My Wounded Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 5)

by Serenity Woods

  Most—if not all—of the women I’ve slept with have been sexually liberated, in the sense that they believe their pleasure is as important as the guy’s, and they expect the man they’re sleeping with to agree. They know how to touch themselves and are happy to pass that knowledge on to their partner, so for me sex has always been a two-way street. It’s not about me being an expert, but I’ve watched and learned, and I’ve never had any complaints.

  If Poppy’s declaration about climaxing during sex wasn’t enough of a clue, her nervousness is beginning to suggest to me that her sex life has been far from satisfying. What’s sad is her conviction that her experience has been normal. How many women out there are in the same position? How many are with men who roll over after sex and fall asleep, leaving them aching for fulfilment?

  I want to talk to her about it, but at the moment I’m worried that if I bring up the subject of us sleeping together, she’ll get to the stage where her anxiousness will develop into full-blown panic and she’ll make me sleep on the sofa, so instead I decide not to mention it, and instead to concentrate on helping her to relax.

  It turns out Fiona was right, and the bar down the road produces some damn fine fish and seafood dishes. Poppy chooses a paella, and I go for citrus pan-fried snapper with lemon mash, although we share the dishes and end up eating half of each. It’s a beautiful spring evening; the sun is setting, and out to sea the ocean is turning dramatic shades of orange, red, and purple. Closer to shore, the waves break beneath us, and from our table by the window we can see the white spray painting the rocks.

  The bar is basic and homely, with bare floorboards and wooden tables covered with checkered cloths, but there’s something romantic about the atmosphere. The waiter lights a candle and places it between us, love songs are playing softly in the background, and there are several other couples having dinner around us, holding hands and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes.

  We don’t hold hands, but there’s something happening between us. Even though we don’t talk about what’s going to happen when we get back to the lighthouse, I know it’s on her mind, and it’s certainly on mine. She’s slipped off her jacket and hung it over the back of her chair, and the blouse she’s wearing is unbuttoned low enough that I catch a glimpse of cleavage. The skin there is pale and unblemished, and I know it’s going to be warm, and touched with the scent of her light, flowery perfume.

  Her neck is smooth, and I keep thinking about kissing up to her ear and nuzzling there. Would she like that? I want to find out. I want to discover what makes her tick. What makes her sigh. I want to see what she smells like, what she tastes like, what sounds she makes when she comes. Will she be silent during sex, or will she sigh my name? I like the way she uses my name when everyone else calls me Fitz; it’s as if she’s discovered a secret, as if our relationship is private, special. Even Mel always called me Fitz.

  I want to take the elastic from the end of her braid and unravel it, spread it across her shoulders, bury my face in it. I want to kiss her, and see whether I can persuade her to use her tongue. I want to slide inside her. God, I want to be inside her.

  She has a sip of her wine and lifts her green eyes to mine. “Stop it,” she scolds.

  I lift my eyebrows. “What?”

  “Looking at me as if you’re thinking about me with no clothes on.”

  It’s the first time either of us has mentioned sex. I’ve kept the conversation on movies and music and traveling, determined to get her to relax.

  “I’m not gonna lie,” I tell her. “It has entered my head once or twice.”

  She gives me a wry look and pushes her plate to the side. “Once or twice?”

  “All right, I’ve barely thought about anything else. Can I help it when you’re so gorgeous?”

  She gives a bashful smile. “You don’t have to seduce me, Marc. I’m a sure thing, remember?”

  The thought sends a ripple of desire through me, but I ignore it and point to her plate with my fork. “You’re not finishing that?”

  “It’s lovely, but…” She gives a little laugh and blows out a breath. “I’m too nervous.”

  “Really?” I tip my head to the side. “You shouldn’t be. It’s only me.”

  “Mm. I know. That’s kind of the problem.”

  “What do you mean?” I’d assumed she would have been nervous with any partner.

  She turns the stem of her wine glass with her fingers, giving me a puzzled look. “Because I like you. And even though this is just temporary, I want you to… like me too.”

  “I do like you.”

  “No, I mean… you know… in bed.”

  I remember what she said about being worried she’d disappoint me. “Honestly,” I tell her, “I can’t think of a single way you could possibly disappoint me in bed.”

  She rubs her nose. “I have wondered… maybe there’s something, you know, wrong with me. Because I’m on the spectrum, maybe it’s more difficult for me to… you know.”

  “Have an orgasm?”

  “Mm.” She chews her bottom lip.

  I study her for a moment. It looks as if talking about orgasms over dinner is going to be a thing with Poppy and me. Fair enough. If we’re going to talk about it, I’m going to take my time and do it right.

  “Do you want a dessert?” I ask her.

  She looks surprised. “Er…”

  “How about we share something?”

  “Okay.”

  I call the waitress over, and order a chocolate pudding and two more glasses of wine. Normally I wouldn’t have a second glass if I was driving, but bearing in mind we didn’t pass a single car on the way here, I figure another unit for the five-minute drive on a deserted road is going to be relatively safe.

  When the waitress departs, I lean on the table and study the woman who is beginning to fascinate me more than any other woman I’ve ever met and tell her, “I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent convinced there’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “That still leaves point one of a percent.”

  “All right, then, I’m a hundred percent convinced.”

  “I don’t know how you can be, if ten to fifteen percent of all women have never had an orgasm.”

  “I know. I’ve read the stats. And I wish there was enough time for me to prove to them they’re wrong, but unfortunately there’s only one of me, and anyway, I’m only interested in one woman.”

  Her lips curve up. “I can’t make my mind up whether you’re confident or arrogant.”

  “Jesus, I’m not arrogant. It’s nothing to do with the guy. Well, it’s partly to do with the guy, obviously, but…” I frown. “What I’m trying to say is that from what I’ve read, there are hardly any women who are physically unable to achieve an orgasm. There are various reasons some find it more difficult. Often it’s psychological; they’re brought up to believe touching themselves and giving themselves pleasure is wrong, so they don’t masturbate. How can you tell a partner what you like if you don’t know yourself?” She looks out the window. “Is that what happened with you?” I ask gently.

  She shakes her head. “My parents were always relatively open about sex. They never implied there was anything dirty or wrong about it.”

  I follow her gaze, to where two seagulls are pushing and shoving each other for prime position on the highest rock. It gives me a thought. “What about Summer?”

  Her gaze comes back to me then, somewhat sharp. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s what… seven, eight years older than you? So you were going through puberty when she was at university and going with Zach. Did that have any effect on you?”

  The waitress comes back with our wine, but Poppy doesn’t even notice, lost in thought, looking out to sea again. I sip the Pinot Noir, sensing I’m closing in on the problem.

  “It was almost the opposite,” she says softly. “I love Summer. She’s always been great with Albie and me. And because she knew we both struggled socially, she’s always made an ext
ra effort to help. She’d talk to me about boys and try to give me tips on how to talk to them, without realizing I had no comprehension of what she was saying. She was open about sex, too, because I think she wanted to take away the fear for me, but all it did was baffle me. At the time, when I was in my teens, I didn’t understand why anyone would want to let a guy do that to them. I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was nineteen. In the end, I had sex because I just wanted to get it over and done with, and it was as awful and painful and messy and embarrassing as I’d feared. And it’s never really been any different. I slept with Daniel because he was unrelenting, and I suppose I was beginning to be puzzled by the passion you see in the movies, and I thought I’d been unlucky and was missing out on something, but it was no different with him. So I’ve never liked sex very much.”

  Her gaze comes back to me. “The things you’ve told me,” she continues, “I desperately want to believe they can be true, but I suppose I’m worried that’s just how it’s going to be for me.” She gives a little, helpless shrug.

  I’m speechless for the second time in as many days, and say nothing while the waitress returns with our chocolate pudding and places it between us with two spoons. When she goes, I hand Poppy one of the spoons and pick up the other, and we both delve into the chocolate sponge. It breaks open, revealing a lava flow of molten chocolate.

  Poppy eats a mouthful with a sigh. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t say things like that. I’ll end up giving you performance anxiety.”

  I laugh, scoop up some of the sauce with the pudding, and eat it. It’s delicious. “That’s one thing I’m not worried about.”

  “I’d feel terrible if I didn’t… you know… and you felt bad about it.”

  “Christ. Poppy, that’s not going to happen.”

  “You don’t know that…”

  “I do.” I hold her gaze.

  She blinks, her brows drawing together. “I don’t understand how you can be so confident.”

  “Because you’re going to show me how you like to be touched. And I’m going to take my time. I don’t care if it takes all evening, or even all week, to get it right.” I reach out and take her hand for the first time. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Leave everything to me. After saying that, there are several things you can do to help. I know it’s impossible to ask you not to be nervous. But have a glass of wine. Try to relax. Enjoy yourself. Stop worrying about me—tonight I want you to concentrate on yourself. I’ll enjoy it no matter what happens.” She laughs. “And most importantly,” I conclude, “talk to me. It’s the easiest way to make sure I get it right.”

  She lowers her gaze to the pudding and has another bite. A smear of chocolate sauce on her lip makes me ache to lean forward and lick it off.

  “One more thing,” I tell her, pointing my spoon at her. “No faking it.”

  She scratches her nose. “I shouldn’t have told you I did that.”

  “You won’t need to do it with me, if you talk to me.”

  She has another spoonful, and meets my eyes again. For the first time, I can see that her nerves are fading, to be replaced by excitement, and—something that gives me even more hope—a flicker of desire. She’s thinking about going to bed with me, and she’s excited about it. The wine’s beginning to have an effect, and so, hopefully, are my words.

  I scoop up another spoonful of sauce. “I’m tempted to smuggle some of this back to the lighthouse.”

  “I know what you mean. It’d be nice to have a supply for a midnight snack.”

  “Actually I was thinking about how fun it would be to drizzle it over you and then lick it off.”

  She stops with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stares at me.

  “Oh come on,” I scoff, “one of your boyfriends must have done the whipped cream thing. Sprayed it on with a can and then licked it off.”

  Her expression tells me that’s never happened. In fact, the shocked look on her face tells me it’s never even entered her head.

  “Fuck me,” I mumble. “I’m definitely going to do that at some point.” I push the dish with the last spoonful of pudding across to her.

  She finishes off the mouthful, her eyes dancing, licks her lips, and gives a little laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound that I resolve to make her laugh like that every day from now on.

  And suddenly, I can’t wait any longer. I want to crush my lips to hers, I want her body under mine. I want to make her come so hard it feels like a firework exploding, wiping away any thought of the poor excuse for men who’ve passed through her life like wet firecrackers.

  “Finish your wine,” I tell her softly. “It’s time to go.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Poppy

  Marc refuses to let me pay for dinner, then leads me across the road to the shop. Fiona has left us a variety of food and drinks, but I prefer trim milk in my tea, and Marc declares he wants some chocolate, so we wander around the shop putting odds and ends into the basket—a bag of chips, a couple of bars of dark chocolate, a few bottles of wine.

  He then stops at the refrigerator, opens the door, and extracts a can of aerosol cream. He meets my gaze as he puts it in the basket, smirks, and takes the basket from me before heading for the till.

  Holy moly. My head is spinning. I thought he was joking.

  “Don’t look so alarmed,” he says as we walk back to the car.

  “I’m not alarmed.” I’m terrified. This is so far out of my comfort zone, it’s almost in the northern hemisphere. Where is he going to want to spray the whipped cream?

  We get back in the car, and I buckle myself in. My heart is pounding, and I’ve broken out in a sweat, even though it’s grown cool since we came out.

  Marc sighs as he heads the car onto the road toward the lane to the lighthouse. Then he reaches out and takes my hand. “Are you okay? Are you hyperventilating?”

  “I’m sorry. It was the spray cream. It tipped me over the edge.”

  He gives a short laugh and lifts my hand, bringing my fingers to his lips. He kisses them lightly before lowering them back down. “I’m the one who should apologize. I promised myself I’d take it slow. Look, remember, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And we go at your pace. Okay? This is all about you. If you change your mind at any point, you only have to say. You’re not going to upset me, and I won’t be angry. We’re doing this because you want a baby, and ultimately that’s got to be the primary goal.”

  I look out of the window, into the dark night. Truth is, I’d almost forgotten I was doing this to try to get pregnant.

  I glance across at him. He’s concentrating on the road, a slight frown on his brow. He’s incredibly handsome, in an insouciant, devil-may-care kind of way. I think part of me is shocked a guy like this would be interested in me. Daniel was forty, with a receding hairline, and although he was relatively good looking, he spent a lot of time at the gym, carefully maintaining his physique.

  I don’t think Marc goes to the gym, but his job means that half his day is spent outdoors doing physical work. His shirt clings to his biceps and his forearms where he’s rolled up the sleeves, and his arms are tanned and honed. I know he has a tight butt because I’ve stared at it often enough. He was in the Army, and he said he was into sports. At school, guys like this wouldn’t have looked at me twice. I was small and skinny with Pippi Longstocking hair, and so bad socially I could barely hold a conversation. The thought that one of the rugby guys would not only glance my way, but agree to get me pregnant…

  And that’s the first time it really sinks in. I didn’t really comprehend it before.

  Marc’s going to have sex with me, and he’s going to try to get me pregnant.

  Laughter rises inside me, like bubbles in a glass of champagne, and bursts forth from me before I get a chance to stop it. He glances across at me, amused. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.” The laughter won’t stop, though, and by the time he pulls up at the lighthouse, I’m giggling
like a schoolgirl.

  He stops the car, turns off the engine, and unbuckles his seatbelt. My laughter ends as abruptly as it began, and I pick up the few items we bought and hug them to me like a shield.

  He doesn’t try to touch me, though. “Come on,” he says gently. “It’s cold out here. Let’s get inside.”

  We let ourselves in the lighthouse, which is pleasantly warm, as we left the heat pump on when we went out. Marc turns on the lamp while I hang my jacket by the door. My hands are shaking. This is so ridiculous. I’m going to have to do something or he’s not going to be able to get near me for the tremors.

  “Hold on a minute,” I tell him as he turns toward me. “I have a present for you.”

  I run up the stairs to the bedroom, open my case, and retrieve it, then come back down the stairs. He’s taken off his jacket and is standing by the window, looking out at the moonlight on the ocean.

  “Look at that,” he whispers. “A pathway to the stars. How amazing is that?”

  “It’s beautiful.” I stand beside him and hold out the present. It’s a sparkly silver paper bag containing a rectangular cardboard box, and as I pass it to him the liquid sloshes from one end to the other.

  His eyebrows rise, and he takes the box out of the bag. It’s a bottle of Laphroaig whisky, his favorite.

  “Jesus,” he says. “It’s a thirty-year-old.”

  “Yeah. It’s supposed to be really nice.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.” His gaze slides to me. He knows his whisky—he must realize it cost nearly fifteen hundred dollars. For a second I wonder whether he’s going to turn it down, but instead his face breaks into an amazing smile. “Thank you.”

  “Least I could do for what you’ve offered to do for me,” I say shyly. “Shall we have a glass?”

  “You don’t mind? These are very peaty.”

  “Oh, Dad’s a big fan of Islay malts. I’ve been well schooled.”