist,” Deacon goads. “Hold on. Stop.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re loosening up, which is good because I’m about to fuck the hell out of that hole.” Deacon deliberately pumps with short strokes as his strict gaze tames his reckless possessions—Sal and me. “You’ve been in the dark too long. Give it to me. Relinquish control.” His expression shifts, opening and smiling as his rolling hips widen into deep, unforgiving thrusts. “There we go, babe. Let me fuck you.”
I gasp as my hand rushes to hold my pussy—the only part of me I still own—as his eyes threaten a siege. I’m determined to protect my fortress. He cannot own it. And neither can Sal. It’s mine.
“Yes!” Sal moans with a look of pure ecstasy like he’s found the high and about to overdose.
“Do it, Boston, do it,” Deacon chants. I stare at Sal’s magnificent erection beneath the infiltration of Deacon. He’s so hard, so stunningly beautiful.
“My fiancée died,” Sal blurts out randomly, warping and fighting as Deacon falls to his chest and pins his leather-banded bound wrists down. Sal’s fingers easily curl around Deacon’s palms. He’s holding on…to another man…to chart his way through the torrential storms because his fires won’t survive without him. He will perish. He will fall. “Oh, God… Cruz, what did we do?”
“We did what was necessary to pick up the pieces for the Unholy, but we did not cause Emily’s death.” His callous words speak only the truth, and that is the worst part of his uprising. “I will not let evil have you.”
“I carried her,” Sal cries out as I look at the moon and feel my tears slide to the pillow. “And the worst part was I knew I didn’t love her like I needed to. I never loved her like Iris.”
“We did it because of Cesario, Sal.”
“I’m such a fucking pansy ass.”
“Don’t you do that,” Deacon scolds. “You don’t get to do that. Not after what you did in Florida. Don’t go back there.”
His tears come like a flood. “I should’ve given up.”
“No,” Deacon growls, staying low and thrusting fast as his preaching shifts to a dire conviction. “We do not quit, Boston. We do not quit.”
“And the shit I do… she could do so much better than me. What if I get her killed too? She needs a guarantee of fucking happiness. And I don’t know if I can ever make her happy! I can’t even fucking tell her these things without this…so who is fucked up here?”
“We do not quit!” Deacon maintains his grace under the pressure of Sal’s horrific demons. “We do not quit!”
Hysterically sobbing, I glance over.
When he’s wearing his elegant tailored suit, Sal keeps his little boy crying under gloomy gray clouds, and no one but Deacon knows. He is Sal’s truth and the fuel for his fire. Years of abuse and neglect and expectations and criticisms surface, and Deacon harbors them all on his stolen property. He’s too good…too righteous…too holy. His dick isn’t just another body part; it’s a divining rod to Sal’s soul. And we give up fighting our turf wars and saving ourselves because Deacon “Saint” Cruz is a masterful landlord and an ingenious Dominant.
And that is something I can never have.
“I can never give you what he does,” I mumble, leaning to get up and leave as I’m knocked back by the whipwhirling current that is Cruz. “Let me go…”
“I warned you,” he blasts with a furious gale, gripping my arm. “Not to intervene.”
“Wait,” Sal mutters, wailing in the siege. “Don’t go…”
“I don’t know if I can stay and listen to you plot your demise. I thought you two were having some hot, good times, but this is not fun.”
“You wanted intimacy. You wanted the real. You wanted the truth. This is it, sweetheart. This is how we do it,” Deacon sternly informs. “Because if we don’t do it this way, he ends up thrashing razorblades over his skin so that he can feel.”
I bawl.
“We do it this way because I alleviate the numbing ache in his spirit.”
I have never seen Sal this strung out. “And if I want in your band of brotherhood, I must be resilient enough not to be combative and just listen.”
“Yes!” Deacon storms. “No questions. Just take my fucking dick!”
With his eyes gushing massive tears, Sal peers at me. “I can’t give you any more.”
With his cock buried in Sal, Deacon reaches beneath my skirt and rips the lace from between my legs. Spitting in his hand, he strokes Sal and tugs my body to him. “Fuck my goddamned dick like the slut you want to be.”
“I can’t,” I cry, knowing it isn’t his dick he wants me to fuck, but Sal’s —Deacon owns it, and he knows it. “He’s too far gone for me to help him. I didn’t know it was this bad.”
His fearless yank of my leg forces my straddling of Sal, latching his hands to my hips and spreading my thighs as he pushes Sal inside of my womb and thrusts me down. “Now, fuck him!”
I can’t stop crying as the violation of Sal’s cock sins for his Saint. “I wasn’t ready…”
“I warned you,” Deacon growls in my ear as his hands pull the dress from my body. He exposes my breasts. His fingers tweak and twist my nipples as his mouth savors the skin of my neck. “I warned you not to play with the boys. We’re mean,” he coaxes, guiding my hips to match his thrusts. “We play for blood, pretty girl.”
“I’m so scared, Iris,” Sal whimpers.
“Go to him. Comfort him. Catch him.”
The ravishment was easy compared to Deacon’s hand on my back, pushing me towards Sal. He holds me down as I meet Lucas Salvatore Raniero for the first time. Lattes and chocolate croissants ain’t got nothing on this. “I want to be yours.”
“I’m fucked up, Angel.”
“I don’t give a shit how messed up you are,” I whisper as my body consumes his. “I want to be the one to catch your fall and hold your rise. Your heart knows you didn’t have anything to do with that shooting. The blood isn’t on your hands. You are as much a…victim…as the rest of us.”
“There is too much wrong with me to be worth anything.”
His dismissive banter coils in my gut as my hatred for all the things done wrong to him festers into a monstrous storm of my volatile waters coalescing with the wind at my back, and I slap the fucking shit out of him. “You will stop. Now!”
Deacon squeezes my ass cheek and runs his finger along the seam as if rewarding me for a job well done. The penetration of his fingers in my ass cause a sudden gasp and an urgency swelling in my slick folds.
“Y
ou hit me.”
“You’re damn right I fucking hit you, and I’ll do it again too!” I fiercely hiss, owning my position. Deacon wasn’t trying to take my consecrated grounds hostage; he was trying to teach me—a submissive—how to govern an unrelenting Dominant. “You’re the Capo, but I’ve got your motherfucking cunt!”
“Fuck me, Iris,” he begs as my hands skirt over his tears. “Please fuck my hard dick with your wet pussy.”
“You’re going to be great,” I reassure, rebuilding his valuation with every monumental thrust. I impale my body onto him over and over again as Deacon’s finger serves as a guide to light my way. I am tethered to Deacon like a kite to a string, train to rail, bitch on a chain. And I cannot stop the outpouring of devotion and harmony between our triumvirate. “You’re so young. And there is so much pressure to conform, but you do not bend. You do not break, Sal. You hold steady because Deacon and I have got you,” I declare, laying claim his to heart. “Always. Forever.”
His lips crash into me as we resurrect our relationship with every rock and cradle. Our lines do not divide, but blur and meld, as we become one in ritual. The Kings ferociously battle for their Queen, and the Queen vigilantly shields her Kings with a cutthroat bloodthirsty regime as the trinity desecrates the underworld and manifests our empire.
The legacy of three.
“I’m going to come, baby,” Sal whispers against my lips as our strides in the war zone render our first victory. “I love you so…so much.”
There are cracks in the fortress, weathered from elements, and patched with an undying love. We will hold the bastion and do it with fluency as the only comprehensive language that matters is in the sweat of our skin, the dew of our loins, and the spit from our lips.
A shrill moan escapes from my lungs as I surrender, and they lay claim to my submission. My deluge brings a ripple effect as I feel Deacon’s pulsing thrusts of elation, coating deep within his tomb, and Sal gushes like a geyser, erupting inside of me.
A deliriously good tongue lashing from the Prince seals the treaty as his hands skim over my back and buttocks in a sultry caress. His touch sends my mind into a trance as I accept—this is Sal’s game.
And we play by his rules.
Deacon and I are mere pawns, inching as close as possible, daring his supremacy and bringing about peace to his struggle. Ours is a pure act of love as Sal exists with all others in a constant state of hate.
His love is raw and endless for Deacon and me.
With gentle persuasion, Deacon coerces me into his arms, and I collide into the hard, unbreakable wall of an unholy Saint. His denim blues scout over his new dominion, baptizing the Mistress in me.
Infected by his intriguing subtle ways, passive yet commanding, I move to kiss his lips as his blonde scruff hits my chin, and I am captured by the sheer radiance in his eyes reflecting from Sal and me.
And only then do I understand the breadth of his love.
32
Rose Water at 1 AM
His Ride
I knock on the back door of the house in the French Quarter. The darling piece of property hosts an overgrown garden complemented by lemon lap siding and turquoise shutters.
“It’s unlocked!” Kim yells as I crack open the door, and the flavorful aroma hits. “You’re late!”
I give a guilty as sin grin. “I could say I got stuck in traffic.”
Boxing up the food, she shrugs and rolls her eyes. “It’s Mardi Gras, but you’ve got that look!”
“Which look?”
“The look of Sal,” she says with a smile. “He’s here.”
“Yeah,” I reply, blushing. “So is Iris. You need to lock your door, little lady.”
“I will lock my door when you leave,” she replies. “You should bring them over.”
“What do I owe you?” I ask as she places the cardboard box in my hands.
“A kiss.”
She closes her eyes, and I kiss both of her cheeks. “You are a total doll for this.”
“If Raniero does not come to see me soon, you tell him I am hunting him down!”
With a wide grin, I laugh. “You’re so spunky.”
“Most good women are Deacon.”
Her hands press to my cheeks as I give her another kiss. This time on the lips. “Oh! Your mother came by with her new boyfriend. You need to tell her he is too young!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I say, nodding. “I am quite aware.”
“Make him go away.”
“I will do my best.”
“Go eat,” she encourages with a smile as we walk to the door. “I love you.” She peeks out the door. “Thank heavens you didn’t bring your bike. You need to be careful on that thing.”
“I know,” I agree. “I love you.” I blow her another kiss.
“Be good!”
I turn back with a grin. “Am I ever?”
“You are always good, Deacon!”
“Lock your door, Kim!”
She waves as I get in Sal’s truck. Kim has been a good friend of Ma’s my whole life and knew of Ma’s affair with my father. She and her husband are former Delirium MC who chose not to get absorbed by Cinco. They decided to leave Houston, and I recommended New Orleans. I even helped them move. She’s a spitfire, full of sass and snark, and more wisdom than a fortune cookie.
Driving back to The Dollhouse, I recount all the women who had a hand in raising the reckless young Deacon—Kim, Perrine, and Suzy—they were the “Aunts” I never actually had around. I was always a rebel, going against the grain as I searched for a more divine path than that of my step-father.
But there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of Dad and what he would want me to do. To the rest of the world, he was Victor “Saint” Cruz, but to me—he was the idol I only saw a couple of times. I cherish those precious memories.
I know seeing my dad’s old lover, Zachariah, with his son has stirred up emotions I believed were long gone. Dad was a player. He kept his genuine love for Zach hidden while marrying Marlena (and having a child, Wendy Cruz) and kept Ma as his mistress. He enjoyed the romance game, sought spiritual enlightenment, and walked a different path.
He wasn’t real mafioso.
He was a violent criminal who happened to be exceptionally good at what he did. He was some punk kid out of the swamps, who was hired by none other than Luca Raniero to kill one very important man, Daizou Ito, which led to Keishi Nakamura’s rise to power in Lotus.
Without Luca Raniero, pulling his strings and using the original Saint Cruz, there would be no Lotus Queen.
Our history runs deep.
The realization brings tears to my eyes as I drive and smell her scent on my fingers.
“You’re serious?” Sal snaps at the speakerphone in his hand. Sitting on a barstool in the kitchen, he holds a beer in his hand and a smoke in the other. There is no remnant of our session. We are seamless. Just like I like it. “How in the hell?”
“I don’t know,” Dom says as I quietly set the box down on the counter. “He’s awake, though.”
“Who?” I blurt out.
“Dale Archer,” Dom replies. “How are you doing, Cruz?”
“I’m good, Sir,” I respectfully say as Sal proudly watches on. “Making sure the dungeon doesn’t get dusty.”
He laughs as Sal grins and snickers. “So, I want you to think about it, Boston.”
Strumming his fingers on the counter, Sal replies, “I will.”
“I love ya, Kid.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
He hits the end call button. “You’re really taking this Dad thing to new heights.”
Sal gives a heavy sigh. “Cesario was never a father. Vinny is nothing more than a sperm donor and an Uncle I fucking miss like crazy. Dom has been my Daddy for quite a while.”
“Go back there…”
“If you are going to rail my ass about Dom.”
“Stop,” I calmly say, lifting a hand. “If you miss Vinny so bad, why not men
d the fence?”
“Because he fucked a fifteen-year-old girl!”
He blinks. “O—kay, hold up. When did your grandparents get married?”
“Both of my grandfathers were older,” he says, perturbed. “What does this have to do with Vinny?”
“This isn’t like he fucked some four-year-old kid, Sal. My fourteen-year-old grandmother married my twenty-one-year-old grandfather, and they had six kids and a marriage that lasted sixty years.”
“Your point?”
“My point is maybe Stella and Vinny were actually in love,” I implore, trying to get it through his thick skull. “Stop thinking about this like a damn ex-sex trafficking agent and start thinking about this like their son.”
“I’ve considered it…”
“You know what I just did?” I ask, pulling off my hoodie and getting in the food. He peeks in the boxes. “That was a question you should answer.”
“I don’t know, had a threesome with Kim and her husband?”
“No, dipshit,” I reply, smacking him in the arm.
He steals a wonton, bites into it, and garbles, “She makes damn good food. You never know with you.”
“I spent the last twenty minutes driving back here and missing my dad. I fucking cried.”
He wipes the corners of his mouth with his fingers and licks his lips. “... Are you okay?”
“I am.” I nod as the emotions try and resurface. “I am…but if I had a fucking chance to go back and be with my dad just one more fucking day, I would jump on it. If you think you want a relationship with Vinny Veramonte, do not make the same mistakes I made. Do not wait until it is too late, and the only place you can talk to him is at the crypt. Don’t do it. Because that shit hurts.”
“Jesus, I thought you just went to pick up Chinese food,” he mutters, dipping his finger in the sauce. “You’re just trying to save my asshole from more of your intense therapy sessions.”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 26