Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Hurt me, Lucas!”

  “I can’t!” I yell, shoving her forward and backing out. “Don’t ask me again.”

  I run up the staircase, leaving my fiancée broken in the basement. This is the guy I’ve become. I turn on the shower and step inside. The water soothes the ache, but I know it’s only temporary, a small bandage to conceal a festering infection.

  I hear the door slam as Emily opens the shower and gets in with all her clothes on. She’s on her knees before I can stop her. Water soaks her hair and clothes as those damn blue eyes cinch the noose around my heart. Her fingers clinch to my ass, begging for my moves. With my dick in her lips, I give her the face fucking she’s looking for because I cannot stop. The high is too good. My fingers twist into her blonde hair and firmly tug as we get closer to the place where we will never return to the lands of vanilla.

  Damn, it tasted so good—not.

  But her tight mouth and crying eyes are not enough for me as I pick her up and shove her against the tile. “Just fuck me like you want to Sal. Stop pretending to be everything you’re not. I fell in love with the punk kid starting fights on the street. I fell in love with the guy who defended me in a shed. I don’t want some 9-to-5, stale missionary lover. I want your passion and if that comes with your Dominance, then consider it sold.”

  She says the one thing I wish she never would’ve—Dominance. I pin her hands above her head and maul her like a primal animal. My mouth is on her nipples, biting and sucking, as I let my dick do what it does. Her moans fill my lungs with fuel at every kiss. She breathes life back into dying embers. “I need to fuck you so bad, Em.”

  “I don’t know this guy,” she whispers, running her lips along my neck. “I need you to train me, Sir.”

  It is the absolute worst thing she could ever have said. Her naivety and innocence pulses through my veins as I pump faster and come hard. “If you ever say that to me again, you better be prepared for the torture I will put you through.”

  Blinking up with a vulnerable gaze in her eyes, she whispers, “Bring it, Master Luke.”

  39

  Unreal Remedy

  The Master’s Ride with His Butterfly

  In my best black suit, I tap lightly on Iris’ door. The car will be here soon to take us to the dinner at Lotus tonight. I knock again. This time louder. “Iris, the car will be here soon…”

  Nothing.

  I think back over the day. We spent the time quietly keeping to ourselves as the rain rhythmically fell from gray thunderclouds. We had lunch—bento boxes—delivered by her driver, Yoshi. She retired to her room around one-thirty and said she’d meet me at six.

  I bang again, and when she doesn’t respond, I open the door. “Iris, this isn’t funny!” I glance around the room and step into the bathroom. I notice the puddle on the floor and the window jarred off the rails. “Oh, my God…”

  Running to my room, I grab the one phone I kept secret from her. I call Sal. “Answer dammit!”

  “… Do you realize what time it is?” he sleepily asks. “It’s still dark out. And I just went to bed an hour and a half ago…”

  “She’s gone…”

  His voice shifts to an angry tone. “What do you mean—gone?”

  “I mean her bathroom window is off the track and she is fucking missing.”

  “How the hell did you lose her?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, walking towards the front door to see if I missed something. Standing right outside, the four Japanese men in suits startle me, and I drop the phone. They rapidly contain my arms around my back, and conceal my eyes with a black blindfold.

  “Hello,” I hear one say into the phone. “Mr. Raniero, do not concern yourself with our business. You will be contacted.”

  They lead me to a vehicle.

  And I know—this time—I fucked up good.

  “You didn’t honestly think I could let you know where Lotus is, did you?”

  I feel her fingers tracing over my shoulders as I sit, tied to the chair. “No, ma’am.”

  “Nice trick with the phone,” she says, breathing against my lips. “How much have you told him?”

  “Everything.”

  I expect her to slap my cheek or have her men beat or bludgeon me to death, but neither happens as I feel the slice through the ropes at my back.

  “Don’t move,” she warns. I hear nothing, no clanking of high heels or men cocking guns. “Lean forward, Mr. Cruz.”

  The scruff on my face rubs against something smooth as I take a breath and the smell of her brings on an instant erection. “Jesus.”

  “Lick me,” she demands. “And don’t fucking stop until I come.”

  I feel her hands pull me closer as I find her delicious slit. She’s wet and silky against my tongue. I flick against her clit and she relaxes her thighs, welcoming my consumption. My mind is going a million miles a minute as I never imagined my introduction to her world would be between her thighs. In her grandfather’s kingdom, I understand that a cunnilingus has never mattered as much as this one.

  This one counts.

  This one is for the very keys to the kingdom.

  I take my time, swirling my lips and tongue, and wishing I had been given use of my hands. Her fingers toy with the tips of my hair and her selfish desires pull the blindfold from me. I glance around at the loads of black silk fabric embellished with red butterflies. With her fingers on my shoulders, she pushes me away. “Enough.”

  “You didn’t come,” I argue, feeling like I’ve failed. The spacious room is all mirrors—the walls and ceiling. “What is this place?”

  “Stand up.” She bends slightly to unfasten my trousers and guides my way to her dampness. “Now do me like your life depends on it.”

  Captured by the unreal beauty before me, I do as I’m asked. Her full mane is clipped up with diamond barrettes with tiny dangling strands and her makeup is not like I’ve ever seen. Her appearance evokes images of a perfect geisha doll, and then I realize, I’m not fucking the Iris I know and love as I become the Lotus Queen’s lover.

  The contrast between our moment in the waterfall and now is the difference between day and night. I cannot control this as she maintains absolute power. The symbolism catches my surrender and I know I am her subject.

  Her servant.

  Her sexual slave.

  Awed by what she has evolved into, I don’t fuck her because to do so I fear would be insulting. I take my time, worshipping her with every inch of me. The seizing of her intense sapphires stills my breath and brings an unexpected calmness in my soul.

  And it is in that moment, crippled by her grace and honored by her grandeur, that I understand what is on the line. If I cannot make it through the rigors of this night, there is no way Sal will survive.

  I am the first test—the easier one—of the two.

  The job we are applying for isn’t one to be taken lightly or with disregard. It is important in a way I cannot fully express with words. Iris holds the history of her past and in selecting The Unholy for her protection, she willingly places all that she is into the palms of our hands.

  We could easily eliminate her from the game and overthrow Lotus with our uprising, but Sal would never allow it and neither would I. “Deacon,” she whispers as we roll against one another like our very breath depends on the act. “You have a lot of balls doing this to me here.”

  “You asked me to.”

  “Would you do anything I asked?”

  “Yes, Iris,” I mutter, kissing her delicate lips. I’m careful to not smudge her pristine makeup. “Yes, my princess.”

  “Then you do not tell Sal about tonight.”

  I don’t react as my heart tightens in my chest. “I will keep your secrets.”

  “Because his experience will not be anything like this.”

  “I know,” I say, accepting my role. “I’m nothing more than a peasant.”

  With her hands on my cheeks, she smiles. “I wouldn’t say that, but my grandfat
her’s standards for the man I plan to marry will be far greater than any lover I take.”

  “I’m the test.”

  “You always were,” she confesses, rocking her body against mine. “For Sal and me.”

  “It is my greatest pleasure in life to provide for you both.”

  “Come,” she commands as her eyes shutter closed. She licks her lips. “And don’t ever doubt how much we love you.”

  “I won’t,” I reply, edging closer to release. “And you don’t doubt how much I love you.”

  “I never have.”

  In a small dining room off the kitchen, I meet the man all of this is about—Keishi Nakamura—with my cum dripping out of his granddaughter. He is a squatty little man with a bright smile and gentle demeanor. His love of Iris is evident, and after my time with her in Japan, I cannot say as though I blame him.

  “What are your plans, Deacon?”

  “In what regard?”

  He takes a sip of his tea and says, “With your future?”

  “I would like a wife and children one day.”

  “You cannot currently have those things with the Horsemen,” he observes, clasping his hands. “I would like to do my best to make those things obtainable for you.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  He glances at Iris and back to me. “You must know what I am doing goes against the established primogeniture. By all accounts, everything should go to Iris’ father, Raiko.”

  “But you believe otherwise…”

  “I believe in shaking the shit out of things, Saint,” he says with a hearty laugh. “But in doing so, I am not sending my granddaughter away to the Raniero clan as is customary. Salvatore will be absorbed into our family.”

  While I personally have trouble seeing Sal being “absorbed” into anything, I concede to the old man’s privilege. He alone has the power to make or break The Unholy. “I know Sal will be happy to meet with you and talk about the future.”

  “What I need to know is…” He stops talking and lights a cigarette. He offers me one. With the clouds of tobacco filling the room he asks, “If I do not approve of Salvatore, will you do the honor of marrying my granddaughter?”

  I briefly glance to Iris, sitting up straight and maintaining absolute poise. She doesn’t look up. “I will happily marry Iris, but I do not think Sal would be pleased.”

  “If I do not approve of Sal, he will not make it out alive, Saint.” I feel threatened for The Unholy, Sal, and myself. The Chairman isn’t playing around. “I have enjoyed your presence and you are welcome here anytime. On another note, Deacon, you look the spitting image of your father.”

  “I’ve been told that before,” I candidly say.

  “He would be impressed by who you have become.”

  “I’m a renegade, Sir.”

  “You’re not the only one,” he says, lifting his tea cup and standing. “Enjoy your time here in my home.”

  Iris and I sit, void of any sound, for a long while. She finally breaks her blank stare to her lap and blinks at me. Reaching across the table, I mutter, “Did he just agree to meet Sal?”

  “Yes,” she says as her lip trembles. “He did.”

  I want to congratulate her, but the fear in her eyes is so painfully real. “I meant every word I said, baby.”

  “That you will marry me if my grandfather kills Sal?”

  “Yes,” I reply, unwavering. “It won’t be easy, but you and I will get through it together.”

  “Or maybe not at all.”

  “Do you honestly believe that I would allow you to take the easy way out?”

  A hint of a smile jets from the corner of her mouth. “No. He likes you—a lot.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he doesn’t like Cesario Raniero at all and he assumes—wrongly—that Sal is a walking replica of him.”

  “Sal is nothing like his father.”

  A single tear drips over her cheek as her eyes stay glued to mine. I sense she wants to say something. “Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” I urge, clutching her hand. “You can trust me.”

  “I can’t because if I do, you will tell him.”

  I tilt my head ever so slightly as I attempt to read between the lines of what her words are saying and her eyes are screaming. “Is Cesario not his father?”

  “I’m done here, Deacon.” She rolls up and I quickly stand. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Iris, please… What do you know?”

  “I know the Raniero family has many secrets and some of them don’t ever need to come out. For the sake of the family and for the sake of Sal, I beg you to please not say a word of this conversation to him.”

  With the question boiling in my gut, I beg, “Is he Cesario’s son?”

  “… Would it matter now?”

  “Yes!” I shout too loudly. “It would because everything he is doing is with the belief that Cesario has his thumb on him.”

  “Sal chose to go after his father,” she says. “I cannot stop him.”

  “But you could stop the wedding…”

  “He has to figure these things out on his own,” she excuses. “I cannot do it for him.”

  I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten as she turns away. I lunge forward and grab her arm. “Iris…”

  “Let go of me.”

  “If Cesario isn’t his father, who is?”

  “What I know, Deacon, is that Sal was abused by that man for years. And subsequently, he believes there is a debt to be paid. Right or wrong. Father or not. Nothing I can say or do will erase his past. You need to let him figure it out.”

  “You need to tell him!”

  “I did!” she hisses. “I left him a message when he went to England. He refused to listen to me and I’m not bringing the matter up again. This discussion is over. Now, if you will please let go of my arm.”

  I bring her hand up to my lips and bow. “You have my oath—my sworn secrecy—and I will not divulge this conversation.”

  “If you really want to know who his father is…talk to Anna,” she confides, nodding. “Goodnight, Deacon.”

  40

  Fluffy Cream Filling

  After our incident, Emily and I started to change. I wanted to stop the shift, but I couldn’t find the brakes. She knew things about me.

  Emily experienced the edge of my Dominance.

  And there was nothing I could do to erase that from her memory.

  We’re at my parents’ house with the whole family for Sunday dinner. The kitchen is a flurry of womanly activity—and I say that, not to be some misogynistic, sexist asshole—but because in this particular family, it is true. Women rule the home and the kitchen is their throne.

  With the men surrounding the football game on the flat screen, I take up residence at Mama’s kitchen island, peeling potatoes, and Emily is helping prepare the salad. My cousin, Fran, is single-handedly undertaking the responsibility of making ravioli. I can do it, but I’m enjoying watching her struggle to get the dough flat enough without being too thin.

  We’re having Italian roast beef with tons of garlic mushed into the meat. It’s been cooking for over an hour and the entire house smells incredible. Enough to ward off any vampires within a hundred-mile radius.

  Cat is singing—everything from sappy top forty love songs to rap—with her choir of Stella, Val, Gaby, and Aunt Tizzy. Aunt Michelle is next to me as we keep giving each other hopeful looks of—when will they stop?

  Mama is whipping up dessert of pistachio pudding with fresh cream and pizzelles. I hate to say this, but she is shaking her ass to their chorus, which sounds more like two cats fucking during a full moon.

  This is my famiglia.

  And I kind of want to die from laughter.

  “You want to help me bring in the cooler, big boy?” Aunt Michelle asks, laying her hand on my bicep. “Vinny is…distracted.”

  I finish peeling the final potato and eagerly say, “I would love to
.”

  The second we step outside, smokes come out. I light us both. “Thank you!” she exclaims with relief. “Good gawd almighty!” She booms, exhaling and stepping from the porch. “Have they no tune?”

  “No,” I say with a chuckle as I plop my ass on the step. “Not a single note between them.”

  I think back to being in The Dollhouse with Iris and Deacon carrying on. Those two can carry a tune, and together, it’s as if angels are singing. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m alright,” I answer, cracking my knuckles.

  “Are you ready to get married?”

  “That’s a loaded question, Chelle.”

  “I know,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t think very many people are ever really ready to get married. You kind of just leap and pray not to kill one another.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, and as the toxins drift like a fog out of her lungs, she reveals, “She loves you though.”

  My Aunt Michelle is a hot looking woman from Jersey. I know, I know. The funny part about Michelle is she has big hair from the eighties. And by big, I mean Texas-girl-gone-wild-with-a-can-of-hairspray. I have to be careful flicking the lighter around her because I’m afraid her hair will instantly combust.

  Her best friend for a long time was Serene. Michelle (Vox, now Veramonte) worked the streets in all the major Eastern cities—Boston, Philly, Atlantic City, New York, where she eventually met my Uncle Vinny. They got married, but Vinny liked to play. Hell, correct that, Vinny still likes to play. Serene was an up-and-coming Dominatrix and Michelle was—how do I say this without sounding crass—into some girl-on-girl action.

  With a desperate plea from Serene, Michelle managed to find baby Emily a home with the Granger’s. So, to say Michelle has a stake in this marriage is an understatement. She’s watched us both grow up, but suffered through losses of her own—her son Nick Veramonte was killed by Amber because he attacked Jaid. No one knows who did it. They believe it was a whore in the night who killed Nick, which is not altogether incorrect.