When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

I’d never enjoyed dirty talk.

It hadn’t seemed necessary at best and shameful at worst.

But this, Dante’s exotic voice growling over my skin as he spoke about taking me like some kind of conquering victor was almost too much to bear.

It validated the dark thoughts swirling in my heart and gave voice to the desire I had no hope to name myself.

I tugged too hard at his ears, pulling him up my body and squeezing him close with my thighs. “Now,” I begged, undone by the sensations careening through me at dangerous speeds like the Ferrari through the Staten Island streets. “Cazzo, Dante, now!”

Unwilling to wait, my hands dived down to his belt, undoing it with a harsh clang before unzipping and diving beneath the fabric to search for his length. I gasped, eyes wide with shock and a little fear as my fingers wrapped one by one around the broad shaft.

Dante pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes all black. “You can take it. I’ll make you.”

A shudder rippled through me at his words, at the kick of his length in my hands as I pulled it through his boxer briefs and the gap in his trousers out into the cold garage air. Dante hooked a finger in the soaked satin placket of my panties, pulling it aside so I could notch the hot, broad head of his cock against my slick folds.

The feel of him against my most intimate place rocked through me so hard it ripped feelings out from my locked-down heart: longing so acute it burned, belonging like I’d always hoped for, acceptance so sweet it made my teeth ache.

“Lottatrice mia,” he groaned, rubbing our noses together the instant before he pushed into me, my walls clinging hard to his fat head in a way that made us both shiver.

“Figa mia,” he asserted, my pussy.

I gasped in affirmation, my head thrown back on the slick black hood, my eyes squeezed close as I fought through the pain-edged pleasure of taking that thick phallus to the root inside me. He worked himself in and out in short, hard strokes, taking more and more of me with each thrust.

Poised at my entrance, he threaded his hands through the hair over my ears and forced my chin down so I had to look into those soul-destroying black eyes.

“My Elena,” he told me intractably, the way a monk spoke as if from God, with the kind of willful authority that made it seem impossible to doubt him.

Then he thrust straight to the hilt inside me, and sensation exploded through me like a grenade. Sharp pieces of pain and pleasure wheeled through my body; sexual shrapnel I had never known could feel so exquisitely excruciating.

My long nails scored into the skin of his back beneath his open shirt as I met him thrust for thrust, as I coaxed him and scratched him in a silent bid for more.

One hand moved to my throat, gently holding it with his thumb on my jugular to feel my breath and pulse, to remind me in the last possible way he could that he was the one fucking me.

The one owning my pleasure and building it beyond anything I’d ever known.

I started to panic as sensation swelled too high, threatening to overtake me. My breath fled my body like the ocean sucked back by the force of a tsunami.

“Dante, Dante,” I chanted. “I can’t, I can’t.”

“You can,” he promised, sweat beading on his forehead, sliding down his cheek.

I reared up to lick it off, then sealed my mouth over his, needing the comfort of his tongue sucking at my own to deal with the barrage of pleasure hammering at me from every direction. My womb felt tight, my pussy wet and open, my breasts swollen as they brushed again and again against the short, crisp hair over Dante’s hard chest. His silver cross lay on my belly between us, swaying with the force of his thrusts.

The sight of it tripped the last of my mental defenses.

Fucking on the hot hood of a car in a public parking garage with a beast of a man churning between my spread thighs, I cried out in fear and awe as an orgasm crawled through me, tensing every muscle until I vibrated. The need to burst apart, to unravel the tension almost terrified me, my breath caught on a choke in my throat.

“Vieni per me,” Dante gritted out between his teeth. “Come for me, Elena. Let me feel you come apart around me.”

A scream burst from my compressed lungs like a gunshot tearing up through my gut, destruction following in its wake. I thrashed, pinned between Dante’s unyielding body and the car, shouting and crying at the sheer force of sensation searing through me, tearing apart the tension in each muscle, electrifying my heart until it pumped madly, and I thought I might honestly die.