The British Billionaire Bachelor, Act Three

by Maggie Carpenter

  Staring out the window she saw him approach, and smoothing her hair, hoping it would stay in place, she hurried to the center of the room.

  “What do we have here?” he exclaimed, walking in from the cold night and closing the door behind him.

  “Sir,” she curtsied.

  Simon caught his breath. She wasn’t dressed lavishly, like an aristocratic young woman, or wantonly, like a harlot. Belle was wearing the uniform of a maid; long black dress, full white apron, hair pulled back, with a white cap perched on top of her head.

  Dropping her eyes, she moved slowly towards him.

  “May I fetch Sir a drink?” she asked demurely.

  “You may,” he nodded, “but first I must inspect your undergarments.”

  The comment took Belle by surprise, and suppressing a smile she reached down and lifted the full, draping skirt. The rental agency had assured her the bloomers and bodice were authentic, and as she gathered up the folds of material, holding it at her waist, Simon circled her.

  “It appears to be in order, and just to be sure you mind your manners as you serve me, I shall warm your bottom.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she replied.

  Running his hand across the thin cotton covering her cheeks, he slapped her a few times, delighting in the feel of the cotton over her skin.

  “That should do for now, you may drop your skirt, but if you spill anything, or do not serve me as you’ve been trained, I shall have to discipline you after the meal,” he warned.

  “Yes, Sir,” she nodded, releasing the folds of material.

  “I’m going to sit on the sofa over there, you may bring me my drink and something to nibble on.”

  Feeling the luscious, wet heat between her legs, and delighted by Simon’s immersion into his role, Belle moved to the table, picked up the plate of caviar appetizers and one of the champagne glasses, and carried them over to where he had settled.

  “You may kneel,” he directed, “so you may hold the plate.”

  As Simon took the glass from her hand, and Belle watched him sip the champagne and consume one of the delicious morsels, she had no idea Simon had imagined himself in such a scenario many times, and she had brought one of his long-held fantasies to life.

  “Would a humble maid care to taste this delicacy?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “If it pleases you, Sir,” she responded.

  “It does, open wide.”

  Dropping the caviar treat in her mouth, he watched as she chewed and swallowed, then handed her his glass.

  “It must be washed down with champagne for the full effect,” he declared.

  “Yes, Sir,” she nodded, accepting the flute, and taking a large swallow, smiled as the spicy bubbles danced against her tongue and slipped down her throat.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “Delicious, thank you, Sir.”

  “One more for each of us, then you may serve me my dinner,” he proclaimed, feeling himself sink even further into his role.

  Belle devoured the second caviar treat, drank the champagne, and gazed up at him.

  “You are very kind, Sir,” she smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You do understand, as Master of this house, I may take liberties with you if I so choose,” he remarked.

  “Yes, Sir, I do.”

  “After dinner I may be so inclined.”

  “It would be my honor, Sir.”

  “Hmmm, well then, we shall see what this night might bring.”

  Rising from the couch, his cock standing stiff and erect, he walked across to the dining table and took his seat. He was so turned on he wanted to forget about the meal, lift her skirt, yank down those divine bloomers, and tackle her over the back of the couch, but the fantasy playing itself out had captivated him and he wanted it to last.

  Moving quickly to the covered trays, Belle ladled the gravy-covered chicken on to one of the small porcelain plates, and carried it to his side, carefully placing it in front of him.

  “What vegetables do we have?” he asked.

  “Carrots and green beans, Sir,” she replied, moving back to the buffet to fetch them.

  When she had completed placing all the elements of the dinner on his plate, she stood back, waiting for further orders, watching him pick up his fork to eat.

  “It would please me to feed you,” he announced. “Come and kneel next to me and place your hands behind your back.”

  Taking up the position, she felt a flapping of butterfly wings. She had thought the meal would be fun and different, but she hadn’t anticipated the flourish with which Simon would take up his part, and it was contagious.

  “This is an excellent dinner, the cook is to be complimented,” he declared, offering her a forkful of chicken.

  So the meal continued. He would take a mouthful, then offer one to her, every so often bringing the champagne flute to her lips.

  “Would you care for more, Sir?” she asked, when the plate was finally empty.

  “I would like dessert, but first, I would be pleased to gaze upon your titties. Drop your apron and unbutton the top of your dress.”

  Belle felt a surprising flush cross her face, which did not go unnoticed by Simon, and he smiled at the quaint response.

  “You are embarrassed,” he noted. “How delightful. Would you rather not?”

  “I wish to please you, Sir. I do not object,” she replied softly, and reaching behind her waist, she untied the bow freeing up the apron, and pulling it over her head she placed it on the floor beside her knees.

  “I see your dress fastens in the back. Perhaps I could assist you,” he offered.

  “Thank you, Sir,” she answered, scooting around.

  His fingers undid each button, and she closed her eyes, losing herself in the simple, sensuous act, but when he pulled down the sleeves, letting it fall around her waist, she caught her breath at the sudden exposure. He stared at the full bodice, an undergarment he found as sexy as any modern lingerie, and turning her around, saw her nipples were pressing urgently forward, clearly visible under the thin cotton. He pinched them lightly, then wrapped his hands around the fullness of each breast.

  “Aren’t you a naughty wench for allowing the Master of the house to touch your tits,” he smiled.

  “Yes, Sir,” she murmured.

  With no buttons or fasteners the bodice would have to be taken over her head, and he took hold of the hem, about lift it, when he decided on another plan.

  “Bring me dessert now,” he directed, sitting back in his chair, “but remove the dress completely. I wish you to serve me in your undergarments.”

  Belle got to her feet, and feeling unexpectedly modest, moved behind the couch where she kicked off her shoes and removed the dress, then hurrying back to the buffet in the ballooning knickers and thin bodice top, she found the chocolate mousse in its crystal pudding dish, and placed it in front of him.

  “As I eat this, you will stand by the side of the table, and very slowly remove that bodice, leaving yourself naked from the waist up,” he directed.

  Belle’s heart was racing. The man at the table was still Simon, her wonderful, kind, Dominant Simon, but he had a superior air about him, as though he really was the Master of a Victorian house; it was making her knees weak and fueling the heat between her legs.

  “Miss Somers,” he said brusquely, “are you paying attention?”

  “Yes, sorry, Sir,” she breathed.

  “What has you so preoccupied? Your attention should be on me,” he frowned.

  “It was, Sir, I mean, I was thinking about how you are so strong and…uh…authoritative,” she stammered, “like…the Master of the house should be,” she finished, hoping she didn’t sound foolish.

  A rush of energy surged through his body, her halting words unexpectedly affecting him in an odd and powerful way.

  “But I am the Master of this house,” he declared, feeling the power of his response. “Does this surprise you?”

  “No, Sir,
but it does inspire and…make me…feel wonderfully weak.”

  It was suddenly too much. Jumping to his feet he lunged forward, and clutching her hair, he kissed her hard, his mouth filled with all the fervent love and passion that was gushing through his soul.

  “You…” he groaned, breaking away, then lifting her off her feet, carried her to the couch.

  Placing her on her back, he hurriedly stripped off his colorful clothes, and laying on top of her, kissed her and caressed and fondled her body through the thin cotton fabric. It felt divine under his hands, and as he slowly peeled it off, he kissed and nipped and licked her exposed skin, inch by delicious inch, until she was finally naked, then touched his fingers to her sweet, succulent sex.

  “Belle,” he breathed, feeling her thick wetness.

  “I want you so much,” she groaned.

  “I know,” he muttered.

  His cock found its way home, and he fucked her with strong, ardent, powerful strokes, riding her forward, lost in her cries of fiery ardor, kissing her neck, her lips, her breasts and nipples, his inflamed cock eager to release itself, and when she uttered the words, when she lifted her pelvis and arched her back, when she cried out his name and her cunt clasped his cock, he spewed his cream, unable and unwilling to pause for even a second as their orgasms met, then began to slowly melt away.

  Entwined, gasping, moaning and happy, they sank into the couch, lost in the wonder of their shared experience, until Belle finally lifted out of the semiconscious state and opened her eyes.

  “That was…really strange,” she whispered. “I felt as though I really was the maid, and you really were the Master of the house.”

  “I know,” he agreed, “and what’s really weird, is that the whole thing was a fantasy I’ve dreamed about for years, and I mean years.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m not, and when I saw those clothes on the bed I felt this incredible tingling, then sitting at the table, I felt just like you did, like I really was the Master of the house, or rather, a house.”

  “Maybe you were. Maybe …we were once…like that,” she stammered softly.

  “Maybe we were,” he replied, wrapping her up in his arms. “I think we should buy these clothes, and more like them.”

  “Works for me,” she sighed, “totally.”

  Sometime later, after resting and kissing and talking, Belle surprised him yet again by presenting him his favorite thick robe, and donning her own.

  “I didn’t think we’d want to get dressed,” she smiled.

  “You’re brilliant,” he grinned, and taking her hand, led her to the window.

  “I remember the first time you brought me up here,” she sighed. “I truly understand why it inspires you so much, why it fills you with such confidence.”

  “I know you do,” he replied, hugging her.

  “I hate to say this, but I have to put on some real clothes and take Goldie out.”

  “Why don’t you call downstairs, have one of the staff do it?”

  “No, that’s not right. She’s my dog and I need to do it myself. I’m not going to hand her off just because it’s a bit inconvenient,” she said firmly, “although…”

  “Although what,” he grinned, “what’s in that head of yours.”

  “If we were home, I could just let her out in the backyard.”

  “You want to go back?”

  “I do,” she admitted. “Everything’s good with Lucinda now, you’ve won the day with Hardcastle, and I know we planned on being here longer, but…”

  “But we don’t have to be, and you want to go home.”

  “If that’s okay,” she nodded.

  “It’s more than okay. I’m missing the place myself, and my reasons, or rather, our reasons, for being here are over, just as you said.”

  “Wonderful,” she sighed, leaning against him. “You want to walk Goldie with me?”

  “Sure,” he agreed. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The city was sleeping. An occasional car moved through the dark quiet streets, and moths circled the streetlights in their endless fluttering spiral.

  At City View, Simon and Belle were snuggled together, their sleep calm and deep, Goldie on her soft foam pad, dreaming of a squirrel she was sure she could beat to the tree.

  In Belgravia, Lucinda was curled in the warm, comforting cavern of Joseph’s shoulder, her red bottom warm to the touch, her soul and body satisfied and content.

  An hour outside of London, the Duke of Chatsworth, whose pain of losing his life’s savings and family home had been assuaged by the reunion with his son, had no idea the pendulum that had swung into misfortune, was about to swing back.

  And at the imposing home of Darren Hardcastle, with its tall brick walls, security cameras and guard dogs, all was quiet and still, but for five men, each of whom had a specific task. Wearing night-vision glasses, dressed in black, their faces covered with ski masks, they were carrying out their independent assignments with silent skill.

  In the housekeeper's quarters off the kitchen, the resident housekeeper was in a chloroform-induced sleep.

  The cover over the main electrical panel in the basement was open, several wires had been cut, and the emergency generator nearby had been disconnected.

  Each of the cameras in the house had been sprayed with black spray paint.

  The guard dogs were resting peacefully, the treats they’d gobbled down laced with a gentle sedative.

  And in the master bedroom, a tall, husky figure was pouring water over Darren Hardcastle’s face.

  “What the fuck,” Darren sputtered, flailing his hand around in the dark.

  A flashlight beam shone into his face, blinding him.

  “What is this, do you know who you’re fuckin’ with?” Darren barked, but then he saw the gun, and a cold hand of fear wrapped around his throat.

  “You have a choice,” the intruder growled. “Open the safe in your study and live, stay here in your bed and die. You have five seconds. One…two…three…”

  Darren stared at the gun in the beam of the flashlight, its silencer gleaming, drawing ever closer to his eyes.

  Stall. Stall. You can hit the alarm when you get down there.

  “Fuck, okay, okay,” he exclaimed, running his hand over his face in an attempt to wipe away the water.

  The intruder stepped back, and as Darren staggered forward, trying to find his way in the cold blackness, a second flashlight beam appeared in the hallway, guiding him towards the staircase, then lit his way down the stairs and into his study. Next to the giant safe another man was waiting, his flashlight shining on the large dial

  “Okay, we have deal, right?” Darren muttered, his heart pounding. “I open the safe and I live.”

  “That’s what I said, now open it.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Darren exclaimed. “I’ll bring you in on my deals. I’ve got a lot of people in my pocket in this city. I’ll cut you in. Turn on the lights, let’s join forces. You’ll make money every week, not just now. Whatta ya say?”

  “Open the safe. I won’t say it again. We have equipment with us to open it if you don’t cooperate, but that will mean I shoot you right now,” the man threatened. “One…two…”

  “FUCK! Okay,” Darren yelled, throwing up his hands in surrender.

  Stepping up to the safe, sweat beading on his forehead, his quivering fingers began spinning the dial, and as the tumblers fell into place, he spun the thick metal wheel and pulled the handle. The heavy door opened, exposing the contents of Darren Hardcastle’s safe.

  “Where’s your phone?” asked the intruder holding the gun.

  “On my desk, I think, no wait, in my coat pocket, there, draped around my chair.”

  A few silent moments ticked by, until a voice pierced the dark.

  “Got it, and the wallet too.”

  “Your tablet?”

  “Don’t have one,” Darren replied. “Hate those things.�
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  “Computers, how many?”

  “My laptop, in my briefcase by the chair, and the desktop,” Darren quivered.

  As frightened as he was, he was starting to feel more confident about his chances of survival. They hadn’t smacked him around, they hadn’t been rude, or nasty, they just wanted the stuff.

  “I’ve got some great booze, fellas. I mean great-”

  “Sorry, no time for a cocktail. Get on your knees.”

  Shaking, Darren fell to his knees, thinking they were going to whack him on the back of the head and knock him out.

  “Anything you want to say before you die?” the stranger calmly asked, placing the barrel of the silencer against Darren’s temple as a second man held a large, square block of wood on the opposite side of his head.

  “Whaaat? You said you would let me live,” Darren pleaded.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t say for how long.”

  The pop of the gun sounded like a weak firecracker, and Darren Hardcastle’s lifeless body collapsed on the carpet.

  “Did it catch the bullet?” the shooter asked.

  “Sure did.”

  “Great. Finish up and move on.”

  Forty-five minutes later, laying in bed in his bachelor pad, Brandon Witherspoon thought he heard a noise. He hadn’t slept very well, somewhat confused by the lack of response from Cordelia Cartwright. He had left her two voicemails and texted her, but had received no response. Sitting up and switching on his bedside lamp, he listened carefully. Hearing nothing further he laid back down, and was about to turn off the light when he decided to get up and have a shot of whiskey, hoping it would help him finally nod off.

  Sighing deeply, he grabbed the robe he’d dropped in a heap on the floor, and pulling it on as he walked, he wandered into his living room, the only illumination washing through from his open bedroom door.

  He was heading for the bar when he thought something seemed out of place. Pulse quickening, he moved quickly to the wall and flicked a switch, bathing the room in bright white light. Staring across the space, he suddenly realized his laptop was gone, and sitting in its place was a sheet of paper.