Possessive Trucker - Flora Ferrari Page 0,1

sneer or look I’m used to.

This man likes what he sees, and I feel my chest stiffen through my wet shirt. A warm flush running through my whole body and settling someplace inside me, a little north of the space between my legs.

I become aware I’m standing with my mouth open, something I do sometimes and hate. His smile once he’s fully scanned me with those dark, brooding eyes of his act like a beacon.

Rails of perfect white teeth and an added softness to his chiseled jaw draw me in like a moth to a flame.

A flame I hope won’t burn me, not like everybody else today. The man’s different, but I can’t just tell from looks.

Can’t I?

I don’t feel my legs moving, but he’s getting closer, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on mine without turning around.

As I get close enough, his low growl of appreciation after he breathes in deeply makes me feel the whole floor under my feet vibrate.

He’s huge, around six foot seven. And his thick muscles show through his clothes as he moves but without making him look unnatural.

He’s perfect.

Turning to face me, he brushes his thick dark hair. Out of nerves or habit? I don’t think he’s capable of nerves. He’s got the form and figure, the presence of a man who knows what he wants.

And right now, even though I don’t consider myself someone who has any chance with a man like this, all I want to do is talk to him. I need to talk to him.

But the greater part of me, the unreasonable, warm and wet part of me which is growing warmer and wetter by the second, is compelled to think of all the things I want him to do to me once he’s through talking.

“You’re all wet down there,” he observes in a deep, smoky voice.

I flush with embarrassment, looking down. It’s as if he can read my mind.

Up close he smells like the woods, like fresh cut logs and spruce pines after the rain.

Wiping my hands down my thighs out of my own nervous habit, I realize what he means.

I’m drenched. My top dried some, but my jeans are soaked through

And every second he looks at me like that, I know I’m only gonna be getting that little bit wetter.

Chapter Two

Thorn

I’ve driven enough rigs on highways, in all seasons to know a girl in trouble when I see one.

I also know what I want when I see it. I don’t need convincing when an angel descends to earth right in front of me.

Right from the restrooms in Rick’s fucking roadhouse of all places.

I want to introduce myself, to set her mind at ease. A lot of weirdos in diners and roadhouses… a lot of nut jobs on the road.

But I can’t speak, I’m just standing here, grinning like a fool as she walks over while I stare at her in the mirror behind the counter. Right over towards me, now that’s what I like.

And she’s what I want.

Christ, I sound like one of those nut jobs. But it’s not my imagination.

She’s fucking perfect!

Her blond bangs, like the rest of her, are patchy with dampness from the rain. She’s cleaned herself up but nobody can wash off getting caught in a torrential downpour in a bathroom basin.

She’s flushed red, and her full figure, complete with generous curves in all the right places sends a signal straight to my dick that I haven’t felt for years.

Maybe not ever.

Not like this.

I can’t help but focus on her chest. Damn. Those thick pebbled nipples are just teasing my eyes, but it’s those fucking hips and an ass I know that’s just begging to be gripped with both hands. And before I even see her from all angles, I want her.

I’m a big guy, and I need a strong, thick girl if anything physical is gonna work. One look at her, and I just know we’re a perfect fit.

But more than my instant desire, more than the need to give her our children…

I need to help her.

I need to protect her.

My eyes narrow, I look around quickly as she looks down once I observe how wet she is.

I’m waiting for the boyfriend, husband or whoever to step in, to tell me to mind my own.

But when she looks up, I can tell there’s no one. It’s in her eyes.

I know the look because it’s the same one I see every morning in the mirror.

Twenty years I’ve driven rigs, cutting the logs that go on