Page 7 of Stalked By the Trucker

"I’ll give you anything your pretty little heart wants, London," he promises, and I believe him. Because in this cramped space in the back of his truck, under the cover of darkness, Bronx is mine and I am his—completely and irrevocably.

And that emboldens me.

I shove at Bronx's broad chest, and he falls back onto the bed with a look of surprise that quickly turns to smoldering heat. I straddle him, feeling the powerful muscles under me tense as my hips settle against his. The cab of the truck is our world, small and intimate, filled with the scent of leather and lust.

"London..." His voice is a low growl, but I place a finger over his lips.

"Shh, it's my turn now," I say, my voice a husky whisper that betrays how much I need this—need him. I lean down, my pink hair falling around us like a curtain, and I feel his hands grip my waist, holding me in place.

"Bronx," I breathe into his ear, "I want you to be my daddy." The words spill out, raw and revealing, the fantasy I've tucked away in the dark corners of my mind now laid bare between us.

His body goes rigid beneath me, and I wince. I’ve fucked up. He thinks I’m a freak now.

But then, a deep, primal sound rumbles from his chest. "Fuck, London," he groans, and the restraint snaps.

He flips us over, pinning me down with the weight of his body, and there's no more holding back. He's daddy now, taking control, and I'm all too willing to surrender to the fantasy.

"Good girl," he grunts, the words sending shivers down my spine as he leans over me, his salt-and-pepper beard brushing against my skin, his breath hot on my neck.

"Please, daddy," I whimper, and the raw need in my voice seems to drive him wild.

Bronx's hands explore me with a new fervor, tracing the lines of my body with an ownership that I crave. “You’re so wet for Daddy,” he growls as he touches my pussy.

"God, yes," I gasp, clinging to him, lost in the forbidden play we've unleashed. There's no going back now—we're both too far gone.

And then I feel a piercing pain as he shoves his cock into me.

“Ah!” I cry out as Bronx groans deep and low.

“Fuck, tight little virgin cunt. Been saving it all for your daddy, haven’t you, baby?” Bronx croons at me approvingly as he strokes a hand over my face.

“Um-hm,” is all I can manage as Bronx curses again and starts to fuck his big cock into me. The stroking is sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout my entire body, and I hold on tight to him as he picks up the pace, his breath coming out in harsh shudders.

"Bronx," I pant, my voice barely a whisper over the creaking of the truck's suspension that struggles under the urgency of our movements. His hands grip my hips, guiding me, owning me in ways that words could never express.

"Fuck, London," he grunts back, his voice rough like gravel, but it's the most beautiful sound in the world.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, deep-set and burning with an intensity that threatens to consume us both. "You're so damn beautiful," he rasps, and the sincerity in his tone is more exposing than our nakedness.

"Bronx..." It's all I can manage before the wave hits me, pleasure cresting and breaking over me in a storm of sensation that leaves me breathless. My fingernails dig into the taut muscles of his shoulders, marking him as mine as much as I am his.

"Come for me, baby girl," he growls, his control slipping as he drives into me harder, deeper, relentless in his pursuit of my undoing.

And then it happens—the dam breaks and I'm swept away. My body convulses around him, clenching tight as if to keep this moment, this connection, forever locked within me. Bronx follows, his own release tearing through him with a force that echoes my own.

"London!" His shout fills the cab, raw and unrestrained, and I feel him spill into me, our bodies trembling together in the aftermath of ecstasy. For a suspended heartbeat, time stands still, and there's nothing but him and me and the endless highway that stretches out beyond the walls of Ol' Faithful.

Our chests heave, trying to catch lost breaths, as the last quivers of pleasure fade like the dying hum of a truck engine. I'm sprawled over him, our limbs entwined in a mess of sweat and satisfaction. His heart thuds against my ear, a steady drum grounding us after the storm we've just weathered together.

"Shit," I exhale, the word barely a whisper against his skin. It's hot in here, but not just from the Texas heat outside—it's the kind of warmth that blooms deep within when you've been thoroughly, completely loved.

Bronx chuckles, the rumble in his chest vibrating through me. "Yeah, shit is right." His voice is a low purr that stirs something inside me all over again.

He shifts beneath me, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. His arms are like steel bands, yet they cradle me with a tenderness that belies their strength. Wrapped up in Bronx, I feel small, cherished, and oddly powerful all at once.

"Never knew it could be like this," I murmur against his salt-and-pepper beard, inhaling the scent of him—cigarette smoke and motor oil, mixed with the heady essence of male and sex. It's intoxicating, addictive. I'm getting drunk on Bronx, and I don't ever want to sober up.

"Me neither, London." He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet those deep brown eyes that seem to see right into my soul. "You're something else, you know that?"

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