Page 5 of Stalked By the Trucker

She blinks and then shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

London bites her lip, a sure sign she's wrestling with her thoughts. "It's complicated," she starts, her voice a whisper almost swallowed by the sound of the tires on the highway. "Let's just say, I'm chasing the freedom to be who I want to be, without looking over my shoulder."

I nod, understanding more than she might think. "Ain't that the truth for both of us," I murmur. The road keeps rolling beneath us, and there’s a comfort in that—the way forward, always clear, straightforward.

Her hand finds mine, small and warm against my rough skin. The connection shocks me, like an electric jolt straight to my heart. She squeezes gently, a wordless thank you for listening, for not pushing too hard.

I squeeze back, letting her know it’s alright, that she’s safe here with me. “We’ve all got ghosts, darlin’,” I tell her softly. “Sometimes it feels good to outrun ‘em for a while.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s filled with unspoken understandings and shared secrets tucked away in the corners of my cab. It feels heavy and light all at once. London relaxes against her seat, watching the night landscape blur past us.

And then I hear the faint sounds of her snoring, and I smile as a tenderness blooms in my chest. I glance over at her, and a fierce protectiveness wells up within me. I scarcely know her, but I already know one thing for sure.

I would do anything for this little pink-haired girl.

My little pink-haired girl.

CHAPTER THREE

London

I glance over at Bronx, the moonlight casting shadows across his face. He's dozed off again, head tilted awkwardly against the window. The sight tugs at something in my chest. I know he's been giving up the comfort of a proper sleep so I could sprawl out in the back, but it's not right. Not when I see the lines of discomfort etched into his rugged features.

"Bronx," I whisper, reaching out to touch his arm. His eyes flutter open, heavy with fatigue. "Come on, you can't keep sleeping here."

His gaze meets mine, a flicker of something vulnerable in those deep brown pools. "London, I'm good, really," he rumbles, but even his voice sounds tired.

"No, you're not," I insist, my heart pounding harder with a mix of concern and...something else. "There's plenty of room for both of us in the back. It's silly for you to cramp up here."

He hesitates, and I know what he's thinking. We've tiptoed around this unspoken line between us, but damn it, we're just two people in need of rest. And if I'm honest with myself, the thought of being close to him sends a thrill straight through me.

"Trust me, it'll be fine," I say with more confidence than I feel. My skin tingles at the prospect, heat pooling low in my belly.

"Alright, London," Bronx finally concedes, his voice a gravelly whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

He unfolds himself from the cab and follows me to the small sanctuary at the back of the truck. The space is tight, the bed hardly big enough for one, let alone two. But as I settle onto the mattress, I pat the spot next to me. "See? Perfect fit," I tease, trying to lighten the mood, though my pulse races.

Bronx hesitates, the tension in his body palpable as he towers over me. "London," he starts, his voice strained, "I'm not sure I can trust myself to just...lay there with you."

"Trust yourself?" I quirk an eyebrow, genuinely puzzled until I catch the subtle shift in his gaze, the darkening of his eyes. Oh. Heat floods my cheeks as understanding dawns, and I'm suddenly aware of every inch of space between us.

"It'll be okay, Bronx." My voice is a breathy reassurance, even as my own heart thumps wildly. "I trust you."

He looks at me long and hard, something like vulnerability flickering in those deep-set eyes before he finally nods and eases down beside me. The bed groans under his weight, and I scoot over to make room, the close quarters forcing us into an intimacy that sends a thrill zipping through me.

With a careful maneuver, Bronx drapes his arm around me, pulling me back against him. It's like being enveloped by a warm shield, and I let out an involuntary gasp when I feel the unmistakable press of his arousal against my backside.

Holy fuck, it’s fucking huge. How is it possible to be so big?

"Sorry," he rumbles. His voice is low and rough, stirring something primal within me. I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect, and it's impossible to ignore the growing desire coiling in my belly.

"Nothing to be sorry for," I whisper back, daring to snuggle closer into his embrace. There's no denying the magnetic pull between us now, the forbidden dance our bodies seem eager to play out.

"London..." Bronx warns, but I can hear the restraint in his voice crumbling, the hunger barely kept at bay.

The rhythmic rise and fall of Bronx's chest against my back is the only thing steadying me in this sea of mounting tension. The tiny bed isn't doing us any favors, his every movement sending ripples through me.

"Try to sleep," he grunts, but his voice is strained, like he's lifting weights instead of words.

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