Page 16 of Tank's Temptation

Tank could take control before I lift the fabric past his stomach. I feel the possibility in the tension of his body, but he raises his arms and lets me strip the shirt away. I let the cotton slide from my fingers while I look at him. The first time I saw his bare chest, I was still burning with the fury of captivity and release. I wanted force. I wanted to use the body that had taken mine out of the motel until the memory belonged to me too.

Tonight, there’s no lock, no interrupted kiss and no adrenaline excuse left between us. I want him anyway.

My palms travel over his chest, tracing ink, scars and the hard lines beneath both. Tank watches every movement withoutreaching for me. The restraint isn’t uncertainty. It’s patience, and the knowledge that he could break it whenever I ask.

I press my mouth to the scar near his ribs. His stomach tightens beneath my lips.

“Sit down, Tank.” His eyes darken, but he obeys.

Tank lowers onto the edge of the bed, knees spread, tattooed forearms resting against his thighs. The position should make him look less imposing. It doesn’t. He’s still broad enough to fill my vision, still dangerous enough that men change their minds when he removes his rings and shows just how serious he is.

But he’s waiting for me, patiently.

I step between his legs and pull my shirt over my head. His gaze drops to the bra beneath it, then lower as I open my jeans. The hunger in his face makes the simple act of undressing feel more explicit than being naked.

“You can touch me,” I say.

His hands close around my hips immediately.

Tank draws me forward until I stand between his thighs, then presses his mouth to my stomach. The kiss is slow, almost reverent, but his fingers grip hard enough to make possession clear. He works his way upward while I unfasten my bra, catching one nipple between his lips the second the fabric falls.

Pleasure pulls low through me. I cradle the back of his head as he sucks, his short hair rough beneath my palm. When he reaches for the fastening of my jeans, I catch his wrist.

“Not yet.”

Tank looks up, nipple still damp from his mouth. “You planning to make me suffer?”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’ve been doing a good job since the motel.”

I push him back onto the mattress.

He goes willingly, though the look he gives me promises the cooperation has limits. I open his belt, lower the zipper and drag his jeans down far enough to free him.

He’s already fully hard.

My fingers close around him, and Tank’s head drops against the bed. The first slow stroke makes his stomach contract. I work my hand from base to tip, watching the control tighten across his face.

He reaches for me. I catch his hand and press it back beside his hip. “I said not yet.”

A rough laugh leaves him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“More than I expected.”

I lower my mouth, and Tank’s entire body locks when my lips close around the head of his cock. The response sends a sharp thrill through me. This man carried me out of a motel as if I weighed nothing, held me down with his mouth between my legs and fucked me hard enough to shift the bed.

Now one slow pull of my lips makes his hands fist in the blanket.

I take him deeper, using my hand where my mouth cannot. Tank watches me through narrowed eyes, every breath growing rougher as I find the pace that makes his hips shift.

His fingers slide into my hair, holding rather than forcing.

“That mouth nearly got you in trouble the first night,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Turns out I underestimated it.”

I draw back just far enough to answer. “You underestimated a lot about me.”

Then I take him deep again. Tank’s grip tightens. His restraint begins to fracture in small, visible ways. The flex of his thighs, the twitch of his hips, the strain in his arm as he stops himself from guiding my head. I want him close to losing control. I don’t want him finishing yet.