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Setup: Tensions have reached a flashpoint between Princesa Sofia and rock star Aish Salinger, and all the emotions the millionaire winemaker has been trying to subsume while performing a fake relationship with a man she hates – a boy who broke her heart – come to a head. Sofia storms down to the darkness of her cathedral wine cellar and Aish, desperate for her love but angry, too, follows her.
“What I did to you was the worst mistake of my life.”
She took a step toward him and raised her fists.
“Sofia,” he groaned, the animal too. His eyes were bright in the darkness as they searched hers. “Why won’t you let me apologize? Why won’t you let me try to make this better? Talk to me. Tell me how I can make this better.”
“Tell me,” he’d whisper to her in the dark. “Tell me what feels good. Tell me what you need.”
Their lovemaking had been crowded with words; Aish’s mother had told him that women make love with their minds, and he’d put that advice to good use when he’d talked to her in his thrummingly low voice.
“Your round little clit…tell me if you like…you squeeze me so tight…does it feel good when I push…your cunt is so soft…tell me what you want…lick you for days…tell me if this feels…tell me…tell me…”
That boy melded with this man, bigger, broader, more intent and demanding, and what she wanted to do was tear him apart. She wanted to rip and demolish him into tiny pieces that she could scatter in the dark, sprinkle through the tunnels so that he could never tempt her again. Never make her want, never ever make her need.
She wanted to destroy him with her hands.
She leaned over and flicked off the lantern. Then she dropped to her knees and pressed her palms against the front of his jeans.
He jerked. His grunt of shock echoed through the darkness.
Blind, she cupped him with one hand, at his balls and base, and used the other to stroke up. And up and up. He was hardening beneath her touch. So thick and long. So hot and familiar.
She leaned in and pressed her face against that hardness between her hands, rubbed her lips against the warm denim and inhaled that basic essence of him, salt and sand. All the memories of a decade ago came crashing back.
He gave a sound like she’d stabbed him.
She reached for his button.
“Mira, guapo, if you talk, I will stop.” She felt the heat of her breath against his clothes. “Y no creo que quieras que me detenga.”
“And I don’t think you want me to stop,” she said in Spanish to ensure that he wouldn’t, regressing to that nineteen-year-old girl who believed in the power that her words, her voice, her mouth, and body had over him. Who’d believed without a flicker of doubt that he needed her.
As she pulled down his zipper, she gloried in the hitch of his breath like he couldn’t decide.
She knew exactly what she wanted. She stroked her lips over the skin of his abdomen, silky and tight and as familiar as her own skin, as she pulled down the elastic of his briefs in the V of his jeans.
His hot cock reared up against her knuckles, kicked into her fist, an eager old friend. Sightless and fascinated by the memories stored in her touch, she stroked down it, up it, focused her attention there at the rim, wondered if running her thumb over the velvety head still…
Ten years older and a million lovers later, he gave a full-body groan like she knew he would.
“Are you safe?” she asked him, her words haunting in the chamber. He’d always been adamant about this, a kid who’d seen a lot in LA, and she and Aish had been tested before they’d gone without condoms. About protection, he’d taught her a level of self-respect that she carried to this day. She wondered if this rock-and-sex god remembered the same level of self-respect.
Stroking and punishing his gorgeous cock for all of her abiding and unwanted affection for it, making him speechless and gasping above her, she leaned close and gave one tiny, delicate kiss to the steely shaft. “Hermoso, are you safe?”
His words were strained babble. “Yeah, I was tested a year ago and that was after the last time I—”
She put her mouth around his cock and swallowed him down.
“Fuck,” he yelled, and tunneled his fingers into her hair.
This was what she wanted. She wanted him filling her mouth and hitting the back of her throat. She bobbed over him, rememorizing the feel of him with her lips and tongue, relearning the sounds of his gasped breaths and caught groans. She pulled back when he was wet all over and licked at his tip, tasted the salty precome beading in his slit, worked her flat tongue all over his shaft and head. He was delicious in the dark, like he’d always been, but she could feel the razor-thin restraint in him. He panted her name above her, petting her scalp, combing through her hair.
She didn’t want his restraint. She wanted him desperate with need.
She took him deep again, worked him roughly until he was dripping, reduced to grunts, until those big hands clenched in her hair.
The pull on her scalp made her drop a hand between her legs.
She wanted mastery over him. She wanted him and could use him this way, could get herself off getting him off. Down here, in her ancient cellar, the dark behind her closed eyelids was the same dark when her eyes were open and it was like a dream she’d deny she had: Aish Salinger in her mouth with no responsibility or repercussions, only taste and feeling and his ocean smell.
Sofia unbuttoned her pants as she relaxed her throat, breathed through her nose as she slid her hand into her panties and spread her thighs. A wisp of cologne—who’d dared to wear cologne down here?—had her pressing her nose against his skin. Aish’s sea-salt smell was the only oxygen she needed.
Tears streamed down her face as she fingered her clit.
With a grunt, Aish yanked on her hair hard enough to hurt and pulled out of her mouth, then fell to his knees in front of her. He surrounded her jaw in his big hand and titled her head to the side.
“I can hear you fucking yourself,” he said against her neck, his breath against her windpipe. “You’re sloppy wet.” He grabbed her hand, pulled it out of her panties, and raised it. Then Sofia felt his hot, wet mouth surrounding her fingers, pulsing over them as he sucked them clean. His dirty words, his rough grip in the dark, were her filthiest fantasy.
She whimpered as her hips gyrated helplessly, her head still caught in his big hand.
“Goddammit, Sofia,” Aish groaned against her neck, dropping her hand to grab at her hip. Now it was him who sounded like he hated her. “Goddammit.”
About the book
Hate Crush, Filthy Rich, #2 by Angelina M. Lopez
A fake relationship could help Princesa Sofia save her kingdom. Only problem: She’ll have to fake it with the man who broke her heart.
Ten years ago, wild child Princesa Sofia Maria Isabel de Esperanza y Santos fell in fast crazy love with heartbreaker Aish Salinger during one California harvest season. Now, all grown up and with the future of her kingdom on her shoulders, she hates him as passionately as she once loved him.
Even if her body hasn’t gotten the hate memo.
Faking a relationship with the now-famous rock star for the press and public will ensure the success of her new winery and prosperity of her kingdom. All she has to do is grit her teeth and bear his tattooed presence in her village and winery—her home—for a month.
Trying to recover from his own scandal, fallen superstar Aish Salinger jumps at the chance to be near Sofia again. Leaving her was the biggest mistake he’s ever made, and he’s waited ten years to win her back.
He never counted on finding a woman who despised him so much she didn’t want to be anywhere near him.
A war of wills breaks out as the princess and rock star battle to control their fake relationship. She wants to dictate every action to keep him away from her. He wants to be as close as he can be. She’s already lost so much because of Aish—e won’t be the reason her people lose even more.
But he also won’t make her break her life’s most important vow: To never fall in love again.
Read Filthy Rich Book One, Lush Money, available now from Carina Press!
About the Author:
Angelina M. Lopez wrote “arthur” when her kindergarten teacher asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. In the years since she learned to spell the word correctly, she’s been a journalist for an acclaimed city newspaper, a freelance magazine writer, and a content marketer for small businesses. Finally, she found her way back to “author.”
Angelina writes sexy, contemporary stories about strong women and the confident men lucky enough to fall in love with them. The fact that her parents own a vineyard in California’s Russian River Valley might imply a certain hedonism about her; it’s not true. She’s a wife and a mom who lives in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. She makes to-do lists with perfectly drawn check boxes. She checks them with glee.
You can find more about her at her website, AngelinaMLopez.com.
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