It began with a soft shuddering, a tremulous ripple that alerted him. Having held his cock at its bursting point, he lifted his head, and arching his back, buried himself ever deeper, in a sensuous prayer of thankful relief.
He could feel her ripples gaining momentum, lifting her, rising to their crest. Dropping her wrists, he rose to his knees, and gripping her hips, he pulled her pelvis against him, powering his piston with mighty thrusts, propelling her progress.
Her shriek didn’t start as a shriek. It started as a deep, low utterance, and as he pumped, as his orgasm seized him, he heard the chords of her climax rise in pitch and in volume.
His declarations of ecstasy reverberated through the centuries old cavern, but her staccato howls of happiness were all he could hear, as if his spasms were determined by her orgasmic bliss, each cry of exultation directing the convulsions of his release. The dance seemed endless, until quivering with a last burst of energy he felt her fall limp, and his flaccid cock emerged from its nest, spent and exhausted.
Belle was drifting through Nirvana. It was a splendid place of glorious serenity. Floating above the creamy landscape, she gazed down upon pastel pastures and softly rounded, rolling hills. Lifting her eyes to the gigantic sun, there was no painful glare or searing heat, but an enveloping cloak of light, and a comforting tepid warmth.
“Belle, time to come back to me.”
The faraway voice was calling her home.
But it’s so heavenly up here, she protested.
“Come on, time to return.”
Simon? Oh, Simon, yes I will come back for you.
Wafting and fluttering, a butterfly on a gentle breeze, she felt herself coasting down. The immense sun was shrinking and she was nearing a wheat field.
“Open your eyes, Belle.”
She felt a soft jolt, not unlike a wide, low speed bump, and tried to open her eyes. Her lids were heavy, very heavy, as if a weight had been laid upon them.
“That’s my girl, focus on my voice and open them up. Look at me.”
Simon’s voice was on top of her, next to her, and she longed to see him, and with a supreme effort, she blinked them open.
“There you are,” he smiled.
“What–?”
“How do you feel?”
“Uh, I’m n-not sure. A-amazing, I-I think.”
Stretching out next to her, he pulled her close, cradling her tenderly.
“What was it like?” he purred.
“I think I visited heaven,” she sighed.
“Then there must be two heavens,” he remarked. “Heaven where you were, and heaven right here, right now, the two of us together.”
Simon had developed a habit. Whether he was visiting the manor for a week, a weekend or just overnight, on his last morning he would rise early, head to the stables, and take Hammond for a long gallop across the open fields of the estate. It not only invigorated him, it sharpened his mind, allowing him to think clearly in the days ahead.
Stirring from sleep, eyes still closed, he listened to Belle’s soft breathing. He loved her, absolutely loved her, was in love with her. The concept was still startling to him, and he felt almost ashamed that he’d not been able to pluck up the courage to tell her.
The right time will present itself, he thought, and I’ll know it.
It was a belief he could live with, and opening his eyes he stared up at the painting over the fireplace. The man was there to greet him every morning. Taking a moment to send the portrait a silent hello, Simon climbed gently out of bed, walking quietly to the desk overlooking the barn and the land beyond.
Peering out the windows he drank in the sight. A light mist was kissing the manicured lawns with its early morning dew, the trees stood motionless, tall, unmoving, fearless guards on duty, and the tranquility of the scene engulfed him in a peace he had only ever found there.
This is my home. It is where I belong, he sighed.
Though he had hired the best private detective the city had to offer, the man had been unable to uncover anything about Simon’s adoption, or his connection to the estate, and any attempts to make appointments with the family had been unanswered.
Shaking off his reverie, he pulled a piece of his personal notepaper from the small shelf on the centuries old desk and began to write.
Off for an early morning ride. Didn’t want to wake you. See you when I get back. L & K, Simon xx
Simon liked putting pen to paper; the feel of the stationary, the intimacy of the process, the telltale style of handwriting, it all made an old-fashioned sense to him. Smiling, he folded the notepaper in half, placed it next to her on his pillow, and collecting his riding attire, moved to the bedroom down the hall so his showering would not wake her.
Once ready he called the stables, alerting them of his arrival, and dropped his cell phone into the leather container on his belt. By the time he made the walk down Hammond would be tacked up and ready to go.
The morning was cool, almost chilly, his breath visible, the change of seasons in the air, and he picked up his pace, marching down the slight incline to the stable courtyard. As he turned into the cobblestone yard, he saw Hammond in the final stages of being readied, and the stable manager, Kevin Riley, strode forward to greet him.
“Morning, Sir,” he smiled.
The Irish gent had come with the estate, and Simon had grown to admire and respect the man, as well his knowledge of all things horses.
“Fresh this morning. Old man winter is around the corner,” Kevin remarked.
“Indeed he is,” Simon nodded.
“Where might you be riding this morning?”
It was a question Kevin always asked. Should a horse return to the stable, sans its jockey, it gave him some idea of where to send help.
“I’ve been thinking about that. It’s been a while since I’ve done the road gallop, so that’s my plan.”
The sound of steel shoes on stone told Simon Hammond was being led to the mounting block, and looking past his stable foreman, he saw the big gelding waiting patiently.
“Looks like we’re ready. Thank you, Kevin. See you when I get back.”
The road gallop was so named because of the fields that ran alongside the lengthy driveway that led from the house down to the main road. It was flat and open, and he would walk the horse, then trot, then canter to the end, break to a walk to cross over the paved driveway, through the trees, then canter back up, then trot, and walk, giving the horse an excellent warm up and cool down, especially important on cold mornings.
Heading off, he found Hammond relaxed, his ride the previous day having settled him, and Simon loosened the rein, letting the horse stretch its neck down. Ambling through the morning quiet, Simon’s mind wandered to the conversation he’d had with Belle in his study, the conversation about the lack of challenges in his life.
Maybe I should slowly wind everything down. Maybe it’s time to retire, take Belle and travel the world, but even before the notion had barely taken hold, he knew it was one he couldn’t consider. It wasn’t in him to be a man of leisure.
I suppose I could always rob a bank like Thomas Crown, he mused. Or something similar.
As he turned from the house and started into the field, Hammond knew exactly where he was and what was coming next, and unexpectedly began to trot. Caught off guard, Simon fell slightly backwards in the saddle, and finding his balance, scrambled for the reins. Gathering them up, rebalancing himself into position, though there was no-one in sight to view his lapse, he felt quite embarrassed.
Maybe I should pursue a career in show-jumping, he thought, trotting down the field. He loved the sport, and finding an up-and-coming rider and searching out great horses appealed to him. Winning the world cup. Now that’s a challenge. I could get into that.
The more he thought about it, the more the idea buoyed him, and Belle’s instant affinity with riding meant she’d probably enjoy the adventure as well. Asking Hammond to step into the canter, he rose up in his saddle, l
eaning over the horse’s neck, relishing the feel of the chilly morning breeze created by their speed.
So engrossed was he with his sparkling new plan, and the joy of the gallop, the car sitting at the end of the driveway didn’t register. He spied it, but it took him a few minutes for his thoughts to take shape, and when they did, he slowed Hammond to a walk, studying the odd scene, wondering who would have parked in such an odd place.
As he neared he saw the car was an older Mercedes, and a man was leaning against the hood, staring up in the direction of the house. Having only a glimpse of the roof from so far away, it made no sense, and the man was so preoccupied, Simon realized he and Hammond hadn’t been seen moving quietly along the grass, partially obscured by the line of trees.
He decided to dismount. If the man made any unexpected moves it could spook his horse, and he wanted to find out who the man was and why he was parked at such an odd place.
Sliding out of his saddle and on to the ground, he flipped the reins over Hammond’s head, and leading him forward, found a space between the trees wide enough to allow them through. It meant he was approaching the man from the rear, and as he walked forward, the horses feet made the familiar clippity-clop sound on the pavement.
“Excuse me, may I help you?” Simon inquired.
The man stood up, but did not turn around, nor did he speak.
“Are you all right?” Simon pressed, thinking the stranger’s behavior suggested the man might not be well, and he’d pulled off the road to rest.
“I’m quite fine. Terribly sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll leave. Was just admiring the grounds.”
His voice was rich and full, and decidedly aristocratic. Curious, and feeling the man offered no threat, Simon moved forward. “My name is Simon,” he offered. “Are you from around here?”
He saw the man square his shoulders, and dropping his head, slowly began to turn.
“Yes, I know who you are,” he replied mysteriously. “I’m terribly sorry, but please prepare yourself for a bit of a shock.”
The statement itself was startling enough, but there was no amount of warning the man could have offered that would have prepared Simon for what he was about to witness.
“It was not my intent to run into you,” the man continued as he turned, his head facing the ground.
Simon felt something in his temples. It was a pulsing, an unexpected thudding, he could feel himself grow hot under his clothes and he was finding it difficult to breathe. A knowing, a belief, was whizzing through his brain.
“Hello Simon, I am Harry, The Duke of Chatsworth, and I am your father,” the stranger announced, lifting his head.
Simon found himself staring at an older version of his own face. It was undeniable. He was looking into the eyes of his father, and suddenly understood the term, frozen stiff. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t breathe.
“I’m terribly sorry to spring it on you like this,” the man said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know how to, that is, your mother and I, oh dear, I’m making a shambles of this whole thing. I’m terribly sorry,” he repeated.
Simon struggled, and somehow, though he didn’t know quite how, he managed to make his throat work, and he swallowed, gulping in air.
“I don’t know what to say,” he finally managed.
“I’m sure. Look, I know this is an awful cheek, but perhaps we could go up to the house? Have a chat?”
A chat? He wants a chat?
“It’s quite a short story, though it’s a powerful one. It’s time, Simon. Time for you to know who you are, and the truth of your parentage.”
“R-right,” Simon answered, trying to shake himself out of his state of stupefaction.
“Do you need help getting back on? That’s a big horse you’ve got there.”
It was a practical question, one upon which Simon could focus, though in his shock, he’d completely forgotten he was holding a pair of reins, and that there was a horse behind him. Turning around, seeing Hammond’s large, gentle eye, he felt a semblance of balance, and patted him on the neck, flicking the reins back over his head.
“Yes. Do you know how to give a leg up?” Simon asked the stranger who was his father.
“I have hoisted many people into many saddles,” his father assured him.
This is totally surreal, Simon thought. I’ve just walked through the trees into the Twilight Zone.
Simon positioned himself for the leg-up, and his father held his calf.
“On three,” he announced. “One, two, three.”
With practiced ease he sensed Simon’s small jump, and jacked him up into the saddle.
“I’ll wait for you at the steps,” his father promised, stroking Hammond’s shoulder, and marched back to his car.
Turning the horse around, Simon walked him back through the opening in the trees, then pulling the phone from its holder, called Kevin, asking him to have the stable boy meet him at the house.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Sinclair?” he asked. “Do you want me to come?”
“No. The stable lad,” he insisted.
“Righto then, I’ll send him up.”
Securing his phone back in its holder, he picked up the reins, moving Hammond forward into a canter. Seeing the car accelerate ahead, he increased his horse’s speed into a gallop. Hammond eagerly responded, and the horse’s stride whistled them across the ground toward the house.
Can I offer you tea, coffee perhaps?” Simon asked, as they walked into the foyer, gazing at the man who once owned the very home in which they stood.
“Yes. Excellent,” his father replied. “A cup of tea is always welcome, and may I say, the house looks marvelous. I’ve missed it terribly and I’m just delighted that it’s in your care.”
The awkwardness was palpable, and though he wanted to respond to his father’s emotional remark, Simon was at a loss, so he simply nodded his head, and turned down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Walking into the spacious room where meals had been prepared for nobles, royalty and world figures down through the ages, Simon had an unexpected rush. Having always been enamored of the house and estate, the sure knowledge that he was a direct descendant hit home with an overwhelming force. He paused, feeling slightly giddy, and pulling one of the chairs from the breakfast table, sat himself down.
“I’ll make it, shall I?” his father suggested.
“Uh, yes, that might be best,” Simon replied.
Aware his son was overcome with the extraordinary news of his ancestry, Harry bustled about preparing the tea. Once the kettle was on the stove to boil and he’d found tea caddy, fighting an unexpected wave of nostalgia, seeing it was the same caddy he had once used, he set about finding two cups and saucers, placing them on the large butcher-block center island, the very one he had installed decades before.
“I’m sorry,” Simon abruptly apologized, breaking the silence. “I don’t mean to be rude sitting here not saying anything. I’m just shocked. It’s all quite a bit to process.”
“My goodness, no apology is necessary,” his father vehemently replied. “I had planned to break this news to you in an entirely different manner. Apparently fate had its own ideas.”
“Apparently,” Simon sighed. “There’s a tray on that bench. Perhaps we should take this conversation somewhere else. My chef will be here shortly.”
“Right you are,” his father nodded, and fetching the tray, laid it on the butcher block. “Lead the way, whenever you’re ready,” he declared, filling the tray with all the necessary items.
“I’m fine,” Simon declared standing up.
The giddiness had passed, though he was still wrapping his brain around the news, and questions were beginning to buzz though his mind at an alarming rate.
“I think we should go to my study,” he decided.
“I’m right behind you,” his father stated, picking up the tray.
Walking into the hallway, Simon stayed slightly ahead to open the door
s, and when they entered his office, he took the tray, moving it to the coffee table.
“Sorry, I should have been carrying that?” he frowned. “Where are my manners?”
“It was my pleasure, really,” his father smiled. “This office is, well, what you’ve done in here. My goodness, most impressive.”
“Thank you. I’m glad it meets your approval,” Simon replied, and realized as he spoke the words he meant them.
Pouring the tea, he gestured for his father to sit down, and taking the armchair adjacent to the couch, he sipped the hot soothing drink gratefully. The brew immediately calmed him, and he let out a deep breath.
“Feeling better?” Harry asked, seeing the subtle transformation in his son’s demeanor.
“I am,” Simon replied. “It’s true what they say. There is no circumstance that a cup of tea cannot make better.”
“Indeed. Are you ready to hear your story?”
“I’ve been ready since the day I discovered I was adopted,” Simon mused solemnly, placing his tea cup on the side table.
“Ah, well, that’s the best place to start. You weren’t. The woman you know as your mother, is your mother.”
A surge of hot relief flooded Simon’s heart, and he leaned forward, dropping his head in his hands.
“My God. I always felt it. I did, I always did,” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, lifting his eyes, fighting the threat of tears.
“A step at a time. This is a complicated story, but not a long one. Your mother was and is, the great love of my life. I met her in a park on a dreary, drizzly day. She was by herself sobbing into a handkerchief, and she looked so forlorn I couldn’t just wander by. I sat down, and whether it was me, or the nonjudgemental ear of a stranger I don’t know. Perhaps it was both, but she told me she’d just found out she could never have children. I took her to a nearby cafe and we talked. We talked for two hours, Simon, and when I walked her out I knew I had to see her again.”
The British Billionaire Bachelor, Act Two Page 13