A billionaire with a breeding obsession. A reluctant surrogate who's desperate for a way out. An agreement that should be all business….

"I DO NOT FANCY THE BILLIONAIRE."

Why would I fancy the billionaire? He's just a pin-up sex god who belongs on the front cover of Esquire at the end of a planked oak table in a glossy navy suit.

Besides, I'm a temp! I'm not his wife. I just want my £55,000 so I can leave this entire baby-farming business behind for good.

But the billionaire has locked eyes on my DNA, and now he's standing six inches away from me, and my mouth is totally glued closed at the thought of his strong, sweet-smelling body.

I know, incontrovertibly, as my womb knows and my ovaries know, that I wouldn't say no if he pressed me up against the wall, sucked my breasts, and bred me midbreadcrumbs.

Dear God, why do I have to have working ovaries? Why can't I be dry and used-up and ready for the glue factory like a well-behaved genetically challenged woman in her mid-thirties?"

An addictively spicy, dark, bunny-boiling story about a billionaire's wish to breed a dozen babies with a harem of golden-skinned girls.