Prince Brock: A Prince of Tease Novel (Princes of Tease Book 3)

by Xavier Neal

  Prince Brock

  Xavier Neal

  Prince of Tease #3

  Prince Brock

  Prince of Tease #3

  By Xavier Neal

  ©Xavier Neal 2017

  Cover by Angie Merriam

  All Rights Reserved

  License Note

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization from the author. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in a court of law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication: To the Universe...Thank you for always allowing me to write like a beast.

  Warning: Content contains EXTREMELY foul language, sexually explicit scenes, and adult situations. 18 and over is advised.

  Note From The Author:

  This book breaks the 'fourth wall', meaning it talks TO the reader. The bold italics portions are the character speaking to “YOU”.

  Hope you enjoy.

  -Xavier

  French

  The black door to my office swings open with the force of a freight train causing my golden chandelier to shake. “Who the fuck sent you fucking flowers?”

  My chestnut eyes immediately relocate to the trembling, beast of a man I wish would occasionally remember it’s alright to ask questions without shouting.

  In my defense, I also wish for a better set of tits and haven’t had that happen either. I could easily correct that situation with surgery, but what can I say? There are much better ways to invest my funds. Besides, look at my tits. They’re really not bad…

  Sebastian, my desk clerk and assistant to everything business as well as personal, gives the open door a small knock. “Delivery, ma’am.”

  I shoot my attention to the culprit of Brock’s rage. The glass vase filled with long stem white roses reminds me once more of the holiday that’s right around the corner.

  Valentine’s Day. One of the busiest times here at The Castle, the most exclusive and illusive male strip club in the entire country. Well, not the day itself, because we’re usually closed, but the weekend before as well as the weekend after members seem desperate to not only witness a show but reserve a V.I.P room. I guess you could say the disappointment many of their spouses or useless boyfriends bring to the holiday causes the uproar of profit for me and my Princes. Which is what they are. Even when they’re standing in my goddamn office throwing a fucking tantrum like a child in the middle of the grocery store in need of a nap…or a spanking. Have you seen the ass on Brock? I would spank it…And take a bite out of it. Don’t act like you wouldn’t.

  I wave Sebastian in at the same time Brock barks, “Who the fuck are they from French?!”

  My dedication to silence infuriates him further.

  “Who?!” His large vanilla palms land on the back of the empty black leather chair across from my glass desk. “Who the hell’s dick did you suck so fucking well they sent you fucking flowers!”

  Oh yeah. He always cusses this much. We both do. So…brace yourself. And you’ll learn that Brock is also the only Prince who ever steps out of line like this. The others? Let’s just say black balled would have two meanings.

  Once the vase is on the corner of my desk closest to him, he snatches the tiny folded card on top.

  “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

  His fingers toy with the object in his possession while his dark blue eyes narrow in on me. “I want a fucking answer.”

  “And I want Chris Evan’s to make me come four times while I sip champagne.” I pull my dark brown, wavy hair to the side of my coffee colored face. “Deal with disappointment.”

  “Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”

  “Do I?”

  Our eyes lock at the harsh standoff as they always do.

  At least once a goddamn day. Fire him? Never. Brock is built into the foundation of The Castle, and to be more honest than I will with other people…he’s built into mine as well. That’s not something you just crack…no matter how much you want to punch him in the face for being a raging asshole.

  He’s first to break. “Are you fucking around?”

  I allow a stern expression to grace my face. “I haven’t taken a vow of celibacy.”

  No. We’re not a thing nor have we ever been one even if his face is the one I imagine on my seasonal sexcapades. Yeah. I said seasonal. Twice a year I allow myself to get a mediocre dicking to soothe the itch I refuse to let him scratch. Twice. A. Year. That’s it. Actually, last year, it was only once. My ability to fake interest is wavering. And every time I have had sex, it’s always his cut face, his broad shoulders, ripped body, and his ungodly groaning I’m picturing on whatever victim I lured away from the shitty bar I stumbled into. Shitty bars are the only places you find men like Brock. All hard edges and even harder attitudes. Built to protect as opposed to being protected. Ten years together and he hasn’t gotten any sweeter. Then again…neither have I. What? No. We’re not getting into why we’re not together. Not now. Not ever. Not even if my Chris Evan’s wish came true. Some shit is better left buried.

  “And last time I checked neither had you.”

  The retort receives a rumble I’m more than acquainted with.

  This is the part of the conversation he usually breaks something. Don’t waste your questions on asking how many things I’ve had to replace in this office over the years from his fits of anger. Eh. I take it in stride. He’s had a shit life and never really learned to balance any of his emotions, unlike me who was raised to never acknowledge mine.

  A small throat clearing is followed with, “Should I…wait in the hall?”

  Our eyes swing to the newest employee sitting wide eyed and clearly uncomfortable in the chair next to the one Brock is gripping.

  Add that to things I hate about Brock. He has this irritating ability to make me completely forget anything else in the world exists besides him. Who the fuck needs that in their life?

  “No.” I sit straight up in my office chair. “Prince B is actually going to take you on a tour of the property and show you where your accommodations are located.” When my eyes flicker back to my favorite pain in the ass, I condescendingly question, “Isn’t that right, Prince B?”

  He grunts at the lack of his name.

  As long as they are Princes in my castle, I refer to them as such. It is not only their stage name but title while they reside as an employee. He like everything else has an exception attached. When we’re alone in my penthouse, that is the only time I will give him the luxury. But Brock hates rules, so he pushes to have them bent or broken whenever he deems fit. It’s always a battle with him. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. I’d be lying even more if I said it didn’t turn me on too.

  “This is Holt. Prince H’s replacement.”

  What? He’s hot in the dirty accountant kind of way. Nerdy meets sexy. Trust me. I…I’m fucking phenomenal at what I do.

  Holt extends his hand for shaking, which Brock ignores. With a glare, he bites, “He just fucking left.”

  Prince H, or Hunter, didn’t just fucking leave. It’s been a couple months since it was official, but I knew he was leaving before he did. It’s part of my responsibility. I have to know my Princes better than they know themselves. It’s how they stay safe. Protected. It’s how I know when to brace for their departure and plan for their successor.
I’m not naïve. No one wants to strip for their entire lives. This is merely the beautiful in between. The escape. The money-making haven that will one day allow them to do whatever it is they really want to fucking do. Most of the time I’m the one that helps get them there without their knowledge. But that’s really a different discussion we don’t need to have.

  “Are they really just that fucking expendable to you?”

  His words cut harshly like intended.

  He’s the only one who knows how much it hurts each time one of them is gone. The sadness from it I try to stifle. It’s what I envision sending your children off to college in another state feels like. They may call. They may write. They may…visit, but it’ll never be the same. You’ll never be as close. And in my case, The Castle will just be a memory they wish to forget.

  I hold my icy composure. “Should I begin my search for your replacement next?”

  Brock grunts at my bluff and turns to face Holt. “I’m gonna show you the fuck around and then I’m gonna show you what makes me fucking irreplaceable.”

  It’s much more than his skills on a pole…

  My office phone begins to ring, which allows for a swift dismissal. “You two can go.”

  He doesn’t bother giving me another look before attempting to exit.

  “Card.”

  His footing stops abruptly and he slowly spins my direction. Reluctantly, he stomps back over, slams it on my desk, and sneers.

  With my eyes piercing his, I state, “Now you can go…”

  A minor growl breaks free as he storms out with Holt trying to keep a safe yet responsible within ear shot distance.

  After I hit the button on the corner of my desk to shut the door, I answer the call. “Speak.”

  “Not the loveliest way to answer the téléphone,” the French accented male voice on the other end scolds.

  I roll my eyes. “It’s my business. I answer how I decide.”

  “Queen of The Castle.”

  “It’s my title for a reason.”

  There’s a small pause before he asks, “Did you receive my flowers, Poppet?”

  “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

  “Sorry,” he sheepishly apologizes, “it’s just the loving term of endearment I always planned and imagined using for my daughter.”

  I ignore his retort and give a small glance to the gift. “The roses weren’t necessary.”

  “Of course they were necessary! The holiday is coming. I thought it would be nice to have something beautiful for you to look at it.”

  My biological contribution’s thoughtfulness causes me to hum.

  Oh trust me. He’s far from perfect and this is just another attempt to over compensate for his lack of presence when it truly mattered.

  “No thank you?”

  “Not at this time.”

  He tries not to express his displeasure with my lack of enthusiasm over his parental kiss ass tactics. “Are we still having dîner on Sunday evening?”

  I let out a heavy sigh and reach for the crumpled card. “Oui.”

  Unfortunately for me I need a favor and the only way to get a favor is to offer one, even when it’s your own flesh and blood.

  “Looking forward to it. Should I send a car?”

  “I have my own.”

  “Very well then. I will allow you to continue your day uninterrupted.”

  With Brock in my life that is never a possibility.

  “I shall see you soon, French.”

  Ending the call without another word puts a smirk on my face.

  No. I’m not being childish. I’m reminding him he’s not the one in control here. I am. I always am. I make the games, I make the rules, I pick the players, and I win the motherfucker too. Every. Time. In my life…in my world I rule. I like it this way. There’s no chance of getting hurt or abandoned again.

  Casually, I tear open the small envelope Brock was so anxious to destroy.

  For my beautiful, Poppet.

  This is a prime example of Brock’s nature to over react. His instinct to bark first and never give a fuck if it was worth it later is completely infuriating. These were from the man who gave me half his genetics. The half that allows for my hair to be this silky, wavy effortless perfection. The half that makes my skin light rather my mother’s midnight black. The half that spent the first eighteen years of my life at arms distance and the past ten trying to inch closer without losing an appendage. The half that has yet to earn the right to give me the hideous nickname he feels compelled too. I lied earlier. While I wouldn’t mind Chris Evan’s mouth fucking me, what I really want is Brock to stop questioning my loyalty to him. My soul crushing love for him. We may never cross the thin line wedged tightly between us, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever let someone else take what’s rightfully his. What’s always been his. What will always be his no matter what I’ve trained my mouth to say and my body to suffer through. Oddly enough, the only thing I keep locked up tighter than The Castle is my heart. He’s the only one who has ever had access to both. I’m trusting you with that information. Do not make me regret it. You don’t wanna know what happens to those who betray me…

  Brock

  Do I look like I work for fucking Disney? Who the fuck does she think she is commanding I give fresh meat a goddamn tour? It doesn’t fucking matter if she’s ‘the boss’. Gettin’ real fucking tired of the show she puts on to prove that fucking point. Swear that woman forgets my balls are as big and fucking made of the same steel as hers.

  I fold my arms across my wide chest and declare, “I’m not fucking playing tour guide.”

  Holt’s hazel eyes widen.

  His Bambi look is already fucking old.

  “Ground floor. Front door only accessible by key card. Sebastian, the older red-head who let your ass in and brought French her fucking flowers I’m gonna put through a fucking shredder, governs the area-“

  “Wh-”

  “Did I say you could fucking talk?”

  He recoils and presses his lips tightly shut.

  “Besides her office, this floor has medical, maintenance, and banking. Next floor up, gym and housing for staff. Second floor, V.I.P. rooms. Third, rehearsal space, dancer lounge, wardrobe, and creative director’s office. All floors above it are apartments for the Princes she houses. No guests allowed. At the top of this building is her personal penthouse.” I lean into his space. “And if you’d like to keep eating without the help of a feeding tube, I highly suggest I never catch you anywhere near that floor.”

  He slowly nods his compliance.

  The only person who goes there outside of her personal staff, I.E. her assistant, her bodyguard, the cooks, and the maids, is me. That’s how I fucking like it, and that’s exactly how I intend to fucking keep it. Oh…and whatever fuck head bought my woman flowers better feel lucky he’s not allowed anywhere near this building or his dead body would be my one way ticket back to jail. You can see my face. Do I look like I’m fucking bluffing?

  Fresh Meat lifts his finger in question.

  “What?”

  “Where do we strip?”

  I let the thought of smirking fade in and out quickly.

  Why the fuck would I smile? Waste of effort on anyone who isn’t the woman I fucking love, but clearly has no plans of ever loving me in return. No! I don’t wanna fucking chit-chat about it over coffee or some bullshit. I’ll deal with it. I always have.

  “Basement.” All of a sudden a spiteful idea surfaces. “That I’ll take you to.”

  With determination, I turn on my heels and march a couple steps back the way I came. I give French’s closed office door a heavy pound.

  Quicker than expected, she opens it, head tilted to the side with her perfect painted lips pursed.

  You have no fucking clue how many times I’ve pictured those around my cock over the last decade. She joked about a vow of celibacy, but since we fucking met that’s exactly what it’s been. Might as well be a fucking virgin. Fuck
. There are virgins who have seen more pussy than I have in these last ten years.

  “Not amused, Prince B.”

  “Not intended, Queen.”

  Her eyes threaten to glare.

  The others…they call her Queen. Boss. HBIC. Me? I always call her French. Well…unless I’m purposely trying to piss her off the same way she steadily loves to do to me.

  “Is this another one of your bullshit attempts at a power struggle?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “The day will come when you see just how powerful I can be.”

  Her tongue grazes the area I want to imprison between my teeth.