Table of Contents
title page
copyright
epigraph
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
epilogue
Rough and Shaken, Short Story
preview of Rough and Rich
also by Hayley Faiman
about the author
acknowledgments
Rough and Ready
Copyright © 2017 by Hayley Faiman
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: RC Martin, The Green Pen
Cover: Cassy Roop, Pink Ink Designs
Formatting: Champagne Formats
table of contents
title page
copyright
epigraph
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
epilogue
Rough and Shaken, Short Story
preview of Rough and Rich
also by Hayley Faiman
about the author
acknowledgments
Miracles come in moments. Be ready and willing.
—Wayne Dyer
I hear his boots hit the foyer, and I know he’s home. My heart starts beating rapidly in my chest, my belly begins to flutter, and my lips part into a huge smile. I jump up off of our bed, a bed we shared for only a week before he was shipped off to foreign lands to fight for my freedom. I don’t bother looking in the mirror to check my appearance. I know that only one person has a key to this house—and it’s him.
I am so very proud to be married to him. He’s good, and clean, and perfect. We’re young, of course; I’m only eighteen and he’s twenty, but what we have is beautiful. I knew, the moment my eyes met his stormy blue ones, that there would be no other man for me, ever.
I bound down the stairs and almost falter on the last two steps when I see him standing there in the foyer.
My eyes sweep his body, looking for any type of injuries. We’ve endured a long eight months apart since he’s been gone. He’s thinner, so much thinner, his face perfectly chiseled—almost gaunt. He’s standing there in his uniform, looking commanding—beautiful, even. Tall and thin, but handsome and all mine. It seems like he’s been gone from Texas and from my sight, for years.
When my eyes met his, I gasp.
They aren’t the warm, boyish blue ones that I had fallen in love with; they are cold and harsh. Dead.
I blink.
I run to him anyway, shaking off the shock at seeing the obvious coldness to his eyes, and jump into his arms. I feel his face in my neck, hear his nose inhale my scent, and I sigh at the beautifulness of the whole thing.
His arms wrap around my body as my legs lift up and around his waist, my own arms around his neck. I pepper his face with kisses. I didn’t expect him home yet. He wasn’t due back until tomorrow. I even have an outfit all picked out. Tonight, I was prepping. I’m only wearing one of his workout shirts that says AIR FORCE across the front and a pair of panties.
“Baby, you’re home,” I breathe, smiling wide.
He stares at me blankly.
“I am,” he agrees, his voice ragged.
Instantly, I decide he is just emotional and trying to hide it. Probably jet lagged, too.
“I didn’t expect you,” I state. His eyes immediately sharpen and turn ice cold.
“Who in the fuck were you expecting?” he barks harshly as he drops me. Luckily, my knees don’t buckle, and I don’t fall on my ass.
“Nobody. I was going to pick you up tomorrow morning. How did you get home?” I ask quietly.
“Got a ride,” he shrugs, leaving me alone in the foyer as he walks toward the kitchen.
I stand there for a moment, completely shocked by his attitude, by his quick anger, and then I follow behind him. He’s never been angry with me before. I’ve seen him get pissed with other people, with his friends, but never, ever with me.
“Fuck, I’m starved,” he announces as he opens the fridge and starts rifling through it.
It’s as if he hasn’t been gone for eight long months; like he’s just had a long day at work, and now he is home for the evening. I don’t know what to say or what to do. He’s acting so strangely.
Granted, I don’t know him that well. We only dated for a few months before we were married, and then he was gone. But I don’t think this is normal. I didn’t expect this at all.
“You didn’t get me any fuckin’ beer?” he barks, making me jump again.
I just stand in the kitchen, unable to speak, move, or even breathe.
“I-I-I,” I don’t get anything else out because I start to cry.
I turn to run back to the bedroom, tears streaming down my face. I can’t buy him beer. He knows that. He can’t even buy beer. I didn’t know he expected me to have it. I didn’t know what he expected of me. I feel so stupid and scared, and so very foolish.
Every single phone call and e-mail he sent had been sweet, kind even—never once had he talked to me this way. I don’t know what to do, and I have a sinking feeling that becoming his wife was a grave mistake.
I feel an iron band clamp around my bicep, and it stops my body from fleeing. Then I am hauled backward into a hard chest. I feel his nose at my ear before he whispers, his breath warm on my skin, his voice soft but ragged, and it sends shivers up and down my spine.
“Christ, Cleo, I’m sorry. I’m bein’ an ass, and I ain’t even been home ten minutes. Fuck the beer. Let’s go upstairs. Eight months without your sweet pussy was long enough.”
I press my thighs and my lips together as I nod. Eight months has been a long time, especially for a girl who was a virgin on her wedding night; a girl who only had sex with her husband for one week before he was deployed.
“You still my shy girl?” he asks.
One of his hands slips down the front of my belly and under the hem of his shirt before diving into my panties. I whimper at the feel of his large, warm hand on my mound. His finger slides through the folds of my most intimate place. I wrap my hand around his tanned, muscular forearm, trying to brace myself.
“Yeah, that’s right. Fuck, still my shy, sweet, innocent wife, aren’t you?” his voice is soft, but there’s an edge I don’t quite understand.
Two seconds later, it doesn’t matter, because one of his fingers slides deep inside of me. I gasp and arch my back.
It feels good.
He feels good.
I missed this.
Every piece of it.
Paxton quickly pushes my panties down my thighs and pulls my shirt off, spinning me around to face him. His eyes look up and down my body, but it’s as if he’s looking straight through me. I feel like I could be anybody. Who I am doesn’t matter because he isn’t seeing me.
His lips crash down on mine, and his warm, wet tongue slips deep inside me. I taste him, and he tastes like sunshine. He is warm and masculine, and I melt into his body. I hear one of his hands rustling his clothing, and then the sound of his pants dropping onto the tile flooring fills the air.
My body is whirled around again, and his hand is on my back, pushing my chest and cheek against the cold kitchen countertop. Before I can say a word, I feel his boot kick at my ankle, spreading my feet farther apart. One of his big hands is at my waist as he forcefully pushes himself inside of me.
It burns.
I’m not ready.
My body isn’t ready.
I haven’t been touched in eight months, except when the need was too much and I touched myself, which I wasn’t even very good at. It usually just left me even more frustrated.
“Pax, that hurts,” I cry out in pain.
He isn’t listening to me. He is pulling out and thrusting deep, over and over again. I can’t help the tears that spring from my eyes as he fists his hand in my hair and pushes into my body. Then he stills, groans, and I feel him fill me with his release.
We haven’t talked about birth control at all. He used condoms before he left. I had no reason to be on anything while he was gone, and I’m still not. He could have just gotten me pregnant, and I would have this memory, forever, as the way I conceived a child.
“That was good, babe. Thanks.”
He slaps my ass and pulls out of me.
I don’t move. I can’t.
I see my shirt hit the counter next to my head. Finally, I stand up, against the protest of the screaming pained area between my legs, and I pull the shirt over my head. I look at the face of my handsome husband, and my whole body shudders. He is blank. Blank face, blank eyes—freaking blank.
What happened to him over there?
What did this to him?
Eight months ago, he treated me like glass, like something so precious he couldn’t believe that he had me all to himself. Now, I don’t know what he’s treating me like, but I don’t like it—not at all. I also don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand the sudden change, and it scares me.
“I’m gonna go out drinking with the guys. I’ll get some food while I’m out. Don’t wait up,” he says, his face impassive.
“Paxton,” I whisper, feeling his release slide down my thigh as my tears slide down my cheeks. I’m lost in a sea of confusion and pain, both emotional and physical, as I search his cold eyes.
“Don’t nag me, all right? You got fucked. What else do you want?”
I shake my head. I didn’t want what he just gave me—not today, and not ever.
“I never asked for that, Pax. You hurt me,” I whisper.
Something flickers through his eyes before they become a blank mask again.
“Wasn’t good for you? You don’t like it? Maybe you should fucking leave then,” he growls as he walks away, grabbing his bag before he leaves, slamming the front door behind him.
I don’t know what just happened. I feel totally clueless, shocked, hurt, and upset.
I make my way to the bathroom and clean up, noticing the blood mixed with semen and crying a little bit more. I shower and slide into bed, forgetting the pedicure I had been giving myself; forgetting everything happy and good that I had planned for Paxton tomorrow.
I need a friend, but I can’t call anyone. There are people in the support group I could reach out to, but they are all spouses of Paxton’s coworkers. I can’t tell them what he just did to me. Besides, I’m embarrassed.
I have nobody. Nobody but him.
I cry myself to sleep after taking a handful of ibuprofen, and hope, for the first time since I met him, that he won’t come home.
Several hours later, I’m awakened by a noise.
I look at my clock. It’s four in the morning. There’s a loud crash, and I bite my bottom lip before I hear his curse. My husband is home, apparently. I don’t know where he’s been all night, but after his ill treatment of me earlier, I don’t really care.
I sit up and make my way downstairs to see him trying to walk up the staircase. He keeps stumbling backward. For every step he takes up, he stumbles down two more.
He is trashed.
I choke back the stupid tears that begin to form. I walk right up to him and tip my head back, wrap my arm around his waist, and proceed to help my drunk, asshole husband up the stairs. I should leave him down here to his own devices, but I’m afraid he’ll fall and really hurt himself.
“Cleo, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he groans as I push his heavy ass through the bedroom door. I snort at his words.
“How did I get so goddamned lucky? Huh, baby?” I roll my eyes.
He sure didn’t seem like he felt lucky to have me earlier. I strip him down to his boxer briefs and push him into bed. Then I pull the comforter over him and slide in next to him, getting on my side—giving him my back.
“Cleo, baby,” he whispers.
I feel his fingers trailing up and down my arm. It’s sweet, and I don’t like how just the simple act warms my heart. I want to hate him.
“You’re drunk. Go to sleep, Paxton,” I sigh. He groans and wraps his big hand around my waist, pulling my back toward his front.
“I missed you, baby,” he whispers as he nuzzles the back of my neck.
It is then that I allow myself to cry again. This is the Paxton that I know. He was always soft spoken toward me, sweet, loving, and caring. That man that showed up and hurt me? I don’t know him, and I don’t like him, not one bit.
He doesn’t push for more. In fact, his breathing evens out and I know when he is asleep before his arm on my waist becomes so heavy it pushes me a bit further into the mattress.
The next morning, male snoring wakes me up too freaking early. I have a hot arm wrapped around my waist still, and a warm body practically on top of me. I nudge Paxton a few times before he groans and flops onto his back.
“Fuck, what time is it?” he asks as I grab my cell phone and look at the time.
“Ten,” I grumble.
It isn’t as early as I had anticipated, but yesterday had been long and horrible, so I slept later than I normally would. We lie in silence, no longer touching and not even looking at each other. The ceiling is now suddenly fascinating to me.
&n
bsp; “Cleo,” he whispers. I feel his hand slide up the inside of my leg, and my entire body freezes.
When his fingers brush over my sensitive center, I whimper and flinch with pain. His hand stops, and I feel his eyes on me, so I turn to look at him. His silver blue eyes are no longer cold but hold a bit of the warmth I remember.
“I hurt you that badly?” he whispers in horror.
I nod, unable to speak.
“Fuck, I-I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
It is the most beautiful thing he has said to me since walking through that front door—which in itself is pathetic as hell.
“Why?” It is all I can choke out, but luckily he understands me. I know this because he gets this far away look on his face.
“One of the guy’s wives left him while we were there. Had an affair. One guy’s fiancée left him because she couldn’t handle the distance. Four other guys’ long term girlfriends left them for the same reasons. We don’t really know each other, and fuck, I would die if you left me for some other guy,” he admits.
“So you wanted to push me away?” I guess.
We stay silent for a few more moments, and I reflect on what he’s just told me.
“I should leave you,” I mutter.
It’s true. I should leave him. The way he treated me last night, and then the way he came home drunk—I should be gone in the wind.
Yet, there is something holding me back from that; maybe it’s the fact that we aren’t just dating, we are married; maybe it’s because I’m an idiot; maybe it’s because I have nobody else in the world but him.
“I understand,” he whispers, sounding pained.
“But I don’t think I can,” I admit.
Paxton lets out a heavy breath before I feel him roll on top of me. His blue eyes meet mine and hide nothing. He looks so scared, nervous, regretful, sad, and relieved all at the same time.
“I’ll make it up to you, baby. Fuck, I’m a fuckin’ bastard,” he mutters.
I snort. No shit, he’s a bastard. That’s an understatement. Paxton’s lips lightly brush over mine, soft and gentle, before they slide down to my neck and collarbone.
“I want to apologize to my girl,” he murmurs against my skin.
I’ll let him apologize any way he wants to, when his lips are softly caressing me this way.
Rough & Ready (Notorious Devils Book 5) Page 1