“Aish, what John did to you, the way he misled you was—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he growled without stopping. The thick swoop of his black hair bounced on his forehead.
“But it’s not your fault that John—”
“I don’t want to talk about that, Sofia.”
She crossed her arms over her linen shift to staunch her frustration, while he continued to march a trench into her hospedería floor. He was a gathering storm in his summer cream sweater and white pants. She couldn’t just leave him alone.
“Vale,” she said, dropping her arms helplessly to her side. “What do you want to talk about then?”
When he swung on her with his sparkling, black-eyed glare, it caught her off guard. “Let’s talk about Henry,” he said, aiming that too-long, too-fast stride at her. “Let’s talk about why he keeps putting his hands all over you when you’re begging orgasms from me.”
He was coming at her. Her heart was pounding. “Jealous?” she asked, raising her chin.
“Fuck yes,” he said, and then his big, hot hands gripped her shoulders. “It kills me to watch him touch you with the freedom I want.” His gaze scorched her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. “I want to wrap my arms around you. I want to stroke you and feel you lean against me.”
His words were like a sip of the richest wine. “You’ve been paying close attention,” she said, and felt his reaction—a fight of his impulses—in the squeeze of his fingers, the subtle dominating shift of his shoulders.
“Don’t, Sofia,” he warned, deep and growly. “Are you in love with him?”
Her body throbbed in anticipation. He’d never been jealous over her before. He’d never had reason to be; her devotion had been absolute and slavish. She wouldn’t have known what to do with him like this as a girl, with him angry and holding back a desire to assert himself. But now she was a woman and having his big body wanting to master hers—within the boundaries of their rules—suited her just fine.
She smiled at his ludicrous question. “Would you have denied me orgasms if I did love him?”
He wrenched her hard against him. “No and you know it.” And maybe he was going to break her rules and maybe he was going to taste her lips and maybe he would fuck her through the floor and maybe she would face the consequences later. In the morning.
His bite on her lower lip was sharp. She gasped, eyes and mouth flying open, pain and want getting all mixed up, and the look in his eyes got darker and more determined, his hold on her tighter, as he tilted his head to kiss her jaw. The bite there was kinder, slower, and toe curling. She felt the delineation of his strong, white teeth.
Looming over her and warming her like a furnace, he held her against him and began to make out with her ear, her neck, the skin between her clavicles—wet, soft flicks and nips and hot, nerve-scoring lip drags—mocking her mouth for all the kissing, sucking, and biting it was missing out on.
“Your beautiful fucking neck,” he murmured, thumbs holding back her chin, tilting her head back for his exploration. “Your neck makes me crazy...the only skin you’ll let me see... I fuck my fist thinking about your neck... I come fantasizing about kissing it.”
Why did his filth make her so hot? When he began pulling up the calf-long hem of her dress, she felt molten.
A final, desperate flail from her dying self-preservation reminded her what Aish would see on her hip.
“Apaga las luces,” she gasped, not wanting to think, not wanting to stop. “Turn off the lights, Aish.”
Like a cord had been snipped, he sagged against her, making Sofia stagger then straighten to take his weight. She grabbed his hip, grasped the back of his neck when he buried his head against her shoulder.
She’d gone from bending beneath him to being the only thing keeping him up.
“I’ve been in the dark for so long,” he said, tight and low into her skin. His hands came around her and clung to her back. “I can’t go back there tonight.”
As a boy, he’d caused her so much pain. The worst misery in a life that had a fair share of it. She hadn’t wished him evil in return; instead, she’d tried to erase him from her mind entirely. Seeing him crumbling now, she should be dancing on his ashes.
She slid her hand to his chest and pushed him upright. He gritted his teeth, thinking it was a rejection. But she swept his hair out of his eyes then tugged his head back with a soft grip so he was looking at her.
She let him go and walked backwards to a silvery grey chaise, took a seat on the edge of it, and pointed the toe of her basket-weave wedge sandal. “Would you help me with my shoe?”
She wouldn’t leave him alone in the dark. Neither did she want to be touched by his light.
He approached her cautiously, unsure, but when he slid that long body down onto his knees, it started a low flame in her belly. When he dipped his hands under the hem of her dress and traced slowly up the crisscrossed satin ribbons to the bow at the top of her calf, that flame grew.
When he untied the bow, Sofia murmured, “Could you tear off one of the ribbons?”
He did, effortlessly, the veins in his guitar-playing hands bunching as he ripped the wide ribbon loose, then handed it to her. When she held it up to him, pulled taut between both hands, understanding knocked the dreamy expression off his face. The white satin ribbon was as wide as her palm.
Hunger filled his eyes as he lifted his chin and leaned his face toward her.
She settled the ribbon over his eyes before he could see the jolt of excitement, of power, his acquiescence gave her and tied it at the back of his head. “¿Estás bien?” she murmured, running her fingers over the slick fabric, already warm from her body and now from his, making sure it covered his eyes and was secure but not too tight.
It was a creamy, glistening white barrier against his tanned skin and black hair, banning her from his lightning-storm eyes and making his leonine nose, the slash of his cheekbones, and those plunderable lips even more erotically upsetting.
He tilted his head toward her ear. “I’m good,” he said, a purring rumble from his chest. “And no more talking, Sofia.”
A thrill shook her as he regained his bravado. He moved closer and slid his fingers up the back of her calves, untied her other shoe and tossed it away. He spread her knees and made room for himself between them.
“I can’t see you, just a glow,” he murmured as he feathered his fingers against the sensitive skin behind her knees. It was overwhelming to see him, watch those lips move, study him this close and vulnerable without the threat of him looking back. “I promise. I swear. Can I get you naked? Let me touch you naked.”
And she wanted it, the pressure and pleasure of his hands on her body without seeing the weight of what it meant in his eyes. It was every fantasy she’d swear she never had.
She wiggled the dress up her thighs, over her body and tossed it away. It made a soft thump against his rug and his hands painfully squeezed her kneecaps.
“Lay down,” he murmured, and he moved and pressed her knees together, swung them up on the chaise as Sofia leaned back, her head flat against the chaise’s long seat. The material was cool and velvety against her skin.
As a fully clothed Aish Salinger leaned over her nearly naked body, the ribbon of his blindfold dripping down to tickle her shoulder, his broad shoulders highlighted in gorgeous cashmere that slipped aside to reveal the edge of a tattoo—the gridlines of a map?—Sofia had to press her lips together to hold back hysteria. She had to press her hands against her thighs to keep herself from lifting them, from spreading them and begging.
“Shake your head yes or no, Sofia,” he said, voice low but commanding as he skimmed one hot, callused finger over her shoulder, across her jaw, and then over her lips. She opened her mouth for him as his teasing stroke made her lips tingle. “Did you ever do this with him?”
“With who?”
she sighed.
The slow birth of Aish’s feral smile made her remember. Henry. He was asking about Henry. While he was blowing her mind. Cabrón. Gillipollas. She jerked her lips away from his touch and he let her, instead stroking his thumb against her chin and the long line of her neck.
“No talking,” he said, and his blind grin hovered over her like the X-rated version of the Cheshire cat. “Do you want to do this with him?”
Sofia hesitated. But then shook her head no, made sure his thumb could feel it. It was a fair question; this was only a game, and he should know that no one would get hurt by their play.
“Do you want to do this with me?”
That’s when she realized that while she lay all-but-naked for him—she still wore her nude-colored panties—he’d only touched her shoulder, her face, her neck. In the time that he’d been in her kingdom, Aish had unrelentingly pressed her for more, pushed her for reaction and answers and emotional intimacy she’d been unwilling to give him.
Except in this. In this, in desire, he’d never pushed. Come on, baby had been omnipresent with men. But not with Aish. Never with Aish.
“Do you want to do this with me?” He’d made himself vulnerable when she would have let him take.
“Yes,” she groaned, the restraint in her fraying and snapping, arching up her back. “Yes, please, por favor, Aish. I need you to touch me, por favor, tócame, tócame ahora.”
One hand covered her mouth, rough skin muffling her pleas, while the other hand skimmed down her body to find her breast. His mouth bent to her nipple, licked, bit then pulled as her back arched sharply and she gave a cry against his palm.
“No talking,” he commanded again, sucking against her skin, savoring, and she pried her eyes open to watch it, watch him blindfolded and bent over as his whisker-shadowed cheek hollowed to pleasure her. He opened his mouth wide, like he would swallow her whole, and his mouth and tongue were wet and voluptuous over her breast.
“You taste so good...like, fucking...you taste like cinnamon candy, Sofia.” His tongue slid down her sternum. “You’ve always been my favorite flavor.”
When he rubbed his lips against the fine hairs along her abdomen, Sofia couldn’t help but spread her thighs. Her hips began to move helplessly as she knocked his relaxed hand from her mouth. “Keep going, Aish, please, te necesito, lower, lower, Aish, I need you, it’s been so long...”
“Keep talking and I’m stopping,” he said cruelly. “You follow my rule if you want my tongue in your pussy. Is that still your favorite, baby?”
He teased into her belly button like he would lick at her clit, and Sofia had to jam the back of her hand against his mouth as her hips begged porfavorporfavorporfavorporfavor.
“Remember the taste of your cunt,” he cooed as his nose skimmed over her quivering stomach, rubbed into the hair above her panties. “Remember wanting to eat you for days.”
She pressed her lips against her teeth as he bit her hipbone; if he saw what she’d tattooed there, the reminder that should have kept her from this, he’d realize she remembered something about him, too.
His kiss, between her legs, was soft through her panties; it jolted her like an electric shock. To watch his handsome face, once so beloved, against this essential part of herself—terror twined with pleasure when he licked hard, in this upside-down way, almost sitting next to her on the chaise, and Sofia’s hands needed him, dipped under his sweater and began tracing up his gorgeous, wide, rippling back... She caught the sight of ink—he was tattooed here, too—before he pulled away from her and moved to the end of the chaise.
Aish Salinger, blindfolded and more magnificent than she could have dreamed he’d become, kneeled between her legs, gripped the wisp of fabric at her hips, and slowly pulled her panties down and off.
She didn’t know whether the tremors as he smoothed his hands up the insides of her thighs came from her or him.
He separated her pussy lips gently and traced her like he was looking with his fingers. And then he was leaning over and the long ends of the satin were trailing over her skin and his hard shoulders were muscling between her legs and his harsh breath was warming her most intimate place.
Things fell apart in her as she stared at him, blindfolded and vulnerable and masterful between her thighs.
“I missed you,” he said before his mouth tasted her.
Kisses. Wet, soft, licking, sucking kisses. All the kisses she denied her mouth he gave to her pussy. With his fingers holding her open, he kissed and kissed her, turning his head, stroking and touching, humming against her, until he pushed her thighs up and spread her. Kissed her harder and deeper. All with a wet, searching tongue.
She knew then that the eager, hungry boy wasn’t just a figment of her hated fever dreams. His tongue flicked at her clit like her pleasure kept him alive. His fingers turned and slid inside, finding her bumpy G-spot then come-hithering it.
That was a new trick. It made Sofia want to scream.
“Good, baby?” he groaned into her skin. “Like that? Push my hand away if it’s too much. Tell me...yeah, oh God, yeah.” Sofia felt it, too, the flood of moisture that celebrated what he was doing. “Fuck. Soak my hand, pretty girl. Gorgeous...” His tongue joined his fingers at her entrance. “Why do you have to taste so good? Why do you have to feel so fucking good?”
Sofia couldn’t stand it, had to bury a hand in his hair while she buried her teeth into the thin skin of the back of her other hand.
Why do you have to be so good at that? she wanted to scream at him. Why do you have to be so beautiful? Why—she wanted to praise him, flay him, worship him, and kick him in the face—do you have to be the one that tempts me most?
His fingers began to move faster as he sucked on her clitoris and it wasn’t Sofia’s fault that out of her mouth poured, “Eso, así, así, más, me gusta, te necesito, adalante, adalante, mi fuego.”
He reared up, grabbed her by her biceps, pulled her up against him.
“What did you call me?” he demanded, and she could see his eyes moving behind the blindfold, feel the desperation in his hold.
Her body trembled on the edge of an explosion. She knew instantly when she’d said it mindlessly. Mi fuego. My fire. Her fire, the loved word she’d named him, the one he’d abused in his song.
He’d have to beat her to hear it again.
His breath chugged in his chest like he was working to get ahold of it. After several moments, his hold on her gentled.
He tilted his head.
“You’re not very good at following rules,” he said. His black hair flopped over his white blindfold and he gave her his lopsided grin. It was strained. His lips gleamed with her.
She was literally vibrating in his hands. “I’m as good as you are,” she said through clenched teeth. She was on the verge of humping him.
“How about this?” he asked, and he wiped his thumb across the gleam of his lips. And then that motherfucking cabrón licked his thumb into his mouth, sucked it clean with a pop. “You give up one of your rules and I’ll give up one of mine. Let me kiss you. Then I’ll let you talk.”
She’d tried to hobble him by hiding his eyes. Instead, she’d only left herself defenseless, focused all her attention on his beautiful mouth, that thin but sensitive upper lip, his plump lower lip she’d once liked to tease plumper with nips and sucks.
She wanted his mouth. She wanted to babble. To help him forget.
It was just this one last time.
“Yes, Aish,” she said because she could now, pulling him to her. “Kiss me. Bésame.”
She was prepared for their kiss to be hard. Hot. Explosive. What she wasn’t prepared for was for Aish to feather his fingers across her mouth like he was saying hello to it. For him to trace her lips slow and sweet. When he finally leaned in, only his breath touched her lips. He inhaled her. And then he gave her the barest, silkie
st brush of his warm lips, one finger still fondling the crease like he was checking for confirmation.
Every nerve ended at Sofia’s mouth.
His tongue touched her bottom lip, next to his finger, before it retreated, like the taste was too much. Too good. She could hear him swallow. His pink tongue returned, to stroke again, to flick inside, and she touched her tongue to his. Licked his finger to let him know yes, she wanted this. Yes, this was real.
He touched her jaw then cradled it like she was glass then he kissed her, at last, pressing that unforgettable mouth against hers, giving her warmth and breath and endless sunny sea. She sobbed helplessly into his mouth and he soothed her with his tongue, pressed inside and pleasured what had been empty.
He gathered her naked body up in his arms and kissed her for the first time in ten years, plunged his tongue inside and gave and tasted and took. The nineteen-year-old girl with her oath flailed inside her, just for a second, before pure pleasure burned her up. Tomorrow. She would think about it tomorrow.
Tonight, Aish Salinger was kissing her.
Pleasure quickly emolliated his restraint as he gripped her ass and stood, still kissing her, and then sat with her straddling him. She pressed naked to his hard, cashmere-covered torso. He sucked on her tongue before he commanded, “Get my cock out,” against her lips, and she responded as eagerly as if she’d demanded it, eyes closed now and as blind as him as she undid his button and zipper and got him out—long, hard, hot cock she stroked up against his sweater—and she pressed up against him.
He grabbed her by the bend of her knees and moved his hips until the length of his cock nestled between her juicy pussy lips. Even though he wouldn’t go inside, there was relief in the heat he pressed against her.
She began to roll her hips, grinding her clit up and down all those thick, hard inches.
“Yeah,” Aish moaned, between kisses and bites. “Yeah, slick me up with your pretty pussy, baby. Sofia. Fuck...fuck.” He cursed and she felt him shudder. “So soft and good. So warm. Ride it, baby. So good at stroking that shaft.”
Hate Crush (Filthy Rich) Page 19
