His Secret Billionaire Omega_M/M Non-Shifter Alpha/Omega MPREG

by Harper B. Cole

  "That's not—I can—"

  I'd never really heard Marcus at a loss for words. But I wanted to pay for his groceries. I wanted to take care of him. I wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and bring him hot chocolate and snuggle in next to him and make him forget about whatever worries plagued him.

  "I got this," was all I said, and he settled into a grumpy silence, which was less than ideal.

  "So what are you planning on making?" I asked as I pushed the cart out to my car.

  "Moroccan Chicken Stew," he said, his body unfolding, slowly letting go of his frustration with me. That was good. Marcus wasn't built for negative emotions. He was a creature of happiness and new beginnings. He should always be happy.

  "That sounds interesting."

  "It's my comfort food," he admitted. "It's warm and comforting, but zingy, and spicy. It just makes your mouth happy, and then your stomach, and then all the happiness spreads out into your bones."

  I wasn't going to say it, but it sounded kind of like a blowjob followed by an orgasm to me. And I may not have said it, but my face must have been saying something for me, because one look at me, and Marcus burst into a laugh.

  "I'm serious," he said. "You should try it sometime."

  "I'd like to," I said, waiting, hoping. I unloaded the groceries into my tiny trunk and then we climbed in my car, but the invitation I was waiting for was not forthcoming.

  8

  Marcus

  It had been ages since I just had fun. Flirting, teasing, and bantering with Killian had been easier than I had dared hope after the condition I had been in when he found me.

  And when he paid for my groceries—that did something to the omega in me. I was far from needing to be taken care of financially, and I was certainly going to find a way to repay him without him knowing, but his desire to do so? What a turn on. He had all parts of me paying attention. All parts except my brain, because before I knew it, I was inviting him to come up into my space, a place that no one had seen other than the movers, a couple of maintenance and delivery people, and the nosey old lady down the hall.

  “Thanks. You can leave them here,” I offered as we reached the door.

  The bags stayed in his arms—all of them. He had insisted on carrying them, and damn if I didn’t find that sexy.

  “I’ll just bring them in for you.”

  I opened the door, holding it until he walked past before following him. If my eyes fell to his derrière, what could I do? It was yummy.

  “The table is fine.” I turned on the kitchen light before pulling out my Instapot and colander. “Pass me the chickpeas?”

  “Um, sure.”

  I had caught him off guard, but he quickly recovered, tossing them my way.

  I worked quickly, rinsing them and setting them to cook. They were the most time intensive part of the recipe, and while it was easier to buy a can, they tasted so much better without the added salt, the extra few minutes was worth it.

  If my mother only saw me like this, she’d probably pass out. She was of the mindset that household duties should all go to the hired help. It was one of the first things I did after I left: learn to cook. I could have lived on take-away, but who would want to? And cooking came with the added bonus of strengthening my ability to be a good omega.

  Killian unbagged my groceries onto the table, organizing them by food group. It was particularly adorable.

  “Thanks. Those take the longest,” I explained as I took the ingredients for dinner and put them on the counter before putting the few other items away.

  “I never knew anyone who could do that.” Killian stared at me as I was opening a package of chicken thighs.

  “Do what?” I knew he couldn’t be talking about my chicken package opening skills.

  I needed to get the thighs deboned and chopped to make the dish cook faster. When I had a lazy day to let it simmer, I preferred to use them whole—the fat from the skin added a layer of flavor this dish would be lacking—but it was probably best to move things along since there was an alpha in my apartment.

  I took a second to ponder that. I had an alpha in my space, a maple scented, sex on a stick alpha at that, and I wasn’t scared or even uncomfortable. It was just nice, being here with him, showing off my mad skills. Sure, I was still flirting, swishing my hips as I walked and adding innuendo wherever I could, but there was some real me here too. For some reason, that felt important to me. Huge, even. That’s what he said, I snickered to myself.

  “Make chickpeas from scratch.”

  “Well, it’s kind of difficult to make them from scratch. They grow much better on… whatever it is they grow on.” I flushed at my failed snark. “But really, it’s the same thing as making black-eyed peas or kidney beans.” I pulled out my first thigh and made quick work of it.

  “Where I grew up, those came from a can, too.”

  I grew up with chefs, so all things were made to perfection. Shit, I never had a store bought dessert until my first year at school when Johnny Jones brought in store bought cupcakes with little Power Ranger rings on them. They were amazing.

  “You can really cook. Did you get that from your mom?”

  I ignored his question, focusing on my chicken instead. I not only didn’t want to go there, I didn’t want to lie. Not to Killian, for some reason. That didn’t mean I was ready to spill the whole truth about who I was… and along with that, what I was worth fiscally. That knowledge changed how people treated me, and generally not in the best ways.

  Killian filled the silence. “My mama tried to teach me to cook, but my skillset is limited to things with directions on the box, I’m afraid. That, and scrambled eggs. I make a mean scrambled egg.”

  My naughty mind went straight to the ways that would lead me to getting to partake of said eggs. I needed not to go there. It would only lead to badness and disappointment.

  “I watch a lot of Food Network and took a class at the community center.” And by a lot, I meant it was the only channel I ever watched. “I also joined far too many Instapot groups on Facebook. I’m pretty addicted to cooking with it now.”

  “An Instapot?” Killian was squinting as if he were thinking hard about what I could be referring to. Damn, could he be any more adorable. Not that I’d call him that to his face. Big, strong, sexy alphas shied away from the compliments of cute and adorable, even when the descriptors were accurate.

  “Yeah, that thing I put the beans in.” I pointed with my knife before heading to the sink to wash my hands and grab the tomato knife. “It’s basically an electric pressure cooker which means I can cook good meals when I get home from work without wasting hours. And it makes yogurt.” Or more accurately… my second Instapot did, because who wanted their yogurt to pick up even the most subtle hint of the flavors and aromas from previously cooked foods? Not I, said the little sexy omega.

  “You make yogurt?” His mouth fell open as I began to make short work of the tomatoes.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I’m more than just a pretty face.”

  “So I am learning, Blondie. So I am learning.”

  I let the nickname go, not showing him how much I liked it. I grabbed a few spices and my good fry pan as well as a large sauce pan and lid. I looked at my timer. If I started the water and chicken now, the chickpeas could be done just in time. Not as good as slow cooked all day, but it was going to be amazing.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” Inviting him directly would’ve been too hard. How was it I could talk to this man about the phallic nature of produce, but not offer him a meal?

  “Are you asking me to stay?” He seemed to see straight through me, and his challenge made me freeze for a second before answering.

  “I guess I am. It will be good. I promise.” I’d already heated the oil and dropped the chicken in the pan, sprinkling it with all of my favorite spices. It smelled amazing.

  “My dinners this week have consisted of value meals five, seven, and the brand-new number eight. If you served me that
cucumber with a side of those chickpeas, you’d already have won the competition for best dinner of the week.”

  “Low bar. Excellent.” I winked before going back to the task at hand, flipping the chicken so all of the sides got a bit of browned goodness. My favorite way to make this stew was with lamb, but the local grocery store rarely had any, so chicken had to suffice. “Takes the pressure off. You won’t be telling me about my overuse of garlic or undercooked orzo, which will be a thing, because I prefer my orzo not mushy.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He smiled, a smile that reached his eyes. Nice. “Need me to chop anything?” He hesitated on the word chop and I conjectured he threw that out there as the only skill he could offer. He probably was a better cook than he gave himself credit for. Most people were, they just didn’t realize their potential. I knew this firsthand. My days watching Fatima in the kitchen taught me far more than I realized before I took my first official cooking class.

  “Naw.” A flash of disappointment crossed his eyes so I added, “But you can set the table, Killer.”

  “Deal.” He almost added something else, I could see it on his face. Instead, he shook it off and went about setting the table.

  9

  Killian

  Once in his apartment, Marcus was both more himself and more guarded at the same time. As if his shields had hardened into diamonds, so I could see glimpses of him through their clear walls, but couldn't reach.

  I shook my head. My little brother Coop would have said I'm getting soft in my old age. Well, he probably had a point, but any softness I had was wrapped up in this little omega.

  After I set the table, which took all of five minutes, even with folding the paper towels into triangles to place under the forks, I stood off to the side awkwardly. Marcus was wrapped up in tending to his pan, mumbling a little song under his breath, thrusting his hips back and forth to a beat only he could hear. He must have sensed me watching, because he spun around suddenly, glaring into my eyes. "What?" he asked.

  He was like one of those tiny terriers. I didn't know what they were called, but they were white, and fluffy, generally perfectly groomed, and utterly adorable. But sometimes they felt like they had to defend themselves and their territory, and then they got all fluffed up. That was what Marcus reminded me of.

  "What's that smile for?" he pushed.

  I raised my hands in protest. "What smile? I'm just enjoying the show."

  Marcus slowly pointed the spatula at me. "You tell anyone, I'll glitter bomb you."

  I shivered in mock horror. "Message received, loud and clear."

  He turned back to the pan, but he stopped singing and dancing, which was a shame.

  The timer on the Instapot went off, but he didn't make a move toward it. "Do we need to do anything with that?" I asked.

  "Nope. It just needs to sit for a minute, as do these..." he put a cover on the pan and checked the pot. "Just a little while longer, and we'll put it all together."

  "Awesome."

  Marcus's long fingers fiddled nervously at the edge of his shirt as he glanced around his apartment. I followed his gaze. It was... definitely Marcus. Everything was colorful, but it matched in a wild-crazy way I never would have put together myself.

  Suddenly, Marcus gasped. "I didn't say hello to Blubby!" He sprang into motion and I followed slowly behind. He bent down next to a medium-sized tank and started talking in a... I really couldn't describe it as anything other than a fishy voice. It was kind of like how a lot of people talk to small children and animals, but he pursed his lips into duck lips, or fish lips, I guess you could say. "Daddy's so sorry he forgot all about you, little Blubbers. But I brought a very nice friend to meet you. Say hi to Killian?"

  Marcus looked up at me, his lips still pursed ridiculously, but in a completely carefree way that made me want to kiss them.

  "Are you going to say hi to Blubby?"

  I started to laugh, but he was completely serious, so I crouched down and said, "Hello, Blubby." There was no way I was talking to the fish in that crazy voice Marcus was using. The fish blew a bubble.

  "See! He likes you!" Marcus exclaimed, turning to me at the same time I turned to him. Our noses almost brushed, we were so close. His eyes flicked adorably between mine, the tension between us building.

  Something beeped, breaking the moment, and I cleared my throat as we both sprang back.

  "Saved by the bell," Marcus chirped, skipping his way to the kitchen.

  What was it that pulled Marcus away each time he seemed about to open a door between us? It sure wasn't the damn bell.

  "If you need to wash up, dinner's almost ready," Marcus said. "Bathroom's by the couch."

  I took his suggestion for what it was, a chance for both of us to gather our wits. I checked my phone after washing my hands. No messages, but I'd completely let time get away from me. I was due on shift in an hour and a half, and I still needed to change into my work clothes which were a minimum of forty minutes away in good traffic, and then another forty minutes back, but on another side of town. If I left now, I'd just make it.

  "Dinner is ready," Marcus chirped as I stepped out.

  It smelled amazing, and I was seriously tempted to call in sick tonight. But that would be a shit thing to do to my team. "I'm really sorry," I said, "but I completely forgot about work."

  His face fell, and I could practically see his shields darkening. Damn it, that wasn't what I wanted.

  "Oh. No worries, more for me." He put on a cheerful grin. Before today, before the thing with Decker, I would have had suspicions that it was just an act, but now I knew.

  I gently took his hand and raised his knuckles to my lips. "Forgive me?" I asked.

  He fluttered his eyelashes, playing the part he always played, but I hoped he sensed the sincerity of my words. "Next time," he breezed.

  I hoped there would be a next time. I hoped that my bad time management skills hadn't screwed this up for me.

  10

  Marcus

  I was an idiot. Such a bumbling idiot. He was so close to kissing me, or I him—I didn’t know which any longer—and it didn’t really matter because the timer beeped and I had to go and try and be funny. Saved by the bell. I blew it with four words. He thought I wanted saving from his kiss, because I basically told him as much. Idiot.

  I strained the orzo, no longer hungry. I grabbed a couple of freezer containers and made the equivalent of two frozen dinners out of my stew. At least I would have something good to eat on a cold winter night.

  Next time. My words kept bouncing around in my head, tormenting me. I’d pushed him away with an insult, and then begged him to return.

  I tried to distract myself with housework, dusting things that were already dust free and cleaning things that were already cleaned. It was to no avail. The day had been too much. First, running into Parker and who knew what agenda he was angling, and then running into Killian and failing at all things magnificently.

  Eventually I gave up, toeing on my shoes as I took out my phone and called for a ride.

  The car was there before I made it outside, and I slid in, the driver one who I’d had several times now.

  “I’m not sure you can get in, this time of night,” the old man offered when he confirmed my destination. He might be right, but I didn’t care. Getting to the gate would be enough for me.

  “I’ll take my chances. Do you think you could wait for me while I’m there? I shouldn’t be too terribly long.”

  He pulled away from the road and toward our destination on the outskirts of the city.

  “I can’t really do that, sir. I would have to clock out and then I’d miss other opportunities.”

  This was a game we’d played before. He was angling for the promise of a significant tip, which he already knew he’d get. I didn’t mind. It was his job and, unlike me, he needed the peanuts the company threw his way from his fares. I took out my wallet and tossed a couple of hundred dollar bills I kept in a secret compar
tment, in case of emergencies, on the front seat.

  “Would this help alleviate your risk?” I hoped he wasn’t going to be too greedy. I’d left most of my cash still up in apartment. Carrying around a bunch of money was a quick way to have people figuring out I was more than just a barista.

  “I believe so, sir. Thank you.” He seemed relieved, almost too much so. That little bit of cash I gave meant more to him this time than in the past.

  “If it’s not enough, if you need more, you would let me know?” I’d never ask the man outright if he was on hard times. He was a proud beta and, from the stories he’d told in the past, had more grandchildren than an elementary school had students and each and every one was the apple of his eye.

  That was something my kids would never have, at least not from my side of the family. My parents had never been loving, proud parents to us. There was no way they would become that to any children I might have. My future children’s only hope was if my alpha had a big, fat, loving family. Did Killian have a good family?