Page 64 of Tank
"Fuck me harder," I demand, digging my nails into his shoulders. "I won't break."
Something flashes in his eyes — hunger, relief, desire — and he obeys, snapping his hips with new force. The headboard thuds against the wall, a steady rhythm punctuated by our mingled moans.
Tank slides a hand between us, his thumb finding my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. "One more," he says. "Give me one more, Bianca. I want to feel you come around my cock."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pressure of him inside me sends me spiraling. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes through me, my inner walls clenching around him. He groans, his rhythm faltering as my climax triggers his own. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep, his body shuddering above mine.
For a long moment, we stay like that, connected, breathing hard, our skin slick with sweat. Then he shifts, moves, and he gathers me against his chest, my head tucked under his chin.
"That was..." he begins, his voice soft in the darkness.
"Yeah," I agree, unable to find adequate words. I trace patterns on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm. "It was."
We lie in comfortable silence, our breathing synchronizing, the world outside this room temporarily forgotten. I feel weightless, boneless, completely at peace in a way I haven't experienced in years — maybe ever.
"Stay," I whisper, surprising myself with the request. I'm not usually one to ask for things, to show vulnerability. But with Tank, the walls I've built around myself seem less necessary.
“I will,” he answers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
As my strength fades, I reach over to my nightstand, my fingers flicking across my phone to set an alarm just as my eyes close. A sleep deeper and safer than any I’ve ever felt before.
I sleep for hours.
Wake to the sound of my alarm chirping.
And an empty space in bed beside me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tank
Bianca falls asleep curled up against me, soft and warm and content. Her breath deepens, her body relaxes, surrendering to a trust that should weigh on me harder than it does. I wrap my arm around her, feeling that heart-beat of quiet between us, but my mind churns too much for sleep, each pulse a reminder of the mission at hand. She breathes “Caleb” as she drifts off, and I know I need to move.
I ease out of the bed, careful as a thief, and grab her phone from the nightstand. Every step away from her is a fight with myself. I know it’s a betrayal, cutting against the grain of what’s growing between us, but I’m not here to fall in love — not completely — I’m here on a mission. That’s what I keep telling myself, even as I scroll through her messages, her emails, all the intimate threads that weave her life. They reveal her struggle, a woman stretched thin trying to keep her commitments from unraveling, the typical stress of someone running an overworked charity. Nothing too suspicious.
Then I see it — a digital invoice and contract from Butter & Bliss Catering, with a logo that looks like a concussed recruit drew it using crayons during a mortar strike. They're the bakery signed on for tomorrow’s event.
My jaw ticks.
Bianca stirs a little. I hold my breath until hers returns to even.
It hurts to see some inferior bakery working this event. I want to tell myself I’m angry about the quality, about what it costs the charity to have some amateurs fumbling around her fundraiser. I want to tell myself I don’t care that she’s trusting others, relying on other hands to make things right. But it cuts deeper than that, and with the pain comes a clarity and resolve I hadn’t expected.
I pocket that bitter feeling, leave her a glass of water on the nightstand, and head out into the late moonlight. I am not here to fall in love. I’m here to get the job done.
Sticky Buns is alive with the smell of butter and sugar when I get back.
The scent wraps around me like a blanket, thick with promise and comfort, a far cry from the icy edge of doubt I left behind with Bianca. To my surprise, I see Ricky still hanging around behind the counter, his charm in full throttle as he works his magic on an old lady. She's nodding and laughing, a basket in hand loaded with three extra kouign-amann she probably never planned on buying. Typical Ricky, turning on the DeMarco charm full wattage to get the job done. This is way past closing time, and it should annoy me not to have a minute alone to think things through, but I can't help the tug of appreciation for the wiry bastard's hustle.
When she’s gone, he gives me a sheepish grin.
“Hope you don’t mind. Got on a roll.”
"Oh fuck, really?”
“Yeah, I thought up that one earlier and I’ve been waiting all day for you to get back so I could use it.” He smirks, knowing he’s got me.
