“Non.” She shrugs. “Just a horny little mother.”
He defiantly grins. “I can so be your motherfucker.”
I pop my foot back to kick him in the ass. “You always were a motherfucker, Sal.”
“Only yours, until now Cruz.”
His Butterfly
I slam the door as the two clowns wait with their hands behind their backs. Flirtatious smirks spread over their cheeks.
It takes all of the gumption I have to stand up against these men. Maintaining my dominance shown only in business, I snap, “Bend over my desk.”
Moving to the long side so they can stand side-by-side, Sal asks, “Should we count?”
“Not necessary.” I wink, stealing his line and pointing at the desk with a determined do-it blink. “Nowala, Raniero!”
“Yes, Ma’am!” With a snarl, he suggestively drops the sweats, and I flick a brow. “Don’t stare, Headmistress.”
“It would be hard not to.” I point the ruler at Deacon with his innocent, almost angelic face. “You too!”
“I did not start this,” he claims as Sal taps him in the calf with his toe. “But, I will graciously accept your punishment, Ma’am.”
“That’s better,” I praise. “And you are making me pancakes after this.”
“Where is he going to get the stuff to make pancakes?” Sal curiously asks. “… The corner store?”
“You two will have to figure that out,” I request, letting my take control attitude lash out at Sal’s ass cheek once. “You always do.”
“Rulers are more in the forearm and wrist,” he advises. “Stop using your shoulder. Think smaller, more concise movements for precise strokes.”
I heed the warning and pop a sharp one-off. The sound of his flesh hitting the wood echoes in the room as his eyes flare open wide. “Like that, Sir?”
With two reddened sets of cheeks—his ass and face—he coughs. “Ya, just like that.”
Deacon giggles as I pack a punch with the nasty ruler to his butt too.
“Help!”
Sal laughs. “You’re not a masochist.”
“No,” he replies. “I am not.”
“Shame,” I cite, admiring my handiwork. “Your skin perks up nicely.”
“You’re damn lucky we love you,” Deacon announces, struggling through the spanking. “And that you’re pregnant.”
“If she weren’t,” Sal says, nodding as Deacon nudges him. “We’d be getting it.”
“Stop conspiring against me!”
I give them each a few more licks before dropping the uniform and sliding onto the desk. “Dear fuck, I love you,” Sal mutters as I lay back. He lays his hand on my full belly. “So damned much.”
I grab his hand and feel the wedding band. “Feast, boys.”
“You are something else,” Sal mutters against my lip as Deacon carefully spreads my thighs. His hand reaches to touch my belly, and we all three hold hands. “I am going to fucking miss the crap out of you.”
“You will see me,” I console, trying not to cry. “This is important.”
“I know, but I said we would never be apart again.”
“This stint with Nero earns you a lot of respect and rank,” I remind as Deacon’s tongue brushes against my clit. It feels fantastic with all of my nerve endings being ultra-sensitive from the pregnancy. I’m starting to think I should just stay pregnant for the sex alone. I gasp and grasp Sal’s raven curls. “You need to do this for you, me, Cruz, and our baby. All of us are depending on this.”
“If for no other reason than the added protection Nero and Sanctum can provide,” he mutters, distraught. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Would sucking on my tits help?”
“Probably,” he admits with a grin. His warm hand cups one as his lips engulf my breast, and he plays with my nipple on his tongue. He suddenly stops, just as my momentum was building. “Just so we’re clear, I am ridiculously jealous of my demon spawn.”
“You should be,” I venture. “I love this baby as much as I love you.”
“He better not get all the leche.”
“Or she,” I correct.
He blinks, stunned by the idea of a daughter. “I’ll get to be the Dad with the gun at the door.”
Deacon stops lapping away as my frustration blooms. “You assume I won’t be out in the yard with a shotgun.”
“If you two do not give me an orgasm, I am getting my ruler after your hides again!”
Immediately, Deacon dives back into my folds, but always naughty Sal smirks at me. “I almost came on that first hit.”
I am stunned and lift my head from the desk. “Are you serious?” He runs his tongue around my nipple. “Lucas Salvatore!”
He covers my mouth with his hand as they work in unison, and I come hard, screaming into his palm. He releases his hand, and I take a few deep breaths.
“You okay, Angel?”
“My desk belongs in Texas.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
Don’t I know it.
13
four posts
His Butterfly
In the middle of the night, I sit in the kitchen and attempt to eat a few bites of bread as rain pours on my home. I have been sick the entire pregnancy. Nausea will come without warning until I barrel over the porcelain bowl depositing the contents of my stomach.
Thankfully, I am eating copious amounts of pasta and cupcakes. I have become a certifiable carb queen once again, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve lost ten pounds despite the bowling ball I am carrying.
Lani said as long as the baby is growing, not to worry. Brush my teeth. Push the fluids. Stay rested. Two out of three are easy enough.
Resting is difficult. Not only is my schedule out of wack from the travel, but sleeping while Sal is still with me seems pointless. I want to spend every waking minute with him until he leaves. I am greedy with his time because we don’t have long. His obligations with Nero fill my heart with dread. I worry that months of being a killing machine will change the man I love.
Who am I kidding?
He will change.
And I will change.
We’ve been apart before and survived the fallout, but he compared this to the rigors of training at Sibyl. I am not sure I like his assessment, though probably accurate.
I take another sip of the tea and walk away. I glance back to see the remnants, the half-full ceramic teacup with roses and plate with shredded bits of bread I’ve left behind. I click off the light. Someone else, most likely one of the boys, will clean it up.
Clean up my mess.
Care for me, please.
The cement floor is cold and damp beneath my feet as I wander the hallway to the grand staircase. There are three staircases and an old, non-working lift. Two of the stairs to the second floor are dilapidated, and my Masters have asked I not use them.
Over the few months that Sal is gone, Deacon plans to have some work done on the old girl. There is a fierce debate over the staircases. Sal wants to restore them. Deacon maintains they will never be safe. Luckily, they agree on replacing the elevator mechanisms while restoring the actual carriage.
The time with Deacon will be fun. We’ll decorate and shop. And cry on one another’s shoulders over the guy we’re both in love with. We can share in misery and pints of ice cream. He is my best friend.
And I can dream of sharing bottles of champagne with him.
Who moves to France, pregnant, unable to drink?
A dumb girl.
We’ve all been staying in one room that I had renovated from a distance. It was a silly mistake on my part. I should have had them paint and restore two bedrooms—one for Sal and me and one for Deacon. I ordered a new bedroom suite with a beautiful, king-sized, four-poster bed, and it never dawned on me that we would all end up sleeping there.
I don’t mind Deacon.
I love the guy, but I need time with my husband.
Poor Marshall and Tai
are making do in the dusty, old rooms on air mattresses. They don’t seem bothered by this with their overt militant mindset. I have rarely seen this side in Sal, but when he does surface—the covert agent built to kill—I see the similarities.
Deacon mentioned Madeline wanting to sharpen his skills. I don’t know how I feel about that. They built Sal into a monster, but the flip side—the darker side—is his ongoing battle within his psyche and the addictions which stem from needing to suppress them.
I am not sure I can handle two.
Cracking the door to the bedroom, I gasp at Deacon on his knees, driving his dick into his lover—my lover, my husband. I should be used to seeing their love. I am not. I am equal parts jealous and angry with a hefty side-helping of turned on.
Their chiseled, glistening bodies earn my gawking with every thrust, sending waves of lust through me. I silence the doubts, knowing the jealousy and anger fester in fear like spores in a musty tomb.
I ponder giving them time to say goodbye.
And that is what this is.
Sal has one more night before our lives dramatically shift into a place of the unknown. I respect their love and relationship as a pair, but I also believe it will be impossible for us to survive the unseen squall.
We know it’s out there—a vicious storm threatening everything we hold dear—but the ravages remain unseen.
I can run flow charts, line graphs, and speculative numbers until the end of time, but we cannot predict the future. We hypothesize, guessing with fingers crossed that we are right, but this isn’t a merger, a deal, or even a dilemma. There is no way around the fourth element, presenting itself as a gangly beast, ripe and ready to attack our senses.
I’ve asked myself a thousand times, what do we get out of this—Sal becoming a Nero?
An enviable, priceless gift—respect.
The Commission members will forever thank him for his service in ridding the world of the unsavory, and Sanctum will be grateful to have another minion at their disposal, anytime, anywhere. And Nero births another brother bonded in blood.
It is significant.
But…
I have privately kept issues with Nero.
They would never select a woman to my knowledge. It wouldn’t matter if she were a gun-toting, shot-drinking, foul-mouthed assassin.
I doubt there has ever been a female Nero.
The reason I believe this is that not a single woman exists in The Commission, not by her own ranking, at least. And that is a fundamental inequality within their system.
Yet here I am, a pregnant Lotus, skilled with swords.
My second issue questions Sanctum’s diversification efforts. While the priests now come in a variety of colors, their killers are one—Italian, born and bred from a genetic pool revolving around famiglia. I get it, protecting their own, but Sanctum cannot possess one without the other. And Nero is the servant of Sanctum.
So, if our token priest in Gifu is invited in Sanctum, that is acceptable. However, if he wants someone eliminated, then Nero will do the deed.
Keep the blood on the Italians.
Business-wise, I don’t know if I want them to share.
Personally, my brother, Masa Nakamura, deserves a chance to hold that kind of honor on a world stage.
And it is an honor.
Again, I keep my thoughts to myself, smile, and accept it. I cannot change their ways, so I wait until Lotus is mine when the question will rise—do I fight against the ruling hypocrisy of The Commission and their habits, or do I vow to love my husband and embrace the rituals of old?
I’m not going to find the solution tonight with Deacon, pounding every inch of his thick cock into Sal’s willing orifice. It’s distracting…in such a good way.
With a hefty grip, Sal wraps his hand around the post by the headboard. I spot his wedding band. I’m frozen. The sight of his fingers sends a chill through my core.
Not all love blazes hot.
Sometimes it’s cold, a harsh, winter wind blustering through my soul only to leave me breathless, hungering for his illicit touch. The flames he possesses are exquisite, blistering, and burning my frigid stance. The terror in my skin challenges his strict control. I love the moment when our elements collide—his and mine—hot to cold and back again in absolute truth where fire meets ice and...
We melt.
Steaming clouds of radiant love pour boundless from our souls. The ethereal magic serves to shield everything surrounding us. And nothing matters. Not my concerns with Cruz. Not his position or place within the mob. Not my legacy.
My legacy…not his…mine.
The rich heritage frequently unacknowledged, respected by few, and silently feared by many. In the underworld, I am a goddamned Queen.
But that man…the one with his inked fingers bracing around the lacquered wooden post for dear life, getting his cheeks spread, and ass repeatedly pummeled by a biker; he understands I wear the crown.
Because he wears one, too.
I quietly step into the room and slide onto the chaise on the opposite side of the room. Either they are unaware of my presence or don’t care. I have no right to be here. No invitation. And I try and imagine how Sal and I would feel if Deacon interjected himself, and the sad part is I don’t give a fuck.
I am Sal’s wife.
And while I welcome his relationship with Deacon Cruz, I will not be denied what is rightfully mine—complete, unedited access to two magnificent men. The last nights are hard. The first nights without him will hurt even more than this.
This isn’t bad.
This is the burden of my own fears bubbling to the surface and conjuring a million ways Sal could leave me. He won’t. And neither will his lover.
They love me.
With every slam of their bodies—hips to thighs and back again—I grow increasingly turned on. The smacking sounds make my mouth water…make my flower water…and make my heart erratically pound in the cage.
We’re bones and blood, magnificently stitched together, and so beautiful. The slurping sound fills the room, echoing until it is all I hear, followed by the thrust…winding…driving…drilling…until we hit the love guarded in our souls.
“Come to me, boy,” Deacon growls from deep in his throat. He wants the power, but Sal is holding back. I can see the hesitation in the way his body speaks to me. “Let it go.”
The primal words linger in the air, fusing with my desire, and inspiring hope that this time will send my mind spiraling over the edge. Without care, I dive my hand between my thighs to the wet slit dripping with abundant dew, and I lean back.
With my leg tossed over the arm of the chair, I finger fuck myself, matching Deacon’s pace, and dreaming it is them. Not one. Not Sal. Not Deacon.
Both.
Alternating dips in my stream, I quench my puddle and drown in devotion.
“I can’t,” Sal mumbles, dropping his hand and lowering his head between his arms in a prostrating prayer. “I’m too worked up.”
“Then I won’t.”
“You need to, Cruz.” Sal shifts ever so slightly and opens his eyes beneath his arm. He spots me but doesn’t reveal my presence. “Do it.”
In the ruffle of sheets, Deacon produces one of the broad, thick rulers and blasts the stinging demon against Sal’s buttocks. My mouth gapes as I rapidly cover it with my hand to prohibit any sound from ruining our secret. His eyes never leave mine. I pulse my fingers into my dampness, wishing I was beneath him.
Deacon’s unforgiving hits demand Sal’s full relinquishment, proving violent and savage when I am not in the picture. They tone it down. They numb it out. They shelter me.
Until now…
Sweat trickles over Deacon’s back and arms as the crack of the ruler forms a hidden bond between Sal and I. He is allowing me to see the vulnerable in him.
I will guard the gift with my life.
And I will protect him until my last breath.
And I reject the domestic and societal norm
s which say the man must protect the woman. Bullshit. I am equal in the trinity ministry. I draw blood, count the notches, and play as hard as the boys.
Because I can.
And because my daughters need a role model—a strong woman, a dedicated woman, a woman on a mission—to uphold what the feminine mystique truly is, I will lead by a rallying cry full of determination and victory. I am a working mother, a wife, and a woman who will defend my man, his lover, and our sons until the bitter end.
I don’t love him like this to prove anyone wrong, but to testify my heart is right with his.
And in the moment of Saint’s orgasm, my walls crumble to the ground, collapsing and toppling with him. We are always one, even like this, being watched over by a Saint.
His holy chant for heavenly hearts.
And we fuck…we fuck so long, so hard…to where elation and exhaustion meet on the other side of the river running through my legs.
“Stay,” Sal demands, weaseling away and stumbling over to me. His cock is rock hard when he grabs my legs and pivots my body in the chair. I am a vessel, a receptacle, a passage for all that he is. The significant impact forces my fingers to his sinewy forearms, laden with perspiration. “You’re such a deviant lil girl…”
“Yours.”
His hand pins mine against the top edge of the chair as his looming tower hovers over mine, his hand eases beneath my back, supporting and lifting, as he skyrockets my love into the air like glitter, but he won’t watch it scatter to the ground. He is a gatherer, collecting all the pieces and parts of me.
Just to do it again.
14
the standoff
The Master
“I just don’t understand why I flew to France to have you tell me that I cannot date Dale Archer anymore,” Catarina harshly says. “He’s not a bad guy, Sal.”
“He is funding the Bratva.”
“Says who?” She argues in the backseat as Marshall drives back to Les Pétales from the regional airport. “And you are funding the Lotus!”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 11
