Page 2 of Stalked By the Wrestler

My body reacts, hard and insistent, and I'm past caring about decency or restraint. The fire she lit in me roars to life, demanding release.

I free my cock, rough and ready, and I'm stroking myself to the rhythm of her smile, the curve of her waist.

Judy.

My grip tightens as fantasies dance behind my eyelids, her soft moans filling my ears, her body writhing beneath mine. I imagine the taste of her skin, sweet and addictive, as I work myself faster, chasing the edge.

"Fuck, Judy," I gasp out, her image seared into my mind. Pleasure spirals, heat coiling tighter, and then I'm there—a shuddering, groaning mess, coming undone at the thought of a woman I've never even spoken to.

Panting, spent, I lean back, the afterglow bitter and hollow. I've had my moment of stolen bliss, but it's not enough. It'll never be enough until I have the real thing.

"Dammit," I whisper into the empty room. "I'm gonna find you, Judy."

CHAPTER

TWO

Judy

I glide between the tables with a practiced ease, my tray a balancing act of steaming coffee and cherry-topped milkshakes. It's one of those shifts where the clock can't seem to move fast enough, each tick a sluggish step towards freedom.

The diner buzzes with life, the hum of conversation blending with the clinks of cutlery against porcelain. I'm weaving through it all, a smile plastered on my face because tips are the lifeline that'll pay this month's rent.

"More coffee, Mr. H?" I ask Mr. Henderson, who's practically part of the furniture here. He nods, and I top off his cup, my mind wandering to the canvas sitting unfinished in my apartment. The bright colors, the bold strokes—they're waiting for me. But so is the reality of bills. Art feeds the soul, but it’s the diner that fills the fridge.

There's a bell over the door, and it jangles as someone walks in—a sound I've grown used to, a Pavlovian call to action. I turn, ready to flash another customer my most charming welcome, but the words catch in my throat.

Holy hotness on a pancake stack.

It's him—the wrestler from the other night, muscles and all, looking like he stepped right out of the ring and into my diner. My pulse kicks up a notch, thudding in my ears like I’m the one about to face a heavyweight champ.

"Table for one?" I hear the hostess ask, her voice a distant buzz compared to the stampede in my chest.

His eyes lock onto mine across the room, and it's like he's got some kind of tractor beam. They're the kind of eyes that see right through you, that strip you bare and leave you feeling exposed. And man, do they stick to me like syrup on hotcakes.

"Actually," he says, his voice a low rumble that somehow finds its way to me, "I was hoping for a seat in her section."

He cocks his head toward me, and my cheeks flame hotter than the grill, but I keep my cool—or at least I pretend to. Because Judy doesn't fumble. She serves breakfast with a side of sass and never drops a plate.

"Sure thing." The hostess gestures toward my domain, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

She knows. She totally knows I'm freaking out.

"Ready for your order?" I ask as he settles into the booth, trying to sound casual, like gorgeous men with biceps the size of my head waltz in here every day asking for me by default.

"Actually, I was hoping we could talk," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that feels like a dare.

Talk? That's definitely not on the menu. But as he looks at me with those intense eyes, everything else falls away—the clatter of the diner, the weight of my financial tightrope, even the lingering scent of bacon in the air.

"Sure," I say, my own voice sounding far away. "Let's talk."

"Take a load off, join me," he says with a grin that could knock me right back into last Tuesday.

"Um, that’s not really allowed?" I tell him hesitantly, but my heart's doing somersaults inside my chest. My manager would have a cow, but then again, when did I ever play by all the rules?

"Today it is." There's a command in his tone, one that tells me this isn't just some suggestion—it's an invitation to something more, something unpredictable.

So I slide into the booth opposite him, my apron still tied around my waist, feeling every inch the waitress out of her element. The vinyl seat is cool beneath me, a stark contrast to the heat crawling up my neck.

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