Chapter 2
Reid
My wife is hot.
She’s sweet. She’s very sweet.
She’s hot.
She’s odd. But in a good way.
And, holy shit is she hot.
And she’s innocent. And inexperienced.
My reality-show wife is a sexy, sweet, irresistible virgin.
When they told me that she’d never had sex—WTF, she’s twenty-two!—I’ll admit, my dick got hard. I mean, when was the last time I fucked a virgin?
Never?
Yeah.
I have the chance now. I could punch her V-card this week. If it were any other girl I would. But…well, dammit. If she waited this long to do the deed, shouldn’t her first time be with the lucky bastard she marries for real?
That right there--that thought process--really fucking shocks me. I mean, I have never felt this way about a woman before. I didn’t realize I possessed a protective bone in my body before today. But I do. Holy shit, I do.
It has to be because of her. Because she has no idea what she’s signed up for.
Yes, that has to be it.
I don’t want them to suck her dry. She’s too good for them and their shit.
Speaking of shit, get this. We have to stay “married” for three months. No, it’s not a legal marriage. But after our honeymoon, we still have to live together. In my LA condo. And we have to appear together in public. Regularly. As a couple. It’s in the contract.
Read: no fucking any other women. Which sucks. For me.
But if she wants out at the end of our “marriage” before the ninety days is up, I’ll move into the spare bedroom, take her on an occasional date, and keep my dick in my pants until we’re in the clear.
And because I’m guessing that’s exactly what she’ll want, I can’t touch her. At the end of our honeymoon, she’ll be as innocent as our wedding night, so help me God.
Speaking of Him, He is going to have to help me with this. Because I am, after all, human. And she is a fucking angel. With a body built for sin.
My hands are just burning, burning, to touch that sweet little body of hers.
And we’re talking about ninety days. And ninety nights.
Crap, I don’t think I’ve gone that long without sex since I hit puberty.
I’m going to want to.
Bad.
But no, I can’t. I won’t.
Will. Not.
If I can help it.
I’m weak.
And I know the show’s director, John Merrick. That bastard is going to put us in one situation after another during our honeymoon, to try to get us to fuck for the cameras.
Isn’t happening. Is. Not.
No, I tell my dick.
My dick doesn’t listen.
I grit my teeth.
You see now? You see why this is all shit?
This is going to be the longest fucking (technically, non-fucking) three months of my life. Why the hell didn’t they pick one of the other girls? One that I would be able to fuck without feeling like a total tool? Like the wanna-be actress from LA, with the fake tits and lip injections. You know she’s just doing this show to launch her career. Or the New York princess who’s already been married twice and only wants the press exposure.
Assholes.
They’re making me earn this fucking paycheck.
I’m firing my agent for putting me in this situation.
Yes, the bastard was right. A movie star who has never kept his dick in his pants, marrying an ex-Amish virgin girl will get headlines. But at what cost?
Sometimes I hate this fucking business.
Speaking of virgins…Kate enters our hotel room smelling like fucking springtime and soap. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the shower. Her long, thick hair has saturated the front and back of her white shirt.
White.
You know what happens with a white shirt gets wet, right?
Yeah. Every dude knows.
It gets see through.
Her nipples are hard.
There goes my dick again.
I’m fully dressed, but I’m sure Kate could tell I’m sporting wood…if I wasn’t holding a pair of my pants in front of me. I was folding them when she came out of the bathroom. Good thing.
“Our flight departs in a couple of hours. We’ll be leaving for the airport soon,” I tell her, hoping she’ll get busy packing so she won’t see my pants tent. I grab my suitcase, sitting on the bed, and drag it closer. Then I position myself so that the lower half of my body is blocked from her view.
Now, to try to think about something unsexy…
Like…football stats.
And what I need to get done before we leave.
And…
Fuck those pants fit her sweet little ass per-fect-ly.
My boner is never going down.
Gritting my teeth so hard I’m sure they’ll shatter, I focus on getting my clothes into my suitcase. If I had it my way, I’d pack half this shit. But since wardrobe insists on me taking every garment from my rack, I pack it all in as tight as I can.
It barely fits.
When I finish, I hazard a look at my wife.
Her shirt is dry. Thank God.
She’s almost finished loading her two suitcases. She’s been given twice the wardrobe I have, including several glittery full length evening gowns. I can’t wait to see her in those.
As if she feels me watching her, she glances up and smiles, and I swear the whole fucking room lights up.
I have to give it to the casting director, he knows what he’s doing. Kate is something special. She’s beautiful. And sweet. Thoroughly likeable. With her Amish background, it was fucking brilliant to cast her.
Good for the ratings.
Not good for me.
Unless…
Unless…
What if…?
I wanted to stay married?
Then we could have sex.
Hmmm. The idea has merit.
But…
Does Kate deserve the grief she’d get for being married to me? Being chased by paparazzi?
No.
Does she deserve to have her every move plastered all over the fucking tabloids?
No.
Does she deserve to watch me (practically) fuck other women on the big screen?
No.
But I could make it worthwhile.
Couldn’t I?
I have three months to find out. Ninety days. And ninety nights.
Should I try?
Fuck, I don’t know.
My life is a circus. It’s so different from what she is used to. At least, I think it is.
Truth told, I don’t even know how she lives. All I know about Amish people is that they ride around in buggies, wear funny clothes, and talk weird.
She plunks down on the bed and plays with a thread that’s unraveled from the bottom hem of her top. She looks anxious.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“I don‘t like flying.”
“Neither do I,” I admit.
Her expression brightens. “You don’t?”
“I hate it. But if we’re traveling somewhere far, I’d rather fly than drive. Believe it or not, flying is safer than driving.”
“That, I believe.”
A knock sounds on our door.
It’s time to go.
I offer her my hand. “Come on. We’ll get through the flight together. It’s going to be a long one.”
She places her hand in mine and it feels like lightning rips through my body. The sensation practically knocks me off my feet. I have never felt anything like that with a woman before. Never.
She’s special.
My wife, Kate.
Yes, she’s very special.
One in a million.
Maybe even one in a billion.
When I let her go after all this is done, some lucky…bastard…
Wait.
Why would I let her go?
So she can get hounded some other asshole? Who might treat her like shit?
Fuck that.
But she wouldn’t have to live in my crazy circus.
Why would I let her go? So all that is good and special about her will cause her downfall?
Fuck that.
But she wouldn’t have to deal with having her entire life chronicled in the tabloids…
Why would I let her go?
Maybe my life is a circus. But I’m not an asshole. I won’t treat her like shit. And I won’t let all that is good about her lead to disaster.
Yeah.
Fuck letting her go.
I can protect her.
Respect her.
I need to make sure she stays my wife. Forever.
Whatever it takes.