Page 27 of Tank
Then she opens her eyes. Swallows. Her lips curl into a smile.
“Knew you were a moaner,” I murmur, unable to stop the words.
Her eyes go wide and zero in on mine. She watches me, teasing, challenging. Color burns from her cheeks, down her neck, making an irresistible path beneath the collar of her shirt, where the first hint of skin and cleavage teases at me, stoking an already out-of-control flame.
I watch, mesmerized, as her tongue flicks out, catching a stray bit of sauce on her bottom lip.
I feel it like a gut punch, clench my jaw, and force back a moan of my own. The tension is a living thing, palpable, making the air around us crackle.
She tilts her head, like she’s about to say something sharp — something that’ll keep this game going, something that’ll match the teasing fire in her eyes, and cut me up more than any knife could.
But I don’t give her the chance — I close the distance, grab her face, and kiss her.
Her sharp inhale is the only warning I get before she kisses me back, fierce and greedy, like she’s trying to outdo me, trying to win, trying to make me feel as undone as she just did. She tastes like wine and herbs, like heat and stubbornness and something I shouldn’t want, but can’t resist.
Her hands curl into my shirt and tug, pulling me closer.
I deepen the kiss, growling low in my throat when she shifts against me, pressing closer, grinding her body against mine, her tongue tasting the inside of my mouth while another moan sounds in her chest.
Then, suddenly, she pulls back.
We’re both breathing hard.
She stares at me, eyes dark, confused, aflame with something indescribable.
I should say something. I should reel it back in. I can’t do this — I can’t feel this way — with Victor Moretti’s sister. Instead, I say, “Looks like you like the taste of what I have to give you. I’ll be catering that dinner of yours, then, huh?”
She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head, but she doesn’t move away.
She just watches me. Like she’s recalculating everything. And then she says, “Maybe I need seconds before I decide.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bianca
Tank’s hands press against my waist — hot, rough, and unapologetically possessive — lifting and pulling me onto the counter as though I am something meant to be his. The whole thing is so intense, so sudden, and I know I should stop him. I should also stop myself. Before this goes further. Before it becomes something I can’t control. But I don’t. I can’t. There’s a part of me that wants this, that needs it, that craves this overwhelming, searing feeling to take me over, to drown out the constant hum of stress and the gnawing worry that everything in my life—Safe House, the women, all of it—is about to fall apart.
His mouth captures mine, hungry and demanding, and his body leans in like he can’t get close enough, like there’s not enough space to fill with his heat.
I want him closer; I want him to consume me; I want more, need more.
“Give it to me,” I say, a desperate, ragged plea that makes something rumble deep in his chest. My heart thunders in response. His hands spread across my hips, holding me in place, fingertips pressing just enough to make me ache for more of him. I hear myself moan into the kiss, shameless and needy, a raw sound that I can hardly recognize as my own.
Tank pulls back just enough to let out a low chuckle and smirks against my lips. “Knew you were a moaner.” I should slap him for that. For being so smug. So sure of himself. Instead, I kiss him with everything I have, wild and breathless, feeling reckless and desperate.
The outside world falls away. There’s only Tank and his mouth and his hands and the way he makes me forget. I hardly notice the vibrations of my phone rattling against the counter. He’s kissing down my neck now, touching all the places that make my breathing hitch and my mind go blank. I arch into him, his name a whisper, a prayer on my desperate lips.
The parts of me I keep buried, the parts that long for more, for something real, are rising to the surface. I should bury them again. I should push him away. But I won’t. I can’t. He makes me feel alive, and real, and I want that so damn much. I need it more than air.
Annoying and relentless, the phone buzzes again, shaking insistently against the granite. I ignore it, burying my hands in his messy dark hair and pulling him closer until I am dizzy and weightless and consumed. Until there’s nothing but the two of us and everything I shouldn’t want.
Somewhere in the distance, the bell over the bakery door jingles, the chime thin and tinny compared to the storm raging in my head. I barely register it, barely let the sound puncture the cocoon of need wrapped so tightly around us. It repeats, trying to cut through the haze of urgency.
Then voices, loud male voices, follow. They echo off the walls, out of place in this little haven we’ve created, and they inch into my brain, familiar and unwanted. I can’t quite place them, but I know they’re from the life I’ve been trying to ignore, the life I’m trying to forget. Tank growls against my mouth, ignoring them like the buzzing of a fly.
But then someone shouts, a harsh staccato bark meant to get attention.
“Yo! Anyone working here, or what? You want us to just come behind the counter and serve ourselves?” The words hang in the air, cocky and sure, refusing to be pushed aside. Recognition slams into me, a shadow tainting the moment. I know that voice; I know that life.
