Don't Baby Me_Maple Mills Book Four

by Kate Gilead

  And that’s the end of the gallery of family photographs, which now gives way to a few treasured, portrait-style paintings of a branch of noble Grimmettis in medieval dress and demeanor.

  When we first arrived and passed through this hallway, Mason had lamented again the small size of his current family, pointing to the gallery of photos and portraits as a testament to the toll that disease, accidents and early deaths has taken on his family of the recent past.

  He’d called it a lesson about the fragility of life.

  It certainly is.

  However, Mason is not one to dwell on tragedy. “All the more reason to start replenishing the stocks,” he’d said, with a wink, as his hand slipped down the curve of my waist and cupped my ass fondly.

  Further along, I come to a long section of the private wing which has been modernized with floor-to-ceiling windows in order to let in some much-needed light. Here, Mason’s head housekeeper Isotta has installed a veritable indoor garden of lush potted plants, arranged around an inviting seating area overlooking the view.

  And what a view it is! The valley rolls away as far as the eye can see, an incredibly lovely vista of gently rolling hills lined with rows of those Tuscan icons, cypress trees. Even now, with the sometimes rainy and cold winter weather, the trees stand as reminders of the warm breezes of summer and eternally green, growing things.

  These trees are among the oldest living things in the region. Mason explained to me that many of these individual trees are themselves almost two thousand years old, planted perhaps by the Romans when they occupied these lands so long ago.

  Tall, majestic and ramrod-straight, the trees are as beautiful as they are useful, providing natural wind-breaks to protect fragile crops, and sometimes, scented wood and fragrant oils.

  At the end of the long, silent corridor, I open a big wooden door and step out into the central area of the castle. Instantly, I’m met by clamor and bustle. Staff members, attending to a scattering of tourists or doing other tasks, murmur polite greetings in Italian or heavily-accented English when they pass me by. Wandering here and there, looking at artwork and checking their phones are a few turistas, no doubt using some of their Christmas holiday time to steep themselves in this historical place.

  Still feeling a little too shy and new to ask for help, I look at the app Mason sent me and using that, I find my way to the kitchen.

  Mason is sitting at the huge marble-slab table in a nook off the kitchen that serves as a casual dining area for staff. Gina, the head cook, a short, rotund woman with the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen, is standing by Mason’s side, waving her finger in his face and yelling at him as he listens with amusement.

  “Ah, cara!” Mason’s eyes light up at the sight of me. “Gina here is telling me off for not bringing the baby with us this trip,” he says.

  “Bongiorno!” Gina yells, her smile belying her volume. “Sì, signorina,” she says, “how can you-ah come-ah here-ah anna you no bring-ah da bambino? Hey? When-ah you come-ah back-ah anna bring-ah da bambino?”

  “Bongiorno!” I reply. “It wasn’t my idea to leave him at home.” I hold up my hands and smile.

  Mason laughs and yells something at Gina in Italian, to which she yells something back, gesturing rudely as she does so.

  They both laugh, and then she says “I’m-ah bring-ah you da colazione,” she says. “Da brekka-fast-ah. Look-ah how skeeny you are-ah, signorina! Hey? How-ah you gonna give-ah Mario lots-ah da bambini like-ah dis, hey?” She gestures to my body, scowling but playful. “You-ah gotta have-ah lots-ah da fat on-ah you culo, hey?” Her pudgy hands smack herself on her own generous buttocks. “Anna also, you need-ah da tetti enormi”, she yells, patting her own huge bosoms, “for to feed-ah da bambini, sì? Sì! Madonna!” She turns and waddles away to the kitchen, waving her hands and yelling to herself in Italian.

  Mason holds his arms out and I fold myself into them for a hug and kiss. Pulling a chair up close, he tells me a little about the estate’s business while we wait for our colazione.

  In a moment, a tiny waif of a girl with long dark braids brings out a platter with a corked carafe of olive oil and a plate of Florentine bruschetta which I know is called fettunta.

  “Bongiorno,” Mason says. “This is Gina’s daughter, Venetia. Venetia, this is Signorina Samantha, my fidanzata, fiancée.”

  “Bongiorno, Venetia,” I say, to which the girl nods shyly and smiles, showing a mouthful of braces.

  Included on the platter is a dish of butter and two corked jars of jam, strawberry and grape, by the looks of it. Taking center place is a big, round loaf of schiachatta, the famous Tuscan flatbread, baked golden brown and fragrant with that delicious fresh-baked smell. Madonna, indeed!

  The girl sets the platter on the table and nods to Mason and me, goes back to the kitchen and returns with espresso makings plus another platter loaded with cookies and pastries.

  “This bread,” Mason says, pulling off a chunk, “is so delicious. I’ve asked Rita to make it at home in Ohio. It’s good, but it never comes out just right. I think it’s because we don’t have wood-fired ovens in America like we do here.” He puts the chunk of still-warm bread on my plate and offers me the butter and jam. “The butter is specially for you, Americano,” he says with a wink. “We Italians use olive oil instead.”

  “Oh? Well, thanks, I appreciate that,” I say, and slather the bread with some butter before taking a huge bite. It melts in my mouth, the taste delicate, yet doughy, mild and scrumptious. “Mmmm,” I moan, closing my eyes for emphasis.

  When I open them again, Mason is grinning with delight. “Good stuff, huh? Try some of the grape jam, next. It’s made with some grapes we grow here especially to make jam for tourists.”

  We eat the round loaf of bread in a few moments, and the little girl immediately materializes with another one. “Oh no, I can’t,” I groan.

  “We’d better,” Mason grins. “Gina will never let us forget it if we don’t eat all her homemade bread.”

  “Crap… with all this bread and pastry, I will be fat by the time I leave,” I murmur.

  “Maybe not,” Mason says, leering at me jokingly. “We’ll be working our meals off later, in private.”

  “That’ll be the best part of the day,” I say, taking the next chunk of bread Mason offers, this time covering it in grape jam before devouring it.

  Eleven

  Chapter 11 Epilogue

  Much, much later that night.

  I’m tired but happy, having spent the day walking the castle with either Mason, when he had some time, or Antonio, one of the staff members.

  I checked out one expensively decorated stone chamber after another.

  By now, I’ve been in almost every room of the place and enjoyed it all.

  My feet are killing me but I’m sure I’ve walked off most of the bread, pasta and pastry I’ve been gorging on since I arrived.

  That’s what I’m telling myself, at least.

  The castle is an absorbing place to visit, full of history, and kind of spooky in some places, too! There were times I could’ve sworn I heard clanking, or crying…nah! Of course, that had to’ve been my imagination…probably watched too many Scooby Doo episodes on Youtube, that’s all.

  The only place I stayed out of was the castle sub-basements, an extensive network of foundational, underground rooms and passageways and a large, recently discovered cistern that is still full of water, fed by an underground spring.

  It’s mostly off-limits right now, due to the intensive work being carried out at the moment. Which is fine by me…no doubt the sub-basement of a castle, with all its dungeons and chambers and, rats, probably, is spookier than anywhere else I’m ever likely to be.

  Because, being that it’s a for-real castle, it comes with a set of for-real dungeons.

  Although every keep and castle of medieval times had them, dungeons must be sad, frightening places and I’m not sorry to give them a pass.

  At Castello Grimmetti, t
he underground area has been closed to everyone except Mason, certain members of his staff and his team of building engineers. Recently, a team of archeologists from the local university are on site, working to locate and document any hidden burial areas which may be within the site itself. Nothing has been found so far, but they will remain until every inch has been combed for remains.

  Renovation crews follow closely after the other professionals, repairing crumbling areas and continually shoring up the foundations of the castle to keep it in sound condition.

  It is a constant work-in-progress to buttress and repair a castle, especially the old stone chambers, passages and archways that underpin vast sections of the edifice.

  I also had the chance to explore the medieval barracks where troops were once garrisoned, in a separate stone building set half an acre away from the castle. Still in the raw stone state it was in when it was built hundreds of years ago, it is a cold and utilitarian building which once housed legions of soldiers, tough men of Roman extraction who were used to living rough with only a fireplace for warmth and a woven mat to sleep on.

  It’s fascinating to see how they lived with so little, using only open fires or stone ovens to cook their rations. The ovens were situated in an inner courtyard, and are all still operational today.

  After that, I visited the stables and had a ride around the grounds on an elderly, placid mare.

  Then, I was taken to the winery and the attached kitchens where jams, marmellatas and other canned products are made and prepared for sale to tourists and specialty stores in the region.

  The place is most impressive. It’s a true, working estate, and under Mason’s hard work, care and direction, it pays for itself and turns a good profit, something that surprisingly few of the previous owners, nobility included, were ever able to accomplish.

  Now, it’s almost ten o’clock, right about dinner time here in the Tuscan countryside. Mason and I are having our evening meal in his apartments, consisting of a light, minestrone-style soup and another loaf of delicious flatbread.

  We’re just finishing up when his phone beeps.

  “Ah, Piero has returned. You recall, he’s the general manager for the estate…? He’s been at city hall dealing with the bureaucrats so that I don’t have to. Thank God! He has some documents that I have to sign right now so he can leave again first thing in the morning. I’ll meet him in the office and be back soon. Okay, my love?”

  Taking our meal tray with him to drop off in the kitchen, he starts down the long corridor.

  Yawning, I go to the bathroom and stand in front of the huge, ornate mirror. Turning to the side, I pat my stomach, sucking it in and then pushing it out again, scrutinizing my belly to see if it looks like I’ve gained any weight.

  Then I strip my clothes off, one piece at a time. Hmm, wait…is that a little roll of pudge there? Maybe it’s just the light in here…no, no, it’s a roll. Small, but there. Dammit!

  Oh well, I’ll just have to hit the gym again when we get home.

  Looking at my reflection, I flick my nipples idly, making them stand at attention and sending a shiver to my lady parts.

  Then I brush my teeth and run the bath. I had a shower this morning but the deep, two-man tub, carved from a single piece of marble and sporting ornate gold fixtures, is calling my name right now.

  Musing that Mason seems to take all this wealth and opulence for granted, I wonder if maybe one day I can be blasé about all this, too.

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  But for now, I just want to enjoy the luxury while I’m here.

  I slide into the tub, letting the crystal clear hot water cascade over my feet and enjoying the way the gently steaming humidity warms the air in the room.

  The water soothes my feet, aching from all the walking I did today.

  And my pussy, still a little sore, appreciates the soothing heat of the water as well.

  A deep sigh goes through me and I relax, feeling every muscle slowly letting go, the feeling of ease and rest starting with my head and working its way all the way down to my toes.

  After a few minutes, I hear the door to the apartments open and then close again. I smile to myself…that was fast…Mason must’ve jogged there and back.

  He calls my name. “In here,” I call back. “I’m having a bath.”

  “All by yourself?” He opens the door and comes in, grinning.

  “Not if you want to join me?”

  The words are barely out of my mouth before his clothes are on the floor. He wastes no time getting into the tub, basically letting himself fall into the huge basin next to me, sending a small plume of water over the side.

  “Oops,” he says, pulling me into his lap and nuzzling me with that mobile mouth of his. We kiss deeply, making fire spark in my tender parts.

  “How’s your pussy?” He whispers the question between kisses, his hands running over my back and down to my ass.

  “It’s a little sore still,” I say

  “Maybe I should kiss it better,” he says, soberly.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” I agree.

  With one hand, he reaches out for a tall pile of plush towels stacked nearby. Pulling them over to the edge of the tub, he hefts my butt onto them with an exaggerated grunt.

  “Hey…I think Gina’s food is having the intended effect,” he jokes. “I think there’s more of you to love right now!” He sits up and leans over me, letting his fingers run along my rib cage, tickling me gently, making me squirm and giggle.

  “Yes, I noticed. Shit! How quickly does food turn into fat anyway?”

  “Right away, I think,” he says. “But I don’t want to hear any nonsense about it. I like some love handles on my woman.” He kisses me again, nipping my bottom lip. “Damn, you’re beautiful. Look at those tasty rosebuds.” He suckles first one nipple, then the other, making both of them hot and hard.

  “Mmmm,” he murmurs appreciatively. “Let’s pull more of those towels over here and make some padding for you to lay back on.” We arrange a few more folded towels on the tub-surround behind me, then he helps me lay backwards until I’m flat on my back on the comfy padding.

  “Apri le gambe,” he says, taking my knees in his hands, “Open your legs.” He spreads my legs and puts them over his shoulders, arranging them so that my pussy is right at his eye level as he kneels in the tub.

  “Oh my gosh,” I breathe. Turning my head only slightly either way gives me an excellent view of our reflection in two of the mirrored walls surrounding the tub.

  Jesus! It’s so hot to watch Mason’s head dip towards my pussy! I watch my own face when his tongue touches my tender flesh and begins probing my opening for a taste of my honey.

  A rose-colored blush starts to rise on my chest and neck as Mason scoops his tongue into my opening, again and again.

  Mmmm!

  “Mmm…mi accendi come una luce,” he murmurs, smacking his lips. “You turn me on like a light!”

  He continues to bathe my opening with his tongue, soothing the residual soreness and stimulating my flesh to open and receive him, bringing a flow of creamy juice to his lips. He’s holding my legs open wide, and I can watch in the mirror as the muscles in the side of his jaw work, lapping and lapping, making me so sensitive that my thighs quiver and try to close.

  He won’t let them, though.

  His warm tongue works miracles, pushing its way into my opening and making my hips and pelvis push towards it, always seeking more and more of my cream.

  But then he pushes a tad too hard, and I feel a twinge of pain, making me draw back with a little gasp.

  “Sorry sweetie,” he whispers. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No no, don’t stop, it’s just still a little sore,” I say, tracing my fingertips along the edges of his ears.

  He resumes his attentions before I’m even finished speaking, being even more delicate and careful.

  “Oh yeah, that’s good…so good! You have no idea how good that feels,�
�� I whisper, my hands petting his head. “Your tongue is soothing the rawness now, but it still hurts too much to fuck.”

  He lifts his head and meets my eyes. “That’s okay, I don’t need to fuck. My dick is raw too.” He smiles. “Just lay back and enjoy.” He sucks my clit and some of my labia into his mouth, hard, lets it go with a rude tthhhhpt sound, then laughs. “I love to make you come. It satisfies me in other ways, even if I don’t come myself.”

  Who am I argue with that logic?

  So I lay back and let him do the things he does with his tongue, and soon, he begins to work that talented appendage on my clit, circling it, flicking the top so gently before flattening it in long strokes, then he tickles the sides of it, making my legs tighten and loosen, making my belly quiver and my breath come faster and faster.

  Moving his tongue back down to my opening…lapping, lapping…then back to my clit, then comes the moment of truth…the moment when he sucks my aching, erect little man in the boat between his lips and flicks and flicks and flicks.

  My breath catches as my hips jerk and then freeze…and it’s as if, for a moment, that I’m free-falling… free-falling through a landscape made of pure pleasure…quickly now, he puts his hands under my ass and lifts my hips, holding me to his mouth, where his tongue licks and laps, and his lips suck and nibble..and then….and then….oh god ohgodohgod!

  “Uhhh…uhnnn….uhhhnnnn!” My cry echoes off the marble-clad bathroom walls and I’m coming, coming hard, so hard that my hips rise and push him away even as my thighs squeeze and release his head and my hands grip his hair.

  The contractions keep coming, making my knees draw upwards reflexively now, giving full access to his tongue as he eagerly licks up every drop of creamy come that my shuddering body makes just for him.