"What's stopping you?" she whispers, the question igniting a fire in my blood.
Chapter 8 - Amelia
"What's stopping you?" The words leave my lips before I can think better of them.
What am I doing? Have I lost my mind? I just fled from an abusive husband, and now I'm practically begging another man, a dangerous outlaw biker I've known for less than a day, to fuck me on his front porch? This isn't me. This isn't the careful, cautious Amelia who overthinks everything.
But the way Tank looks at me now… Shock giving way to something primal and hungry makes my body respond in ways I can't control. My nipples harden against the thin fabric of my t-shirt, and I'm horrified to realize how wet I already am, my panties damp with arousal.
The corner of his mouth curls up in a smirky half-smile as he rises from the step, his massive frame towering over me. In the moonlight, he looks like something ancient and powerful, a warrior from another time.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice dropping to a gravelly rumble that I feel in places I shouldn't. "Because once we start this, I don't know if I'll be able to stop."
I should run. I should go back inside to my sleeping daughter, forget this moment of insanity, and remember all the reasons why this is wrong. It's too fast. Too reckless. Too complicated.
But God help me, I don't want to be careful anymore.
"This is probably wrong," I admit, standing up to face him. "But it feels right. And I'm so tired of denying myself things that feel right because I'm afraid."
"I'm the perfect man for you to make a mistake with," he finally says, the brutal honesty making me laugh despite myself.
"If you can make me forget everything else, even for a little while," I tell him, “Then I want that. I want you."
His hands find my hips, large and warm even through the fabric of my sweatpants. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and when I do, the night air wraps around us, the breeze whispering through the trees the only sound beyond our breathing.
For a brief, suspended moment, the world narrows to just this: his eyes locked with mine, his hands steady on my hips, the promise of what's to come hanging between us. I feel safe. I feel warm. I feel seen in a way I haven't in years.
It's surreal to think that twenty-four hours ago, this man was a stranger. The type of man I'd warn Anna to avoid if she saw him on the street. A dangerous-looking biker with cold eyes and violence in his stance. Yet here he is now, my protector, my sanctuary, and, if I'm being honest with myself, my salvation.
I really shouldn't judge a book by its cover.
I tilt my head back, exposing more of my throat to him, gazing up at the star-strewn sky as his thick lips press against my cold skin.
My body responds instantly, like a volcano rumbling to life after years of dormancy. My pussy throbs, juices flowing freely, soaking my already damp panties. I want his fingers inside me, stroking me to release as I moan in his ear, but I'm too shy to ask for it. Too conditioned by years with Derek to voice what I want.
So, I wait, trembling with anticipation as Tank's hands move to the hem of my oversized t-shirt. He lifts it slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. Instead, I raise my arms, helping him remove it, exposing my breasts to the cold night air.
I should feel self-conscious. My body bears the marks of pregnancy and years of stress, but the raw hunger in Tank's eyes as he looks at me erases any insecurity. He lowers his head, capturing one nipple in his mouth, and the contrast between the cold air and his hot tongue makes me gasp.
I clench my thighs together, desperate for friction as he feasts on my breasts—kissing, licking, sucking each nipple to a stiff peak. My breath comes in visible puffs in the cold air as I fight to stay quiet.
Derek always rushed through foreplay, if he bothered with it at all. Sex was about his pleasure, his release, his ego. But Tank is taking his time, savoring me, making sure I'm ready, making sure I'm comfortable. The difference is staggering.
One of his hands remains on my hip, anchoring me, while the other slides down, teasing at the waistband of my sweatpants. He's torturing me, his fingers dancing along the edge, dipping just slightly beneath the fabric before retreating. I'm seconds away from begging when he finally, mercifully, slides his hand inside.
His palm cups my mound over my panties, feeling the wetness that's soaked through the fabric. His thumb brushes over my clit, my too-large, too-exposed clit that I've always been embarrassed about. Derek once called it "freakish" in a moment of cruelty designed to make me feel ashamed of my body. But Tank doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care.
He simply rubs me through the damp fabric, and it feels good. So good, but it's not enough. I want skin on skin, his fingers directly on my pussy, inside it, until they're coated with my juices.
He continues sucking my breasts as he touches me, and I can't help but place my trembling hands on either side of his head, threading my fingers through his short hair, gripping itas pleasure builds. I'm losing control of my own body, my pussy clenching against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he murmurs against my skin, his breath warm against my chilled flesh. "So fucking wet for me already."
"Does that bother you?" I ask, suddenly insecure. "That I'm this wet and we've barely done anything?"
He pulls back to look at me, disbelief written across his features. "Are you kidding me? It's fucking perfect. Shows me how much you want this, want me. I couldn't ask for better."
His words make me even wetter, a fresh surge of arousal dampening my already soaked panties. This is what it feels like to be with a real man, someone who appreciates my desire instead of using it to demean me.
