Page 10 of Stalked By the Trucker

"I love you," London repeats, her eyes locked onto mine, shining with tears and sincerity. "I love you so much."

I press my forehead against hers, feeling the sweat and heat that clings between us. "I love you too, baby girl. More than anything."

We find a new rhythm then, slower but deeper, each movement deliberate and filled with meaning. London wraps her arms around my neck, holding on as if she'll never let go. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid and strong, mirroring my own.

And then I feel her pussy pulse around as London cries out. Her orgasm triggers my own, and I release my hot seed inside her in deep pulses that feel like my soul is being torn from me.

And I give it to her. Hell, I’ll give her everything because she’s my everything. She can have my heart, my body, my soul, anything she wants.

Because London is mine, and I am hers.

Always.

EPILOGUE

Six months later

London

The road unfurls like a gray ribbon before us, the countryside a blur of greens and golds as Bronx's truck eats up the miles. I can't help but laugh, the sound whipped away by the wind that tugs playfully at my pink hair. Freedom feels like this—hair wild, sun warm on my skin, and jokes spilling from my lips.

"…and then he said, 'That's not a chicken, that's my date!'" I finish the punchline, and Bronx's laughter rumbles in his chest, a deep, contagious sound.

"London, I love you, you silly girl," he says, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. His casual grip on the steering wheel, those calloused hands that speak of hard work and long roads, make him look so at ease in this life we've stumbled into together.

I glance down at the sketchbook resting in my lap, my fingers itching to capture this moment, but I resist. Some memories are better etched in the mind than on paper.

"Your turn. Storytime, Bronx," I urge, leaning back against the worn seat, feeling the vibrations of the engine through my body.

He starts a tale about a hitchhiker and a lost dog, his voice a low drawl that meshes with the hum of the tires on asphalt. There's a comfort in the way he speaks, a rhythm that lulls me into a sense of security. As the story unfolds, I find myself watching him more than the passing scenery—those weathered features that tell a thousand untold tales.

Then, as if sensing my gaze, Bronx turns to me. His hand leaves the steering wheel for just a second, reaching across the space between us. He squeezes my hand with a gentleness that belies his burly frame. My heart stutters, skips, and then resumes at double time. It's such a simple gesture, yet it sets my entire body alight with warmth.

Our eyes lock, and the world seems to still. In that shared look, there's an acknowledgment of something brewing beneath the surface—a spark that's been kindled since the day he first offered me a ride.

"Watch the road, cowboy," I tease.

Bronx grins, that roguish smile that does funny things to my insides. "Only if you keep telling me your stories, darlin'," he counters.

"Deal," I say, squeezing his hand back.

Silence falls between us, but it’s a comfortable one.

The sun is a warm kiss on our skin, the wind a playful caress through our hair. The endless ribbon of road unravels before us, inviting and uncharted. Bronx's laughter fades into the background hum of the engine as I watch him, this man who is both my sanctuary and my storm.

"Something on your mind, London?" he asks, voice teasing but eyes focused on the road.

"Plenty," I reply, feeling that familiar pull in my belly, a blend of reckless desire and something sweeter, deeper. He turns his head, just a fraction, enough to catch my heated gaze with his own.

I shift in my seat, a deliberate motion, closing the space between us. His hand falls away from the steering wheel for a moment, resting on my thigh. A tease. A promise. My breath hitches, and I make my decision.

"Keep your eyes on the road, big guy," I murmur, my hand moving to the zipper of his jeans. He doesn't stop me, doesn't even flinch, but I catch the quickening of his breath, a silent confirmation of his interest.

My fingers work quickly, deftly, freeing him from the confines of denim. The air between us charges with electricity as I lean over, my lips hovering just above his now-exposed arousal.

His cock is hard in my hand, a testament to the tension that's been building mile after mile. Without another word, I take him into my mouth, reveling in the sharp intake of breath that escapes him.

Bronx's hands find the steering wheel again, his grip white-knuckled and unyielding. I can feel the struggle in him, the fight for control as I take him deeper, setting a rhythm that's as wild and untamed as the landscape blurring past us. The truck sways slightly, a dance of danger and pleasure on this deserted stretch of highway.

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