Page 14 of Hero Worship

"The usual?" Maria's voice was professional, familiar.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice rough. "Send Cindy."

The call ended, and I stared at the phone. My father had always said cruelty ran in our blood, that some men were born to own, to possess, to break things just to see if they could be put back together. I'd spent my whole life proving him wrong, being one of the good guys.

But the way I wanted Xander? There was nothing good about it.

The knock came exactly on time. Cindy stood in the doorway looking exactly as I remembered with curves in all the right places, a practiced smile in place. Everything I was supposed to want.

"Hi stranger," she purred, stepping inside. Her perfume hit me first—jasmine and vanilla, sweet and feminine. The scent that used to make my mouth water now felt cloying, artificial. Wrong. All wrong. "Miss me?"

I forced a smile, gesturing her toward the bedroom. My instincts cataloged every detail of her approach, from the practiced sway of her hips to the precise amount of invitation in her smile. Everything designed to appeal to men who liked their women soft and submissive. This was what I needed. This was what I'd always wanted. Proof that I was still the same man I'd always been, that these thoughts about Xander were just some mid-life crisis bullshit brought on by too much time alone.

In the bedroom, Cindy's dress hit the floor in a whisper of silk, revealing black lace and smooth skin. She was beautiful in that classic way that had always worked for me before, all curves and softness, nothing sharp or dangerous about her. Perfect. She should have been perfect. And I felt absolutely nothing.

"Touch me," she breathed, pressing against me. Her hands slid under my shirt, nails scraping lightly across my chest. The kind of touch that usually had me hard and aching in seconds. I waited for my body to respond, for that familiar surge of desire. But there was nothing except a growing sense of wrongness.

Because all I could think about was Xander. The defiant tilt of his chin when I got in his face. The way his crop top had ridden up during training, revealing lean muscle and fading scars that spoke of a life lived dangerously. The dark smudge of eyeliner that made his eyes look huge and hungry. How fucking pretty he'd look on his knees, those painted lips wrapped around my—

"Fuck." I stepped back like I'd been burned, running a hand down my face. The contrast was too sharp, her artificial softness against memories of Xander's raw edges. I was unraveling, and I couldn't breathe through it. "I can't do this."

Cindy frowned, professional mask slipping for just a moment. In that brief flash, I caught genuine concern in her eyes. My profiler's brain wouldn't shut off, reading the expressions that crossed her face. Recognition, understanding, sympathy. "Everything okay?"

No. Nothing was okay. I was falling apart at the seams because Xander had gotten under my skin.

"I'm sorry," I said, already reaching for my wallet. "I've changed my mind. I'll pay for the full hour, plus extra for the trouble."

She took the money with a practiced smile, but there was sympathy in her eyes. The look of someone who'd seen this scene play out before. How many men had she watched have their sexual identity crisis on her time?

"It gets easier," she said softly as she gathered her clothes, and I wasn't sure if she meant accepting who you wanted or living with the uncertainty. Maybe both.

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with thoughts I couldn't escape. My cock was still hard in my jeans, aching for something I didn't know how to want.

Fuck it.

I stripped efficiently, military precision born from years of compartmentalizing, and laid stiffly on top of the covers. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly. No more half-measures, no more lying to myself.

My hand wrapped around my cock, already slick with pre-cum. I closed my eyes and let myself imagine what I really wanted. Xander on his knees, looking up at me with those desperate eyes. The way they'd sound begging for whatever I chose to give them, desperate and defiant all at once. The way they'd fight submission even while craving it. Xander never made anything simple. They'd make me earn every inch of control, and fuck if that didn't make me want it more.

"Please, Daddy," I imagined him saying, and fuck if that didn't make my cock pulse in my grip. I'd never gotten off on being called daddy before, but something about the way Xander said it like a challenge and a plea wrapped in one hit me right in the gut.

The fantasy shifted. Xander bent over my desk, that perfect ass on display. He had experience, enough to know exactly how to take what I gave him. The thought of him with other men made something possessive roar to life in my chest.

My hand moved faster, rougher. In my mind, I was buried deep in Xander's ass, one hand fisted in his hair while the other left bruises on his hip. Making him take it, making him feel it, making him mine.

"Fuck," I growled, pressure building at the base of my spine. The fantasy was too vivid. I imagined Xander crying out as I used him, begging for more, calling me daddy in that breathy voice that drove me crazy.

I came with a shout, cum painting my chest and stomach in thick ropes. The orgasm drained all my energy, leaving me shaking and gasping for air.

Reality crashed back in as I lay there, covered in my own release. I'd just jerked off thinking about my boss' son. Someone twenty years younger who I was supposed to be training, protecting. Instead, I was fantasizing about corrupting them completely, about taking advantage of their desperate need for approval. Christ, I was no better than the predators I used to hunt.

I cleaned up mechanically, mind racing. This wasn't just about sex. If it was just physical attraction, I could handle that. But the way I wanted Xander? The need to protect and possess, to break him down and build him back up stronger? That was something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

My father's words echoed in my head: "Some men are born to own, to possess. It's in our blood, son. You can't fight what you are."

I stared at my reflection, barely recognizing the man looking back at me. Twenty years of certainty stripped away by one beautiful killer with daddy issues and a death wish.

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