Page 43 of Tank
When he focuses on that perfect spot and sucks, I shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. Before I can even catch my breath, he's flipping me onto my back, his massive body covering mine, blue eyes wild with need.
"Condom," he growls.
But I hesitate, look in his eyes, slip my hand around his cock and squeeze it. “Are you clean?” I say.
“I am. You?”
“I am. And I want all of you.”
Something primal sounds in his chest, and I feel him press against me, and then I shudder as he slips inside. A moan breaks my lips apart and I shiver in a sense of electric fullness. “Oh, fuck me,” I gasp.
“Yes, that’s what we’re doing,” Tank rumbles.
“Asshole,” I gasp.
“I can fuck that later,” he says.
“No, that’s not what I—”
“—I know,” he says. Then presses me flat against the bed, changes the angle of his hips, and all I can do is moan while constellations of stars burst in my vision.
My body feels electric, every nerve ending alive with sensation as Tank moves inside me. His powerful body covers mine, his muscles flexing with each controlled thrust. I'm lost in the rhythm of us, the push and pull, the give and take.
"Look at me," he commands, voice rough with desire.
I open my eyes to find his intense gaze fixed on mine. Something shifts between us in that moment—something deeper than the physical connection we're sharing. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"You feel so good," he groans, dropping his forehead to mine. "So fucking perfect."
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, my nails digging into his back as pleasure builds inside me like a gathering storm. Tank's rhythm becomes more urgent, more desperate, and I know he's close, too.
"Let go," he whispers against my lips. "I've got you."
And I do — I fall apart beneath him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash over me. Tank follows a moment later, his body tensing above mine, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he buries his face in my neck.
For several long moments, we lie tangled together, hearts racing, breath mingling, neither of us willing to break the spell. Eventually, Tank rolls to his side, taking me with him, keeping me close against his chest.
His fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine, and I feel myself melting into his touch, into a contentment that feels so foreign, something I haven’t had in such a long time, that a shiver of shock and fear runs through my body. As if sensing it, Tank pulls me tighter against his chest.
“You good?” He says.
I take a second. And in that second, my eyes wander his powerful body, see the tattoos, the scars, the hints of danger, of risk, of warning about a life that I fight so hard to stay out of, about a life that I so hard to keep the women at the shelter away from, and the chilling thought runs through me: am I?
He squeezes me again. Prompts again. “Bianca?”
I fight to shove the doubt down. He feels good, so good, and my body is alight and alive in a way it so desperately needs.
“I am.”
But still, I wonder: am I?
Chapter Twenty-One
Bianca
I wake up to an empty bed; the sheets cool beside me, the weight of his absence palpable. Early morning light slips through the blinds, painting thin stripes against the walls, making them look like prison bars. For a second, I just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, letting my eyes adjust to the quiet stillness of the room. I feel the ache in my muscles, every bruise and bite a reminder of last night, the soreness between my legs a testament to just how far I let myself go.
A reminder of him.
