Bought By The Billionaire - BDSM 18 novel Chapter 46

The door clicks shut behind him and from beyond, footsteps echo, followed by my Master’s call, reverberating loud against high ceilings. “Ross, bring the car to the front if you please.”

“Yes, Mr Haswell.”

More footsteps…

The bang of a door…

… The rumble of a car engine… The crunch of gravel…

Then silence.

And for the first time since my Master carried me over the threshold in my wedding dress, I am alone.

Swallowing down disappointment, I lie alone in the vast bed, the scent of my Master still clinging. Where he should be lying beside me, there are only wrinkled sheets and the odd stray rose petals.

Those sheets…

Silk.

Sweaty. Sodden. And freakin’ uncomfortable.

They’ve gotta go.

And there’s no point feeling sorry for myself. So, my beloved Master had to leave me for a while. He was clearly as teed by it as I was. More so I’d imagine.

Wonder if his pants are still a tight fit?

Pull yourself together, Woman…

He had to go…

And you told him it was okay.

Chuckling to myself and dismissing any idea of letting my unexpected solitude get me down, I swing up and out of bed, tugging the blighted sheets along with me. A quick shake and the pillow slips are off too. I toss the lot into a linen basket.

Fresh linen?

Hmmm…

A quick investigation of wardrobe top-cupboards produces only rolled-up comforters, quilts and an electric blanket, carefully vacuum-sealed into plastic.

Linen closet somewhere?

It would go with the house. A property this size might well have had such a thing, doubtless tucked away where it would not offend the gaze of the great and mighty gentry. Marching for the door, my hand is already on the handle when it occurs to me that I am now in fact one of said gentry.

And…

Am I alone?

He said there would be someone to clean up the rose petals.

Slipping on a robe, I venture out into the hallway.

My bare feet sink into carpet still scented of the showroom. A tall window… It has to be twenty feet from sill to lintel… illuminates the stairwell. Slanted sunlight is captured by a vast chandelier, to be fractured, then cast in long rainbows over walls and panelling painted a cool eggshell white.

Around me, the staircase leading down to the ground floor, the door I just exited, plus three others, to left and right and across the hallway. In an air of experiment, I try the door to the left. Poking my head inside…

As though I shouldn’t be here…

… I find a bedroom, every bit as large and plush as the one I just slept in.

Then, Tutting at my own foolishness…

This is my house…

… I enter the lovely room.

A blur of impressions…

A high ceiling… Plaster covings, intricately moulded, and a matching rose in the centre, the setting for another chandelier.

Carpets deep enough to swallow me.

Wardrobes taking up one wall, built from some beautifully grained timber, rosewood perhaps. Matching side tables, dresser and drawers.

Twinned windows, tall and narrow like the one in the hallway outside, looking over green treetops to some distant vista, draped and swagged. Their sills are deep enough to sit on, except that on each is a vase of fresh flowers, deep red roses, filling the air with their fragrance.

A door leads off to one side. When I try it, I find a bathroom; huge, expensively tiled and fitted. Polished glass and brass frames porcelain and fittings in designer names I recognise, coming from showrooms I wouldn’t have once considered entering, let alone buying from.

Mine…

My mouth is dry.

Linen cupboard…

Returning to the hallway, I try another door, the one to the right. This time it’s neither linen cupboard nor the bedroom I was half-expecting, but another bathroom. And it’s not an en-suite.

I stare, agog. A room the size of many apartments is empty of almost everything except a single colossal bath. Mounted on a marble plinth, supported by brass lion's feet, the huge slipper bath curves up at the back to support the lounging occupant…

Occupants?

And now, I am Mrs Haswell, wife to my wonderful Master, submissive to a Dominant who is not only handsome, considerate and passionate but unreasonably wealthy; the wealthiest man in a hundred miles.

It's… unreal…

My head spins.

Time to explore…

Returning to the main bedroom, I shrug off my robe, stepping under the shower. Steaming water sluices over my upturned face and squeezed-shut eyes, pummelling me with heat and pressure, carrying away sweat and the scent of sex and my Master, still clinging to my skin after our lovemaking.

I grin to myself. On his return, I imagine his libido will have been reinforced by the morning’s curtailed activities.

Better be ready for him…

Testing a couple of bottles, I pick out a shampoo perfumed with tea tree and vanilla, massaging it through my hair until long tails of foam stream down over my waist and hips and thighs.

… tell me about your family sometime…

Leaning forward, I support myself on palms raised flat against the tiles, then droop my head, letting my thoughts wander, considering my Master’s question, reliving the events of recent days.

My father at the wedding...

The man that thought so little of me, he never once came to visit in the City. Or invited me to visit ‘back home’. Or even called me. I was only ever good enough to man his store. Cheap labour. Because if he’d had to employ someone else, he would have had to pay them a decent wage.

Still resentful that I’d finally broken free, found a way to make a life of my own, at the wedding, he barely spoke. He only… grudgingly… walked me down the aisle because on that, even Mom put her foot down, insisting that it was a father’s duty.

I’d have rather asked my cousin David to do it, but it seemed easier to keep the peace, so I agreed. Instead, at the church, it was a smiling David who hugged me, leaning in over my hooped meringue of a dress. “Bravo, Beth. I knew you could do it. The very best of luck for the future.”

Even his brother, Stephen, gruff and awkward, a fish out of water, kissed me on the cheek. “Congratulations, Beth.”

My father again, scowling around the church: the high arches, the flowers, the guests. Then, later at the reception, “Well, this'll have cost a pretty penny.”

My mother, embarrassed by my father’s surliness and intransigence, but as always, accepting it from him, saying nothing.

The smile glued to my face as I talk through my teeth. “No one's asked you to pay for it, Dad.”

“Fine way to start in life,” he mutters, “Mortgaging yourself up to pay for a big fancy wedding.”

“There's no mortgage, Dad. Now please excuse me, I want to talk to Uncle Al.”

My old uncle sits on the edges of things, a rug thrown over his lap as he watches from his wheelchair. His face creased and sagging with age and ill health, shoulders drooping, this has been too much for him. But as I take the next seat, doing battle with my dress for space, he takes my hand between his, cracking into a smile. In a voice as withered as his frame, “Congratulations, Princess. I always knew you'd do it.”

I squeeze his fingers. “Yes, but what have I done? I'm still a bit overwhelmed with it all.”