When Villains Rise (Anti-Heroes in Love 2)

“Dante, Dante, Dante,” I called to the ceiling of the plane as my fingers spasmed in his hair and my pussy spasmed against his fingers, clit throbbing on his tongue.

“That’s it,” he purred like a conquering warrior revealing in his spoils. His fingers pumped gently inside me, wringing out every ounce of pleasure to be had. “Look at you coming all over my mouth and fingers like that. So fucking beautiful and all mine.”

While I was still trying to catch my breath, Dante swiftly undid his belt and black trousers, pulling his thick, veined cock from his boxer briefs. The head was flushed as swollen and purple as a plum and when he jacked it hard and slow, a pearl of precum beaded at the tip. I wanted to do something with that cock, something licentious and wrong like rubbing the warm, hard flesh all of my face, burrowing my nose in the short hairs at its base to scent his male musk, suck at the tip until he rewarded me with more of that salty juice.

But Dante didn’t give me time to cave into those base desires and a small part of me was glad for that. I didn’t feel totally ready to act the wanton, even with him.

Watching him act that way though was an entirely different story.

I groaned raggedly as he stood up and roughly pushed my camisole up to my neck to bare my breasts. “Hold it there.”

I did without question.

He raised one foot onto the armrest of my chair, which brought his large body looming over my own, his thick cock trained at my exposed chest. It should have been demeaning, but I loved the dynamics of this big man pinning me to my seat with the threat of his form. Because he would never hurt me. Never debase me. He was so turned on by my orgasm he couldn’t restrain his heathen impulses.

Dante Salvatore the educated, sophisticated Duke’s son wasn’t before me now.

This was the mafioso. The Don. The Devil of NYC.

Using the sight of my languid, sexed up body to get himself off.

The rush of power that ignited in me made me light headed.

“You see what you do to me?” he demanded in a war-torn voice as he fisted his cock almost viciously and jerked off inches from my face. I was transfixed by the sight of his strangled head moving wetly in and out of his grip. “Only you, Elena. Only with you do I feel like fucking you, marking you, owning you with my body and my cum. I’m going to paint you with it right now so you know you’re mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to cherish. Mine to love.”

“Yes,” I hissed, licking the drool that pooled in the corners of my mouth as I watched his boxed abs contract and twitch with the force of his pleasure. “When I watched you that night in the office and you came so much all over yourself…well, I wanted to be the one you jerked off on.”

Dante snarled as he fell forward enough to place his free hand at my throat, pinning me still so he could twist his fist over his cock right above my swollen breasts. We both panted, eyes fixed to the sight of that dick leaking precum down the shaft.

“Tell me, donna,” he bit out. The tendons strained in his neck as he beat himself to climax. “Tell me you want my cum on this classy skin.”

“I want it,” I admitted, feeling weak with longing, my skin already tingling in anticipation. “Come for me, my capo.”

“Cazzo,” he shouted gruffly seconds before his hips snapped forward and he started to come.

I hadn’t forgotten how much he was capable of coming. The sight of him covered in his own spend was forever branded on my conscious, but I was still shocked and deeply aroused as spurt after spurt of hot seed striped my chest. Without thinking, my hands went to my lower breasts to cup them in offering to Dante.

His groan rattled through his chest as he squeezed the last of his cum from the head and finally released his softening organ. He stared down at his handiwork with blazing eyes then slowly, deliberately, he reached out to smear the wet into my skin.

“You wear my cum with pride,” he said in a way that half order and half question.

I appreciate the tone of both. He wasn’t the kind of man to ask explicitly for my consent because he knew the trappings of my mind. If he asked, I’d feel forced to disagree because that was how I’d been trained.

But these subtle half-questions, the words written in the screens of his ink black eyes and the slight hesitation in his hands when he pushed me passed my boundaries all spoke to his awareness of my hang ups. He respected them even as he fought to demolish them.