Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I told you the time apart hasn’t been good for either one of us.”

  “I wouldn’t say this isn’t good,” he cautiously replies.

  “Do you miss fat Iris?”

  “I don’t know,” he mutters. “You’re not the same. And neither is he.”

  “No,” I reply. “People change. Things change. The real risk in all of this is we may not work at the end.” I reluctantly spin and drop my arms from my breasts. “I’m going to see a plastic surgeon for my birthday.”

  “… You’re what?”

  “I want to fix some things,” I inform, stepping closer. “Please don’t say anything to him, Cruz.”

  “You’re asking me to keep a secret from my best friend…my lover…”

  With a blink of my sapphires, I whisper, “You’re assuming you won’t be my lover by the end of the trip.”

  After playing the rather elusive card, I finished dressing—alone. There are facts about me which are increasingly undeniable. And I must hold accountability in myself for the responsibility of my actions.

  I’m the future Lotus Queen and the expectations are remarkably high. No longer do I have complete freedom. I cannot work the angles like I once did. I cannot party on with a group of boys as the center of attention. I must choose my lovers wisely and with great regard. I need men—or women—I can place my full trust in.

  The position is a risky one.

  My grandfather doesn’t walk around with the same inherent threats I do. There are men in my family who would just as soon bury me as watch me take the seat at the head of the table. I want The Unholy to protect me—not because of my relationship with Sal—but because they are incredibly good at what they do and keep a strict level of discretion. I’ve considered many options. The Unholy isn’t the only game in town, but they are one of the best.

  From a strategic standpoint, by inviting them to see to my security, I’m offering a hand up to elevate their standing. There is one stipulation. One gate keeper. And his name is Keishi Nakamura—The Chairman—and my grandfather. If he does not agree with my choices, then they will be eliminated from the list of possible candidates.

  I asked for Deacon Cruz for a reason.

  I understood the likelihood of Serene bringing Nico was slim, but I asked to test her. To see where her loyalties lie. Nico is a serial killer and a bit of an odd duck. If she had brought Nico, she clearly didn’t think much about the relationship with Lotus. But if she declined, her head was on as straight as could possibly be. Actions speak much louder than words. And such was the case with Serene.

  After years of going round and round, she and I finally understood one another.

  And by not bringing her husband, she imparted her willingness to bend.

  I always knew I wanted Deacon to come. He is the most easy going, likable fellow of the group. Nothing against Sal, but he can be hotheaded and a bit impetuous. I needed Deacon because I knew his Buddhist-biker-monk spirituality would go over like a charm with The Chairman. Deacon wasn’t a warrior, but a peacekeeper. And if The Chairman knew of Deacon’s position as Sal’s right-hand man, I might just get what I wished for—The Unholy at my beck and call.

  Manipulative? Yes.

  Underhanded? Absolutely.

  But these are the games we must play. Selling the lesser known one is a lot easier than selling the famous one. And everyone, including my grandfather, knows Salvatore Raniero.

  I emerge from the bedroom in loose cotton pants and shirt in preparation for our hike. I want to take him to see the forest I’ve come to call my own. I’ve been alone for so many months, even with Kali Ose at my disposal, most of my time is spent in a solitary state.

  Sal went away for 90 days with strangers. I have been away for almost two years with little companionship. Naby and Mock spent their time together while watching over me, but the truth is I kept to myself—out of the way, with my nose in a book.

  Deacon is a rare treat.

  I’ve spent almost a week talking to him and spending time with him. We’ve chatted about everything from our dreams for the future to the spherical rotating whirlwind of the underground. The middlemen all wanting to control it, and yet the true hold is in very few—Immortal, The Commission, and Lotus. My chief concern is the middle ground. If they unite, problems could arise.

  We’re scouting deep into the woods when Deacon stops and looks at me. “What do you want?”

  “In what regard?”

  “From all of what Sal is doing…I mean, he is bending over…for you. He’s giving many people a straight shot on his asshole.”

  “Either as a fuck off or a clean shot,” I reply. “Who are you referring to?”

  “Cristos…”

  “He’s helping Sal by keeping Cesario thinking he’s got him. It’s nothing more than a distraction.”

  His fingers reach for mine. “And how do you feel about him?”

  With a gentle smile, I ask, “Sal or Cristos?”

  “Both.”

  “Cristos is incredibly dedicated to making money, much like my grandfather. There is a mutual common element which is very appealing for both parties. Neither one is playing around. They aren’t testing to find out what works because they already know what does, but they don’t mind pushing the limits and venturing outside of the safe zone. If you’re asking whether or not I have encouraged my grandfather’s relationship with Cristos—I’ll simply say—yes, I have.”

  “… And is Sal just a pit stop along the way or are you serious?”

  “Sal is going to be my husband, Deacon,” I implore with complete conviction. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but I am more in love with our possibility than I have ever been before. I know it’s going to take some work. I’m not a fool. We haven’t seen each other in a long time. He’s changed; I’ve changed. But second chances don’t often come around, so when ours does, I’m going to leap for it.”

  With the backdrop of lush fauna, Deacon peers up to the sky and his blue eyes reflect the hopes we wish for and the passions we hold dear. I never expected him not to question me. His love for Sal is as savage as the sea. He is protective and willing to walk the line—or go over the edge—to guard his place. “And where does that leave me?”

  “I want you by our side until the end.”

  “I know why you left Guam.”

  “I left Guam because I was bored of beaches and beautiful weather.” We venture towards the water, hidden deep in the property, and walk along the bank of the pond with a small waterfall. “This is my spot. I come here to think.”

  Pulling my hair down, I kick off my shoes and shed my clothes. He warns, “It’s going to be cold!”

  “All the more reason to dive right in!” I smile and wade into the clear waters of my faraway home. I glance back to his grin as he witnesses the sacred parts of me. “Don’t hold back.”

  “If I get in the water with you…”

  “If you get in the water with me, I will do everything in my power to get your boy where you want him,” I bargain, knowing this isn’t about the water or Japan or the wonder of it all. This is about following me. “I promise you, Cruz.”

  He tugs his shirt off and drops it into the pile with my clothes. I lustfully stare at his rippled abs and shining guns. He unbuttons his jeans and nudges out of sneakers. “You know there is no turning back.”

  “I’ve called you Master in the presence of my own, Deacon. If I cannot trust you now, then I was doomed from the beginning.”

  His jeans drop and I gasp. I haven’t been with a man—any man—since Sal. He stands on the brink of the water, teasing my flesh, and moving his pieces on our board with the sole focus of making the one he serves proud. “Tell me what happened in Guam.”

  I dip my hair and splash up from the water. “I was kidnapped and crated.”

  He strides in a few steps and submerges to his waist. “Were you raped?”

  “No, but I wasn’t handled with care either.”

  Coming
within a few feet of my body, he replies, “Do you want The Unholy to remove the Goro gang?”

  “I want The Unholy to enter into many rings,” I whisper as he touches my fingers. He yanks my body to his and wraps his arms around me. After resisting one another for days, we’re inches apart. I feel his breath on my lips and my breasts against his hard chest. “… And win.”

  He holds back mere seconds before kissing me.

  Hard. Passionate. Entangled.

  We’re making out as his hand moves between us. I embrace what is about to happen as I succumb to the whims of the Master’s Ride. Lifting my body, he eases his cock between my slit and thrusts deep inside of me. This isn’t our first time at this, nor will it be our last, but this signs the deal between my offer and his duty. It is a promise of good faith, a measure of integrity, and absolute trust within our trinity.

  Deacon doesn’t ask if I’m still protected because he knows I wouldn’t have allowed his entry if I wasn’t. My womb is reserved for one. And regardless of what I have to do, I will be Mrs. Raniero.

  Even if that means abandoning my throne.

  38

  Metal Shrapnel in Our Whirligig Dervish

  The problem with Garrett Wheelerson isn’t that he isn’t good at what he does. He’s actually quite brilliant at keeping our secrets hidden within the books. The issue is his fascination with my sister. I don’t think he means her any harm, but because I’m a nice guy, I decide to send Garrett and Daisy off for a romantic weekend in New York. My thought being if he can remember why he fell in love and married Daisy, maybe he will get over Cat.

  It may be a foolish notion on my part. In my attempt to run damage control over the incident, I acknowledge guys like Garrett aren’t easy to come by. We need his particular skillset and losing him could take years for RE to recover. He just left our Friday lunch date to go sweep his bride off of her feet—I hope.

  Sipping on a whiskey, I peruse through my email as I enjoy the silence. There are a few stragglers in the restaurant—mostly snobby older women—finishing their lunch when I get the text from abroad. I glance at the message and know Deacon did the deed with my girl.

  “Done, Sir.”

  I flick a brow and twitch with a longing. I hand my credit card to the waitress and stare at her taut ass when she walks away. My phone lights up again.

  “In the water.”

  I duck my head and throb with arousal. I glance over to the older couple of women who are gawking and gossiping like birds on a wire in the morning sunlight.

  “Here you are, Mr. Raniero,” the waitress says, setting the faux leather folder down. “Thank you.”

  “Have a nice day,” I reply, leaving a tip and scribbling my name. I grab my jacket and fold it over my forearm, carrying it in front of me. Because my problem is now the raging hard-on I’ve got thinking about my boy and my girl getting it on halfway around the world.

  I make a beeline for the door when I pass by the older women’s table. “Excuse me, aren’t you Cesario’s son?”

  Oh. Fuck. No.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, smiling politely and maintaining appearances. “Salvatore Raniero.”

  What follows is a boner fatality…

  “He’s the one marrying that darling Emily Granger!”

  “Oh! I cannot wait for the wedding!”

  “Congratulations! I’ll be in attendance! I’m a longtime friend of your mother’s!”

  And what the fuck do I do with all of that?

  My dumb ass sits down for the next two hours while we chat about everything from Boston politics to recent celeb sightings. They think I’m “just precious” because I buy them a bottle of champagne. Louisa Altromessa is not only Mama’s friend, but also Father Altromessa—the Italian priest who is supposed to be marrying us but won’t because Father Patrick McPhail will be doing it for keeping the Irish mob, Kill Rat, out of our way—sister.

  This day is getting itchy.

  In my pants pocket, my phone vibrates continuously for two minutes. I briefly stand to retrieve it and take one glimpse at the name Cruz and the tiny photos he’s smuggling to me.

  I pleasantly bid the ladies farewell and promise a dance to Louisa at my wedding. With my heart pounding, I narrowly make it to my car before the compelling need to look at the photos takes hold.

  “Oh God…” I mutter.

  Seeing the innocent pictures of Iris in the woods, I rub my finger over the screen, touching her skin and wishing I could feel her…hold her in my arms. I want to kiss those lips and love her without stops for the rest of my life.

  I know who I want.

  And who I long to have beside me.

  Flipping through the dozen pictures, I find the risqué ones near the end. They’re hot, candid boudoir shots. My cock surges erect as I see her hard nipples tucked under his white t-shirt. I unzip my pants and rub my thumb over the head. I close my eyes and know Deacon loves me.

  I'm holding my phone with one hand and gripping my cock with the other in the middle of the goddamned parking lot. I’m stroking one off to a girl my family hates while being engaged to another I just spent two hours gushing about. I’m so fucked up.

  Ya, Dad… I’m your perverse son.

  I spew hard and fast, not giving a fuck where it splats, as long as it comes out.

  “Shit…”

  The steering wheel is dripping. My pants have nice white stains. And I smell like I just had a good time with Peggy the Penis Shifter down in some skank alley behind a stripper bar. I need some fucking drugs to make all these mistakes go down easier. The pills of my demise are jagged like spiny sea urchins in the form of the girl smiling on the phone. I’m going to swallow them all and beg like a junkie for more.

  And then it hits me—like a ton of cement blocks in a landslide on my mind.

  My lover just fucked my girl.

  I’m the asshole doing a hundred on the freeway as I hit the gas and fly home. I’m beyond pissed as I stomp past Emily, wearing an apron and baking in the kitchen. I don’t even bother changing as I drop a trail of clothes to the home gym in the basement.

  In my slacks, I swing at the boxing bag I’ve avoided for months. I don’t think about the injuries as I imagine the two people I love most doing things with one another. I don’t think about the pain radiating from my knuckles as I imagine the pump of his hips and the moans from her glossy lips. I pound the motherfucker hard until my knuckles bust and sweat drips from my chest and hair.

  I miss my girl—the girl he is fucking. I miss my lover—the boy she is fucking. I miss my fetish—choreographing every move with the skill of a sensual Master. I miss everything about who I was prior to my incarceration—the Golden Boy. I hate this life—being Cesario’s son. With a fury, I rage, taking all of my animosity out on the bag.

  “Lucas!” Emily screams from the steps. “Luke!” The expression of terror blooms in her eyes. “Salvatore! Stop!”

  I huff as I pace around. “What?”

  “Your hands,” she says, sniffling. “You have to stop.”

  Maybe it’s time she got to know him.

  Sidestepping closer, I grab her by the arm, pulling her to me. Picking her dainty body up, I plop her ass on the antique mirror bar we use for water and towels. My bleeding hands reach beneath her skirt and tear her panties from her body. I don’t bother to kiss her lips or say anything pleasant. I want to fuck a slut like the ruthless bastard I am.

  Foreplay is for the weak especially when I’m pissed.

  My dick is hard like a stone, agonizingly painful, and all I want is to release inside of a warm, wet pussy. Truth be told—it doesn’t matter who it belongs to—because it won’t belong to the one I want and any hope of my not fantasizing about her is about as long gone as my sobriety with control.

  I overdose—high with adrenaline and endorphins—as I sink in balls deep with hard thrusts rocking her on the bar. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I recognize this guy.

  “God, Sal!” Emily crie
s out, draping her arms over my sweat-laden shoulders. “Fuck me!”

  I expect her to fight against me, not be nimble in conforming to my wills. I need the struggle. I bite into her neck as I increase the rapid movements in my hips. She moans and sinks her red nails into my back over the Iris Amarie. The offense is real as I rip her shirt open and violate her nipples between my thumb and forefinger. Tears stream over her cheeks.

  “You like it rough, bitch?”

  “Yes!” Emily maintains as I bring the worst of me. “Fuck my pussy harder.”

  Letting myself fall from her, I grab her ass cheeks and pull her off the bar as I spin her around to face the mirror where she can see the monster she is about to marry. Lifting her skirt, I thrust in from behind without a care. She slicks around me and I relish in the dark mascara tears staining her innocent face. I don’t think about this being Emily when I close my eyes and bring my hand to her ass cheek. I buck my hips and thrash my fingers, impacting her skin with the blood from my knuckles.

  “Do it,” she urges, pleading with the deviant in me. “Don’t hold back.”

  With the belt buckle tucked in my palm, I come to, realizing who she is. “I can’t.”

  “Yes,” she whispers, gripping onto the marble top. “You can.”

  “Not with you!”

  “… Why not?”

  “Because you aren’t that way,” I excuse, placing all of the blame on her. “And I won’t be responsible for your fall out.”

  More like—I don’t want to be responsible for her subdrop from my wicked Master.

  “Don’t you get it?” She asks, fighting with her words. “I want that with you.”

  “I don’t want that anymore with anyone,” I argue, stilling inside of her drenched puss. “Because I don’t want that from myself.”

  “Bullshit!” She hisses, “Stop lying to yourself.”

  “If I do this with you, it crosses a line I swore I never would.”

  “You already did!”

  I snicker under my breath. “Darlin, if you think I’ve crossed the line, you don’t know me.”