Page 105 of Savage

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IVY

Tank slides his stubbled rough jaw through my wetness, and I cry out. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I sink my fingers into his scalp and moan, writhe, and quake as his tongue darts out to lick my clit.

“Harder.” I pant.

“No,” he says against my flesh and continues licking me softly, reverently. I whimper and rock my hips, sliding my pussy against his face, seeking more pleasure mixed with pain. He pulls his head back and circles his massive arms around my thighs, placing his hands on my lower abdomen and pinning me against the mattress.

“Wake up, Warrior Princess,” Tank whispers in my ear, and the dream dissolves around me into nothing, into bright light and reality and frustration.

I open my eyes, lift my head and glare up at him. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, princess. Heard that one before.”

I flop back against the pillow and grind out my dissatisfaction against the damp sheet.Fucking destroyer of dreams.

“Get up. We’re going somewhere.”

“Can’t we go later?”

“No. Now get up before I drag your arse into that shower without turnin’ on the hot water.”

“Sometimes I really hate you,” I mumble, and close my eyes, but when he climbs off the bed and stomps over to my side, I shriek, and I’m up in a heartbeat, racing him to the en suite. I hold my hands up to ward him away. “I’m up! Fuck!”

Tank chuckles and leaves me to my business.Jesus Christ, he’s a scary fuck sometimes. I’m surprised I didn’t pee myself just trying to escape him.

When my heart rate has returned to normal, and I’m showered and dressed, I head out to the kitchen. Grabbing a cup from the mug tree on the bench, I turn the coffee machine on, annoyed that he hasn’t already done it, but Tank comes up behind me and takes the mug from my hand. “You ready to leave?”

“Can I at least have a coffee first?”

“Nope. We gotta get on the road. It’s a two-hour drive from here.”

“You want me to ride with you for two hours on zero coffee?” I ask. “You don’t value your life very much, do you?”

He just winks and walks off, munching his apple. “You’ll need a jacket,” he says over his shoulder, and I give him a two-fingered salute.

I grab my jacket from off the bar stool and head out after him. Tank smiles as I walk down the stairs towards him. He looks as if he wants to devour me, which I guess isn’t that different—that’s how he always looks at me—but there’s a new intimacy to it that leaves me a little breathless.

He already has the bike beneath him in the driveway, jacket zipped against the weather, and helmet on. He slips on a pair of aviators and grins as if he’s up to no good. I pause, uncertain I really want to go any further, but then he hits the button on the remote and I have to run for the door so I don’t get locked in.

Arsehole.

He’s fucking chuckling again as I stalk over to him and punch his arm. All my fingers crack at once.Stupid motherfucking giant. One day I’m going to kick his arse. Though I may need to master some kind of martial arts before that happens.

Tank revs the throttle. The sound vibrates through me. I love that sound. I close my eyes and take it all in: the primal grunt from his bike, the smell of exhaust, and leather, and … Tank.Interesting. I sigh and place my hands on his shoulders as I swing my leg over and nestle into the seat behind him. Slowly, I move my hands to his waist, resisting the urge to sink my fingers into the hard muscles flanking his sides. Tank places his hands over mine and moves them a little lower, until they’re resting on his hard cock. I laugh, and then I take back my hand to put on the helmet he passes to me from the handlebars. When I’m buckled up, I rest my hands on his sides and press my body closer, anticipating that first jerk of momentum that has a way of pulling you backward when you take off. He twists the throttle, and we shoot forwards, down the long drive and onto the dirt road leading away from his property.

I tuck my head in against his massive shoulder and preen at the feel of wind rushing over my body. I may not know how to handle this thing we have going on between us, and I may not know how to get clean and stay clean, but this? This I know how to do, and being on the back of Tank’s bike seems as natural as breathing.

Close to two hours later, we pull into a seaside community. The houses are mostly all cottages as we drive through one end of the quaint town, though they start to get progressively bigger the further we drive. Tank makes a left turn, and we ride up a narrow, winding road only big enough for one car. On the top of the hill sits a big old-fashioned house, white with blue shutters. It’s the nicest house I think I’ve ever seen. Traditional, Victorian and … home. I know that sounds weird, considering I’ve never laid eyes on the property before, but there’s something oddly comforting about it.

We ride up the sandy driveway, and Tank eases on the breaks. He sets his feet down and toes the kickstand into place with his booted foot. The second my feet are on the ground, I unfasten my helmet, slide off the back of the bike and glare at him.

“Where are we, Tank?”

“My ma’s house.”

My eyes widen as I mentally check over my outfit. I’m wearing skin-tight jeans, a ripped up Harley-Davidson tank, and come-fuck-me boots. And I have helmet hair.

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