Hate Crush (Filthy Rich)

by Angelina M. Lopez

  Her tongue welcomed his with a smooth lick as she gripped his wrists and rolled her hips, tasting him and letting him taste as her soft, flower-covered pussy got him ready.

  She tugged her head back and smacked a hand against his chest when he tried to follow. “So are we going to do this, Aish?” she said, and he could feel her breath against his open, gasping mouth.

  “Are we going to fuck in the dark until the month is over?” Her voice sprinkled over him like Spanish fly.

  “Are we going to take each other until it’s out of our systems?” He could feel the slightest silk of her lips, the barest tease of her tongue at his mouth. But she wouldn’t give it to him. Not without an answer.

  “Yeah, Sofia. Yeah.” Then he pulled her in rough and hard and invaded her mouth, wholly and wetly, and trapped her with muscles he’d reformed for her, and kept his tongue busy so he couldn’t say what was vibrating through him.

  Never, Sofia. You’ll never be out of my system.

  He felt nimble fingers at his shirt buttons.

  He let go of her mouth with a wet suck and then opened his eyes, looking up at her. But there was only the vaguest suggestion of her outline and the swing of her hair—right, the dark—so he couldn’t see what was on her face. But, fuck, he could feel.

  His girl was undressing him.

  She tilted back a little to get to the last buttons then, when his shirt was all the way open, she tugged it wide. His stomach, his chest, the whole story he’d inked there, were exposed to the dark, the warmed air between them, the sacred atmosphere of her room. He was still in his tux coat.

  When she put her hands on his stomach, his abs contracted under the touch.

  “Are my hands cold?” she asked softly.

  “Are you fucking kidding, Sofia?” he groaned, not soft at all, and she laughed and he wanted to die and she slowly, lingeringly stroked those much-loved hands over his stomach and ribs and pecs and sides and treasure trail and belly button and sternum and armpits and collarbone and shoulders and down his arms, tracing legends she couldn’t see, pushing everything off until he had to lurch away from her hands and tug off his cuffs himself because he was about to come in his pants.

  His cock did jump beneath her, did get wet at the tip, when he straightened again and heard her give a soft, involuntary coo of pleasure.

  “You’re so...” She sighed and fuck. It was too much, too good and too bad, that she liked what she saw when she could barely see him. He didn’t want to be an anonymous good lay for her. He didn’t want her to lose track of what this meant.

  He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her up against him. “Your beautiful fucking neck,” he growled against it, licking up the long line of it, wanting her to hear his voice, wanting her shivers to belong to him. “I took for granted all the beautiful skin you used to show me. Now all I get is your beautiful fucking neck. I’m obsessed. It’s my newest kink.” He sucked it filthy where it met her shoulder, just to prove him true, and she quivered under his mouth. “I can’t see your legs,” he said, working his mouth slowly over the skin. “Or your tits...or your ass...or your pretty, pretty cunt. So I think dirty, dirty thoughts about this beautiful...” Biting it. “Gorgeous...” Sucking it. “Fucking...” Loving it. “Neck.”

  She was gasping, boneless, nerves trembling just under her skin against him. She mumbled something against his shoulder.

  “What, Sofia?” he asked. He tilted up her chin. Now he had her attention, now he could be tender, sweet. He softly kissed her lips. “What, baby?”

  “Take off your pants,” she said.

  Guh. This woman. He dipped his hands under her skirt. “You first,” he said, hands stroking up her legs to reach for her panties. Stroking up taut thighs, round hips, and soft warm panty-free ass.

  Fuuuuuuuck. This woman.

  With a growl, he lifted her up against him as she gasped and laughed, squeezed her ass and gave it a slap, then took her mouth. She buried her hands in his hair and pulled it just like he liked.

  “Get naked, Aish,” she commanded against his mouth. “Get me naked.”

  And he did, pulled her free of all that gauzy dress, over her head and her shaking out her hair like a cloud. Smacked away her hands when she tried to help with his fly, lifting her high, naked, nipple in his mouth as he took care of it himself, stood and struggled out of pants and socks and shoes, never letting her go, then straddling the bench again, warm leather against his ass and thighs, hot Sofia straddling his lap and in his arms.

  Her skin, God, her skin, the bright glow of it against him even if he couldn’t see it in the dark. Overwhelmed, he pressed his forehead against her neck and mouthed at the smooth plane of her chest. She was silky smooth. She was so warm. She smelled like home.

  “Aish,” she murmured, into his hair, and she stroked her strong fingers down the muscles of his back. Dug into the muscles above his ass and tilted her hips against him.

  The trim bush that stroked his cock was already wet.

  “Que bonito, que guapo,” she murmured in the secret air between them. “The feel of you, Aish. So good, so long and hard and gorgeous.”

  She lifted up, brushing dampness up his contracting abs and the head of him jerking as it felt her, nothing but naked wet hot her and she wanted and she was asking and there was something, there was something he’d meant to...

  Fuck. He wrapped his hands around her slim waist and held her suspended above him. “You asked me if I was safe, Sofia,” he breathed in the dark. “Are you?”

  After a lifetime of caution—he’d only skipped condoms with Sofia after they’d both been tested—he’d gone inside her in the cellar uncovered. Between the astonishment and horror, protection had never crossed his mind.

  “Yes, Aish, yes,” she said, desperate, her waist, her hips, weaving in his hands. “I’ve never gone bare with anyone but you.”

  His heart lurched. Neither had he, not in ten years, but he was obsessed with her. What was her fucking excuse?

  The Aish of a week ago would have howled and pushed, would have jumped up and turned on the lights and gone down on his knees and demanded that she acknowledge it, explain it, admit that it had to mean something, right, beg that she put him out of his misery and give him some fucking hope that, just maybe, there was some infinitesimal chance that he had another shot with her.

  The Aish of right now pulled his sweet-skinned girl against his naked body, held her head in his hands as he kissed her precious mouth, and gently and carefully tilted his cock so the love of his life could sink down onto it. The Aish of right now would focus on the miracle of this moment, even if it never happened again.

  When she was all the way down, when he was all the way deep, she leaned back, just a little, and pressed her hand against her stomach.

  Fuck. He’d forgotten how she used to do that. “Are you okay?” he whispered. He realized then how quiet they were both being. Her breath was coming in little gasps. His chest was moving too fast.

  “Sí,” she whispered back. “You’re so big.”

  And all of it hit him right then, her skin and her smell and her silky wet heat and he was inside her and she wanted him there, and he groaned, loud and naked, surrounded her in his arms and began to rock her, up and down on top of him, needing to fuck her and needing to get fucked, and he growled, “C’mon, Sofia,” and she was riding him, oh fuck her perfect pussy, she was riding him so good and hard and crying out, “Así, así, like that, Aish, yes, yes...gigante, so deep,” her hands grabbing him, needing him, and he crashed her back against the leather so he could give her what she needed. He spread her thighs so he could give it to her, getting in so good and as deep as she wanted, commanding her, “Tell me...like this...like this,” using his fingers and cock and hips and balls and when she shrieked, when she showered him with her orgasm and her legs shook in his hands, he pulled out
and flipped her over and slapped her ass and shoved in again because it wasn’t time yet, wasn’t time yet for him, and she called him names, filthy names, as she clawed at the leather and he grabbed the edge of the bench, and shoved in and in and in, calling her names, too.

  “Belleza,” as he bit her neck. Beautiful.

  “Amada,” licking at the sweat between her shoulder blades. Beloved.

  “Mi princesa, mi única estrella,” as she locked up beneath him, shaking and sobbing and coming, and his own helpless orgasm shot down his spine.

  My princess. My only star.

  10 Years Earlier

  Sofia was happy and a little buzzed on the wine they’d guzzled in the parking lot and the pot clouds floating around her as she sat on a blanket in Golden Gate Park, running her hand through Aish’s sun-warmed hair as he rested his head in her lap and sang along to the band that was playing on the festival stage. The other student-workers who’d come with them were in the beer tent, which America’s archaic liquor laws and the glaring black X on the back of her nineteen-year-old hand prevented Sofia from enjoying.

  No matter. She’d worked hard all week funneling wine from the fermentation tanks to the barrels and shoveling out must. She’d even covered a couple of Aish’s shifts when he’d been up late drinking and writing music with John. So she was going to savor today, with her man’s head in her lap and his best friend at her side, who’d kept her laughing with a steady stream of stories about their childhood.

  “...And he’s so proud of himself because he’s hit the ball and everyone’s yelling, but they’re yelling because he’s running the wrong way. Right to third base. A week later, our moms take us out of baseball and put us in basketball...”

  Aish’s silky hair smoothed over her bare thighs as he turned to look at John and say, “And you stopped dreaming about being the next A-Rod and started talking about being the next Kobe.”

  John grinned, and the sunlight glinted off the white teeth, blond hair and true-blue eyes he’d used to seduce so many. “Gotta dream big,” he said.

  Things had gotten better with John in the last month. She’d worked to be more accepting of his third wheel in their company, less possessive of Aish’s time, and John had stopped flicking at their relationship. He’d even helped Sofia out a few times, covering Aish’s shift when she couldn’t, and sending a friend he knew in San Francisco to pick her up when she’d been stranded at Fisherman’s Wharf, wandering around with a bouquet of balloons when Aish had forgotten their date to play a last-minute gig in Santa Cruz.

  Aish being a musical genius, John had explained, meant that he could be a relationship idiot.

  If he was an idiot, he was her idiot, and Sofia didn’t love Aish any less for revealing that he was as fallible as any twenty-one-year-old boy. She trusted that he loved her, that he respected and needed her. She didn’t know what was next for them and tried not to think about the fact that they only had a month left in the internship. Sofia would start at the University of Bordeaux in the spring thanks to his uncle’s influence. His home was in LA, hers was in Europe. She...was grateful for the love he gave her now.

  She refused to beg for more.

  The worst thing a girl can do to herself, her mother had said, weeping as Sofia felt choked by the thick scent of perfume, is fall in love.

  Sofia shook off the ugly memory and buried her hand in her love’s hair.

  John was frowning down at the festival program in his hand. “Moriah’s Trick is playing,” he said.

  Aish jerked to look at John, making Sofia inadvertently yank. “Sorry,” she said, untangling her fingers.

  But Aish hadn’t seemed to notice. “How the fuck did they get on the bill?” He propped his weight on his elbows, lifting off Sofia’s lap to glower at John.

  “They signed with Steadman,” John said, still studying the program. “I’ve always said he’d be a great manager.” He paused. “Should we go talk to them?”

  “We should,” Aish said. Then he shot Sofia a look.

  What was that expression?

  He pushed up to sitting and swung his legs around to face her. “We know this band from LA,” he said, entwining her fingers with his. “We’re gonna talk to them for fifteen minutes and then we’ll be right back.”

  Sofia smiled at him, confused. “I can’t go?”

  Aish gripped her fingers. “The lead singer...she’s into me. Nothing’s happened and nothing’s gonna happen.” The big hot hand he ran down her leg wasn’t fair. “But I can’t go back there with my gorgeous girlfriend and expect the singer to say nice things about me to her manager.”

  She could see his point. And appreciated his honesty.

  And it was only fifteen minutes. She nodded her head. “Vale,” she said, pulling her long hair over her shoulder and crossing her legs.

  When Aish leaned forward to kiss her, deep and hard with a hand squeezing her shoulder, it settled the butterflies in her stomach. John stood and held out a hand to pull his friend to his feet.

  “Don’t worry,” John said, patting Aish on his chest. “I’ll make sure he gets back to you without letting her take too many bites.”

  And all the butterflies started fluttering again. But she didn’t let Aish see them as she waved him off, leaned back on the blanket, and kept her eyes on him until his dark head was swallowed by the crowd.

  * * *

  Two hours later, sweaty, headache-y, and frantic, Sofia shoved through a drunken clump of twenty-somethings, the skunky smell of pot clinging to everything, to finally grab at the correct blond man’s shoulder—she could smell John’s heavy cologne meters away.

  “John,” she said, her fingers digging in so he couldn’t get away. “Where have you been? Where’s Aish? What happened?”

  John’s eyes went wide. “He’s not with you?”

  Sofia shook her head, feeling naked with desperation. She wanted to put her hands over her face and hide. John cursed and grabbed his phone out of his pocket.

  “I’ve already tried that,” she said.

  When John got the same results as Sofia—straight to voicemail—he grabbed her arm and said, “C’mon. We’ll find him.”

  John’s urgency made her panic get worse.

  “He said he was heading back to you, so I hung with some of the other bands,” John said as they wove hurriedly through the crowd. “Wanted to give you some alone time.”

  “Did you talk to the lead singer?” she asked.

  John was quiet a beat too long before he said, “Yes.”

  “¿Y qué pasó?”

  “What?”

  “What happened?” She didn’t shriek. But she could have over the noise of the alien crowd, the roar of the unknown music, her own unfamiliar worry and lack of control.

  “He...” This close to the stage, the crowd was denser, and John had to shove with his height and shoulders and tug her behind him. She felt like a thinly stuffed doll dragged behind an uncaring child.

  Finally, they broke into a gap of space and air at the side of the stage.

  John had to shout in her ear. “She introduced us to their manager, and we talked.” His cologne added to Sofia’s nausea. “Then Aish said he was going to say goodbye to her before he got back to you.”

  At the expression on her face, John urged, “Don’t freak out.” He turned and spoke to a beefy security guard standing near an entrance to the backstage.

  Sofia’s stomach dropped when he shook his head.

  “He’s wandering around somewhere,” John promised. “We’ll find him.” She followed on his heels, skirting the edge of the crowd until they could breathe and hear again.

  “You’re special to Aish,” John said, scanning the crowd as they walked. “He wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

  Oh God. As fifteen minutes had ticked into thirty and then an hour and an hour and a half,
Sofia had worried about him being safe. Her imagination had gone wild with thoughts about him being attacked by a drunk festivalgoer or overly officious backstage security. She believed only something catastrophic would make him abandon her, without a word, in the middle of a crowd of strangers. She hadn’t considered...anything stupid. It’d seemed outside the scope of possibility. Until John implied it was the one thing she should be worrying about.

  “Was the lead singer still into Aish?” she asked, making sure to look away, far, far away as if Aish could be found on the horizon.

  John gave a begrudging laugh. “Every girl is into Aish.” Then he seemed to remember who he was talking to. “But it doesn’t matter who is into Aish; he’s into you. And as long as he doesn’t drink too much, he’s cool.”

  “Was he drinking backstage?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  John gave her a side eye as they continued walking. Finally, he said, “Not that much.”

  It was one characteristic of Aish that she was not a fan of and that, fortunately, didn’t happen very often. He could overindulge to the point of foolishness. It never happened when it was just the two of them. But being from a kingdom of wine, she had little patience for people who could not manage their alcohol.

  How much had he had to drink backstage with a gorgeous lead singer who wanted him?

  “Fuck...finally,” John cursed, before he was charging toward the beer tent. Sofia was right behind him when she saw what he’d seen: Aish, sitting on a bench outside the large tent, looking sweaty and miserable as he swayed and gripped a half-empty bottle of water.

  Sofia wanted to rush to him, wanted to throw her arms around him and pull his lolling head against her, wanted to start pouring gallons of cold water down his throat. But she didn’t. She slowed as John moved to Aish’s side.

  “Fuck, dude, where’ve you been?” John cursed, punching his shoulder.