Prince Brock

by Xavier Neal

  “Tell me to my face how I’m not good enough. How I don’t fucking deserve a woman like you. How I never fucking could! How I’m nothing but hood shit in fancy fucking clothing! Look me in my fucking eyes, French, and tell me why a phone fuck is the closest I’ll ever get to actually having you.”

  My chest constricts so hard I can no longer breathe.

  Fuck, I need some air. Some space. Some Brock free room to breathe… I need him gone.

  I turn my back on him, reach for the handle, and attempt to open the door. “You….need to fucking go.”

  Both of his hands land on the door caging me in.

  Rather than show how defenseless he’s quickly making me or the pain pumping profusely through every cell in my body, I swallow the tears clogging my throat. “Br-”

  “No,” his voice maintains its firmness but now contains vulnerability I don’t want the responsibility of handling. There’s a small pause before he lowers his forehead to the back of my shoulder. “Tell me what you’ve never told me before. Give me the truth and we’ll never have this conversation again.”

  The feeling of his strained body against mine only makes the situation harder. In a lower voice, I confess, “You are…perfect for me, Brock. In every fucking way imaginable.”

  He lets out a deep sigh of relief.

  “But I’m not willing to risk destroying the only fucking person in my entire life that I’ve learned to love, have ever loved, will ever love, for twenty minutes in the sack. Sex complicates everything. It demolishes more than it builds. My so-called parents, the favors I’m owed, the fucking Castle, are all evidence sex is a loaded weapon always ready to create carnage. And it always does. It always clouds judgment. Delivers destruction. Fuels doubts and feeds the little green-eyed monster resting inside every human being. I’m protecting what matters most to me. I’m protecting what I would give my life for. I’m protecting…what makes getting out of bed in the morning worth a damn.” My voice betrays me with its unstoppable change to mansuetude. “It’s not money, or fame, or the other members of this place, Brock. It’s you.”

  We really are one in the same. The most important thing to the both of us is protecting each other. Has been since we met. I like to believe it always will be.

  The lull lasts longer than I can endure.

  See why we haven’t ever had this conversation. See why it’s easier to sit stubbornly in silence until he stomps away seething? His anger inevitably fades. This misery never does. Despite my bitch reputation I don’t enjoy spreading it.

  All of a sudden Brock commands, “Look at me.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’d rather you just go.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “I didn’t suggest.”

  When I try to turn the handle, he bangs his hands heavily against the door again. “Look. At. Me.”

  With my head tilted high in an attempt to appear more composed than I am, I turn around, fold my arms across my chest, and snap, “You got the truth. Now go.”

  His blue eyes, which are usually filled with controlled chaos, are now swirling with such devotion my knees buckle. Brock’s fingers give my chin a gentle, but firm grab. “First of all, I haven’t budged in ten fucking years. No matter how many times you’ve pissed me off or shut me the fuck out I’ve been here. And after a taste you of you?” He lets his eyes tear down the front of my black dress causing me to stifle a whimper. “It’s gonna take fucking divine intervention to even entertain a thought that could have me consider moving so much as a fucking toe.”

  The declaration presses my lips together.

  Love and loyalty…I’ve always had it with him. Why do you think I’m so desperate to keep it? That shit doesn’t come nearly as easy as money does.

  “Second of all, that twenty minutes in the sack comment better have been about the tail end of fucking foreplay, baby, ‘cause the shit between us is gonna take hours.” He lowers his lips to just an inch from mine. “Unless we agree to otherwise.”

  My pussy painfully throbs in approval.

  Brock frees my face from his clutches yet nudges his lips towards my ear. The heat from his breath fuses with the anticipation of his next move with such force, my eyes fall shut.

  I try my best to focus on my thumping heart instead of my soaked panties.

  Like yours wouldn’t be.

  “You want me?”

  I give him a slight nod.

  His hand hits the door beside me again. “Say. It.”

  Hesitant to continue, I grit my teeth.

  If we go down this road, we don’t come back from it, do you get that? Yeah, yeah, hoot holler, encourage me to get fucked because you know how badly I need to get fucked….But remember there’s no turning back once we cross this line. Everything we’ve been. Everything we are. Everything we might be becomes a possible victim in the anarchy sex creates. I’m this much of a monster now. How much more terrible do you think I’ll be if something happens and I lose the only person who makes me human?

  “Say. It.” Brock pleads with such intensity it’s impossible to resist. “Say it once for me, baby, and you never have to fucking say it again.”

  In a whispered voice, I surrender, “I want you.”

  “Then you’re gonna fucking have all of me,” he growls and crashes his mouth against mine. For the first time in over ten years it feels like I can actually breathe. His tongue feverishly lashes against mine without remorse. Without relenting. Without the slightest shred of regret or resentment.

  I reach out to grasp his shirt for leverage when he intervenes. In one swift motion, I’m spun around so my ass is pressed against his crotch, and my earlobe is a prisoner to his teeth. Trapped between the hard door and his even harder body beckons an orgasm to expose itself before it should even be considered.

  I may end up coming first, but I damn sure refuse for it to happen before he’s actually fucking done anything. Not that the kiss was nothing…Fuck me…It was everything. Ugh. I fucking hate sounding…emotional.

  His hands roughly yank up the back of my dress. Immediately he palms my ass and presents me with the hungriest growl I’ve ever heard. His stiff cock only briefly grazes it before the touch is removed. After a moment too long of him simply leering and not moving shit along, I glance over my shoulder just in time to see him shred the thin material covering my pussy. “I’m fucking tired of obstacles.” My jaw drops yet he doesn’t allow the opportunity for words to attack him. He shoves the tattered thong in my mouth at the same time he grunts, “And no one’s gonna hear these fucking screams but me.” Brock winds one hand around the end of my hair and sharply thrusts inside.

  Holy. Shit.

  My muscles instantly constrict, coming on his cock without so much as a second thought.

  Body always betrays me. Does yours?

  The rumble he releases is rewarded with the loudest moan I can from my restrained vocal position. “You always come for me.” His words echo his proceeding pumps from his pierced perfection, “Non. Negotiable.”

  I gasp through the promise my pussy is proclaiming with each passing pulse.

  Brock repeatedly drives his dick deeper while tugging my hair in tandem. The delivered pain from being not only taken for the first time in over a year, but torn wider than I’ve ever been has me desperately whimpering for more. His fingertips slip between my thighs and frantically toy with my clit. The hard rubs sporadically sprinkled alongside light brushes creates a carnal whine that’s lost against the torn lingerie. Brock doesn’t waver from his tactics. From the way his fingers and thrusts flawlessly continue, it is blatantly obvious he doesn’t even entertain the idea of being swayed by my screams of protest for more pleasure. When my moans finally become groans of objection over the teasing actions, he victoriously chuckles.

  Bastard…

  He removes his hand from my clit, let’s go of my hair, and increases his speed. My forehead bumps ceaselessly against the door while my ass claps back against his body like it�
�s presenting him with a standing ovation.

  It might as fucking well.

  Brock unexpectedly slips his wet thumb against the untouched hole and rasps, “I said all of me.”

  My pussy greedily trembles in response to the invasion. His voracious heaves are so incredible my body brazenly burns in a newfound bliss. The barbell jewelry pings my g-spot as if it’s proud to assist in the process of making my pussy weep for mercy. With every stroke, he ruthlessly claims me until I’m drowning in an orgasmic ocean. A symphony of screams and sighs are sacrificed in atonement and appreciation alike. Despite the fact my body can’t handle much more, his movements don’t falter. He wraps his arms tightly around me and continues to thrust inside, anxious to stake his claim. Desperate to wipe out our history and rewrite our lives to be bound by our passion rather than our pain. Suddenly, his entire body goes rigid as a sweltering sensation seers through my aftershocks.

  A beautiful, barbaric roar is ripped from his chest, and I lean back to absorb exactly what he commanded.

  Now all of me has had all of him…What happens next?

  Brock

  I hate this fucking penthouse. What? No. I don’t fucking hate everything just…a lot of shit. I’ve got a valid reason. No. It’s not ‘cause she’s fucked other men up here, but fuck you for bringing that shit up. French has never brought a man to The Castle that wasn’t working for her. Trust me. I’d fucking know and toss his mother fucking ass off her long ass balcony. I hate it here because there’s too much fucking space. What the fuck does any one person need this much fucking space for? Even with me being here as frequently as I am it’s too fucking much. And I know why it’s built as it is. It’s so she never has to leave. She rarely does for anything other than work.

  I have another bite of my toasted peanut butter banana sandwich while watching Kiki replace the last vase of roses in the living room.

  There’s always fresh red roses in her penthouse. Every week. They are never to be seen wilting. It’s impressive how well Kiki does her job. She gets paid a hefty hunk of cash to simply replace the flowers here. Sounds like a fuckin’ easy gig except look around. She has vases of them everywhere in every room. They are her biggest comfort next to her clocks. She says they are the perfect reflection of her. Beauty with the ability to cause pain. Not sure I disagree.

  She starts the direction of French’s bedroom, which is just a bit down the hall past the kitchen.

  “No.”

  The tiny pink haired girl freezes.

  “Leave ‘em on the bar. I’ll replace the ones in her bedroom and bathroom.”

  Her mouth bobs in a silent attempt to argue.

  “I won’t let her fire you.”

  She continues to hesitate until my eyes lower to a glare. Fear instantly wins, causing her to nod and place the last four dozen on the higher portion of the black and gray granite bar counter top. Cautiously, she backs away towards the living room. The moment she bumps into the black leather L couch, she spins on her heels and darts for the front entrance where I’m sure her belongings are waiting.

  Oh, don’t fucking look at me like that. I didn’t do shit. I wasn’t fucking scowling. This is just how I naturally look.

  My eyes drop back down to the book I’m reading.

  What? Is there something fucking wrong with reading? You think ‘cause I don’t say a bunch of shit that I’m some fucking moronic caveman? You think I’m an illiterate asshole who can’t appreciate a work of literary genius?

  The sound of footsteps across the dark marble floors swiftly steals my attention before I have the opportunity to read another word. I immediately smirk at French’s wild hair and makeup free face.

  Two things she only lets me see.

  I drink in her fit frame, the outline of her full tits, and her long brown legs that only look better when wrapped around me.

  Which they fucking were for most of the night.

  While her body is heaven, the short black and gold lace robe, is not.

  Naked. She should always be fucking naked for me.

  Her head tilts to the side as she leans against the wall closest to her steel fridge. “Where are the robes I bought yesterday?”

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Gone.”

  She glares. “Why?”

  “You don’t need them.”

  “And what the hell makes you think that?”

  “They were my stand in.”

  The corner of her lip threatens to kick upward.

  After a small wink, I toss my head her direction. “Where the fuck did you find that one?”

  “You should know by now, I always have a backup plan.”

  Her playful retort rubs me the wrong way.

  Backup plans and exit strategies for her backup plans and exit strategies. If French wants out of something or something replaced, it happens. Is it so fucking wrong to wonder what she has for me?

  I swallow my discomfort and command, “Come sit.”

  She snips, “Don’t you ever remember to say please?”

  Moving towards the counter behind me where her freshly made coffee is waiting, I counter, “It’s implied.” When I turn back around with it in my hand, I smile at her settling on the lower bar counter.

  Thousand-dollar kitchen table just a few feet to the right, yet she sits there every morning she can to drink her coffee. Makes no fucking sense.

  I offer her the black cup. “French vanilla latte.”

  French smirks at the same time she takes it. “Trying to make nice for stealing my clothes?”

  My face leans down allowing my lips to brush against hers. “Nope.”

  She grunts and pushes me away. “You’re an asshole.”

  “You knew that when you met me.” I turn back around to grab the rest of her breakfast.

  If you can call strawberries with a sprinkle of sugar breakfast.

  “True,” French agrees between sips of her coffee.

  After placing the bowl beside my half-eaten sandwich, I pin my hands on the counter by the sides of her thighs. As if it is the most natural thing in the world, her legs wind around me, bracing our bodies together.

  We should always be this fucking close…It’s the only time the endless war inside of me seems to cease fire.

  “Do you remember the first time we had breakfast together?”

  Her face surprisingly softens. “I do.” She places her coffee down and leans back onto her palms. “It was about two hours after we met at Trazhed.”

  “Shady fucking nightclub…”

  “It was, but now it’s an urban youth tutoring center run by Dereck.”

  He used to be a Prince here once upon a time…Fuck…This would make a terrible fucking story.

  “That’s the building you bought him? Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

  “I didn’t buy him the building.” She corrects. “I bought me the building and he just pays rent.”

  Knowing her, she’s just going to randomly pretend she’s tired of the fucking thing and give it to him so his dream of owning a shelter happens. That’s the kind of shit French does…

  “And the reason I didn’t fucking tell you was because I didn’t think it mattered.”

  With a sardonic sneer, I sigh, “You didn’t think preserving the place we first met…mattered?”

  “Purchasing.”

  “Same shit, French.”

  She merely hums as a response.

  By buying that fucking shit hole and giving it to someone to turn it into something better, the same way she found me and turned me into something better, she basically mummified our memories there in a weird symbolic sarcophagus. She preserved where we started. She kept safe the place our relationship took its first steps. She treasures it even if her perfect lips never admit to it.

  “Anyway,” French attempts to drag the conversation back to the original topic, “I went to Trazhed that night to hear the MC-”

  “Who would later become the first MC here-”

  “And
be fired for trying to fuck the wine girl before we even opened our doors…”

  The two of us exchange a small chuckle.

  We’ve come a long fucking way since then. Clayton’s solid as shit and has been here since about a year in. During the week he helps manage a record studio, but the weekends he is the music man…What? Of course French owns the fucking recording studio. There are few things she doesn’t own or at least own a fraction of.

  “You basically threw the guy to the other side of the room who was trying to get me to dance and took his place.”