Chapter Twenty
Bianca
I probably ought to be more worried about the fact that I’m grinning while dodging a punch. But there it is: a big, stupid, shit-eating grin. What the hell is wrong with me? No one in their right mind would ever confuse me for Muhammad Ali. These two guys—though they have no grace in fighting, or anything, really—are a hell of a lot bigger than me. They’re stronger, meaner, and, yeah, they have me outnumbered two-to-one. Probably not the smartest situation I’ve ever found myself in, especially late at night in some sketchy back alley. My brother would laugh his ass off if he knew I was spending my time like this.
But, honestly? I fucking needed this.
It feels so good letting go. After days of stress from dealing with Victor’s threats, exhaustion from my day job, and fighting like hell to keep Safe House from sinking under the weight of its broken finances, the best therapy I could ask for is cracking a few knuckles.
The guy on my left lunges. He has blond hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a shower in a week, and his movements are as sloppy as his hygiene. I sidestep effortlessly, bring my elbow up, and catch him in the ribs. He grunts and stumbles back a step, but the bastard doesn’t go down.
The other guy, the one I decked first? He’s already back on his feet. His eyes as wide as dinner plates, his fists clenched. I don’t like my odds. He’s got a tattoo on his thick neck and the muscles in his forearms are straining like they’re about to explode. I pivot out of the way, ready to keep going, when I spot something in my periphery.
Tank.
Not helping.
Not saving my ass.
Just standing there like a goddamn statue. His mouth slightly open, arms crossed over his massive chest, watching like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. I can’t believe it either.
I roll my eyes, slipping another wild punch and ducking to the side.
"Little help?" I call.
The guy with the neck tattoo gets a hand on me, and I twist hard, slipping out from under him.
Tank doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
I dodge again, barely slipping a blow to the face, and feel my hair rustle with the wind of his passing punch. I can’t keep this up much longer.
"Seriously?" I yell out, my voice tinged with exasperation. "Are you scared or something?"
That finally seems to snap him out of whatever stupid trance he’s in. With a grin that sends a shiver straight through my bones, Tank rolls his shoulders and steps forward.
"Alright, Bianca," he says, voice full of amusement. "I can get you out of this jam."
The next few seconds are an absolute blur.
One second, I’m still fighting for my life against these assholes and realizing that, as good as it felt at the beginning, this wasn’t the wisest way to get some stress relief.
Then Tank explodes into action, moving with a calculated aggression that's as precise as it is powerful. He's like a goddamn wrecking ball, a force of nature that no one and nothing can stop. Before I even know how, one man is ripped away, Tank's massive hand grasping him by the collar and yanking with a strength that's monstrous. The motion is fluid, effortless, as he drives a brutal fist into the guy’s gut. He doubles over instantly, collapsing with a gasp of shock and pain, and I'm left to face the other one alone.
Except not. I’m not alone, and in that split second, I realize how much of a difference it makes. Tank has created an opening, and I’m quick to take advantage of it. Before the other guy can even react, I slam my knee hard into his stomach, watching him fold like a cheap suit.
We move effortlessly, like we’ve done this dance before.
Which, okay, technically we have. Even if it was against each other. But still.
This time, it’s… different.
It’s exhilarating in a way that’s new and unfamiliar, a rush that has me grinning like I’ve lost my damn mind. Tank never stops smiling either, a grin plastered on his face the whole damn time. He’s loving this, enjoying every second, and more than anything else, he seems to enjoy me. Like I'm fun for him, like this is some kind of game we’re playing and he’s thrilled that I’m in on it with him.
And for some baffling, infuriating reason, that sends a rush of heat through me that has absolutely nothing to do with the fight. I feel it like a shockwave, a jolt straight to my core.
We’re just about to really finish this, to put an end to these jerks once and for all, when a voice cuts through the chaos like a bullet.
"Hey!"
There’s a moment of confusion, and I blink through the sweat and adrenaline, panting and whirling to locate the source. That’s when I see him: the pissed-off bartender, muscles tense and eyes glaring.
"You four: get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the cops.”
His voice leaves no room for argument, and I exchange a look with Tank, neither of us willing to push our luck with the law. We’ve had our fun. In unison, our eyes meet, sparkling with shared understanding. Then, without a word, we burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the night like fireworks.
We stumble out into the cool night air, still laughing.
Tank shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning at me. "Thought you were the non-violent type?"
I shrug. "They started it. The stuff they said to that woman, and then to me… Yes, they started it.”
"And you finished it?"
"Damn right."
He chuckles, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "I respect that," he says, amusement lighting up his face. Then his grin turns wicked and teasing. "Don’t respect how weak your right hook is, though."
I stop walking, incredulous, a shocked laugh escaping me. I blink at him like he’s lost his mind. "Excuse me?"
Tank leans back against the hood of my car, his body relaxed, arms crossed like he just said something completely reasonable.
I take a step closer, glaring at him, my voice sharp. "Did you not see that right hand I hit that guy with?"
He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. "I saw it."
I wait, expecting him to say more. He doesn’t. My patience snaps. "And?"
"And," he finally says, drawing it out, "I also saw how you didn’t follow it up with a hook or, I don’t know, kick him in the face."
I sputter at the absurdity. "Kick him in the face?!"
Tank nods, completely serious, a glint of laughter in those sharp blue eyes. "You had an opening."
I scowl, but damn it, I can’t stop myself from laughing at the ridiculousness. "Alright, then, Mr. Expert. Show me: what should I have done?"
He grabs my wrist, lifting my hand with a gentleness that is at odds with his gruff demeanor. "Your form’s decent," he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. His fingers run up and down my forearm, his trailing touch leaving heat in their wake. "But when you throw a punch, you’ve got to commit. Follow through. Like this."
I barely hear his instructions, my thoughts scattering. Because now I’m not thinking about fighting. I’m thinking about how big his hands are. How warm his touch is. How damn close he is.
His voice lowers even more, gruff and quiet. "And if you ever need to throw another punch…"
I swallow hard, my pulse slamming against my ribs. His face gets so close to mine, my heart hammers against my ribcage, pushing me to lean forward. I can feel it. This is it.
He chuckles, a deep rumble. “Hold your hand right, or else you’ll break your wrist."
He’s toying with me. I should step back, call him out.
But I don’t.
Instead, I tilt my head, lips parting, watching the way his gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there. The night air is too warm. My heart is pounding, a wild rhythm that drowns out everything else. And then, before I can overthink it, Tank kisses me.
It’s not soft.
It’s hungry. Rough. Possessive.
Like he’s been waiting for this.
And hell if I haven’t been, too.
I press myself closer to him, my chest tight, my mind even tighter. I shouldn’t want this, but I do, and there’s no denying it. I pull Tank into me, fisting my hands in his shirt with a fierce hunger that shocks us both. He lets out a breathless sound that sends a shiver through me, his own desire unraveling, the barrier between us collapsing in an instant. His fingers tighten their grip around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid frame. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel his warmth, his strength, everything that is him crashing into me like a tidal wave.
Then, we move in a wordless rush.
Somehow, before I know it, we’re tumbling into my car. The door slams shut, sealing off everything but this, but us. Tank’s hands are wide and powerful on my thighs, gripping tight enough to brand a memory of this moment onto my skin. My fingers find their way into his dark hair, tugging with impatience, making him groan into my neck. The windows are fogging up, a blurred haze creeping over the glass and blocking off the rest of the world.
It’s just us. Alone.
Lips together. Hearts pounding. Hands wandering, gripping, touching, teasing, like they’re never going to stop. Like they never want to. I should stop, I should pull away, but I don’t care.
“Your place or mine?” I murmur when I pull my lips away from his and press them to his ear. I nibble on his lobe, making him moan, making his hands grip my ass, making his lips nip at my collarbone. I gasp, grab his back, pull him into me.
“Yours,” he says. “Ricky’s at mine. No room.”
“Mine it is.”
I turn, slip my keys in the ignition, start the car. I keep one hand on the wheel, one on him, running my hand up and down his chest, then lower, then lower still, until I feel his cock, thick and firm.
A low growl escapes Tank's throat, and his hand captures mine, stilling my movement. "If you keep that up, we're not making it to your place," he warns, voice rough with need.
I flash him a wicked smile, enjoying the power I have over this mountain of a man. "Then I’ll drive faster."
The trip to my apartment is a blur of stolen glances and wandering hands. Each red light is torture and opportunity wrapped in one—his lips finding my neck, my fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest beneath his shirt. By the time we stumble through my door, we're both breathless with anticipation.
Tank backs me against the wall, his powerful body caging mine. His eyes, dark with desire, lock onto mine. "Last chance to change your mind, Bianca."
I answer by yanking his head down to mine, our lips crashing together with renewed hunger. “I appreciate your efforts at getting consent, but when I literally pull you into my apartment and do this,” I pause a moment to undo the buttons of his jeans, to slip my hand inside and feel his large cock and give it a squeeze, “I’m giving you pretty clear signals. But, just for clarity’s sake — I sit on your face and then fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
His answering growl vibrates against my skin as he lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist. "Is that a promise?"
"Damn right it is," I breathe against his mouth. "Bedroom's down the hall."
We tumble onto my bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. Clothes disappear piece by piece, revealing skin that burns beneath eager touches. His shirt goes first, and I take a moment to appreciate the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, marred with scars that tell stories I want to learn. My fingers trace a particularly jagged one across his ribs.
"Afghanistan," he says simply, before capturing my mouth again.
My shirt follows, then my bra, and Tank looks at me like I'm some kind of revelation. His calloused hands cup my breasts with surprising gentleness, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until I'm arching into his touch, gasping his name.
"God, you're beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, trailing kisses down my neck, my collarbone, between my breasts. Each press of his lips feels like a brand, marking me as something precious.
When his mouth closes around my nipple, I cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He smiles against my skin, clearly pleased with my response. "Sensitive," he notes, before moving to the other breast, giving it the same torturous attention until I'm practically writhing beneath him.
"Tank," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders. "I believe I made a promise."
His eyes darken with understanding, and with surprising grace for such a large man, he flips onto his back, pulling me up his body until my thighs bracket his face. His hands grip my hips, guiding me down to his waiting mouth, and the first stroke of his tongue has me seeing stars.
"Oh, holy fuck," I moan, my head falling back as he works me with devastating precision. My hands find purchase on the headboard, knuckles white as I struggle to maintain some semblance of control. But Tank is relentless, his tongue circling, flicking, delving, until I'm trembling above him, incoherent pleas falling from my lips.
When he focuses on that perfect spot and sucks, I shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. Before I can even catch my breath, he's flipping me onto my back, his massive body covering mine, blue eyes wild with need.
"Condom," he growls.
But I hesitate, look in his eyes, slip my hand around his cock and squeeze it. “Are you clean?” I say.
“I am. You?”
“I am. And I want all of you.”
Something primal sounds in his chest, and I feel him press against me, and then I shudder as he slips inside. A moan breaks my lips apart and I shiver in a sense of electric fullness. “Oh, fuck me,” I gasp.
“Yes, that’s what we’re doing,” Tank rumbles.
“Asshole,” I gasp.
“I can fuck that later,” he says.
“No, that’s not what I—”
“—I know,” he says. Then presses me flat against the bed, changes the angle of his hips, and all I can do is moan while constellations of stars burst in my vision.
My body feels electric, every nerve ending alive with sensation as Tank moves inside me. His powerful body covers mine, his muscles flexing with each controlled thrust. I'm lost in the rhythm of us, the push and pull, the give and take.
"Look at me," he commands, voice rough with desire.
I open my eyes to find his intense gaze fixed on mine. Something shifts between us in that moment—something deeper than the physical connection we're sharing. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"You feel so good," he groans, dropping his forehead to mine. "So fucking perfect."
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, my nails digging into his back as pleasure builds inside me like a gathering storm. Tank's rhythm becomes more urgent, more desperate, and I know he's close, too.
"Let go," he whispers against my lips. "I've got you."
And I do — I fall apart beneath him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash over me. Tank follows a moment later, his body tensing above mine, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he buries his face in my neck.
For several long moments, we lie tangled together, hearts racing, breath mingling, neither of us willing to break the spell. Eventually, Tank rolls to his side, taking me with him, keeping me close against his chest.
His fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine, and I feel myself melting into his touch, into a contentment that feels so foreign, something I haven’t had in such a long time, that a shiver of shock and fear runs through my body. As if sensing it, Tank pulls me tighter against his chest.
“You good?” He says.
I take a second. And in that second, my eyes wander his powerful body, see the tattoos, the scars, the hints of danger, of risk, of warning about a life that I fight so hard to stay out of, about a life that I so hard to keep the women at the shelter away from, and the chilling thought runs through me: am I?
He squeezes me again. Prompts again. “Bianca?”
I fight to shove the doubt down. He feels good, so good, and my body is alight and alive in a way it so desperately needs.
“I am.”
But still, I wonder: am I?