Page 53 of Marked By Tank
Hungrier now.
Still careful. Still watching me. But the restraint from before is fraying fast, and I can feel it in the weight of his body, the rough drag of him, the way his hand grips my thigh and holds it open wider.
I wrap my legs around him.
That gets a curse out of him.
“There you go,” he says, voice gone gravel-rough. “Take it.”
Every thrust hits harder now. Deeper. The bed creaks under us. The fire pops in the stove. My breath comes apart in little broken sounds I do not even try to hide.
His hand slides between us again.
The second his fingers finds my clit, I moan.
“Yeah,” he says. “You give me that. Come on.”
The praise does something wicked to me.
Every filthy little word out of his mouth lands low and deep.
“That’s it.”
“Good girl.”
“Take what you need.”
I clutch at his shoulders and let him move me where he wants, let him hold me open and touch me until every nerve in my body feels bright and stretched too tight.
“Tank,” I gasp.
“I know.”
He kisses me hard, then breaks it just enough to look at me.
“Come for me, angel. I want to feel it.”
That pushes me right over.
The orgasm hits hard enough to pull a cry out of me. My whole body tightens around him, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders while his name breaks from my mouth again and again.
“There you go,” he groans against my throat. “Fuck, there you go.”
The way my body clenches around him wrecks what little control he has left.
I feel it happen.
His rhythm breaks. His breath punches out of him. His hand grips my thigh so hard it almost hurts.
Then he comes with a broken, filthy sound against my neck, hips jerking once, twice, body locking over mine while every hard line in him goes tight.
After, neither of us moves for a long second.
He presses a kiss to my throat.
Then another.
I slide one hand into his hair and hold him there because I still do not want him to move.
