Page 6 of Taken By the Tanker

I whimper as lightning sears every nerve ending in my body as he grinds his hand against me more intimately than anyone ever has before.

Trapped in his grasp and fighting nausea and pleasure alike, I tremble at the myriad sensations blasting through me. The moan I fought so hard to suppress breaks free, relaying how broken I am on the inside. A glint fillsThe Tanker’seyes and his purr drops so low my chasing stomach can’t follow it, the metal floor preventing its descent.

He flexes his fingers, soap easing his exploration as he inspects every inch of my labia.

Without warning, he hooks his forearm under my knees and dunks me under the water.

My mind drowns in confusion while my body jumps into fight-or-flight mode. Water splashes everywhere as I choke and flail, helpless against his greater strength.

One moment I’m underwater. The next moment I’m sucking down air, only to repeat the process again and again until the roaming of his hands no longer registers. He touches every part of me, leaving no crevice unexplored as he rinses the soap from my flesh. I thrash and seek the surface, spitting out bathwater the moment air wafts across my forehead.

Gravity makes my exhausted limbs too heavy to lift when he scoops me from the tub. Sputtering and heaving, I try to knock his hand away as he sits with me in his lap, a towel draped over the hand not supporting my back—but my attempts look weak and inconsequential, even to myself.

He dries me with quick, efficient movements before dropping the towel on the bench and surging to his feet.

Dazed and cold, I notice the electric lights for the first time. The dim, gentle glow fills the bathroom and continues into the next room as he opens the door and stalks across to the raised bed tucked against the far wall.

I search for strength, wanting nothing more than to run as far away from the bare mattress as possible, fear closing my throat as the cruel alpha leads me to my inevitable death.

He’s too strong. Too big. I’ll never survive a rutting by him, even if my body were in full estrous, which it isn’t. Despite the itching under my skin, I know it’s too soon—everyone says omegas in heat turn mindless, seeking nothing but knots and alpha seed.

My back thumps against the mattress, knocking the breath out of me.

Even though I tell myself to fight tooth and nail—for I’d rather enrage him and quicken my death—my limbs merely tuck themselves as close to my torso as possible as I roll onto my side, seeking to protect myself for a few seconds longer, no matter how futile the act may be.

White teeth gleam as he reaches for me.

Chapter 4

Hoss

Her smooth skin lures me closer, the absence of stink allowing her delicious scent to permeate through the room. A hint of readiness colors her pheromones, and although I’d like nothing more than to sink my cock into her tight little body, I slam my self-control into place, clinging to my iron will with both fists.

I push her arms away and fill my palms with her glorious breasts, kneading them and coaxing her nipples to stiff peaks with the rough tips of my fingers. Enjoying the way they blush, I play until our breaths turn ragged. When I slide my hands down her flat stomach, I leave behind pinkened skin and rosy nipples, feasting on the sight while I cup her pussy in one hand, pinning her knee to her shoulder with the other. She tries to dissuade me, but her squirming barely registers as her scent thickens.

I grind my palm against her opening for a few seconds, but when slick doesn’t pour from her, I find the bundle of nerves at the top of her mound. A few minutes of teasing the silky flesh on either side makes her clit stiffen, but I need more. Lifting her clitoral hood to stroke directly over the sensitive flesh, I continue the motion, using light pressure until her legs shake and she thrashes her head side to side.

Almost as hard as my aching cock, her clit swells and prepares for release. Just before she tumbles over the precipice, I yank my hand away and surge to my feet. Keeping one hand on the back of her thigh, pinning her to the mattress, I unfasten my trousers and free my cock. Three brutal, dry strokes from base to tip is all it takes. Lava erupts from my balls and sears the inside of my shaft before streams of pearly white liquid shoot from my tip.

My seed splashes against her pussy, her stomach, and the undersides of her breasts. I snarl and stroke myself again, coercing my second release to shoot farther, painting her delectable nipples and throat. When that doesn’t satisfy me, I prop a knee on the bed, stretching my pants to their limit, and lean over her. I squeeze my knot and glide my sticky hand up and down my shaft, spurting more jizz onto her chin and lips until it drips down her cheeks and lands in her hair. Grunting and snarling, I retrace my steps, aiming for her face, breasts, and pussy before my knot begins to subside.

As the haze of lust and instincts fade away, I suck down a massive breath and release it on an uneven rumble.

Satisfied I’ve properly marked her with my scent, but still furious at missing out on her tight cunt squeezing my knot, I wipe the tip of my cock on her thigh and step back. A warning sneaks into my purr when she tries to roll away.

“Don’t move until it dries.”

She stares at me with shocked green eyes, flushed cheeks, and quivering lips. Her wary yet aroused expression adds a striking quality to her dainty features.

The layer of my seed on her face helps too.

For a few moments, neither of us move. I enjoy the sight of her sprawled, needy and confused, across the mattress, her hair fanned out in a display of wild abandon.

The scent of her blood stops me until I see the grazed flesh on her knees and elbows. I loom over her for a moment, ensuring she won’t move while I stalk over to the cabinet in the corner. When I return, I slather a thick layer of clear ointment on each of her scrapes, then toss the plastic tub across the room. It lands on the cabinet shelf with a thud. My omega flinches, but doesn’t roll onto her side.

When most of my offering has dried on her flesh, I scoop her up, ignoring her attempts to shy away, and drop into the room’s only seat. After rearranging us so she’s cradled against my chest, her back supported by my left arm, I lean down, open the rebuilt icebox under the table, and pull out a food laden plate. The chipped porcelain clinks against the not-quite-even tabletop as I set it down, then duck again to grab the large jug of water tucked away in the back of the old fridge.

I lift the jug high and pour clear, cool water into the matching porcelain cup already on the table. The female in my arms watches the liquid fall, mesmerized. Without a trace of minerals or salt in it, I doubt she’s ever seen such pure water, despite being surrounded by it her entire life.

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