by Xavier Neal
He tries to deny the smile that wants access to his sharp face.
“Wood needs to protect his family, the same way I am always trying to protect my own.”
His expression shifts to an unsuspecting softer one. “Then why won’t you let me protect you?”
The increasingly constant argument grits my teeth. “Hand.”
Brock grunts as he snaps, “You allow Wood to do whatever necessary to care for his wife and unborn child, even if it means momentarily putting yourself in danger-”
“I wasn’t in real danger-”
“but you won’t fucking let me be by your side to take care of you, the most important person in my fucking life. Explain.”
With my hands on his, gently kneading the possibly injured appendage, I answer, “Because as impossible as this is for you to seem to grasp, I don’t need you to protect me any more than I need Wood to. The bodyguard is more an intimidation tactic than a requirement. You know that. And as intimidating as you are, you are of more value to me here. Protecting the other Princes. Protecting the policies we have in place. Protecting the things I can’t always see because they haven’t been successful with human cloning yet, so I can’t be in seven places at once.”
“All seven of you would be mine.”
I glance up and apply pressure in the palm of his hand, which makes him wince.
He growls his disapproval.
Of course I’m smirking.
“It’s swelling,” my voice sighs. “What did you do?”
Finally, he confesses, “Missed a step during practice. Landed on it wrong. It’s fine.”
“It will be,” I counter and gently massage the tender area. “I’m going to wrap it and hope it helps decrease the swelling. Do not use it for the next 48 hours. I’ll swap your basic routine this weekend with another Prince’s, and you are to let it rest.”
Brock begins to speak when I point a finger at him to close it.
“It is not a discussion. We’re going to give it a couple of days and then you have to get Lucius’ approval before you can return to work of any kind.”
“French-”
“Not only for insurance purposes, but because as the person who matters most to me in the world, the last thing I want or need is you in fucking pain.”
He swallows what I assume is his pride. “Fine.”
I adjust the massaging to his fingers. “Thank you.”
Not a shit ton better with compromising yet, but we’re working on it.
“Why was Fresh Meat outside with you?”
Unconsciously, I roll my eyes as I reach for the elastic bandage wrap. “He had been talking to me and followed me out.”
“He doesn’t belong here.”
No one belongs stripping. People just do it. Different reasons. Different stages. But no one’s ultimate goal in life is to be a fucking male stripper.
“I don’t make mistakes.”
“No. You don’t.” When I lift my eyes up to meet his, he demands, “Why’s he really here, French?”
“I’m repaying a debt,” I answer and return to wrapping his injured hand.
“To?”
“His father.”
“French.”
“The current chapter President of Scarvough’s Black Adders MC.”
Brock snatches his hand away shooting my attention back up. “What?!”
“Relax.”
“Are you fucking shitting me?!”
You calm down too. It is not that big of a deal.
“When you’re ready to close your mouth, I will finish.”
He snaps it closed but bears his teeth in irritation.
“Back when I was 18, the chapter president at the time had a fondness for barely legal pussy. The supply to demand ratio was lucrative as well as easy to fulfill. I wasn’t selling him girls, just opportunities. All who went were willing and wanting. I was merely paid a finder’s fee for fresh faces.”
Guilty. I used to sell sex in many ways and varieties before I settled on this one, which as you’ve seen is more a stepping stone for people to do bigger things and more of a fantasy escape for those who think they have it all. Back then? Well…let’s just say I did shit like train guys on where and how to properly touch a woman using the extensive help of dolls and sex toys. During my four years of high school, I would like to say I altered the sex lives of hundreds of girls. They’re welcome. Don’t look at me like that. Do you remember when you were in high school getting your nipples tweaked like they were trying to fine tune a radio station? Yeah. Don’t you wish you would’ve had someone good right out of the gate? See. I did a service.
“However,” I reluctantly continue, “I happened to make a minor mistake. One of the girls was the niece of a rival MC. Needless to say, I needed protection as well as safe passage in and out of the city. Holt’s father, Henry ‘Heavy Hands’, stepped up and extended his services to me. We all know the cost of doing business with most MCs-”
“You didn’t.”
“No. His choices were limited to cash or a favor. My ass is never an option for payment…for anyone.”
I am not my fucking mother and would rather sell my body parts than prove her theory that women have to use their pussy in order to make it in this world.
He visibly relaxes.
“Heavy Hands said a favor would suffice. The day came and here I am. Repaying my debt.”
“By turning his son into a fucking stripper?”
“By hiding his youngest son, who is obviously not cut out for the MC life, until he can.”
Really not my story to tell, but I wouldn’t bother asking Holt at this time. He’s much too timid to deal with the situation he probably knows very little about.
Brock offers his hand to finish being wrapped at the same time he sighs, “He’s…dopey.”
“Goofy.”
“Naïve.”
I hum thoughtfully. “Hopeful.”
“Uncoordinated as fuck.”
“Flexible…”
“He needs leadership.”
“Volunteering?”
My boyfriend flashes a short smirk. “Recruiting?”
“Instructing.”
He groans his annoyance while I finish up.
Bitches and moans but will still do whatever it takes to keep The Castle successful and my ass covered.
After his hand is bandaged, I slide mine over to give his thigh a stroke. “Since you’re on hand rest for the next 48 hours, I guess that means I should put in a bit of over time.” I continue my rubbing. “Handle all control over our sex life for a bit.”
Brock’s lengthening cock immediately nudges against my fingers. He slowly wets his lips and plants his eyes in mine. “I don’t mind mixing my pain with my pleasure.”
My hand grips his now stiff dick over his basketball shorts. “You agreed to rest.”
He glares his disapproval, and I give him another tight squeeze. Brock lets his head dip backward before sliding down to give me a better angle to continue my teasing. “Never happening when it comes to fucking you.”
I relocate my efforts to tugging his shorts down. “Let me take care of you…”
Brock’s tongue dances momentarily across his lips again yet he doesn’t argue.
With a bit of help from his non-injured hand, he assists me in the banishment of his boxers and shorts. As soon as his pierced cock is free, it weeps for my attention, pre-cum covering the jewelry that has proven to be like a cherry on an ice cream sundae.
Always adds that little extra something to make every fucking thing we do delicious.
A sharp hiss escapes from his gritted teeth the moment my hand curls around his shaft. The sound immediately spurs my hand to begin slowly, but powerfully pumping. Grumbles of approval gnash against his grunts of frustration from lack of control. While my hand continues its reserved strokes and gentle rollings of his jewelry as a tantalizing torture tactic, I drink in the delectable way his entire body struggles to succumb to the pleasure bein
g delivered. The way the veins in his neck begin to strain, mimics the ones thrumming against my palm. His eyes are screwed shut. His toes are trying to tunnel through the floor. His t-shirt covered chest is falling and rising so rapidly, I’m not even sure he’s getting enough oxygen. Each jerk delivered to his dick only seems to unravel the restraints of the beast he keeps imprisoned. The beast that craves love and fears abandonment. The beast I need to tear down my walls and remind me it’s alright to connect to another person. To trust in someone besides myself.
Brock groans loudly and grabs my arm. The speed at which he ceases my actions, has his mouth mounted on mine, and me in his lap, is blinding. Between brutish grunts, his tongue punishes mine while his hand hastily yanks up my dress. Our kiss increases in voraciousness yet decreases in velocity. His mouth drops from mine to nip at my bottom lip. To lick the top one. To graze his teeth across my neck. The change in pace has me pouting until I feel the snap of my thong from being broken.
He presents me with a cocky grin. “Onehanded.”
I twitch a glare, firmly plant one hand on his inactive arm, and use the other to guide myself down his cock. My pussy praises the return of what is always promised pleasure. Brock lets a savage snarl break free while my muscles quiver like a round of applause.
Fucking ruined for everything else that isn’t his dick. My vibrators were retired to the trash after the first night…
His arm twitches underneath mine and I apply more pressure as I grip his shirt for leverage. I playfully mock, “Do it onehanded.”
There’s another roar of frustration followed promptly by proof that he can. Ferociously, he thrusts, free hand bruising my hip to keep me in place. Again, and again, he bumps his cock to the hilt in an effort to prevent his possible power from being forfeited. To prove whether or not he has all his parts working, he can still deliver the ultimate satisfaction. I let my eyes fall shut and become captive to the heavenly bouncing. Within just seconds I’m lost to the luscious ways his dick effortlessly lures my orgasm from the lurking shadows.
Brock releases my side, runs his hand up the nape of my neck, and tugs the back of my hair. Against the exposed flesh, he demands, “Come on my cock, baby.”
The lack of request is well received by my body. My pussy swells tightly against his bulging cock and cries out desperately for release. I attempt to lower my face to watch his, but he swiftly yanks my hair again this time in tandem with his thrusts. The overwhelming bounce between appeasement and agony annihilates any ability to hold my orgasm hostage. With a loud scream, I come undone and allow my waves of wet heat to surge against his rapid eruption. Brock’s final roar is deafening yet delightful.
He only makes those sounds for me. What can I say? I like that power the most…Ugh. He’s making me sound more and more like a chick movie.
My body collapses against his, and he immediately cradles me with both arms.
Smugly, he states, “One. Fucking. Handed.”
Hasn’t even pulled out of me and he’s already back in full asshole swing. What? No. We’re fine. I’ve got an IUD and make sure that motherfucker is properly where it should be on a regular basis. No fucking way can I have kids? While I would without a doubt be a better parent than the shitty one who contributed most to my upbringing, I don’t think I would in general be a good fit. And the only person I would ever consider having those with, which I am not considering just to reiterate, had an even shittier experience as one than I did. How could the two of us raising small humans be a fucking good idea? Yeah. Exactly. It’s not.
I push myself up and sigh, “I have two security candidate interviews in about an hour-”
“So, we take this to the shower.”
“No.” My face scowls. “You are not to get that hand wet or near heat or anything else that could affect the swelling.”
“Just handled one of those without a hitch.”
I give his chest a swift pop. “Rest or I’ll put you on pussy probation.”
He locks his lips closed.
See. Pussy really does have the power…And not in the way my piece of shit womb host proclaims.
“Do you wanna come with me?”
“You just said no showers.” When I give him another stern look, he lightly laughs. “You’re pissy for someone who just got off.”
“You’re mouthy for someone who just got off.”
“Why don’t you put something on my tongue to help correct that?”
He’s always like this. One round is hardly enough….Fuck. It’s not enough for me either…Was it stupid to wait this fucking long? No…Don’t answer that.
After an additional grin, Brock says, “Yeah. I wanna fucking go and tell them why they won’t be getting the job.”
“That’s not productive.”
“Depends on your definition.”
I roll my eyes.
“Now, hop up on the fucking table, so I can bathe that pussy before your shower…”
With a crooked smile, I lift myself off of him and slide onto the edge, ready to welcome another round.
This is definitely the sunshine I needed on this dark day. Brock always has a way of providing me with exactly what I need when I don’t even know what it is. That’s fucking terrifying. It’s part of the reason I didn’t want things to get like this between us? How the fuck am I supposed to learn to live without him if something fucks all this up? No. I’m not being pessimistic. I’m being realistic. I don’t live in a fantasy, fairy tale world where bad shit doesn’t happen or magic spells prevent tragedy. I live in the real world and something in the pit of my stomach tells me being together is not going to keep being as easy as it seems.
Brock
Q: Sorry for flaking yesterday. Going through some shit. Hope your woman isn’t fucking up your life as bad as she fucked up mine.
Instinctively, I growl at the text.
He’s still on this shit. While French has taken on a suspicious avoid everything Q related stance, he has done the opposite. Every fucking time he texts me he adds in a side line comment. ‘Hope she’s not fucking around’. ‘Check her phone. You know she’s shady.’ ‘You’re alone AGAIN while she’s working. Surprise Surprise.’ That kind of shit not only is getting old as fuck, it constantly keeps my head going down the yellow brick road of to ‘Nevergoodenough Ville’ and causes me to be more paranoid than I often already am.
I shove my phone into my pocket and brace my shoulder against the bedroom door frame while French continues to argue with herself.
She damn sure isn’t arguing with me. I established what was happening. It wasn’t a suggestion or a question. And no. We don’t typically do a lot of that bullshit in this relationship. One person says, the other eventually bends. That’s our version of compromise.
Finally, she slams her dresser drawer shut and turns to face me. “You haven’t said a fucking word since I started talking.”
My silence remains.
“Because you know I’m going to eventually just fucking cave.”
See.
Anger and annoyance cycle simultaneously through her expression. “Fine. We can go out for the night, but I want to be back by a reasonable time. I have two early as shit meetings and don’t want to have to add shots of espresso to my latte.”
The corners of my lips lift slowly.
“Put it away,” she snaps, stomping past me on her route to the bathroom.
Between the two of us, she needs time away from this fucking place. And I get it. She built it to never leave. To hide others and stay hidden, but for her fucking sanity, stepping away from work once in a while is necessary, especially with whatever is up her ass lately that’s not me. Put your scowl away. It was a joke. Not a bad dick. Don’t take it so hard.
“Did you check on Samantha?” French calls from her closet.
“This morning,” I promptly answer. “She seemed fine.”
Couple days ago, she was attacked while trying to get into her car. The assailant didn’t seem to want to s
teal from her just spook her. He shoved her around a bit, slapped her a time or two, and tugged at her clothes before fleeing like the punk bitch he is. We caught him on camera, but his face was wearing a fucking clown mask and the rest of his body was cloaked in black clothing. Whoever he is better be thankful French found him first ‘cause chances are I would’ve murdered him on the spot. No one fucks with Little Sami. No one fucks with any of us. This is my family. These are who I protect.
Irritation over French preventing me from doing what I feel obligated to do most, stings the back of my throat. “Did you figure out how he got in?”