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“Boiler,” she moaned, her voice full of urgency. “Fuck me.”
I freed my dick from my jeans, positioning myself at her entrance. With one hard thrust, I buried myself deep inside her, both of us crying out at the sensation. The alley echoed with the sounds of our raw, primal need.
With an unyielding tempo, our hips collided as we moved together. Her hands braced against the wall, pushing back against me, meeting every thrust with equal intensity. The world around us ceased to exist. We were alone, caught up in the moment, consumed by the fire that burned between us.
“Fuck, Tank,” I growled, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. “You feel so fucking good.”
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her voice ragged, her body trembling. “God, don’t ever stop.”
I had no intention of stopping. The pleasure grew with each thrust, almost reaching an unbearable peak. Her moans spurred me on, driving me to fuck her harder, faster.
When she came, it was like she was struck by lightning. She cried out, her body convulsing around me, gripping my cock like a vice. I followed right after, the intensity of my orgasm leaving me shaking, emptying myself inside her.
We took a moment to catch our breath, me still inside her. The alley was silent except for our heavy breathing, the cool air doing little to cool the heat between us.
Eventually, I pulled out, helping her straighten her clothes, planting a kiss on her lips. “You’re fucking amazing, Tank.”
She smiled, a wicked glint in her eye. “You’re not so bad yourself, Boiler.”
We returned to the bar, disheveled and breathless, our bodies still humming from our frantic lovemaking. Our friends gave us knowing looks, but we didn’t care. We were lost in our own little bubble, drunk on each other, and nothing else mattered.
The night continued, but the intensity of what had happened in the alley stayed with us. We found excuses to touch, to kiss, unable to resist each other. Every glance, every touch, was charged with electricity, a promise of more to come.
Every moment we spent together was like that. A perfect blend of risk and reward, of passion and connection. We were like two halves of a whole, each of us bringing out the best in the other. And as our relationship grew, so did our bond, strengthening with each encounter, each shared secret, each declaration of love.
And fuck, I was ready for more.
Tank and I had found something rare, something real. It was wild, it was raw, and it was fucking beautiful. We were like two pieces of a puzzle, fitting together perfectly, our rough edges aligning. And I knew, no matter what, I wasn’t letting her go.
As the days turned into weeks, our relationship continued to grow. We spent more and more time together, both in and out of bed. The more I got to know Tank, the more I realized just how much she meant to me.
I leaned against the wall in my room, watching Tank strip. My eyes roamed over her body, taking in every detail. She was a fucking masterpiece of ink and curves.
When her back was to me, I got the full view of the phoenix rising from the ashes. That tattoo always caught my breath. The colors were vivid, the bird's wings spreading across her shoulder blades, flames licking at its tail. It was a symbol of her strength, her rebirth from all the shit she'd endured. Seeing it made me respect her even more, made me want to protect her even more fiercely.
She turned slightly, giving me a view of her left arm. The sleeve was a work of art, roses intertwined with barbed wire winding up from her wrist to her shoulder. The contrast of the delicate flowers with the harshness of the wire was so fucking Tank. Beautiful and tough, soft but unyielding. The roses were in full bloom, their petals almost seeming to move as her muscles flexed.
Then there was the small dagger on her right wrist. I’d seen it a hundred times, but it never got old. The blade was sharp, precise, and it suited her perfectly. It was a constant reminder of her lethal nature, her ability to cut through the bullshit and handle whatever came her way.
My gaze traveled down to her thigh, where the motorcycle engine was inked into her skin. That one always made me smile. It was a tribute to her life as a biker, to the freedom she found on the road. The detail in the tattoo was insane, every piston and gear perfectly rendered. It was a piece of her soul etched into her flesh.
I stepped forward, my hands itching to touch her. She turned to face me, her eyes blazing with the same desire I felt. I closed the distance between us, my fingers brushing over the phoenix on her back, tracing the flames.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I muttered.
She smirked, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You’re just noticing now?”
“Shut up,” I growled, pulling her against me, my hands roaming over her tattoos, memorizing every line and curve. “These tattoos... they’re fucking amazing.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You like ‘em?”
“Love ‘em,” I admitted, my fingers tracing the roses on her arm. “They’re you, Tank. Tough as hell and beautiful at the same time.”
For a brief moment, her expression became gentler and I caught a glimpse of vulnerability in her eyes. “They’re my story,” she said quietly.
“And I want to know every part of it,” I replied, my hands sliding down to her thigh, feeling the engine beneath my fingers. “Every single part.”
She got all shivery when I touched her, her eyes filled with desire. “Then stop talking and show me.”
