Page 28 of The Billionaire’s Paradise (My Billionaire #4)

Some weeks begin with sunshine and pancakes. Ours began with a Zoom call about eggs.

Not the scrambled kind.

The frozen, carefully vetted, genetically fabulous kind.

We’d had a few more sessions with Tessa since the Great Yacht Club Incident—which we’re all pretending never happened—and somewhere in the calm, organized swirl of her spreadsheets and wisdom, we’d found our match.

She wasn’t even part of the original pool.

“This one came in late,” Tessa had said, smiling at the top of the call. “And I instantly thought of you.”

Her name was Sofia Márquez. A musician. Half -Cuban, half -Italian, with a background in both classical violin and experimental jazz.

She taught music therapy to kids on the autism spectrum, and in her application had written, "I want to help create a family where love is the loudest thing in the room. "

I cried.

Cal cried.

Rashida, who had absolutely no business being on that Zoom call, blinked once and said, “Well damn. That’s a yes. ”

And it was a yes. An instant, full-body, no-doubt-about-it yes.

Tessa had walked us through the final paperwork, explained what would happen next, and told us gently—beautifully, actually — “We’re not just moving forward. We’re opening the door.”

And now that door was leading us to Honolulu.

The next step was the clinic.

The transfer.

The miracle of life.

I flipped through the magazines about to go into my suitcase.

“Okay, I’ve got copies of Hole Patrol, Boys & Buttplugs, Gagged & Flagged, Choke & Stroke , and the latest Cumdump Quarterly .

Of course, if you’d prefer to keep it classy, there’s always Motel Sluts Monthly and Father Forgive Me For I’m About To Sin. ”

Cal grimaced. “Oh God, should we even be looking at those in the clinic? I mean, won’t there be posters of happy families and kids finger-painting all over the walls?” He picked a magazine at random out of my suitcase. “It just feels kinda wrong taking the July issue of Anal Apocalypse with us.”

“Maybe. I just don’t wanna be sent into a white room with a plastic cup and told to jerk off, just to find there’s nothing but straight porn on offer. Trust me, trying to get it up while flicking through this month’s MILF Milkshake is not gonna happen.”

Cal flipped through the pages and winced. “Matt. This article is called ‘ Eight Inches to Glory: My Journey from Choirboy to Cum Throne.’ ”

“And it’s beautifully written. Very moving.”

He set it down like it was radioactive. “I just think we should—maybe—approach this with some level of decorum. This is a medical procedure.”

“Okay, so I look like a horny gay teenager right now. But going into a fluorescent-lit room alone and told to produce the juice is daunting. It would be way easier if they just let you come in the room with me. You don’t even have to help. You could just stand there and look like yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Look like myself?”

“You know. Perfect. Loving. Hot. Supportive. The opposite of whatever’s in MILF Milkshake. ”

“Have you even asked whether we can go into the room together? Because I have to come into a cup too. Maybe they’ll let us do it together.”

“You sound like Motel Sluts Monthly right now.”

Cal smirked. “I’m just saying, maybe they’ll let us go full synchronized swimmers. Side -by -side. Rhythmic masturbation with eye contact and a shared sense of purpose.”

I threw a sock at him. “This isn’t a boarding school in upstate New York.”

He caught it mid-air. “Do you want me in the room or not?”

“Yes. Of course I do. After all, you’re my emotional support sex symbol. Not to mention you’re the man I married. The husband I love. The father of my yet-to-be-born child.”

He leaned forward and kissed me. “I’ll text Tessa,” he said, reaching for his phone. “I’ll ask about the, uh… participation policy.”

“Please don’t call it that.”

“Fine,” he said, typing. “I’ll just say, ‘Quick question—can my husband come into the masturbation room with me?’”

“Oh my God.”

He looked up. “Should I add a winking emoji or a little syringe?”

“I swear if you send that, I will throw this entire suitcase into the sea.”

“You won’t. It has Hole Patrol in it.”

He was right. I slammed it shut and zipped it with conviction.

Behind me, Cal was still grinning as he tapped out his message. “You know, this trip is probably going to be clinical and weird and emotional, but also… kind of huge.”

I nodded. “I know.”

He crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. “We’re doing it, Matt.”

“We really are.”

And as we stood there—wrapped around each other in a sea of filth, fertility paperwork, and pre-flight nerves—I realized that this thing we were building, this life we were making, was already beautiful.

Even with Cumdump Quarterly packed neatly between my socks and toothbrush.

It was just the three of us.

Me. Cal. And Leilani.

The chauffeur stood politely beside the sleek black car at a private airport pickup zone in Honolulu, holding the door open for us like we were diplomats or visiting royalty. Which, in a way, I guess we were.

Leilani let out a small laugh as she slid into the back seat beside me. “Oh my God, are these seats real leather? This is my first time in a car like this. It’s like we’re on a secret mission.”

“We are,” I said. “Operation Baby Begins.”

The driver pulled into traffic, smooth as silk, and the city unfolded around us like a living scrapbook.

Leilani pointed out the window. “That hotel right there—my cousin had his wedding there. And over there’s the park where Aunt Pikaki used to do free yoga for the neighborhood until she got banned for yelling at a tourist who tried to bring a parrot.”

“Why did the parrot cause a problem?” I asked.

“She said it disrupted the energy. But mostly she just hates birds. ”

I laughed.

She kept pointing things out, each one laced with some odd, vivid detail.

“That statue over there? One of my uncles proposed to his third wife in front of it. I wasn’t there, but apparently she said yes and then passed out.

Oh, and that diner there… best pancakes on the island.

Also where my cousin gave birth unexpectedly in the bathroom.

They now have a framed photo of the baby… right next to the dessert cart.”

She gestured at a tall banyan tree by the roadside. “That one? My uncle’s pig truck crashed into it on my twelfth birthday, and he never lived it down. Three pigs got out and ran through that church over there. One of them bit the priest. I can’t blame him. Father Fernandes was never very nice.”

“Your family doesn’t just live in Hawaii,” said Cal. “You are Hawaii.”

Leilani shrugged. “I know this place looks busy from the outside, with all the beaches and hotels and tourists everywhere. But Hawaii—I mean, the real Hawaii—isn’t very big at all. That’s why we need to do our best to protect what we’ve got.”

The car slowed as we turned off the main road and entered a quieter stretch lined with tidy trees and elegant signage.

And then we saw it.

The clinic.

White stone. Clean lines. Tall, tinted windows. Peaceful and professional and somehow slightly terrifying in its composure.

Leilani went quiet.

So did I.

Cal reached over and took my hand. “Well… here we are.”

The fertility clinic smelled like lemon wipes and espresso coffee from the pod machine in one corner of the waiting room .

The three of us stood side by side at the check-in desk, trying to look composed and competent while a receptionist with suspiciously flawless handwriting asked for our IDs, confirmation numbers, and signatures on a clipboard that might as well have said “please confirm you’re ready to be parents while strangers handle your fluids. ”

Leilani stood between us, radiating calm.

Once we finished checking in, a nurse appeared and smiled warmly at her. “Leilani? We’re ready for you.”

She turned to us and took a deep breath. “Well… good luck.”

“You too,” Cal and I both said.

Then, just before she disappeared down a nearby corridor, she smirked and called back, “Shoot for the stars, boys! Make me proud… and don’t break anything!”

As her giggle followed her down the corridor, every head in the waiting room swiveled toward us.

I smiled too wide. Cal gave a tiny wave to the strangers staring at us.

“She means well,” I said.

“She really does,” Cal agreed.

A moment later, another nurse appeared—clipboard, badge, slightly amused expression.

“Matt and Cal? Tessa said it was okay for you to use the same collection room. We’ve got you set up just down the hall.”

Cal and I exchanged a look.

“Time to shoot for the stars, I guess.”

Cal nodded. “Just don’t break anything.”

We followed her past tastefully abstract artwork, soundproofed doors, and potted plants so perfect I couldn’t tell if they were real or fake. She stopped at a discreet wooden door, opened it, and gestured for us to enter.

“Here’s your room. There are labels and pens for your samples, and… entertainment options. Take all the time you need. When you’re done, press the call button. ”

She shut the door behind us with professional finality.

We stood there.

The room was… cozy, in the way that only slightly outdated medical rooms can be. Beige colored walls. A soft couch. A little side table with tissues and antiseptic wipes. And in the corner, a small television with a built-in DVD player and a sad stack of disks in a plastic basket.

I crossed to the basket and rifled through it.

“See? There’s only one that caters for the gays.” I held it up like a decaying artifact. “ Boys of the Bayou II . Judging by the cover, it’s from 2004 and has been used as a drinks coaster more times than it’s been played.”

Cal squinted at the cover. “Why is that man wearing nothing but rubber boots and a sheriff’s badge?”

“Let’s be honest, no porn film in history ever overspent on wardrobe.”

He gave a nervous little laugh, then looked around.

There were two small sample cups on the counter. Beside them, a roll of patient label stickers and a sharpie. The air felt still. Too still.

I picked up a cup and turned it in my hands. “This is weird, right?”

“It’s so weird,” Cal said.

“But also kind of…” I looked at him. “Beautiful?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Because we’re doing this together.”

We each took a label and quietly wrote our names.

Then I checked to make sure the door was locked.

Then I checked it again.

Then I checked it a third time.

“I love you,” Cal said gently, pulling me away.

He leaned in and kissed me—soft and slow and reassuring. My shoulders dropped, my breath steadied. He kissed me again, his hands warm against my jaw, then trailing down to my waist.

I closed my eyes .

Everything outside the room faded away.

Soon, the nerves melted into touches.

The touches melted into kisses.

And the kisses became something else.

Clothes slipped away in pieces, unbuttoned and pulled down with quiet care, tossed gently onto the couch.

Cal’s shirt fell first, then mine. Belts undone.

Zippers lowered. Underwear eased down—not yanked, not rushed, just stripped away slowly, like we were peeling off the last layer of our old lives and preparing to morph into something altogether new.

We kissed as we undressed each other, standing chest to chest in the center of the room.

His skin was warm beneath my palms, his body solid, familiar, everything I needed to feel safe.

When his fingers brushed down my spine, I felt the heat pulse between my legs.

I kissed his neck. He kissed my chest, my stomach. We sank down onto the sofa together.

Cal lay back and pulled me against him, skin against skin, thighs rubbing together.

He wrapped his arms around me. I pressed kisses down his chest, over his ribs, along the soft trail of hair leading lower. He arched into me and whispered my name.

There was nothing clinical. Nothing awkward. Just the two of us, bare and open, stroking and gasping and letting it happen the way it always had—together.

When we were ready, he reached down first, wrapped his hand around my shaft with practiced ease, and I mirrored the motion.

We moved in rhythm, slowly, mouths brushing, foreheads pressed together.

I moaned into his kiss. He smiled against my lips, his breath catching.

I felt him tremble, then his hips jerked and his beautiful body tensed—and he came, hard, spilling hot into his cup, his whole face radiant with release.

I wasn’t far behind.

He kissed me through it, holding me, stroking me, whispering filthy things in the gentlest voice. When I came, I came with my eyes locked on his, my body shaking, the pleasure crashing through me as I spilled into the cup in my hand, barely able to breathe, completely in love.

Afterward, we laughed softly as we wiped up, sealed the cups like sacred artifacts, and set them on the little tray like we were offering them to the gods.

Then we lay back together, tangled on the sofa, legs entwined, breath steadying in sync.

We didn’t say much.

We didn’t need to.

Because in that quiet room—somewhere between love and science and the possibility of new life—I knew we’d done something wonderful.

And I loved him more than ever.