My Wounded Billionaire

She seemed to like me being open, but maybe I was a little frank there. “My point is,” I add a bit more gently, “I’m guessing it’s not three hours. Ten, twenty minutes? Sometimes less, sometimes more? If you communicate what you like and what turns you on, why should it be any different with the man in your life?”

Even as I say it, one word jumps out at me. Communicate. The very thing she struggles with. Maybe Daniel, and the other guys she’s been with, never asked her what she liked. Or maybe they did and she couldn’t bring herself to tell them, or perhaps she doesn’t even know how to put it into words. I’ve always assumed that all modern women are confident and knowledgeable about their bodies—certainly the ones I’ve been with have been. But of course not everyone is going to be like that. I read a survey a few years ago that stated over eighty percent of men and over sixty percent of women were unable to identify the vagina on a medical illustration of the female reproductive tract. I don’t think Poppy is quite that bad, but it’s clear that not everyone is au fait with every element of sex.

“So okay,” I tell her, my heart aching for her, “as well as getting you pregnant, this is going to be an adventure. A training session, if you will. We’re good friends, and we can talk, can’t we? You’ll be able to explain to me what you like, and I’ll be able to show you how enjoyable sex can be when it’s done right.”

She sucks more ice cream off her spoon. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“It’s not rocket science, that’s all. Don’t you ever talk to the other girls about sex? Nix and Remy and Izzy?”

She shakes her head.

“You should. I’m sure they’d put you straight.”

She scrapes at the bottom of her glass. “You were right. This is a very good sundae.”

I give in, knowing she’s not going to believe anything I say until she can verify it for herself. “You’ll think about it, anyway?”

She nods and pushes her glass away. “I will.” She swigs the last of her beer and wipes her mouth, watching me finishing my sundae. I offer her the last Malteser on my spoon. She studies it somewhat wryly, meets my eyes, then leans forward and takes it off the spoon. I try not to think of other places her lips might close around, and give a silent sigh.

“Thank you,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s thanking me for the Malteser or our talk.

“You’re welcome.”

“I appreciate you trying to help me, even if it is in a different way from what I was planning.”

“I do want to help, I swear.”

“Yes. Because your offer is purely altruistic.”

“Of course it isn’t. I’ll thoroughly enjoy impregnating you.”

We both laugh and get to our feet, pay the bill, then head back to our cars. We pause by hers, looking down the beach, where the kids who were playing cricket are now jumping about in the waves.

“Do you want a boy or a girl?” I ask her.

“Don’t tell me… You’ve discovered a way to choose the sex of your baby by using a particular position.”

That makes me laugh, and she joins in, nudging me with her elbow.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” I ask. When she nods, I bend and kiss her cheek. “Have a good evening.”

I get in my car, watching her get in hers, then follow her down the road until I turn off for my apartment. She gives me a wave, then continues along the road to Opua, where she has a big house on a hill overlooking the bay. I’m not poor by any means, but I don’t have anywhere near the kind of money the Kings have.

I’m glad that Izzy is married to Hal now. She’ll never want for anything, money or love. But it shows you how money doesn’t buy everything. Poppy has more money than she could ever spend, but it really can’t buy you love.

Chapter Five

Poppy

I rock the baby boy in my arms, tenderness filling me at the sight of his button nose, his long lashes, and his flushed cheeks.

“He’s so gorgeous,” I tell his mother, Abby. “You’re so lucky.”

“I know. He takes after Noah.”