Love Him: A Love Him, Hate Him, Want Him Novel

by Blaze, Stella

  Jake…

  I shivered as his breath tickled the back of my neck.

  He chuckled and pulled me closer. He was naked, and so was I. I could feel every lovely inch of him, warm and hard against me. Shamelessly, I wiggled my bottom back against him, making part of him all the harder.

  He cursed, and before I knew it he’d flipped me over onto my back and maneuvered himself in between my thighs.

  Good god, yes… I needed him inside me.

  Please, please, pretty please…

  I didn’t have to beg. He reached down and lined himself up to me and before I could pull in another breath he pushed into me. I gasped, my body tensing, my sex contracting. I gripped him inside me so tightly he groaned with need, with hunger.

  “I want to fuck the hell out of you,” Raphael said, his dark, sexy voice making me jerk.

  I planted a hand against his chest and pushed him back, but that just made his hard cock push even farther into me. His skin gleamed in the moonlight, the tattoos on his arm shone silvery.

  I shuddered as he pushed further into me and my body responded.

  Where was Jake?

  I’d been with Jake, right?

  But Raphael was inside me, and as he leaned down I smelled his scent mixed with melted butter.

  What the hell was going on?

  He leaned down to kiss me, his hips pounding into me.

  I came awake, gasping for breath, hands pulling the covers up over my body, sweat pouring off me.

  I looked around my room. All the lights were out but the moon streamed in and illuminated everything in a reassuring glow.

  Clive rested on the dresser across the room from me. He twitched his tail and blinked at me, his eyes flashing red for a beat like he was a demon. He turned his feline head from me, telling me openly that he thought I was too pathetic to look at any longer.

  I couldn’t be having sex dreams about two men at the same time…

  Oh, wait, hadn’t I already had one?

  One in that damn chocolate dress I was going to be wearing… tonight!

  Oh lord, I prayed. Have mercy on me. Please, please, please have mercy.

  ###

  I tried to burn off my nervous energy by taking a three-mile walk through town. That didn’t work, so I did some gardening. And when that hadn’t done the trick I went down in my basement and started moving things around. The basement was clean and neat, but I could still burn off some nervousness moving things around.

  This finally worked, and I fell asleep on the couch for an indeterminate number of hours until someone started banging on my door and ringing my phone. I staggered to the door, dismissing the phone as just an irritating noise.

  Bette and Darla stood at my door, both looking harassed and impatient. But both greeted me with mega watt smiles.

  “I thought you’d never answer the door!” Bette said.

  “Were you sleeping or something?” Darla pinched my arm as she stepped past me and into the house.

  I held my arm where she’d pinched. It hurt and woke me right up. I wiped some drool from my chin. “No, I wasn’t asleep.”

  The two did that creepy Siamese twin thing, looking me up and down and then silently conversing to each other with just their eyes.

  “Hit the showers,” Bette crooned as she headed up to my bedroom. “We only have two hours before Stud-Neighbor comes a-calling.”

  Darla smiled and shooed me along up the stairs ahead of her. “Don’t worry. I’m doing your makeup and hair. We agreed.”

  That made me feel a little better, even though I still couldn’t wrap my mind around Darla knowing anything about makeup.

  Two hours blew on by, and they pronounced me “gorgeous” and departed to Bette’s for a couple celebratory margaritas. I assumed Darla’s would be virgin… but what I didn’t know I didn’t have to testify to in court about.

  I sat in my kitchen with a crème soda by my side. I needed some coffee, but was afraid my stomach wasn’t up for it.

  The delicate gold bracelet Darla clasped to my right wrist was making my scar itch… and tingle…

  I took it off and rubbed my wrist for a little while, trying to clear my head of all thought.

  It shouldn’t be this hard…

  Monks do it. Yoga instructors the world over do it.

  I bet even Lindsay Lohan could do it!

  There was a knock on the front door.

  Thank god.

  I grabbed my clutch, checked to make sure I had cash, a credit card and my cell phone: always leave home prepared.

  Yeah, especially when you’re going on a date.

  It’s not a date. I can’t stand him. No matter if he’s the hot male Mother Teresa of the Morales clan.

  I clicked my way down the hall into my foyer. I opened the front door and just stopped. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, all I could do was stare.

  A tall, handsome stranger stood on my porch, the kind they write romance novels about.

  He turned and smiled at me, giving me his best sexy smile.

  I forced the eyes closed and shook my head. Drop dead sexy/gorgeous or not, Raphael was still an egotistical asshole.

  I opened my eyes and glared at him, placing my hands on my hips.

  Raphael’s eyes swept of me and kind of glazed over, darkening, his mouth sliding from a smirk to slack jawed dope in ten second flat.

  It was my turn to smile. Take that, Mr. Sex-on-a-stick.

  He gulped and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “You… you look…amazing.”

  I smiled even wider. Amazing? He thought I looked amazing.

  I gave Clive a scratch behind his ears and whispered, “Don’t wait up for me.”

  I cringed. I just didn’t say that, had I?

  Raphael still had that vacant look on his face, so I was pretty sure he hadn’t heard me.

  He backed up a pace and then scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away his shocked expression. He suddenly looked sober and thoughtful… and handsomer than I’d ever seen him before.

  His suit was pure black and tailored to hug his every curve. His silk dress shirt was a blue so dark it was almost black too. All that dark made his hungry, predator eyes all the darker looking.

  My god, his eyes were drowning deep. I felt like I could stand there and stare up into those fierce, smoldering eyes forever. Until time came to a halt and the universe ended and turned to dust.

  He offered me his arm, and after staring at him for too long I recognized the gesture. I slid my arm in his and we turned to walk off the porch. He smelled so good; fresh yet darkly spicy.

  Like paparazzi stalking the Jolie/Pitts, Bette and Darla sprang from the bushes beside my porch steps and raised a pair of digital cameras.

  Flash… flash, flash, flash…

  I blinked and tried not to fall forward down the porch steps.

  “Smile, Hope!” Darla sang. “The camera loves you.”

  I glowered down at them.

  Bette let her camera drop and she smirked at me. “Say cunnilingus!”

  Raphael snorted.

  I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, pretending my elbow hadn’t hit the mark. “I’ll teach you all about it after the party.”

  I felt the blood rush to my face. Bette raised her camera and took a picture. “That’s perfect.”

  Darla and Bette waved goodbye as Raphael drove us away in his shiny red Barracuda, slipping through the sleepy, quiet suburban streets, and then onto the interstate.

  Usually high speed driving caused me to clench up, hold on tight, and then pray to god I’d get out of the car alive.

  Either I trusted Raphael’s driving—which made absolutely no sense—or being in the car while Bette taught Darla how to drive had inoculated me.

  I leaned forward and turned on the radio. Some kind of thrash metal band moaned and screamed and smashed their instruments to a furious beat. I turned and gave Raphael a hard look.

  He reached
into his jacket pocket and pulled out a CD case and handed it to me. The CD had “Trip” written in sloppy handwriting.

  “You made a mixed CD?” I couldn’t hide how much this tickled me. “What, are you seventeen or something?”

  He took the CD case from me, opened it and stuck it into the slot under the radio.

  “First of all, I didn’t make it for you. I made it for the trip.”

  I giggled, making his dark brows furrow. “And second?”

  He sneered. “I’d made my first million by seventeen.”

  Oh… I’d forgotten. And now he was the patron saint of his entire family.

  I knew people who tortured themselves because they couldn’t provide for their families. People that only wished they could help their entire families.

  Raphael already had and still was.

  I was about to say something when The Dixie Chicks started to rock out from the speakers. Long Time Gone, one of my favorites.

  I leaned back in the buttery soft leather bucket seat and let my eyes slide closed. If the rest of his song selections were this good… and unexpected, this would be a very nice trip.

  Nat King Cole crooned The Very Thought of You, Carrie Underwood belted Last Name, James Brown shouted The Pay Back, Green Day rocked American Idiot and The Rolling Stones rolled through Satisfaction.

  I might’ve nodded off somewhere along the way, but when Raphael said, “We’re here, Sleeping Beauty,” Rihanna was singing Stay.

  Night had fallen and a man in khakis and a dark blue polo shirt opened my door for me. Raphael slid out his door like a sleek cat, whereas I had a hard time pulling myself up from such a low seat, especially with these heels on. I could walk in them—I’d practiced—but I hadn’t tried getting in and out of a low to the road sports car yet.

  The valet held the door, but it was Raphael who leaned in and offered me his hand. The bastard was being chivalrous. I was sure he would make fun of me for it later, but right then I was just glad to get out of the car.

  And the second I stood up I had to pee. Like so bad my knees knocked together and I almost fell over. I hung onto Raphael’s arm for support—man, he really worked out, and he smelled delicious.

  I asserted my absolutely amazing powers of mind control over my bladder, and waved the valet back over.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I nearly yelped, and then forced my voice lower. “Where’s the closest bathroom?”

  He smiled and pointed to the revolving door. “Through the door; halfway through the lobby and to the right.”

  “Thanks,” I said, gave Raphael an apologetic “Sorry,” and unceremoniously started to run, my knees locked, teetering on my heels.

  The revolving door slowed me down, and so did the crowd milling around the lobby. But I cut off a bellboy with a flotilla of luggage, ducked past some squabbling ladies in matching “I Break for Shirtless Cover Models” t-shirts and dashed into the ladies’ room.

  And then stood in line for ten minutes to use one of the three stalls the Hilton’s restroom boasted.

  I mean, really… only three stalls?

  I was tempted to find another ladies’ room, or to just go over to the Men’s room… but I was afraid I’d start to leak if I had to walk too much farther, and I was certain that I’d get arrested if I went into the Men’s room.

  The lady in front of me took pity on me, otherwise it might’ve been even longer.

  I tried not to be too loud as a sigh of utter relief rang from my mouth.

  Thank god I made it.

  Raphael was waiting patiently for me outside the ladies’ room, leaning sexily against the wall. He looked great, unwrinkled and refreshed.

  I’d checked myself out in the mirror when I’d washed my hands. My make up was still good—which was great, since I didn’t know how to fix it—and my dress had only a couple wrinkles.

  “Ready to meet and greet?” he taunted.

  I closed my eyes and imagined the horror that awaited me. “No.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  Chapter 32

  The ballroom glowed with just enough amber and blue light that you could easily see, but was still intimate to the eye. Throngs of people shifted through the huge room, all eating and drinking and talking over the pulsing beat of an unfamiliar song. As my eyes adjusted I saw huge ten foot tall monitors on the walls, all showing a slide show of my accumulated covers, and some of the ones I’d done up from my leftovers.

  People were staring at them, as if transfixed by a bug zapper.

  It was creepy.

  I spotted Greta, Janine’s partner at Branded Publishing. Silver haired and dressed as if she belonged to a country club, she had two of her assistant editors in tow as she crossed the floor in front of me. I waved and she waved back, absently, but kept on walking. And then she stopped dead-- her assistants halted and backed away in a hurry. She turned and took another look at me, and then at Raphael.

  Her eyes got that dreamy look cartoon coyotes get when dreaming about roasted roadrunners.

  To her credit she shook that off and took another long look at me.

  “Hope? Is that you?”

  I nodded. “Hi Greta.” I gestured around me. “This is one hell of a party.”

  She smiled. There was something about Greta that always confused me. She was probably one of the most intelligent women I’d ever met, and that meant that everything I said to her usually counted against me. Plus, one could never be sure what she really meant when she said something to you.

  “I think it’s going well.”

  I nodded.

  She gave me an up and down look again. “I love the dress. I didn’t know you even had breasts.”

  Okay, that was blunter than I’d expected from her.

  Her gaze went over to Raphael again. “And your use of accessories is genius.”

  I gulped as Raphael stood a little taller, and smiled like he was a movie star.

  “Ah… where’s Janine?”

  Greta rolled her eyes and pointed to the rear corner of the ballroom. “Over at the bar, getting soused.”

  “She’s drinking?” I’d never seen her drink before. She usually wanted to be at the top of her game in all business matters.

  “As I said, I think we’re doing great… she’s having a mental breakdown.” She stepped to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Could you go and try to talk her down? We need her to work her magic tonight, not fall off her barstool and face plant on the dance floor.”

  She turned on her heel and marched off, her assistants running after her.

  Okay, this was new. Janine was flaking out. And Greta thought I could calm her down?

  “I’ve missed a step.”

  “What?” Raphael asked.

  I looked up at him and shook my head. “Let’s get a drink and see what’s up with my boss, okay?”

  He smiled, his dark eyes too rich—too warm, too damn sexy to make me feel even the least bit calm. “Lead the way.”

  It was one of those times when you can see where you want to go, and it doesn’t look all that far, but then you keep having to detour, and turn around, and you get run into until you want to scream.

  We made it to the bar in what seemed like a hundred years (and was more like four minutes). Janine sat at the bar, one hand around a half-full rocks glass, her other hand held over her mouth as if she were about to sob or scream. Her eyes were wide open and staring at her own reflection in the wall length mirror behind the bar.

  “Hey boss lady,” I said as I bumped her playfully with my hip. She didn’t seem to even notice, a thousand yard stare her only expression.

  “Earth to Janine!” I took hold of her shoulders and shook her. Her eyes were glazed and they didn’t focus on me as I pulled her so she looked straight at me. This had to be bad. I’d known her for over a year and a half and she’d never been a loss for words.

  She blinked as her eyes finally focused on me, and then she swallowed.

&
nbsp; “Oh, Hope. You’re here.” She brought the glass up to her lips and drained it in one long swallow.

  “What’s going on, Janine. Why are you freaked out?”

  She set her drink on the bar and motioned for the bartender to refill her. “The party…”

  And she just started staring at her reflection again.

  “The party,” I said, “is a smash. Look at all these people.”

  “It’s a disaster.” She looked down at the fresh drink the bartender placed before her. “Terra…”

  Oh no. Terra Banks, the big fish, New York Times Bestselling author Janine had been wooing hadn’t shown up.

  “I’m so sorry, Janine. Maybe she was too busy to come.”

  Janine frowned, her eyes locking on me like she about to shoot me.

  “No, she came.”

  I bit my lip, not understanding. “So what’s the problem?”

  She turned on her stool and pointed across the room to where the buffet was laid out, and tall, naked, muscular men were carved out of ice.

  “Terra Banks is a man, Hope. A freaking man!”

  I shrugged. “And that’s a problem how?”

  Janine glared at me with open hostility. “He’s gay.”

  I blinked. Okay, I never thought Janine was bigoted, but everyone had their prejudices.

  “Writers use pen names of the opposite sex all the time,” I said, trying to smooth things over. “J.K. Rowling… Rob Thurman… Emily Bronte…”

  She rolled her eyes at me and took another long drink. “It’s not that he has a pen name. Everyone uses a pen name anymore.” She shook her head and held her forehead. “It’s that I’m no good with gay men. I just have no idea how to talk to them.”

  Huh? “You never stop talking,” I said, and then wished I’d said something a bit more tactful. “I mean, you can talk to anyone.”

  She looked truly lost as she looked at me again. “Sure, I can charm a woman writer with the best of them, and I can flirt with straight men… even lesbians,”—okay, this was going into TMI territory—“but I just clam up when I’m faced with a gay man. I draw a complete blank.”