Page 52 of Marked By Tank
The move is fast enough to shock me and smooth enough to make me gasp.
There he is.
That rough edge.
That leashed violence that somehow makes me feel safer instead of scared.
His mouth drags down my throat.
“Mine,” he says against my skin.
The word sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me.
He lets go of my wrists and slides one hand down my body, over my breast, my waist, my stomach, lower.
His fingers find my pussy wet and swollen and still sensitive, and I jerk with a cry.
His head lifts. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He rubs me once, slow and filthy, while watching my face.
“Look at that,” he murmurs. “Still soaked.”
My whole face burns.
His mouth tilts.
“From sucking my cock?”
The words are so filthy and so rough and so exactly what just happened that a broken sound falls out of me before I can stop it.
“Tank...”
“Yeah.” He kisses me again, then drags his thumb over me once more. “That’s what I thought.”
I can barely breathe.
He keeps touching me just enough to make me shake, then lines himself up again.
“This time,” he says, voice low, “I’m not going slow or gentle.”
Heat rushes through me.
I nod.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
He pushes in deeper this time, one hard smooth thrust that fills me so suddenly I cry out and arch up under him.
“Christ,” he mutters, forehead dropping to mine for one second. “Still so tight.”
He starts moving.
