Country Liquor (Sugar County Boys Book 4)

  Country Liquor

  Sugar County Boys: Book 4

  Madison Faye

  Contents

  Country Liquor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2018 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv

  Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Models: Kaz Vanderwaard, Adrea M.

  Country Liquor

  He’s a country devil with a heavenly tongue.

  They call him the Liquor King.

  Wild, untamed, dangerous, and undeniably dominant.

  This is wrong. This is filthy.

  ...But this just might be love at first lick.

  Winona:

  First he made me scream, then he made me gasp for more.

  I made a deal with the devil. I’ll be his fake wife for a cut of the huge inheritance he’s about to land. It’s all supposed to be pretend. But that’s before I get lost in those gorgeous, fierce eyes. That’s before I fall for that filthy mouth, those tempting lips, and that body carved out of marble.

  …That’s before I wake up hungover, half-naked, and totally actually married to the hottest, most toe-curlingly alpha moonshine-making outlaw in Sugar County.

  I’m so screwed.

  Silas:

  Being a Marine sniper left me a little wild. But seeing her? Well, that makes me crazy.

  The moment I lay eyes on her, I know one thing: she’s mine. That firecracker mouth, those curves that beg for my filthy hands to hold on tight, and that ass a man could sink his teeth into. She has me obsessed and driven to claim by any means necessary - even if I have to throw her over my shoulder caveman-style.

  Sweet as pie and hot as summer rain. She’ll be my captive. My prize. My perfect country bride. I’m gonna show her how we do liquor out here in the country.

  …And I could sip her sugar all day long.

  Chapter 1

  Winona

  The fire crackles, twigs snapping and catching as the kindling takes light. I smirk to myself, laying some bigger sticks across the growing flame and sitting back on the log I dragged over to my little fire pit.

  The smug look on my face grows. Yeah, this city girl can do the shit out of some camping.

  It’s been years since I got out into the wilderness, longer still since I was even in Kentucky. Camping used to be something I did to get away from it all sometimes. But then, it was usually with my dad before. And ever since his passing a few years ago, it’s just felt like I’ve never had the time anymore.

  Time. The smugness drops from my face as I’m suddenly reminded of the reasons why I’ve now got all this free time for a three-day-long camping trip into the hills of Kentucky. Reasons like getting fired from my job with the ad agency back in Atlanta. Reasons like finally being single.

  I wrinkle my nose, glaring into the fire. A getaway is great, but I know this trip is more of an escape than anything else. My dad would’ve called this running from my problems, and he’d be mostly right. No job, a failed, shitty relationship, and a dwindling bank account. And here I am basically off the grid in a place called Sugar County with a tent, a backpack, bad cell reception, and a trashy romance book most people I know would roll their eyes at me reading but that I can’t wait to dig into.

  I poke the fire with a stick before I toss a larger log on top to get it going. Dinner is lasagna with mushrooms and lemony asparagus, and I’m going to need some hot coals to get things cooking after I go for a swim in the stream. No, I’m not the world’s most accomplished woodland chef — this dinner and the rest of my meals are all pre-made, air-sealed “camp cuisine” dishes from the same place I bought my new tent and the plastic water bottle with the wide screw-on cap.

  I stand, stretching before I kick my hiking boots off, bending over to peel off my socks. Today was a light hike day, mostly just poking around up in the hills looking for old coal-mining camps in the area. I pause for a second and roll my eyes, thinking of the old guy working the counter at the gas station back in town where I filled up my car and the backup “just in case” generator.

  “Where you off to up in those hills, miss?”

  “Oh,” I smile. “Just a little light camping. Looking for old coal mines.”

  His face darkens. “You’re staying up there? Overnight?”

  I smile again. “I’ve been camping all my life sir, it really won’t be—”

  “Not up there you haven’t.”

  His lips tighten as he shakes his head.

  “Not up there in the hills with the Sugar Devil.”

  Back at the gas station, I brushed off the old man and his stories about some maniac living up in the wilderness. The Sugar Devil. “Liquor King” was his other name, apparently. But c’mon, I’ve heard ghost stories before. Okay, I’ll admit that I jumped that first night at the sound of rustling off in the trees, and at the sound of snapping twigs. But please. A devil? More like a white-tailed deer — maybe a coyote hoping for some dinner scraps.

  But beyond that? Yeah, right. I even heard the twigs snapping again last night, when I’d come out of a pre-bed swim in the stream. I’d scowled, pissed that the weird old guy at the gas station had even tried to spook me with his bullshit. C’mon, I needed this. I needed to be outside and away from it all and thinking about nothing but which trail to find the next day and if the batteries in my book-light would last long enough for me to finish the next chapter of my trashy romance book before bed. What I did not need was creepy bullshit folktales about the “Devil of the hills.”

  Please, the only devil was Lyle, my ex. The devil who’d cheated on me with another girl from my office, knocked her up, and then tried to tell me he was “ready to settle down with me” a month after he’d left.

  Uh, yeah, no. Check please.

  I scowled as I unbuttoned my jean shorts, shoving them down and kicking them away before I peeled my t-shirt off.

  Hell, if there was a “devil” up here? Well, it had to be better than the douchebag I’d dated for two yea—

  The sound of a twig snapping has me whirling, my heart jumping into my throat a little as I scan the early evening tree line behind my camp.

  Goddamnit.

  Stories. That’s all there is to it. Hell, the gas station guy probably saw my out-of-state driver’s license and decided to fuck with me. And I hate that it’s working.

  I swallow, my eyes darting over the trees, seeing nothing. I sigh. This is ridiculous. I don’t need to sit here jumping at sounds and clutching my pearls at shadows. I just need to escape from life for a while. I need to eat some pre-packaged lasagna, maybe crack the bottle of cheap whiskey I brought along, and read my damn book.

  But before that, I need to take a swim.

  I reach back and unclip my bra, tossing it down onto my pile of clothes before I hook my thumbs into my panties and peel those down too. I shiver a little, a heated, teasing feeling tingling over my skin at the feeling of being completely nude in nature. It’s a primal feeling, even a little sensual, and I bite my lip as I turn and skip towards the water.

  …I’m thinking there’s something else I might need to do tonight too. Something that involves sinking into my sle
eping bag and sliding my fingers between my legs. It’s been a bit of a dry spell since Lyle, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been having some very nice dreams since I got up here to the hills. Last night’s in particular was…wow.

  …Let’s just say I woke up and very much needed a change of panties.

  I gasp as I step into the freezing water of the stream. It’s warm out, even in the evenings, but this stream is definitely fed from up on a mountain somewhere. But damn does it feel good after a long sweaty day of hiking around.

  I sigh deeply as I sink into the chilly stream, my skin tingling and my nipples puckering to little pink points. I can feel the water rushing between my thighs, and I close my eyes, opening my legs a little wider and letting the current tease over me.

  …Yeah, maybe dinner will have to wait its damn turn.

  I bite my lip, letting my hands slide over my hips, feeling my body relax in the water. My fingers tease over my skin, my pulse skipping as I start to lose myself a little.

  More than a little, actually. I start to lose myself so much that when I hear the snapping of twigs again, I don’t even give it a second thought. I start to lose myself so much that I don’t think I even hear the second or third snaps, moving closer.

  I start to lose myself so much, my fingers teasing lower and lower down my tummy and deeper between my legs, that I don’t hear the splash of something entering the stream behind me.

  It’s not until the sound is right behind me, and not until I realize that splashing sound isn’t the stream, it’s footsteps, that I whirl suddenly. And my heart leaps into my throat.

  It’s the piercing blue eyes that get me first. Sharp, clear as ice, and gorgeous. Then it’s the perfectly formed lips, and the flash of white teeth. It’s chiseled jaw, and the bare, muscled chest carved out of marble, and the tattoos covering his skin.

  …And all right in front of me.

  I shriek, my hands flying to try and cover myself, but his hands are faster. I scream as the shirtless man grabs me, snatching me up out of the water like I weigh nothing at all. His muscles ripple as he tosses me over his shoulder, my bare body pressed tight to his skin in a way that sends forbidden heat searing through me.

  I scream again as his big hands tighten on me, clamping me down against his shoulder as he drapes me over it. I squirm and hit, my fists slamming against his chiseled, tattooed back, but it doesn’t even seem to faze him. He whirls, storming out of the stream holding me fucking caveman style, his bare shoulder against my tummy.

  My nipples rubbing over his back muscles.

  His hands firmly holding me by the back of one thigh and my ass.

  “Let go of me!” I shriek again, the adrenaline thundering through me as he steps from the stream and starts to storm right for the trees. “Get your fucking hands off of me and let go of—”

  “Can’t do that,” he growls, his voice deep, rough, and honeyed, like whiskey and earth.

  “I said, get your fucking—”

  “Uh-uh,” he purrs deeply, the sound rumbling through my body. “You’re mine now.”

  His hands tighten on me as we step into the woods, heading up the hill away from my camp. Heat sizzles from his warm, muscled body, and I can smell the masculine aroma of earth and woods and sweat washing over me.

  “You’re mine now, Winona.”

  Chapter 2

  Silas

  My cock throbs, bulging at my jeans. I groan, my hands tightening on her skin, digging into her soft, supple flesh as she writhes against me.

  Oh, she’ll make a perfect little wife.

  Her fists rain down on me, but fuck, it only makes me harder. She curses at me, struggling, swearing like a sailor as her fists bash into my muscles fruitlessly. And goddamn, I’m so hard. Precum leaks from my swollen cock head, staining the front of my jeans, and my balls ache for release.

  There’s something wrong with me.

  I know, and I’ve made peace with it. Maybe I’ve seen too much. I guess I could blame in on the Marines, or the sandpit hell of Afghanistan. I could blame it on spending weeks on end in sniper’s nests waiting to take a shot at a high value target, just me and a gun.

  But shit, I was a little tweaked before I ever enlisted. Coming back from war just gives you a great excuse to be fucking weirdo if you already were one anyways.

  They call me a beast, or so I hear. The hermit who haunts these hills. They call me a devil. Well, specifically, I guess they call me the Sugar Devil, which sounds like a fucking kids cartoon name, but fuck it. I don’t actually care. If I cared, I wouldn’t be the type to live up in the woods — up in the hills of Sugar County alone.

  Very alone.

  Alone for too long, maybe.

  I’ve got my hobbies - shooting targets from my porch, fishing in the creek. And of course, my true craft — moonshine.

  See, that’s another name some folks call me around these parts, and that name I can get behind. Those folks call me the Liquor King.

  I’ve been up here for years doing it, taking over from my grandfather. He started his ‘shine business during Prohibition. My dad did it a bit, but when he and my mama ran off young, it was gramps that raised me. And he raised me right. Taught me to shoot. Taught me to be a man. Taught me to distill moonshine that’ll put hair on the hair of your balls.

  The shit I make will clean a car engine. It’s more flammable than fuckin’ napalm. And folks around here in Sugar County? Well, they fucking love it. If I was selling crack, or meth or, shit, iPhones or something, I’d be rich. But shine is cheap. That’s sort of the whole point of it. I’ve been trying to build up, and maybe expand a little. But as they say, if you wanna make money, you’ve gotta spend money. And well, shit, I’ve just never had much to spend.

  I’ve never needed much of anything, and money doesn’t mean much to me anyways. But then, I’ve never had it before. That’s about to change though. Because right now, I’ve got a chance to have it.

  And a lot of it.

  It’s all thanks to my great Uncle Mortimer. Mort was my gramps’s brother. I never knew him much, but apparently, he’s recently passed.

  Rest in peace.

  But here’s the thing: Mort doesn’t have any family. And I mean none. Mort’s three kids are deceased and never had children of their own. My dad is gone, and I was the only kid he and my mama ever had. There’re my cousins — Colton, Shepherd, and Taylor, but then, they’re only my cousins through marriage, and not connected to Morton.

  So, no family. But there’s one thing Mort had, apparently.

  Money. A fuck-ton of it. Lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills type “fuck you” money. And I mean that literally — there’s a picture on google that I found after the call from his lawyer with Uncle Mort doing just that — lighting a cigar with crisp clean Benjamin.

  Now, again, I’ve never met Mort, and to be honest, a guy like that sounds like a total piece of shit. But, oh, right, that brings me to the other thing Mort had.

  A will.

  Let’s recap: lots of money, no family, dead, and a will. And two weeks ago, I got a phone call that changed my life.

  Twenty. Million. Dollars. Twenty goddamn million fucking dollars, and as it turns out, it’s earmarked for me. Now, that’s “rich as fuck” pretty much anywhere. But in Sugar County, that’d about make you a king.

  But it came with a hitch. A major fucking hitch. It seems later in life, old Mort grew a bit sad about never having had a family. That’s apparently one of the reasons he left his money to me. We might’ve been strangers, but I was the closest thing to family the guy had, which is why it’s earmarked for me.

  But there’s one big fat “except” in there. And that “except” is that Mort wanted whoever got is money to do what he never did. And in this case, that’d be “having a family.”

  …And trust me, the crazy veteran making moonshine up in the hills going months at a time without human contact is sure as shit not on track to have or even want a family.

  Bu
t, those are the rules. No family; no money. No exceptions. There are some provisions, though. It’s not like I’ve gotta go out and adopt some poor kid to get Mort’s cash.

  “A spouse will do,” as Mort’s weasely little scumbag of a lawyer sneered when he came over to read me the will and tell me about Mort’s wishes.

  “A spouse?”

  “A wife, Mr. King.”

  I glare at the little prick of a lawyer. “I’m aware of what a spouse is, but do you fucking see a wife around here?”

  He’d just laughed and advised me to “do something about that.” And I had a week to do it. No wife equals no twenty million fucking dollars.

  That was six days ago, which brings me to her. Winona Trace. City girl. Gorgeous. Tempting. All alone in the woods. And now, mine.

  I’ve been watching her for days, out here all alone. And watching has turned to an obsession. She’s perfect — beautiful, with long dark hair and sharp green eyes.

  And single.

  When she was sleeping that first night that I spotted her on my land, I snuck into her tent and looked through her purse. I googled her, learned all about her. I let my eyes drink her in, feeling my pulse start to race like a fucking diesel engine.

  I watched her sleep.

  I wrapped a pair of her panties around my achingly hard cock and stroked, watching her breath tease over her plump lips — watching her nipples straining against her tiny sleep tank top. Watching her hand trace over the edge of her panties, like she was having a nice dream.

  I watched all that and jerked my big, thick cock until I shot my cum across her lacy black panties.

  And then I did it again.

  I did it the second night too — last night. That time though, I came on the ones she was wearing. Fuck, my blood had been like fire in my veins as I’d crouched above her, watching her dream. Watching her nipples push at her t-shirt, those soft lacy panties stretched tight over the soft mound of her cunt.