Bought By The Billionaire - BDSM 18 novel Chapter 53

A long pergola frames a path leading toward the far end of the garden; a green tunnel, blooming honeysuckle and passion flowers. We follow it, ducking rambling climbers. I snatch the scent of jasmine from here, the fragrance of lavender from there.

In this green and perfumed bower, my Master pauses, looping an arm around my waist. “Come here…” He pulls me in close, his mouth falling on mine.

Above us, a bird rustles and flutters in the tangled havoc of an ancient wisteria, squawking some reprimand at our presence. My Master laughs, releasing me. “That put us in our place.”

Angling up on tiptoes, I see a nest but catch only a rear view of the fleeing occupant. My Master looks upward too. Tugging aside a knot of honeysuckle stems, he exposes one of the crossbeams, examining it for a moment. Then, leaping up, he catches hold with both hands, hanging for a moment. The beam gives under his weight, creaking alarmingly, and he releases his hold, dropping down.

Brushing off his hands, he flashes brows at me. “Just an idea.”

As if I couldn’t guess…

“For the warmer weather, I think…” I keep a firm tone. “And after some of those timbers are replaced.” I aim a finger toward a cracked and rotted upright, wound around tight by twining stems. “I think the climbers are supporting the pergola rather than the other way around.”

He clucks. “No problem. And besides…” That brow-flash again, this time with a wicked smile. “... there’s a better spot for what I had in mind.” He jerks a thumb onward.

?

The pergola comes out toward the end of the garden, the last several yards naked of scramblers under the looming shade of the trees.

My Master nods forward, extending a finger. Following it, I come to… I'm not sure what…

It’s a small… construction… almost igloo-like, built into the corner where the wall makes a sharp right along the end garden boundary. The open entrance is tall enough to enter upright, and there’s room enough inside for two or three people, or a small table and chairs maybe.

Ahhh…

“This is your ‘Nook’?”

Legs akimbo, arms folded, he nods. “That’s right.”

Stepping inside, the air is cool and damp, with a touch of ‘cave smell’ about it. An ancient bench totters, semi-collapsed, rotting timber slats falling from the sockets of rusty iron supports. But it wouldn't be much of a task to paint the metalwork and replace the slats. Slabs of plaster peel from the curved walls and roof, revealing random stone blocks jigsawed together underneath. But again, replastering wouldn't be a huge task.

“What a wonderful place,” I say. “In summer especially. A real hidey-hole. A retreat from hot weather.”

My Master nods agreement. “That’s surely what it was originally intended for. Maybe constructed by some artist or writer looking for an escape.” His lips twitch, eyes raising.

I follow his gaze to the domed stonework above me and chuckle. “Ah… Gotcha.”

“Since Madam, you have a penchant for ceiling hooks, I thought we’d have one installed here. For, as you say, the warmer weather.”

Naked, stretched upwards, surrounded by birdsong as my Master fucks me…

I glow inside.

*****

Back in the house, my Master reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll let Mrs Martin know to give you the accounts. Next week maybe.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll tell her myself. I need to take charge for myself.”

Setting the phone down again, he smiles slightly. “Yes, you do.”

*****

Climbing the back stairs, I turn off into the office. It’s all perfectly tidy. Almost too tidy, everything cleared from the desk. Not so much as a pen tray or a stapler in view. A filing cabinet sits beside the desk. Randomly, I tug at a drawer.

Locked.

Various folders, suppliers’ brochures and similar are housed in glass-fronted bookcases. I scan the file labels…

Purchases…

Receipts…

Suppliers’ statements…

Bank statements…

… then pull at the handle.

Also locked.

Hmmm…

I shrug it off.

Probably just good housekeeping.

*****

I locate my Master’s housekeeper…

Whoa there… Back up…

I locate my housekeeper on the attic level.

A door stands open. Inside, Mrs Martin, her back to me, stands surrounded by heaps and stacks of linen and bedding, occupied with ironing what looks like a tablecloth. Steam hisses that hot-cotton smell into the air as she irons the cloth into perfect creases…

Good work… Careful work…

… More linen drapes over an airing maiden.

On a side table, a pad lies open, some list written out on the open page.

Hanging the ironed cloth over the airer, she ticks off an item on the list…

Very efficient…

… then turns to a stack on her left. As she turns, she sees me. “Mrs Haswell?” She looks startled, but then settles into a frown. “I didn't expect to see you up here again.”

“This is my home now, Mrs Martin. Surely I can go anywhere I please?”

Her expression turns bland as she picks a stray fibre of lint from her sweater. “Of course.”

I glance around the stacks of linen. “What is it you’re doing?”

“Simply sorting the linen, Mrs Haswell. It's part of my job.” Her face blanks.

I pause, waiting for a bit more. When it seems that nothing is forthcoming, I say, “Actually, I’m up here for a reason. To let you know I’ll be taking over the accounts.”

She blinks. “I’d hardly have thought a… lady… in your position would be involved in that kind of work.”

“I’ve run a set of books all my adult life, Mrs Martin. Work’s not beneath me.”

Her expression morphs to prim. “I’ll see you receive copies of all the paperwork.”

“No need. I’ll handle it coming in. You can have it addressed to me in the future.”

Her mouth purses, but she inclines her head. “As you say.”