Truck Stop Tryst

by Daniels, Krissy

  “Is she alive?”

  “Yes.”

  Her features crumpled. She quickly recovered. “Is she safe?”

  “Yes.”

  Aida maneuvered back into my embrace, pressing her cheek against my chest. “Does she know about me?”

  “She does.”

  My strong girl shivered. “One more question. For now. Then we need to get back to the party.”

  “Okay,” I breathed, exhaling a month’s worth of tension.

  “Does she have a good reason for staying away?”

  I didn’t think so. I did, however, believe that Aidaline had believed her reasons for abandoning her child were noble. “She does, baby. She does. And Aida. There’s more. So much more. When you’re ready to hear it—”

  “No more. Not today,” she interrupted before raising on her toes and pressing a kiss to my jaw.

  I turned to catch her mouth, thankful that I no longer had to carry the weight of my knowledge alone. Grateful to have the trust of my deadly beauty. I bent, cupped her round, firm ass, and hoisted her up.

  Aida clamped her legs around my waist. I walked until her back hit the front door of our new house, and I kissed her, slow and deep, savoring her moans, the weight of her arms around my neck, and her tremble when I rocked my hips between her thighs.

  Fuck. The way she melted against me. Steroid injection straight to the ego.

  I broke the kiss. Pressed my forehead to hers, panting, willing my erection to calm down. Aida’s hot breaths hit my face, adding fuel to my fire. “We should go.”

  “Right,” she mumbled, pressing her lips again to mine, then burying her face in my neck and squeezing me tight.

  The door at her back creaked in protest when I set her down. I slapped a palm against the chipped paint. “This shack needs a shit ton of TLC.”

  Aida laughed. A confident, already got it covered laugh. She slipped under my arm, tangled her fingers in mine, and pulled me toward my Jeep. I opened the passenger door. Before climbing in, she turned, and gave the mansion a long, hard perusal. I studied my girl. Watched the corners of her eyes crinkle in thought, then the almost unnoticeable curl of her lips.

  The gift was as much for her as it was for me. She needed to be part of something good. Not a doubt in my mind, she’d take the ramshackle castle, mix it with our dirty deeds, and build something monumental. Something that would leave a mark.

  I was no longer ashamed of my affliction, my need for hiding in dark shadows, stalking my prey.

  I was a caged eagle set free.

  I pitied the fuckers we were going to bring down. Together.

  Together. Hand in hand. Side by side. In unison.

  Partners. Family. Lovers.

  Tucker and I were going to kick some serious ass.

  All my shit, all his shit, had been necessary. Early on, we’d suffered alone, so that we could become the strongest halves of the whole we now made.

  Indestructible. Inseparable.

  Except for one tiny detail.

  A detail I intended to fix before another day slipped by.

  We exited the freeway, turned onto the pothole-riddled street that led to The Stop. The parking lot was empty. The lights shut off.

  “Tucker.” I turned in my seat to find a deep set of dimples. “Where is everybody?”

  That devilish grin came out to play. “Gone home.”

  Oh, fuck. His birthday present. My heartbeat tripped. I’d planned so well. Slade had helped. How could she leave? “What do you mean, gone home? I need to feed Lucia. I haven’t given you your last present.”

  “Aida.” Tucker reached across the console and pressed his palm over my mouth. “Everything is fine. Trust me?”

  He rolled up to the back door, still silencing my protest, and were I not a bundle of agitated nerves, I would’ve sunk my teeth into his palm and demanded he spill the beans.

  He raised a brow, his cocky smile spreading wide. “Trust me?” he asked again.

  I nodded. He dropped his hand.

  I followed him through the back door of The Stop, through the dark hallway, past the kitchen, and into Slade’s office.

  Champagne-colored candles burned on Slade’s desk, casting a warm, romantic glow through the room.

  “Tucker. What is this?”

  I tried hard to ignore the devil dancing in his eyes, but fought a shiver nonetheless.

  “You marked me with your knife, making me yours,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, thick with desire. “Now it’s my turn.”

  All hints of playfulness evaporated from his face. He stalked forward, half-beast, all man, tearing his shirt over his head. I barely had time to wrap my head around the turn of events before my sweater was dust, and my bra was tossed across the room. Tucker’s strong hands curled around my shoulders, backing me into the couch, pushing me down. He dropped to his knees, spread my thighs, and settled between them.

  “Fuck yeah,” he groaned, lifting a breast, and pulling the tight, sensitive bud between his lips.

  With his free hand, he worked at the button of my jeans. I tried to help, to hurry the frantic pace, the need to mate stronger than I thought possible, but he shoved my fingers away.

  “You,” he ordered, “sit still. Don’t move.”

  Sweet Mother of Mercy, I wanted to throw him to the ground, ride him hard, maybe carve the letter I into his skin. Hell, my whole name. I could have. But I couldn’t wait to see where he was going with his sudden shift to alpha beast.

  “Lift your hips,” he said, moving to my other breast for a quick taste.

  I planted my feet on the ground and raised my hips. Tucker tugged my jeans and panties down my thighs, off my ankles, and shoved them aside.

  Oh God. The feral heat in his gaze. So damn intoxicating.

  His lip curled up in one corner. He slid his hands over my thighs, then under my knees, pushing them up, opening them wide. My breath hitched, our eyes met, he lowered his head, and fucked me delirious with that sinfully talented mouth of his.

  In no time at all, I was holding my own legs, bucking against his face and fingers, while he worked my clit with his tongue, and my pussy with his talented hands. I was almost there—that point of ecstasy where your body coils, about to split into a million brilliant shards of pleasure. I was so close, dizzy from the high, when he stopped.

  The bastard sat back on his heels, evidence of my arousal on his face, lust in his gaze. “Stand up. Turn around.”

  I was a mess. Loose limbs, throbbing clit, heavy breaths. The old me would’ve clawed his eyes out for denying my orgasm. The old me would’ve used any means at my disposal to make him finish the job.

  The new me. The me who loved Tucker with ridiculous, syrupy sweet fervor, rose to stand, turned around, planted my knees into the cushions, and curled my fingers around the back of the sofa.

  The leather scent only heightened my arousal.

  “Fucking hell, Bambi. You’re beautiful.”

  I heard the slide of his belt. The thud as his jeans hit the floor.

  “Give me your hands.”

  Oh God.

  Slow and steady, I moved my hands behind my back, and lowered my cheek to the back of the couch to steady myself. Shivers racked my body when he tightened the belt around my arms at the elbows. And shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, shit, when he dragged a finger up the crack of my ass, I moaned and shivered, and bit my lip to keep from begging for more.

  “I’ve wanted to make love to you, right here, just like this, since the first time you kissed me.”

  “Mmm,” was all I could say.

  “Do you remember, baby, how you teased me? How you climbed on my lap, fucked my mouth with your tongue, pulled my hair?”

  He dropped wet kisses on my shoulder when I nodded.

  “You owned me, even then. Hard as I tried to deny it. You fucking owned me.”

  More kisses on my neck, accompanied by shiver-inducing nibbles.

  He massaged each side of my ass cheeks, lifting and separat
ing them. I moaned, anticipating what was to come. His cock. Oh, God. His cock.

  He teased his tip at my opening.

  “You’ve thought about fucking me on this couch, too, Aida, haven’t you?”

  He pushed inside me, just a fraction. I was speechless. Mindless.

  “I know you have. I’ve noticed how your cheeks get rosy, you chew on your bottom lip, every time we’re in this room together.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Every time I was in Slade’s office, I replayed that moment. Fantasized a hundred more.

  I’d planned on proposing to him, on the red leather couch where we’d shared our first kiss. The rings were hidden in the bottom drawer of Slade’s desk. I was his gift. Me, taking his name, marrying him, becoming his wife, his lover, his best friend, legal and binding. Giving the last part of me to the man I loved, starting our new life together, free and clear of the Voltolini name.

  That had been the plan, anyway.

  The proposal could wait. The need to have Tucker inside me could not.

  “It’s my turn to own you, Aida.” He thrust hard and deep. Fully seated, he grabbed the back of the couch, sliding his hands under my head, no doubt to protect me from the pounding I was about to receive. There was no slow build-up. Tucker dropped his head to the back of mine, and he fucked me hard, heavy breaths in my ear, the loud smack of our bodies colliding.

  Rough, loud, unapologetic.

  Grunts, thrusts, fucks, and you’re mines, moans, and cries.

  One of his hands left the couch, found purchase on my hip, then moved around to play with my clit. That familiar rush of lust stole through my body, my insides coiling tight, my body buzzing with the promise of glorious relief.

  Tucker pulled out. His hand leaving me wanting, throbbing, damn close to crying.

  “Fuck!” I screamed, frustrated and obliterated.

  Tucker tangled his fingers through my hair and pulled tight, sliding his cock back inside me. Slow. Calculated. He pushed all the way in and stilled.

  The belt came undone. My arms dropped to my sides, and I grabbed the back of the couch.

  He started to move again. Slow and gentle, his right arm bracing my body just below my breasts, the other hand sliding over my left arm, then lacing our fingers over the back of the couch. This time around, his movements were slow and sweet. With each thrust, each roll of his hips against me, I felt more loved. I countered his movements, arching my back, grinding against him.

  Sweat, leather, skin, the scent of our arousal—all of it became too much to bear. I fought back tears; I fought the urge to crumple into his arms, or crawl inside him because I never wanted to be separated again.

  One tear rolled down my cheek, then another.

  And then, when I thought I couldn’t take another breath without falling apart, Tucker leaned into me and whispered, “Look at your hand, baby.” He untangled our fingers, revealing the ring that, at some point during our lovemaking, he had slid onto my finger. The ring I had purchased. His birthday gift.

  Tucker pulled out of me again, then urged me onto my back before settling between my legs. He didn’t move right away. He studied me, studying him, with his cocky grin. “You didn’t think I’d let you propose to me, did you?”

  Dumbfounded, I nodded.

  “I’m a gentleman, remember?”

  I nodded again, brushing a tear off my face with the back of my hand.

  He reached between us, grabbed his cock, and guided it home. Then, he leaned over the side of the couch and pulled out the ring I had bought for him to wear. Platinum, with two inlaid rows of diamonds. One row of black rocks, the other row, clear and perfect stones. Oil and water, side by side, creating a beautiful masterpiece. He slid the band on his finger. It fit perfect, like I knew it would. “Marry me. Please, baby. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  My ring matched Tucker’s, only a feminine version. I didn’t care that my surprise had been ruined. Didn’t care that Slade had obviously double-crossed me. I just wanted to be Mrs. Tucker Slade. Small town hick. Off-the-rack clothing. Flannel shirts. Greasy burgers. I just wanted to spend every day of the rest of my life loving Tucker, spoiling our daughter, building a family and traditions.

  God, I had so much love to give.

  And so, on the couch in my best friend’s office, naked, crying, and ready to burst with unfathomable joy, I said yes.

  I finally got my orgasm.

  And our tryst, in The Truck Stop Diner, became a monthly event.

  Coming Soon

  Truck Stop Tempest

  Tuuli

  “AND MAY THE LORD bless you and keep you…”

  I closed my eyes and absorbed Pastor Davies’s benediction, letting the words wash over me, pretending, for the short reprieve, that I was clean and worthy of hearing them.

  As the shuffle of feet and rustle of coats and mumbled goodbyes and have a good weeks and join us for lunch, closed around me, I hooked my purse strap over my shoulder, shrugged my arms into my sweater, and maneuvered through the congregation toward the door, stealing one last glance at the stained-glass image of Jesus before making my getaway.

  I jogged down the cement steps and hurried to the corner, hoping to catch the early bus and make it to The Truck Stop in time to catch a bite before my shift started. My stomach rumbled at the prospect of a real meal. Rifling through my handbag in search of my bus pass, I continued along the uneven sidewalk, cursing myself for not keeping the damn thing in my pocket.

  “Ah, there you are.” I snatched my card and looked up seconds before slamming into the figure standing before me.

  Dear Sweet Mother of Mercy. My limbs locked, my insides sputtering and crackling like water dropped into a hot pan of oil.

  Dark, turbulent eyes glowered down at me through the cover of his cloak. Out of habit, my gaze dropped to the ground. I hated that I still had that reaction around men. Pathetic and weak.

  No more, I reminded myself, forcing my gaze upward, over the scary body parked mere inches from mine.

  I took in every detail, from his well-worn shoes, to the running pants that clung to his thick thighs, to his signature dark sweatshirt. Tito, or Grim, as in The Grim Reaper, as I often referred to him in the safety of my private thoughts, once again had his hood pulled low over his head, hence the nickname. His chest rose and fell, sweat dripped from his half-hidden face, and puffs of white air blew from his lips with each exhale, reminding me how cold it was outside.

  I shivered, as I often did in his presence, and pulled my sweater tighter around my middle.

  “Hey, Tito.” I forced a smile. “Going for a run?”

  He didn’t answer. He rarely did when I spoke to him, unless reciting his lunch or dinner order. Instead, he glanced up at the church, then back to me, offering a nod in the building’s direction. “You one of those Jesus freaks?”

  Shame slammed my chest. I was a freak, but not the kind he referenced.

  “Oh, God no,” I said, folding, as I often did under the weight of peer pressure, or any pressure for that matter.

  He shoved his hands in his front pocket, leaning back on his heels. “I saw you come out of the church.”

  A nervous laugh escaped my lips. “Not everyone who goes to church is a Jesus freak.”

  His eyes darkened. Narrowed. Burned a hole right through me. “Whatever you say.”

  By some miracle, under the unbearable weight of his scrutiny, I managed to squeak, “You don’t go to church?”

  Stupid, stupid question.

  “Rather be skinned alive.” Such loathing in his voice.

  The heavy rumble of the bus reminded me I was on a tight schedule, shaking me from my Tito trance. Crap. I’d have to run for it. The Sunday driver waited for no one.

  “Been nice talking to you, but I gotta go.” I took off at a sprint, breasts bouncing beneath my stretched-out bra, hair falling out of my meticulously pinned bun, and my purse beating viciously at my back.

  I was a mere ten feet from my ride when the strap
of my bag snapped, spilling its guts, and my hope for a meal, all over the muddy ground.

  “No,” I screeched, skidding to a stop and gasping for air as the bus rolled away without me. “No. No. No.” I squatted to retrieve my things, plucked them from the newly thawed earth, and shoved them, muck and all, back into my thrift store handbag.

  Tucking the pink leather traitor under my arm, I headed the same direction I’d just come and maneuvered through the slow flowing stream of churchgoers spilled onto the sidewalk. If I kept a brisk pace, I could still make it to work on time.

  Already a couple blocks ahead, Tito continued to gain distance, his large, dark form growing smaller by the second. My insides warmed at the sight. What I wouldn’t give to own such a powerful air of self-confidence, such a fearsome presence. What I wouldn’t give for a taste of power, to instill fear rather than drown in it.

  I wondered briefly, and shamefully, as I often did, how a man, more specifically Tito, would feel if he were to hold me, his thick muscles pressed against my small curves. How would he taste if I stole a kiss? Too often, I thought about his lips—whether they would be soft and gentle, or hard and forceful. I often thought about his other body parts as well, even though the little voice in my head reminded me it was wrong to have any thoughts about a man like Tito Moretti.

  I hated that little voice.

  Tito

  That little voice. That pink, pouty mouth. Those wide, terrified, baby blues. Fuck. The girl was a damn child. A churchgoing child, no less, and, for reasons beyond my understanding, I couldn’t flush her out of my head, no matter how hard I hit the bag, or how many miles of road I tore up.

  My morbid attraction to her wasn’t sexual, not exclusively anyway. No. Tuuli’s allure was soul deep. Maybe it came from her eyes. She was young, late teens, I guessed, but in her gaze, when I was careless enough to hold it for more than a blink, hid wisdom that was neither earned, or bestowed. I suspected that Tuuli’s erudition had been forced upon her, evident by the slump of her shoulders, and the forced confidence she tried so hard to pull off.

  Perhaps the unholy attraction was simply one broken soul recognizing another.