Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “You weren’t the only one.”

  “I am aware,” I reply, easing my fingers through her silk. “But I will be the last.”

  The cocky, arrogant remark causes her to twist, so her legs are now upon mine. She isn’t straddling me yet. But it wouldn’t take much. “What makes you so sure?”

  “That I will be the last?” I snap back quick. “Because I am the only one who counts.”

  “You are assuming a lot, Mr. Raniero.”

  “How long are you going to deny how much you want me?” I pitch back, knowing her sharp sparring game. I appreciate her efforts, but she will not win.

  “I just don’t see any real possibilities here, Sal…”

  Oh no. There is that fucking word I hate. Possibility.

  Ripping my shirt off, I toss it and offer, “Belly down, on my lap. Now.”

  She blinks repeatedly like I am speaking in a foreign language. I know better. She isn’t getting out of this with her seraphic doe eyelash bats. “I said, get on your belly over my lap. And do it fucking now.”

  She closes her eyes as I kill the lights with a push of a button. Maybe if she cannot see me, she will behave better. Mind you, I think it’s foolish, but it seems to work as she crawls onto me. I put a pillow on the arm of the sofa for her pretty stubborn head. The light from the television illuminates her face as we watch a recorded basketball game. I crack open a beer and being the asshole I am, we stay like this for the next two hours.

  She says nothing. And neither do I.

  At the beginning of the fourth quarter, the bottles—all three—sit empty on the table beside me. The ashtray holds a couple of butts as I light another and drop my hand to her bottom without thinking. “Don’t tighten up,” I instruct, rubbing her ass, “Stay loose.”

  She relaxes again after a few minutes. She isn’t very quick on my command, but I don’t expect much more from her at this point in our relationship. I haven’t worked with her near enough to garner the smooth transitioning of trust that comes with time. One of my mentors that I have a lot of respect for always tells me, “You get out what you put in.” I need to remember to tell Tank of this perfect example. It is fucking textbook.

  I cannot stand it.

  My hand works its way under the plaid print fabric and swipes across her flesh. She feels good, and my cock notices. I detain the urge to rush, keeping it all in check. If I go too hastily, she will not react right. Her impulse will be full of friction. I am not searching for that. We’ve proven time and again, we can find strife. I am hunting for fluidity between us. If I possess her in her own pace, she will offer me what I want readily.

  The self-discipline of the Dominant is not as easy as it appears. In fact, it goes against my natural stance. I want to rip her pants off and spank the hell out of her until she screams. But that will not move our intimacy forward. Provoking fear is for the weak; building trust requires the patience and care. I sure as fuck don’t want her scared.

  She tilts her head and yawns, comfortable and almost oblivious to my hand on her butt. It is good as I start to knead the skin. She tightens up again and I want to pop her, but hold back. I want her on pure verbal command so bad I can taste it. I have seen sub bitches do it, and it is fucking heavenly. I want that for her. We aren’t skimping this lesson. We aren’t jumping to the end just to get to the happy ending. We are at a silent war—she and I—and what we know and who we are all have to smudge together if we are going to do this like I want.

  And we are doing this like I want.

  Using my forearm, I tip the ass of the pants down. The ink from her mural dips onto her ass, teasing and luring. I take my finger and trace it as she has done me so many times. Before I know it, she lifts up with the suggestion of top removal. I oblige and toss it with mine.

  Again, we continue down the path to one another. She likes my hands on her. I like her skin on me. But this is so much more than pieces and parts; the internal monologue drives the power of our dynamic. She resists trusting; I deflate intimacy. We are a fucked-up match made in chaos. I want to see her skin and how it pinks up for my mark. Clicking on the lights, I dim them some so she doesn’t feel under the knife.

  My hand continues to peruse her body, her gorgeous mural, and the slit of her ass. I ignore the erection growing in my pants. It is irrelevant at this moment. I want to get off spiritually with this girl, and the icing can come later. I take the brush to her hair, lifting it up and dropping it over the arm of the sofa. My warm fingers coax her shoulders, her back, her sides as my other hand sweeps the back of the hairbrush over her ass.

  “Do you want this?” I growl, praying she holds up her end.

  “Yes, Master.”

  The wood smacks into her flesh hard, drawing up the red rapidly. Holy fuck, I am amazed how fast she colors. My dick throbs, turning to stone. I collide the wood to her bottom again, pacing myself and enjoying the moment. She is going to be so good. So sweet.

  “Such a good, good girl,” I commend as she arches her hips up, wanting more. “Oh, my angel likes this.”

  “Please, more…Sir. Give me more—harder.”

  In this role, I embrace the responsibility of listening to not only her words but her body language. The Dom is a multi-faceted beast, one in which I sink into easily. I am stunned by my own behavior, having feared for so long that this level would never be obtainable. But I am practiced. I am ready.

  I dole out a fair number of smacks to her lovely behind until she is bucking and restless. I follow her cues, running my finger up her crack and back down. I dip two fingers deep into her soaked pussy. “Suck me.”

  Carefully, she moves and pulls my pants down as my long, hard cock springs forth. Her mouth opens hungrily, saturating the whole thing and cupping my balls in her hand. I am pumping my hand eagerly, finger fucking her tight hole and rubbing her clit.

  “I want to feel you come inside of me, Master Raniero,” she begs, humping my hand. “Please, Sir…please.”

  “Do it, baby,” I answer as our pants go flying.

  She straddles me, dropping slow onto my dick as I wrap my arms around her and flick her nipples with my tongue. Tilting her head back, she cries, “I want more with you. More than all of this. I need inside of your head.”

  “It’s dark there, babydoll,” I warn, “You don’t really want to go there.”

  “Yes, I do,” she pleads, riding my cock as I thrust up into her, “I really do.”

  “And what if you don’t like it?” I ask, burying my forehead against her heart. “What if you are afraid of my darkness?”

  “Then you will turn on a nightlight until I am no longer frightened. You will hold me when I cry.”

  “I’ll want to fuck you when you cry,” I tease with a smirk.

  Her eyes focus on mine as she declares her intentions. “And I’ll make your dick cry.”

  “You mean like you’re about to do?”

  “Yes, Sir…please…fuck my pussy and forget about everything,” she moans, flushed and panting. “Use my body and heal your heart.”

  Playing the card, I rarely ever do, I groan, “You want to be my dirty, little slut?”

  “Yes, Sir. Please make me your dirty, little slut,” she enlightens, drenching my cock with her smut talk. Iris goes further than I ever imagine as she confesses, “I want to be your whore.”

  God, yes.

  Suddenly, I cannot hold back. I am rolling into her as fast as I can, but it isn’t enough, so I pick her up in my arms and move to the covered platform bed in the middle of the living room. With windows in the rafters directly above, the bed provides a magnificent view. I put it here for a reason. The rain pours as lightning flashes against a booming thunder.

  Never letting her go, we fall on the bed, staying locked together. I grab the chain with nipple clamps hanging on the metal bed frame and snap them on her tits. She rocks and moans desperately wanting more. I pull ever so slight, and she makes a high-pitched yip. “More.”

  I don’t want t
o push her tits too far. If I do, her nips will be completely inaccessible for days. I won’t make it through recovery without them. I love her breasts way too much. That acknowledgement speaks volumes to me about my own truth. I have always been about getting it in, but Iris and her rack turn me into a crazed man with a devilish mind.

  I’m flipping through the past, completely unprepared for where we are. This session on the fly, an impromptu whirlwind of lust and desire. “Let it go when you come.”

  “What?”

  I lift my brow and her eyes open wide.

  Placing her hands on her thighs, she strides my dick, her pussy licking the lolly. Tears wash over her cheeks as she whimpers, “You cannot be serious…Sir…”

  “Let it go…” I whisper, pulling the chain. “Trust me.”

  “I can’t do that…on you.”

  “Iris Amarie… My dirty little slut, you will do it,” I demand, grabbing her hips and pummeling up into her hard. I am deep, so very deep and I know she is going to come soon. I can feel her hot cunt—tightening and soaking around my cock—and when she lets go, so will I. “Trust me, baby girl,” I coax, slow and methodical. “Trust me.”

  Rocketing up into her, I never imagined having the total package. It is no longer just a get off. I love this girl. I care about her. And I want to take her to the edge only to pull her back into my soul. I want her screaming my name because I am the only name she remembers. In the midst of the eruption, I am the one keeping her safe, guarding and protecting her from harm.

  As we are fucking and making love, what we are blurs, melting down into one beautiful drop of pure, pristine love. I close my eyes, my heart beat pulsing inside of her, and I collect that drop for my glob of ash as I whisper, “Come.”

  As she clenches around me, the rush is fervent. Warmth trickles over, encasing the whole globule—with the dust and drip—as we rise together higher and higher. Her head throws back as her wet eyes open towards the light and I run after her, coming with an impact and flooding her flower in sticky dew.

  She sways back and forth until falling onto the bed. Her eyes flutter and her lips smile as I get up on my knees and mark what is mine. She gasps as her eyes widen. And her mouth drops open. But she cannot break away from staring at the beautiful mess we have made. Blush covers her cheeks as she wistfully says, “Sir Salvatore…you are such a kinky ass bastard.”

  Pulling off the clips, I smirk with a devious grin and mumble, “You have no idea what you just did.”

  SAL

  After the breakthrough, we don’t stop there as the lessons continue. From routine basics to total power exchange, I teach her to give it up. The practices seem so basic, but they aren’t. The training bubbles down to trust. I need to trust her; she needs to trust me.

  By the third day, I have her to the point of complete dependency. Everything she needs, I provide. In return, she caters to my sexual deviance and offers shelter from my internal storms.

  What ends up happening is a relationship catered to our strengths and weaknesses. While that sounds like any relationship, it’s not and we both know it. When I am smacking her tits with a leather bat because she won’t just go to the bathroom on command with me in the room, it isn’t fucking normal.

  I am a bastard.

  And I control everything.

  The efforts return in droves, apparent and fruitful. Her blissful smile graces her face almost 24/7. With a slight smirk or a lift of my brow, I can make her squeal giddily with delight which in turn adds fuel to my desire. Her effervescence feels incredible around the remnants of my cinder. I know if we continue along the current trajectory, I will break for her and hand over my bruised and battered soul.

  There is always so much shit talk about breaking subs. People are dumb if they think Doms don’t break for their bottom. It takes longer, but it absolutely happens. It is a power exchange. She gives her strengths and weaknesses and eventually, I will do the same. This is the theory the Masters have given me. I have found it to be true once—with my Master after Kaci went away.

  We spend a lot of time together doing absolutely nothing. She loves to read as I pet her hair and watch ball on the television. If I wanted a girl obsessed with me, I found her in Iris. This is not to say she doesn’t like my D or give lusty eyes at my body—she does—but she is perfectly fine doing nothing at all. And right now, she feels like heaven. This between us feels like sweet succulence.

  She is on the bed looking through the files on the Pixie. She has been quiet now for hours. Her tangled mess of hair is pulled up in a sloppy bun, wisps trailing out every which direction. I have tried to leave her be because I think she has something to add.

  A few minutes pass and she gazes at me. “…Did you ever look into Bertrand’s death? Not the police. Not the FBI. Not Sibyl. You.”

  “After it happened, I went for training. By the time I got back, Kaci was…not doing well. We got married, and I tried to leave everything behind.”

  She sighs deep as she gets up and walks over to me. Sliding onto my lap, she is nothing like the sex kitten I know. Her mind spins with an unrelenting focus visible in her expression. “I think you should go back to the beginning.”

  “What do you mean…” I say, rubbing her thigh with one hand and playing with a stray wisp in the other.

  “I mean maybe you need to go back to the Bertrand case or maybe even before. Have you ever investigated yourself or those that brought you to this place?” Her voice even and thoughtful, she does not rush to push her theories upon me, “I mean…ok…let’s pretend you are a tree.”

  “A tree?” I ask, lifting my brows.

  “Yes, just go with it.”

  “You are older than a sapling, enough to have your bark, and something happens. That wound will grow with you until you are fifty-feet-tall, but if it goes untreated it leads to diseases,” she says as I try and understand her analogy. “In the case of you, it’s a giant infection and it’s killing you. You—Lucas,” she implores, tapping on my chest. “Not the you that everyone parties with. That guy is nothing more than a ghost. And somewhere inside, you know that.”

  “So, you want my latest case to be on myself…”

  Her head tilts as she begs the question, “Why the fuck not?”

  I am thinking about what she proposes, trying to come up with excuses, but the truth be told—I can’t. Dale and I are between busts, and we are still gathering intel on the latest one—an underground operation out in west Texas. Girls keep randomly disappearing off college campuses. The feds are working it, but so are we. Mostly cause the man has a thing about disappearing girls. The man is my boss. He runs the whole society. Few people have met him, and I don’t even know his fucking name. He is invisible to me. Fuck, even my partner—Archer—doesn’t know who he is. The checks get signed by Pappy, and we don’t ask questions because it’s better that way. And it fuckin works.

  “Let’s go to New Orleans,” I suggest.

  “Now?” she rebukes. “Just get up and run off to New Orleans?”

  “Ya,” I say, setting her down on her feet and getting up to pack us a bag.

  Grabbing the black duffel, I throw enough clothes in for myself and her for a few days. We can always pick some more things up for my angel. I check the utility bag—the ammo cartridges, the guns, the knives. I grab the shivs and replace them with two serrated blades I keep in a locked cabinet. I glance over at her sitting awestruck and dumbfounded in the chair. “You’re watching me…”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “And what are you thinking?” I ask, pulling on a gray Henley and black beanie.

  “That everything about you makes far more sense now. The secret you kept also prevented you from getting close to me,” she persuades with a hint of softness.

  I stop packing and fire back. “Every single time I get too close to someone—they either die or leave me—so exactly how am I supposed to feel?”

  “I just don’t know why you are doing this…” she argues.


  “You want me to go dig…I have to go to Nola.”

  “But why?” she whines, standing up and almost stomping her feet.

  “Because my Master is there.”

  Chapter Nine

  Peace Be With You

  IRIS

  SET BEHIND AN ANTIQUE, wrought iron gate, the southern gothic house on the outskirts of the French Quarter is on a beautiful piece of property. It is a vast estate with landscaping to make any gardener drool. As we walk up the pathway, Sal grabs my hand and I instantly know this will be an experience worth remembering.

  He doesn’t bother knocking, opening the door and removing his shoes quickly. With a nervous excitement, I follow his lead. From the massive foyer, he yells, “Gennaro?”

  “I am up in the library, Boston.”

  A slight blush rises up on his cheeks as he smirks at me. “Come on, let’s go introduce you to the most important man in my life.”

  Ascending the regal staircase, I whisper, “Why is he so important?”

  “Because short of Kace, this man taught me everything I know,” he says as we climb our way up to the third floor of the magnificent mansion.

  Despite having lived in Sugargrove for months, I have an understanding of how the well-to-do play. I have been to their parties and soirees and teas, but there are moments when it all strikes my middle-class upbringing like a fairytale. “You own this house, too?”

  “Ya, Kaci’s grandfather Earl bought this place years ago. He left it to her when he died back in 2010.” My face questions as he picks up the beat before opening the door. “He died shortly before she did.”

  “Well, well, well… Hello, Boston and friend…” the man says as the smell of cherry pipe tobacco sends a jolt of comfort to my system. The warmth in this house and this man bewilders as the initial connection hooks with a magnetism when I least expect it. I am drawn in and lured by everything surrounding me, and I know why this man is Sal’s Master.