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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Blah,” he says as Iris grabs the corset. “I’d rather go bar hop.”

  I take it from her hands and fasten her up. “How do my tits look?”

  “I’m not looking at your tits,” Sal mutters as we stand in the closet. “I’m looking at how good you two are when you’re connected. But your tits are always amazing.”

  I finish confining the poor girl in the hot piece and pull the gray slacks up as she grabs the dress and goes into the bathroom. “I cannot wear these.”

  “Oh, yes!” Sal admires. “Yes, you can.”

  Iris spins to face me. “Yes!”

  They give one another a high five. “What the hell? They’re like four sizes too small.”

  “You’re wearing them,” Sal decides as Iris delightfully bounces out of the room. I flip them off.

  “If I get a boner…”

  “If you get a boner, it’s because you’re grinding on one of us,” Sal informs. “You only hate them because you insist on wearing everything four sizes too big.”

  “Okay,” I ask. “What do you think?”

  “We’re in trouble if you wear that dress,” Sal states, smirking at me. “That hem barely covers…”

  Putting on my shirt, I lean to check her out. “Oh, hell, yes…”

  My eyes scan over her sexy silhouette shining in the green dress with knee-high black boots with three-inch heels. She is shimmering. “Nice touch with the boots.”

  “I love them,” she says. “I picked them up in a little boutique in Sugargrove and took them to Boston, thinking I would have a chance to wear them, but we spent all of our time in the hotel room.”

  “Are my two divas ready yet?” Sal asks. “If so, I will call for a car.”

  “Are we not driving?” I ask, fastening my belt.

  Standing behind Iris, Sal puts his hands on her shoulders. I look at the pair and understand what he sees when he sees Iris and me together.

  Happiness. Contentment. Bliss. Love.

  “Not with the way I plan on misbehaving.”

  Festivity brims in New Orleans almost nonstop. During Mardi Gras, it’s about a thousand times worse. And Iris is always in the middle when we go out mostly because whenever she hears music, she tends to move. Sometimes those moves can be a bit tawdry or downright dirty. Regardless of her size, she has done this as long as I’ve known her, which is over ten years now.

  And it’s worth the stares with Bad One and Bad Two flanking her sexy ass.

  We’re being normal.

  And it feels fucking amazing.

  We bar hop, tossing beads on one another, and taking shots out of Iris’ tits—which look fucking amazing. We eat street food and tip all the musicians. We’re having a grand old time.

  The underworld is on the prowl, looking to score, and we smile. They know us; we know them. The three of us together are a powerhouse.

  “Hey, Nero…” We spin to see one of the smaller local leaders, Rule. He’s bought from our establishment before but refuses exclusivity, which is a shame because he’s damn good on the street. If Rowan is a newb, then Rule is an expert.

  He deals. Everything.

  We provide. Everything.

  Keeping his eyes glued to the gyrating, slightly inebriated Iris, he flips a card to Sal. “We got a party going on over in Tremé. Bring your stripper.” He smirks as Iris does a full-body roll.

  And believe me, that body can roll.

  “Thanks,” Sal politely dismisses, smiling and patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll stop by later.”

  Iris chimes in. “… You got a car?”

  “Yeah,” Rule says as Iris extends her hand. “Two blocks over.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Sal and I follow Iris walking with Rule and his crew. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re going to watch and learn, Cruz.”

  “Do they have any idea who she is,” I point out.

  “Dunno,” he replies as we walk towards the blacked-out SUV. “She’s a bomb no one knows they’re holding until it explodes.”

  “Are we really getting into an unknown vehicle?” I question as Rule opens the door and Iris climbs in, bending over. Her dress lifts and I catch a peek of her ass tucked away in the lace. “Never mind.”

  There are Sal and me, a not sober Iris, and six of them piling into the SUV, which should be big enough, but it’s tight. Rule’s men are enormous—big motherfucking guys.

  Rule drives and Iris flatters with her lively conversation. Leaning up between the front seats, she makes every effort to spark a connection with him and his right-hand guy, Notter. She’s grinding on Sal’s and my legs and negotiating amid the thumping rap music.

  Have I mentioned how much I love this girl?

  Within ten minutes, Notter drops his ball cap on her head. I give a this-is-getting-fucking-intense look to Sal as Rule turns down the music.

  Stopping at a house, Rule asks, “You Saint’s boy?”

  I’m not sure if I want to answer this. He could pull a nine, and we’ll all bleed to death, but Iris giggles with Notter as they rap the song together.

  Big black thug in more gold than a God.

  Darling little geisha girl in a skanky number.

  Rapping. Together.

  I hate to think what else they could do together.

  The thing Iris can do that neither Sal or I can—is work a room full of men…or a crowded SUV. She’ll have everyone chanting her name because she’s fun—light and easy. And after they’re all warm, drunk, and laughing—when they least expect it—her sharps come out with a precise aim.

  With nothing to lose, I reply, “Yes, Sir. Victor Cruz was my father.”

  “You the new Saint Cruz?”

  “Yes,” I admit, not knowing how I feel about people calling me by my father’s name. “I am.”

  “Get out.”

  We all do, but I’m not sure what is happening. Notter and one of the other guys are dancing with Iris as Sal looks on with a mischievous grin. He is such a damn voyeur, and if they don’t cross the line, I’ll keep my bang out of the picture.

  “I believe you know these guys,” Rule says, wrapping his arm around me. “Pleasure to meet you, Saint.”

  I glance at the house as The Preacher, and The Old Man are all on the front porch with some other guys. The Old Man actually has a name, Gerald Walters; I found this out from Sal after my incarceration. If I thought he was old twelve years ago in the pen, he was as old as the hills now in his wheelchair.

  “What did he do?” I ask Iris, grinning ear to ear and standing between Rule and Notter. “They’re my old family,” I mutter the truth in disbelief. “I’m lost.”

  In Notter’s hat, Iris booty shakes her way over. Her arms drape over my shoulders. “Brought The Brethren home to New Orleans. PacWest is yours…Saint Cruz.”

  What?

  Okay, Saint sounds really good from her lips.

  “… How?”

  “I asked you to trust me and get the hell out of Texas,” she whispers, kissing my cheek. “You did, and we brought you a little present.”

  Dumbstruck with absolute awe, I point at Sal. “You fucking knew!”

  He shrugs with a smirk. “I might have known a little bit.” He sticks his tongue out and dances a few beats with Notter.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “You should start by saying hello to The Preacher, Zeke, and The Old Man. And then you should come formally introduce yourself to Rule’s gang because they’re all part of Saint Cruz’s syndicate now.”

  “Holy fuck…” I mumble, knowing what the hand up means. “Hell!”

  Iris slips behind me. Her arms slip around my chest. “I love you, and so does the Italian street thug learning how to…hip hop. I hate to say how entertaining he is.”

  “Yeah, don’t encourage him. Nero can dance…anything.” I watch him and laugh. “Let him dance. He’ll behave if he’s sweating.”

  “… Is that a thing?”

  “Yeah, he doesn’
t numb out unless things are bad in the zone.” I tap my head. “Walk with me?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Are you happy?”

  “Unbelievably!” With sweaty palms, I climb the steps of the row house. “Welcome home, Zach.”

  The Preacher embraces me like his own son. I’ve known him since I was no more than waist-high. And he’s taken the role of a father figure since Dad passed. “You’re starting to look more and more like your father.”

  “Thank you for sending your gang.”

  Chuckling, he hands a beer out of the cooler to me. “You need to thank that pretty girl. She did all of it. She’s quite the keeper, that one. I wouldn’t let her go if I were you.”

  Not sure I entirely believe his statement, I glance over at Iris, laughing with The Old Man and her animated stories, and to Sal, who is teaching Rule’s crew to line dance. I can’t be without either of them. I need her grace and his charm. And they need my spiritual advising because they won’t make it without me.

  The realization hits hard.

  As much as I worry about getting left out in the cold, like the third wheel, I have faith it won’t happen. I doubt Iris has it in her to shift this kind of weight around, so early on in her game.

  And if I’m wrong, then I am just a fool in love.

  “… Partners?” I offer my hand. “With Saint Cruz?”

  He takes my hand, shakes it, and bends to lay a respectful kiss on my knuckles. “Until the end, my boy.”

  “Fuck! Yes!” I howl as my dick thrusts into Iris’ ass at The Dollhouse a few hours later. Only the moon lights the dark master bedroom as our vampires’ feast on our sacrificial flower.

  Sal grips my hands as we pin her by our throbbing cocks. Still, in the green dress and boots, she lays against my chest, and we erotically dance in the glow.

  “Harder!” she moans.

  “If we go any harder, we’re going to be docking in the garage,” Sal quips, bucking up. His shaft rubs against mine, and the only thing separating our bond is Iris.

  “Did you just call Iris’ pussy, a garage?”

  He’s working his moves, glistening with sweat, and erratically breathing. “I did.”

  “I’ll be your garage,” she contends. “Just don’t stop pulling in and backing up.”

  “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”

  “So…good,” she mewls, wanting more. “I want you to come at the same time.”

  “You know,” Sal says, grinning. “We’ve done that before.”

  “Not in a long time,” I add, popping my jaw as she tightens around my dick. “But at this rate, it won’t be long.”

  Carefully, Sal sits up as we sandwich her body between ours. “Fuck me,” Sal hisses, staring at me. His words don’t bring forth my urges, but his hungry gaze does. The passage goes unnoticed by Iris, but I recognize his monster and understand he needs more. He wants a good scene with a whip on his flesh and a dick in his ass.

  And I’m just the guy to provide.

  “I’m not sure how you pulled Brethren in.”

  “Easy,” Sal says. “Morpheus promised to stop funding any further investments from Sal Raniero.”

  “What?” I panic, grasping at what all he gave up to make this happen. “Why?”

  “Because he’s a filthy fucking daego,” Iris hisses as Sal gives a sexy as fuck grin. “Tainted. Ornery. Made Man. Non-Compliant. Beast mode.”

  That about sums Sal up.

  “Talk dirty to me, baby.” Sal laughs. “Or because I’m about to sell all of my RE shares. Iris and I got plans. Big plans.” He leans back on his hands and does this deep roll I can only describe as mind-blowing enough to make me wish for one second that I owned a garage. He could pull into it night and day. The dark thought riddles my mind.

  “I got a big dick,” Iris mutters, and they laugh. “With jewels.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “No,” they say, giggling like they have a secret.

  Squeezing his fingers, I say, “Thank you, Mr. Raniero.”

  “… For?”

  “Getting the Brethren to come home.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” he informs as Iris blinks over her shoulder and crashes against me. “It was all Lotus.”

  It’s the little things that mean the most.

  And it’s the little things that hurt the most.

  27

  Here, Fishy Fishy

  His Ride

  “I thought I smelled food,” I mutter, stumbling into the kitchen.

  We’ve been keeping the same routine for almost a week. We spend the day independently working. I’ve been having daily meetings with Zach over his associations in PacWest and reaching out to them. Sal has been crunching numbers to see how much he can get out of the RE shares. And Iris spends her days on the phone with Japan.

  I usually make lunch or go pick up salads. We nap for a couple of hours in the afternoon and get up by five for the evening. We either go to dinner, Mardi Gras parades, or hit the bars.

  By one or two, we come home intoxicated and end up practicing holy trinity formations until three or six…whenever Sal decides we’re through.

  It’s been pretty basic ménage stuff with zero kinks, and it’s making his twitch worse. “You want me to warm the syrup?”

  “No syrup,” I say, having my first-morning smoke. “Where is Iris?”

  “Guesthouse,” he replies, flipping pancakes and making bacon. “She’s getting her nails and hair done and didn’t want to wake you up.”

  I pour a cup of coffee, take a swallow, and steal a piece of bacon. My hand rubs over his taut ass in the black joggers. My dick jolts thinking about what I want to do to that ass. “Are you okay?” I tenderly ask, rubbing his arm. “I got your message loud and clear.”

  “Which one, the ‘fuck me’ or the text requesting your presence in the bathroom at five in the morning?”

  “Both, but I didn’t get the text until five minutes ago,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is I need some time alone with my lover boy.”

  Ouch.

  He isn’t alone. “Give me your phone.”

  Without question, he reaches into his pocket and tosses the phone to me. “Who are you calling?”

  “The one person who can help us.”

  “… Your ma?” he snarls. “You going to have her take Iris out shopping?”

  I grin. “Good morning, beautiful! What are you doing today? You wouldn’t, by chance, have time for an impromptu trip to New Orleans, would you?”

  “I’ll set you up in that boutique hotel you love!” Sal offers.

  And we conspire so we can perspire.

  “Why are we working out on our afternoon alone?”

  “Because sex is so much better with you when I’ve depleted the stores,” he informs on the treadmill. “A more important question is, why did Trudy bring Dragon?”

  “I don’t know,” I irritatedly say from the bench. “I may have to deck your cousin.”

  He cranks up the pace. Sweat flings from his skin and soaks his hair as he controls the pace of his breath despite challenging his stamina. It’s beyond sexy. “Hit him; I don’t fucking care. I’ve thought about it myself.”

  “Prick has a lot of nerve joining Ma for a romantic weekend getaway in my town.”

  “Poor Iris,” he interrupts, keeping his feet light and his stride stable. “She’s the third wheel now.”

  “Is she staying with them?”

  “Nah,” he mutters, hitting the button and tossing a towel around his neck. “We have until tonight…”

  “Ya.”

  “You want to lift?” I ask as he straddles over me. Pressing on the bar in the hooks, he lowers to kiss me.

  “I can’t,” he says, blinking to meet my intense gaze. “My hands aren’t ready for it.”

  I’ve noticed, but not said anything. He discreetly gets ice packs post-our nightly prayers. I glance up at his swollen and bruised hands. “Did you hurt them?”<
br />
  He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “How many painkillers are you on?”

  “None,” he replies, and I honestly believe him. I’ve seen the guy fucked up enough to know his different states of sobriety.

  “How much coke?”

  “None since that night in Florida,” he says, moving to spot me. “You know what all I’ve done because you’ve been with me.”

  I’ve also seen him naked—a lot recently. He has no new cuts or bruises, but I feel like I’m missing something. I run through the list in my head because his self-destruct mode doesn’t typically diffuse that fast. He’s not a one night and done. He’s a binger for a month and done kind of guy until another trigger comes along.

  “How many times have you masturbated today?”

  “Four,” he states as I do a rep. “And I’m about to go for five.”

  “Jesus, what are you fifteen?”

  From behind the bench, he shrugs as I try not to notice the bulge in his shorts.

  “You found it, are you happy, Cruz?”

  I lower the bar and swing out from underneath it. “Why the hell are you smacking your meat so much? You’ve got Iris and me.”

  “No,” he says, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. “I’ve got our nightly fuckfests. I have no kink with Iris and haven’t since Savannah. I haven’t had your dick in my ass in months. I can’t have either of you like I truly want you, and from where I sit, my world is imploding. I lost Emily in a very bad way. I lost my family. I am losing Old Poppa’s business. My dick is the only thing I can fucking control.”

  “Hell, that’s deep.”

  “Ya,” he says as I realize this is our first honest conversation since he’s been here. “I don’t know how to make this,” he states, circling his finger around. “With us, any better.”

  “We need to stop trying,” I say, stretching my back. “We need to pull off the cover.”

  Staring at the punching bag, he asks, “And let her see it?”

  “Don’t you dare do it,” I sternly warn as I know he is considering throwing his fist only to hurt his hands. Pain feels good when you’re Sal. “I will pull rank on your ass.”