Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “What are you drinking?” I ask.

  “You can have tequila with me,” Deacon offers. “Champagne with Iris, whiskey with Sal, or something of your own.”

  Staring at the champagne flute, Rowan smirks at Iris. “May I?”

  “Of course!” Iris giggles. “We have loads.”

  With one gulp, Rowan slams back the whole glass. “That was good.”

  “Champagne, it is!” Iris delights, seeming to enjoy someone else being on her bubble team.

  Staring at the glass doors, she asks, “Can we smoke out there?”

  “Yeah, of course!” Iris grabs the bottle and stands up. “Come on. We’re going to bond.”

  I stare at Deacon. “Did I just lose the Irish girl to my geisha doll?”

  “Yep!” Deacon hiccups. “We need more booze.”

  “You’re so going to pass out on the plane.”

  “Then I won’t be missing you,” he somberly replies. “I’m going to smoke.”

  “Liar!” I counter. “You’re going to spy.”

  He leans across the table and whispers, “Our girl is out there with a stranger. How stupid are we?”

  “Did you see that dress?” I ask. “There is no way that bitch is hiding anything.”

  “I saw plenty.” Deacon grins with a nod as the tip of his tongue jets out of his mouth.

  “You fucking like her!” I yell as we walk around the table, past the people. “Admit it!”

  “I don’t even know her,” he says when I open the door. “What the fuck?”

  “Where in the hell are they?” I notice the ladder to the roof and the two pairs of shoes on the bench.

  “They’re trouble together...”

  “Fucking hell!” I rapidly climb the ladder to find the girls, sitting on a bench. They’re laughing and drinking and smoking damn ganja. “Excuse me, Ms. Nakamura, your idiot boyfriend, would like to know where you ran off to?”

  “I’m not lost. I’m right here,” she says, grinning in that damn coral lipstick I love so much. “Getting high with an Irish doll.”

  Rowan extends her hand, offering the joint to me. “This is so old school.”

  Must be a trend for the evening.

  “Are you aware of what I had to do to score that?”

  Pulling out a silver case from my pocket, I crouch, revealing the container of deviant fun. “You could’ve just asked me.”

  “Jesus, you have coke.”

  “I have many things,” I say, sitting cross-legged like a teenage punk dealing drugs to the cheerleaders. Isn’t it ironic? “Help yourself.”

  “What are these pretty things?”

  I light a smoke and exhale, “Molly.”

  “Are you a walking addict?”

  “No, actually, I’m not.”

  Scuffing his sneakers on the roof, Deacon says, “Don’t believe him.”

  I flip him off. “Only when I’m spiraling.”

  “When aren’t you spiraling Sal?”

  I put the cigarette between my lips and flip both middle fingers. Rowan closes the case and hands it back to me. “Next time you need something, ask.”

  “I need sixteen crates of semi-automatics; can you help me?”

  “I can,” I say, not missing a beat.

  Iris’ eyes widen. “Are you seriously doing this here?”

  “I’m an opportunist,” I boast as Deacon decides to include himself in the conversation now that bucks and bangs are involved.

  “What do you need them for?”

  “If I told you, you might not sell them to me.”

  “You want to resale,” Deacon guesses. “Have you ever done it? Because it can be fucking dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “No, but I’m tired of being dependent on investors.”

  Taking the cigarette from my fingers, Iris asks, “Why are you with Kill Rat?”

  Rowan glances out at the skyline. “Because it is all I know. I was raised by nuns. When I turned sixteen I became part of the club my father had associations with. They met at the Abbey, and it seemed like the thing to do.”

  “You’re going to end up dead,” I predict.

  “Or worse,” Iris whispers, crossing her legs. “If you have no loyalty to Kill Rat, then you shouldn’t be with them. I’m certain Sal can get you the weapons, but Deacon is right—if you cannot work the lingo on the street, you won’t last long. Not to mention, you’re kind of frail.”

  “A bullet is a bullet whether I am the size of Sal’s bodyguard or my size,” Rowan argues.

  “His name is Swain, and he is fucking huge.”

  Rowan giggles. “Yes, he is.”

  “Right,” Iris says, not stopping. “But you are a hell of a lot easier to stuff in a burlap sack and throw in a trunk.”

  “Are you saying there is no room for women in the underworld, Lotus Queen? Because if you are, then you’re a hypocrite and a misogynist.”

  “Not at all,” Iris calmly says as Deacon and I study their dialogue. It’s so different from the way guys talk to one another. There is almost a compassion, kindness, a sisterly bond, and an undercurrent of harsh judgement.

  “Can you explain it to me?”

  “Of course.” I love how composed, and cool Iris is, and I’m getting very turned on by it. “You must surround yourself with people who will keep your interests at heart. Do you have the full support of the Kill Rat men?”

  Rowan’s eyes shift from side-to-side as she rubs her lips together. “No, they hate me.”

  “Then why are you risking your life for them?” Iris implores, laying a hand on Rowan’s thigh. “They aren’t worth it. You should, at the very least, be treated as one of them. And if you aren’t, you need to find a new family. Someone who will appreciate what you bring to the table.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to leave if I tried.”

  “We can get you out,” I offer as Deacon scowls at me like I’m bringing home a mange covered, rabid mutt off the side of the road. “But you’re going to have to agree to listen.”

  “I’ll do whatever is asked of me.”

  “That’s a risky thing to say in the company of us,” Iris says, almost reading my thoughts. “Have you mentioned leaving?”

  “The last time a female member tried to leave, she disappeared.”

  “Because they killed her or sold her into slavery.” Iris doesn’t hold back, swinging blunt verbal punches to the gut.

  God, I’m so hard.

  “You two realize if we steal the leprechaun, we have two hits against us,” Deacon rationalizes like an adult. “It might as well rain anthrax-laced four-leaf clovers our heads.”

  “She can’t be a leprechaun,” I remind, grinning. “She is clearly a girl.”

  “A very beautiful girl,” Iris mentions.

  Deacon smacks my shoulder. “Can we go talk in my office?”

  “We’ll be right back.” I snag a quick kiss from Iris before walking to the other side of the roof. “What’s up?”

  “What the fuck are you thinking?”

  “This girl is about to end up dead, sold, or pregnant with a baby she doesn’t want.”

  “We already have Skeeter.”

  “Why the fuck does everyone keep picking on me about Skeeter?” I shout, lighting another smoke. “Fuck. Skeeter. Leave Skeeter the fuck alone. She is my damned project, not anyone else. My problem.”

  “We cannot have the Irish pissed off about the death of McPhail, and in kidnapping Daughter McPhail, we will buckle.”

  “They don’t have the capacity to buckle us,” I inform. “They can’t even find money without investors. Rowan admitted that. They may want to come after us, but they do not have the funds to come after us. War costs money.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Deacon agrees with a gasp. I turn to see Rowan and Iris negotiating in a way I hadn’t planned. “Fuck me.”

  “I wish I had time,” I mutter, watching the girls kissing. “Jesus! That’s hot as hell! Oh, God…there is tongu
e…”

  “… Is she about to?” Deacon’s words drop off as we gawk at Rowan, lifting her slip-like dress around her hips and straddling over Iris. My girl’s talons indent the fabric with a firm grip, and it is all punctuated by the beauty of the sapphire rock on her finger. I gotta do something about this. “Hell, yes…”

  “I’m so going to come in my pants.”

  “Fine, we can keep her,” Deacon reluctantly concedes. “But you don’t get to be alone in pant stains. She goes home with Ma.”

  “Done!” I lift my hands in the air, feeling victorious. “Totally agree!”

  “One stanky move, and I ship her ass back home.”

  “… Stanky?”

  “Stanky,” Deacon repeats, staring. “She best keep her bits pristine.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time you’re sucking my dick, and I haven’t showered for two days.”

  “You’re the only exception to stanky.”

  I brush my hand along the stiff ridge in his pants. “I knew you had a thing for her.”

  “I have a thing for you,” he growls. “But her nipples look like heaven in that dress.”

  “That they do,” I mumble, drooling. “Suck my dick, Cruz.”

  “… Here?” he stutters.

  “Rather unusual for you to question me, boy.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He drops to his knees, and I rapidly buck deep into his throat. His mouth feels fantastic on my cock, and as much as I want to savor the moment, knowing it may be our last one for a bit, I’m so worked up that may be an impossible goal.

  A minute later, Iris spots me, and I see her pulling off the spaghetti strap of Rowan’s dress and taking her nipple into her mouth. She slowly suckles, weaving her tongue around the ripe bud.

  “Fuck!”

  I come hard and fast in Deacon’s throat. He swallows every bit and groans, “Next time, warn me.”

  “… Why?”

  “Because only one of us came in our pants.”

  13

  Stains of Love, Part II

  The Master

  Despite Iris’ tears, we say goodbye to Deacon, Rowan, Trudy, Anna, Serene, and Nico much later that night. I try not to get jealous at the length of time Deacon holds my girl. They love one another, and sometimes, I’m ousted.

  If nothing else, it’s good for me to be reminded how one of them sometimes feels. Besides, I got to chat with Rowan for a minute while they were boohooing over each other. She’s direct, to the point, and spunky. My gut instinct is to trust her, but I’ve been wrong before, so I’m playing it safe.

  Trudy was thrilled.

  She loved having Iris stay with her, and the strange girl from Ireland was almost just as good. I know she’ll be fine. Well, she will or she won’t, but I’m not wasting synapses on it.

  Worst case—she gets homesick and leaves. Best case—she becomes part of my lethal arsenal. If she stays, I have every confidence she’ll be loyal as a dog because we saved her from extinction.

  She is a very endangered species in the Kill Rat gang.

  Her days were limited, and she was grasping at straws. I still like saving the ones I can. I know it’s bad. I’m worse than a teenage girl at a cat shelter. I know, I know. Some of them get to me, though, especially when they have enough balls to call me a fucking idiot to my face.

  Fighters.

  All of them.

  We’re riding to Nonna’s in the back of the limousine at three am. On her side, Iris’ head is lying on my lap, and I’m playing with her hair. “Did you put her nipple in your mouth just to taunt me?”

  “If I did…”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  She rolls onto her back. “You wanted to save her. Deacon didn’t agree. I saved you from a fight.”

  “You play dirty, Mrs. Raniero.”

  “I do,” she affirms. “What’s with the drug box?”

  Running my fingers through my hair, I laugh. “I got it from Vinny awhile back.”

  “And you carry it…”

  “Just in case.”

  “This is worse than the alcoholic buying booze,” she says. “Am I going to have to request a monthly drug test?”

  “No,” I say, leaning back. “I’m fine.”

  “If I asked you to stop toting your blankey around with you, would you freak?”

  “Probably not, but I’m not immune to the sins of my father.”

  Sitting up, Iris asks, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Vinny is a party boy,” I confide. “Like father, like son.”

  “You’re using your father as an excuse for your bad behavior,” she reprimands. “You can’t do that. Unless I have the right to be fucking the enemy.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I mutter. “Do we need to have this conversation tonight? I let you win the Rowan.”

  “Just promise me that you’ll be careful.”

  “Contrary to Rowan’s depiction of me, I am not an idiot.”

  “But, you have been known to be careless.”

  “I wouldn’t say careless,” I argue, not wanting to argue. “Maybe reckless.”

  “You got drunk and scraped the side of the Raptor down a fucking guard rail.”

  “I was pissed.”

  “You wouldn’t stop fighting in jail and busted your hands to the point that you’ve needed multiple surgeries.”

  “I was pissed.”

  “You couldn’t deal with Cesario’s control over your life, and you started snorting coke.”

  “I was pissed.”

  “You used to spar with me and couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”

  “I was in l—ooovve!”

  “The fuck, Nero!” Iris scolds. God, I love it when she gets mad. She’s so feisty. “Are you starting to see a trend?”

  There is that fucking word again.

  Between old school and trend, I’m starting to think Kaci is sending me messages from the grave.

  “Why are we stopping?” Iris asks, rolling down the divider.

  “There’s been an accident, Miss Nakamura. Would you like me to take an alternate route?”

  “No,” I mumble, pushing the button for the divider. “Thank you.”

  With my elbow perched on the door, I stare at Iris, gazing out the window. She’s fucking gorgeous, and the best part—she’s mine. Her startlingly, blue-violet eyes blink to me. “What?”

  “Come ride my dick.”

  “… And if I say no?”

  “You won’t,” I contend as we turn up the tension. “I know.”

  Pulling her legs onto the seat, she crawls to me and whispers, “Would you take it?”

  “Do you want me to take it?” I seriously ask. “Some discussion is necessary if we’re going into the lands of ravishment fantasies.”

  “You would indulge me.”

  “Would I force myself upon you with your prior consent? Absolutely,” I confess, realizing this is our first genuinely intimate conversation regarding sex while still being clothed. It’s progress. “Would I do it for real? Hell, to the fuck, no.”

  “… And before?”

  “You mean when you stole my fucking truck? And I fucked your ass?”

  “Yes.” She lifts, kneeling in the back seat. “Take me back there.”

  “We can’t go back there.”

  “We have to go back there because if we can’t get back to a place where you aren’t afraid of what you’ll do to me, then what is the point?” she achingly pleads. “Why should I be your submissive if it is in name only?”

  “You, Iris Nakamura, are the Lotus Queen.”

  “So, you can’t top me, or you don’t want to, or you’re too fucking scared of how amazing that might be? Which is it?” she questions. “Because I need to know.”

  Undoing the rest of the buttons on my shirt, I pull it from my pants and slump back into the seat. I say nothing.

  “Stop being passive with me!”

  “You’re yelling,” I reply with a
flat, uninvolved tone. “And I’m ignoring you.”

  She’s fuming, and somewhere, I’m internally gloating about it. If she loses it—really loses it soon—there is a chance we can still be who we once were. I love toying with her emotions.

  We’re stopped dead in the traffic as she swings to punch my arm. It’s laughable. And I snort. “Bring it, baby.”

  “Fuck you,” she sasses, throwing her arm back and landing her fist against my rock-hard bicep. “Ow!”

  “Are you done?” I ask, giving her a side-eyed glance. “Because you’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “No, I want my fucking Master back!”

  Before I know it, she opens the door and runs barefooted into the stopped traffic. “Fuck!”

  She’s two cars back when I catch her and latch my arms around her waist. I toss her up on my shoulder as she kicks and etches her talons over my back.

  Play with me, girl.

  I open the door and toss her inside as the driver asks on the speaker, “Is everything all right, Sir?”

  “Yes, James,” I say, muting the volume and locking the divider and the doors. “Just a lover’s quarrel.”

  “You are a naughty lil girl,” I reprimand, stalking her with my eyes. I am the predator.

  “I hate it when you call me that!” she scoffs as I tug her across the seat to my lap. Her dress flies up and I peel off her panties before walloping her hard with my left palm. She’ll have prints by the time I’m done. “You dirty fucking daego! Let me go!”

  “Nup,” I reply, spanking her sweet ass as our love depends on this moment. We must redefine us. I am her protection; she is my Queen. But we are so much more than that. “Tell me how much you like it.”

  “Your hard cock pressed against my diaphragm?” she hisses. “I fucking love it.”

  She’s not the same anymore, and it is my biggest problem. I fucked this girl, rough—a lot—when she was fluffier, but I had some cushion to work with. Now, I don’t have that, and everything feels off. I don’t want to harm her, and I fear I might.

  “Harder!” she screams into the seat as I repeatedly pop my hand against her bare butt. She’s bound to be red, and the thought sends an involuntary thrust in my hips. “Do you remember when you told me I wasn’t a masochist?”

  “I remember everything.”