“How are you going to spin it?”

I fill him on the story I want fed to every major media outlet in the country—fuck, the world—and the accompanying threats.

Before we hang up, Cannon adds, “Since you’re in Vegas, you should probably know that they’re taking odds on how long this is going to last.”

“They take odds on everything.”

“Just saying. If you have any inside information, I’ll happily go place my bet and rake in some easy money.”

“Are you asking me to bet on when my marriage is going to end?”

“Come on, man. We all know this isn’t going to last. So, what do you think? I give it six months at the outside before you’re sick of her pussy and will be dying for some variety.”

I grit my teeth because I don’t have time for this shit right now. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“Seriously, Crey—”

“Fuck off, Cannon. Go fix shit.”

I hang up, my morning mood turning dark as I open the bathroom door.

“How bad is it?”

Holly is sleep-rumpled and still wearing the undershirt I dressed her in last night after she passed out on me. Her legs and feet are bare, and her dark brown hair is tumbling down around her shoulders. She looks all of sixteen years old. Which apparently makes me a dirty old man, because I want that fresh-faced beauty staring up at me from her knees with my cock between her lips again.

“It’s not good, but it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it,” I reply before asking, “How old are you?”

“You didn’t google me?” Her eyebrows inch up toward her hairline.

“I prefer the truth, and not some shit made up on Wikipedia.”

She looks down at her feet, and I almost miss her answer. “I’m twenty-two.”

I’m too fucking shocked to school my expression. My eyes feel like they must be bulging from my head. I rub a hand down my face.

“Are you fucking serious?” I never considered she might be that young.

Her shoulders go back, and she straightens to her full height, a whopping five foot six or so. “If my age was important, maybe you should have asked me last night.”

Holly has a point. Last night, I was so caught up in the hype of my own making that it didn’t occur to me to ask. When she’s wearing makeup and more than just my T-shirt, she easily looks several years older.

She narrows her eyes. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

Her mouth forms an O. My morning wood rears up in my boxer briefs, and her attention drops to waist level.

A hesitant smile flits across her face. “Do you . . . um . . . want me to . . . ?”

She really might be the perfect woman.

“Get in the shower, Holly.” I turn on the water in the palatial glass enclosure, but she doesn’t make a move to strip.

The twelve showerheads begin to fill the room with steam. I hold open the glass door and wait. She still doesn’t move.

“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

She shakes her head. “I just thought I’d shower alone.”

Ah. There it is. Holly’s innate shyness that she can’t hide. As much as I get a charge out of guiding her due to her inexperience, the sexiest submissive women I know are also some of the most confident I’ve ever met. I caught glimpses of Holly’s confidence when she spoke about her career last night and the mess the record label pushed her into, and I’m determined to see if I can pull that from her when it comes to sex. An interesting and entertaining challenge.

My words are calculated to do just that.

“And I thought I’d fuck my wife in the shower.”

Her eyes dart up to meet mine, spitting fire. “Is this how it’s going to be? You say when, and I just spread my legs? Because I missed that subsection in your massive contract.”

Ah, there we are. She has attitude, but she’s untrained and needs guidance on how to channel it. And that’s where I come in.

I cross the room and stop in front of her. “The only massive thing you need to worry about at this moment is my cock, sweetheart,” I say. “And when and where I tell you to take it.”

Her fist connects with my jaw, and my head snaps sideways.

Fuck. I guess I went a little too far. My new wife has way more attitude than I realized.

Rubbing two fingers across the surprisingly tender spot just below and to the left of my mouth, I study her. She’s shaking her hand out and wincing.

“Damn, that hurts more than I remember,” she whispers.

I’m intrigued by her reaction and her words. “I’m not sure whether I should be more surprised that you punched me, or that this apparently isn’t the first time you’ve hit someone.”

Holly peeks up at me from beneath long, dark lashes, as if the boldness of a moment ago has faded as fast as it flared up. She flexes her hand, and I don’t like the pain telegraphed by her movements.

“Hold on.”

I turn and leave the bathroom. My preferred villa at Caesar’s is five thousand square feet, so it takes me a moment to load up ice from the freezer into a hand towel and bring it back to the bathroom.

Holly’s seated at the vanity with her back to the mirror when I return, still flexing her hand. I crouch in front of her, and her eyes dart up to mine in surprise. I reach out to take her wrist, but she snatches her hand away.

“What are you—”

I wrap my hand around her forearm, pull her hand toward me so it rests on my knee, and press the ice to her knuckles.

“I would think it’s obvious.”

Confusion creases her features. “I would’ve thought you’d pull out the contract and point me to the section where it states there’s an automatic annulment in this scenario.”

My lips twitch at her statement. “I can’t say that either I or my lawyers envisioned this one.” My almost-smile fades away. “But don’t do it again.”

“Then don’t say stuff like that to me.” She jerks her hand, but my hold on her forearm is unrelenting.

“I think you’ll find that I’ll say plenty of stuff like that, and I’ll only get more demanding and blunt.” I swear I can hear her teeth grind. “What’d you really expect, Holly?”

“I have no idea. I must be absolutely insane to think I could do this.” She laughs, and it echoes in the large master bath.