When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

I couldn’t even come.

Shame spun its path through every inch of my body until I had to brace myself or fall into my weak knees. I caught myself on the frame, but my shoulder caught the door, knocking it open a little more.

Just enough to see into the clearer shadows of the interior.

My breath caught, the cyclone inside me falling flat like the eye of a storm.

Because Dante was inside lounging totally naked in a deep suede chaise before the bookshelves in the corner of the room with the dregs of whiskey sweating in a glass on the side table and a jar of lube beside that, the cap still open.

But he was entirely alone.

And those strong hands threaded with veins I found myself fantasizing about far too often were wrapped around the obscene length of his cock.

He was jerking off.

I was arrested by the sight of him like that. His big body sprawled in the seat, his thickly muscled thighs spread wide to accommodate his hands, one pulling hard and slow at his shaft, the other cupping his lightly furred sac. He had his head thrown back against the pillows, neck corded with tension, wine-stained red mouth lax with pleasure. All that golden olive skin glimmered like oiled bronze in the low light of the single lamp, illuminating the scene. The hair that dusted his broad, steeply defined chest and under his naval in a dense line to his trimmed groin was ridiculously masculine, highlighting his rugged masculinity as much as it provided a delicious contrast for his beautifully carved form.

He was simply and extraordinarily exquisite.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from him if I tried.

When he hissed, looking down as he pulled those thick fingers up his shaft again and a bead of precum pooled like a pearl on the head of his cock, I couldn’t quite swallow my gasp.

His eyes shot to the door the next instant, his torso jacking up, hands falling from his groin.

I meant to back away, to look into his eyes at the very least.

But his new position had put his erection predominantly on display, and my eyes were pulled there inexorably.

Maddona santa, he was perfectly proportioned, his cock a thick, long length of muscle covered in dusky golden skin at the base, the head as swollen and deeply purple as an Italian plum. It jumped, spitting precum as I studied it.

My mouth actually watered.

Dazed, confused, horribly aroused, my eyes shot back up to Dante’s.

I didn’t know what I would find, how he would react, but somehow the awareness that burned in those coal dark eyes wasn’t what I expected.

Slowly, knowingly, he leaned back in his chair and spread those lightly furred thighs wide again.

I swallowed thickly, captured in his sights like a deer before a wolf.

When he wrapped a palm around his swollen shaft again, we both moaned, mine a light breath of sound and his a resounding growl. My gaze moved along his length in time with his tight grip, watching as he squeezed the flesh tightly, almost violently each time he passed over the crown. All those tense muscles clenched and twitched as pleasure worked through him, as it escaped in a hiss through his clenched teeth.

He worked faster, unfathomably harder, fucking into his fist with long, brutal strokes.

Distantly, I was aware of my own arousal, wet seeping into the seat of my silk shorts, crawling down the inside of my right thigh. But nothing mattered at that moment, in that vibrating, softly yellow illuminated space between us but Dante’s pleasure.

It was impossible not to wonder what that heavy cock would feel like in my own smaller hand and finer fingers. What the liquid leaking steadily from his crown might taste like, salty or musky or sweet. If I could make him shake and groan the way he was watching me watch him fuck himself. If I could fit even half of that wide shaft inside my fairly untrained mouth.

Such dirty, salacious thoughts, the kind I never allowed myself to think, all triggered unalterably by the sight of that big, beautiful beast of a man beating his shaft in time with my panting breaths.

I didn’t think anything could have pulled me from that moment, from the seismic sexual awakening beginning in my gut as I derived more pleasure from simply watching a man than I ever had from sleeping with one. Not someone walking in on my voyeurism, not the call of my phone or the blare of a fire alarm.

I was rooted to the spot by Dante’s shadowed black gaze hooked through the belly of my desires and the sight of his sex glazed with oil churning through his heavy fist.

When his breath went harsh, chest pumping like billows, his back hunching into a slight curve as if everything in him contracted around his swelling cock, I actually held my breath, waiting for the inevitable conclusion to rock us both.