by Elaria Ride
Pleasingly Plump
Babes of Biggal Mountain: Book 2
Elaria Ride
Pleasingly Plump
On Biggal Mountain, BBWs are not only preferred — they're celebrated.
At least, that's the way those handsome, ripped lumberjacks the Boscos see things. If you're not a woman of size, you're not enough to contain their passion.
Marina is a sassy single mom. Love is the last thing on her mind when she relocates from New York to start a job at a local winery.
But that doesn't last long.
The ruggedly handsome owner, Finn, has other plans... plans that involve submitting to the whims of a certain smart and independent BBW.
"Marina." He swallows as his eyes travel up and down my body. "You're perfect."
Welcome to Biggal Mountain...and welcome to BBW paradise!
(A red-hot, body-positive, happily-ever-after romance that celebrates size! Can be read as a standalone or part of the series. )
Pleasingly Plump
Book 2
Babes of Biggal Mountain:
A Body-Positive Romance Series
Elaria Ride
Copyright © 2018 by Elara Ride. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contents
1. Marina
2. Finn
3. Marina
4. Finn
5. Marina
6. Finn
7. Marina
8. Finn
9. Marina
10. Finn
11. Marina
Epilogue
Thank You
Stay Connected!
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Also by Elaria Ride
1
Marina
It's my first day on the job.
And I'm pretty sure I'm about to get fired.
I’ve never formally met my boss — the owner of the winery — but he’d specifically requested my presence about 10 minutes ago… after I’d somehow managed to drop an entire case of wine.
Several hundred dollars of product were gone in the blink of an eye, splashed and shattered all over the brand new hardwood floors faster than I could even say hello.
As such, I pace anxiously outside his office, horrified and appalled at what the future might hold. I really can’t blame him for firing me, of course; destroying an entire case of wine certainly justifies termination.
I bite my lip and wring my hands as worst-case scenarios flip through my mind’s eye over and over again.
If I’ve ever been this terrified before, I certainly don’t remember it… but that’s probably because the stakes have never been higher: I absolutely can’t afford to lose this job.
If I do, I'll lose my apartment. If I lose my apartment, I won’t be providing for my son. If I’m not providing for my son, I won’t be a good mother. And more than anything else, I’d sooner die than be a bad mother.
Even that means groveling back to my ex-husband, Mike.
I shudder.
Living with him again is the last thing I need right now. But I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’d do it for my son, if that’s what it took.
If only I hadn’t been so clumsy, if only I’d been paying closer attention, this whole thing could have been avoided. I could have continued to live my happy, independent, adult existence — the one I’ve only had for tantalizingly short amount of time.
I can’t imagine what it would mean for all of that to come to a crashing halt…
But then I pause, stopping myself mid pity-party.
No.
I’ve been through this countless times. It's not fair to blame myself for every single thing that happens. And seriously, come on! Was it really my fault the most gorgeous, towering, ruggedly handsome man I’ve ever seen had come through the front door just as I'd been trying to move an entire case of wine?
That's just unfair to do to a girl.
Especially a girl who hasn't had sex in over a year.
But, as I’ve also accepted, the fact that I haven’t had sex in over a year isn’t exactly my fault, either.
You see, this whole tragic story begins with a fuck boy — as stories about fat girls often do.
Before I’d met this particular fuck boy (the one who my now ex-husband), I would have described myself — Marina Yesselin Jesus de Santiago — using four words: I don’t suffer fools.
But Mike Drummer had come waltzing into my life while I was bartending back home in Brooklyn, and he’d caught me at a particularly low point: My mother had passed away that year, and my closest friend had just moved. And the night before, I’d been on (yet another) depressing date with someone I’d met online. Upon seeing me, the jerk had made a face before bluntly stating that “my profile picture made me look hotter.”
Great.
So when Mike had sauntered into the bar all noble and gallant and flanked by his Navy buddies, I’d been particularly weak. I’d let him slip through the cracks with his flowers and chocolates and good morning texts — all of which my finely attuned Bullshit Detector would have caught, under normal circumstances. I’d been raised by a Puerto Rican single mother, after all; she’d ensured I had that skill from the get-go.
And yet, I’d fallen for his act: hook, line, and sinker.
A month later, Mike had gotten us an apartment Uptown. Moving in with him had required me to ignore the ghostly echo of my mother’s voice in my head, the one that cautioned me (on repeat) about things going too quickly.
But I hadn’t listened — not even when Mike had revealed that he was really into BDSM.
He’d spent the next month binding me, gagging me, making me call him Daddy. I was hardly a virgin, and these were all things I’d known about in theory, but playing the part of the sub wasn’t something I’d anticipated.
I’d also ignored the fact that I hadn’t particularly liked being dominated, and that I’d much prefer to do the dominating.
Before I’d had the chance to voice any of that, though, I’d gotten the shock of my life with a positive pregnancy test. We’d just been relying on condoms for birth control, and at the time, I’d able to explain it away as poor luck.
Of course, in retrospect? I have doubts that Mike hadn’t intentionally sabotaged our birth control attempts to better keep me under his thumb.
Back then, the notion that he’d be that abusive hadn’t occurred to me; I hadn’t even known him long enough to see the dark, controlling side of Mike’s personality. Instead, I’d just been ashamed, weak, petrified to tell him, terrified that I’d somehow be ruining his life.
To my surprise, though, he’d been happy when I’d told him, even overjoyed. Upon hearing that he’d knocked me up — when we’d only been dating two months — he’d transformed into the very picture of a doting, expectant father. In fact, that was a phrase he’d enjoyed repeating while he spoke to my belly: I knocked you up.
At the time, I’d thought this was cute. When I think about it today, it makes my skin crawl.
During the earliest stages of my pregnancy, things with Mike had been fairly smooth — or at least I’d thought they had. I guess my metric for healthy relationships has always been a little skewed; my own father was never in the picture, and my mom hadn’t stayed with any of her bo
yfriends for very long.
Still, though, my mother had done an excellent job raising me on her own. I’d never felt like I’d missed out, but that hadn’t stopped me from wanting a stable home life of my own. Maybe even with a baby in tow.
So perhaps I’d used all of these reasons to convince myself that this was what I needed — a fresh start with someone new, a chance to provide a home life I’d always desired. Mike and I had quickly settled into a routine, almost like an old married couple, and after years of the dating scene, I’d enjoyed the new level of stability.
But of course, that had changed in due time: Assholes aren’t capable of hiding who they truly are for long.
This particular asshole revelation had occurred one evening during my second trimester when I’d returned home after a bar shift; I’d been happy to keep bartending to save up for the baby, and Mike and I had agreed that I’d continue until the baby (a boy!) arrived.
When I’d entered the apartment, though, Mike had been far from the happy expectant father I’d seen that morning. He’d been sitting on the couch, his face dark and impassive, his arms crossed over his chest. My itemized cell phone bill had been in front of him on the coffee table — the bill I paid myself, the one that had been addressed to me.
Before I could take issue with the fact that he’d gone through my mail, Mike had turned to me, his voice deep and booming, and shouted, “Who the FUCK is Fernando and why the FUCK are you calling him?”
I’d blinked, confused, as a muscle ticked in Mike’s jaw. For the first time, I had been legitimately afraid — who was this person, and where had my loving Mike disappeared to?
I’d stumbled over myself explaining that Fernando was my cousin — and I’d rushed to provide photographic evidence. It wasn’t until the umpteenth family quinceañera photo that something in Mike’s expression had shifted. He’d fallen to his knees and offered a tearful apology to the curve of my stomach.
I’d ruffled his hair and whispered it’s okay.
Although why I’d tolerated any of that — for one goddamn second — is something that’s beyond me.
That may have been my introduction to Dark Mike, but it certainly wasn’t my last sighting.
The following week, he’d curtly informed me that we’d be getting married — and that I’d be quitting my job.
I’d tried to protest, but he’d shamed me into believing that being on my feet and working in a bar would be bad for the baby. And didn’t I want to be a good mother?
Like a moron, I’d agreed to his conditions, and a month later we’d gotten married in the courthouse. We had two witnesses: His Navy buddy Jake, and my co-worker Skye — the only friend of mine he’d approved of.
If I’d had my wits about me, the fact that he was limiting my contact with the outside world would have been another red flag. He’d also started making negative comments about my weight around that time, but I’d heard that type of thing all my life; I’ve never been what you might call petite. Being body-shamed was almost the expectation, even in marriage.
By then, though, I was nearing my third trimester, and I was completely dependent on his salary and health benefits; I’d had limited options. Of course, if I’d known that he was screwing his way around Manhattan (and that he was degrading me and hiding me away from the outside world lest I figure that out), I would have gotten out while I still could.
Unfortunately, I didn’t discover his cute little cheating tendency until our first military move, which just so happened to be 3,000 miles from home in sunny Seattle.
Mike had gotten a promotion (and his own secretary!), but I’d still detested our new West Coast home at first. Seattle was all fog and gloom and rain, more different from New York than I could even begin to articulate.
But within a month of our move, I gave birth to Marco…and that had changed everything, as babies often do.
From the very first time I’d seen his squished, pink face, I’d been filled with an undeniable, primal conviction that I was meant to be this little boy’s mother. I’d known, in that instant, that I’d provide for him and care for him and love him with an intensity I’d never experienced before.
Despite my misgivings, Mike had been a great father from day one of Marco’s life. Truth be told, he still is; it’s actually one of the few positive things I can say about him, apart from the fact that he gave me my son.
I’d left the hospital after Marco’s birth determined to make a greater effort, to make the most of our new lives, to do the best for my son that I possibly could — and I’d shown this renewed dedication in more ways than one. In the following months, I attended military wife gatherings and packed Mike’s lunches and made sure the house was always clean. I adjusted to my new normal, even if it hadn’t been what I’d foreseen happening in my life.
Mike had started pressuring me to have another baby before I’d even been medically cleared for sex, but that had been one of the few things I’d flatly refused. Something about his insistence had raised the hairs on the back of my neck, though, so I’d gone on the Pill at my postpartum checkup; that fact that I hadn’t exactly trusted him with condoms should have been (yet another) red flag.
And naturally, it’s a good thing that I’d actually followed my instincts and insisted on taking birth control into my own hands… because I’d caught Mike screwing his co-worker immediately after Marco’s second birthday.
On that fateful day, I’d been playing the part of dutiful wife, completely unaware that Mike couldn’t have been any further from being a dutiful husband. When he’d forgotten his lunch at home, I hadn’t hesitated to drop it off at his office.
However, instead of being greeted with a smile for my efforts — or even with the tiniest thank you — I’d been presented with the sight of another woman performing fellatio on my husband.
Right in his desk chair.
Shock had squeezed the air from my lungs, but to my surprise, I hadn’t actually been mad that I’d caught them in flagrante delicto. I’d been stunned — but even as I’d stared at Mike and Christina (who, of course, was his secretary), all the pieces had clicked into place: This was why he’d always been so overprotective. This was why he’d insisted on limiting my time…with anyone. This was why he’d gone out of his way to control me.
He’d always been projecting, hoping I’d be so distracted I wouldn’t consider investigating.
In response to witnessing that, I’d just stared at the two of them for a few seconds before throwing his bagged lunch through the door and slamming it shut. I’d mostly closed it out of a desire to shield Marco from seeing that; after all, I’d just as soon have the entire office aware that Mike and Christina were screwing on government time.
I’d been remarkably calm, even placid, during my drive home.
Marco didn’t seem to have noticed anything — which was my main concern, to be honest. I should have realized then that I was feeling the first inklings of freedom stirring inside me — real freedom, the type that only comes after one of those stark, life-changing awakenings…
Mike hadn’t bothered coming home that night, which was in his best interest. From what I gather, he’d stayed with Christina for the next few days; apparently they’d been known for taking “lunch breaks,” so I’m sure he was no stranger to her apartment.
But then something else happened — something that changed the whole progression of how I handled the cheating in the first place: I woke up happy.
I’d just lain in bed and stared at my ceiling as the early morning sun rays chased their way across the room… and for the first time in a long time, I’d actually been content.
I’d walked around that entire day with a smile so big it would have been visible from space. It's incredible to think about, but in the span of just a few hours, another part of me had woken up. I felt reborn, like I'd risen from the ashes of that terrible, terrible relationship.
And the real Marina — the Marina I know and love — hadn't hesitated to kick Mike's ass t
o the curb.
I assume that the cheating jackass in question had finally returned home after a few days. He might have even had the intention of begging me to take him back.
Of course, this is pure conjecture, because Marco and I had already moved out.
It hadn’t taken long for me to find an apartment and readjust my life. I'd landed a job at Biggal Mountain Winery (the original location, the one in Seattle proper) the following week after a slightly bizarre interview in which I’d met Sylvie, the winery owner. As she’d predicted, my bartending experience had come in handy, even if wine and liquor have a much different clientele.
I’d served Mike with divorce papers a few days afterwards, and he hadn't fought me on the proceedings, which I can't complain about. For someone who had been so controlling in a relationship, he’d remained relatively unbothered during the mediation. He hadn’t tried to fight me on child support amounts or custody arrangements — not even once.
As such, our arrangement is simple: I get Marco during the week, and Mike gets occasional weekly dinner dates and alternating weekends. I can admit that he's a decent father, even if he was a controlling jackass of a husband.
In fact, that only real issue during the whole divorce was the idea that Marco and I might move back to New York. Mike had flatly condemned this and said he'd respond aggressively with attorneys, judges, legal orders — the whole rigamarole. The thought of dealing with that headache had been enough for me to agree to stay here.
Besides, I don't have that much left in New York, although I'd never admit that to Mike. Most of my friends had already moved (even before I’d left), and my family's become more spread out over the years. Seattle was an adjustment, but now? I can honestly say that I enjoy it here, especially since Marco and I have moved to the suburbs.
