Chapter 13 Breaking Point #3
"Tyler." My name came out like a prayer. "You feel incredible. Nothing has ever felt like this."
"Move." I braced my hands on his chest, felt his heart pounding beneath my palms. "I want you to move."
His hips snapped up, and the first thrust punched the air from my lungs. I rose up and slammed back down, meeting him stroke for stroke, our bodies finding a rhythm that built and built. The sound of skin against skin filled the room—wet and obscene—punctuated by groans and gasps and broken words.
"Fuck—yes—harder—"
Tank's hands tightened on my hips, lifting me, dropping me down onto his cock with increasing force. Each thrust drove deeper, hit harder, sent sparks of pleasure exploding through my entire body. I threw my head back, riding him with everything I had, chasing the edge that was rushing toward me.
This was what I wanted. Not gentle, not careful—this. Tank beneath me, inside me, his hands bruising my hips, his cock splitting me open. All the grief and rage and fear, channeled into something raw and real and alive.
"I want you on top of me," I gasped.
Tank understood. He growled, deep in his chest, and then he was flipping us—my back hitting the mattress, my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock still buried inside me. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in so hard the headboard cracked against the wall.
"Like this?" He did it again, harder.
"Yes—fuck—just like that—don't stop—"
He set a brutal pace, driving into me with everything he had.
I clawed at his back, bit his shoulder hard enough to taste copper, urged him on with shameless sounds and filthy words.
The bed creaked and groaned beneath us, the headboard banging against the wall in a rhythm that anyone in the compound could probably hear.
I didn't care. Let them hear. Let them all know that I was finally, finally getting what I wanted.
Tank shifted his angle, hooked my leg over his shoulder, and suddenly every thrust was hitting my prostate dead-on. I screamed—actually screamed—my vision going white at the edges.
"There—fuck—right there—"
He pounded that spot mercilessly, his cock dragging across it with every stroke. I was close—so close—my own cock leaking steadily against my stomach, desperate for friction. I reached down to touch myself, but Tank knocked my hand away.
"No." His voice was a growl. "You're going to come just from this. Just from my cock inside you."
The command sent a fresh wave of arousal through me. I'd never been able to come untouched before, but with Tank—with the angle he was hitting, with the intensity in his eyes, with the sheer overwhelming fullness of him—
"I'm gonna—Tank—"
"Come for me." He drove into me harder, faster, his own rhythm turning ragged. "Let me feel it."
I shattered. The orgasm ripped through me like nothing I'd ever felt—my whole body seizing, my cock pulsing untouched, cum splattering across my chest and stomach. My ass clenched around Tank's cock, and he cursed, his hips stuttering.
He buried himself deep and came with a groan that sounded torn from somewhere primal. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and wet, and another wave of pleasure crashed through me at the knowledge that I'd done this to him. That I'd made this man—this strong, stoic, careful man—completely lose control.
We collapsed together, breathing hard, sweat and cum slicking the space between us. Tank's weight pressed me into the mattress, heavy and grounding. I ran my fingers through his damp hair, feeling his heart pound against my chest, feeling the aftershocks still trembling through both of us.
We lay tangled together for a long time, neither willing to move.
Tank had pulled out carefully—even now, even wrecked, he was careful with me—and cleaned us both up with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
Now we were curled together on the wrecked sheets, my head on his chest, his arm heavy around my shoulders.
The room smelled like sex and sweat and something indefinably us, and I never wanted to leave.
"So that's what I was missing." Tank's voice rumbled beneath my ear, his chest vibrating with each word. "All these years."
"Worth the wait?"
"Ask me again in the morning when I can think straight." His hand traced lazy patterns on my back, mapping the knobs of my spine. "Right now all I know is I want to do that again. Soon. Possibly immediately."
I laughed, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Give me twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" He sounded offended. "I'm not that old."
"You're not that young either." I bit his nipple gently, felt him shiver beneath me. "But I appreciate the enthusiasm."
The easy humor felt precious after everything—the violence of the morning, the grief of the afternoon, the revelation that still sat heavy in my chest. For a few minutes, I let myself forget all of it.
Let myself sink into the warmth of Tank's body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the simple pleasure of being held by someone who wanted to hold me.
This was what Cross had tried to convince me I didn't deserve.
This feeling—of being wanted, of being seen, of being enough exactly as I was.
Three years of his voice in my head, telling me I was too much, too needy, too broken.
And now here I was, in the arms of a man who looked at me like I'd hung the moon, and all I could think was: fuck you, Marcus. I win.
"Tyler?" Tank's voice was quieter now, thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Before. In the shower." He paused, seeming to search for words. "You said you wanted to show me. That you wanted to be the one." Another pause. "Why does that matter?"
I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. In the dim light filtering through the window, his face was all shadows and angles, but I could see the genuine curiosity in his eyes. The vulnerability he was trying to hide.
"Because with you, I get to be the experienced one.
" I traced my finger along his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against my skin.
"With Cross, I was always the one being taught.
Being corrected. Being told I was doing things wrong.
He made me feel like I didn't know my own body, my own desires.
" I leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
"With you, I know exactly what I want. And I got to give you something no one else has. That matters to me."
Tank was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then his hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"I'm glad it was you." His voice was rough with emotion. "My first time with a man. I'm glad it was you."
Something cracked open in my chest. I kissed him again, deeper this time, trying to pour everything I felt into it—the gratitude, the want, the terrifying beginning of something that felt like love.
When we finally broke apart, I let myself sink back down against his chest, feeling his arms tighten around me.
Then I remembered why I'd come here in the first place.
"Shit." I sat up abruptly, the post-sex haze clearing. "There's something I need to tell you. Something Sarah told me."
Tank's expression sharpened. "About the network?"
"About us. About Phoenix." I took a breath. "Cross knew exactly when and where we'd hit the transport. Someone inside has been feeding him information. Maybe for weeks. Maybe longer."
Tank went still beneath me.
"The bomb on my bike," I continued. "Someone had to know which one I was using. Someone who watched me ride it every day during lessons."
"The prospect on gate duty." Tank's voice was flat, cold—certain. No hesitation, no question in his tone.
I stared at him. "How did you—"
"He's always there. First person anyone sees coming in, last person they see going out.
" Tank sat up, his jaw tight. "I noticed weeks ago that he watched you differently than he watched the rest of us.
Tracked your movements. Filed it away as probably nothing—thought maybe he was just curious about the new guy.
But the bomb, the timing, the precision of every attack.
.." He shook his head slowly. "It's him. Has to be."
The pieces clicked into place with a clarity that made me feel stupid for not seeing it sooner.
Of course. The prospect was invisible precisely because he was always there—background noise, part of the scenery.
The perfect cover for a spy. He'd watched my riding lessons, knew exactly which Sportster I was using.
He'd seen us leave for the warehouse, noted which direction we went.
He'd overheard planning sessions, logged the comings and goings of every member.
And I'd walked past him a hundred times without a second glance.
"We need to tell Hawk." I was already reaching for my clothes. "Now. Before he realizes we know."
Tank was already moving. "Let's go."
The church room filled with tired, confused faces.
Men emerged from bunks and common areas, summoned by Hawk's bellowing.
The chapel had never felt so crowded—nearly every patched member had responded to the call, filling the seats along the long table and lining the walls when chairs ran out.
Irish hobbled in on crutches, refusing to be left out despite Rosa's protests—I could see the fresh bandage on his leg, the pain he was trying to hide.
Blade took his usual seat with Declan beside him, the burns on Declan's forearms wrapped in clean gauze, his face marked with lighter bandages where the less severe burns were already starting to heal—Rosa had said those wouldn't scar, at least. Axel arrived with Kai at his shoulder, the two of them moving like they couldn't stand to be separated after the close call this morning.
Ghost was there too, still on his crutches, frustration and determination warring on his young face.