Page 42 of Tank
But I don’t.
Instead, I tilt my head, lips parting, watching the way his gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there. The night air is too warm. My heart is pounding, a wild rhythm that drowns out everything else. And then, before I can overthink it, Tank kisses me.
It’s not soft.
It’s hungry. Rough. Possessive.
Like he’s been waiting for this.
And hell if I haven’t been, too.
I press myself closer to him, my chest tight, my mind even tighter. I shouldn’t want this, but I do, and there’s no denying it. I pull Tank into me, fisting my hands in his shirt with a fierce hunger that shocks us both. He lets out a breathless sound that sends a shiver through me, his own desire unraveling, the barrier between us collapsing in an instant. His fingers tighten their grip around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid frame. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel his warmth, his strength, everything that is him crashing into me like a tidal wave.
Then, we move in a wordless rush.
Somehow, before I know it, we’re tumbling into my car. The door slams shut, sealing off everything but this, but us. Tank’s hands are wide and powerful on my thighs, gripping tight enough to brand a memory of this moment onto my skin. My fingers find their way into his dark hair, tugging with impatience, making him groan into my neck. The windows are fogging up, a blurred haze creeping over the glass and blocking off the rest of the world.
It’s just us. Alone.
Lips together. Hearts pounding. Hands wandering, gripping, touching, teasing, like they’re never going to stop. Like they never want to. I should stop, I should pull away, but I don’t care.
“Your place or mine?” I murmur when I pull my lips away from his and press them to his ear. I nibble on his lobe, making him moan, making his hands grip my ass, making his lips nip at my collarbone. I gasp, grab his back, pull him into me.
“Yours,” he says. “Ricky’s at mine. No room.”
“Mine it is.”
I turn, slip my keys in the ignition, start the car. I keep one hand on the wheel, one on him, running my hand up and down his chest, then lower, then lower still, until I feel his cock, thick and firm.
A low growl escapes Tank's throat, and his hand captures mine, stilling my movement. "If you keep that up, we're not making it to your place," he warns, voice rough with need.
I flash him a wicked smile, enjoying the power I have over this mountain of a man. "Then I’ll drive faster."
The trip to my apartment is a blur of stolen glances and wandering hands. Each red light is torture and opportunity wrapped in one—his lips finding my neck, my fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest beneath his shirt. By the time we stumble through my door, we're both breathless with anticipation.
Tank backs me against the wall, his powerful body caging mine. His eyes, dark with desire, lock onto mine. "Last chance to change your mind, Bianca."
I answer by yanking his head down to mine, our lips crashing together with renewed hunger. “I appreciate your efforts at getting consent, but when I literally pull you into my apartment and do this,” I pause a moment to undo the buttons of his jeans, to slip my hand inside and feel his large cock and give it a squeeze, “I’m giving you pretty clear signals. But, just for clarity’s sake — I sit on your face and then fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
His answering growl vibrates against my skin as he lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. "Is that a promise?"
"Damn right it is," I breathe against his mouth. "Bedroom's down the hall."
We tumble onto my bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. Clothes disappear piece by piece, revealing skin that burns beneath eager touches. His shirt goes first, and I take a moment to appreciate the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, marred with scars that tell stories I want to learn. My fingers trace a particularly jagged one across his ribs.
"Afghanistan," he says simply, before capturing my mouth again.
My shirt follows, then my bra, and Tank looks at me like I'm some kind of revelation. His calloused hands cup my breasts with surprising gentleness, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until I'm arching into his touch, gasping his name.
"God, you're beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, trailing kisses down my neck, my collarbone, between my breasts. Each press of his lips feels like a brand, marking me as something precious.
When his mouth closes around my nipple, I cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He smiles against my skin, clearly pleased with my response. "Sensitive," he notes, before moving to the other breast, giving it the same torturous attention until I'm practically writhing beneath him.
"Tank," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders. "I believe I made a promise."
His eyes darken with understanding, and with surprising grace for such a large man, he flips onto his back, pulling me up his body until my thighs bracket his face. His hands grip my hips, guiding me down to his waiting mouth, and the first stroke of his tongue has me seeing stars.
"Oh, holy fuck," I moan, my head falling back as he works me with devastating precision. My hands find purchase on the headboard, knuckles white as I struggle to maintain some semblance of control. But Tank is relentless, his tongue circling, flicking, delving, until I'm trembling above him, incoherent pleas falling from my lips.
