I glare at Sal, pulling on his undershirt and harness. “What?”
“She’s wearing stockings to dance on a bar in, not attend a funeral.”
“Shit,” I sigh as Deacon unhooks them and tries to not stare at the black lace wrapped present between my thighs. He fails miserably as my flower awakens with dew-soaked petals. “I have another pair in the top drawer.”
“Hopefully, they don’t have rhinestones,” he grumbles, swaggering away with his growing erection in tow. He grabs the pair from the dresser, and I can’t help but discreetly run my toes over his pronounced package. “They already hate her. Let’s not get her shot in the process. Speaking of which, are you carrying?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“So, that’s a yes,” Deacon concludes, rolling one stocking on and giving a harsh reprimanding glare to me. His jaw pops as I seductively lick my lips and part them.
From the bed, I whisper, “Do I need to?”
They stop moving as if frozen. In perfect unison, they say, “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Would you listen, anyway?” Sal quizzes, knotting his tie. “I doubt it, but you’ll be absurd and take one anyway. Carry if you want, but it’s not necessary. The Commission is going to be thick as thieves.”
“You had the table of Reckless Rebellion,” I remind as Deacon takes my fingertips and helps me sit up. “Esteemed members of The Commission and trained feds, Agent Raniero, and still your party got hit.” I’m pissed at his arrogance when I stomp towards the bathroom. “And I am absurd? I don’t think so.” I slam the doors and take out the rollers.
“Fuck,” Deacon yells and barges inside as Sal follows. He’s blotting aftershave all over his freshly shaven cheeks. “We do not have time for you two to be quibbling. There is a funeral none of us want to attend, but we must. Iris isn’t being absurd,” he defends, stepping closer to Sal. He turns to leave and Deacon blocks him. “And you’re more broken than you want to admit.”
“I don’t have time to be broken,” Sal mutters, veering past.
“It’s a nice excuse, but you can only hold the dam for so long, brother.”
Rushing to the bedroom, I glare at the four dresses and pick the one no one has talked about. It’s a pricey couture piece with a broad white collar and black buttons down the center. Deacon scolds, “You damn sure aren’t wearing that one.”
“At least we agree on something!” Sal huffs.
“I swear to fuck!” I yell as Deacon disappears into the closet and returns with a lovely black lace dress. It’s simple with straight lines and enough cleavage to be feminine but not provocative.
“Put this on,” Deacon commands, pulling it off the hanger. Sal parks his ass in the chair and leans back.
“I love it when he does this…”
“If you pull out your dick,” Deacon says, dressing me. “You can forget attending this event because none of us want to go.” He squats low, tugging and smoothing the dress. “You look fucking amazing. Now put the gloves and coat on along with the black heels with the thick ankle straps and silver buckles.”
Sal adjusts himself with a firm grip. “I hate you, Cruz.”
Deacon stands and extends his arms. “I know what you fucking like, Sir.”
“God, do you…”
“Do you need help with your tie?” I ask as Deacon goes into the bathroom.
“Nope.”
I hit the buttons on the safe and pull out my diamond cuffs from Ella Hemsworth. “Cuffs, yes or no?”
“Yes!” Deacon yells. “On top of the gloves.”
The doorbell rings. “I’ll go get it,” Sal says, kissing me. “I’m sorry for being…me.”
I lay a finger on his lips. “It’s okay. Let’s just get this over with. I love you.”
“I know,” he replies, letting go of my hands. With the safe still open, Sal grabs his gun and cuff links as he passes by. From the doorway, he adds, “I love you too, Dandy.”
I smile and turn to watch Deacon struggling to get his tie straight. He’s so adorable and won’t blow up at me. He’s got a tenderness with me that Sal is incapable of possessing. His heart is somewhere between decimated and relieved, and the hardest part is that he cannot get past the barricade of heartache.
He’s stuck.
I have endured his pain for days and sequestered my own. Deacon is the only one who seems to understand how hard this is on me.
Walking into the bathroom, I offer, “Turn and let me help you.”
“I don’t understand how come he can do this so fucking fast and make it look easy.”
“Because he’s spent his whole life doing it,” I ease, straightening his tie. He smells good, a woodsy spice, to Sal’s clean, musk. Together, it’s pure heaven. “And you can take an engine apart blindfolded.”
“I’m good at dressing you,” he proudly mutters.
“You’re damn good at many things, Cruz.”
“Mostly, you…two.”
My sapphire eyes meet his blues as we stare with the words unspoken. He passionately cares for me, and he is my best friend. I trust this man to care for me in the absence of my own.
It’s a strange dynamic, but it’s working.
I spent hours and hours this past week with Deacon saying nothing and binging Nicolas Sparks movies until dawn. Sal would drink until he passed out, and Deacon picked up the pieces. We won’t be this way forever.
This is temporary, but it hurts.
We waited for years to be together, and this is what we’re being given.
Life sucks sometimes.
“I’m starting to think my attending the funeral is a very bad idea.”
“The limo is here!” Sal yells from downstairs.
His hands easily slide onto my hips. “I will not let anything happen to you. Mistakes were made last time. We won’t be having those again.”
“… Promise?”
“Yes.”
On the way out, Deacon shuts the safe, grabs the sable coat, and turns off the light. He’s responsible, bordering on adult. He never wavers. Never falters. Never drops the ball. Never shows the truth of his feelings. And he does it all to protect me. It’s sexy as fuck.
We step just outside the bedroom when he whispers in a low growl, “I swear, you are safe with me, Miss Nakamura.”
It is then that I realize he harbors guilt for not standing guard outside the dressing room at the church. He is burdened by the weight of what he views as a failure. I clutch his fingers. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”
“I would take a bullet to keep you safe,” he mutters, moving a tendril of my hair. His rage is palpable, and he is vehemently dedicated to his doctrine. “I will never leave your side again.”
And that is what I fear the most.
6
Stains of Love
His Butterfly
“Who thought a funeral at nine in the morning on New Year’s Day was a good idea?” Sal mumbles in the back of the limo as he cracks open the flask of whiskey. He is sitting in the middle with Cruz and me, flanking him.
He needs us.
And we need him to remain standing as a pillar of excellence amongst The Commission.
“How about you not get wasted right before this shindig?” Deacon takes the flask from his hands. “You need to do this one sober, Sal. We’ll get wasted after, I swear.”
“It’s not about getting wasted,” he informs. “I need the fuck out of my head. I keep seeing her in the cement culvert when she was so little. ‘One day, you will be my prince, and we will live in a castle like this.’ And then I feel her blood rushing through my fingers as I carried her body through the church.”
I give a panicked glare—he cannot be breaking down like this, do something!—to Deacon. His ringed fingers rub over Sal’s thigh, and he hits the button for the divider. He smooths his hand over the semi-erect cock—because Sal doesn’t wear anything loose except those gray sweatpants which show off every scrumptious curve—trapped
beneath the trousers, and I marvel how easily he tames the man I am in love with.
“Take your jacket off,” Cruz commands. He removes his, and I toss my hat and coat. “Lean back and close those eyes.”
Deacon blinks between Sal’s cock and me. “… Right now?” I mouth out, quiet as a mouse.
He grins and undoes Sal’s belt as he warns, “Don’t fucking bite me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Here goes my perfect mask as I kneel on the floor of the back seat and crawl between Sal’s legs. Deacon pulls Sal’s dick from his pants and flicks his tongue along the edge.
Dampness soaks through my lace, and I try to accept the fact I’m going to be ripe and wanton for these two all day. I cannot be with them and not want them. I’m programmed for our triangular balance of mind fucking, flirtation, and taunt—it’s as natural as breathing.
My hand drifts to my crotch as my eyes beg Deacon to allow my putting Sal inside of me. With a finger beneath my chin, he pulls my mouth to share in his service.
We’re licking and sucking and making out over Sal’s growing erection, but I can’t close my eyes. I want to see Deacon’s expression of contentment and the praise in his gaze.
My tongue careens around the head as I swallow his dick and pass by with a few strokes. Deacon does the same, and then we crash our tongues against his smooth velvet in an epic collision.
It’s never been this intense.
“Jesus fuck,” he moans, laying one hand on Deacon’s back, and then threading the fingers of the other through my hair.
And there it goes.
I’m going tousled to a funeral.
It’s the first time we’ve been together as a trio in months. It feels good. It feels like home. And Deacon’s tongue isn’t half bad either. Memories of his savoring every inch of my flesh flood into my mind, and my reluctance dissipates, blossoming into a marked focus.
We can help Sal.
I don’t care if my lipstick smears or my hair is a mess. All I care about is Sal and Deacon and getting to the end of the day where we can celebrate, or you know, mourn, over champagne and cake and cock—s, two of them. So good.
Leaning over the seat, Deacon reaches down and grabs my fingers, and we hold hands. Our fingers intertwine, and we lasso them around the base for a brief moment.
Sal gasps, bucking and demanding more. We won’t let go; we can’t. We’re stuck in the web – all three of us – and balanced by our roles. When one is down, two pick up the slack. We only find trouble if two are down.
Then our trinity falters.
It is our job today to pick up the pieces of Sal. He’ll be mean, snapping with biting words and challenging our love, but we’ll meet it head-on. Because at some point, it won’t be Sal beneath the surface, but one of us. We don’t keep a tally. We only know the promise of unconditional love. And we fully trust in one another.
Our locked fingers return to my lap, and I suggestively place Deacon’s hand beneath the edge of my skirt. I want him to finger me. I need the rubbing of his calloused fingers against my delicate bits.
Sal is keenly aware and generously encouraging of my naughty habits.
I enjoy toying with Deacon, just as I was when he rolled the stockings on. He is as much my playmate as I am his. Sal takes great joy in our finding trouble.
We are his puppets, and he is our Master.
His fingers glide up my thigh as I spread my legs further to allow his access. My lips and tongue are all over Sal’s shaft and Deacon’s mouth, but all I can think about is how much I need his touch.
Our eyes meet again, and his brow moves ever so slightly. I blink in acceptance as he slides beneath the thin fabric and rubs my clit. His eyes close, too desperate with desire to let me see them.
I drench his finger when he moves to thrust inside. We’re in an awkward position, but we’re both trying to achieve the same goal—my release.
“Fuck me, Iris,” Sal moans.
The words are a blast, catapulting my sanity back to a place where I serve one Master. His fingers are not the ones deep in my shelter. Deacon releases his mouth from Sal’s cock and helps me lift the dress as I straddle onto his engorged pierced beast. His hands drop to my hips, but he keeps his head back and his eyes closed.
I see the fleeting shadows of longing in Deacon’s eyes, but I press my hands to his rough cheeks and softly kiss him. One tender peck turns into an impassioned plea of lustful yearning.
These are the hardest moments when one is left out. My fingers tug at Deacon’s belt, rushing to feel his cock in my hand. It will have to do. He’s off-limits, and so am I.
I rapidly stroke his cock, matching the rolling waves of my hips on Sal. We’re lost in the kiss and the momentum, and as much as we believe it is safe here, we know better. We’re in a dangerous mental place where it isn’t Sal’s dick buried in my hollow but Cruz. I cannot deny how I want us to be lovers again.
But I also know if we had the freedom, those nights on the sofa wouldn’t have been spent with bowls of popcorn and Milk Duds. I’m a bad girl, wanting to screw my best friend just to make him feel better.
And it would have.
It so would have.
Instead, I gorged on popcorn and laid my head on his leg as he petted my hair and wiped my tears away. The three of us were a mess—a gloriously divine mess of love.
I’m rocking as his thrusts increased. Sal’s bouncing my body on his cock, and I know they will come soon. Deacon nips my lip, reminding me of his power over me. I will defer to his lead before trying to hold my own in times when Sal isn’t…able.
I will listen…
I will obey…
“Come for me, baby,” Sal mutters, glancing up to find us lip-locked. Deacon’s eyes are closed, and our tongues thrash as we try and find a passage in the labyrinth we’ve created. “Oh, hell…” Sal grabs my ass and violently spews deep inside of my pussy.
Lost in the moment, I embarrassingly burst out, “I want to see you together!” I ride through the first wave of my orgasm as his groans of pleasure and my intense breathing spur on Deacon’s eruption—all over the side of my dress. I watch the agony in Deacon’s expression as he explodes. It is beautiful and tragic and magical.
And I’m mortified.
Neither of them says a word about my request.
“God, I love you both so much.” Sal mumbles, still nestled within me. “Tell me this day isn’t going to be the worst fucking day ever.”
My fingers trickle over his perfectly angled jawline. “It isn’t going to be easy, but it isn’t going to be the worst either. We will carry you through this.”
“I just pray one of those fuckers sticks.”
I feel Deacon’s hand bracing against my lower back, fumbling with Sal’s fingers on my ass. We’re so tight. We’re so good. “I didn’t bring a bang.”
“Good girl,” Sal praises as Deacon blinks with an astonishment. “Trust us.”
I move off Sal and smooth down my dress only to end up with Deacon’s cum between my fingers. “Um…”
Oh. Fuck.
Great, now I’m not only the whore the former fiancé is with, but the cum stained slut.
Feeling hyperaware, I note my first reaction is to look to Deacon for help, not because it’s his spunk, but because he is a fixer. He cracks the divider and bridges the distance between the back seat as he speaks with the man. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“What are we doing?”
“Club soda and your coat.”
I nod as Sal smirks. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I reply as the limo stops at a convenience store. Deacon is out in a flash. “He’s something else.”
“So are you.” Sal holds my hand as his lips twitch with amusement at the stain on the side of my skirt. “I’ve always had a talent for making sure you were marked up.”
“Marking your spot?”
“You could say that,” he replies. “Deacon’s cum might as well be mine.”
<
br /> “Don’t fight with him today,” I encourage with my newfound knowledge that we all took an emotional blow because of the shooting. We each had lasting effects, and that didn’t mean they were the same or even similar. Our interpretations were vastly different.
Arguably, Sal suffered the most significant loss, but that was expected with the circumstances. Deacon and I have pretty much ignored our own feelings to focus on fostering his recovery. Deacon feels guilt, but I take the brunt of the blame. Maybe if I hadn’t shown up, Emily Granger would be Emily Raniero.
It would hurt…but at least she’d be alive.
Deacon promptly returns with club soda, a cleaning cloth, a couple of packs of smokes, a few bottles of water, and some dried mango pieces. “You, drink,” he says, handing the water to Sal before glancing at me. “You eat and come sit in my lap and let me work that stain.”
“This is terrible.” I shake my head as we are all giggling like teenagers about to get caught with our pants down. My legs stretch out on Sal’s hard thighs as Deacon gently scrubs at the fabric. “I’m having so much fun,” I mutter, feeding both the boys. They look at me like I’ve gone insane. “I don’t want this ever to end.”
Lighting a smoke, Sal quizzes, “This funeral, today?”
“Us,” I whisper. “This is what we waited so long for, and even though today is going to suck, it’s better than any day we were apart.”
“You’re right,” Deacon says, not looking up. “We’re better together than apart. Okay, try that.”
I slide from his lap to Sal’s lap to my seat. I grab my phone as we’re waiting in the long line up of cars to get into the church parking lot. “Oh, my God…Les Pétales is for sale.”
“… What?” Sal shouts.
“Jesus, don’t tell Nico, or we’ll never see him again,” Deacon adds. “He’s been wanting to buy it for Serene for years.”
I hit the button and bring the phone to my ear.
Sal quizzes, “What are you doing?”
“Calling.”
“Now?” Sal asks.
“Nowala,” I whisper, stealing his emphatic do-it-fucking-now-word as a woman answers the phone. I ask about the house, but within less than a minute, I drop the phone in my lap.
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 5
