My Wounded Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 5)

by Serenity Woods

  The thing is, I don’t just want to father her children. I want to do more than physically inseminate her. I want the whole kit and caboodle. I want her.

  I stare off across the fields. You might have to be inventive…

  What if there was a way to help her out, and get what I want? She likes me. She must do. Her compliments proved that. And anyway, she wouldn’t ask a man she has no feelings for to father her child, surely.

  You’re an excellent physical specimen. You’re tall and good looking. You’re strong and you seem healthy. You’re intelligent, kind, honest, and loyal.

  I doodle on a notepad. I’ve spent most of this year chasing her, trying to get her to go out with me. What the hell. Do I really have to think this hard about it?

  As a plan begins to formulate in my mind, I pull up a browser on my computer, and start doing some research.

  Chapter Three

  Poppy

  It’s a long afternoon with two difficult classes of children who are poorly controlled by their young teachers, and who, as a consequence, run amok amongst the animals. I don’t like to take over from the teachers, even if I think I could do better, because I know teaching is a really hard job, and undermining someone else is the worst thing you can do for their self-respect. But when the noise level frightens a couple of the new puppies, I end up losing my temper and taking half a dozen of the badly behaved kids out of the farm and into the office, where I give them a solid talking to about respect. I make two of them cry, and feel a swathe of guilt, until their teacher comes up afterward and shakes my hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. She’s very young, barely out of teacher-training college. “They’re just such a handful.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say awkwardly, “you’ll soon find your feet.”

  I still feel bad, though, because I know most of my irritation is due to what happened with Marc earlier. After the buses depart, I sit in my office, somewhat dispirited. I had anticipated that he might be angry by my suggestion, but not that it would manifest in the way it had. He hadn’t seemed offended; if anything, he’d seemed flattered I’d asked. But I know the way I offered money was wrong. And clearly, he’s angry toward Daniel for the way he treated me, and he doesn’t know the half of it.

  I sigh and get up to sort out the animals. They have a last feed and a fuss before I bed them down for the night, and finally lock up around six thirty. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired. Sandra is doing the early shift tomorrow, and will arrive at six a.m., so I think I’ll have a couple of glasses of wine and maybe a takeout while I watch a movie, then go to bed early, and have a lie-in tomorrow.

  I walk out to my car, then stop in surprise. A ute is parked next to it, and leaning against it is Marc, now dressed in navy suit trousers and a white shirt. Jack sits at his side. My heart gives an uncharacteristic hard bump.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.” I pause in front of him. I feel awkward after what happened earlier, a mixture of resentful and embarrassed. Is he going to yell at me?

  But he just says, “Are you hungry? I thought you might like to catch some dinner.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It wouldn’t be a date,” he says. “I have a business proposition for you.” He looks serious, but his eyes sparkle, suggesting he finds something amusing.

  “A business proposition?” I repeat.

  “Meet me at Between the Sheets,” he says, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  I hesitate, but I’m starving, and although I don’t want to admit it to him, I’m intrigued by his words. Maybe he’s decided to help after all. “All right,” I say, grudgingly.

  “I’ll drop Jack off home on the way past,” he says.

  I walk past him and get in my car. He gets in the ute, and then follows me out and along the road that runs alongside the beach all the way through Paihia, turning off at the end to his road.

  I park outside the restaurant, get out, and stand looking out at the Pacific as I wait for him. A family is playing cricket on the beach, two young boys running between pieces of driftwood stuck in the ground for a wicket as Dad cheers them on. For some reason I’ve always pictured myself with a girl, but of course it could be a boy. My hand strays to my belly, lingering there as I imagine how it must feel to have a life growing inside it. This broodiness—this hunger, and not for food—is new, and it’s overwhelming in its intensity.

  “Ready?” Marc says. I hadn’t heard him pull up. I turn and see him watching me. I nod, and together we walk across the road.

  “Restaurant or bar?” he asks.

  “Bar,” I reply, preferring the relaxed atmosphere. He leads the way into the bar, which is nicely busy. We take a recently vacated table overlooking the beach. The front portion of the building has large doors, and this evening they’ve been pulled back to let the warm, early evening sea breeze blow across the diners.

  We examine the menu and decide to have catch of the day—snapper—and fries, with two beers, and the waiter goes off with our order.

  Marc folds his arms and leans on the table, but doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he looks into my eyes. His are a dark blue, the color of the sky on the horizon, where rain is coming in. Apparently all babies are born with blue eyes, so if we had one, the baby’s eyes would look like his. Mmm.

  “So… you said you have a proposition?” I ask him. I have no idea what he’s going to come out with.

  “I do.” Still, he doesn’t say what it is.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No. I’m thinking about how to phrase it.”

  Puzzled, I lean back as the waiter returns with our beers. As he walks away, I sip the beer, conscious of Marc’s steady stare. “Will you say something?” I prompt. “You’re starting to make me nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “You know I can’t tell what you’re thinking,” I reply. “I can never tell what anyone’s thinking. I don’t know if you’re amused or angry.”

  “I’m neither of those.”

  “Frustrated?”

  “No.”

  I huff a sigh.

  “If I’m anything,” he says, “I’m… keyed up.”

  “Why?”

  His lips curve up a little. He has a swig of beer. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Let me start by saying I understand why you’ve made this decision. It’s tough when a relationship doesn’t work out, and I can see you’ve been badly hurt, and that you don’t want to be hurt again. And I can sympathize with you wanting to have a family. I know that many women make the choice to have a baby when they don’t have a partner for various reasons. I admire you for not turning your back on that dream because you don’t have a partner.”

  “Thank you,” I say, a little mollified. He’s often a one-syllable man, so it’s weird to hear him say so much in one go.

  “Izzy’s been talking a lot about having kids lately,” he says. I forget he’s her brother sometimes. “She told me how she used to push the thought from her mind when she was single, but now she’s with Hal she feels this overwhelming broodiness. So I do understand.”

  I pick at the label of the beer bottle with my fingernail. “Okay.”

  “I also understand why you’re reluctant to go to a sperm bank, and why you’d rather know the father. And I have to tell you, I’m hugely flattered that you approached me.”

  I lift my gaze to his. His eyes are warm.

  “So…” I draw out the word.

  “So… I don’t like the idea of you getting pregnant by another man.” Keeping his gaze on me as if wanting to see my reaction to that, he swigs from his beer bottle again. I watch his throat constrict as he swallows. He definitely needs a shave.

  He puts the bottle down. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon. And I’d like to help you.”

  Joy fills me. “Really?”

  “But…”

  My smile fades. “But what?”

  “I�
�m not doing anything in a cup,” he states.

  I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment the waiter arrives with our food. My heart races, but I make myself sit calmly until the waiter retreats.

  Marc puts salt and pepper on his chips, glancing up at me occasionally.

  “I don’t understand,” I say eventually. “So what are you saying?”

  He picks up a couple of fries and pops them in his mouth. “I’ll help you get pregnant. But I’ll only do it the old-fashioned way.”

  I stare at him as he cuts into his fish, spears a piece on his fork, then dips it in the tartar sauce. He chews it for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine, and then starts laughing at the look on my face.

  “You mean…” I’m not sure I can bring myself to say it.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m proposing we have sex until I get you pregnant.”

  My face grows so warm, I know I’ve turned scarlet. He surveys it with a smile, but he doesn’t apologize.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him again. “My way is easier.”

  He has a swig of beer. “I think that’s arguable.”

  I’m completely confused now. When I first came up with the idea, I’d hoped he’d say yes because he’s my friend, but I presumed one condition would be that he remained anonymous and had no further connection with me, other than our normal friendship and working relationship at the Ark. I’m asking for his help in a way that means he doesn’t have to do anything. Hardly anything, except what I’m sure most men do on a regular basis.

  “I don’t understand what you get out of it,” I blurt out.

  That makes him laugh. He leans back in his chair for a moment, looking a mixture of puzzled and amused. Then he leans forward again. “You,” he said softly. “I get you, Poppy.”

  “I told you, I don’t want a relationship.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m not offering that; initially, anyway.”

  “I said I’d pay you,” I tell him.

  He looks at my plate for a moment. Then he gestures to my fish and chips. “Eat up.”

  “Marc—”

  “Why do you call me Marc and not Fitz?”

  I frown. “I thought that was your name?”

  “It is.”

  “Would you rather I called you Fitz?”

  “No. I like it. I meant… Oh, never mind. Eat your dinner.”

  I stare at the fish, then cut up a piece and eat it. It’s amazing, probably fresh out of the sea that morning. My head is spinning.

  “Let me explain a bit more,” he says. “I’ve been doing some research.”

  “Into what?”

  “Into getting pregnant. I’m sure you probably know most of it, because you’ve obviously looked into artificial insemination, but it was quite an eye-opener for me. Apparently it’s quite common to use what they call a personal donor—a family member or friend. It takes longer if you want to use a clinic-recruited donor because there aren’t enough, and single women and same-sex couples have to wait longer.”

  I nod; I know this.

  “They allocate ten inseminations,” he continues. “That’s for six to seven cycles of IUI or intrauterine insemination, where they place the sperm directly into the uterus, and if that doesn’t work, three cycles of IVF, where they add the sperm and egg together outside the body.”

  “Yes.” I’m impressed and touched he’s made the effort to find out the details.

  “At your age, which is relatively young, the pregnancy rate of IUI is about thirteen percent. And there is a ten to fifteen percent chance of twins. However, the chance of getting pregnant naturally each month is about twenty-five percent.”

  “True,” I admit, “but IVF is higher.”

  “Yes, you have about a forty-five to fifty percent chance of a birth with each embryo transfer. But there are quite a few risks, and again, possibly a greater chance of a multiple birth depending on how many fertilized eggs they implant.”

  I concentrate on cutting up my fish. I know he’s right.

  “Getting pregnant naturally is the safest option,” he says. “Plus there are other things we can do to increase the chances of conception.”

  “Like what?”

  His expression turns mischievous. “There is some scientific evidence to suggest an orgasm helps a woman get pregnant.”

  My eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. The release of oxytocin decreases stress, which aids getting pregnant, especially if it happens less than a minute before or after the man ejaculates.”

  I glance around the room to make sure we’re not being overheard, hardly able to believe I’m having this conversation over dinner.

  Normally I’d have changed the subject well before now, but there’s something about Marc’s candidness that appeals to me. He’s not embarrassed or being crass. He knows I struggle with nuance, and so he’s just stating the facts.

  Well, they’re not facts, because obviously he’s got it seriously wrong.

  “That’s all well and good,” I tell him, “but what are the chances of that happening every time a couple has sex?”

  He blinks a few times. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m confused,” he admits.

  “Join the club. This conversation is baffling me.”

  He frowns. “Which bit don’t you understand?”

  “You said the woman has to have an orgasm less than a minute before or after the guy ejaculates.”

  “Yeah…” His lips curve up. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t need careful timing…”

  “Marc, I’m just making the point that it’s rare enough that it happens at all, let alone within such a short window.”

  “For what to happen at all?”

  Now I’m exasperated. I lean forward and whisper, somewhat furiously, “For a woman to have an orgasm during sex.”

  He stares at me. Then he puts down his knife and fork and leans back. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I couldn’t be more serious.” I’m shocked that he doesn’t understand. “You know women fake it, right? Or have you really assumed that every woman you’ve had sex with has had an orgasm every time?”

  Chapter Four

  Fitz

  I’m not sure I’ve ever been truly speechless before. I stare at Poppy for so long, she blows out a long breath and swigs her beer.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never had an orgasm during sex?”

  She blushes. “Once or twice. Possibly.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “That’s pretty normal, Marc, believe me.”

  “No, it really isn’t.”

  She gives a patient sigh, the kind she’d probably use to explain to a ten-year-old that Santa doesn’t really exist. “What you see in the movies…” she says gently, “none of that is real. It just doesn’t happen that way for women. Not in the real world.”

  I stab my fork into my fish. “It does with the women I sleep with.’

  “I’m sorry if it comes as a shock to you, but they were almost certainly faking it.”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “How?”

  I roll my eyes. “I can tell when a woman’s enjoying herself.”

  She looks at me with such doubt that I begin to wonder if she’s right. Can I be one hundred percent sure the women I’ve been with haven’t faked it? I suppose I can’t. But I’ve gone to enough effort that I’m pretty certain they haven’t needed to.

  “So how often do you believe a woman has had an orgasm when she’s had sex with you?” she asks, her curiosity overriding her embarrassment.

  Am I really discussing this over fish and chips? “Every time,” I say. “Well, since I figured out what I was doing, anyway. Since I was about twenty.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious,” I te
ll her. “Of course I’m serious. Anything else would be impolite.”

  She snorts. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  This would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. I know there are men, of course, who are clueless about giving a woman pleasure, but I’m sure most of the girls I know wouldn’t settle for anything less than a satisfying love life. Why has Poppy?

  “How many partners have you had?” I ask her.

  She pokes at her fish. “A few.”

  “And none of them made you come during sex?”

  “Like I said, it’s quite normal.” She obviously doesn’t understand my confusion.

  “Poppy,” I say as gently as I can, looking into her eyes, “it’s not.”

  She stops with a forkful of fish halfway to her mouth. Our gazes lock. I don’t smile, making sure she can see I’m serious.

  She lowers her fork. “So you’re really saying you give a woman an orgasm every time you sleep with her?”

  “More than one, usually. And that’s something else I found out—apparently if a guy goes down on a woman first, it can increase the amount of semen he produces.”

  Her jaw drops.

  I eat a couple of fries. “I’m just saying. I think it would be more fun than having IVF. And a lot cheaper and less hassle.” I sigh. “I can tell by the look on your face you don’t believe me.”

  “I don’t. And anyway, you’re saying that not only could you give a woman an orgasm every time—every time—you had sex, but that you could time it to within a minute of your own climax?” Her voice is heavy with incredulity.

  “Give or take. It’s not an exact science.”

  “Jesus, Marc. How on earth would you do that?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Sleep with me and you’ll find out.”

  Both of us eat our fries, studying each other.