Page 32 of Tank

Before long I’m sitting on my bed in a towel staring at my wardrobe wishing I was a normal woman. With a normal wardrobe. The very cool heroine in my book would right now be slipping into some jeans that make her butt look all round and amazing, and she’d own black motorcycle boots and a leather jacket. I on the other hand own a pair of jeans with sunflowersembroidered on the butt, I only own colorful sneakers or colorful heels, and all my coats are embellished with either fur or sequins. Letting out a sigh I pull on my jeans, a red sweater because everyone knows red is romantic, and top it off with my navy blue cape, complete with pompoms. I know I should probably wear sensible shoes, but I’m not going to. It’s a date after all! I go for my bright yellow heels and nod at myself in the mirror. It may not be biker lady chic, but it is Mira chic and I’m good with that. I blow dry and smooth my hair, giving it a little curl so it bounces around my shoulders and I finish off with a quick spritz of hairspray and a slick of red lipstick just as the doorbell rings.

I fling open the door, startling Tyson on the other side. Tyson who looks finger licking good in his dark jeans, forest green button up and his cut. Why this man is still on the market is a mystery to me. Unless he’s hiding psychopathic tendencies. I try to get a good look at him from under my lashes, all covert like.

“Are you OK?” Tyson’s gruff voice asks me, leaving me to believe that I was not pulling off ‘covert spy woman’.

“Oh, peachy,” I grin up at him.

He smiles back at me, a little shy, before his eyes travel down my body and back up again, eating me up with his gaze.

“Mira, shit, you look stunning,” he breathes.

A little shiver works its way through me and the man in front of me looks at me with a mixture of awe and heat. My down belows clench at the heat I see there and I have to remind myself that I, Mira Elizabeth Campbell am a virgin and that means that I cannot, should not mount this man on my front porch. Yet. My traitorous eyes dart toward Tyson’s crotch and I try to use my non-existent xray vision to see what he’s packing. I know that as someone yet to lose her V card, that I should be hoping for something small. Tiny even. But Nana always told me to look for a man with a thick appendage. According to her, “Long and thingoes too far in, they do not please the ladies. But short and thick does the trick and manufactures babies.”

A guffaw has my eyes snapping up, to where Tyson is leaning against the doorjamb. But not in a sexy book boyfriend type of way. No, he’s leaning against the jamb to hold him up because his belly laughter has weakened his knees.

I let out a sigh, not even questioning if I said that out loud, and make my way to Tyson’s bike. He pulls himself together and jogs down the steps behind me, moving to my side, his hand resting on my lower back.

He presses a kiss to my temple. “You, Doll, are a fucking breath of fresh air.” He chuckles one more time, shaking his head and repeating what I said under his breath.

I gaze up at him. It’s so nice to see him this way. From what I’ve seen of Tyson around the clubhouse he seems to be reserved, happy to watch from the background, just quietly going about his business being a good brother, a good worker and a good man. Watching him cut loose a little, especially with me, feels really good. I want to know everything. His thoughts, his ideas, his dreams. I want to read his writing and workshop ideas for my books with him. Most of all, I like making him laugh. I gaze up at him as he gently lowers a shiny motorcycle helmet onto my head, letting him get it placed just so, gently brushing any trapped hair out of my face.

“There,” he murmurs at me. I knock the side a couple of times, reveling in his smile, perfect white teeth on display as he shakes his head at me.

“Your chariot awaits milady,”

He mounts his lovely matt black and chrome steed. Holding his hand out he takes my hand, showing me where I should put my feet, talking me through how to get on. The butterflies build in my tummy and it could be because I’m not the most graceful woman, but it could also be the fact that very soon, myhooha will be pressed up against the back of Tyson, being hit by vibrations from below.

Breathe Mira, you can do this. I repeat over and over in my mind. I repeat it when he starts the bike, I repeat it again when he stands the bike further upright. I repeat it when he wraps those large hands around my denim clad thighs and pulls me tight into him and again when he gently, slowly leads us out of my drive.

“Breathe Mira, you can do this. You’re doing great. Look at you go!” inner Mira says. I give myself a mental pat on the back, smug in the thought that I am a total biker babe.

“I’m going to go a little faster now, OK Doll?” Tyson’s voice washes over me.

“Go as fast as you want dude. I got this,” I tell him, patting his thick slab-like muscles in his abdomen.

He gives me a smirk over his shoulder and opens her up.

Inner Mira starts screaming. We most certainly have not got this! We are not doing great! Do not look at us go, WE’RE GOING TO DIEEEEEE!

Chapter 9

Tank

Itry to hold in my laughter. This woman is nuts in the very best way. From her hilarious little rhyme about dicks, to her pep talk that has now turned into what sounds like a eulogy, it all has me wanting to get more of her and that doesn’t scare me quite as much as it once would.

“Doll? You can get off now.” I squeeze her denim clad calf in the jeans that made her ass look absolutely phenomenal. Those little sunflowers on the back pocket drawing my eye directly to her curvy heart shaped ass.

“Wait, when did we park up?” She opens her eyes and looks around her.

“We’ve been parked for a couple of minutes. I was waiting for your freakout to subside.”

She makes a cute little huffing noise, “I wouldn’t have freaked out if you weren’t going so fast.” She throws her leg over the bike, and me. Jesus, how flexible is this woman?

Shaking those thoughts out of my head I kick down the kickstand and dismount as well. “Doll, we were going 10 miles the whole way here.”

She gapes at me. “What?! No way, why did it feel like 1000 miles an hour? Aw man, I’m a terrible biker passenger,” she pouts, a little crease appearing between her brows.

I rest my hands on her shoulders, the round bally pom pom things on her coat ticking my palms. “You were a perfect passenger. I’d take you on the back of my bike anytime.” She beams up at me and I feel about 10 fucking feet tall. “Come on, let’s go.”

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