My Wounded Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 5)

by Serenity Woods

  She nods, so I turn on the TV, and we choose a light rom-com we haven’t seen. It doesn’t turn out to be all that, but it raises a few laughs in us, and when it’s done, we turn the lights out, lock the door, and go to bed.

  I pull Poppy into my arms, her back against my chest, and nuzzle her ear. “Get some sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll be waking you early.”

  She chuckles and looks over her shoulder. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  I kiss her lips, and then we settle down for the night. Poppy falls asleep quickly, no doubt worn out by her busy day and our enthusiastic lovemaking earlier. But thoughts whiz around in my head, refusing to die down.

  I think of Izzy, off on her honeymoon with Hal, and hope she’s having a good time. She’s also struggled, and she was single for years. I didn’t tell Poppy, but I feel partly responsible for that, because I warned Hal off her when they were teenagers, and again when he asked me to come and work at the Ark, so it’s my fault they took so long to get together. I want to make it up to Izzy, and this is the only way I know how—to take the responsibility of our mother off her shoulders, and let her get on with her life.

  I think of my mother, alone in her room at the rehab center, and hope she’s starting to feel better. She’s been in emotional pain for a lot of her life, and she deserves some happiness.

  Am I dumb to refuse to ask for help? Mom is my responsibility though, and mine alone. And I can’t see any other way around that.

  I stare up at the stars glittering in the black velvet sky, and wait a long, long time for sleep to come.

  Chapter Twenty

  Poppy

  I wake around five a.m. It’s dark, and Marc’s still asleep. I put my phone down after checking the time, wondering what woke me. I need to use the bathroom; I think that’s what did it. As quietly as I can, I get up, go in and pee, then come back out and go over to the window.

  There’s a faint touch of color on the horizon, but the sun is almost two hours off rising, so it won’t be light for a while yet. I pick up Marc’s discarded T-shirt and pull it on, then tiptoe up the stairs to the viewing platform.

  It’s coolish up here, and I shiver a little, but it’s so beautiful that I can’t help but lean against the glass and look out at the view. The light above me sweeps across the ocean, illuminating the black waves briefly as it passes. When it’s on the other side, I can see all the stars in the night sky.

  It’s so odd to be standing here, almost on the edge of the world. The Pacific is so big—it covers a third of the Earth’s surface area. How thrilling it must have been to be an explorer, Magellan or Cook, setting sail without truly knowing what land was in front of you. Or to have been on one of the early Maori wakas, paddling across the ocean in search of a new home. There must have been a sense of freedom, and of excitement at a new beginning. I enjoyed traveling. I remember my OE with much fondness.

  At the time, when I was staying at the monastery, I had my whole life in front of me, and I remember feeling such hope that I was on the way to finding the answer to a successful, happy life. I’m hardly old, at thirty, but it didn’t quite work out the way I’d hoped. I thought I’d be married with a couple of kids and in a stable, rewarding job. I am happy in the job, but I feel some disappointment at not being settled in my personal life, to the point where I’ve made the decision to stay single. Instead, here I am with a man I hardly know, trying to get pregnant. Am I mad?

  “Penny for them.” Marc’s voice behind me makes me jump. I hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. He slides his arms around my waist from behind, moves up close to me, and nuzzles my neck. He’s only wearing his boxers. Mmm. I might be mad, but if I am, I don’t care.

  “Just thinking about the ocean,” I tell him. “And how exciting it must have been to be an explorer.”

  “You have wanderlust in your soul, don’t you?” he teases, nibbling my earlobe.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Do you wish you’d traveled more?”

  “I don’t know… perhaps.” I sigh. “I was thinking about being in the monastery, and all the hopes and dreams I had when I was there.”

  He rests his lips on my hair. “You can’t feel wistful about your achievements, surely? You’ve done so well. Traveled, become a teacher, and now you’re in a rewarding job changing children’s lives.”

  My lips curve up. “I like that you see it that way. But yes, I do feel a bit wistful. Everyone has dreams when they’re young, don’t they? About finding Mr. Right, settling down, having two-point-four kids by the time they’re thirty. We all have romantic ideals about love.” I place a hand over his where it rests on my ribs, under my breasts. “Do you believe in soul mates?”

  “I don’t know.” He rests his cheek on the top of my head, looking out across the ocean. “I don’t think most men have the same idealistic notions that women have when they’re younger, to be honest. I don’t think our expectations are as high. We don’t expect perfection. We just hope we’ll find someone who’ll put up with our odd ways, who’ll want to sleep with us from time to time, and who’ll hold us at night. Or maybe I’m just getting old.”

  I give a short laugh. He’s probably right. We all hope for that ideal person who understands us and can anticipate our every need, but nobody’s perfect.

  I think about Noah, who lost the love of his life, but who’s now found happiness with Abby and Ethan. If we do have soul mates, does that mean he has two? Or that Abby has to take second place? Izzy and Hal, Nix and Leon, and Remy and Albie—are they all soul mates? Or have they all settled for a person who’s maybe a little more right for them than the other people they’ve met?

  I assumed Daniel wasn’t my soul mate because he made me unhappy in so many ways, but maybe I was being foolish in being dissatisfied because he wasn’t perfect for me. Should I have tried harder? Attempted to make a go of the relationship? I can’t bring myself to feel sorrow at our breakup, though. He was cruel to me, emotionally and, occasionally, physically—he didn’t hit me or anything, but he could be quite rough. I can’t imagine Marc ever saying the kind of things that Daniel said to me, and, so far anyway, he’s been nothing but gentle in the bedroom. Our last session might have been a little bit more… energetic, but I can’t imagine him ever hurting me.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  “Yesterday,” I tell him. “What we did in bed.”

  He bends his head and kisses my neck. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes,” I say, somewhat shyly. “I was thinking how different you are from Daniel.”

  “I should hope so. I don’t understand any man not wanting to give their woman pleasure. It’s so… satisfying.” He touches his tongue to my neck, making me shiver.

  “It turns you on,” I whisper.

  “Yes.” He sucks gently, his hands rising to cup my breasts.

  I tip my head back onto his shoulder and sigh. I’m hungry for him again. My body craves him like sugar; I need my fix. In fact, he’s like a chocolate bar in so many ways. Being with him is a sweet treat; I want to savor each moment, make him last as long as I can.

  He turns me in his arms, presses my back against the window, and lowers his mouth to mine. I part my lips for him, lift my arms, and sink my hands into his hair as he kisses me with as much passion as I’m feeling for him. Mmm… I love kissing this man. How can I have thought I didn’t like kissing? There’s nothing like it; it’s sensual and erotic and comforting and sexy and hot all rolled into one. It’s like it’s a switch he flips that plugs me into the mains and turns me on—everything starts buzzing and heating up, and little ripples of pleasure run through me, connecting invisible lines between all my erogenous zones. How come when he kisses me, I feel a tug deep inside, between my legs? I want him. I want this quiet, thoughtful, wounded man to touch me, to be inside me.

  Placing my hands on his chest, I push him, and he takes a step back, his eyebrows rising. I continue pushing him, and he moves backward to the sofa in the middl
e of the small room. I tug down his boxers, and he steps out of them, and then sinks onto the sofa as I give another little push. I lower to my knees in front of him, parting his legs, my heart beginning to race at the sight of him naked, hard and ready for me. His eyelids lower to half-mast as I lick my palm and close my hand around him, and then I stroke him, inhaling at the feel of the soft skin moving over his iron hardness. Bending, I close my mouth over the tip, and the breath hisses through his teeth, his hand rising so he can sink his fingers into my hair.

  “Aaahhh…” He tips his head back, swelling in my mouth. “Poppy…”

  “Mmm.” He smells and tastes amazing, and I adore this power to affect him, to make him feel the way I do. He’s changed me so much in such a short space of time. Before I met him, sex was a physical act for me, like sneezing or coughing, not particularly pleasurable, something I put myself through for a partner, something I endured. Now, it’s physical and emotional and sensual, it’s full of pleasure, and I think about it when we’re not doing it; I imagine pleasing him, ways I can make him sigh.

  I wish I could continue doing this until he comes, until he fills my mouth with his silky fluid, but after only a minute he holds my upper arms and lifts me, pulling me astride him.

  “Aw,” I complain, moving further up his thighs so our bodies are flush.

  “I’m here to get you pregnant, remember? Don’t want to waste any.” His tone is teasing, but it reminds me why I asked him here. And for some reason, it makes me sad.

  He studies my face, and I think he knows what’s going through my mind, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he cups the back of my head, brings my lips down to his, and kisses me.

  His mouth is hot, insisting, and I’m already fired up from going down on him, so I can feel the blood speeding around my body, my heart racing, and I know I’m ready for him. But he makes me wait; he skims his hands down my back and around my ribs, strokes my breasts, then teases my nipples for a while, lowering his mouth to each one, and licking and sucking and tugging until I’m squirming on top of him, desperate to have him inside me.

  “Stop wriggling,” he scolds, dropping his hands to my hips in an attempt to keep me still.

  But I push him away, lift up, and move so the tip of his erection is parting my folds. “You can’t drive me crazy like this and expect me not to react.”

  “I drive you crazy?”

  I pause with my mouth over his. “You know you do,” I whisper, and then I sink down slowly, welcoming him inside me. I’m so turned on that there’s no friction, and he slides in all the way up to the top.

  He exhales in a soft groan, and I touch my tongue to his lip, then kiss him, drinking in his pleasure, loving every second of making love with him. I slide my hands into his hair and kiss him deeply, hungry for him, wanting to convey the feelings inside me.

  I lift my head and look into his eyes, and they’re full of an emotion I can’t decipher. Affection? Love? No, not love. It can’t be love. But there’s depth of feeling there, probably because he confided in me, something I know he doesn’t do with other people, and that’s created an intimacy between us we can’t ignore.

  Keeping my gaze on his, I rock my hips, driving him in and out of me, kissing him at the same time, and we move together as if we’re dancing, our bodies perfectly in sync. He lowers his mouth to my nipples and traces his tongue around them, then sucks them, and I feel an answering clench inside, and I know my climax isn’t far away.

  “Marc…” I tug his hair to pull his head back so I can kiss him again, and our hot mouths clash, full of yearning, of hunger. I’ve never felt desire like this. I never knew the heat they portray in books and the movies was real. Ooh, that feels good, I’m so close, so close…

  And then he holds me tightly around the waist and moves, and I’m falling backward, onto the carpet. I squeal, but he’s holding me, and he lowers me onto my back, still inside me.

  “My turn to be in charge,” he says, and then he starts moving, really thrusting, driving inside me in a way he hasn’t done before. And oh God, that’s hot; my body is so aroused, and I’m so ready for him that it sends me tumbling toward the edge. He’s propped on his hands and I can tell he’s lost it, that his body is taking over, and he wants me, oh God he wants me, and I come, pulsing again and again, clenching around him as I cry out in ecstasy.

  He rides me through it, his muscles tight, his body taut, and then he comes too. I hold him, knowing he’s spilling inside me, and I cry because it’s so beautiful and I love it so much, and I don’t ever want him to stop.

  When he’s done, he kisses my face, my eyes, kisses away my tears.

  “We’ve made a baby tonight,” he says, not questioning that I’m upset, kissing back to my mouth.

  “You sound so certain,” I whisper, sniffing.

  “I am. I know it, one hundred percent.”

  It’s sentimental, because of course he can’t know, but I kinda hope he’s right. I want his baby. I want a little piece of him I can hang onto when he’s gone.

  A piece of him I can love forever.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fitz

  It’s late afternoon, a few days later, and we’re at the new Ark, working. The wind blows across the fields, bringing with it the smell of the sea, and all of a sudden I feel homesick.

  It’s odd, because I wasn’t born in the Bay of Islands, and I haven’t spent that many years there, in terms of a percentage of my life. But it’s only now I realize how I’ve felt at home since moving there five years ago. I think maybe a small part of my soul had lingered in Hawke’s Bay, as if it had snagged on barbed wire, leaving behind little tufts of memory that meant I wasn’t completely whole. But now I’m back here, I feel as if I’ve finally pulled free. Seeing Mel was hard, but it has liberated me, too. She doesn’t have a claim on me anymore. She has her own family, and it’s time for me to move on.

  I’m not quite sure what moving on is going to involve for me yet. But I have an idea.

  I stand by the fence, half-listening to Ashton as he talks about where he’s thinking of placing the car park, my gaze drifting across to Poppy. She’s sitting in the plastic chairs with Sally and Hemi over by the office block, drinking coffee, shading her eyes from the bright sun. Her beautiful hair is loose, and it looks like fire in the sunlight. She’s so beautiful. And she’s completely captured my heart.

  I half expected it to happen while we were away, and yet it feels so different from what I anticipated. I knew I’d enjoy sleeping with her, and I thought we’d fit together, that it would feel comfortable, because we have so much in common. We’re so similar—for example, we don’t feel the need to fill every gap in the conversation; we enjoy just being in each other’s company. One of my favorite things is lying in bed after we’ve made love, her lying half across me, tracing my fingers up and down her back, with our thoughts drifting. Mel always wanted to know what I was thinking and feeling, but Poppy’s not like that. She’s so easy to be with.

  It’s been an idyllic few days. We’ve worked hard, spending a lot of hours with Ashton and the others, sharing knowledge that’s been really useful. We’ve also been out and about, including a trip to Hastings’ twin city, Napier, up the coast a little. The city was razed in an earthquake in 1931—still New Zealand’s deadliest natural disaster with 256 people killed—and much of the destroyed town center was rebuilt in the Art Deco tradition. Poppy loved the bold geometric forms, the sunbursts and fountains, and the skyscraper shapes, and she bought several pieces of art to take back home.

  We’ve also had an amazing few days in the bedroom. I finally got to use the spray cream, and licked it off every place I could think, driving her crazy. We’ve made love so many times we’re both exhausted, and my hip twinges occasionally from all the exercise. If she’s not pregnant, it’s not for the want of trying. But it’s coming to the end of the week now. Part of me wants to stay here forever, in that lighthouse with her. But I long for the bay, and I also know it’
s time for us to decide where we go from here.

  “Penny for them,” Ashton says. “As if I have to ask.”

  I shift my gaze to him and give him a wry look. “Sorry.”

  “No worries. Your view is much more attractive than mine.” He smiles. “You going to carry on seeing her when you get back to the bay?”

  I hesitate, glancing back at her. “Not sure yet. Hopefully.”

  “She told Sally she’s recovering from a bad relationship.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Afraid of getting hurt again?” Ashton suggests.

  “Definitely.”

  “Am I making you feel awkward?”

  I laugh and kick the bottom of the fence. “Nah.”

  “Man of few words,” Ashton says, and grins.

  I turn and lean back on the fence, sliding my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Although Poppy and I don’t talk all the time, I find it easy to confide my thoughts to her. I’ve opened up to her more in one week than I ever did with Mel. And I’ve been surprised how that’s made me feel. Sometimes it’s nice to share your troubles with someone.

  “We’ve both had tricky relationships,” I admit. The words don’t come easy, as if my mouth is rusty. “And she’s not keen on settling down with anyone. But I’m hoping I can change her mind.”

  “Well, she’s crazy about you,” Ashton comments. “That’s obvious.”

  My gaze lingers on her again. Is he right? When I asked her, I drive you crazy? She replied, You know you do. I know I’ve changed her. She was so convinced a woman couldn’t come during sex, and we’ve proven how wrong that theory was over and over again. Now she’s more confident in bed, expecting to have the same kind of pleasure as the guy, and knowing how to take it. I’m glad I’ve done that for her. But is it enough to convince her I’m right for her?

  And suddenly, I know what I want to say.

  “Take five?” I suggest to Ashton. He nods, turning back to his plan for the car park, and I wander across the drive to the three of them sitting in the chairs. “Got a minute?” I ask Poppy.