TANK: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  At least not up until now. I’ve never wanted to before.

  But then, Cady has me wanting all sorts of things I’ve never wanted before.

  Absently, I reach into my left breast pocket, then swear softly and stop myself and go for my right side pocket instead. I pull out a Dum Dum sucker and peel off the wrapper, sticking it in my mouth. “Yeah, that blackboard wall is a pretty good idea,” I mumble around it. “You think the hardware store downstairs from you would carry…”

  But my words trail off when I see Cady looking at me with a half-astonished expression.

  “What?” I bark defensively. “I’m tryin’ to stop smoking around Wren. It ain’t good for her.”

  Cady giggles, shaking her head. “That is the most adorable thing I have ever heard in my entire life.”

  “Watch it,” I warn. “You’re pressing your luck.”

  Cady’s eyes fill with merriment. She presses her lips together, then pretends to lock them and throw away the key. I give her another warning look, then continue.

  “I gotta figure out how to get Wren into daycare or preschool or something, too,” I say. “Whatever it is they call it now. Pre-K? Wren deserves to be able to socialize with other kids. Especially now that she’s talking.”

  Cady nods. “Probably a good idea. I don’t know anything about that, though.”

  “Yeah. It’s probably something I should talk to one of the Lords’ old ladies about.” I’m guessing the wives will have strong opinions about daycares in the area.

  And on that note, it’s probably time I tell the Lords about Wren.

  When Striker asked me who Wren was that night at the bar, I made up some excuse about it being a mutual friend of Cady’s and mine. But, it’s starting to feel like now’s the right time to tell my club I have a daughter. It’ll make this thing feel more real. More permanent.

  I almost laugh out loud. This daddy shit is fucking with my brain. What the hell is happening to me?

  “Hey, Tank?” Cady says softly, interrupting my thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure. What?”

  She hesitates. “I’ve been curious about that medal from you that Wren wears. What’s the significance of Saint Gerard?”

  I shrug.

  “My grandma gave that to me.” I lean back against the kitchen counter. “She was a devout Catholic. She and my grandpa raised me after my mom lost custody of me. My mom was a drunk and a pill freak. She died of an overdose when I was in my teens. My gram and gramps were crazy in love with each other, even after all the years they’d been married. I think they poured all their love into me because they felt like they failed with my mom, somehow.” I glance over at Cady, and decide to continue. “I guess Gerard is one of the saints that’s supposed to protect kids, mothers, falsely accused people, stuff like that. Gram used to pray to him for my mom, and for me, when she went to mass.” I let out a dry laugh. “Not so sure the prayers worked, in either of our cases.”

  “You still wear the medallion.” Cady is eyeing me intently.

  I shrug again. “My gram and gramps were the only people in the world who gave a shit about me growing up.”

  “Sounds like your childhood was a little like Wren’s, in some ways.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, then trail off. Huh. I guess she’s got a point. Both Wren and I were born to women who couldn’t stay sober and out of trouble long enough to actually be moms.

  “Your grandma sounds like she taught you well,” Cady continues quietly. “You needed her, and she stepped up for you. Just like you’re doing with Wren.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with stepping up,” I say gruffly. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Sure you did,” she replies. “You could have dropped Wren off at the police station. But you didn’t do that. She needed you, and you stepped up.” Cady repeats, her eyes shining as she looks at me. “I know you don’t think so, but you’re doing a great job with her.”

  “I think most of the progress we’ve made with her has been because of you,” I correct her.

  We.

  Cady lowers her eyes. “I’m glad if I’ve helped,” she murmurs.

  “Cady, I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” I shift to look at her. “You must know that.”

  She doesn’t say anything in response, but raises her eyes to mine again.

  In the silence that forms between us, it’s the easiest thing in the world to imagine moving a few inches toward her. To think about pressing her back against the countertop, and doing a repeat of the scene at my truck.

  My dick jumps at the idea, recognizing it as a damn good one. My jaw ticks, and I realize I’m clenching it. Trying to hold myself back. Why, I don’t know. Waiting for some sort of sign, I guess.

  And then she gives it to me.

  “Can I ask you another question?” Cady asks throatily.

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you ever gonna fucking kiss me again?”

  “I’m gonna do a hell of a lot more than that,” I answer, reaching for her.

  14

  Cady

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Having Tank so close to me, it’s like our bodies are sending electric signals to each other, and I guess I just lose control.

  Tank’s mouth is on mine almost before I know what’s happening. It’s just as good as I remembered — even better. He must feel the same way, because he lets out a tortured groan as his tongue finds mine.

  “Fuck, Cady,” he grits out. “You just unleashed something here. You best know that.”

  Butterflies erupt in my stomach as his words hit home. The thing I’ve been wanting, dreaming, fantasizing about, is going to happen. I know from the way my skin is electrified by his touch, and by the way his mouth devours mine, the way his taut muscles tell me he’s working to hold himself back, but he won’t last long.

  Tank’s arms lift me up onto the kitchen counter. Our mouths continue to tangle as I wrap my legs around his waist, angling my hips so that his hardness presses against the throb of my core. I gasp at how good it feels, but it’s not nearly enough. I want more, need more. A whimper escapes me as I press against him harder, and I’d be embarrassed at how naked my desire is but it’s stronger than I am. I’ve never felt like this, not once with any other man. Like if Tank doesn’t take me — if I don’t have him inside me soon — I might die.

  He reaches down and cups my ass, then pulls me harder against him and lifts me up. Then I’m being carried, still wrapped around him like he’s a tree trunk. I pull my lips away from his and risk a look at his face. The storm in his eyes as they meet mine should frighten me. But I want it. I want everything he’s about to do to me, no matter what it is. I realize he’s taking me to his bedroom at the end of the hall. I know where it is from babysitting Wren here, but I’ve never been in it before. He pushes the door open with my back and carries me inside. The lights are off except for one standing lamp in the corner. Once he’s in the doorway, he turns and shuts the door behind us, then leans me against it.

  I’m still gripping his shoulders, my lips already puffy and raw from his mouth and beard, but craving more of his taste. As though he can read my mind, he lowers his mouth to mine again, searching, probing, his hands gripping the backs of my thighs and pulling me hard into him. There’s only the fabric of our jeans that separate us, and dizzily I wonder if it might just burst into flames from the heat that’s growing between us.

  Another low groan emerges from deep in his chest as he breaks the kiss again. My eyes flutter shut as his lips and the scratch of his beard trail down to the tender skin of my neck. He licks and sucks on my skin, tasting me, and it sends a shiver down my spine as I imagine what it would be like to have his mouth on me there, the place I’ve wanted him so many times. He lifts one hand and slides it up my waist, under my shirt, and between my back and the wall, then in a swift movement unhooks my bra strap. A second later, the skin of his rough, callused thumb brushe
s against my already-hardened nipple, making me gasp. He does it again, and I let out a loud whimper, my hips bucking against his hardness involuntarily. Am I actually going to come like this? I wonder dizzily.

  Tank catches my whimper with a kiss. “We’re gonna have to be a little quieter than I’d like,” he chuckles. “There ain’t a lock on my bedroom door. I’ll fix that tomorrow.”

  I pull in a deep breath and nod, wondering how in the world I’m going to manage to be quiet if this is how Tank can make me feel. He slips his hand back under my ass and carries me to the bed. Laying me down, he pushes the fabric of my shirt and my bra up and off, then dips his head to continue his teasing of my nipple with his tongue.

  Oh, God! I hold my breath and thread my hands in his long hair, arching my head back and willing myself not to cry out. When he moves to the other nipple, it somehow feels even better. I know without question that my panties and jeans are soaked through. My pussy is swollen and throbbing, in an agonizing pleasure of longing and waiting.

  Tank pulls away from my breasts for a second, rising to kneel above me. “Take off your jeans.”

  I reach down and unbutton them, then wriggle myself out as he pulls them off me, taking my panties with them. He stands and reaches behind his neck, pulling off his shirt in one motion. A second later his jeans are pooled at the floor, his cock springing free, hard and huge. I suck in a ragged breath, my whole body desperate for what’s about to happen.

  “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he whispers in a rasp. “Jesus, Cady.”

  I swallow. “So are you.”

  He lets out a low bark of a laugh. “Need to taste you,” he grunts.

  And then, before I can react, he’s between my legs, his tongue plunging deep inside me.

  Tank devours me like a starving man. I let out a single, stifled cry, then, flailing, grab a pillow and hold it over my mouth. He sucks my clit into his mouth, teasing it, adoring it. My hips buck toward his mouth as I cry out into the pillow, knowing that my body belongs completely to him — knowing that in seconds I’m about to lose control.

  “Fuck, you taste sweet,” he growls against my pussy. “Just how I thought you would. Better. I can’t get enough of you.”

  My last coherent thought before I fly over the edge is, he’s thought about this, too. Then I shatter, screaming into the pillow as the waves take me over, so completely that gravity seems to fall away from me. I’m unanchored, untethered, my entire body no longer solid, no longer anything but pleasure without end.

  Then, a single second or a million years later, Tank is holding me, his hands pulling me back to earth. He grunts a single word as he moves over me: “Condom.” I barely register as he pulls open the drawer to his bedside table. A crinkle of foil, and then he slides himself inside me. I let out a shuddering gasp at how good it feels. He begins to thrust, deep and long at first, then faster, harder, and it puts me back together, pulls me back into my body as I pulse and shiver around him. I open my eyes and lock gazes with him, just an instant before he tenses, lifts his head back, and explodes inside me with a low, guttural groan:

  “Cady…”

  When I open my eyes some hours later, the sun is already coming up, the pink light of the morning seeping in through the window. Tank’s arm rests on my stomach, flung over me as he sleeps by my side.

  It feels so intimate. Maybe even more intimate than everything we did last night, somehow. For a moment, I let myself bask in the glow of just being here with him. The warmth and weight of him. The comfort of being next to someone else. Except, unfortunately, his arm is pretty heavy.

  And even more unfortunately, it’s pressing on my uncomfortably full bladder.

  “Shit,” I hiss softly as my mind starts to clear and I realize the predicament I’m in. I never planned to stay overnight. Now I have to get myself out of here somehow, before it gets weird and awkward between us. I shift in the bed, bracing myself on my forearms in hopes of sliding out from under Tank’s arm without waking him. Inch by inch, I’m almost to the edge of the bed when his large hand curls around my ribcage and pulls me back.

  “Where you goin’?” he rumbles, voice deep and heavy with sleep.

  “It’s morning,” I half-whisper.

  “I noticed.”

  “What if Wren wakes up?”

  “She’s not up yet. It’s still early. The sun’s barely up.” Tank shifts onto his side, facing me. His hair is wild, hanging in his eyes, and somehow it makes him even sexier. He gives me a sleepy, lopsided grin. “C’mere.”

  A flush of pleasure blooms on my skin at the seductive way he’s looking at me. The memory of last night — and the prospect of a repeat — sounds so good that I almost give in. But my bladder is not about to take no for an answer. I squirm away from Tank’s reach and push back the covers.

  “I have to pee.”

  “Hurry back,” he smirks.

  I yank on my shirt and jeans and open the door as soundlessly as possible. Pulling it closed behind me, I pad to the bathroom, where I close that door just as carefully, and flip the lock. I unbutton my jeans and sit down on the toilet, letting out a quiet sigh as I relieve myself.

  Only when I’ve finished peeing and washing my hands do I risk a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair is kind of a mess, but not the worst ever. Eyes are puffy, but there’s not too much I can do to fix that. I turn on the water again to cold, splash some on my face, then use my hands as a cup and slurp some into my mouth. I drink a few gulps, then use the last one to swish around before spitting it back into the sink. I turn off the water, dry off, then raise my hand and exhale into it. Verdict on my breath: not great, but not nuclear.

  Okay. Maybe I can slip back into Tank’s bedroom for a quickie and then take off before Wren wakes up. Grabbing one final look at myself in the mirror, I turn off the light, carefully unlock and open the bathroom door, and sneak back out into the hallway.

  I’m tiptoeing back toward Tank’s room when I hear a sleepy, tiny voice from the bedroom across the hall.

  “Ta-annk?”

  Oh, shit.

  Wren emerges from the dark room, dressed in her wrinkled pajamas. She’s rubbing her eyes, blinking to adjust to the light, when she sees me standing there.

  “Cady!” she cries. She closes the distance between us in a heartbeat and flings herself into me, wrapping herself around my legs.

  “Hey, honey, how are you?” I choke out.

  A second later, Tank appears in the doorway of his bedroom. He’s shirtless, but wearing his jeans. We lock eyes, but I can’t tell from his expression whether he’s pissed that his daughter just caught me in their house first thing in the morning.

  My mind casts about frantically for an excuse for why I’m here that will satisfy a four-year-old. But it turns out she doesn’t seem to question it. Maybe she’s not old enough — or maybe it’s some kind of unconscious four-year-old shrewdness at seeing a golden opportunity present itself. Either way, the question that does come out of her mouth is one I’m not expecting at all.

  “Are you heah for bweakfast?” she cries excitedly, looking up at us with big doe eyes. “Can we have pancakes?”

  15

  Cady

  Turns out, Tank’s kitchen is stocked a lot better than I expected it to be. Not only are there fixings for pancakes, but he also has a carton of orange juice in the refrigerator, a gallon of milk, coffee beans and a grinder, and not only real maple syrup but also the fake stuff in a plastic container shaped like the syrup lady from the commercials.

  “Here, use this,” he says, handing me a box of pancake mix. “It’s easier than from scratch, and besides, I’m out of buttermilk.”

  “How do you have more food than I do?” I marvel as he hands it to me. “I would have expected you to live on beef jerky and beer.”

  “Nice stereotype,” he huffs. “Actually, I don’t mind cooking. And since Wren’s been here, I need to keep stuff on hand that she’ll eat. I can always get pancakes in her. As you can see.�
��

  I chuckle and start to work on mixing. Tank takes Wren back into her bedroom to get her out of her pajamas and into some clothes. I listen to them as I heat up the pan and pour some batter in for the first batch. It’s oddly sweet and even soothing to hear Tank’s low voice and then Wren’s high little chirp together from down the hall. I hear her tinkling laugh, and my heart squeezes. A few seconds later, Wren starts to sing a little kids’ song I don’t recognize. And when Tank joins in with his deep bass, it’s the cutest, most heart-exploding thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

  The two of them come back out, Wren wearing jeans and a tiny Harley Davidson T-shirt. Her hair is freshly brushed — Tank’s getting better at that, I notice — and she skips down the hall, beaming, then slips into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I catch a glimpse of the leather thong around her neck, and know the Saint Gerard medal is there, nestled underneath her shirt.

  “Nice singing,” I murmur at Tank teasingly as he comes in to see how I’m progressing.

  He grunts. “I feel pretty dumb doing it, but hey. It’s progress.”

  “I actually meant it,” I say softly, meeting his eyes. “She’s gotten so comfortable with you lately. I’m sure you doing stuff like that is part of it.”

  Tank stares at me for a second, then gives me a brief nod. “I think you’re right.”

  “You weawing the same clothes as yestuhday, Cady!” Wren informs me with a confused frown. Wren’s r’s are not quite there yet, and sometimes a w slips in instead, especially when she’s tired.