Chapter Two. Asad Prince #2
Just as I raise the glass for another sip, my cell vibrates in the inside pocket of my suit jacket.
Except for essential personnel, the offices are closed today because of the occasion, but for me, it’s business as usual.
Funeral or not, my money doesn’t take a backseat to anyone or anything.
Shit, Marcus would probably appreciate that sentiment.
I remove the phone and glance down at it. A notification fills the top of the screen. Tapping the message box, I stare down at the text from Aryn.
Seeing you in that suit makes me want to drop down to my knees right now and suck your dick in front of all these people, Daddy.
A spark of annoyance flickers in me. Some men might like that daddy kink shit, but that ain’t ever been me. Low-key, the shit gives Electra complex. Lifting my head, I scan the room, and, as if she was waiting for me to find her, my gaze connects with Aryn’s.
A small, sultry smirk that has become her signature in the modeling world curves her lips.
I’ve seen grown men and women blush and get weak at the knees over that smile.
And luminescent golden-brown, blemish-free skin.
And gorgeous face of wide, oval-shaped eyes, patrician angles, and lush curves.
And tall, slim body with a handful of perfect breasts and a firm ass.
None of that do shit for me. Aryn might opt to believe that what we have is more than it is, but that’s on her.
I’ve always been brutally honest with her.
And keeping it one hundred, she better thank her mouth that I still keep her around.
The pussy is subpar, but the head is fire.
I tuck the phone back in my jacket without replying to the text, then turn back to the bar to finish my drink. But not before catching the anger that tightens her beautiful features. Like I give a fuck. My dick doesn’t run nothing over here.
“There you are.” My mother glides up to me and slides an arm under mine, tipping her head back to peer up at me.
At fifty-two, my mother is stunning. With her flawless, dark brown skin, delicate facial features, and tall, slender form, she could give a woman fifteen years younger competition. She keeps the best plastic surgeon on retainer to ensure it.
“Lorenzo Rossi from Agosti wants a quick word with you,” she says.
“Later.”
“Prince.” Her grip on me tightens, and when I glance down, her social mask with its not-too-big, not-too-small smile is very firmly in place, but her slightly narrowed dark eyes issue a warning to me.
Like I give a fuck. The time when she was able to control me has long passed.
My mother has the maternal instinct of a fucking piranha, so it shouldn’t be a leap or surprise that she raised a predator for a son.
“He wants to talk about a possible collaboration between us and his house. Imagine an exclusive line of House of Cross shoes paired with Agosti’s newest collection.
The prestige alone is priceless exposure, and we could assign any price point on the collection. ”
“Don’t get it twisted, Michelle. He needs us more than we need him; I don’t give a fuck how long his fashion house has been around. And he knows it, which is why he’s been calling the office for four weeks now.” I remove my arm from hers and meet her annoyed gaze. “Like I said, later.”
Her deep red–painted lips flatten and anger flickers in her dark eyes, but she doesn’t say anything further. Because although Michelle gave birth to me, she knows she can fuck around and find out, too, just like any random bitch on Melrose.
“Fine,” she quietly snaps. “It’s after six. We should say a few words before people begin to leave.” When I nod, she squeezes my arm. “I’ll get Kareem.”
She walks off in search of my younger brother, and I head for the raised, gleaming wooden platform that’s more of a stage toward the front of the ballroom.
In the past, live bands would play from here.
But today, only I climb the side steps, joined by Michelle and Kareem moments later.
A wave of applause fills the room as an HoC staff member hurries over, microphones in hand, passing one to each of us.
I decline with a small shake of my head, sliding my hands into my pants pockets.
Michelle switches her microphone on and smiles, turning to the “mourners” watching us from the floor.
“Hello, everyone.” In seconds, people quiet, and Michelle is in her element as all eyes fix on her.
There has never been a spotlight Michelle didn’t love or claw and backstab her way into.
“Thank you so much for joining my family in celebrating the life and homegoing of my dear husband, Marcus Cross. He would’ve been so touched by your presence and the unflagging support you have given me and my sons. ”
Touched.
That’s bullshit.
Marcus Cross would’ve considered their attendance and sycophant behavior his due.
That entitled son of a bitch would’ve needed a heart to be touched.
Not that I’m judging. Hell, that’s probably why we got along.
Two emotionally barren mu’fuckas. I still don’t understand how he fathered someone like …
I survey the room, searching for her.
And like always, I find her. Standing in the back of the room, surrounded by her lab mice.
She might be all back of the bus ’n shit in this ballroom, but ain’t shit cowering or submissive about her.
With her shoulders drawn back, head slightly tilted up, face stoic, and wineglass clutched in her hand, she’s a queen, surveying her subjects and judging us all lacking.
And yet … even across the space of a cavernous ballroom, she can’t conceal the fierce fire seething beneath all that luscious skin.
Maybe it’s all that burning hate that damn near emanates from her that draws me. It reaches out to me, heats my skin, and I want to bathe in it. Let all that rage and animosity consume me in huge, greedy bites. Yeah, her pain has always been a balm to my soul.
If I had one.
My mother’s voice drones on, nothing but an irritating buzz in my ears as my gaze clashes with hers.
The two women from earlier were jealous bitches.
No way in fuck anyone with a working dick or pussy could take one look at Ember Cross and not see all woman.
Did she smear pounds of makeup so that the color of her face didn’t match her neck?
Did she clothe herself in tight, short-ass dresses where, if she bent over, her whole pussy would be on display? Nah. But she didn’t need all that shit.
Like today, a black pinstripe suit strokes every voluptuous curve.
Perfect, almost more than full breasts shoving against a vest that strains like fuck to contain all that soft-looking flesh.
It’s holding up admirably. Wide-legged pants encase beautifully rounded hips that have my fingers itching to grip and bruise as I slam into that wet-ass pussy from the back, obsessing over the sexy arch of her back and the ripples of an ass that people get under the knife to get.
Thick thighs that would be the perfect pair of all-year-round earmuffs.
She’s covered from wrist to feet, yet sex damn near seeps from her pores.
I allow my gaze to roam over her face—a face that has tortured me for more than a decade.
Her long, dark blond hair is secured in a bun at the nape of her neck, providing an unfettered view of those haunting honey-colored eyes, wide nose, wider mouth with lush lips created for sucking skin off a dick, and that shallow dimple in the middle of her chin.
Yet, as beautiful as she is, none of it compares to that big-ass, lethal mind.
She’s the deadliest combination walking. People like to whisper behind my back. Saying I’m dangerous and ruthless. They tend to overlook the real threat in their midst. Ember’s like a deadly virus. Invisible to most. Sneaky. And deadly as fuck.
A threat doesn’t always come in the form of thick muscle or heavy artillery. Sometimes, it’s the mastermind in the background, the silent, patient killer behind it all that’s the most lethal. That’s Ember Cross. Unsuspecting. Underrated. Unassuming.
She’s also my every punishment and penance wrapped in silken skin and bad attitude.
“… so as we move forward without my beloved Marcus, we’ll do so as a strong, united family leading House of Cross into the future.
It’s what Marcus would’ve wanted.” As if on cue, a server appears with a tray holding three glasses of wine.
I snort, and Michelle cuts her eyes at me.
Leave it to her ass to make her final farewell to her husband a production starring her.
She chooses a glass, as does Kareem. I give the server a look, and he ducks his head as he moves backward, disappearing from my sight.
“If you have a glass, please raise it for one last toast.” She pauses, and more than half the people lift their glasses in the air.
“To Marcus. The world of fashion will never be the same without you. You will be missed. I love you.”
“To Marcus.” The room echoes with the toast.
I don’t raise shit.
And as my gaze connects with Ember’s again, neither does she.
“I thought we were doing this reading at the Castle?” Michelle snaps from the chair set in front of Marcus’s desk, her foot swinging like a highly pissed-off pendulum. “It makes no sense for us to move everything here at the house when we had a perfectly good conference room where we were.”
“I’m assuming Sam thought reading the will in Marcus’s home would be more secure,” Kareem murmurs.