EPILOGUE: PROPERTY
TANK
Two months later, and the world still smelled like leather and motor oil and Tyler.
Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting gold stripes across the bed and catching the curve of Tyler's shoulder where the sheet had slipped down during the night. I watched him sleep—the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his lips parted slightly, the dark lashes resting against cheeks that had finally lost the hollow, haunted look of those first weeks after Primm. The bruises had faded. The split lip had healed. The shadows under his eyes had softened into something that looked less like trauma and more like a man who occasionally stayed up too late because he couldn't keep his hands off his partner.
Two months. It felt longer. It felt like no time at all.
I traced my finger along his spine, following the ridge of muscle, and felt him stir beneath my touch. A sleepy sound escaped his throat—not quite a moan, not quite a word, something in between that went straight to my cock.
"Morning." Tyler's voice was rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.
"Morning." I pressed my lips to his shoulder, tasting salt and warmth. "You planning to wake up, or should I just admire the view?"
He rolled onto his back, and his eyes opened—those brown eyes, warm with flecks of gold, that still hit me like a punch to the chest every time they found mine. A slow smile spread across his face, lazy and knowing. "I can think of better ways to start the day than you justlooking."
"Yeah?" I shifted closer, letting my hand drift across his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath my palm. "What did you have in mind?"
Tyler's answer was to reach up and pull me down into a kiss.
The kiss started soft and turned hungry within seconds. His mouth opened under mine, tongue sliding against my own, his fingers threading into my hair and gripping tight enough to send sparks down my spine. I braced myself above him, one arm on either side of his head, and kissed him like I had all the time in the world and none of it—thecontradiction that had defined every moment with Tyler since the first night I'd put my hands on him and realized I was never going to want to let go.
"Tank." My name came out breathless when I pulled back just enough to trail my lips down his jaw, his throat, the hollow where his pulse beat fast and hot against my tongue. His hips arched up, searching for friction, and I felt the hard length of his cock press against my thigh through the thin cotton of his boxers.
I worked my way down his body—chest, abs, the cut of his hips that always made my mouth water. Tyler's breathing turned ragged as I hooked my fingers into his waistband and pulled, freeing his cock, already flushed and leaking at the tip. I looked up at him, met his eyes, and watched his expression shatter as I took him into my mouth.
"Fuck—"
His hand found the back of my head, not pushing, just holding. I worked him slow, savoring the weight on my tongue, the salt-slick taste of him, the way his thighs trembled with the effort of not thrusting. I knew what he liked—had learned the map of his pleasure over two months of mornings like this one, nights that stretched until dawn, afternoons in the garage when the heat got too thick to ignore. I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, and the sound that came out of Tyler was something between a prayer and a curse.
"Wait—" His voice was wrecked, desperate. "Want you. Inside me.Now."
I pulled off with a wet sound that made himshudder, crawled back up his body, and kissed him again—letting him taste himself on my tongue. His hands scrambled at my boxers, shoving them down, and then we were skin to skin, cocks sliding together, the friction electric and nowhere near enough.
Tyler broke the kiss. "Sit up."
I obeyed, settling back against the headboard, and watched Tyler rise onto his knees—the lean muscle of his body moving with a confidence that still surprised me sometimes, a far cry from the guarded man who'd flinched at sudden movements. He straddled my thighs, spit into his palm, and reached back to slick himself open with an efficiency that was almost clinical and devastatingly hot.
"Tyler—"
"I need this." His eyes locked onto mine as he worked himself with his fingers, his chest heaving, his cock twitching against his abs. "I needyou."
Then he spit into his palm again, wrapped his hand around my cock, and stroked me until I was slick and aching. He rose up on his knees, positioned himself, and sank down.
The heat of him swallowed me whole.
"Fuck—" The word ripped out of me, my hands flying to his hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. Tyler's head fell back, a long moan spilling from his throat as he took me inch by inch, his body opening around my cock like it was made for this—for me.
He bottomed out and stayed there, trembling, adjusting. I held myself still through sheer force of will, feeling the tight clench of him, the impossible heat, the pulse of his heartbeat around my cock.
Then he started to move.
Slow at first—rising and falling in a rhythm that drove me insane, his thighs flexing, his hands braced on my shoulders for leverage. I watched his face, the way his expression shifted between pleasure and something almost like pain, the way his lips parted and his eyes went glassy when I hit that spot inside him.
"That's it." My voice came out low, wrecked. I rolled my hips up to meet his descent, and Tyler cried out, his nails digging into my shoulders. "Take what you need."
He rode me harder. Faster. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixed with his moans and my grunts and the creak of the mattress beneath us. Sweat slicked his chest, made his skin gleam in the morning light, and I couldn't stop touching him—his abs, his thighs, the base of his cock where it slapped against his skin with every thrust.
