Don’t even.
“You know, why don’t you go ask her? You’ll have to take her because we’re in my two-seater, but I bet Iris has a dress she could borrow. She might agree to come if she knows Iris will be there.” She puts the Ma-guilt on, heavy and thick. “You could try?”
Ya, Iris isn’t who she is after.
And she was going to come on my dick.
“Ya,” I oblige with a smile. “I’ll go ask her real quick.”
“Okay, baby, we’ll see you there!”
The door closes as I lift a finger at Rowan still on the steps. “Wait. Wait.”
She snickers, “God, you’re fun...”
“Okay.” I peer out the window and see the lights of the car leave. “Holy fuck!” I breathe hard as adrenaline rushes in my veins. “Do you want to go to the Valentine’s reception? Dinner is at 9. We can still make it if we hurry.”
I hate asking her because I fear what she will say.
“Yes, please.”
Fuck.
His Butterfly
Music fills the air as Deacon shuts off the bike and helps me down. The lights twinkle in the trees, and the sounds of laughter and merriment warm my heart. I hadn’t planned to arrive at the Valentine’s Gala Dinner on Deacon Cruz’s arm, but I have no choice.
I am expected.
And I perform my duties on time and in a proper manner befitting that of my standing. Despite Sal’s absence, Deacon seems to understand the importance of showing up for appearance’s sake. I’m sure there will be mumblings about where Sal is and why I am on the arm of a dreamy biker, looking good enough to eat in the blue suit.
I’ll clean up his mess…one more night.
You’re always going to be cleaning up the mess, Iris.
My inner thoughts veer dangerously close to—Sal is a partying playboy, a mafia manwhore, and he has always been such. He will never change.
Not for Deacon.
Not for me.
Not for anyone.
I take a deep breath as he offers his arm to escort me into Juliet. We’re in the cabaret tonight, no doubt with red roses and candlelight. It will be romantic, and Sal will be missing.
I agreed to leave New Orleans for this.
We arrive at the entry with a few other couples when I spot Ella Hemsworth. “You look divine!” she booms, kissing my cheeks and scrutinizing over Deacon. “And Mr. Cruz cleans up so nicely!”
Yes, yes, he does.
She kisses his cheeks, and I discreetly open my eyes wide at Deacon. “It’s a pleasure to be joining you this evening, Ms. Hemsworth. You’re looking lovely.” She lays her hand on his chest, and I want to gouge her fucking eyes out.
Keep your grubby paws off my man.
Fuck. He’s not my man.
He’s Deacon.
But tonight, he’s mine.
We make our way through the line, and Deacon hands over his card. The young man, who I don’t know, glances at me. “I’m Iris Nakamura.”
“We need your credentials, Ma’am.”
“I am Iris Nakamura.”
“One moment,” Deacon mutters, leaving me at the door as I’m held hostage by this twerp.
“My card for Juliet is in Anna Ford’s house. You may know her, the Headmistress of the school? I haven’t been to visit Anna since my return from Japan, and I would appreciate you allowing my entry.”
“I…I…I am sorry I cannot.”
“Charlie!” Anna scolds on the arm of Deacon. “I told you to let Iris Kettles in!”
“She didn’t say her name was Kettles,” he whines as Deacon strides up and towers over his lean body. The poor boy may wet his pants.
“Look, if you want to keep your place here at Juliet, I suggest you learn to be more respectful of your elders and your Masters.” Deacon is firm and forward with a delicate touch, and the panties I am not wearing are soaking. “If you want to survive.” He grins and pats Charlie on the back as we walk away.
“I need a bathroom soon,” I whisper, curling into Deacon’s arm. “Please.”
“Do you need a tampon?”
“No, I need panties...pads...help!”
“You cannot wear panties in that dress.”
“I am aware,” I say with a smile as Deacon checks my jacket.
“Iris!” Anna beams a smile at me. “You’re looking so wonderful!”
“Thank you for inviting us!” I play the part, make excuses for Sal, and Anna points us to her table. There are four empty seats—Sal and me. Deacon and his date.
Deacon wouldn’t have had a date.
Because the only date he wants is me.
“I need to go,” I say, rushing off to the bathrooms. I chose the ones further away from the party, with the single stalls, behind the row of hedges. I go to close the door as Deacon sneaks in behind me. He licks his lips as I shove my clutch into his hands.
“Oh, God,” I moan, feeling the cramps and clots and everything nasty. “At least it’s a red dress.”
“You’re getting too stressed,” he insists, taking off his coat. He opens my purse and hands a tampon to me. “You’ve made an appearance. Can we go now?”
“Where?”
“Ida Mae’s for a burger?” he suggests with a smile. “You sneak out the side, I’ll go get your jacket, and we’ll bust this joint.”
I flush and wash my hands as he looks in the mirror at me. “Why are you so good?”
Taking my hand, he says, “I’m not.”
“Can we get it to go?”
“We can do anything you want.”
That is perhaps the best thing anyone has ever said to me.
The Master
I’m taking a quick shower as Rowan digs through my girl’s clothes and borrows her makeup. I know how wrong this is, but I can’t stop. I imagine Deacon and Iris at Juliet, dining and dancing and having the time of their lives.
They’re perfect—my submissives.
I step out of the shower to Rowan dressed in a tight royal purple mermaid dress. She looks incredible. “The tags were still on it. She’s never worn it.”
“Not uncommon,” I dismissively say, grabbing a towel as her eyes take me in.
“You’ve got some ink,” she boasts.
“I got it in prison,” I murmur, trying to scare her off. It never fucking works though. It’s the equivalent of saying—I’m a sociopath, stay away, but women translate it to—I’m a bad boy, don’t you want to fuck me? It’s not just me, either. Cruz has this same problem. Maybe it’s just us.
“Do you have any fun stuff?”
I go to the closet with her hot on my towel-wrapped ass and unlock the safe. I hand her a couple of vials of coke. “Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks,” she says. “You want to party with me?”
There are a million reasons I should kick this girl to the curb, but I hand her one of the empty shopping bags. “Pack your clothes in this. Not a word, you were here.”
She slowly eases up, presses her hand to my cheek, and kisses me. “You should let me finish what we started.”
“Did you find shoes?” I ask as she kneels and pulls the towel from my wet skin.
“No, I’m going barefoot,” she claims, stroking my cock. Dear God. I’m going to hell. “Her feet are too small.”
Smart Sal would grab her by the arms and throw her out like yesterday’s trash, but I’m triggered—in a spell—and all I can say, “Suck my cock, bitch.”
Her mouth slides over the shaft as the flashes of red blood pool in my mind—Kaci’s death… Iris’ blood…the loft in Houston…the people…the interference.
I bought the house in Nebraska to be alone.
She peers up, and the only thing I see is Deacon and Iris sitting cross-legged on the floor like Emily, and I used to. And I remember the feel of her blood, sticking to my hands, as I carried her lifeless body to the ambulance.
“Oh, fuck,” I cry out as the tears rain on Rowan.
And I can’t stop.
I’m crashing and going down in a hurricane. The doors are sealed shut, and I can’t get out. I’m going to drown in their storm. Water fills my lungs as the wind shreds the skin from my body. I grip my fingers in her hair as I buck harder and faster.
“Don’t stop, Rowan!” I bellow. “God, don’t stop!”
Her teeth skid along the ridge and offer just enough pain. Her throat is an empty sinkhole catching my fall. I will disappear in the dirt, buried alive, as my flames dwindle and extinguish.
“I’m going to come!” I roar, letting go. But she doesn’t, maintaining vigilant, dedicated strokes of her lips and tongue. I’m giving up everything for this high. “Fuck!”
I go again.
And then I know how much trouble I am really in.
His Ride
With the glow of the flat screen, I scan over the mess of containers on the table from the burgers, fries, and coconut cream pie. The clock on the wall says 1:33 AM, and he still isn’t home. No phone calls. No text. No word.
After countless apologies for her soaking my seat with blood, I finally convinced her it was okay. Truth told I felt like she blessed my old Indian, Americana-painted bike. I had been thinking about having Tank help with some upgrades to it. Iris’ blessing solidified that notion.
She showered the second we got home.
While she did, Ma sent the text, “Where in the hell are you?”
“We had to leave because Iris got sick.”
Her response came quickly. “Sal is so fucked.”
“What happened?”
“He’s the life of the damn party with Rowan on his hip,” she replied. “Everyone is having a fabulous time with Sal, circa five years ago!”
“Sometimes, shit just happens, Ma.”
She paused until the message burned into my screen. “… Did they break up, Deacon?”
“I don’t know.”
And finally, she sent the last thing I needed to hear. “If he lets her go, jump on it.”
I’ve smoked through a quarter of a pack of cigarettes while my celebratory cunt of a boyfriend is out fucking Rowan. No one needs to confirm that. And the worst part of it all, the reason I want to kill him, are the tags I found in the trash can from the dress I bought her for Saturday.
I am going to hurt him.
I’m trying to figure out what to do or where to go. I pet her silken locks, knowing how much he is hurting her, and there are no excuses for this. I get up, pack her bags and mine, and load my truck. I send a group text to the Tennessee Twelve to get their asses home to Sugargrove.
X quickly responds, “What is going on?”
“The phoenix is burning.”
“I’ll get the guys up,” he texts. “We’re on our way.”
“Iris, baby,” I calmly say, waking her up. “Come on. We’re going to Lakeside.”
“Why are we going to Tank’s house?” she mutters, curling into my chest. “Did you get everything?”
“Because he won’t look for us there,” I say, knowing what I am doing goes against everything I believe to be true. I am stealing his Queen, but he promised not to hurt her again. And he is.
The rules no longer matter.
Iris is fucking mine.
39
Ten-Percent Fucked
His Butterfly
About half an hour from Little Bee, the sprawling fetish circus of Lakeside sat quietly in the winter. It wasn’t cold, but chilly enough from November through February that Tank shut the whole place down.
On the same property, Tank’s spacious mechanic’s garage kept the locals happy with his work over the last thirty years, and above the garage, the loft where he welcomed our stay. There was a kitchenette, a small living space, a bed, and a bath.
It’s late now, like 3 AM.
The loft is dark when Deacon asks, “Do you need anything?” He tucks me in bed as I shake my head, trying to avoid staring at his bare chest and the joggers hanging low on his hips. “I’m going to sleep on the sofa. Wake me up if you need me.”
I grab his corded arm. “I need you.”
He squats by the bed and runs his fingers through my hair. “You need some sleep. I’m delivering food to you all day tomorrow. I want you resting.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You don’t have to say that,” he says, gazing into my eyes with pure love. “I know things are complicated for you.”
My fingers brush over his sexy goatee. “Things aren’t complicated at all, Deacon. I’m very clear about what happened and who stood by me tonight.”
“I would understand if you didn’t want to listen to me, though, your Master...”
“I only have one Master,” I mutter, leaning up and kissing his lips. His moves are sweet and sensual and slow over mine as he lifts and lowers on top of me. The blankets are between our bodies, but I feel the shape of him—his muscular thighs, rock hard abs, and broad chest. He’s bigger than Sal and so much bigger than me. “Move this,” I demand, tugging on the fabric. “Please.”
“It’s the chastity belt between us,” he teases with a grin.
“Take it off, Deacon,” I whisper. “Take it all off.”
He twists under the blankets as I feel his bare chest pressing against the tops of my breasts. His calloused hands caress my face. “We should not be doing this.”
“Why?” I ask as he lifts onto his forearms. I slip my hands between us and undo the row of buttons on my pajamas. They’re not sexy in the least. They’re black with cupcakes and unicorns all over them. “Because we have a commitment to a Master who doesn’t seem to give a shit about our feelings? When do I get to walk away from him? When does this thing between us get a chance to breathe? Tell me because I want to know!”
“I don’t know,” he murmurs as his platinum hair falls in his face. I can’t resist running my fingers through it. “I didn’t plan on this…on you…”
“I know,” I assure, wrapping my legs around his waist and urging his chest to mine now that it’s bare. “You don’t have to fuck me.”
He snickers and glances up. The moon catches his eyes, and I see the hints of blue and the wetness of tears. “That’s the problem. I don’t want to fuck you, Iris. I want to make love to you…for hours…for days…”
“Deacon…”
“Wait,” he hastens. “I want to give you the romance you always dreamed of having. I need to be that guy for you.”
“White horse?”
“Yes.” He glances at me. “But I cannot do this until whatever is going on with that is over. And that fucking hurts. It’s fucking killing me. I know you feel what you do to me,” he emotionally confides. “And I cannot just stick my dick in your ass again because it won’t be enough. It won’t ever be enough.”
“The way we are now?”
“That’s how I feel,” he admits, laying against me. My arms hold him close, and I stroke his hair. Still, in his pants, he adjusts his position on top of me and grinds just once…
Just once…
Just once…
Just once brings on a prurient cataclysm as we cycle back to a place where lust takes precedence. We are made of pure desire at this moment. He rides between my legs like a bullet train with one purpose.
And the cloth is the only thing prohibiting his entry.
“Deacon, you’re so hard.”
“And you would feel so good,” he growls, sucking on my nipple. He lifts back to sit on his heels with a serious expression as he uncurls my limbs from his body. He lifts my ass as I flip and bury my face in the pillow. The trembling in my body does nothing to deter him as his hand collides against my bottom. Yanking my hips up, he confirms, “Head down, ass up, baby girl.”
“It isn’t what you need, Saint.”
“It is all I am allowed, but it won’t be enough,” he grumbles, rubbing against my pussy. He doesn’t stop as he uses my ache to satiate his need. Alternating rapid bucks with swats of my ass, he is feral with me. He doesn’t bother announcing the drop of his pants, or the
pumping of his dick against my ass. His vicious assault of my flesh is eerily parallel to his ability in mutilation. And so damn sexy. Drool pours out of my mouth in strands as I understand the symbolism he seeks. His mark of me will wash away, but the memory won’t.
“Put yourself inside of me!” I beg, clutching the sheets in my fingers. “Do it, please!”
With his right hand pumping his cock, he pounds his palm repeatedly against my ass. “Touch yourself.”
“I don’t want to masturbate!”
His next slap is stricter, harder…more disciplined than the last. “Touch your fucking pussy.”
“No!” I cry out.
He pops my ass again and rolls me over as his fingers slip between my folds. He kneads my clit, pulling and tugging with intense friction until his fingers synchronize with the rhythm of his strokes. I latch onto his inked forearm, fiercely immovable, as he violates every rule with a potent gaze. The sharp angles glorify his cheeks and jaw as I graciously welcome the ruthless act of a Saint.
“I’m going to come on your tits,” he warns, “Come to me.”
I don’t need his command.
I am devout to Saint, and I obey.
Immediately, his strict resolve softens as I catch a fleeting glimpse of the man hidden beneath the shadows. “Because I am in love with you.” He vows, “And I will be in love with you for all eternity.”
With a thunderous grunt, Deacon seizes my soul with his one sin. And I am one with his sacred oath as his finger immerses into my holy waters, and he purifies his sins.
The Master
With the slamming of a door, I wake up in my bedroom at Scarlet House. Rowan isn’t in bed with me. She went home with Trudy.
“Are you fucking up yet?” Trudy blasts, handing a cup of coffee to me. “My son and your girlfriend have moved out of the house. What the FUCK is going on?”
I sit up. “Do we need to do this?”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 32
