His to Protect: A Second Chance Billionaire & Virgin Romance

by Vivien Vale

  The village women are steadily getting more and more worked up.

  If animals keep destroying their crops, there’ll be less food for the villagers. With less food, life will become increasingly difficult, and already tough conditions will become almost unbearable.

  Looking at the damage again, I don’t know what else they can do to protect their crops. I’m a soldier, not a fucking farmer. There aren’t many resources here for them to work with, either, so they have to work with what they’ve got.

  Without a word, I walk away and wish them luck in finding a workable solution.

  This is going to be one fucking long assignment, I decide, and keeping patrolling the perimeter.

  Later that night, I gather with the rest of the village for supper.

  A goat’s been killed and made into a stew.

  I walk up to the women serving the stew to everyone.

  One woman hands me a wooden bowl filled with the stew. She has a huge grin on her face.

  They all look at me expectantly.

  “Eat. Eat,” they encourage me.

  I hesitate.

  Why are they so persistent for me to eat the damn stew?

  I look at the stew. It doesn’t look like it’s poisoned. I bring the bowl up to my nose and take a whiff.

  It smells fine. Actually, it smells fucking delicious. Then why are they all smiling at me?

  Slowly, I take a small bite.

  It’s not half bad.

  Not the best I’ve had, but definitely better than I would’ve expected it to be.

  The women appear to be extremely pleased with the fact that I’m eating their stew.

  “It’s good. Thank you,” I tell them.

  “Eat. Eat,” the same woman repeats.

  I take a few more bites.

  My head turns to look around the others eating. I soon spot Adelaide. She’s smiling, and her eyes have a glint of humor in them.

  I’m not sure what she thinks is humorous right now.

  I give her a quizzical look.

  All around me, there’s chatter. It sounds more like chooks in a chook pen than women talking, but it’s the villagers who’re making this racket. I don’t understand a word ’cause they’re talking in Swahili.

  As I try and make sense of what’s going on, I hear someone burst out in loud laughter.

  I see Adelaide bent over from laughing. It’s one of those hearty belly laughs—the one that has you nearly wet yourself.

  Her laughter’s amazing. It’s genuine and would be contagious if I knew she wasn’t laughing at me.

  Time to figure out what the hell’s so funny.

  “What’re you laughing at, Adelaide?”

  I pointedly scowl at her.

  “You think it’s funny that they’re making fun of me?” I add.

  She gets herself under control to where only a tiny giggle escapes as she talks.

  “They’re not making fun of you, Ford,” she starts.

  “Then what the hell are you laughing so damn hard at?”

  “I’m laughing at what the women are saying in terms of what they want you to do for them,” she explains and is wiping away the tears with the back of her hands.

  What I can do for them? What the hell do they think I can do for them? And for what purpose?

  “Explain,” I grunt. My fuse is getting very short.

  She lets loose one more big laugh and then makes herself put on a straight face.

  “The women say they need a big, ferocious man to piss around the village garden so it scares the animals away from eating the vegetables. They say it’s best if the man has recently eaten meat. Then, first thing in the morning, he should piss around the garden for the best results.”

  I stare at her.

  She can’t be serious. She has to be fucking with me.

  My face must’ve had some kind of expression of shock or disbelief on it because she bursts out laughing again.

  “That’s not funny, Adelaide,” I tell her in a raised voice so she can hear me over her boisterous laughing.

  I glare at her.

  “I’m not joking, Ford,” she manages to spit out. “That’s exactly what they said, and that’s exactly what they want you to do. They believe it’ll help. It’s a different world here, Ford. Take one for the team. It’s a simple bathroom break you take in the morning, anyway. Just in a specific location.”

  Jesus, I never thought I’d hear a woman tell me to take one for the team in terms of taking a piss in the morning. Around a vegetable garden, no less, to ward off hungry animals.

  Her laughter gets to me.

  I let out a laugh. Then I’m full on laughing alongside her.

  The situation is, of course, utterly fucking ridiculous.

  I glance over at the village women. They’re staring at us in amazement.

  We must look like utter fools. In the moment, though, I don’t care.

  After a few minutes, we get ourselves under control.

  Adelaide’s looking at me.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “Well what?”

  “Are you going to help them out with the village garden?” She chuckles.

  She’s looking at me hopefully. I know she cares about these people and wants the best for them.

  Even though the solution to the problem seems a little crazy and doubtful in it being effective, I can’t deny helping the people of the village. I can’t deny making Adelaide happy, either.

  “I’ll help them. First thing in the morning, I promise to go to the village garden and take a piss there.” I chuckle.

  “Thank you, Ford.”

  I grunt in acknowledgment.

  Turning away from her, I head to the group of village women to tell them I will help.

  They all break out into clapping with huge smiles on their faces. One woman even pulls me in for a giant hug.

  I hug her back awkwardly.

  “Asante,” she mumbles.

  I give my usual grunt reply, assuming she said thank you.

  I see Adelaide looking at us. She has the same smile the village women have right now. And yet hers is somehow completely different.

  It’s the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring at her.

  This is part of why I agreed to the ridiculous plan concerning the village garden. Her smile.

  The happiness of the villagers is an added bonus.

  Looks like I have a date with the village garden tomorrow morning.

  Let’s hope the women don’t go so far as to come to check on me in while I’m doing my manly duty by taking a morning piss.

  I chuckle as I pick up the bowl with the rest of my stew.

  Time to eat up, Ford.

  11

  Adelaide

  Sweat’s standing on my brow.

  It’s a particularly hot day.

  The air inside the hospital is completely still.

  In the heat trapped under the tarp, everything’s near boiling point.

  In the presence of Ford, my feelings are in roiling turmoil. I’m still begrudging my brother, Sten, for having hired Ford, and I want to stand up to him—yet ultimately, that would result in Ford leaving again, and a part of me doesn’t want that.

  Right now, I find it very confusing to not know exactly what I want.

  The smell of sick mingles with the antiseptics—my “magic potions”—and the constant dust. The fine, powdered dirt gets in everywhere and carries a distinct, earthy smell.

  I’m bent over a patient, an elderly woman. Her daughter dabs my forehead with a damp rag, collecting the beads of sweat that have formed there. I flash her a brief sideways smile in appreciation.

  She kindly squeezes my arm before I return my attention to her mother. Many villagers express their thanks in small gestures like this, and I’m grateful. It makes me feel welcome and needed.

  Not all my cases are dramatic. This old woman has just been working too hard.

  She collapsed from sheer exhausti
on. The combination of toiling in the village garden under the hot sun, the scarce water supply, and old brittle bones have proven too much.

  I can’t forbid this woman from going back to work. But I can make her rest beforehand.

  Though she’s still feeling faint, she’ll come around eventually. She sips a cocktail of minerals and vitamins, which will speed up her body’s recovery.

  Ford has positioned himself at the hut’s entrance. From there, he can see the inside and outside at the same time. He checks who comes in and keeps an eye on what’s happening in the village.

  The villagers accept him as the hospital’s new doorman. He stops short of actually patting them down before he lets them pass, but he eyes them inquisitively and with suspicion, as if everyone might be carrying a concealed weapon.

  I roll my eyes and make apologetic gestures every time it happens, but the villagers just take it as part of the treatment.

  His post at the entrance doesn’t leave Ford any better off in terms of the heat.

  The air outside is absolutely still. Not a single breeze is stirring the dust. The sun’s bearing down relentlessly.

  I can’t understand how Ford keeps his beard in this heat. He must feel hot under all that facial hair.

  Despite being groomed like a yeti, he doesn’t seem to be bothered. Meanwhile, my upper lip’s damp, so I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my safari shirt.

  “Joto moto, kazi ngumu,” the old woman says sympathetically.

  “Hot heat, hard work,” her daughter explains.

  I can relate. I nod enthusiastically.

  With Ford close by, I constantly seem to be a few degrees hotter in the hospital hut, and my work’s actually harder.

  Before, I was never this aware of my body when I was working.

  Usually, I would enter a zone where each task and gesture come naturally to me, and I work fast and efficiently.

  Now I’m painfully aware whether my ass is angled toward Ford or not when I bend down to retrieve something.

  I have to make an effort to keep track of things as I know his eyes scrutinize what’s going on all the time. I’m even conscious of my voice and what I say to my patients.

  And I’m certainly aware all of a sudden of how much I perspire in this hothouse of a hospital. I don’t smell, but my armpits are always damp with Ford present at the hut’s entrance.

  I think back on how we were even closer just recently—when our hands touched accidentally. Despite the heat, goosebumps break out on my skin at the memory.

  The sensation sharpens my senses. My skin under the hospital apron is hot and cold at the same time with the thought—the hope—that Ford might touch me, if only accidentally.

  Imagining his hand on me—just a simple touch like the patients give me—excites me tremendously. A tingling wave’s welling up inside of me and makes me lose my concentration.

  I steal a glance at Ford, who luckily has his eyes trained on the outside at that moment. He only seems to sweat during physical activities and doesn’t mind standing for hours on end.

  I will my focus back on the task at hand and get ready to move on to the next patient.

  Suddenly, there’s a commotion outside, and everything happens at once.

  I can hear a child shouting.

  A boy runs up to the hospital.

  “Daktari, daktari!” he yells and tries to squeeze past Ford.

  The child’s lifted up in the air with the momentum of Ford slinging his arm around the boy’s waist to stop him.

  “Doctor, doctor!” the boy continues, yelling in Swahili, undeterred by Ford.

  I nod to my protector to put him down, and the child runs to me, tugging at my apron and pointing outside.

  Something must’ve happened. Ford and I exchange a look of concern, and I notice how he immediately stiffens and braces himself for whatever situation awaits us.

  Just then, a wind picks up and sends a dry dead bush flying across the front of the hosptial. The ever-present dust rises over the village, and sand pelts the outside of the hut with a sharp, cracking sound.

  The woman and her daughter motion for me to go with the boy. Ford and I run after him.

  I’m prepared for the worst—a man bleeding to death, a complicated fracture, the bite of a poisonous animal. Meanwhile, Ford seems ready to take on whatever army of intruders dares to invade his territory.

  He runs with one hand on the handle of his bush knife, and I know that somewhere on his huge body, he carries at least one gun hidden among his gear.

  Outside, the entire village seems to be up on their legs. Following the child, I vaguely notice in passing people busy with buckets, containers, bottles, pots, and pans. Clearly, something big’s going on.

  Everyone’s gathering at the edge of the village, and the boy’s pointing excitedly. I follow his finger and see huge clouds forming in the sky, towering above us. Within mere seconds, the sun disappears, and the day darkens.

  All the light is swallowed up. The temperature drops rapidly, and the wind picks up, tearing at my hair.

  A deep rumbling shakes us and resonates everywhere. Instinctively, I grab Ford’s arm.

  Then a slow pitter-patter begins as thick drops fall and hit the sand. The dust immediately absorbs them.

  The storm clouds thicken with another rumbling. Now they’re directly above us. The sky opens, and rain starts pouring down—so dense and fast I have to gasp for air.

  I let go of Ford and take a step forward. I open my arms and turn my face toward the clouds.

  The feeling of water washing over my face—sticky with sweat and dust—is heavenly. My entire body breathes a sigh of relief. I feel alive.

  With my arms still extended to my sides, I start turning in slow circles.

  Ford has planted his feet apart widely, his arms folded in front of his chest. Rain’s running through his beard as he watches the scene.

  All around us, the villagers are busy. Every single canteen and container is being put out to collect the precious resource.

  I should be helping, a distant voice in my head insists, but I’m caught up in the joy of the moment.

  Children are running around everywhere, splashing in the quickly forming puddles. Most of them have already stripped off their clothes, innocently welcoming the rain on their naked bodies, free of care and full of innocence.

  I shuck off my hospital apron. Even the safari shirt I wear underneath seems too much, even though I always keep it unbuttoned halfway in the heat.

  I hastily fumble with the remaining buttons and shrug out of the shirt.

  In just my tank top and khaki pants, I run around in circles, imitating the children.

  What a joy to be alive! I let the rain wash off all the traces of dust, dirt, and sweat—and with it, all the stress and anxiety of the past few days.

  I run my hands along my neck and my hair, which becomes completely soaked within seconds. I spin and spin in wide circles, sending drops of water flying in every direction.

  Out of breath and panting but feeling alive and full of energy, I come to a stop.

  I’m facing Ford, standing a few feet away. He has a puzzled, disapproving look as he stares at me.

  I let my arms fall to my side. The rain is such a relief, and the whole village has been waiting for this much-needed water for so long. I don’t care if he can’t enjoy the moment!

  I throw back my head, open my mouth, and let it fill with rainwater. I look back at Ford and spontaneously spit the water at him in a stream.

  With lightning reflexes, he ducks past it and takes a step toward me.

  “Oh, come on, Ford!” I shout at him. “Live a little. Enjoy the water. Enjoy the moment!”

  His look remains stern as he makes clumsy gestures with his huge hands to indicate something on my chest.

  “What?”

  I look down. My white tank top is completely soaked—and transparent. With all the joy, excitement, and wetness, my nipples are fully erect, poking through the fa
bric.

  He’s been staring at my tits this whole time!

  I cover my mouth with one hand, then quickly cross my arms in front of my chest. Suddenly, I start shivering in my wet clothes.

  From the depths of the many pockets on his vest, Ford produces a microfiber towel and steps forward to place it around my shoulders. He looks vaguely relieved to cover me up, but he’s also making a pained grimace, as if he’s sorry to end the sight of my see-through tank top hugging my breasts tightly.

  As his arms are around me, I can feel the heat coming off his body despite the fact that he’s also completely soaked.

  I lean into this half-embrace and push my side against his body. I inhale deeply, and underneath the smell of rain, wet earth, and damp clothes, there’s his musky scent—which is so much more intense and better than his stale hat I smelled the other day.

  I’m basking in his warmth while his nearly overpowering scent brings my emotions to a boil, heating me up from the inside.

  If only this moment could last forever.

  12

  Ford

  My brain hears the words but refuses to fucking process them. My answer is mechanical. “No,” I hear myself say before I can even think it through.

  Had she really just suggested a shower together? Surely, I misheard; I mean, why would she suggest I shower with her? Something about water conservation or some other shit, but she can’t mean it, can she?

  Was she fucking serious?

  As it is, I’m struggling to contain my overpowering desire for her. If I have to shower with her, I may not be able to control myself.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her emerge from her hut.

  Fuck.

  She’s only dressed in a simple black bikini.

  It’s neither as elaborate nor as fancy as other bikinis I’ve seen on hot chicks, yet it’s so fucking sexy.

  On a job last year, I was protecting the wives of a super important wealthy sheikh. His harem was full of exotic beauties, and when they wore bikinis, they wore the most exotic pieces.

  I mean, there were nature-inspired ones, skin-colored ones, ones that seemed to only cover nipples, and even ones covered in glitter.