Hate Crush (Filthy Rich)

by Angelina M. Lopez

  Stunned, he slid his hands over her silk-covered back and embraced her, gathered her tight against him. “Sofia?”

  She raised her lips to him. “Kiss me,” she demanded, that little line of stubbornness between her brows. He didn’t know who she was defying. But it wasn’t him.

  “Of course,” he said, rubbing his big hands over the delicate muscles of her, over her back, shoulders, arms that carried so much. He would reassure her. He would keep her safe. “As many kisses as you want.”

  If anything, that made the line dig in deeper and, fuck, he didn’t want to be the reason for her distress, so he gathered her face in his hands and kissed her with all of the devotion he had.

  He wanted it sweet. He wanted to soothe her. But his kiss caused a wounded sound in her throat, and that, that had to end right fucking now so he pushed his tongue into her mouth, strived to heal whatever was hurting with slow, wet plunges.

  His hand slid over the glistening, creamy-tan silk, silk turned erotically warm with her heat, and over one pebbled nipple. That’s right, she was naked under this silk. Restraint was already slipping when she pulled back with a wet suck and looked into his eyes. Hers were as sultry as just-turned earth after a summer rain.

  “I want to make love with the lights on,” she said, and holy fuck, if that didn’t almost send him to his knees. “Get out your cock so I can see it.”

  And...unh...down to his knees he went.

  She huffed in surprise and excitement, and Aish nuzzled through the silk into the apex of her. “You first, Sofia,” he murmured, cupping her small, firm ass to hold her, to allow him to breathe and nose and kiss at the heart of her where she’d sworn she was naked for him. “I’m dying to see this pretty pussy. Please, princesa, por favor, let me see your gorgeous cunt. I need it.”

  And her hands clenching into his hair, the sugar-salt bloom of the smell of her beneath her skirt, told him she was as desperate as he was.

  But when she stepped back from him, she was the princesa he’d just called her, regal and restrained, with all the control she’d learned from being a representative for her people when her parents were dicks, from being dismissed as a party girl when she was actually a self-made millionaire, from having to deal with a media circus when she was just trying to create a better future for her kingdom.

  Princesa Sofia Maria Isabel de Esperanza y Santos began to raise her skirt. He loved naked bodies, loved each stripper and groupie and socialite and movie star who’d slowly taken off their clothes to show him theirs. But not one of those experiences had him like this, down on his knees and panting as his princess raised her gilded skirt to show him delicate bare feet, a part of her that highlighted how small she was, even though she always seemed gigantic. She showed him the fine bones of her ankles and the glistening line of her shin. When she revealed her knees, he tried to duck down and kiss them, but she nudged him back, tsk-tsked him for being so impatient and Jesus fucking Christ he really needed to find out if she liked roleplay. These were the first knees he’d ever found irresistible. Then her thighs—smooth, tanned thighs—which meant she’d been hanging out poolside at some point and fuck every minute someone else got to look at those thighs. He wanted to snatch up those minutes like they were Matchbox cars he was too selfish to share.

  When he realized he’d been staring at the gentle slopes of her inner thighs with his fingers clawing into his pants, when he realized she’d paused pulling up her skirt, he looked up at her. She was staring down, down at his crotch, where his cock was being obscene between his white-knuckled hands.

  “Eso parece que duele,” she said and he felt a spurt because, yes, fuck, it did hurt, especially when she spoke Spanish to him in that satin-wrapped voice. “Maybe you should take it out.”

  “I will,” he said, pressing the heel of his hand to it. “I will, Sofia, but fuck, c’mon, don’t tease me, c’mon, Sofia, I need...” He was officially begging.

  With a regal nod that had his cock thumping against his hand, Sofia backed away slowly, not lowering her skirt but not raising it any higher either, and sat on the edge of her pink frilly bed. Without taking her eyes off Aish, the silk still held by one hand, she tossed the ballerina doll to the floor.

  Aish was glad to hear the crack of its lifeless porcelain face against the tile.

  Pushing herself up the bed until she was ensconced among all the satin-and-lace pillows, she tapped a spot at the foot of the mattress with her toes.

  “Siéntate, guapo,” she commanded, and Aish was standing, toeing off his shoes, and kneeing up onto the bed between her feet like the most obedient of palace guards.

  He leaned back on his heels. He let her admire him with those dark, liquid eyes as he worshipped her.

  Her legs, those gorgeous, hardworking, miles-of-skin legs, were bared to him from her unpainted toenails to the creamy silk dipping between her thighs. He put his hands around the delicate bones of her ankle in fascination, amazed to see this again, to be allowed to touch her this way again.

  He raised his eyes and saw her, his sun-stroked princess, so smart and filthy and serious and proud, sprawled for him because she wished it, sleeping with him because she chose it, listening to him because she allowed it. He was wrong in assuming she’d been the one who’d needed to change when he came here, but he would make amends now by changing for her. If she needed to move mountains, he’d help her push. If she needed quiet to let that big brain work, he’d shoot singing birds out of the sky. Her wants were beneficial and generous in a way Aish’s had never been. She deserved her wants, and he would help her achieve them.

  He would tell her. He only had four days left.

  “Take it out, guapo,” Sofia purred, shifting the skirt over her thighs so that it made a hissing sound. Or maybe that was Aish. “I haven’t gotten a good look at that big, beautiful dick in a decade. Let me see it, amor.”

  His toes curled at that word—amor—and he put his hands on his zipper. “You too, Sofia. C’mon, raise that fucking skirt for me, baby. I need it. I need to see your pussy so bad.”

  Her bare toes tickled at his hips like she was restless and needy, both crazy with all the fucking teasing, but she started to shift her skirt incrementally higher as Aish carefully slid down the zipper. The sound of the clothes—silk over skin, the buzz of the zipper—was the hottest soundtrack he’d ever heard.

  With his zipper down and the bulge of his hard-on pushing his grey boxer briefs through the opening, he got a glimpse of light brown curls before she put a hand over herself.

  “Sofia,” he groaned.

  She kept the skirt trapped at her hip with her other hand. “Pull it out, Aish,” she said, and her voice was like magic. “Pull it out and I’ll spread my legs and you can see how wet I am, so wet, and I’ll use my fingers so you can see it and hear it, but you have to pull it out, pull it out, please, please, and touch it for me, fist that perfect hot cock, my handsome love...”

  And every humming, spell-casting word as she spoke and he watched her face and her lips and her fingers, fluttering over where they hid her, was in Spanish. And he was ashamed and embarrassed and vibrating like a kid on the verge of coming because he knew, he knew as he gingerly pulled his cock through the opening in his briefs and she slowly slid her hand up to her stomach, showing him light brown curls, trimmed now in a way she wasn’t a decade ago, that for all of his noble pretension, this was why he’d learned her language.

  He’d hoped and prayed and wished for this chance, a chance to touch her again and understand her lust-soaked words in her native tongue.

  She made a delicious sound, like she was licking flan away from the spoon, as he fisted once down his cock and held it at his base. Held it up for her.

  “Spread your fucking legs, Sofia,” he growled, because he was done, fucking done, she’d promised and he needed it, needed the wet and heat and pink and softness of his memories and curren
t reality, needed to finally marry the two, and she did, almost like she wasn’t paying attention, her teeth digging into that lush bottom lip and her earthy eyes hungry on his cock, but his were just as hungry as those kissable knees widened and those sleek thighs spread and then, lovely curls parted to let him see her. Smell her.

  She moaned, hurt, when a bead of clear precome came from his tip and ran down his shaft, dribbled over the back of his hand.

  Fuck.

  Yeah, she was beautiful, rosy and puffy lipped and peacocking her arousal for him in the mellow light of the overhead chandelier. Yeah, she was gloriously shiny. And yeah, she smelled good, she looked good, she looked like forever.

  But he didn’t give a fuck about the look of her pussy. What he cared about was that she was showing him. In the light. In her castle. In her kingdom. Breaking every rule that had ever kept them apart. She was spread out and vulnerable and giving it up for him. To him.

  With a restraint he’d never had, Aish carefully let go of his cock to crawl over her, watching her heavy-eyed approval as his shadow fell over her glowing body, and put his hands over her dress on her hip, helping her hold the material against the tattoo that she still didn’t want him to see, that he pretended he didn’t know was there.

  He’d never, ever, ever again ever insist anything from her that she didn’t choose to give.

  She was already nodding when he pressed her into pillows and said, “I need to be inside you,” and he was kissing her luscious lips as he was searching for her, his free hand holding him up, and he was stroking over silk skirt and soft hair and velvety moisture and then his hot, iron-hard cock sank into the hot plush hug of her body and her thighs were coming up to grip his hips, still in his suit pants, and he was in heaven, pushing deeper into the soft, wet give of her, in her pillow-thick princess bed as those capable chemist’s hands tilted up his chin and she stared into his eyes.

  Staring into him, her eyes held a million stars. She tilted her hips and then slowly, with absolute power and control, she gripped him inside her. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering; the intimacy, the pleasure, was agonizing.

  “Sofia...baby...love.” He couldn’t stop panting. “You blind me. You’re star bright.”

  He began to move, he had to show her, he had to prove to her, he could give her what she needed. He needed her. He only had four days.

  The slide of his cock—he was thick and long and could move his hips and it was all for her, all his practice to please this princess who’d earned it—got him a reward: she tasted the inside of his mouth, bit his chin before she pulled back, still holding his jaw. “It’s you. What it feels like...with you.” She poured every hot word in Spanish over him as he pulsed and thrust into her, pushing her deeper into the pillows, deeper into the center of her where she lit him up. “What it always felt like with you. Say it again, Aish.”

  And he knew what she was asking for as he collapsed against her, dug his arms under her to hold her close, wrapped her tight while he rode her hard because she could take it, it’s how she wanted it, drowning in her eyes. “Estrella,” he said clearly. “My star. Always. Drawing me and guiding me. Estrella. So strong and bright and making me...fuck...” He pushed deep and made her still against him, losing it in the amazement of all of this. He held her precious body and made sure she saw every naked hope in his eyes. “Sofia, my shining star... I need you. Always have. Always will.”

  And for the first time ever, it was his words, his English, that made her come.

  “Mi fuego,” she cried out, and she was light-filled pleasure in front of his eyes and gut-shuddering pleasure down his cock, and beautiful, beloved woman falling apart in his arms while he watched his favorite words pour out of her mouth: “Aish” and “mi fuego” and “amor” and “amor” and “amor.”

  * * *

  After, she kicked him out of her room.

  It wasn’t a surprise; Aish didn’t fight leaving.

  He was feeling pretty fucking overwhelmed, too. He skirted the party and found their driver. On the silent drive back to the hospedería, his hands were trembling. Something mattered, really fucking mattered, and for the first time in his life, he might not get it.

  What was a surprise was the early dawn phone call from Devonte, after he’d just drifted off.

  “Tell me you didn’t do this,” his manager demanded.

  Just six words and an hour of sleep and Aish was wide awake. He’d never heard him more disgusted.

  “Do what?” Aish asked, already panicking.

  “Don’t fuck with me, motherfucker.”

  And Aish wanted to die.

  “I trusted you. She trusted you. Tell me you didn’t set all this up just to destroy her and help you.”

  Aish shoved out of his bed and strode across his room naked, grabbed for the first jeans he saw. “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, man,” he begged into the phone cradled against his neck, already looking for a shirt, shoes.

  Devonte was silent for too long. Finally, he said, “I’m heading to the airport now. I’m on the next plane out and you’re gonna have to lie to my face.

  “But there’s proof. There’s a flash drive proving John stole songs. They’re saying Sofia released it to get back at you. That you had a blowup fight after you two left the party, and she was always jealous of John and the band... With all the pictures of you two googly eyed and how hard you were working at the winery, they’re making her out to be the traitor. Vindictive, small minded, the woman scorned...man, the bullshit they’re slinging about her.”

  Devonte’s sigh was full of remorse. “If you made me part of a plan to destroy a good woman who didn’t want anything to do with you...”

  “I didn’t,” Aish insisted, his heart tommy-gunning in his chest. His eyes shot around the room, looking for his key, his phone. Yeah, fuck, he was using his phone. “I didn’t, I swear to God, but man, I gotta go.”

  Go, go, go. Oh Jesus fuck, he needed to go.

  “Man, I gotta go find her.”

  But when he threw his door open, he realized he wasn’t going anywhere. Because already keeping watch in the hall was his old guard dog, Roman Sheppard, looking every bit the soldier, with his shoulders thrown back, his fists clenched, and murder in his eyes.

  September 27

  Sofia rested her fists on the glass wall of her office and looked out over the afternoon dimness of her wine production facility. The lights were off and the winery was still. The day after the end-of-harvest party was always a day of rest in the Monte. Tomorrow, the facility would be bustling again as employees and interns took measurements, racked wine, and hauled barrels down to the cellar for long-term storage in the wine caves.

  She’d planned to go to every single intern this morning, apologize for wasting their time, and offer to change their plane tickets to allow them to leave early. But before she’d had the chance, working her way down Namrita’s methodical list of to-dos to plug a leak in a crumbling dam, Amelia Hill found her. Acting as emissary for the group, she’d told her that not one of the nineteen interns believed that Sofia had handed over the flash drive. They would stay until the internship was over. They would support her once they were home.

  Sofia had replied that the interns should support the winery and the Monte. Supporting her was a lost cause. The IT techs had called to report a dangerous surge in server activity as people canceled their hospedería reservations. A major American wine distributor, who’d been willing to work around the Consejo to get the wine out of Spain, had emailed to say he was no longer interested. And Mateo had begrudgingly revealed, after Sofia had harangued him that she needed to know the full impact, that two new fruit buyers had pulled their contracts.

  Was there any use in finishing the wine that right now sat in the steel and oak vats on the quiet processing floor if no one was going to drink it? The quiet that ha
d settled over the Monte didn’t feel like rest, Sofia thought as she settled her forehead against the cool of the glass.

  It felt like mourning.

  Mourning the fact that their princess’s desperate bid for attention was every bit as destructive as their queen’s. She’d tried to make herself necessary and valuable and, as a result, damaged her kingdom. The queen’s blowups and affairs had never netted a result this disastrous.

  “They’re bringing him over now,” Namrita said from behind her, her voice strained. Acting as the kingdom’s mouthpiece, trying to set the story straight, had worn it out. It had been a useless effort. The international media had the story they liked. Sofia was a betraying bitch who—in the midst of a royal temper tantrum—tried to ruin the legacy of one man who’d sacrificed himself to the Mississippi River and the career of another man who’d been working hard to save hers. She’d poured gasoline on the world’s favorite love story and lit the match.

  It was funny; Sofia had invited the world press to her home because she thought she could manipulate it. She couldn’t cry over shattered grapes when Aish proved to be the better manipulator.

  They’d packed up his room—apparently the prima donna had refused to help—and kept him away from his electronics all day. Roman’s security team was escorting him here and then straight to the airport. Namrita felt they should try to discover what he was going to say to the media, what he planned next.

  He had no reason to lie to them now; he’d accomplished what he’d come here to do.

  She’d been dumbfounded by the information Namrita gave her this morning while she’d stood in a T-shirt in her childhood bedroom doorway, her dress in the closet and her face washed clean but her hands still tingling from Aish’s scruff, from the way she’d cradled his face as she let him see every irretrievable emotion in her eyes. She’d been so intent on defying her mother’s curse that she’d actually allowed herself to ignore her vow and believe that maybe...for a second....