Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bianca
We drive so fast to his cabin that between my fatigue and our speed, the world outside is a blur. My heart burns with need, with fear, with love, an intoxicating combination that leaves me feeling as if I’m outside my body, looking down at myself, unable to determine if I’m living a dream or a nightmare. Maybe both.
I love Tank.
Yet that very concept scares me.
Am I loving him to lose myself? Am I loving him to escape?
Or am I loving him because I know who he really is?
I don’t know.
And not knowing scares me.
“We’re here,” he says as the car comes to a stop in the driveway to his cabin.
Something surges in my chest, doubts dissipate, and I reach across, take his hand, and pull him close to kiss him. Whatever I decide, my mind’s made up — I want him. “Let’s go inside.”
Tank's lips crash against mine as he opens the cabin door, his hands already finding their way beneath my shirt. The cool night air hits my skin for just a moment before we stumble inside, never breaking contact. His beard scrapes against my chin, sending shivers down my spine.
“I've been wanting you since the moment I saw you," he growls, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me deeper into the cabin.
“Waiting for this? Did you forget we’ve already fucked?”
“With how bad I want you, I can never get enough.”
The world narrows to just us—his heartbeat against mine, the heat of his body, the scent of leather and pine that clings to his skin. I'm drowning in sensation, and for once, I don't want to come up for air.
"I need you," I whisper in his ear, surprised by the rawness in my voice. "All of you."
He carries me to his bed, laying me down with unexpected gentleness. The mattress gives beneath our combined weight as he hovers over me, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath catch. For a moment, he just looks at me, as if committing every detail to memory.
I moan as his calloused hands slide up my sides, peeling away my shirt with a deliberate slowness that makes me arch against him.
"Tank," I breathe, impatient, my fingers fumbling with his belt.
"Patience," he murmurs, but I can hear the strain in his voice.
I reach up, fingers tangling in his hair, and pull him down to me. "Don't hold back," I command, surprising myself with my boldness. "I'm not fragile."
Something dark and primal flashes in his eyes. His hands pin my wrists above my head, his body a delicious weight pressing me into the mattress. The gesture should terrify me — being trapped has always been my nightmare — but with Tank, it feels like liberation.
He tears my jeans down my legs, his movements rough but controlled. I'm left in nothing but my underwear, exposed to his hungry gaze. The cool air pebbles my skin, but I'm burning everywhere his eyes touch.
"Every single time I look at you, it fucking stuns me," he rasps, his voice like gravel. He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the landscape of tattoos and scars that map his torso. I reach out, tracing the inked lines with trembling fingers, feeling the stories written in his skin.
When he lowers his mouth to my breast, the world fragments into pure sensation. His teeth graze my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, and I gasp as the fabric dampens beneath his attention. My hips roll up instinctively, seeking friction, seeking him. His large hand splays across my stomach, pressing me back down.
"Not yet," he growls, and I can feel his smile against my skin.
I'm not used to this—surrendering control, letting someone else dictate the pace of my pleasure. But the way Tank touches me, with such reverent hunger, makes me want to give everything to him.
He unclasps my bra with practiced ease, tossing it aside. The sudden exposure makes me shiver, but before I can feel self-conscious, his mouth is on me again, hot and demanding. His beard scratches the sensitive underside of my breast as he works his way down my body, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
"Fuck, Bianca," he breathes against my navel. "The things I want to do to you..."
"Show me," I challenge, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears.
His eyes lock with mine as he hooks his fingers into my underwear, dragging it down my legs with excruciating slowness. I'm completely bare to him now, vulnerable. But instead of fear, I feel powerful. The way he looks at me — like I'm some rare, precious thing he can't believe he's allowed to touch — ignites something primal inside me.
When his mouth finds my pussy, I let out a noise from the deepest part of my chest.
“Love that you’re a moaner,” he rumbles before his tongue returns to my pussy.
I arch my back, fingers clutching at the sheets as his tongue explores me with devastating precision. There's nothing tentative in his movements—he devours me like a man starved, his hands gripping my thighs to keep me open to him. The stubble of his beard creates a delicious friction against my most sensitive skin, the contrast between his rough touch and soft tongue driving me wild.
"Tank," I gasp, my hips bucking against his mouth. "I can't — "
“You can. You will.” He growls against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. One of his thick fingers slides inside me, curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. My thighs tremble, my breath comes in sharp, desperate pants.
“Let go," he commands, his voice dark with desire. "Give it to me, Bianca."
When I come, it's with his name on my lips, my body convulsing around his fingers. He works me through it, relentless, until I'm a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him. But he's not done—not nearly. In one fluid motion, he rises above me, his jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard against my thigh.
"I need to be inside you," he says, his voice strained with restraint. "Tell me you want this."
In answer, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Fuck me.”
Like I'm begging him. And I am.
When he enters me, it's with a slow, single powerful thrust that steals the breath from my lungs. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that hovers perfectly between pleasure and pain. I gasp, I clutch at him, dig nails into his back to pull him even deeper. And then, for a moment, we both freeze, connected in the most intimate way possible, our eyes locked in silent communication.
"God damn," he growls, his forehead dropping to mine. "You feel like fucking heaven."
I dig my nails into his broad shoulders, urging him to move. "Show me what you've got, Tank," I whisper against his lips. "Don't hold back. Not with me."
Something breaks in him then — the last thread of his control snapping. He starts slow, but, bit by bit, his control breaks and, as my voice rises, urging him on — harder, harder, harder — his hips drive into mine with bruising force, each thrust pushing me further up the bed until my head nearly hits the headboard. One of his hands grips my hip, angling me to take him deeper, while the other braces against the mattress beside my head.
He dominates me.
Controls me.
Overpowers me.
And I fucking scream at him every step of the way to give me more, more, more.
The cabin fills with the sounds of our coupling—skin against skin, my moans and his grunts, the creak of the bed beneath us. It's primal and raw and exactly what I need. With each powerful thrust, I feel the walls I've built around myself crumbling. I'm not Bianca Moretti here — not Victor's sister, not the charity director, not the woman constantly looking over her shoulder. I'm just me, stripped bare in every way that matters.
"Look at me," Tank commands.
I do.
His eyes bore into mine, intense and unguarded. In them, I see everything—desire, yes, but also tenderness, protectiveness, and something deeper that makes my chest ache. This connection between us transcends the physical — it's as if he's claiming not just my body but something essential inside me.
"I want to see you when you come," he says, his voice raw. "Want to watch what I do to you."
His pace changes, becomes more deliberate. One hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual sensation — him inside me, his thumb circling that sensitive bundle of nerves — builds the pressure low in my belly again. I'm climbing toward another peak, higher and sharper than before.
"That's it," he encourages, his breath hot against my neck. "Give it to me again."
My second orgasm crashes over me with devastating force. I cry out his name — his real name, Caleb — as my body clenches around him. The sound of his name seems to push him over the edge; his rhythm falters, his movements becoming erratic as he follows me into bliss. He buries his face in my neck, groaning against my skin as he empties himself inside me.
For several moments, we lie tangled together, our breathing gradually slowing. His weight on me feels like an anchor, keeping me from floating away. I run my fingers along the sweat-slicked muscles of his back, tracing the ridges, tracing him. He's still inside me, and I shiver from the loss when he finally pulls out.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One moment, we’re tangled together on the bed, the fire in the stone hearth casting flickering gold light across Tank’s rough, handsome face. His hands are steady on me, not demanding, just present, grounding me. I’m overwhelmed by his warmth, by his closeness. It's so much more than I've ever let myself feel, and the intensity is terrifying.
The next, I’m waking up, nestled against his chest, my fingers wrapped around his like I never want to let go.
He’s warm. Solid. Safe. Disarming every one of my defenses. It's a feeling I haven't allowed myself in so long, a luxury of comfort that seems foreign, unreal. I barely recognize the emotions blossoming inside me. Passion, vulnerability, and a hint of peace, all tangled up together. My chest tightens with panic. How did I let this happen?
And I hate that I feel this way.
My heart clenches, and I have to fight back the instinct to pull away. I’m spiraling, my mind a whirlwind of doubt and fear. This isn't safe, is it? Not in the ways that matter. Not for someone like me. This is exactly how it starts — the first crack in the armor, the first slip in my carefully controlled life.
Because Tank isn’t just a man. He’s a dangerous one. And men like him always start out feeling safe, don’t they?
Until they don’t.
Until they turn cold, or cruel, or possessive.
Until they take pieces of you and never give them back.
My pulse quickens with the memory of it, the echo of a past I've tried to bury but can't. I know this pattern. I’ve lived it. No, I survived it. Survived it by the skin of my teeth and with barely my soul intact.
And now, lying here wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by the scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon, I feel something I haven’t let myself feel in years. A deep pull. A dangerous longing. It calls to me, whispers promises of something more than survival, but I know how easily those promises break.
Something that could be love, or could be the beginning of a mistake I can’t afford to make.
I have to be careful. I have to remember the lessons I’ve learned; I can’t make the same mistake twice. I can't let his touch, his presence, lull me into a false sense of security. The more I feel, the less I'm able to think, and that kind of recklessness could be my undoing. My breath hitches with an unsteady exhale. The fear is choking. It's too much, and I need to act before it paralyzes me.
I exhale softly, careful not to wake him, and ease out of his arms. The moment our bodies separate, I feel colder.
I shake it off. I need to clear my head.
I grab my phone from the coffee table, padding barefoot toward the door. The cabin is quiet, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl and the faint rustle of the wind through the trees.
I slip outside into the night.
The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. A reminder that I’m far from the city, far from everything I know.
I stare at my phone for a long moment. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up an old contact.
Detective Liam Carter.
A good man. One of the only ones I’ve ever really trusted. He helped me deal with my ex, with the threats, the police reports, the restraining order. Even looking at his name on my contacts list sends me back, makes my hands shake, sends me back to that place I never hoped to be again.
But I have to go there. I have to be sure. I have to be safe.
He picks up on the second ring. "Bianca?" His voice is rough with sleep but alert. Concerned. "Are you okay?"
I swallow hard.
"I need you to look into someone for me."
There’s a pause.
Then, cautious but firm, Liam says, "Who?"
I hesitate. My fingers tighten around the phone. I glance back at the cabin, at the warm light glowing through the window. At the man sleeping inside.
“His name is Caleb Morgan. I want you to look into him. I want to know everything about him.”