Page 56 of Tank
“You can. You will.” He growls against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. One of his thick fingers slides inside me, curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. My thighs tremble, my breath comes in sharp, desperate pants.
“Let go," he commands, his voice dark with desire. "Give it to me, Bianca."
When I come, it's with his name on my lips, my body convulsing around his fingers. He works me through it, relentless, until I'm a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him. But he's not done—not nearly. In one fluid motion, he rises above me, his jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard against my thigh.
"I need to be inside you," he says, his voice strained with restraint. "Tell me you want this."
In answer, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Fuck me.”
Like I'm begging him. And I am.
When he enters me, it's with a slow, single powerful thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that hovers perfectly between pleasure and pain. I gasp, I clutch at him, dig nails into his back to pull him even deeper. And then, for a moment, we both freeze, connected in the most intimate way possible, our eyes locked in silent communication.
"God damn," he growls, his forehead dropping to mine. "You feel like fucking heaven."
I dig my nails into his broad shoulders, urging him to move. "Show me what you've got, Tank," I whisper against his lips. "Don't hold back. Not with me."
Something breaks in him then — the last thread of his control snapping. He starts slow, but, bit by bit, his control breaks and, as my voice rises, urging him on — harder, harder, harder — his hips drive into mine with bruising force, each thrust pushing me further up the bed until my head nearly hits the headboard. One of his hands grips my hip, angling me to take him deeper, while the other braces against the mattress beside my head.
He dominates me.
Controls me.
Overpowers me.
And I fucking scream at him every step of the way to give me more, more, more.
The cabin fills with the sounds of our coupling—skin against skin, my moans and his grunts, the creak of the bed beneath us. It's primal and raw and exactly what I need. With each powerful thrust, I feel the walls I've built around myself crumbling. I'm not Bianca Moretti here — not Victor's sister, not the charity director, not the woman constantly looking over her shoulder. I'm just me, stripped bare in every way that matters.
"Look at me," Tank commands.
I do.
His eyes bore into mine, intense and unguarded. In them, I see everything—desire, yes, but also tenderness, protectiveness, and something deeper that makes my chest ache. This connection between us transcends the physical — it's as if he's claiming not just my body but something essential inside me.
"I want to see you when you come," he says, his voice raw. "Want to watch what I do to you."
His pace changes, becomes more deliberate. One hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation — him inside me, his thumb circling that sensitive bundle of nerves — builds the pressure low in my belly again. I'm climbing toward another peak, higher and sharper than before.
"That's it," he encourages, his breath hot against my neck. "Give it to me again."
My second orgasm crashes over me with devastating force. I cry out his name — his real name, Caleb — as my body clenches around him. The sound of his name seems to push him over the edge; his rhythm falters, his movements becoming erratic as he follows me into bliss. He buries his face in my neck, groaning against my skin as he empties himself inside me.
For several moments, we lie tangled together, our breathing gradually slowing. His weight on me feels like an anchor, keeping me from floating away. I run my fingers along the sweat-slicked muscles of his back, tracing the ridges, tracing him. He's still inside me, and I shiver from the loss when he finally pulls out.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One moment, we’re tangled together on the bed, the fire in the stone hearth casting flickering gold light across Tank’s rough, handsome face. His hands are steady on me, not demanding, just present, grounding me. I’m overwhelmed by his warmth, by his closeness. It's so much more than I've ever let myself feel, and the intensity is terrifying.
The next, I’m waking up, nestled against his chest, my fingers wrapped around his like I never want to let go.
He’s warm. Solid. Safe. Disarming every one of my defenses. It's a feeling I haven't allowed myself in so long, a luxury of comfort that seems foreign, unreal. I barely recognize the emotions blossoming inside me. Passion, vulnerability, and a hint of peace, all tangled up together. My chest tightens with panic. How did I let this happen?
And I hate that I feel this way.
My heart clenches, and I have to fight back the instinct to pull away. I’m spiraling, my mind a whirlwind of doubt and fear. This isn't safe, is it? Not in the ways that matter. Not for someone like me. This is exactly how it starts — the first crack in the armor, the first slip in my carefully controlled life.
Because Tank isn’t just a man. He’s a dangerous one. And men like him always start out feeling safe, don’t they?
