I told myself I'd never let another man near what I've built alone, but the Wyoming range has other plans. Roderick Wycliffe comes to my shack whenever the rain shuts the range down, and the birthmark on my throat flushes hot under his stare.
He milks me like it is work he was born to, and the first pull tells me this is only the start. He wants to breed me here, to claim every drop until I'm empty and his. There is nothing in this arrangement I did not agree to. I have never once told him to stop.
My defiance never lasts past his first order. Saving the ranch may mean handing him my body for good.
