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

by Xavier Neal

  “I’m not fucking around, French.”

  Her glossed lips press together.

  “You can’t keep this shit up. You can’t run ninety to fucking nothin’ all goddamn day. You have to eat. How many fucking times do I have to remind you that should be a fucking priority?”

  Maybe I’m a little fucking bias since I know what it’s like not to have fucking food when you need it. Or maybe I fucking care about my reason for existence just withering away into nothing. Or…maybe I just like her ass juicy and thick. Does it really fucking matter? She needs to be eating.

  “It is not your job to take care of me.”

  “You damn sure ain’t doing it, and I’d probably punch anyone else in the face for fucking trying.” When her smile appears, I have to battle away my own. “I’m serious, French. I need you to stop killing yourself over us before you succeed.”

  “I know.”

  Her lack of argument stumbles me backwards.

  Am I fucking hearing things now?

  “Did you just fucking agree with me? Were you drinking in the office? Just because vodka is made out of potatoes doesn’t mean it counts as viable food substance.”

  She nails me with a playful punch to the chest and tries to storm out of the foyer. Instead of letting her get far, I grab her by the arm, and trap her in a hug from behind. My face drops onto her shoulder along with a quick kiss. Her entire body seems to relax against me.

  “Dinner is headed up. You eat and then we sleep.”

  French jokingly grumps, “You’re being bossy. Did you lose at poker or something?”

  “I never fucking lose. You know they can’t play worth shit.”

  “You can’t either.”

  “Fuck you. I’m better than any other asshole you know.”

  “Myself excluded?”

  Her teasing is interrupted by a light tapping on the door. Letting go, I grunt, “Saved by the butler.”

  “Don’t call them that. They’re servants.”

  “Much fucking better,” I mumble as I walk away from her. “Change. I’ll grab the food.”

  French mumbles something and I answer the door. One of the kitchen staff members, Gabrielle, wheels in a tray of crust less triangle cut sandwiches, a bowl of blueberries, a package of kettle chips, Oreos and two glasses of milk.

  Before my mouth can move to question the contents, she states, “Sebastian advised us to make extras since it was your poker night and Prince C lacks the ability to sufficiently feed his company.”

  See. Even the crew here knows Chance’s terrible fucking taste in food.

  “Thank you.” I nod. “Both of you.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” she hums, placing the objects on the kitchen table. “Will there be anything else for the night, Prince B?”

  “No.”

  Once Gabrielle has emptied her cart, she retreats in silence.

  Seconds after the door shuts, French moans from her position somewhere behind me, “A sandwich is perfect. Only thing that could make it better is-”

  “Chips and cookies for dessert.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We know you well.”

  “Or so you think.”

  My head snaps around to give her a sarcastic glare, but is instantly denied the opportunity.

  Holy hell…

  She slowly strolls towards me, tugging at the ends of my white t-shirt she’s wearing, most likely with nothing on underneath. With a naughty gleam in her eyes, she watches me watch her every step, soaking in the way her hips sway and long legs call for my touch. My brain becomes so fixated on how sexy she looks I forget to breathe.

  French flops down in one of the chairs at the table. “Problem?”

  I try not to choke on my own tongue. “That’s my shirt.”

  “Yeah, well, you keep fucking hiding my robes, so I had to put on something.”

  She thinks they’re hidden. They’re not. They’ve been donated. Women’s shelters.

  Casually, I adjust my hardened cock and sit in the chair beside her. “Always wear my shit.”

  She rolls her eyes and reaches for one of the peanut butter, jelly, and bacon sandwiches.

  Shit is gross. She’s fucking strange sometimes.

  Rather than make a move for any of the food, I lean back and watch her eat, desperate for her to get her fill first. She questions how the other guys are doing and does her best to hide her pride at how successful they’ve become.

  Sometimes it’s like she takes on a motherly role to guarantee no one else gets one as shitty as she had. It isn’t even one of those cases where it’s like ‘at least she had one’. No. Any fucking woman who teaches her child that the road to success is only paved with women who have open legs and mouths, isn’t someone even worth calling a fucking mother.

  It doesn’t take long before I turn the conversation towards the Princes that are still under her employment. She works her way through two more sandwiches and half the bowl of blueberries while explaining her extensive hatred for Leo’s failing fashion line as well as how difficult it is to get any boutique to give it a second look.

  All of a sudden, she stops, picks up one of the pieces left and demands, “Eat. I know Chance is going through his cauliflower phase and you’re probably starving. I don’t want you to go to bed hungry.” I take the sandwich and she promptly adds, “And you have early practice tomorrow morning, so please don’t stay up all night reading Red Spy.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  French glares harshly. “Fuck off. You’re not the only who gives a shit about the person they’re sleeping with.”

  I bench the decision to correct her about her phrasing and have a bite. “I don’t have Red Spy.”

  “You do. It’s by your side of the bed.”

  Fuck, I love having a side of the bed. As much as I hate how she refuses to let me stay over on the nights I have to work, I get it. I do. Between trying to maintain some professionalism and the fact she doesn’t get in until essentially the next morning, it’s just too much hassle to try to make it work. But you better fucking believe we are together all the other nights of the week.

  “It’s not out yet.”

  She gives me a short shrug. “Called in a favor.”

  Surprise hits my face. “From the author?”

  “The publisher.” French grabs one of the cookies very few people in the world know she’s loved since she was a kid. “Helped funnel some start up cash back in the day. Own about a third of the company still.”

  I shake my head after I swallow. “Is there anything you can’t make happen?”

  An unfamiliar somber look darkens her brown eyes.

  What the fuck is that about?

  She quickly banishes whatever went unspoken. “Finished Blue Blood two days ago, so I wouldn’t be completely lost any more when you start rambling on about the story line-”

  “I don’t fucking ramble.”

  “You ramble like a cheerleader bored at try outs when it comes to books.”

  Don’t fucking laugh.

  French gives me a small wink. “It’s cute.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not cute.”

  “You’re not when you make that face. You just look like a dick.”

  She snickers and I snatch the cookie out of her hand.

  “See. Dick.”

  I have a vicious bite with a playful smirk. “When did you have time to fucking read it? And how do you have time to read, but can’t remember to fucking eat?”

  “I didn’t actually read it. I mean, you know I would’ve but I’m a little strapped for time lately, so I listened to it while working.”

  “For me?”

  “For you.”

  The confession compels me to give her one of my own. “You know when I was younger I used to steal library books?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Yeah, in my….third foster home, I was like…fucking seven, I think, I started stealing library books from other kids.”

  �
�What? Why?”

  “To read.”

  “No shit,” French snips. “You weren’t burning them for warmth.”

  “Not then,” I mumble under my breath. “I needed something to escape in. See, they were these super fucking religious nut jobs who banned all non-Christian books in their house. Only the bible and bible related books were okay. All others were works of ‘the devil’ which is fucking ironic considering the fact the old man snuck into the girl’s rooms at night to do very un-Christian like shit to under aged girls…Un-Christian like shit that used to get me a pop to the face and nuts when I tried to protect them…Anyway, I used to steal library books out of kids’ backpacks and shit. Read ‘em on the bus, leave ‘em there, then the next morning when the bus driver would ask who left behind their book, I’d say it was mine.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave them in your locker?”

  “Didn’t have lockers. Had this cubby hole bullshit and my foster mom who had one real daughter the same age as me was always fucking coming up there. Random fucking drop in visits. It was obnoxious.” My appetite dies. “She hated me. I used to hear her tell her husband all the time what a mistake I was. How I had the devil deep in me. How it would be better if I just left…So I did.”

  French’s face falls. “Was that the first time you ran away?”

  “Nah. I had been running away since a few months after they took Brody away. I wanted to see my brother…I was determined to see him…”

  Gave up that shit a long time ago…Fuck. Fine. Yes. I admit it. I have a brother. A twin. Ha. Fucking two of me in this world…Can you believe that shit? I like to believe his history is better than mine.

  “I’m gonna clear this shit up.” I stomp down the lump in my throat. “Go get into bed. I’ll be there in a sec.”

  “You sure?” French softly counters, the kindness in her tone making the knot expand.

  Hate that sympathy sounding shit. I am not a fucking charity case. I am not someone to fucking pity. I take care of my shit. I protect my shit. I…am…not pathetic.

  With my back to her and head down, I simply nod.

  French stands up, gently lifts herself to her toes, and seductively states at the same time her hands cup my butt, “You can escape deep inside of me any time…”

  See why I fucking love her?

  I turn and finally let a smile land on my lips. “Get your ass to bed.”

  She saunters away painfully slow, stringing along my attention every step of the way.

  Maybe she’s not too tired for a quickie after all…

  It doesn’t take too long to put away the few leftovers there are. Once I’m finished, I make sure to shut off all the lights except for the ones in the entryway and take off for the bedroom. By the time I arrive, she’s already ditched my t-shirt and is curled into a small ball with her eyes shut.

  Nope. No sex….Eh. It’s alright. I’m not that kinda asshole.

  I shed my shirt, shorts, and boxers, before climbing into the king-sized bed on my side. As soon as I’m settled underneath the crisp gold sheets, French drapes an arm across my lower abs and mumbles, “Make sure you annunciate. I don’t wanna have to go back and re-read this shit on my own.”

  A huge grin graces my face.

  She doesn’t mind reading, but damn sure doesn’t love it as much as I do. Hell, over the years I’ve known her, the only reading I’ve seen her do outside of work was whatever shit I was devouring at the time. So she had something else for us to talk about. Connect over. See. I protect her and in her own way…she always protects me.

  “Now who’s fucking bossy?”

  “Me. But I am the boss and you are in my bed.”

  “Baby, this shit might as well be our bed with as much time as I spend in it.”

  She grumbles, “Less yap more rap. Get to reading.”

  I chuckle, grab the hardback book, and prop it up on my chest. One arm falls around her to stroke her bare back while the other keeps the reading material steady. French curls herself closer to me and the havoc of hatred I do my best to keep at bay completely vanishes.

  It’s why I love having her wrapped around me, me around her, fuck, any part of her touching me. Gonna sound fucking crazy and bitch-boytastic, but it’s like her soul is the only one ever capable of calming mine. Try not to judge me too fucking hard about that. Oh. Yeah. Feel free to stick around if you want, but you really should start a series from the beginning….

  French

  “What about the Opera, Poppet?” Rhys questions from the other end of the phone. “Do you like Opera?”

  He has been doing this ever since Mouse got the job. At least twice a week if not three times, he calls and asks me all these questions to ‘prep’ for my visit. I think it’s ridiculous since I will only be there basically two days, but he seems set on having every angle covered. Thankfully, the calls aren’t usually too terribly long and I can squeeze them in between more important things.

  “I do not.”

  He hums, “Have you ever actually been or en supposant?”

  “I was twenty-two and wanted a favor from a congressman. He was going through a diversity scandal, had me accompany him to help reassure the community his racial remarks were taken out of context.”

  They weren’t. But I’ve learned even some of the most bigoted people consider us all equal when cash gets involved.

  “It just wasn’t my style of entertainment.”

  “Perhaps the circus?”

  My fingers toy with petals of the roses Brock brought me yesterday.

  Along with hand delivering our lobster tacos…He is thoughtful. And romantic. And less frightening than anyone can possibly imagine. You know. As long as you’re on his good side.

  “Animal cruelty set to shitty carny music? Non, merci.”

  Rhys lightly chuckles. “Did your mère take you when you were a child?”

  “Once.” I pluck the petal off in irritation over the memory. “She was on a mission to break up a marriage. We went with the man and his son. My job was to keep the child entertained while she….did what it was she always did. Turns out he had an irrational fear of clowns. A very loud irrational fear.”

  “And you weren’t effrayé?”

  “No. Low paid people in white make up do not scare me, nor do I find them interesting.”

  His laughter over my comment kicks up the corner of my lip.

  I’ll admit. I do enjoy hearing him laugh at the things I say. But these conversations are an inconvenience.

  “I need to go-”

  “One more question.”

  “Quickly.”

  “Banana bread?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you eat it? Enjoy it? Find it répugnant?”

  “Impartial,” I casually answer, an idea flickering into my brain. “I’ll nibble on it if it is around.”

  “Good to know,” Rhys cheerfully states. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Poppet.”

  “Rhys.”

  “I meant, French. French. Enjoy the rest of your day, French.”

  My fingers end the call on my cell and swiftly dial the line to the kitchen on my work phone.

  It rings once before Gabrielle’s voice sings, “Queen. How may I serve you today?”

  Don’t sneer about my greetings. She does it out of her own volition. I have told her repeatedly she doesn’t have to speak to me that way.

  “Can you make a loaf of banana bread and have it delivered to the penthouse for dessert?”

  “Of course.”

  “I appreciate it,” I reply, a smile slipping onto my expression.

  My big brute loves bananas. I’ll never understand. I think they’re the bottom feeders of fruit, but he fucking loves them. On his toast. On his cereal. In his desserts. He’s been this way since I’ve known him. I know the main reason he loves them is because growing up they were the equivalent of getting candy to him. A sweet unexpected treat. Now? I guess habit, maybe?

  “And take tomorrow to you
rself, Gabrielle. Paid. You’ve earned it.”

  “Queen-”

  “Not asking.”

  She huffs, “I will if I must…”

  “Yes. You must. Why don’t you do something you haven’t had time to do? Maybe visit your grandchildren? In fact, why don’t I arrange a day with them on me. Whatever it is you all desire. I’ll have Mr. Moneybags shift an amount into your account this evening.”