Hands on the Wheel: A Sinfully Erotic Trucker Romance by Margaret Harlowe

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About the author:

She enjoys her wicked imagination, and hopes readers will, too.

What inspired you to write your book?

My crazy imagination! Also, curiosity about writing in this new genre.

Here is a short sample from the book:

Chapter One
Sara
The metallic purple cab sparkled in the glaring sun as the semi rolled into the grill’s large parking lot. Sara Cooke read the fancy lettering on the driver’s door: “Hank Werner Trucking, Cheyenne, Wyoming.”
She’d never seen this rig before.
She set the coffee pot down and watched the driver climb out. A cowboy trucker. They were a dime a dozen in Wyoming. As he sauntered across the asphalt, he glanced back at the massive eighteen-wheeler and pulled his worn straw cowboy hat lower on his forehead.
Inside the grill, he headed to a window booth in her station. He left his hat on. That was typical of these cowboy types. Tall and lanky, he wore polished black cowboy boots – the kind with square toes and nice stitching. His Wrangler jeans fit him just right. He even had one of those oval silver belt buckles. Probably a rodeo trophy. Most of those were. The long sleeves of his dark red western shirt were rolled up, revealing a blue tattoo on his left arm.
“Howdy,” she said, setting water and a menu in front of him.
“Hey there.” He glanced up with a friendly smile and opened the plastic-covered menu.
A long salt-and-pepper ponytail streamed down his back. Not many cowboy truckers in these parts sported long hair. Or tattoos, for that matter. Still, he dressed like a good old-fashioned cowboy trucker, not like the young, sloppy ones. This guy seemed like the real deal, his sideburns and mustache bright white against his tanned face. “I’ll give you a minute,” she told him.
He nodded. “Restroom?”
Sara pointed it out. As he ambled down the hall she swallowed hard. He looked good in his Wranglers. The jeans cupped his muscular ass in a decidedly sexy way. She shook it off, cursing herself. Of course this guy would already be taken. Men like him were always too good to be true. Sara felt her face heat up, embarrassed by the pull she felt in her groin. She hadn’t felt that pull for a long time.
How ridiculous, she thought, suddenly as shy and insecure as a school girl. She picked up an order, tossing her head. Here she was, forty-three and divorced, for crying out loud. Since the cancer she’d been celibate. Maybe it was getting to her. Her scar wasn’t that bad, but that damned Johnny had made her feel untouchable.
Sara shrugged. She was feeling pretty good these days – good enough to work double shifts often, to help Annie and the others. She liked helping and she needed the money, especially now that Lexie was talking about going to college. Sara knew her ex, Lexie’s dad, wouldn’t be good for any support whatsoever.
The late morning sun beamed through the grill’s tall windows. It was too early for lunch for most folks. Annie would be here soon. Sara busied herself filling up the glass sugar containers.
Of course she felt untouchable. Her cheeks flamed hotter as she recalled the horrified look on Johnny’s face that night. Sara wished she could forget it. The one guy she’d let in. Just her luck! That was six months after the surgery. She’d never thought he would act like such an ass, pulling back when he felt and saw the radiation scar on her left breast. He’d given her a quick excuse and left.
She hadn’t heard from him since.
Thank God he never came into the Flying Bison Grill any more. What a dim-wit. On the other hand, it might be nice if he came in one more time, so she could toss scalding coffee in his face.
Sara knew it was his loss. But why did she have this feeling of shame?
She tossed her hair again. She’d always been attractive. Even beautiful, some would say. Now she felt deformed, thanks to Johnny.
She should go see a shrink or something. It was time for a change. A big one. Sara was tired of watching these truckers come and go. For the longest time she’d wanted to join them on the road.
She glanced out the window as another rig pulled in. Maybe one of these guys would teach her how to drive his semi. The thing was, Sara couldn’t afford to take any time off. This waitressing job paid the bills. More or less. The Flying Bison was the best place to eat in Chugwater, and the tips were good. It was part of the Flying Bison Inn, the only lodging in this one-horse town. The grill wasn’t actually a truck stop, but the truckers liked the food.
As Mr. Sexy Wranglers passed behind her, she caught the scent of Aramis. Her favorite. Sara kept her eyes on the sugar container in front of her. Just a faint scent. Perfect. She hated most men’s colognes. But she loved this one. She inhaled the wood and leather aroma.
She waited until he was seated, then walked over. “Ready to order?”
“You betcha. Taco salad with ranch, and black coffee.”
“Got it.” Sara put her pencil back behind her ear and looked into his suntanned face. When he grinned, his sloping hazel eyes seemed kind. He was handsome in that cowboy hat. His appraising gaze took her breath away.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself again.
When she brought his coffee, he grinned again. “How did Chugwater get its name?” he asked.
“You must be a newbie.”
“Yep. Just moved to Cheyenne.”
“Chugwater was named after the sound of bison hitting the creek at the bottom of the cliff.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Long ago the Mandan hunted buffalo by driving them over the cliffs here. When the animals landed, they made a chug sound. They called it ‘water at the place where the buffalo chug’ because of the stream.”
The pick-up bell rang. “SARA!” the cook hollered.
***
His name was Hank. As he left Sara noticed his graceful, athletic stride. It was a relaxed gait, not a swagger. He struck her as quietly confident – a guy with nothing to prove.
She enjoyed men like that.
Sara watched the shiny purple rig roll into the street, its twin chrome stacks flashing in the sun. She smiled to herself. She’d caught him checking out her ass as she leaned over the counter. She knew her ass looked good, even in this stupid waitress uniform. If only she could wear something else to work. It would be fun to show off her clothes. And the new strappy high heels she’d just bought.
She was pretty sure Hank would be back soon, and not just because he liked the food. She smoothed her hair back, smiling to herself again.
Sara heard someone come in. Glancing up, her heart sank.
Her ex-husband’s angry eyes stared back at her.
What the holy Hell was Richard doing here?
 
Chapter Two
Hank
The waitress refilled his coffee and blushed a furious shade of pink that matched her waitress outfit. “Sara,” her name tag said. Maybe she was shy. Sweet. He loved that pink uniform and the darker pink apron over it.
“Dessert?” Her voice was husky.
“What’s good?” He looked into her soft gray eyes. There was a vague sadness there.
“Homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
“Lay it on me.”
“OK.” She scribbled on her pad. “Anything on it?”
“The works.”
“You got it.” Sara darted around, filling coffee cups and taking orders. Her shiny, gold-streaked hair curled into her jawline, the sides pulled up and pinned in a way that accented her sharp cheekbones. She wore white gym shoes that seemed designed for racing around the restaurant. She kept reading glasses tucked into her uniform blouse and a pencil behind her ear. Sara struck him as a no-nonsense woman. But not a hardened one.
He watched her lean over the window to pick up an order, her uniform skirt hugging her tight little ass. Hank’s cock sprang to life, pressing insistently against his jeans. That little curve below her ass turned him on. So did the backs of her shapely legs, and the honey color of her skin. Hank imagined walking over there right now and taking her from behind. Just like that.
If only things could be that simple.
He would run his hands up the outsides of those caramel legs and up her sweet hips, pushing her skirt up until it was bunched around her narrow waist. He would hold her against him, kiss her neck, and explore her with his hands. When he knew she wanted him, he would bend her over and give her a good, hard fucking. She looked like she was made for it.
Hank didn’t mind admitting he was an ass man. Always had been. It was just who he was. Done right, fucking from behind could be just as tender and loving as any other position. He knew how to do it right – the places to touch, and when, and how. From behind was ten times more exciting than any other way.
He wondered if she liked it like that. Many women didn’t. Many of them felt it was animalistic, and required them to give up too much control. But some loved it. Dear God, let her be one of those! He wanted her so bad, his mouth had gone dry.
She was perfect. Sara had the finest ass he’d seen for… How long had it been? Hank hadn’t been hot like this for anyone since Becky. The thought of his late wife made his stomach clench.
He couldn’t think about her. Losing her to cancer still hurt too much. Hank rubbed his neck and sipped his coffee, keeping his nose over the cup to inhale the steam. During the three years since Becky’s death, he hadn’t been attracted enough to a woman to do anything about it. This one, though, this Sara, was already turning his crank.
She set his pie in front of him. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks.” He caught her scent. What was it? Something familiar and subtle. Maybe bath powder. Or lotion. Her face was flushed pink again. Was she noticing him, too? Just think how pink her face would be if she knew what he’d just been imagining doing to her. He liked her shyness. It made him even hotter. Sara probably had no idea how sexy and pretty she was.
He had to have her.
He shook himself and shifted so that his cock wasn’t pressing so hard against his jeans. He attacked his pie, his eyes on his plate. He was probably too old for her. Here he was in his fifties and she was probably only in her thirties, for crying out loud.
He hated his receding hairline. Some women were turned off by that. The pretty waitress hadn’t seen his balding head yet. Hank had gotten in the habit of leaving his hat on in cafes. It was accepted here in Wyoming. Especially cowboy hats, of course. They were sacred. He reached under the brim and scratched his forehead, which had broken out in a sweat.
He washed a piece of pie down with coffee. Why the hell was he worrying over things he could do nothing about? You’d think he’d be used to his balding by now. The thing was, he enjoyed good sex. He knew he was good. If this Sara would give him a chance, he bet they could make wild music.
That was how it’d been with Becky. They had fit perfectly, with the exact same touches of kink. She’d been working as a cashier in Denver. She caught his eye with her striking brunette good looks, the alluring swing in her step, the sparkle in her brown eyes, and the enticing curve of her ass.
Hank studied Sara’s ass as she walked by, the way her uniform skirt bobbed against that curve…
When he met Becky, he’d just begun driving truck. That was some twenty-five years ago. Hauling feed on a regional route out of Denver, he’d seen her as often as he wanted. He was the only man for her, she’d said. They’d gobbled each other up, got hitched, and she wound up pregnant right away.
Rhonda was a teenager now, barely staying in high school. Hank’s stomach clenched when he thought of his daughter. The pie he’d just wolfed down sank like a brick in his stomach.
Dang it, Becky, why did you get sick? Why did you leave us? He tossed his napkin on the table angrily. She’d ruined him. What was there left, after a marriage like theirs?
Here he was, aging and balding and horny for this waitress. He couldn’t bring himself to ask her out. Not yet. He wanted to be surer. Casual relationships were no good. Not anymore.
It was time to admit it: deep down in his bones, he was lonely as hell. Pretty much an occupational hazard for lone truckers. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his job. He loved trucking. Hank still hauled livestock feed, now out of Fort Collins. He made a good living at it. But he fantasized about having a female trucking partner. Lots of truckers were husband-and-wife teams. Hank envied them. He really did. He and Becky had planned to do that. But then she got sick.
They’d run out of time.
He wondered what woman would be willing to do his kind of trucking. Hank delivered feed to farmers in southern Wyoming and northern Colorado. He navigated mud holes, walked through cow pastures, and negotiated hog pens to stack feed in barns. He wore cowboy boots because they were comfortable and looked good. Hank always carried two pair of barn boots with him – steel toes and fishing waders – and changed boots when he had to unload.
Lately his back hurt. Another occupational hazard. Thank God the rigs were comfortable now, with good seats. Those first years, his Peterbilt cab had had a hard driver’s seat that sent every bump jolting through his spine.
Hank liked the crazy trucking culture, even though it was changing. You never used to see truckers wearing shorts and sandals, for instance. Truckers used to be looked up to. These days too many of them looked like bums or wanna-be rap stars. Hank wouldn’t be caught dead wearing shorts or sweat pants when driving truck. Or saggy pants that looked like they were about to fall off.
He liked looking good. In the West, cowboy truckers like Hank enjoyed impressing the ladies at truck stops. So many women were suckers for cowboys, truckers, and biker types. If the guy could dance, better yet.
That was how he’d attracted Becky. Hank was a good dancer. Women found him irresistible when he led them across a shiny dance floor, two-stepping and doing the cowboy swing. They fell for his strong sense of rhythm and his long, lean body.
He glanced up as Sara leaned slightly forward again, picking up an order. Her skirt dangled over the curve beneath her ass, now and then touching it. He wished he was that skirt, touching it. Hell with it. He could take her dancing, to his favorite place in Cheyenne. She would love it.
“How was the pie?” Sara put his check on the table.
“Best I’ve had.” He licked his lips.
“Good.”
“The crust was as good as my mom’s.”
“Annie, you hear that?” Sara called to the other waitress. “He says your crust is as good as his mom’s!”
The one named Annie threw him a grateful smile.
Hank sat there a while, tanking up on coffee. The next time Sara picked up an order, she turned and caught him studying her ass.
Again.
***
“Sara’s off today,” Annie said, her pencil poised to scribble down his order.
“Oh.” Hank kept his face impassive.
“I see how you look at her.”
“How’s that?”
“Like a hungry coyote, that’s how.”
He smiled and shrugged. “She’s an attractive woman.”
“See, here’s the thing. Hank, is it?” Annie leaned on the counter, her icy blue eyes drilling into his.
“Yep.”
“Sara is off limits.”
“Off limits.”
“Yeah.”
“Why is that?”
“That’s for her to say. But I’m here to tell you, she’s like a daughter to me.”
He nodded.
“Sara’s been through too much, see. She’s kinda … fragile.”
“Got it. I’ll have a BLT on whole wheat and iced tea, lemon no sugar.” He glanced at Annie’s scrawny back as she walked away. He’d be damned if he’d let her tell him what to do. He had to admit, though, it was great that she cared enough to protect her friend.
But Annie had only piqued Hank’s interest. Now Sara was mysterious, with a secret. Come hell or high water, he would by God find out what the deal was.