Back to the dress…
Cat couldn’t go, so guess who was nominated?
Me.
I didn’t mind shopping, but I was no Deacon Cruz. My idea of fun was going into a store, spending five minutes picking something sexy out along with shoes and undergarments, and handing my card over to the saleswoman. Done. Fini. Have them wrapped up in boxes and bows and surprise!
Emily was not this way.
She wanted to go to all four boutiques, trying on six different dresses, and spinning in front of me while I attempted to—1. Hurry this shit along—and—2. Not get too obvious of an erection cause she looked hot as fuck.
We were at the fourth one when Em walked out in this amazing blood red dress with more straps than a boy like me could ever want. Bold, fat fabric tethered around her breasts to an open back and half-moon cut out sides with a short skirt with fringe on the bottom. It was an “insta-boner” dress. The kind of dress men fantasized about women stripping out of or fucking their girl in.
“That one,” I declared, setting my glass of sparkling wine down and handing my card over to our saleswoman. “We’ll take it.”
“And the shoes?”
“Yes.”
Em gave a blank stare as she realized her opinion didn’t matter. I cocked a brow at her obvious objection as the saleswoman asked, “Any lingerie?”
“Not necessary.”
Emily’s big blue eyes practically burst.
“I cannot wear this dress without…”
I placed my finger on her lips. “You can,” I calmly warned. “And you will. And everyone will think you look beautiful.”
“What do you think?”
My finger caressed her cheek and swept her hair over her shoulder. I nuzzled her neck, barely kissing her skin. “I think you will be lucky if you leave the reception without a cum stain.”
Her mouth dropped open in horror. “You wouldn’t…”
“If you doubt me, you don’t know me.”
On the lengthy sofa, I sit and stare at the woman with whom I am engaged. She doesn’t really know me. If she did, she’d know better than to do what she was doing. Cat is dancing with a champagne bottle in her hand, and they’re both getting so wasted.
I blink at my still sealed whiskey and decide I don’t really want to get drunk because drunk girls are much more fun when I’m sober. I drop the jacket, vest, and bow tie in a pile. I’m careful to empty all of my jacket pockets because I trust no one here.
Ignore the fact they are my family.
I know these bastards.
I roll my sleeves and unbutton my shirt before jumping into the fray. If Emily wants to shake her ass, then she should be rolling that peach on me. I slide in behind her as my fingers caressed over her bare sides. Grinding my package against her rump, I let my hands claim what is mine. “Sal…”
I’ve got her back pulled close to me in a slow, hypnotic roll. I’m certain she can feel how aroused I am. How hard I am. How hard she makes me. And just knowing this little secret is enough to keep her attention. “Trust me.”
Taking her fingertips, I spend the next hour and a half framing my girl like she is on parade. I spin her out, dip her, and give just her my sexiest moves. She’s breathless as we become the showstoppers on the dance floor. I hate to admit what a perfect partner she is. She’s so waif-like, I can control her body with gentle persuasion.
In her inebriated state, Emily doesn’t argue as she lets my body be her guiding force. Our foreplay on the dance floor leads to my taking her hand and running through the club to an empty lounge.
We’re glistening with sweat when I push her against the wall and unfasten myself. “I’m so tipsy,” she giggles, grinning like the bubbles going to her head are the best thing ever. “What are we doing?”
My hands trail up her thighs, lifting the hem of her dress, as I sink my cock deep inside of her wetness. “What does it feel like?”
“It feels like we’re fucking, but you know, your family is right past the bathrooms and elevators.”
With a punctuated thrust on every word, I hiss, “Do you think any of them are going to try and stop me?”
The thing about that is it’s true. I’m unstoppable as long as I behave and do the things my father wants. No one will say a word to me. I evoke a fear—something new for me—because I am the future of the Raniero Crime Family.
And the power trip is an incredible rush that I never want to end.
I do as Iris asked.
I close my eyes and imagine Emily is her. I lay claim, pinning her hands and taking what I want. I’m a bastard, fucking her with another woman’s cock…and my cock is and forever shall belong to Iris.
She knows this, but we must play these games because if we don’t, we won’t survive. Being the sick fuck, I am, with my torso and head blocking her view, I pull out my phone and take a brief thirty-second video. I’ll send it to Iris later. She’ll touch my sweet pussy to it. She’ll let her mind submerse into the moment where she is Emily.
And all this deceit is occurring without Em being any the wiser.
Maybe she knows and hasn’t said anything. Or maybe the idea of being Mrs. Sal Raniero is such a monumental accomplishment that she doesn’t really care. She’s my mother; the kind of woman to turn the other cheek at countless mistresses.
And what does that make me?
I come with a grunt but a wave of sickening guilt rises in my throat.
“Sometimes, I think you are living two separate lives.”
I wipe her thighs off with my handkerchief, pull her dress down, and recollect myself. “This isn’t easy for me.”
“I know,” she whispers, kissing me. “You ask me to trust you, but eventually you have to do the same. I’m going back to the party and I’d appreciate it if you would join me.”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, planting a kiss on her lips. Her eyes scrutinize like she doesn’t believe me. “Promise.”
I dart into the men’s room and save the video in a special folder. I notice a text message—“Hello.”— and click on it. I don’t recognize the number.
“Raniero.”
“Everything is secure in Sugargrove, Sir.”
I hastily respond, “Thank you, Lula.”
“How is the wedding?”
“Almost over. LOL”
The enchanting Lula Gregory is working for me in Texas. I needed to make sure Juliet, Sugargrove, and my boy are kept whole and secure. I brought her onto my team a month ago.
Perhaps I should correct that.
Her submissive contract was open for bidding, and I bid high. We spoke at length, and she understands I’ve left that world behind me. She maintained her position and signed the deal.
Technically, Lula Gregory is my collared submissive, but I’ll never do anything more than send texts while she monitors everything with her bird’s eye view. She watches over Anna, Deacon, and the rest of those important to me. She is the quiescent presence I need when I cannot fathom crossing the state line.
I pray her father never finds out.
“We do have one little problem.”
“What?”
“I think the new interim therapist at Juliet is working for someone else.”
I furrow my brow as my eyes burn from not blinking. “Who is it?”
“A woman by the name of Wendy.”
“Why the fuck is Deacon’s sister running the admissions at my fucking school?
3
The Blood in My Veins Screams His Name
“Where the hell is your Porsche?” Deacon asks as I pull up in the driveway in the Alfa Romeo 4C Spider several weeks later. Sleek black with red leather trimmed seats, the car screams sexy. He peers inside. “Was it time for a new baby?”
“Cat has the Porsche,” I reply, walking around the car to the passenger side to grab my messenger bag. “She’s bringing it home. Shh!”
“I know nothing about this says the Dark Prince,” he panders with a grin. “When are
you going to stop buying cars?”
“I like being different.” I wink with a grin. “And you love that about me. Is Em home from work yet?”
“Nah…”
“She’s got a dinner meeting.”
“You’re going to need another garage,” he remarks, laughing. “Should I start getting bids from some contractors?”
I raise a brow. “Probably.”
“You may have a slight problem.”
“… With buying cars?”
“No, my sister,” he says, following me into the house. I drop my bag on the table and head for the bedroom. He isn’t letting up. “I know you were poking around, but I did something you couldn’t.”
“What?” I ask, stripping off my clothes. He sits by the window in the chair where I spend far too many sleepless nights watching Emily dream and contemplating the future. “Do tell.”
“I called Wendy…”
I’m mid-stepping out of my trousers and almost fall over. I barely catch myself on the end of the bed. “… You what?”
“Better to build the bridge than suffer through the long distance around.”
“What is she doing?” I question, walking to the dresser. “Because whatever it is—she is up to something. I wish like fuck Poppy Parker would take the job.”
“You’re going to have to put some damn pants on before I tell you,” he counters, staring at my ass. “Too much flesh in the room.”
“This is my bedroom,” I remind him, taking out the cut-off gray sweatpants and tank top. I move closer, still naked, as his fingers frame his face with his elbow propped on the arm of the chair.
In the afternoon sunlight, his blue eyes are stunning like the waters in the Pacific. I pull up the pants and plop on the ottoman. Laying my hand on his knee, I implore, “Talk to me.”
“Wendy is meeting with The Brethren in two weeks.”
“Fuck…”
“Please,” he mutters, distressed. “Whatever you do, please don’t say I told you so.”
I think back to the night we visited his father, Victor “Saint” Cruz, at the old Reckless Rebellion clubhouse on the outskirts of the swamplands in Louisiana. With my balls on the verge of dropping, I walked into Saint’s office, sat on his desk, and talked to him like the young thug I was. The problem with Deacon happened afterward in the parking lot. We weren’t yet lovers, but we were flirting on the edge of something neither of us understood.
“You don’t want to walk away. Trust me,” I contested, mounting the bike. “Your inheritance is worth the GDP of a small country. You may not want it, but I damn sure know you well enough to know you don’t want Wendy to have it.”
I’m trying to say something other than I told you so, but the truth is—it’s an honest response. Upon his father’s death, Deacon took Reckless Rebellion, letting Dr. Wendy Cruz Vogt (Since her divorce, from husband, Steve, she now goes by Wendy Cruz...) have almost all of the investments, and they split the cash. It was the stupidest move he’s probably ever made and he knows it.
Saint’s business investments were lucrative, and they paid out significantly. In the almost five years since his death, Wendy has amassed a small fortune and enough contacts in the underworld to cause a significant problem to us. If she’s meeting with The Brethren, then she wants her finger in the bigger pie.
Adding insult to injury, she is brilliant, holding a doctorate in neuropsychiatry. While the job at Juliet is a step down, she is infiltrating our safe space and warning sirens are going off left and right. I slide my hand from his knee to his thigh and softly pat him a few times before I say, “We’ll handle her however we have to.”
His eyes shift to mine. He's giving an angry, calculated gaze that speaks volumes about his feelings towards me. “She will not…will not…interfere with our business or where we are headed. This is our gig. I may have given up most of my father's business, but I have the one thing that counts—his MC club. And there's far more value in the reputation of that than there will ever be in the handful of under the table deals Wendy has managed to resurrect.”
His expression is far too serious for my liking, and I fear the fire in his blue waters. I break the intense silence between us. “What are you thinking about?”
“I need to find my twin brother.”
I understand why Deacon has a need to find his brother, but I fail to understand the urgency. I furrow my brow. “Does it matter?”
“If other siblings are located and proven, it will halt future payments until resolved.”
“Everything she's using is through the estate,” I realize, understanding his strategy. “Dear fuck…”
“Yes. Staggered trust. But my father knew he was a philanderer and stipulated if any other surviving heirs come forward, everything would be split again.”
“… With all three of you back at square one?”
“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “Back to the beginning before I stupidly relinquished it to Wendy.”
At least he admits his youthful ignorance. But who am I to point fingers? I married a dying girl because she wanted to die a Raniero. If I say I told you so, I’m nothing more than a hypocrite. I had plenty of warning to steer clear of Kaci Hope. I didn’t listen. I’ve forgiven myself and her, but the actions of our younger days still haunt us.
“Reckless Rebellion won’t be included because he sold it off before his death,” I point out, clasping my hands together. “You only resurrected the name. Is Marlena still around?”
“Fuck if I know,” he says with a shrug. “I made a stupid mistake.”
“You were angry,” I console, rubbing his arm before I get up. “We all make mistakes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To go for a run,” I say as he gently grabs my fingertips. “You want to come?”
He snorts. “I want to come; I don’t want to run.”
His fingers ease up over my abs as I sense he needs me. This was not in my plans this afternoon. “We cannot do this here. You’re going to have to run.”
Emily knows Deacon and I are close. I don’t think she knows the extent of the closeness. And I would hate for her to walk in on my right-hand man’s dick plunging deep in my ass. It isn’t something she needs to witness. We are private. We are sacred. This love is only shared with one other.
And she isn’t here.
He gets up as I toss him a pair of joggers. “If I run, will I come?”
“Do I ever let you down?”
I’ve taken to cross-country running. I’m not sure if I prefer it over the loops at the cemetery. Visually, it is much nicer, slightly riskier, and far more distracting. We have a decent sized property, but surrounding our perimeter is mostly woods. After practicing the cross-country jaunt on our land, I ventured out—for better or worse. I don’t ever carry a gun, but I always take a survival knife strapped to a harness on my right calf.
We’ve been gone for about forty-five minutes when Deacon barrels over like he cannot continue any longer. He’s coughing when I stop and look back at him. “I don’t know how the fuck you do this.”
“Practice.”
“But…”
I walk closer and hand him the water bottle. “There are no buts.”
“I’m not cut out for this.”
“Wrong,” I correct as he stands upright and takes a sip. “You aren’t trained for this. You are the one who wanted to come.” I mischievously grin.
“I didn’t know we were going to run twenty miles into the woods.”
“Actually,” I reply, checking my watch. “It’s only been six miles.”
“Fuck you.” He lifts his middle finger as I scan over his long-sleeved blue workout shirt soaked in sweat. “I gotta get to the gym more if we’re going to be doing this.”
“We’re going to be doing this,” I assure, cracking my knuckles. “Or else Cat will tell me I’m getting fat.”
He laughs. “And it matters what your sister thinks?”
“Hell yes, it matters!” I
pace around and pull the pack of smokes from my pocket. “If Cat thinks I’m jiggling, then Iris will too.”
He shakes his head when I light the cigarette. “You think she cares about all this?”
“If I don’t run, I’ll go insane.”
“So, your reasons for working out like a gym rat aren’t to be physically fit…” He takes the smoke from my fingers. “Clearly.”
With a roll of my eyes, I chuckle and sit on a broken log. “It’s what I’ve done since I can remember. I run.”
“You know, it won’t fix the issue.” He rubs his thumb over my hope tattoo on the side of my hand. “Is this healing or denial?”
“… Both?”
“You’re scared of losing Iris.”
“Can you blame me?” I ask as we step into a dangerous land mine. “It’s not like I didn’t love her.”
“I’m well aware,” he says, maintaining his stance. He’s protective of me—not only physically, but mentally as I routinely self-sabotage my psyche. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion of my avoidance in bringing Iris home. People run on love or fear, rarely simultaneously. My reluctance to admit how much she truly means to me is fear-based and we both know it. “But you cannot marry Em. No matter what your dad says. This can only go on for so long before it becomes the charade you believe. Don’t let it get to that point and forget why you did all of this.”
“I won’t ever forget.”
“I know you have hope under your nose and Iris riding on your back.”
“You want me to go ink her name on the other side?”
With a cock of his head, he lifts his brows. “It might not be a bad idea. A trigger word.”
“You know me too well,” I confide, fully understanding this isn’t going to be easy. “But I cannot risk her.”
“Risk versus reward, my friend,” he says, brushing my ball cap off and running his fingers through my hair. “Eventually, it comes into play. This denial will consume you if allowed.”
He bends down and kisses my forehead, but I lift up to demand more. My lips skid over his as I break through the barrier and slide my tongue into his mouth.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 3