Page 44 of Tank
Tank.
My stomach clenches at the memory, at the way he moved over me and inside me, how his hands felt on my skin, how he kissed me like he was starving and I was the only thing that could fill his need, keep him alive. How I got lost in him, in the escape he promised. How I let it happen. I inhale sharply, pushing the thoughts away like a bad drug, telling myself that it meant nothing, that it was just one night. He’s gone. Task accomplished.
And maybe that's for the best.
What was I thinking, letting someone like him get close? Letting anyone get close?
I know how long these things last, know that the fall always hurts more than the height, the pain more than the pleasure. I don’t need a man like him. I don’t need anyone. The words are brittle and hard in my mind, like the resolve I try so desperately to cling to. I close my eyes again, shutting out the sunlight, the empty room, the empty bed, and keep repeating the lie until it feels like it might be the truth.
I sit up slowly, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my tired eyes. I'm still trying to convince myself that Tank’s absence is a blessing when my mind drifts back to his tattoos, and the memories crowd in; there's no way to push them out, no way to pretend. Some of his ink was beautiful — detailed and intricate, the artistry that seems almost impossible on skin. I remember tracing the lines with my fingers, transfixed, each design a minor revelation of him. Others? Blunt and crude marks. Warnings. Messages so obvious that looking at them now feels like a slap in the face. I know some of those symbols, know what they mean. MC ink. Gang affiliations. The kind only men like him wear, the kind I thought I left behind. I should’ve noticed them sooner. I should’ve seen what he was. I should’ve cared.
But last night?
I hadn't cared about much of anything, least of all the danger or the truths staring up at me from his skin. I hadn't cared about a damn thing except how good he felt and how much I needed to escape, even if for only a few hours.
I sigh, an exhale full of regret and frustration, and run a hand through my tangled hair. I force myself to move, let the responsibilities, the thoughts about the bare basics that I need to do — showering, dressing, and making coffee become — a shield against the thoughts that try to snake their way back in.
Shower. Clothes. Coffee.
Then another long, brutal day.
I tell myself I should feel relieved, that I should be glad he’s gone. That I won't have to see the truth of who he is etched into his body, won't have to deal with the intensity of his presence or the way he makes me feel things I shouldn't, things I swore I wouldn’t.
But the relief I reach for slips away.
The harder I try to hold on to it, the more uncertain I feel.
I focus on getting through the day. I focus on anything but him, anything except his ability to unnerve me.
Half-dressed, I freeze. There’s a sound. A clatter.
It’s coming from the kitchen.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it’s a wonder they don’t crack.
I sniff the air, suddenly alert — and catch the scent of bacon.
And coffee.
I frown. What the hell?
I move quietly, my body still tense, still ready for a fight — because I always have to be ready for a fight.
Then, I step into the kitchen… and stop dead.
Tank is standing at my stove.
Stark naked.
With a pan in one hand, a spatula in the other, flipping bacon like it’s just a normal fucking morning.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t look away.
The broad, muscled expanse of his back. The dark ink that stretches across his skin. The way the morning light makes every scar, every defined line of his body, stand out in sharp relief.
And his ass.
