Page 6 of Stalked By the Trucker

"Okay," I murmur, but then I feel wetness on my ass.

Is that…?

My face flames as I realize Bronx is leaking precum so much that it’s seeped through his shorts and my own. I feel a resounding wetness pool between my own thighs, and a throbbing begins.

I shift, just a fraction, and there's a sharp intake of breath from behind me.

"London..." His warning is a raw whisper, laced with a desire so thick I can almost taste it.

"Bronx," I breathe out his name like a secret, my body betraying me as I push back into him. It's instinctive, this dance we're tangled in, and when I feel him harden even more, a surge of something bold and brash floods through me.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, and suddenly we're grinding in a rhythm that's as old as time. There's no space left for pretense, not when I can feel him, hot and insistent, pressing into me.

"Bronx," I say again, softer this time, my voice tinged with an edge of wonder. This man, my protector and confidant, now the source of a heat that threatens to consume us both.

"Damn it, London," he groans, the sound vibrating through me. Our movements are desperate, seeking relief in the friction of fabric and flesh.

"Please," I whisper, not sure if I'm asking him to stop or urging him on. But it doesn't matter, because right now, as our bodies speak a language all their own, I know we're past the point of no return. And I don't want to go back.

Bronx's curse slices through the thick tension, a guttural sound, primal and possessive. His hips buck wildly against me, every thrust sending shockwaves through my body. I'm on fire, every nerve alight with need as he grinds into me, his cock a relentless pressure against my ass.

"Fuck, London," he growls, his voice a rough caress that sends shivers down my spine. "You're going to make me lose my goddamn mind."

His hand sneaks around my waist, fingers finding the damp heat between my legs. A gasp escapes me when he touches me there, rough and insistent. My skin burns where he grips me, branding me with his touch. He rubs me in circles, pressing just right, and it's like he knows exactly what I need.

"Bronx," I moan, giving myself over to the sensation, arching into his hand. His fingers are magic, coaxing pleasure from every stroke until it builds—tightens—explodes. The orgasm rips through me, fierce and blinding, and I shatter against him, my cries muffled by the night air.

"Good girl," he rasps in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. Satisfaction rolls off him in waves as he keeps moving, chasing his own release.

And then, it hits him—a monsoon crashing into me, his warmth spreading fast against my ass. His groans are ragged, filled with a relief so intense it's almost palpable.

I'm still trembling, aftershocks rippling through me, when his hands start their exploration anew. They trace the curves of my body, igniting fires wherever they roam. I'm melting under his touch, soft moans slipping from my lips with each caress.

"Look at you," Bronx murmurs, wonder lacing his words as he rolls me in his arms, bringing me face to face with him. His eyes burn into mine, dark and fathomless, and I see the raw desire reflected there.

"Bronx," I whisper, and it feels like I'm saying more than just his name. It's a plea, a promise, a surrender.

His hardness presses against me again, insistent, ready. And I know we're far from done.

My breath hitches as Bronx's gaze locks with mine, a storm of desire brewing in the depths of his dark eyes. His fingers brush a strand of pink hair from my forehead, a gentleness there that contradicts the raw hunger etched on his face. He's close, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and for a moment, we're suspended in the stillness of our shared breaths.

"London," he whispers, and it's like he's dipped into my veins, his voice a warm shot of whiskey straight to my heart.

"Bronx," I breathe back, and that's all it takes.

Our lips crash together in a kiss that ignites the night around us. It's messy, fierce, a clash of need and longing. His tongue slides against mine, exploring, claiming, and I'm lost in the taste of him—spice and smoke and everything I didn't know I craved until this very second.

"God, you—" Bronx groans against my mouth, his words dissolving into another hungry kiss.

His hands start moving then, roaming over my body like they've got a mind of their own. Rough and calloused, they map every inch of me, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I arch into his touch, craving more, the teasing pressure sending jolts of pleasure sparking through my veins.

A moan escapes me as his fingertips graze the hem of my shirt, slipping underneath to explore the skin beneath. The world outside the truck fades away—it's just us, wrapped up in each other, the endless highways stretching out into nothingness.

"Bronx," I gasp, breaking away from his lips. "Touch me."

"Damn, girl," he murmurs, and there's a wicked glint in his eyes. His hands obey, skimming down my sides, drawing patterns that set my skin ablaze.

"More," I plead, my voice raw with desire.

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