Page 45 of Tank
God help me.
That ass.
No matter how good his baking is, those are the buns to die for.
I was relieved when I thought he was gone.
Now?
I’m completely, utterly ruined.
Tank barely glances over his shoulder, utterly unfazed by my presence.
"Morning," he grunts.
It’s like he doesn't have a care in the world, like this is the most normal day of his life. He keeps flipping the bacon without breaking a sweat, as if he’s standing there fully clothed and not stark naked, as if he hasn’t just turned my entire morning upside down.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly parched.
"What are you doing?" The words come out in a shaky rush, and I barely recognize my voice.
"Making breakfast.”
The simplicity of his answer, as if there could be any other explanation, baffles me.
"But you’re naked."
I blink, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of me, trying to understand the audacity of this man. The sight of him, so casual and at ease, only makes me even more flustered.
He shrugs, unconcerned. "Didn’t feel like looking for my clothes."
His nonchalance, his total disregard for the awkwardness of the situation is maddening, and yet it’s doing things to my insides that I can’t control.
I press my lips together, fighting the heat rising to my cheeks, trying to remain composed, trying not to completely combust on the spot. I should tell him to leave, throw him out before his hold on me tightens even further. I should say something cutting and sharp, something biting and sarcastic to push him away, to guard myself against the mess he could make of my life. But here I am, standing like a fool, staring at him like an idiot, watching his every move while the intoxicating smell of bacon fills my kitchen, and the man who could be my biggest, most dangerous mistake looks so perfectly at ease, like he belongs here.
And deep inside, beneath all my defenses, I feel something unsettling and real, a softening, a wavering, an urge in my heart that terrifies me more than anything.
I know better.
I know it.
But I also know…
I want him to belong here.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tank
Bianca’s still back there. Bianca Moretti, I remind myself, my in to Moretti’s organization and nothing else — nothing else — and she’s someone I don’t feel guilty about fucking at all. In fact, I feel fucking proud of it, because when I look Victor in the eyes before I put a bullet in his brain, I’m going to tell him I fucked his sister.
I glance over my shoulder.
Bianca’s got her arms crossed, eyes locked on me.
More specifically, locked onto my bare ass.
She says nothing.
