Truck Stop Tryst Page 2

  “My eyes aren’t going anywhere near that vixen.” Let alone any of my other body parts.

  “Aw. She isn’t so bad, once you dust off the gunpowder.” Tito strutted toward the door and pulled Aida into a tight embrace, his hands on her hips, his mouth on her cheek, whispering words that made her smile and blush.

  I curled my fingers into my palm and headed to the kitchen for a trash bag. Damn. I didn’t like seeing Tito’s arms around her. Not one bit. More disturbing, was the fact that their intimacy bothered me. I shook that thought off real quick.

  The girl was trouble. Not a chance in hell I was getting close to that. Aida was Tango’s problem, not mine.

  I lived a carefully designed, drama-free life. Work. Gym. Eat. Hunt. Sleep.

  No girlfriend.

  No worries.

  I made quick work of helping Charlie tidy the kitchen before heading back to the dining area where Aida would no doubt be waiting, all doe-eyes, moist red lips, and attitude. I pushed through the swinging stainless steel doors and damn near fell to my knees at the sight of her, bending over, heart-shaped ass in the air, fiddling with the hem of her gown.

  At the sound of the doors clunking, she stood up and looked over her bare shoulder. The diamond earrings she wore caught the light just right, flashing a bright sparkle across her olive skin.

  “Oh, hey Tuck.” She gripped the sides of her bustier and adjusted her breasts. “What can I do to help?”

  Christ, that voice. Soft and deep. Seductive. So damn intoxicating. The suit pants I wore were insufficient to hide my growing erection. Thank God, I’d untucked my shirt earlier.

  After clearing the lust from my throat, I pointed to a stool. “Nothing. I’ve got it, Charlie’s got the kitchen, you relax. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Aida quirked a brow at me and rubbed a hand over her small belly. “I’m pregnant. Not helpless.”

  And … that took care of the boner problem.

  Aida was off-limits. Pregnant. Under the protection of Tango, my soon to be brother-in-law. Not to mention, the only daughter of one of America’s most elusive criminals, Luciano Voltolini.

  Yep. Definitely off-limits.

  “Didn’t say you were helpless. Just thought you might need a breather after all that dancing.” I plucked red plastic cups off the bar and dropped them into the trash bag.

  Aida sauntered around the corner, grabbed a bottle of spray cleaner and a towel, and proceeded to wipe down the counter as I cleared it of debris.

  “There,” she said after we finished. “Good as new.”

  By the time I’d dumped the trash bag in the bin behind the diner, and returned with the push broom, Aida had made herself comfortable on the new, red leather couch in Slade’s office.

  Feet perched on a pillow, she smiled up at me and wiggled her bare feet. “You were right. This feels good.”

  I proceeded to sweep, counting my strokes to keep my mind off those naked legs and perfectly manicured toes.

  The day couldn’t end soon enough. A few more hours and I’d be home free. Back to my simple, single life.

  Single life was not working for me. I hated being alone. In Whisper Springs, my options for male companionship were slim to one. The one being the only single man I’d met since being sent to my small-town hell.

  Tucker Slade was not my type. Not even close. My type wore Armani suits, drove Ferrari’s or Porsche’s. My type bloodied faces in their spare time, in the underground fights controlled by my father. Slick. Shiny. Beautiful. Dangerous.

  Tucker Slade was rough, burly, and unpolished. He wore his suit like a peacock in a beige leotard. Damn thing choked the very life and personality right out of him. Thick, unkempt brows, two-day stubble, not a lick of styling product in his wavy hair. Quiet. Brooding.

  Not my type.

  Then why, after every time his gaze fell on me, did I feel like a woman claimed, owned, wanted? Why did my skin heat, my heart race, my body ache to the bone?

  Pregnancy hormones. The only logical explanation.

  My fascination with the man definitely had nothing to do with the way he smelled like leather and pine, or those denim-colored eyes, or the way he looked at me like I was the only woman on the planet. Most men looked at me that way. Perhaps the fact that Tucker hadn’t acted on the obvious attraction was what had my brain jumbled.

  I rubbed my small baby bump. Wasn’t even a bump yet. Swell? Puff? Whatever. I knew it was there. I knew what was coming, or who, rather. “Mama’s losing it, little one. It’s all your fault.”

  Pre-pregnancy, my life was all about sex.

  Stressed? Call the trainer, work out in bed.

  Angry? Fighter’s rage fucked like nobody’s business.

  Celebrating? Hit the clubs with private rooms.

  Getting to know the enemy? Seduce them. Most men fuck the same way they conduct business.

  Lonely? My little black book had been upgraded from notebook to novel years ago.

  I was sexually frustrated, to say the least. It’d been months. Now all I could think about was climbing and conquering Mount Tucker. I laughed to myself. Not a chance in hell a man with his manners and rugged, country boy charm would want to bang a knocked-up single girl with a knife fetish and ties to the mafia.

  Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. I needed a distraction. Scratch that. I needed an industrial strength vibrator.

  Unfortunately, I’d been whisked off to my temporary prison with little time to pack, and tragically, every one of my BOBs had been left in the dust.

  I heard the smack of Tucker’s flip-flops before he entered the office. Flip-flops were ridiculous creations, and I’d only ever worn them to the salon, but they’d been required for this engagement party, so we all donned a brand-new pair. Who was I to judge? I had a knife fetish. Apparently, Slade had a rubber footwear fetish. Whatever floats your boat.

  “All done here, ready to head home?” He braced his arms on the doorframe above his head. The way he filled the space, all muscles and white teeth, made my head spin and heat swirl through my insides.

  I sat up, tucked my legs underneath me, and patted the cushion. “No. Not yet. Lets give Tango and Slade time alone in their new home.”

  Tucker dropped his head low and moaned.

  Ouch. That stung.

  Back home, men threw themselves at me. Kissed my ass, too, and yes, it was because my last name was Voltolini. Didn’t matter. I gobbled the attention, demanded it, rather. In Whisper Springs, Idaho, Aida was a nobody.

  I wasn’t ready to retreat to my basement apartment below the new Rossi love-shack. The last thing I needed was to hear the lovebirds and their happy family dancing over my head. However, it was clear by the scowl on Tucker’s face that he had no interest in keeping me company.

  I had a battle on my hands.

  I patted the cushion. “Come on, Cowboy. Please. We can fire up Slade’s new television.”

  He quirked a brow. “Cowboy?”

  I offered him the remote. “I’ll even let you pick the show.” Tango had recently remodeled The Truck Stop Diner for Slade, restoring it to its nineteen fifties retro vibe. The office, however, was designed with his son Rocky in mind, complete with a play area, pint-sized homework desk, couch, and flat-screen television. Slade’s desk was hardly noticeable, tucked in the far corner.

  “I’ve got an early day tomorrow. I should head home.” He rubbed a hand through the mess of hair on top of his head.

  “Please. Just an hour. Please. I’ll slit my throat if I have to watch another second of their happy, love crap.”

  “Aida. You have a separate apartment downstairs. You don’t have to see them if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh. You must be referring to my dark and gloomy underground prison. Yeah. That’s something to look forward to.” I batted my lashes and patted the cushion one more time. “You have any idea what that cave will do to my healthy glow? You want me to be hideous and pale?”

  Tucker closed the distance betwee
n us in four long strides and dropped next to me with a loud sigh, throwing his heat, and his welcoming scent around me like a rainy day wool sweater. He quirked a brow and grabbed the remote from my hand. “What did you do to earn this banishment? Had to be bad if Luciano Voltolini sent his only daughter away.”

  Out of habit, I rubbed at the bare spot on my left forearm where my knife holder had once lived like a second skin. I missed my babies.

  No use lying. Aside from Slade, Tango, and Tango’s father, Carlos, Tucker was the only other person in town who knew my real identity. I was introduced to everyone else as Tango’s cousin, Aida Suarez. “I stabbed the father of my baby. In the balls.” I held up two fingers. “Twice.”

  His jaw dropped before he caught it and lifted his lips into a nervous smirk. “That’s a good one. Seriously, what’d you do? Or are you not allowed to talk about it?”

  “I’m telling the truth. The asshole cheated on me. I caught him in the act. Stabbed him twice.”

  Tucker’s face paled.

  Shoot. Should’ve lied. No way his dick would come anywhere near me now. I was doomed to serve my sentence as a celibate—horny, and growing less attractive by the day.

  Tucker didn’t ask me to elaborate, but I did, because it felt good to talk to someone who wasn’t being paid to appease me. “I’ve never had unprotected sex in my life. I’ve always used birth control and condoms. Faithfully. Rafael figured if he knocked me up, he’d have an in. Access to my father. Not sure how he did it. Damn sure wasn’t going to let him get away with using me. Seems Dad had a plan of his own, though. One I wasn’t privy to. Apparently, I caused a ton of trouble for Dad, pissed off the wrong people. Now, I’m hiding here, in Butt-Fuck-Idaho until Dad mops up my mess.” I slumped into the buttery soft leather.

  Tucker loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt before scooting deeper into the cushions himself, hands at his sides, knees spread wide. “So, you’re kind of a badass, then?” He clicked the power button on the remote and chuckled. “Princess Badass. Nice.”

  Wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. Most men would run for the hills, cupping their junk. Tucker seemed to find my twisted idea of justice amusing. Okay, so maybe there was hope for the guy. Of course, if anything of the sexual variety were to happen between the two of us, it could only be a fling. A dalliance. My father would send for me soon.

  Until then, Tucker could be a beautiful and much-needed distraction. Tucker Slade and his brilliant blue eyes.

  Those damn doe-eyes. All liquid chocolate framed with long lashes. Sucked me right in. Deceiving as hell.

  Princess Voltolini was dark and dangerous. I needed to remember that.

  I shifted, praying she wouldn’t notice the bulge swelling behind the fly of my ridiculous suit pants. I hadn’t worn a suit since Nicki’s funeral. Everything about the expensive get-up felt off. Scratchy, ill-fitting, and pompous.

  Aida was nervous. The click of her red nails made that a no-brainer. Was she worried her little confession would scare me off?

  It should have.

  “What should we watch?” I asked, changing the subject, no longer eager to head home. Matter of fact, little miss knife fetish had become all the more tantalizing.

  “Really?” She blinked at me. “Anything. I’ll watch anything. Just don’t take me to that prison yet.”

  “Alrighty then.” I pressed the channel change button at a steady pace, acutely aware, from scalp to toes, of the warm, sensual heat seated next to me.

  Aida continued to tap her nails together.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Damn, that was annoying. Kinda cute. Mostly annoying.

  I stopped channel surfing when a familiar image caught my eye. A rest stop on Highway 12 near the Idaho-Montana border. The title on the screen read Rest Area Reaper Claims Another Victim. Corny? Yes. Accurate? Hell, yes.

  The attacks were occurring more and more frequently and were no longer confined to the Pacific Northwest. Was I concerned? No. Every headline failed to report the most important fact about the psychopath targeting truck drivers. The specifics everyone in the trucking industry knew. A dirty little secret nobody talked about. Every trucker who had been attacked by the Rest Area Reaper had been fishing for underage companionship, under the cover of night, in the sleazy underbelly of my chosen profession. The victims didn’t talk to the authorities, for fear of prison, or their families discovering their illegal proclivities. The working girls didn’t talk for fear of losing their livelihood. The pimps, well, they stayed hidden.

  I wasn’t concerned. Our drivers were screened, drug tested, road tested, screened again. Our trucks had cameras running twenty-four-seven, inside and outside the cab, to ensure no illegal exchanges took place on our clock.

  Most victims of the Reaper were private contractors. Every one of them had narrowly escaped with their lives, beaten to a pulp. Not a single one could identify the person or persons who’d assaulted them.

  I changed the channel again, before Aida could process, or, God forbid, question me about the Reaper story, and landed on an image of a man in waders, hip deep in crystal clear water, demonstrating a brilliant river load cast.

  “Fishing? Really?” she asked with a huff.

  “It’s relaxing.” I glanced at her hands. “You should try it sometime. I’ve never seen a girl wound so tight.”

  “I have good reason.” She studied the screen.

  “I suppose you do.”

  It took unfathomable will power not to laugh as she shifted and squirmed next to me, clearly agitated, but trying hard to keep her trap shut. Sweet Mother of Mercy, she smelled good.

  Her patience only lasted two minutes. “So, this is what you do to relax? Watch men in rivers play with their skinny rods?”

  I melted deeper into the couch and laced my fingers behind my head. “When I need to relax, I hit the gym. Sometimes I go fishing.”

  “You like to play with your rod, too?” Click. Click. Click. “Sounds fun.”

  I glanced her way in time to catch an eye roll.

  The mob princess could throw an attitude. Damn, I wanted to tame that fiery spirit. Or throw some gasoline on it and see how hot she could burn. I could’ve continued to banter. Instead, I asked, “What do you do to relax?”

  “Sex,” she said without hesitation. Then her eyes widened, and she slapped a hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I mean. Um. Oh God. That sounded awful.”

  Yeah. Her confession was too good to let slide. “So, I’m in the company of a nymphomaniac, testicle-carving, mob princess. I can’t for the life of me understand why any man would let you slip through his fingers.”

  She searched my face, gaze falling on my mouth, darting to my eyes, then dropping back to my lips. Her forehead wrinkled, eyes pinching together as if she couldn’t comprehend what I’d just said.

  Fuck me, but I wanted to devour those plump red kissers. “Stabbing him wasn’t enough, you know. Any guy who cheats deserves to have his nuts cracked, chopped, and slow-roasted over a campfire.”

  And there it was—Aida’s deep, raspy, laugh.

  No better sound in the world. I did that. And quick as a snap, I was addicted. Obsessed. Committed to making her laugh every day.

  For the tenth or sixtieth time since meeting her, my cock swelled. Before I had time to adjust my hips and hide my arousal, Aida sprung across the couch and crashed her mouth to mine. Her bare arms coiled around my neck. Straddling my lap, she settled her full, soft ass on my thighs. With tongue, lips, and soft moans, she attacked. A full-frontal assault.

  It’d been too long since I’d kissed a woman. Instinct urged me to back off and slow things down. Protect myself. But with her breasts rubbing against my chest, her warm thighs bracing my hips, and the sweet, cotton candy scent of her skin, I was helpless, mindless, selfish, and I gave in to basic human need. I slid my hands down the silky fabric of her gown and cupped her ass, pulling her closer, tighter against my erection.

  Sweet hell, I’d forgo
tten what a pair of breasts and soft skin could do to short circuit a man’s dignity.

  I had to stop. Before I couldn’t.

  Aida tangled her delicate fingers in my hair and pulled. Fire seared my veins. When I drew in a sharp breath, she yanked my head, forcing it against the back of the couch. Rising on her knees, she crashed her mouth to mine.

  The girl was strong, and she held me tight and still during the attack. It wasn’t a kiss. It was mouth fucking. Dirty. Raw. Painful. And the hottest damn sexual experience of my life.

  I let her have her way with me, on the couch in my sister’s office, until my dick threatened to erupt. Curling my fingers into her hips, I urged her back down into my lap.

  Immediately she began to grind against me. Moaning, kissing, biting.

  Shit. Too many layers of fabric separated us. As if reading my mind, Aida sat back on my thighs and pulled the bodice of her dress down, exposing her full, heavy breasts, and their enticing rose colored buds. I needed a taste.

  First, I needed to slow the bump and grind before something embarrassing happened.

  Fuck. I needed to stop touching her.

  And I would.

  After a taste. One taste.

  I lifted her off my lap and laid her on the couch. She reached for my belt buckle. I swatted her hands away.

  Her eyes darkened, and she reached for me again. I grabbed both of her wrists and pinned them above her head, causing her breasts to wiggle and bounce in an erotic tease.

  One taste. Then I’d stop.

  Ducking my head, I pulled the taut skin of one nipple between my teeth. She was salty and sweet, tight, and responsive. When I rolled my tongue across the bud, Aida bucked beneath me. I adjusted my position, to gain better access of her exposed skin, planting one foot on the ground and one knee between her legs.

  One more taste. I had to have one more.