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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  There is a cost to everything.

  Grabbing my hand, he pulls me close. “Hey, next time you have Cruz alone in your room, don’t fucking break his heart. Remember, he tells almost everything to me.”

  He releases my fingers and walks away. “Sal…”

  He swivels back as his eyes fixate on mine. “I will swallow every fucking drop you refuse and do not ever underestimate that fact.”

  The boy’s club holds an unfathomable depth of loyalty.

  And I am the outsider.

  “I don’t know enough about Noah to help you, Iris,” Morpheus informs as we sit at his kitchen table, powwowing and grappling for any solutions. “We can retrieve the boy, that isn’t an issue.”

  “But taking down the group,” Sal sighs, dropping his glasses on the table and rubbing his eyes. “If we only snatch Noah…”

  “Dozens are waiting,” I whisper. “We need to be at least watching them.”

  “We already are.” Sal takes my hand. “Since Bianchi didn’t have anyone to babysit any longer, I sent him to Washington. We’ll have images by morning.”

  With her heavenly wide hips swathed in green, Momma Morpheus refills our coffee cups. “I just don’t want to deal with the Irish.”

  “Then we won’t,” Sal appeases, speaking for me. “We’ll find another small upstart to come in and run it for you. It’s really not a problem.”

  No, we won’t.

  I notice the intense glances between Morpheus and his momma. Not long after, she plays my man like a fiddle. “Sal, would you like to see my new antique armoire? We found it recently, and I’m going to be having it redone. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.”

  “Sure,” he says as I want to equally slap him for being so damn gullible with conniving moms and kiss Momma Morpheus. “Where is it?”

  Momma smiles. “It’s in the garage. I didn’t want the dusty old thing in my house.”

  “I’m going to talk to Iris for a minute,” Morpheus says. “If you don’t mind, Sal.”

  “Of course not,” Sal replies, stealing a kiss before following Momma like the eager little duckling.

  Morpheus stands, and I do the same as I whisper, “He’s a sucker for a good mother.”

  He chuckles and offers his hand to me. “All good sons are.”

  In a trail of Morpheus’ cologne, I follow him through the house to his conservatory. The spacious room is almost entirely windows, and I’m awestruck by the splendor. The acoustics must be insane as I imagine moaning Sal’s name. He doesn’t turn on the lights as we linger in the dark.

  Leaning against the grand piano, he says, “I know that look upon your face all too well.”

  “The Irish are our best option.”

  “I gathered,” he accuses, smiling. “Probably because you already have a deal in hand with them.”

  He’s not wrong. Lotus has a deal with Kill Rat. My crew will go in, tighten everything up, and Morpheus will buy it. Kill Rat maintains the mischief, keeping Immortal and Cinco at bay, so there is nothing left to fight over.

  “You know my moves.”

  But not all of them.

  There is a plan B, involving Reckless Rebellion taking it over, but it is not high on my list of desires. It’s a rough and raw kind of town. And while Cruz is a rough and raw kind of boy, I’d prefer he were elsewhere.

  From his pocket, he pulls out a vape pen and takes a hit before handing it to me. “It’s King Cake.”

  I glance and giggle. “… Pure?”

  “As a whistle, my dear, I’m trying to get in the celebratory Mardi Gras mood.” In the dark magenta silk robe, he crosses his legs. “Look, I’m not out to be the bad guy between you and Sal, but I will always adhere to the Queen’s wishes over a mafia son with not much pot left to piss in.”

  I glance out at the sparkling pool glowing with lights. “It’s temporary as all things are in this business, Stephen.”

  He chuckles. “Not many people call me that anymore.”

  “I’m not just any person,” I reply, grazing my hands over the glass as I imagine Sal fucking me here. Everything I am doing is for him.

  “You never were,” he contends, walking over and pulling a second vape from his pocket. “This is the one you’re after.”

  I laugh. “What I am after is the fastest way to resurrect his status after the fall…”

  “You know as well as I do, that won’t be easy. While we all agree that leaving the Raniero outfit is in his best interests, the inherent problem will be that no one outside of The Commission is going to trust him.”

  I gaze over my shoulder. “Fix it.”

  “You’re suggesting a war break out to elevate one man.”

  “He’s worth it, and you know it,” I implore. “Give support to Reckless Rebellion and the Brethren. Discontinue any assistance with Salvatore Raniero.”

  “He’s your bait, and you know Pico will bite, smelling all of Cristos’ dirty money lining Sal’s pockets,” he mutters, offering the stick to me. “But I’ll align with Reckless Rebellion until Cinco bites Sal. He’ll pull out, and Cinco will suck on Muerte’s dick because they will be out of moves. It will be catastrophic.”

  “The Commission will come to save their golden boy.”

  “I won’t be involved in an Italian affair,” he warns as I push the button and deeply inhale. “Just because my son is sticking his cock in one doesn’t mean I have to put it there,” he crassly states as I exhale. “Does he know?”

  “No,” I whisper in a hushed breath.

  “When do you plan on telling him?”

  I slowly shift to the man who purchased my virginity for a pretty penny from Angelo Gennaro. “And tell him Durante is yours?”

  He nods. “If he marries Stella…”

  “I just need to make sure Sal is nice and erect before then, so he can fuck everyone over. Stella will follow her son, and you will get yours back.”

  “What about Vinny Veramonte?”

  I dismissively sigh, “Sal wants nothing to do with him.”

  “Yet,” he says, bumping my arm. “A son will always need their father. However, I do not wish to merge with Torrente. New York is too rich for my blood.”

  I crack a smile at the lunacy of his statement, and he heartily laughs. “They do not know the brotha in Atlanta got more bank than Cristos. Or that you are trying to align the Brethren, Reckless Rebellion, and me.”

  “No.” I flick a brow and do another hit of the sweet-smelling ganja. “And they won’t know. I’m getting you to the kingdom.”

  “King Morpheus,” he proclaims with a grin. “It’s got a damn nice ring to it. Will Brethren fall to Deacon Cruz?”

  “They will if you agree to the alignment,” I encourage. “Help me get you there and give Sal Raniero a chance to prove himself.”

  “Trudy’s biker boy will have all of PacWest and the Coast.”

  “Until he goes to take back Houston.”

  “What about all the other smaller annoyances—Boudreaux, Allegiance, and Campanelli?”

  “We will eliminate them one by one.”

  He shakes his head. “Your timing must be absolute perfection, or you will lose everything.”

  “I’m quite aware of the cost,” I stress, understanding the intricacy involved in our plans. One tempestuous fault line rumbling the ground could destroy my anchoring points of the glistening web. “And I know who I want where. The only question is, can you handle sharing your spot with a Prince and a Saint?”

  With dedicated respect, he vows, “I will…for you.”

  “I’m such a cunt.”

  “You’re playing with the big boys, Ms. Nakamura, I wouldn’t want you to be anything less than a vindictive, heartless bitch.” He takes a deep breath. “The Irish will be after him.”

  “And Immortal will be all over me like rats in the garbage.”

  “I will not spare any expense if that happens,” he fervently warns. “Three Kings will support the Queen.”

 
I smile. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like to borrow my room for the…distraction on your mind?”

  A light blush rises on my cheeks. “How did you know?”

  “Because before you were the future of Lotus, I knew Iris Amarie.”

  “You look like a damned angel in hell,” Sal compliments the next night as he walks into the conservatory.

  I grin. “You just admire a woman not afraid to wear virgin snow-white in the winter.”

  “I like virgins in the winter, and I like snow.” He winks.

  “I’m aware of your fetishes, Mr. Raniero.”

  His eyes scan over my sequined gown as I sit on the piano. “And, I really like ice on you.”

  “Best stay away from that shit,” I reply with a grin. “It’ll suck you in deep.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  We spent the evening with Morpheus and Nereza at a swanky dinner with a few of his upper militia. They’re all going to the big game Sunday. They invited Sal, but he turned them down because I want to go home. Morpheus calls them his sergeants.

  I call them my new kittylickers.

  With his slicked-back raven hair and billowing white dress shirt, he wears the black suit like he was born for it. “Did you enjoy the evening?”

  “I did,” I say as he tosses his coat on the piano bench. Meticulously, he removes the cufflinks and drops them in the scallop dip lining my cleavage. “Keep those for me later, babe.”

  “Alright, babe,” I smirk. “Do you think they like us?”

  “No,” he answers, rolling up his sleeves. “They fucking love us.”

  I trail my finger over his shimmering silver chain. “I will do anything to get you on top.”

  “I like being on top,” he taunts with a low suggestive tone.

  “I love it when you are on top, and those broad shoulders shield me from their attack.”

  “My back is yours.”

  I flick my glittery heel from my foot and rub my toes along his cock. “But what about the front, Salvatore? Who gets it?”

  “You do.” His kiss enslaves me as I slip into his arms and wrap my thighs tight around his waist. “You always do.”

  “I don’t want you in the belly of the beast.”

  Carrying my body over to the glass facing the pool, he insists, “I’ll swim faster than the sharks.”

  “You’re so full of yourself,” I whisper as his mouth devours my neck and collar bone. I close my eyes and let him have me. I allow myself to be the vessel for his release. He needs me. And I can’t say no.

  “Do you think I would’ve agreed to your ludicrous plan if I thought for one second that I would end up as a snack for anyone?”

  I smirk, “How do you know you’re not my snack?”

  “I hope I’m more like a fifteen-course meal for you,” he says, bracing my body between his and the glass as his hands skid up around my thighs. “If I’m not, I’m doing something wrong.”

  “You won’t let me fall,” I seriously mutter. “Will you?”

  “Never,” he says, staring with those penetrating soul-leeching eyes. They’re lighter tonight, almost the color of seafoam. “Ever.”

  “You could easily permeate my business and attempt a coup,” I counter. “Having all of The Commission at your beck and call.”

  “Are you giving me future orders?”

  “No,” I whisper with a hush. “I’m crossing my fingers; I don’t regret our decisions with one another.”

  “I wouldn’t say I have the entire Commission,” he replies, unfastening his belt and dropping his zipper. “I would say I don’t like thinking about what I could do if I wanted.”

  His dick nudges against my opening as he rolls in slow. “Why don’t you want to think about it?”

  “Because then I look down,” he informs, smiling. “And sometimes, that scares the hell out of me.”

  My hands fly above my head as his hands cradle my ass cheeks, and he rocks my body onto his hard cock. “You can’t fall apart on me now.”

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  I whimper as he drives deep. “Do you trust me?”

  “I trust you,” he confirms as his jaw sharpens and snarls with pleasure. “But do you trust a street thug to not try and outplay you?”

  “Any street thug, no,” I reply with a moan. “I trust you to the end of the heavens.” He backs away, and I fall to my feet in one motion. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” he growls, spinning my body and shoving me to the glass as his dick thrusts into my ass. “I need you, Iris.”

  “Oh, God…” I cry out, not expecting his claiming of my backside. “Have at me, baby.”

  His hands hold mine to the solid panes as his teeth sink into my neck. He’ll mark me. And I won’t care. I’ll proudly walk around with his bruises and stains covering my skin and his cum sluicing from between my legs. His fingers find my slit, and he rubs my clit as he holds my body against his. “Fly, baby, fly,” he encourages as I am suspended by his strength and anchored by his throbbing cock and the love in his heart. “Fly for me, butterfly…trust me.”

  His thick, inked forearm is wrapped just beneath my breasts as his fingers strum a flowing rhythm over my jewel. “I’m scared…”

  “Trust me.”

  “What if I break you?”

  “You won’t,” he reassures with conviction as his hips never stop moving. “You only think you are holding yourself up, but really, I am. So just let go. Let me do my job. And you do yours.”

  “What is my job?”

  “Loving me,” he says as I slowly release the death grip I have on his arm. “There you go, now spread them wide, and come to me.”

  “Sally…”

  “I have got you, Angel.”

  “We’ve never done this,” I mutter as he keeps pumping his dick into my ass.

  “Because you’ve never trusted me quite as much as you do now.”

  “You’re fucking insane,” I giggle as his fingers slide closer to my wetness.

  “Everything about you, I crave,” he coaxes as we go down, down, down for the count, and I pray he doesn’t drop the ball. Captured in the mass of his frame, he makes me feel so small as I beg for his sins and soar to new heights. “Iris, there’s going to be a blizzard…”

  “Fuck, yes!” I cry out in the room made of glass—sand weathered by the elements of wind and rain and warmed by flickering flames of his desire. He could shatter me, but I ride his beckoning thrusts with arrant faith as his grunts provide the soundtrack to my ecstasy, and the platform of his body serves as my folly. And I will come without reservations. He’ll let me in. He’ll let me have it—the best seat in the house—high on his hard cock. All of him. All of his big dick. And all of his love. “Ice me, Nero.”

  IV

  The Prayers of Hunting Pack Wolves

  25

  Killing Tadpoles

  His Butterfly

  Slumped in the reclined passenger seat, my eyes scout over The Causeway as Sal seems, dare I say, joyous to be in the swamp. Before this final leg of our trip, we were relatively balanced.

  Deacon Cruz is here.

  How do you balance three when one is the swaggering, cursing biker causing Sal’s recent nocturnal emissions?

  Am I certain?

  No, but we spent a week in Atlanta fucking in the conservatory at all hours. Our handprints and other bodily fluids were all over the glass, and on our third morning, I caught Sal cleaning windows before the maid arrived.

  “Are you auditioning for Colette’s job?”

  With only sexhat and grays, he was scrubbing away. I bit my lip, enduring the spectacle as I eased onto the piano and put on a show of my own.

  Staring at the chandelier, I thought he was ignoring my salacious act until I glanced over to find his fist jerking one off.

  Masturbating in Morpheus’ conservatory at seven in the morning.

  We were worse than horny teenagers. The only difference was we didn’t have
to worry about getting caught or punished because we didn’t fucking care. This became the template of our new game.

  How far we could push the limit of one another as Dom and sub…

  I don’t advise just anyone play this. It’s an advanced game for masochists.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks, touching my hand. He’s doing his ultra-hot, casual Sal in ripped jeans, wife-beater, and hoodie. “Talk to me. Inside thoughts.”

  “There are so many,” I reply, smiling. “How many do you want?”

  He dropped his shades on his nose and glanced at me. “Fucking all of them.”

  “I just don’t understand,” I say. “You know what is going on with Cruz and me.”

  “Yep.”

  I curled my legs in the seat. “And this doesn’t bother you?”

  “Nup,” he replies, lighting a smoke. “Should it? We’re all at risk here.”

  “Last I checked, you and I are getting married,” I point out. “And that leaves one out.”

  Cracking the window, he shakes his head. “You are overthinking this. I cannot have children with Cruz in a traditional sense.”

  “So, you’re marrying me to make your demon spawn?” I criticize, feeling a bit petulant. “I am not your incubator. And if you feel that way about me, then we need to reconsider.”

  His expression drops. “I did not say you were an incubator. I was attempting to convey that I want you to be my wife and the mother of my children. I do not want Cruz in an apron and playing Mommy.”

  We both stop and look at one another. “You should never say the words Cruz and apron together again.”

  He offers a high five as we laugh. “It’s way too hot of a thought.” He adjusts himself.

  “Like that…Cruz turns you on.”

  “He turns you on too.”

  “Ugh,” I whine, shifting in the seat and staring out the window. “This is too confusing.”

  He laughs—earnestly laughs at me. “You are overcomplicating this. You like Cruz.”