by Xavier Neal
Tupac wannabe.
“Three songs in, I knew you were perfect. That was when I said I had a proposition for you that you wouldn’t wanna miss.”
Fuck, I knew I’d do anything she asked the minute those brown eyes hit mine.
“I thought it was sex.”
French snickers, and it immediately feels like ninety pounds have been lifted off my chest. “Thought or hoped?”
“Depends on the mood.” She laughs again except this time I lean in closer. “When we met at the diner a couple hours later, I didn’t give a fuck what I was getting myself into as long as it involved you.”
“I could’ve been luring you to your death.”
“Would’ve been fucking worth it.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re being sentimental.”
“I’m being fucking honest.”
“Are you? Because if memory serves me correct, your guard was up like Fort Knox.”
“Not because I was worried about getting fucked up, but because the last thing I wanted was you getting hurt. It was a shitty fucking part of town. Someone like you had no fucking business over there especially by yourself. The thought of anything fucking happening to you had me on edge.” I shrug. “Still has me on edge.”
She didn’t belong at that club…Fuck. She honestly didn’t belong anywhere near someone like me. Still doesn’t. Let me put it in perspective for you. ‘Trailer Trash’ would’ve been a compliment to how I looked and felt back then.
“I was a big girl. I handled myself just fine.”
“No,” I argue. “You learned to handle yourself just fine. That shit took practice. More hours than it should have because you were too fucking stubborn for your own good.”
French smirks. “You liked fighting with me.”
I whisper with a grin, “I still fucking like fighting with you.”
She taught me the art of seduction with my body; I taught her the power of a punch to the throat and a knife to the gut.
French rolls her eyes again. “You remember how reluctant you were to let me pay even though you hadn’t eaten in days?”
The words cause my body to stiffen. “I don’t like handouts.”
“Which is when I said, it wasn’t a handout, but an investment…”
“Yeah well, up until that point when a sexy fucking woman said words like investment it meant she was gonna pay me to fuck her on her husband’s yacht, so the help didn’t catch us.”
Shocker, right? I used to fuck for money. Not even good money all the time. I’ve always did what I had to do survive. If it meant boning whiny housewives for fifty bucks so I could have a warm place to sleep for a night, that’s what happened. If it meant being shared among them during one of their ‘wine nights’, so I could eat for the week, then I fucking did it. But for the record, that’s why I fucking hate boats and bachelorette parties. They remind me of a time in my fucking life I would rather forget. A time before French. A time before money was raining and food was steady. A time when I never fucking knew if tomorrow was actually going to come.
French’s hand unexpectedly strokes my cheek. “And I swore if you trusted me, you would never have to fuck for cash another day in your life.”
I lean into her touch. “And I haven’t.”
The two of us linger in the sweet stillness, eyes locked so tight together it feels like I can only blink when she does.
Finally, my voice confesses, “You changed my life at that breakfast…”
“You changed mine.”
Instinct to break free from the fragile memories prompts me to growl, “What do you say I change it again?”
Her eyebrows lift in curiosity. “How?”
I give the ribbon to her robe a sharp pull allowing her hardened nipples to capture my full attention. “By making sure you always start you day with vitamin D.”
French’s scoff at the comment is short lived thanks to my left hand tugging her neck to my teeth. The sharp cry of pleasure is accompanied alongside her hands drifting down my bare abs.
Only have on fucking shorts because Kiki showed up.
Her fingertips feather the shameful scars of my grim past, and I instantly cringe. She responds by relocating her touch to the waistband of my shorts while my mouth drifts downward, desperation to devour more of her building with every bite. Once I reach her heaving chest, I release my grip and grab one of the freshly washed fruits out of the bowl.
I lift it up to her full lips. “Bite.”
She snakes her tongue out to stroke the tip.
Instinctively, I growl in response.
Oh don’t fucking worry. She’s about to get hers…
After mimicking what I want her to do to my dick instead of a piece of fruit, she nibbles off the edge and pins me with a playful, challenging look.
My absolute fucking favorite next to the one she makes when she comes for me.
I swirl the strawberry around her nipple before dropping my mouth down to clean it off. The sucking is equal parts fast and fierce. My mouth eagerly oscillates between both of her tits, wanting each one to be brought to the brink of bursting and then left there in agony. French’s legs dig into my ass in an attempt to move me closer, but fail. Her lack of control causes her to release a frustrated moan. I smugly smirk. Each time I tug at the hardened nubs, her nails retract against the counter, cultivating further irritation that she has nothing to anchor herself onto. Finally, I lower myself to my knees and yank her towards the edge. The sight of her bare pussy dripping wet pangs my cock in new ways.
Fuck, I want those lips screaming my name.
My eyes grab a glimpse of her heated state. Her bottom lip is braced tightly between her teeth, her eyelids are half closed, and her breathing doesn’t seem to exist. Pride swells my chest, and I drag the fruit in slow circles around her clit. A small gasp escapes, but is swiftly proceeded by a bigger one as I wedge the fruit right against her asshole.
I’m a fucking ass man in all ways…
“Hold it there.” Before she can protest or even consider it, my mouth covers her pussy with celerity. Sweetness from the fruit blends with the succulent stickiness she’s dripping and a gluttonous growl grumbles through me. My fingers grip the delicate flesh of her thighs ruthlessly and I bury my face deeper. Suck harder. Harsher. Her moans morph into audacious cries of my name, only spurring me on to feast faster. French’s body brashly bucks, begging me to free the orgasm waiting in the wings to dance on my tongue. I relinquish the hold on her thigh and use the hand to push the slipping fruit back into place. As suspected, she arches forward at the same time her pussy quivers against my anxious tongue. The lecherous praising of my name grabs another groan from me yet I continue my gorging.
Still fucking hungry…
Swiftly, I remove the fruit, brace it where my tongue was, and begin bathing the tight hole that’s calling for attention. French gasps again, but I don’t falter my efforts in binging on her beautiful body. The strawberry brushes back and forth against my brow like strokes of encouragement in my attempt to over exert every portion of her possible. Unlike her first orgasm, the second one breaks through after just minor moments of my tongue lapping up the fruit remains. It rips through her in undulating waves, and I allow myself to drown in her sea of celestial screams.
This is just the beginning. It’s going to hurt for her to walk and talk before breakfast is over.
All of a sudden, the sound of a cell phone ringing rips my lips away from the start of another round. When I look up, I’m surprised to see her in the process of answering it. “What the fuck, French?”
She holds up a finger, which is when I remove the strawberry assistant and stand completely up.
For fucks sake…
“Speak.” The response completely shifts her demeanor. “Yes.”
I toss the fruit onto the counter, fold my arms across my chest, and silently wait for answers.
This call better be fucking important to cock block like this. Come to think about it h
as to be. That’s the only reason her voice would change as it did. She’ll tell me all about it when she ends that call. Yes, she fucking will. We don’t have fucking secrets. Never have. Never will. What? Why are you looking away like you fucking know her better than I do? Knock that shit off. You don’t.
“I need an hour.”
I glower.
No. She’ll need two.
Before I can interject, she states, “I’ll be there.”
To no surprise she ends the call without another word allowing me to finally snap, “Be where?”
She doesn’t hesitate to answer. “A meeting.”
“With?”
“A client.”
Knowing what client is code for, my jaw unconsciously clenches.
Client is typically code for the unseemly scum she does business with. You know, mafia members, drug lords, gun runners, dirty or crooked cops. Pretty much the underground shit everyone says they’re too good to deal with when the fucking truth is they just don’t do it in the light. Do you have any fucking idea how many politicians use their services or assistance? Do you have any fucking clue how closely both are intertwined all for the sake of money? In a way it’s one thing that makes French special. She knows the equal value of those underground and strolling the surface. Treats them identically. While the lawyers and socialites are aware of her unbiased behavior as far as favors are concerned, it has yet to stop them from coming. From using The Castle for its intended purposes. If anything, she’s created one of the only places in the entire fucking world where the Duchess of another country and the daughter of one of the most wanted criminals in the city can share a drink or make it rain hundreds together. No. No fucking dollar bills in this place.
“You need me to come with?”
Back when The Castle first started, she swore she’d never go to certain meetings alone or after dark. I went with her until she hired professional security. Won’t lie. I was pissed. I wanted to be the one protecting her. I should be the one out there protecting her, not some random fucking asshole who gets paid whether she lives or dies. It was one of the biggest arguments we’ve ever had. But she won. Long live the queen…
“No. I’ll be fine.”
My scowl deepens.
“I will. I’ve got Wood.”
“No,” my hand guides hers to my crotch, “I’ve got wood.”
Her smirk battles away a fraction of the unspoken anxiety.
A grin thoughtlessly grows on my face. “I love when you do that.”
“I love when you do it too.”
“I meant smile.”
“So did I.”
The warm moment that bounces between us abolishes any remaining animosity from my earlier thoughts.
She wets her lips slowly and my dick pulses against her lingering touch. “I’ll fix this at lunch if you want.”
Always fucking want…
Reluctantly, I inform her, “Can’t. Meeting Q.”
His name removes her touch as well as her playful expression.
Long story there…
“Brock-”
“Don’t fucking start.”
She doesn’t. Instead, French slides off the counter and strolls past me for her bedroom.
A small grunt bounces off the walls before I head after her.
Really fucking long story...Do I look like I have that fucking kind of time to sit you on my knee and play Mother Goose?
At the same time I reach the threshold of her bedroom, she’s slipping out of sight into her on suite bathroom. My mouth drops open but clamps shut the moment she slams the door closed. Irked with her childish behavior, I storm across the room to bang on it.
What? You really wanna admire her fucking room right now? Yeah, everything in The Castle including her penthouse is black and gold décor. Yeah, that’s a big ass fucking bed and a big ass fucking T.V. with a great view of the city out that big ass fucking window. If you really don’t know shit else about French, just know it’s the best or nothing at all times.
“Open the door.”
The water starts yet she doesn’t reply.
I let out a huff. “Open the fucking door, French.”
Another minute passes before I jiggle the knob only to discover it was never locked.
Oh, fuck off. You didn’t know that.
Keeping my distance, I lean against the frame and watch as she steps into the glass shower. Temptation instantly stirs my cock.
Best things we do together. Fight and fuck. Really feel like doing the latter…
“No,” she calls out as if she can hear my thoughts. “I have a meeting. You know I don’t do late.”
I adjust myself and grumble, “I know.” There’s a small pause proceeded by me clearing my throat. “You know I’m still friends with Q, French.”
“Is this a two-person conversation or are you going to monologue at me?”
Her snip makes me shake my head. “Are you going to talk to me or fucking lecture?”
“I do not fucking lecture you about hanging out with that piece of a shit.”
Doesn’t that feel like the start of a goddamn lecture to you?
“Look, I know you hate him-”
“I don’t trust him.”
In French’s book that’s worse than hate.
“He’s one of the oldest fucking friends I have.”
“And that’s exactly the reason I’m not going to lecture you. All I was going to say was be careful. I know you blame me for him losing his job here-”
“You fucking fired him!”
“He broke the fucking rules!” She shouts from her shower. “The rules are there for a reason, Brock. You above everyone fucking else knows that!”
They’re there for everyone’s safety. Sanity. Mainly their protection. And there are rules for the clients that protect their secrets and rules for the Princes to protect us like the myths we are. Fucked up thing is, the other Princes have no idea the lengths French goes to to protect them until it’s time for them to walk out the door permanently. Ask the ones who have left. You’ll see.
“All I ask is that you keep both eyes wide fucking open when you’re with him. He’s changed, even if you don’t want to admit it, and the absolute last fucking thing I want, contrary to your fucking belief, is you stuck having to choose between a life with him or a life with me.”
“You. No competition.”
She doesn’t counter but my gut leads me to believe she’s smiling.
“Dinner?”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“You cooking?”
I lightly chuckle and shove my hands in my pockets. “I can.”
French’s laughter relieves any doubts that she resents me or my friendship with Q.
I’ll explain at lunch…Probably…Maybe.
“Steak and potatoes?”
Her voice sweetly hums, “And…”
“No.”
“And…”
“No fucking way.”
“And…”
“Fuck. I’ll grab one of those fucking pre-made salads.”
“With spinach and kale.”
“Fuck kale.”
French laughs a little louder. “Get the hell out of my bathroom and go finish your breakfast.”
“I already did unless you’re offering me a third helping of that pussy.”
Unexpectedly, she opens the glass door and flings soapy water at me. “Out.”
“Fine. Fine.” With a small snicker, I prepare to back out of the room, but stop to add, “But I’m putting your breakfast and coffee in something to go. Promise me you’ll eat it.”
“I’ll try.”
“French-”
“If there’s time I will.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Promise. Me.”
She does this shit all the time. Forgets to eat. Barely sleeps. Gets so fucking busy trying to move around the pieces on her chess board she becomes ill, though she’d never fucking admit it out loud. But
I notice. Fuck. I’ve always noticed.
French surrenders. “Fine. I’ll eat it. Now go.”
We exchange one final set of smirks before she shuts the door, and I start towards the kitchen.
You know, I can’t fucking remember a time when I’ve ever been this fucking happy? Maybe when I was a kid? Maybe before we were tossed into foster care. Maybe back when the only thing I had to worry about was building shit with Legos and blocking the belt from hitting both of us. What? I…I didn’t say both. No. I uh…I said me. No. I don’t wanna talk about my fucked up past. I wanna just enjoy my fucking beautiful future. Which is now that I have French in every way possible.