Wifed By The Mountain Man: A Modern Mail-Order Bride Romance Read online

  “You think you can handle this?” he asks, taking my hand and guiding it to his shaft. As I stroke him, he presses a finger back into my pussy.

  “I’ve only been with one guy before,” I admit. “And he was not like you.”

  “We really talking about exes already?”

  “Sorry.” I shrug, laughing. “But Reed, you’ve gotta know I’ve never seen a cock like yours. Yours is....” I sigh, at a loss for words. I don’t really want to admit to this man that the only place I’ve seen cocks this big is porn sites, when I was desperate for release and Derrick couldn’t manage to get me off.

  “Mine is as big as a porn star’s.”

  “It’s like you read my mind.”

  Now it’s his turn to shrug. “Your pussy is so nice and tight. Fuck, Amelia, you sure you’ve been with a man before?”

  “I’m not a virgin.” I lick my palm, then I run my hand up and down his length. He gets even harder as I wrap my fingers around his tight, warm balls, and all I want is to fill my mouth with all of him. But my pussy has other needs.

  “You’re not a virgin, but somehow have the tightest pussy I’ve ever touched?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “My ex was a shitty lover. He literally never got me to orgasm in four years.”

  “Oh, honey,” Reed says, his head resting on the back of the seat. “You. Are. Due.”

  He lifts my ass cheeks, and guides me over his rock hard cock. My hands rest on his chest as I slowly lower myself on him.

  He likes me sinking down on him, and we both groan as we absorb the delicious shock of our bodies coming together.

  He smiles wider, looking straight at me, “Welcome home, honey. Welcome home.”

  Chapter Five

  Reed

  She swivels her hips over my cock, sitting in my lap, her perfect tits bouncing as she comes. Her pussy really is the tightest pussy I’ve ever taken, and she may have a mouth on her, be high maintenance as hell, say she never orgasmed with a man … but damn, she knows how to fuck.

  “Oh, Reed,” she moans, throwing back her head as her juice pours onto her thighs. I run my hands over her ass, around her curvy hips, thrusting into her. She turns up the volume, gripping my shoulders tight as she lets her release wash over her.

  After she’s stilled, catching her breath, I give it to her—coming in her, letting my warm seed fill her folds. She loves it, and her mouth crashes into mine as I finish. Her teeth catch my bottom lip and I lean into her, pulling her to my chest, wrapping my arms around her.

  “It’s weird not using a condom,” she says in my shoulder. “I’d never have done that with Derrick.”

  “Didn’t trust him?” I ask, grateful that Monique required blood tests of both partners, and birth control for the women. We both needed clean bills of health to use her agency, and then when we’re married we can do what we like.

  But God knows I don’t want another kid; one unplanned baby is more than enough.

  “I didn’t. And I was with him for four years.”

  I give a low whistle. “When did you end things with this guy?” I have to ask; she’s brought him up enough, and fuck, we’ve just met.

  She pulls away from me, and my eyes lower to her tits. They’re just so damn perky and cute. My cock is still inside of her and I don’t know why we’re talking about another man, but nothing about this meet and greet has been conventional.

  Nothing about bringing her to my house, and having her meet my baby, is conventional either.

  She bites her lip, shrugs. “About two weeks ago.”

  “Shit, woman.”

  She looks wounded, her eyes lowered, her mouth turned down in a frown.

  “Talk about being on the fucking rebound,” I say. I don’t care about her past relationships, but I need to be sure this woman is in it for the long haul. I can’t have some woman coming in and out Hope’s life. That’s one of the main reasons I wanted a mail-order bride in the first place: Hope needs stability.

  But I’m glad I went with my gut and planned our court date for two weeks from now. I need to be sure that this woman can be Hope’s mother.

  She moves off of me and reaches for her bra, as if suddenly vulnerable and needing to cover up the pieces of herself she’s revealed.

  After clasping her bra, she grabs a tissue from her bag and wipes herself. Her jaw is tight, and the mood is entirely killed. I pull up my pants and get out of the truck, adjusting my junk, then go around the driver’s seat.

  When I get into the car, she’s reassembled herself. She smooths down her hair, looking out the window, not meeting my gaze.

  I start the ignition and head down the highway, not knowing what more to say.

  She just needs to get to my place and see for herself whether or not this life is one she can hack.

  When I pull up to my place, I hear a sharp intake of breath from Amelia. When I look at her, it’s clear she likes what she sees. I promised Monique that my bride would have a millionaire’s lifestyle, and I deliver.

  The accommodations won’t be the problem—I have a custom, two-story hand-crafted log cabin in the middle of a thick forest, perched on the edge of a private lake. It’s state of the art everything, and if you can handle not having a shopping mall or restaurants, don’t mind the lack of neighbors, and can do without having friends to hang out whenever you want, it’s paradise.

  It’s what’s inside that might prove problematic.

  “Your house is beautiful,” she says, as I park in the driveway in front of the house. “I knew Monique’s clients were affluent, but damn, Reed. This place is amazing.”

  I nod. “I sold my company a year ago, built this place, and have everything I could ever need.”

  “Except your wife.” She flashes me a smile. Apparently now that she’s seen my house, she forgives my rebound comment from earlier.

  “Right.” I jump out of the truck, not liking the way she keeps mentioning that word, wife. Yeah, I know we’re getting married, but I really don’t see this partnership as a husband-and-wife relationship. I want a mom for Hope—and maybe an occasional fuck-buddy—but I don’t need a wife telling me what to do or how to be, or asking anything of me.

  I’m my own man, living on my own terms, and I’m smart enough to see that a real wife would fuck that up.

  She follows me, in those ridiculous heels, and I smile to myself, knowing Lottie is going to look this girl up and down and predict she’ll be gone by the end of the week.

  I grab Amelia’s suitcases from the back and walk to the front steps. From inside, I can hear Hope wailing like a banshee, and I take a deep breath, debating whether I should say something before I open the door.

  “What is that? Is it ... crying?” Amelia asks, her face showing concern. Okay, I can work with that; maybe she’ll be the sympathetic type.

  But before I can explain my daughter, Lottie opens the door, with a crying Hope in her arms.

  Hope’s in a diaper, she has teething biscuit slobber all across her face and belly, and her cheeks are streaked in tears.

  “Shit, Lottie, what happened?” I ask, dropping the suitcases and grabbing Hope.

  I step inside and the women follow me as Lottie begins to explain. “She was napping like you said she’d be, but when she woke up she just got so upset, and I thought she was hungry, but I didn’t know how to use your microwave so I couldn’t heat up a bottle. And then I saw these crackers, but what a mess that turned into. And she hates the high chair, so then I carried her and....”

  “It’s fine, Lottie—but just so you know, the bottle doesn’t need to be warmed,” I tell her. “Sorry we’re late. Thanks for everything, honest. It was real good of you.”

  “And you must be the mail order bride?” Lottie asks Amelia, looking her up and down appraisingly. I try to see Amelia the way a seventy-year-old woman, born and raised in the woods, would see her. “I’ll be darned, just look at you.”

  “I’m Amelia.” She reaches to shake Lottie’s hand. “Good
to meet you.”

  “Well, lah-tee-dah, sugar.” Lottie takes the proffered hand, shaking her head. “You ever stepped out of a city? Even own a pair of boots?”

  Amelia frowns, looking down at herself.

  “We’ve got it from here, Lottie. Amelia’s had a long day.”

  Lottie doesn’t ease up, “Well, she’ll be up all night, with that baby in the house.”

  Amelia’s eyes widen, realizing what’s going on. Her eyes dart around the great room, taking in the Pack ’n Play, the swing, and Jumperoo. There’s a car seat in the corner of the foyer, and bottles drying next to the sink.

  Lottie, sensing that Amelia isn’t quite clued in, laughs, patting her back.

  “You’ll be fine—and if not, you can go back to where you came from.”

  “Lottie,” I warn, “play nice.”

  “I’m not the one playing house,” she says smartly. “But okay, okay, I’ll be nice.” She leans over and kisses Hope’s cheeks, which only makes Hope cry louder.

  “You okay driving home?” I ask her.

  “I’m perfectly fine driving home. And don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair for the week, and let your little family acclimate, Reed.” She pauses at the front door, as if contemplating another dig. Thankfully, instead she just waves good-bye to a dazed Amelia, a hysterical Hope, and me.

  And here I am, left in a house with two more females than I ever planned on living with.

  Chapter Six

  Amelia

  My jaw is on the floor. And with reason.

  He has a freaking baby?

  I mean, I understand that part of the appeal of the whole mail order bride thing is that some details can be left out of the proposition. I mean, we didn’t even know what our new spouses were going to look like, or where we were moving, or what our day-to-day life would entail.

  But, um … Monique omitting the fact that Reed has a freaking child seems a bit extreme.

  I mean, hello? I’m twenty-two and have my entire life ahead of me, and never once did I ever, ever, ever expect to move to Alaska and have a baby the summer I graduated college.

  I try to breathe, to stop blinking so manically. To hear what Reed is saying. I see his mouth open and close, but of course I can’t hear a single word because his child is screaming like a lunatic.

  He turns to the stainless steel double fridge and grabs a baby bottle, shaking it and inserting it in the baby’s mouth. That quiets the room really quickly.

  I walk over to him—across his great room filled with gorgeous skylights and dark hard wood floors—and try to register my complete shock. “What the actual fuck, Reed?”

  “Ever heard of earmuffs, woman?”

  I just look at him, confused, and he points to the baby’s ear.

  “You can’t swear in front of the kid.”

  “Seriously?” I look at him blankly. The filthy-mouthed man I just road-fucked is telling me I can’t cuss in front of an infant.

  I can’t even.

  Reed paces the room, holding the baby effortlessly—and damn. This rugged mountain man holding a baby is making my eggs drop one by one. I swear it’s like some sort of hormone injection, watching him give this baby a bottle. My uterus is literally expanding for our unborn children—and I don’t even want kids.

  Everything about this makes me dizzy. His ripped biceps, and penetrating eyes and … well, I already know what kind of cock he has. Basically, it’s all the things that make a woman baby-crazy. Or just crazy.

  “You want out?” he asks, not looking at me.

  “What? I—No. I just....” I’m sputtering. Because, honestly, I have a hell of a lot of questions that need answers before I can go anywhere. Also, I could use a drink. Something strong. “Do you have any alcohol?”

  He doesn’t think I’m serious. He sucks in all the air from the room as he sets the quickly drained bottle on the granite countertop. He looks pissed, but I’m starting to think that’s just Reed’s version of resting bitch face. He’s grumpy, or grumpier. The only time I saw him really smile was when I was sitting on his lap, naked.

  Maybe he needs more sex. But then again, he has a baby, so he had plenty of that at some point.

  Which reminds me: where is this child’s mother?

  He pats the baby’s back until she burps, then sets her in the swing. He turns the motor on, and it starts swaying back and forth. The swing is soft pink and covered in butterflies—and, yes, they referred to the baby as a she … but I still can’t believe it.

  Reed has a daughter.

  “Does Monique know you have a kid?”

  He sets his mouth in a line—a line that could go either way—and without a word he walks over to a well-stocked bar. I lean against the kitchen island, feeling beyond deceived.

  He grabs two glasses and pours a few inches of something amber in both of them. I watch him intently; his back is to me, and his broad shoulders tug at the seams of his flannel shirt. He’s clearly ripped. In the truck I only saw his cock; now I just want to see him completely naked. All of his skin, with his beard between my legs....

  He turns back to me, not offering me a smile, but handing me the glass. It snaps me back to reality.

  I mean, Hello, Amelia, get a freaking grip. I’m thinking about a round two with him instead of problem numero uno. The baby-sized problem.

  “She knew.”

  I snort. “Awesome. That’s so freaking awesome. I just love being lied to and manipulated into a marriage.” I take a sip of the beverage, scowl. Whiskey, neat—no, thanks. I’m a white wine or sangria sort of girl. I set the drink on the counter.

  Reed takes it and pours my booze into his glass. Classy.

  I roll my eyes as he tosses the whole thing back in one fell swoop.

  “Did you ask?” he says, smoothly, as if that battery acid had no effect on him whatsoever.

  “What? Well, no,” I huff. “I mean, that’s the sort of thing that she should have mentioned.”

  He shrugs. “This arrangement is a package deal.”

  “Where is her mother?” I ask.

  “Dead.”

  “Fuck. You’re a widower? How old is your daughter? Like, not even a year, right? And I’m the one you think is on the effing rebound?”

  He raises his eyes, frowns. Fuck. I don’t know dead wife protocol; I just know this all got really real, really fast.

  He juts up his chin, like he’s considering something—and I tell you, he may be a man of too few words, but every unenthusiastic expression he gives me makes me want him more. I want to make him happy and break down his walls. Like, desperately.

  I’m assuming it’s some twisted mail order bride dynamic I’m not familiar with. But obviously I can’t for real be with this guy. He has a baby and a dead wife.

  This is a whole level of adulting that I’m unprepared for.

  “Would you rather champagne?” he asks, eyeing my whiskey. “I have an old bottle somewhere in the fridge. I’ll grab it for you.”

  “Oh my God, Reed,” I say, covering my mouth in shock.

  “What?” He spins to check on the baby in the swing—a baby who is sleeping peacefully, mind you.

  “Not the baby, you idiot.”

  “What, then?”

  “You offered me champagne. That’s, like, the first nice thing you’ve ever done. This is groundbreaking. This is worthy of a toast.”

  He shakes his head, like I don’t know a damn thing.

  And maybe I don’t. I don’t really know Reed. What kind of man he is. What sort of father he is, or husband he was. All I know is that he passed Monique’s background check, and she said we’re a perfect match.

  “You’re wrong,” he says flatly. “It’s not the first nice thing I’ve ever done for you.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “What else?”

  “Honey, I gave you your first male-induced orgasm. If we’re making toasts, let’s drink to that.”

  Chapter Seven

  Reed

  I pour
her champagne and another whiskey neat for myself, then grab the baby monitor. We go out to the deck looking over the lake, because I know I need to set the story straight. Hope’s mother may be dead, but I’m no widower.

  Amelia and I sit on the steps leading to the dock where I keep my boat and floatplane. The water is clear, which is good after yesterday’s storm. Now it’s clear skies and bright sun, but damn, I feel cloudy. Conflicted. And I don’t like it. The last thing I want to do is talk about myself, but I know Amelia needs to know how I ended up with Hope, out here, all alone.

  “Listen,” I begin, but before I can get out another word Amelia is right back to being her over-talkative and dramatic self.

  “Reed, listen, I just have to say that I never would have had sex on the side of the road if I knew you were, like, a grieving widower. I mean, I get now why you’re such an ass—your heart is broken and you’re looking for a way to fix it—but sex isn’t the answer... Maybe a therapist?”

  I shake my head, “You’re wrong about so many things.”

  “Like what?” She says it so plainly, and not in frustration—like I’m a book to be opened, read, and critiqued. Like she actually wants to know anything I’m willing to give her. She just wants to be in the fucking loop.

  “First of all, I’m not a widower.” Her mouth falls into a perfect O— and damn, the only thing I can think is how I’d like to fill that hole.

  Instead, I focus on the story at hand, not the ways I’d like to take her later. “I dated her mom, Kara, briefly … almost two years ago now. She got pregnant, she told me she’d lost the baby, and she took off. Never heard from her again—she was batshit, to be honest, and I wasn’t sorry to see her go.”

  I look over to see how she’s taking this story, and smirk, liking the way she deals with her shock. She’s full-on guzzling the champagne. Not exactly a mother-of-the-year move—but, then again, she never thought she was coming here to be a mom.

  She motions for me to keep talking as she pours another glass.