by Xavier Neal
“Deeper,” she implores, between moans.
There’s no resistance to give her what she needs.
Rarely ever is.
With each passing pound, the fantasy of being buried deep inside of her feels more and more real. Every time my fist bumps against my body it’s immediately replaced by the idea of reaching her hilt. Hitting her g-spot. Hewing her helpless pussy so vigorously she hates herself as much as I hate her for making us wait so goddamn long.
The oscillation of heavy, hearty breaths steadily builds between us until we’re gripping the edge of eruption, side by side, both too stubborn to be the one to submit first.
“Do it,” French forcefully encourages.
A sharp pain shoots through my dick as I strain it from obeying. “You first.”
She lets a similar sound slip from her lips. “Brock…”
Knowing my inability to resist when she says my name like it’s a prayer instead of a curse, I squeeze my shut eyes tighter. “Together.”
In unison, we both let go and allow our orgasm to take hold. As my cock burns my hand with proof it still works just fine, but only for the right woman, my mind spirals down the animalistic abyss where the only thing that fucking matters is protecting her. Pleasing her. Fuck…loving her.
A harsher roar of satisfaction reverberates around my bare apartment.
I don’t fucking need much. This couch. My flat screen. My book shelves. My mattress to crash on. That’s more than fucking plenty. I’ve lived in a box in an alley. Just a real roof over my head is indefinitely enough.
French lets a pleased hum grace my ears.
The corner of my lip flies upward while pride pounds through my chest.
I fucking did that. I helped her get off. Me. Just wait to see how hard she comes when it’s the real thing. Oh, and just so we’re fucking clear? From this point fucking forward? I’m the only fucking one who will make her come.
All of a sudden, she clears her throat, and states, “That’s it.”
Unsure of what she means, I simply open my eyes and wait for more information.
“That was a onetime thing.”
“The fuck it was!” I bite. “That was just the beginning of-”
“It wasn’t,” she denies in the callous tone that makes me sneer seconds before she ends the call.
Her abrupt back peddling swiftly followed by the killing of the conversation causes me to let another roar explode at the same time I chuck my phone at the wall.
Fuck you. I don’t have anger management issues. I have a fucking French problem. And it’s the same fucking problem I’ve had for a decade, except she just managed to make it fucking worse. So. Much. Fucking. Worse. Woman has an impeccable talent for fucking with my head.
After cleaning myself up and the spot on the couch where evidence more between us is not only possible, but fucking incredible, I head to the gym on the first floor.
Everything in this fucking building is luxurious. The gym is no exception. It contains all the equipment we could ever fucking need with enough space to keep us from bumping into each other during our regimens.
As soon as I step inside I toss a scowl at Chance who is jogging on the treadmill.
Fuck. The last thing I want is to hear his hippie dippie bullshit about…Hey! Stop fucking staring at him. He’s not that pretty. Of course, he looks like a fucking Prince Charming come to life. That’s what happens when you have black hair, blue eyes, a decent build and an obnoxious smile. Don’t question me when I say, his personality cancels out anything you might feel about his looks.
Chance immediately slows down his pace to catch his breath and say, “Bro, your chi is all fucked up.”
I glare in response.
He also says fucking chi too often for anyone who has a dick that isn’t getting sucked by someone else who has a dick.
“Like Stevie Wonder could see that shit.”
Dropping down onto the weight bench, I maintain my silence during my adjustment of the amount I’m going to lift.
Which is more than any other Prince who graces that stage. Partially because they’re fucking pussies who care more about how their muscles look rather than what else they could use them for, and partially because the most reliable protection lies with the power of the fucking blow you deliver. Guns jam. Knives go dull. Fist…well they’re always available and never seem to go out of style.
“What’d Boss do this time?” He kills the machine and heads my direction. “Another bachelorette party?”
Fucking hate that shit the most and she fucking knows it. Oh you wanna know why? Too fucking bad. Not in a real fucking sharing mood.
My lack of response doesn’t shut him up like I expect.
“Something worse?” His arms fold across his bare chest. “You seem…more pissed off than usual.” He tilts his head at me. “In fact, you’re more pissed off now than when she fired Q-”
“Keep fucking pushing me and I’ll get her to fire you,” I growl at the same time I place the final weight on the bench press.
“Whoa. Whoa. The hostility, bro…”
Fuck. I hate when he says bro. I know he’s young, but aim that shit at the right people. Do I look like I’m fresh out of high school with high hopes and an untouched sac? Don’t…Don’t fucking give me shit about my lack of fucking right now. Not after the shit French just pulled an hour ago.
“Fuck off, Chance.”
“I’m spotting.”
I wrap my hands around the bar. “Fuck. Off.”
“Nope. Don’t need bad Karma.”
“How the fuck is annoying me good Karma?”
“I’m preventing you from possibly being beheaded by a bar. That, bro, is building good Karma.”
Lifting the bar off its rest, I grunt, “Do it silently.”
Chance nods his agreement. Unfortunately for me, I only make it through one set of twenty before he starts running his mouth again. “She actually rip off one of your boys?”
I place the bar back on its stand. “Don’t make me rip off one of yours.”
He winces, takes a step back, and pleads, “I’m just trying to help.”
“You know what would be real fucking helpful? If you just shut the fuck up.”
His bright, happy go lucky expression doesn’t waver.
He’s always so fucking cheerful. Like nothing bad in the whole world has ever fucking happened to him. Complete opposite of me. Only bad shit seems to come my way. Like having the only fucking woman I give a shit about using me like a vibrator she keeps in her purse for emergencies.
The thought of our supposed one off from earlier has me starting another set, desperate to give my muscles pain to distract from the lingering agony of my self-loathing thoughts.
“Is it personal?”
His question receives a growl.
“It is, isn’t it?”
I’ll fuck up his pretty boy face…I swear. I don’t care if we’re friends or not.
“She make you change your diet?”
My arms begin pumping faster to feel the burn sooner.
“Get rid of your piercing?”
He takes my lack of reply like an invitation to keep guessing.
“Your test not come back clean?”
French also has our blood tested for STDs and drugs, right here on site, once a month unannounced. It was actually my idea. While she wanted medical on board for the obvious reasons, twists, sprains, breaks and of course the more common shit like colds or allergies, we agreed we wanted healthy, reliable dancers at all times. You can get the trashy shit anywhere. With the money you pay for us, you should only experience the best, which means clean as fuck in all ways possible. There are no second chances with that shit. Not even when you beg. And of course my fucking shit is clean. I don’t do drugs and haven’t had a lick of pussy since around the time JTlake brought sexy back. Of course I fucking know that song. Just because I haven’t fucked in years doesn’t mean I was deaf during them.
“Did sh
e steal from you?” His eyes widen. “Holy shit, bro. Did she steal from you?”
Infuriated by the accusation, I slam the bar back where it belongs, sit straight up, and point sharply. “Mind your fucking place, asshole. French would never fucking do that…To any of us. She gives a fuck about us more than she does herself.”
Chance quickly agrees, “I know! I just…I’m out of fucking ideas about what she could’ve done to make you have this much rage in your eyes, bro. No bullshit. Real fuckin’ worried.”
“Don’t be.”
I lie back and prepare to resume lifting when his voice quietly questions, “Can I just…suggest something?”
“Chance.”
“Just one tiny idea then I’ll drop it. Completely.”
On a heavy sigh, I bite, “What?”
“Tell her.”
My eyes narrow in on him.
“Whatever the hell it is that has made you this pissed off seems like something she should know about.” His expression uncharacteristically shifts to a serious one. “You were right about her caring that deeply for us. Look, I know she lives to reign terror, which for the record fear is a terrible motivator for someone like me, but she cares about us too much to purposely put us in the amount of pain you’re in. Tell her what’s bothering you, so she doesn’t do that shit again.”
Fuck, I know the hippie dick has a point. But he doesn’t know her like I do. This wouldn’t be the first fucking time I’ve said we should take this where it belongs. Where we both know it should be. But maybe…maybe this little phone stunt was her way of speaking up when she feared her mouth would fucking betray her. God, I want her more than anything else. I wanna fuck her ‘til her bed breaks into a million pieces. ‘Til her perfect polished floors are dented. ‘Til this fucking ice palace is shattered from her screams and the only thing left in its wake is my fucking name….I want fucking answers… Fuck that. I need fucking answer. Real fucking answers. And this time, I’m not fucking leaving until I get them.
French
Wood, my personal body guard, tries to explain, “Boss-”
“No.” My attention relocates from the keyboard of my desk top to him. “You have two clear choices at this time. You can 1, do your fucking job or 2, meet your fucking replacement a lot sooner than you expected.”
What? Of course everyone and everything is replaceable. That’s a life lesson I learned at five. Why didn’t you? Oh…Maybe because your birth vessel wasn’t a skeezy, slutty con artists obsessed with fucking people out of their life savings…You don’t want to know how the lesson began. Let’s just say my love of dolls died earlier than most young girls.
“I am trying,” he emphasizes harshly. “But he’s a ghost.”
“He’s not a fucking ghost, Wood. He’s a fucking shadow. Bring him to the light.”
Wood runs his open palm across his glistening bald, dark skinned head. “With all due respect, Boss-”
“That is my least favorite way a sentence begins.” I stand, plant my hands firmly on my desk, and snarl, “You will not stand in my goddamn office and fucking question me like I’m a thirteen-year-old girl and this my first time on the rag.”
Too much of an image for you? Ha. You’re following around the wrong woman.
“I know when I am being stalked. I know when someone is cooking up revenge. I can smell it. I can fucking feel it. I want whoever it is found and taken care of. If you can’t see shit on the security footage, pull it from other nearby cameras. Pull it from the fucking traffic cams. Pull it from the fucking space satellites if you fucking have to! I don’t give fuck how you find this motherfucker just find him!”
Wood slowly nods his understanding.
What? Of course it’s a him. Even the most forward thinking men, loathe a woman on top outside of the bedroom. They don’t enjoy being second best or being made a fool of. I’ve done both numerous times over the years. I have however learned it is better to have friends than enemies any day. For the most part I do. Not exactly friends, but business acquaintances that I hold assured destruction over if they ever step out of place. Everyone has a price. You just have to know how to find it.
Unexpectedly, my office door swings open and Brock storms inside.
Great. Just what I fucking needed. Shouting proof of what I just told you.
“Wood.”
“Prince B.”
“You don’t feel you have to fucking knock anymore?” I lift my eyebrows in the air. “Is this your fucking office or mine?”
He doesn’t bother responding. He turns his face to my body guard. “Are you done?”
Wood let’s his eyes wander back to me. “Anything else, Boss?”
“No.”
Wood gives Brock a nod, shoves his hands in his dress pants pockets, and starts to exit.
“Shut the door,” Brock demands.
Fucking seriously. Is this his office now?
As soon as it’s closed, he folds his arms across his white t-shirt covered chest. “I need a new fucking phone.”
Taken back by the information, I stand completely up, and huff, “What? Why?”
“Because I threw mine against the wall.”
“Again?”
Temper of Philistine. It’s ridiculous and expensive.
“Yeah.”
“Brock, I like just bought you that fucking phone.”
Like a week ago! Yes. Shortly after the roses incident.
“Yeah.” He takes two steps forward and drops his hands onto my desk. “And you like just fucked with my head again this afternoon.”
His reference to my mistake while shopping diverts my eyes away from him.
And it was a mistake. A stupid, stupid fucking mistake. A little phone sex all because I let the fucking assistant shop girl get the better of me with her 90 million fiancé references. I get it. She was happy. Newly engaged people tend to be. But fuck did I hate hearing her rub it in my face. No. I don’t want to get married or need to get married, that’s a bullshit way to trap another person. I wanted…I guess I wanted to feel for just a minute what it was like to be shopping with more than just my intentions in mind. What it would be like to see the expression on someone’s face who fucking worshipped my body like the queen I claim to be. What it would be like to give into that one temptation I’ve spent so much of my life denying so that it doesn’t get damaged. So it always survives. So I always have a foundation to stand on when everything else attempts to toss my ass into turmoil. I had a momentary lapse of judgment. It’s a rarity. I regret it tenfold. No…I really do. I…sort of do…I…Shut up. He needs to believe I do. That is what is important to remember here.
“What the fuck was that about?”
I swing my eyes back to connect with his. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” The word triggers the rage brewing right underneath the surface. “That was fucking…nothing?”
Coldly, I snip, “That’s what I fucking said.”
His voice tries to remain steady, “French…”
“I’ll order you a new phone,” I mutter, walking around my desk, past the security camera filled wall to the left, straight for the door. “Now go.”
Brock stomps over to block my path. “No.”
My fingers massage my scalp in frustration. “I really don’t have fucking time for this shit, Brock. Not today. Not right now. Go.”
His palm slams on the door. “Make. Time.”
The sound while frightening to most has the opposite effect on me. Hearing it in combination with his rasp and force ignites the ache between my thighs I know only he can soothe.
Proved that with our little afternoon hiccup. Do you have any idea the last time someone else made me come? And he wasn’t even fucking there! Just his voice and the thought of him touching me was enough. See. That’s the absolute last thing I fucking need. He makes me feel…weak. I hate there’s no other term for it, but it is what it is. And I do not enjoy said feeling. It’s not how strong, powerful people behave. It’s not what they
feel. It’s not what they’re supposed to fucking feel.
“Tell me the fucking truth, French.”
I lock my eyes with his.
“The absolute fucking truth. The gritty one that you don’t wanna look into my eyes and tell me. That’s what I wanna hear. That’s what I wanna know. Tell me why after more than a fucking decade, I still can’t be with you.”