My cock aches to fill her again and again. And she eagerly offers me everything she has.
"Don't stop," she whimpers.
"I’ll never stop," I promise, touching her again, easing her open, my cock centering right where it belongs.
Our fingers lace, her eyes on me. "I love you," she says again.
"I'm so glad you made it Home," I tell her.
* * *
Order Now
ROUGH DEAL: Coming Home to the Mountain Book 2
Everyone has a secret.
Mine is ruining my life… making me bitter, callous, cold.
I’m Rye Rough – the oldest of seven kids with a family tree that built this town. I understand more than most that reputations matter.
Which is why I keep my mouth shut – and that secret? I’m not telling a soul.
Working as my dad’s right-hand man, I’m angrier than ever – and hell, it’s messing with the family construction company.
My father forces a deal: Go to the rural family cabin and don’t come back until I get my head on straight or I lose my place in the business.
As if spending more time alone is going to solve anything.
One day into my retreat, I find Prairie, a beautifully fragile woman who is lost, alone, and in need of my tender loving care. Her life has been one of confinement and abuse.
She needs me like I’ve never been needed before.
My family doesn’t understand my love for her.
My secret keeps me up at night.
Something must give before it all breaks.
One thing is sure – rough hands have been dealt for both Prairie and me … and for our love to survive, we can’t fold.
Chapter 1
Rye
It hasn’t always beenlike this.
I used to come home for Sunday dinner and enjoy myself. Sit at the table, watch my family, shoot the shit, and think how good I had it. Think how lucky I was to be the oldest of seven siblings, living up here on Rough Mountain, my family the ones who built this town of Home, Washington.
As my father's go-to man with the world in the palm of my hand, I had the respect of anyone I wanted. Hell, I built a home of my own by the time I was twenty-two years old.
Far as anyone could tell, I had it made.
Then one year ago, everything fucking changed.
“Would you like another serving?”Mom asks, bringing me back to the present. Those bad memories are pushed aside as she hands me a platter of her chicken. She’s sitting next to me at the table, trying to fatten me up, thinking maybe if I get some more meat on my bones, I might become happier. Smile more often. I know she's worried. Everyone here is worried.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, adding another chicken thigh to my already heaping plate of food. My mom has a few love languages. One of them is feeding her kids until they're more than full. I would never resist my mother's home-cooked meals.