Submitting Lily - Discreet Ebook

It’s the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a person is stirring… except for Lily’s husband and her first love. The two men are on a mission, one that the woman they love outlined in a letter more than a year before. 

At the time, Lily believed she was purging her thoughts in an attempt to grieve the impossibility of loving two men, different but equal. 

Tonight, Slash and Lazarus will make that dream a reality. 

A down and dirty reality. 

• BDSM elements
• Profanity
• Violence
• Dub-con (under coersion)
• Menage (MFM)

A week after Epilogue ~ Slash at the end of Seizing Control: Redemption

It’s the night before Christmas, the presents are wrapped, and the house is asleep, sans my husband and my first love who remain absent from my bed. I check the clock on the nightstand. Almost two hours have lapsed since they sent me upstairs with the promise that they would join me as soon as the last of the tidying up was complete. As I rest beneath the covers in my night-darkened room, abruptly woken from my brief slumber, I can still feel Slash’s lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispered, “Head to bed, baby. We’ll follow you up shortly.” 

The mischievous gleam I spied in Lazarus’ gaze when I kissed him goodnight had made me second guess their motives for sending me to bed ahead of them, until I remembered that we lack the privacy needed to indulge their favourite hobby for another week or two. Their predilection for torturing me with their tongues, fingers, and cocks isn’t subtle, not when they relish the screams they wrench from me and find humour in my attempts to hide the finger marks they leave in visible areas on my body, like my throat and my wrists. Knowing that their games are temporarily suspended because my in-laws have commandeered the room next to ours came with a side of relief, but also a small tinge of longing. 

Although Angelis and Crystal live next door, they refused to sleep in their own house tonight and walk over after the sun rose. The idea that they might miss a second of their grandchildren’s first Christmas morning was unfathomable to them. It’s a notion that most of our family and friends also hold, and it’s why we have been inundated with visitors over the past week. Our five guest rooms are full of friends from abroad. My four brothers are home for the holidays, meaning their house, with its backyard adjoining mine, is jampacked too. The residences of the Shamrocks and curia members who live in the same gated community as us are similarly bursting at the seams. 

We are overrun with an abundance of love. 

This blessing was driven home earlier in the evening, when Crystal’s excitement proved contagious as she flitted between me, the Shamrocks’ old ladies, and the Moscato & Monet club girls to supervise our gift wrapping. We hugged. We laughed. We indulged in the simplicity of the way of life that we almost lost. Together, with his club brothers, his father, and Lazarus, my husband made headway on the pile of cookies and beer that was left out by the children for Santa Claus. The assistance of our men in placing the presents beneath the fully dressed Christmas tree that dominates the family room was well-rewarded. Kisses abounded between me and my two lovers, bordering on inappropriate as my men are wont to do when they’re trying to one-up each other. My paired-up friends canoodled with their own partners. Even my husband’s parents got in on the act. They were a tad more demure in their display of affection, nonetheless they also celebrated the milestone that we thought would never arrive with enthusiasm. 

Six months of relative peace in the underworld. 

An end to the years of tit for tat bloodshed caused by our war with the Irish mob. 

A ceasefire that we acknowledged with the return of the Shamrocks’ Christmas toy run. 

I am ecstatic to have experienced weeks of family fun spent without battling the need to look over our shoulder in case a stray bullet was headed our way. We’ve shared catchups with our east coast chapters and anticipated the staggered arrivals of our friends from overseas. I love that my home is the epicentre of festivities this year. This coming together of everyone impacted by the pain and punishment that rained down on us as the fallout from my dad’s betrayal of the Shamrocks played out is long overdue. We’ve been through a baptism of fire. Violence. Anguish. Duplicity. Loss. Resurrection. And we’ve come out the other side stronger than ever. 

Things aren’t perfect. 

They never will be. 

But we are solid at our core. 

Grumbling under my breath at the absurdity of missing Lazarus and Slash, even though they no doubt have a good reason for being delayed, I use my fists to mould my pillow into a more comfortable shape. I am annoyed that I’m annoyed, an emotional conundrum that I would never admit out loud. Co-dependent should be my middle name, a condition that my husband and first love do little to minimise with their penchant for pandering to my desire for them without hesitation. 

Reality sits uneasily on my psyche. 

One greedy woman. 

Two men. 

I don’t know what I did to deserve them. 

But I won’t ever take them for granted. 

Not when I’ve lived through the pain of losing them before, and it almost took me under. 

“Go back to sleep, you stupid needy woman,” I admonish myself aloud. Flopping onto my back, I kick my legs out when the Christmas-themed nightdress I chose to tease my men gets caught around my thighs. It takes me a few seconds to untangle myself, and the huff of irritation that I expel is loud in the silent bedroom before I screw my eyes shut and mutter, “One sheep. Two sheep. Three—” 

The third sheep is untallied because I become aware of an energy change in my vicinity. 

Immediately stilling, I hold my breath and concentrate on my surroundings. 

Ears peeled. 

Heart racing. 

My skin crawls with awareness as I realise that I’m not alone. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Over and over, I chant the expletive in my head while I examine the few escape routes available to me. I’m on the third floor which renders the window behind me useless. The ensuite bathroom is a dangerous dead end. Accessing the internal door that leads to Garrett and the twins’ nursery is not an avenue that I want to use because drawing the interloper into my children’s domain is unthinkable to me. 

That leaves my bedroom door. 

If I can make it past my middle of the night trespasser...