Expose

by C. D. Breadner

  Neither had Tank. He caught a weak shot to the jaw, his own reflex slow to catch her arm.

  “English,” he chuckled. “I was calling you. You didn’t hear me?”

  Her chest was heaving with her frantic breathing. It took him a minute to register it, and his smile faded while he waited for her to find her words. Which she couldn’t.

  “Rose? What’s going on?”

  She just shook her head. “Sorry,” she whispered, hand to her forehead. Her skin was clammy. Her stomach rolled.

  “You don’t look so good. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  She had no idea. She had no answer, she just wished he’d stop talking.

  “You need me to drive you home?”

  “No,” she said easily, quickly. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  He wasn’t convinced. “I’m following you to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I just … I need to eat something. I’m fine.”

  Nope, still not convinced.

  “Tank, I’m fine.” That sounded stronger, at least to her.

  “Your eyes are a little wild for me to believe that, English.”

  Rose ignored the flood of warmth that washed over her when he called her that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He tilted his head, a smile on one side of his mouth in that wonky way of his. “You’re freaked out. I get it, honey. You had something terrifying happen to you.” He moved closer again, hand on the back of her upper arm, running down to hold her hand in one caring caress. “You want me to follow you to your place, make sure you get in okay?”

  How the hell did he know this stuff? Rose wanted to be annoyed by it, but she didn’t have enough bitch to her, apparently. Instead, she felt her insides go gushy as she nodded.

  “Okay. I’m right behind you, English.”

  And he was. She pulled out of the parking lot and drove the four blocks to her apartment with the rumble of his Harley following her. In her rearview mirror she could see him gripping the handlebars of his bike, the sun hitting his shades. She felt silly that her pulse calmed down with him behind her like that. How that protected her she wasn’t sure, but it felt like it did.

  She parked in her stall, and he pulled in behind her, blocking her in. She’d popped the trunk before climbing out from behind the wheel, and he was collecting her bags and closing the trunk.

  Rose reached for the handles, but he ignored her, heading for the front door of her apartment building. She really had no option but to follow with keys in hand.

  Three flights of carpeted stairs and one hallway of silence later, and she was unlocking her apartment door. The hall was stuffy and stale, but she’d left her windows open, so her place was a touch cooler and smelled fresher. She headed to the kitchen, Tank’s heavy footsteps behind her.

  Without a word, they put her groceries away. She didn’t ask, he didn’t offer, it just happened. Everything she had managed to buy was headed for the fridge anyway, so they took turns on a circuit from counter to fridge and back again, not getting in each other’s way even though his bulk made the space seem even smaller than it actually was. As she was balling up the plastic bags, he shut the refrigerator door, and she was turning to thank him. Before she said a word his hands were on each side of her neck, and he ducked his head to kiss her.

  Rose was startled by it, but despite her lack of preparedness her initial reaction was to kiss him back. Her head tilted one way, his went the other, and his lips brushed over hers in a way that was still exciting while being tender.

  For a moment she wondered at the careful way he was handling her, and on their own her hands slid to his waist, then around his back. It was her that pulled him closer, and he reacted by pushing against her so her ass hit the edge of the cupboards and her front mashed into his chest and stomach snugly. His tongue found hers, sliding and pushing and dueling for control. Her hands clutched at flannel, and she gave a soft moan. One of those hot, rough hands wound round to the back of her neck, and the other dropped to her lower back. With just that one arm around her she was completely ensnared, overtaken by Tank.

  In a hateful, niggling moment of doubt she remembered the scars, the two under her clothing still covered in gauze patches. She turned her face, losing his lips and taking a deep breath while ducking her chin away as he tried to follow her and keep the kiss building.

  She was too trapped to escape completely, so she buried her face in his broad, warm chest, catching her breath and reminding her racing heart that she was deformed. Unworthy.

  “English?” he rumbled softly, the fingers on the back of her neck tracing back and forth softly. That felt nice. Really nice.

  “I can’t,” she breathed, mostly into the fabric of his shirt.

  “Are you not feeling well?”

  She smiled in spite of her own insecurities and shook her head.

  “You on the rag?”

  Now she pushed at him and he obligingly took a step away, even though she knew she couldn’t have possibly moved him. “Tank!”

  “What? You said you can’t.”

  Now she looked at him, crossing her arms. He wasn’t put off; he had that crooked smile in place, and she fought not to smile back. “You know why.”

  His hand came to her cheek, and as his thumb smoothed over the healing patch of skin on her cheek she froze stock still. He caught that and shook his head. “Rose, you gotta know you’re still beautiful.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t feel it. And I don’t want you to see my scars.”

  Now he frowned. “Were you that drunk the first time we fucked?”

  At first she was upset he used that term for that night. It had seemed like more than that, but then she absorbed the question itself. “What? What are you talking about? I wasn’t drunk at all.”

  He took another half-step back and shrugged out of his kutte, laying it over the back of her kitchen chair. Then he shrugged out of the flannel shirt and pulled off his undershirt.

  Rose tried to stay steady, but as all that skin was revealed, she felt her temperature rise. She loved the size of him, the broad and husky strength of his body. His musculature was natural but impressive; she didn’t really notice how cut he actually was until she registered the deep V that dipped into his jeans, the leanness of his stomach somewhat camouflaged by hair a few tones darker than his dirty-blonde locks. She’d never liked hairy men before. But his chest and stomach would have looked almost ridiculous without it. This was a man that required chest hair.

  She was torn out of her appreciation of his body when he pointed to a spot on his left pectoral. “You see this?”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Right here. This mark.”

  Okay, so there was a light pink scar on his chest.

  “Knife fight. Not deep enough to cause a lot of damage, but it left a mark. You see this?” Now he pointed to a white, smooth circle on the cannonball muscle of his upper arm. “Old man used to put cigars out on me for mouthing off. This was his usual spot. Started when I was eight so that’s some deep tissue damage. Here’s another spot.” Now he brought his arm up, pointing to the underside of the same arm. “Tender skin here. This one always hurt like a bitch.”

  She couldn’t help it. She touched that white, jagged circle with a wince. “Jesus Tank. You were eight?”

  He shrugged, dropped his arm and half-turned to show her a jagged line on his shoulder blade. “This is from a mess hall riot. Fucker stabbed me with a spork. And they’re supposed to be safer.”

  “Spork?”

  “Spoon-fork. Safer than a fork, I guess, but with enough force it marks and hurts like a son of a bitch.” He lifted his opposite arm, pointing to a ring of jagged scars that formed a rough and incomplete circle. “And this is just from a Friday night bar fight. Asshole broke a beer bottle and jammed it right in there. Skin is thin, went right to my ribs. Had a veterinarian stitch me up that night. That bled like a bitch.”

  “A vet closed that up?”
<
br />   Tank’s one-shoulder shrug was indifferent. “Yeah. And everything else I’ve got is from dropping my bike or getting into fights.”

  Rose had to blink a couple times. He was covered in marks, now that she was looking. The ones he pointed out were the interesting ones. Everything else was a line, an inch or shorter, all of them. Scratches and cuts, a life lived hard that marked him like a map.

  “So my scars are all due to me doing stupid shit.”

  Her finger ran over the cigar burn scar on his shoulder. “Not these ones.”

  That same shrug. “Punishment. I mouthed off to the old man, I knew what would happen.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t imagine that kind of cruelty.

  “My point, English, is your marks come from someone else pulling some bullshit turf war or some kind of crap like that. So these marks are on me, babe. This is my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s another group sniffing around Markham. We … got a contract they wanted. They’re pissed. That’s why this happened.”

  Rose took a deep breath. “I’m collateral damage.”

  “And you’re someone I care about. But be honest. Did my scars bother you before?”

  She sighed. “I didn’t notice them.”

  His grin was irresistibly charming. “Then don’t be such a fucking hypocrite.”

  Her mouth fell open in indignation, and it was all the invite he needed to wrap her up in his arms and kiss her again.

  This was a problem. He was warm, he smelled so good, and now all this skin she’d been studying so closely was pressed against her, and she was wishing her clothes weren’t in the way.

  Rose relaxed in that hold. So maybe she could believe him that the scars weren’t going to bother him. It seemed silly now, especially as his tongue was in her mouth again and the rest of her body was accepting the fact that it wanted him.

  His hands snuck under the hem of her shirt, sliding along her skin soft enough to make her shiver. They stayed on her ribs, thumbs moving back and forth in such a concentrated pattern she felt something low in her body clench, tight and warm.

  Rose tightened her arms around his neck, bending his neck down more as it brought him closer. Damn him, but he chuckled, not releasing her mouth, knowing he had her dead to rights.

  Eventually his hands slid up her ribcage, taking her top with it. She brought her arms up so he could pull her long-sleeved T-shirt off over her head. Then he looked down, frowning. “Always these damn little tops.”

  She giggled as he pulled the thin strap of her camisole out of the way, his mouth pressing warm and tummy-tickling kisses along her shoulder. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Get in the way,” was his simple answer, then with a quick move this was swept over her head and on the floor, too. “See,” he growled, palming both breasts and sweeping his thumbs over her nipples, making her arch and gasp. “This is better.”

  She agreed. Every inch of her was agreeing, as a matter of fact. But still she was watching his face, waiting for a wince or flinch as the damage done to her came back into focus. But it didn’t happen. He was staring at her breasts, that goofy smile in place that all men got when they suddenly had access to boobs. But on him, even this face was sexy as hell.

  “You gonna play with these all afternoon or do you have other ideas as well?” she joked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Oh, I got plans,” he promised, but he bent at the knee and half-crouched so that he could lick and suck at one nipple.

  Rose’s eyes rolled back, her hands clutching at his hair. Just at that she was wet, she felt it in a rush, and her whimper caught her by surprise. “Tank,” she whispered, bringing her mouth close to the top of his head as his tongue swept over one nipple, his thumb still manipulating the other. “Ohh, Tank.”

  “What is it, English?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he straightened. She opened her eyes, not knowing she’d closed them. Damn, this man had her too figured out.

  “Take me to bed. Please.”

  “I will.” Suddenly he was on the floor in front of her with a grunt. She clutched at the countertop behind her as he pushed up on her asymmetric jersey-knit skirt. “But we’re gonna try something here first.”

  “What?” she asked stupidly, gasping as his fingers caught the elastic of her panties and pulled them to her ankles, then helped her step out of them. His hands on her legs had her panting.

  “You wet, English?”

  She closed her eyes. “I am. You don’t need to do anything else, I’m ready.”

  “This isn’t out of necessity, English. Not for you, anyway.”

  She frowned, then he had her by the back of the knee, pushing it over his shoulder and pulling her hips his way before his tongue took a long lick at her clit.

  Her head fell back against the upper cabinet, and her groan was long, coming from deep in her belly.

  “Not out of necessity,” he mumbled again, and she could feel his breath on her skin. “This is for me, honey.”

  Her nails scrambled for a grip on the Formica countertop as another groan was wrenched free. “Tank!”

  His answer was another chuckle, but he didn’t stop. Her leg tightened on his shoulder. Honest to God, this man and his tongue. She was soon whimpering and squirming, her toes curling in anticipation of an orgasm, and that’s when he stopped.

  Her head jerked down, her breathing ragged. “What the hell are you doing?” she snapped.

  Tank grinned up at her. “You mad? You said you didn’t need this.”

  She made a noise of fury. “You asshole.”

  He chuckled again, then ducked his head and went back to work. His mouth closed over her completely, sucking as his tongue rode over her clit back and forth. In ten seconds she was undone, nearly collapsing on the one leg she was standing on.

  She twitched as he swept that sinful tongue along her opening. He always did that after she’d come. She remembered it from his birthday. He’d done that twice. Something about him wanting to taste her was so … she didn’t know the word for it. Not dirty, not sexy exactly, just close and private.

  He eased her leg off his shoulder and wiped at his chin, then stayed on his knees as he tugged her skirt all the way off, then just stared up at her.

  “Fucking beautiful, English. Perfect, every bit of you.”

  There was the threatening sting of tears, but quickly he stood and trapped her face in both hands before kissing her again, deep, warm, and hot. Maybe it was because she’d just come, maybe she just loved kissing him that much, but Rose resolved then to turn her brain off.

  With shaking fingers she picked at his belt until it was finally undone, pushed it to the side and unfastened his jeans. She shoved one hand inside, finding his erection and closing her hand around it. No underwear, commando.

  He groaned as she slid her grip down his length, but he didn’t give her a lot of time for that. Soon he was pulling her away from the cabinets and turning her, walking her backwards down the short hallway to her bedroom. She had to walk on her toes, one arm around his neck so she could keep kissing him the whole way. She wanted to keep that tongue close. He was so very skilled with it.

  They collapsed loudly on her bed, the blankets billowing out under their weight. He rose up on his knees, reaching into his back pocket and then leaning over her to toss something on her nightstand. She’d bet on condoms. In the meantime she was pushing away at his jeans, pulling them down under his ass, getting her hands on his cock again. She stooped to take him in her mouth, just partially. He pulled her off by the hair, chuckling again. Christ, just that chuckle made her squirm.

  “Too worked up English, and I know how wet you are. That’s where I want to be right now.”

  He stood to get rid of his boots and jeans, then rolled a condom on. She lay on her back watching, her body thrumming with a need to have him inside her. She was remembering it. She was dying for it.

  Soon enough he
was back between her legs, his heavy body resting on hers so warm. Her legs pressed into his sides eagerly, and with that same chuckle he was pushing his way inside.

  Oh, oh God. Rose closed her eyes and held her breath. It hadn’t been the fact she hadn’t been laid in over a year when they’d first slept together. He really did feel as good as she remembered.

  His hips flexed and retreated, and she dug her nails into his back. He wasn’t fast, but he certainly wasn’t gentle. The power of his movements and his overall size made it seem like this should split her in half. But she could handle it. What was more; she craved it.

  Jesus. Almost thirty years old and she was just now finding out how she liked being … fucked.

  “English,” he growled, so close to her ear. “Jesus, so fucking perfect.”

  Rose closed her eyes, meeting each thrust of his hips with a push of her own, and when the angle hit just right she let him know by crying out, surprising herself.

  “There it is.” His voice was deep, strained.

  She couldn’t answer. It hurt, it was so beautiful. She came hard, fast, with a prolonged cry that even she could hear the tremor in.

  “English.”

  “Oh God, Tank.”

  “Fuck.”

  She tucked her face against the side of his neck, smiling as he started growling, grunting, bellowing her name. These weren’t the sounds most men made as they finished, one final grunt as it was done and that was it. But he was nothing like the other men she’d been in bed with.

  “English. Oh Christ, babe.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Fucking perfect. So fucking wet. Tight.”

  “Tank—”

  “Christ, here it comes.”

  She was smiling again as his body tensed, and he came on a roar like the bear of a man that he was. Not words, just a loud declaration of how he was feeling. And he was feeling really, really good, apparently. That sound ebbed off into shorter grunts as his orgasm worked through him, shaking his entire body over and within her.

  He pulled free with another guttural moan, exhaling loudly as he got off the bed and headed for her bathroom.