“What the fuck is your problem with me, Raniero?”
“My problem is I don’t want you here,” I rebuke as Dom reemerges, bringing a tray of food and setting it on the table in front of Dale. “Everyone seems to think this is okay, but none of this is okay,” I yell, spitting a mouthful of venom. “Not Dale standing over the top of me. Not Jaid being on assignment over my Chicago. Not my wife dying. Nothing is okay anymore.”
On the Chicago – the code word for Iris – Dom curls his finger for me to rise. I want to ignore the command. At this point, he isn’t Dom, fellow agent or even friend, but my Dominant. The intricacies of our relationship brought us to this place where we wear different hats. Sometimes we're brothers, other days partners, and on winning days, we are an enigmatic, erotic pair.
Still, on track for being the most obnoxious, I crawl—on hands and knees—to Dom’s side. I don’t buckle for very many anymore, but Dom holds power and my inner masochist with a need to serve will never be able to tell him no. I do not know the language.
I peer up to meet his gaze, which says so much about comfort and understanding. “We all need help sometimes. You need to stop being such a pain in the ass.”
“Yes, Sir,” I respectfully, albeit reluctantly, reply. Dom’s hand shifts to his fly as I note the look of distress and curiosity in Dale’s expression. I blink up at Dom, thankful for the grounding mechanism and the favor of bonus points in helping to make the situation as awkward as possible.
With gusto, I take his cock like a champ. I'm a man on a mission to make Dom’s orgasm the loudest, most provocative thing Dale – the former porn star – has ever witnessed. It is an award-winning performance as I change pace frequently and take to stroking one off in front of the man I'm beginning to loathe.
I keep the perfect position for our little spectacle, knowing his watchful gaze remains undeterred. I’m putting on a helluva show—thrusting my hips and working my eyes and grunting at all the right times. Our pretty boy selves have a thing for one another, and while part of it is for our voyeuristic display, we do genuinely care.
Dale’s job may be to keep my hide safe, but there were no ground rules concerning acceptable behavior. And on the lists of things guys can do in front of other guys to make them squirm, blow jobs definitely qualify. I’m surprised at his ability to sit through such an act. I don’t give a fuck. There are few dicks I’d swallow or beards I’d let suck on my dick, and damn Dale just hit the lottery with this one.
While I’m busy gagging on Dom’s rod, I spot Kerris from the doorway with a smirk on his face. He knows how blatantly cocky I can be and such a performance is no doubt tossing grenades into a bonfire. I’m such a good time. I sequester the grin and absolute hilarity I find at the moment as I concentrate on my exhibition.
Kaci chose me for one reason—I’m the most malleable, good looking, and willing to work the problem out, whatever the consequence bastard she could find. I don’t flinch but come back with my tactical brand of sexy as sin charms. My fellatio ability with Dom is one of my more exceptional points, having attuned to him and his preferences from before my marriage. After the rape, Dom swept clean the horrific memory with his dick in my ass while I fucked my wife. So, to say we are close is an understatement. I trust this guy more than anyone.
His dark bangs fall, and his strong thrusts become more intense. His hazel eyes take in mine, and I hand over every bit of trust to my Master and manipulator. He is my wife’s co-conspirator, and the selection of yours truly was both of their decisions. Kaci may have lured my ass, but Dom was my finishing school. The one to put those delicate nuances of the high protocol into my own Dominant as with every scene he would impart wisdom in his hands-on teaching ability. Master Dom was a sheer pleasure to be under.
And he desperately wanted my aligning forces with his wolf pack of like-minded men—Jack Kerris, Delarte Cristos, Dale Archer, and himself—after Kaci’s departure. The presence of Cristos concerns me. He may not be working for Sibyl, but he is playing on both teams, and that is a volatile place to be. The motivations of the pack are purely financial as they play dirty and serve as an invisible force—the seventh King.
The Kings—Angelo Gennaro, Cesario Raniero, Delarte Cristos, Saint Cruz, “The Preacher” Zachariah Evans, a dark renegade group known as La Morte, and the offspring served by the guidance of Cristos—make up the bulk of the underground network. The larger gangs, motorcycle clubs, drug dealers, gun runners, and sex traffickers all feed into one of them. Allegiance is pledged, and alliances are made, under the table deals occur, and marriages are arranged.
A lot of talks occur about the battle between the North and South, but no one ever considers The Preacher has everything west of Texas locked down tight from a prison cell. The absence of a physical presence on the ground disturbs my sleep as I ponder the problem and the possible solutions in the labyrinth of a mental flowchart.
And yes, that does mean Cristos has a place upon two thrones.
His need to cover his ass is admirable – but how much can he be trusted? I don’t know. If he's at all like David Hope, not much.
If I understood why he mattered so much, I might come to a place of acceptance, but as I see it—Cristos is nothing more than a lousy seed amongst our bandwagon of fertilized eggs gone wild. Kaci must have a reason for his placement, but as it stands in my eyes, he is the devil at the last breaking of bread. The dark shadow to keep us from shining our light upon it all.
From the doorway, Jack departs as I think of the supposed ceremony into the brotherhood that I have coming.
“They will come together and make you one of their own.”
It sounds far too much like an initiation I want no part of, but if my presence is requested to keep Dom nearby, I will do it because an eruption between the two of us could break apart years of Kaci’s work. We are the foundation for a successful operation. The sons of Gennaro and Raniero must come together and make a united front—a stand. Because there is no chance in hell, our fathers would ever do such. We make a statement as does my willingness to gulp down his come.
My eyes drift back to Dale as I catch sight of something I don’t expect. The notable erection in his pants as we churn closer to our release. I cannot help but acknowledge his upsurge with a lift of my brow and a wink.
“God! Yes, Boston… Suck my dick,” Dom belts out, latching onto the back of my head and plunging his hard cock deep into the back of my throat.
The salty taste of his pre-cum drizzle fills my senses as I taste and smell his essence, lingering with anticipation. It’s not terrible. There are much worse things than swallowing the spunk of a guy you love. Like watching your wife be hollowed out by a wretched beast for one. I can do nothing to stop it, but I can run to this man, and he will care for me because that is who we are. He gets me.
On the fly, I decided not to send my splatter into the air. Dom won’t give a shit. He’s not one of these I came and now-you-must-come types like Kace. So, I hold back, restraining myself, all to know the after effects of Dale’s intentions. I imagine he’ll ignore it, but his reactions will provide an insight to building my mental profile of him.
I blink up to find Dom focused on achieving the goal, his eyes glassing over and his breathing erratic. I sometimes wonder if I look that good shooting a load. Not everyone does. I’ve watched in horror at the contorting faces of some women who looked more like they were giving birth while having a wax job simultaneously. Don’t even get me started on the scowling, almost painful looks of some men. I want to believe I don’t look like I’m trying to take a dump the size of an eggplant.
Jesus. It’s bad.
Call me vain. But there are bonus points given to those who look good in the throes of passion.
With his sharp angles and deep-set eyes, Dom appears God-like as he licks his lips and a guttural moan escapes from his throat. I take it all—swallowing the mess of his orgasm. “So damn good.”
I smirk as pleasing and making him proud wi
ll always be important to me. It's in my programming to coddle to this one man and his whims.
One more thing I can blame Kaci for.
One more thing I can thank Kaci for.
“Do you think I’ll be free of this on the other side?” I ask, propped in Sal’s arms on the bed in our room. It’s late, and the only light in the room is a nightlight plugged in on the wall opposite us.
With the dull illumination, I can make out his distinguishing features with his punctuated emotions. He looks happy but worried. I’m not sure if I can expect anything more at this point in our lives. The outlook is grim and the more I push him away, the harder it becomes.
After we returned from our worldwide excursion, my health took a marked hit as he predicted and I pushed him away, thinking it would be easier for us both. But I’m starting to understand how wrong I was.
There was a reason I wanted to marry Sal Raniero.
He is tougher than tough.
Tough as fuck.
And he would bounce back from all of my foul-mouthed baiting, sparring, incessant badgering, and overall meanness. In short, I became a real bitch. Cunt. Twatwaffle. Asshole.
Dying wasn’t an excuse for my bad behavior, but hell if I hadn’t used it as one. I think at some point—everyone does. I’ve witnessed it firsthand time and again. Once cursed with the terminal, zero fucks remain in regards to most things and steamrolling over those close relationships becomes the standard. I’d be more agreeable to a stranger than my own damn husband. The man, who would go to bat for me and hold my hand on my last breath, became arch enemy number one.
I rub the pink highlighted tips of the blonde wig between my fingers as his hand strokes my cheek. “What do you mean?”
“I mean is this eternal…”
“The crab?”
I shift slightly in his arms. “The pain.”
His brows furl, misinterpreting my words. “You need some ganja?”
“No, I need to know on the other side I’m not going to be hurting anymore—not from cancer, not from leaving you, not from losing.”
He backs up ever so slightly and tilts his head as his expression softens. “You aren’t losing. That is your first mistake.”
“We aren’t going to win the battle.”
“Newsflash babe, no one wins the battle of life. If you are going to live, you are going to die. That’s science,” he coaxes with unexpected warmth. “You aren’t losing though…”
“I’m not winning,” I gently argue.
“Ya,” Sal replies, wrapping his arms tighter around me. “But you aren’t losing either. More like you are elevating into another dimension. You’ll always be here. In that, you are eternal.”
“I’ve done bad things.”
He tongue slathers over his bottom lip. “We’ve all done bad things. You don’t get the market on that either.”
“You will keep going,” I say as a declaration and a question. “Because you don’t lose.”
“I lose plenty, but I rebound quick and try again.”
Enjoying our quiet moments, I take a deep breath. “I want to go Christmas shopping and buy tons of junk. Will you take me tomorrow?”
“… To the mall?”
“I was thinking Bourbon Street,” I whisper, knowing the likelihood of him agreeing to take his frail ass wife out walking is slim to none. I’m prepared for the – “We’ll see…” – which means no. “We could spend the day. Have breakfast, shop, and enjoy an early dinner at Gina’s.”
His lips twitch as I see the gears spinning in his head. “Yes, we can go if you promise we will go slow. No falling out on me.”
I giggle. “I won’t do that to you. I swear I will take it easy and we can stop often.”
With a snarl, he adds, “… For coffee.”
“And beignets. And fried chicken. And maybe some gumbo.”
His boisterous laugh jiggles my body. “… Since when are you hungry?”
“I’m not, but we are pretending for one day that everything is fine and dandy.”
“Fair enough,” he agrees, burying his nose against my hair. I always try to keep the strands smelling of me and less of what it is. “Does that mean I get to ravage your body in every dark corner?”
“If you are so inclined.”
His brow darts up. “If you have to wonder about my inclinations, we’ve fucked up.”
“I pushed you off to Amber,” I regretfully say.
“No, you were trying to solve a problem,” he replies, steadying my uncertainty. “But I’ve test drove my options, Kace, and the thing is—none of them are you. They cannot compare to Mrs. Raniero. And they never will.”
16. Dirty Places and Hidden Spaces
Thursday, December 23
9 days before…
Sunlight streaming through the windows wakes my ass up. It’s odd because Kaci so often keeps the curtains drawn. I sit up fast in a blurry haze of confusion as my beloved is missing. I’m groggy from our late night. After our intimate talk – one in which we desperately needed – we made love in a missionary way. But there was nothing mundane about it as the love we share came out of the darkened eclipse of reality and spread light upon our souls.
We were united—as one.
An unstoppable force of Hope and Raniero set to take on the world. It was as if the crabs never even existed, and it was beautiful.
Running my fingers through my disheveled mess of hair, I squint at the clock—8:03—I turn back around to find my gorgeous fucking wife. She smiles. Dressed in a loose black sweater that drops off her shoulders and reveals a pink lace bra, she spins and shows off the jeans, which are a little loose, and black riding boots. “We’re going to miss our day.”
She crawls onto the bed and kisses my lips as I take in the sight of her make-up and hair. “You look amazingly beautiful.”
“I feel good today,” she says with a bite to her lip as she pulls back the sheet to reveal my erection. “Well, someone is up.”
“Ya… You could say that,” I banter with a crooked grin as I spot her mug on the bedside table. “You have coffee in that cup over there?”
“I do, but it’s probably cold,” she informs, dipping down low and sucking the length of my shaft into her mouth. Her blonde and pink tassels are bobbing up and down when she stops and peers up at me with those long, expressive, fake eyelashes. “I’m going to go turn the shower on.”
She has my undivided attention as she scoots back, hands me the cup, and flips her hair with a mischievous grin. “And Pretty Boy, we’re taking the bike.”
I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “The Ducati is in Houston, babe.”
“Not that, sport,” she boasts, grabbing the keys off the dresser and tossing them to me. “This. Merry Christmas.”
Catching the handful of keys, I glance up, even more bewildered. “Why are there so many keys?”
“Because I bought a pair of Harleys… One for me and one for you.”
With a grin plastered across my face, I chase after her completely naked. “You plan on learning to ride, hot stuff?”
“I’m looking to the future. It will be bright,” she says, turning on the shower as I watch in awe. “But today, I’m riding bitch.”
“Thank God I’m not,” I snicker, handing her the keys and kissing her perfectly painted pink pout.
“You just get to be the bitch when we get back,” she laughs.
At this point, I would do anything to keep the smile on her face and the laughter in her lungs. Even if that means dropping down on all fours for a heavy session. I will do whatever it takes.
“I’m pulling you some clothes,” she adds as I step into the steaming hot water.
“Taking to dressing up your creation again?” I ask, turning down the heat some. “Should I shave?”
The glass shower door flies open. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Which part?”
“Yes, I’m dressing up my doll and no,” she says, rolling her eyes with a�
�duh look. “You should leave that scruff alone, badass.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Ohhh!” Her lips form the perfect o-shape. “Boy still has some manners on the floor.”
I chuckle. “I do if I want that hot mouth on my body again today.”
“I like it!”
Way too much.
We manage to escape out of the house with little fanfare. I anticipated Dale would be following us, but per Kaci’s request – whining at Dom – he is stuck at the house. The bikes are in the driveway, complete with red and green bows. “You realize the likelihood of this light blue dress shirt staying blue is slim to none, right?”
“I don’t care,” Kaci says, tossing on her black leather jacket. “I want to ride like this with you.”
“Stick this on your head.”
“… Seriously, Raniero?”
I sigh and give her a disdainful eye as I set the helmet on her bike. “Fine.”
“Look, we both know the odds, but I don’t want to think about them today. When the clock is ticking, you give up caring,” she elaborates as I note her pretty black fake nails. “Today, I want to be Mrs. Salvatore Raniero, and she will not be wearing her helmet or doing anything safe. I want to live it up, breathe it, and be crazy.”
Despite my personal feelings on the issue, I agree because I refuse to argue with her today. “I’ll be crazy with you.”
She straddles over the seat. I’m gushing over her in some whirlwind of a crush. The girl I fell in love with is here and present, and I cannot let this day be lost to a mixed-up deluge of emotions. I’m going to savor it.
Helmets be damned.
The engine rumbles to life beneath us as I see her tie a pink and red scarf around her hair. “Are you good?”
“Yep, no losing the hair today.”
“I’m not driving like a madman either.”
Her fingers latch to my shoulders as she nuzzles my ear. “Aww, why not?”
“Hold on.”
We zip off, but I hold back. The cargo on the back of me is too precious to have an accident. This is about having a leisurely jaunt and making a memory – for me – not racing to the finish line. I know this is all about her giving me something to cling to in my dark hours. I don’t dare ask how many bowls she smoked or pain pills she popped to pull this off. I expect a crash and burn of her happy attitude by noon. Thankfully, I have a bottle of assorted candy in my front pocket.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 105