Page 122 of Faking Love with the Billionaire Boss

“I’ve never had the money to buy art supplies before, but I used to love art at school. My work was chosen for a local exhibition.”

“Oh, wow, then yeah, go for it. And you can go in Baby Bump with Kennedy and choose all the furniture, and fill the drawers with baby clothes. Whatever you want, I want you to have it.”

My eyes fill with tears. “Please stop. You’re killing me.”

He laughs and kisses my forehead. “I’m going to get back to my emails. You take your time and have a think about the room.”

He leaves me to it, and I sit on the bed and look around.

While Ella singsSummertime, I spend a while thinking about what an ideal nursery would look like for me, and what kind of mural I could paint on the wall. I like the idea of painting it half and half—half green for grass, and the top part blue for sky, with a big bright yellow sun. And then I could do a line of animals—zebras, elephants, monkeys, lions, and of course tigers.

I think about shopping for things for the boys—clothes, toys, and furniture. I don’t know that I’ll ever be comfortable with spending Saxon’s money in that way, but the boys are half his, so I can kind of square that in my mind. Two beautiful cots, with mobiles hanging above them. Lights that change color, and something that plays music, because I already know music is going to be a big part of our lives.

And then, for the first time in a while, I let myself think about my mother. I try not to dwell on thoughts of her too much because it makes me sad, but sitting here, in this beautiful, light room, I only feel restful and hopeful. I touch the shamrock earrings in my ears as I think about the moment Saxon handed me the one I lost in his office, and his words,There’s an angel watching over you and the baby, I think, don’t you? Someone made you come here today.I don’t know whether I believe in God or heaven, but it’s nice to think that maybe she is up there, somewhere, keeping an eye on me and the boys. They could do worse than have her as a guardian angel.

*

Saxon and I have lunch together, and then in the afternoon we go for a walk along the beach, hand in hand. We talk about names for the boys—Saxon puts forward Batman and Robin, while I suggest Shrek and Donkey, which makes him laugh. He asks me questions: about my childhood in Christchurch, where I lived, where I went to school, and I do my best to add my thoughts and feelings to my descriptions, because I know he likes that. I ask him more about being a twin, and discover that he thinks it’s best to treat them like two brothers, and to encourage their independence where we can, rather than always dress them the same and assume they like the same things. I hadn’t thought of it like that, and it gives me another insight into his upbringing and his relationship with Kip.

When we get back, I feel tired, so we cuddle up on the sofa and he puts a movie on. I only see the first ten minutes of it, though, before I fall asleep.

I rouse sometime later, seeing that the sun is lower in the sky. Saxon’s gone, but I can hear him in the kitchen, cooking, and music’s playing, something folky, Bob Dylan, I think. I feel calm and rested, and when I put my hand on my bump, the babies stir as if they’re stretching and yawning.

I rise and wander out into the kitchen, go up to where he’s frying something on the stove, and slide my arms around his waist.

“Hey, you,” he says, turning and hugging me. “Enjoy your nap?”

“Sorry about that. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

“No, it’s good. You need your rest. And food.” He stirs the frying pan, still hugging me.

“What are we having?”

“Gnocchi with chorizo in a cream sauce with sundried tomatoes, garlic, spinach, and parmesan.”

“Mmm. It smells amazing.”

“Later we’ll have a think about some recipes and ingredients, and we’ll leave a list for Eleanor. Come on, it’s ready.”

After we’ve eaten and cleared up, we decide to have a Doctor Who evening. We spend a couple of hours watching Christopher Eccleston running around with Rose, saying the lines along with the characters while we eat ice cream out of the tub. Then, finally, as the sun goes down, I ask him if he minds if I have a bath.

“Only if I can get in with you,” he replies.

“Oh. Really?”

He chuckles. “I’ll set it running.”

When it’s half full and teeming with bubbles, he takes me into the bathroom, undresses me, and helps me in. Then, while I watch with wide eyes, he strips, then climbs in behind me and slides under the water.

“Mmm…” I lean back as he wraps me in his arms, and he kisses the top of my head.

We lie like that for a long while, talking and listening to a playlist he’s put together of songs from early in the millennium: bands like Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, Franz Ferdinand, the Kiwi band Elemeno P. And then eventually he pours some gel onto a sponge and begins to wash me.

He starts with my arms and legs, but inevitably it leads to more intimate regions. He ditches the sponge and uses his hands, caressing my slippery skin with his fingers, and finally I lift up and turn in the bath, glad there’s enough space to climb astride him. I sink down onto him, and kiss him while I move, riding him slowly, and enjoying this sensual adventure, yet another first with this gorgeous man I’m crazy about.

My orgasm rolls over me like waves on a beach, such a cliché and yet accurate because of that, five or six warm, exquisite pulses that leave me with a feeling of blissful wellbeing. But I continue to move, loving the way he grips my hips and thrusts up inside me, taking his own pleasure now he knows I’m fulfilled. I watch him come, kissing his forehead with its fierce frown, his lips as they part with a groan, wanting to capture every second of his ecstasy, and feeling so thrilled that I could do this for him.

Afterward, we get out and dry ourselves, then decide to go to bed as it’s nearly ten and we’re both tired. He curls around me beneath the duvet, holding me tightly, his hands stroking my bump, and I drift into a hazy world of warm contentment.

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