Billionaire Bondage: My Billionaire Boss, Part 3 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) by Emily Cantore Page B
Authors: Emily Cantore
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white robe and nothing else. I couldn't find my clothes from last night and the drawers were empty. This one was long and thick and covered a lot more than the silk robe I'd worn last night. I'd considered wearing it but found it had been laundered overnight or replaced with an identical clean copy. Besides, there were plenty of ways to get a man hot and bothered without a sheer silk robe.
I found myself stopping every few feet down the corridor to take in the painting s. Each was exquisite and I felt like I was in my own private art gallery. Just before the stairs there was a large painting showing a group of mermaids pulling a sailor down into the water. On his face was a mixture of pain and ecstasy. I could see Mr. Stone's touch in every painting and found myself smiling at his good taste. Rich, handsome and ... really amazing at picking art. Not the first thing you thought when you saw him.
I stopped at the top of the st aircase and found myself mesmerized at the sheer size of the mansion. I'd been half-asleep last night when Mr. Stone had carried me in and so I'd only gotten hints of what it was like. Between the marble floor, lush carpets, artworks tucked in nooks and giant chandelier I didn't know what to look at first.
I walked down the stairs feeling like I was suddenly in some giant museum and only wearing a robe.
At the foot of the stairs I looked around, trying to guess which direction the kitchen was in. Where was Mr. Stone? I heard a faint thudding from the left and then the sound of a kitchen knife.
Bingo.
*
To my disappointment Mr. Stone wasn't in the kitchen. Standing behind a simply enormous granite bench was an older blonde woman who looked like a Swedish milkmaid, including a thick plait of hair down her back.
I stopped in the doorway but she waved me in to sit on a stool by the counter.
"Breakfast , Miss?" she asked.
"Um ... yes. Thank you. That would be lovely."
She poured a small glass of orange juice and then set it in front of me. Mr. Stone had staff who looked after his home. Who made his meals. I knew staff chefs existed but had never met one before. Was I meant to tip her? Was I allowed to talk with her?
She must have seen the look on my face because she wiped her hands on a towel and came around the bench to hold out her hand. I took it and she smiled a million-watts at me.
"I am Nadine. You are Delilah and I am very pleased to meet you. I will make you breakfast."
She shook my hand and then went back around to continue chopping parsley. I felt myself relax and we started chatting.
Nadine was actually Swedish and had worked for Mr. Stone for three years as his personal chef. I asked her what his favorite food was but she only gave me a smile and changed the subject. On the topic of Mr. Stone she gave nothing away and soon we were talking about her children who were teenagers and went to a local school. In between all our chatting she whipped up an incredibly thin savory crepe and some of the fluffiest yellow scrambled eggs I'd ever had. She finished the breakfast with a pancake made from a single dollop. It was about as round as a coffee-cup and I swear my eyes nearly rolled back in my head when I tasted it.
"That was incredible," I told her, wiping my lips on a serviette.
"Thank you very much," she said and gave a small bow. "Mr. Stone has not had such a lovely young girl here in so very long. You are good for him."
With that stunning pronouncement she wiped her hands on her apron and disappeared out the pantry door behind her, leaving me sitting there with my mouth hanging open and serviette dangling from my hand.
"Excuse me Miss," said a voice from the doorway. It was a no-fooling-actual-English butler. He was an older man and impeccably dressed in a black suit.
"Oh, hello," I said, coming to my senses.
"We have laid out clothes for you up in your bedroom. Mr. Stone has left you another note also. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
"No, thank you ... um ...
I found myself stopping every few feet down the corridor to take in the painting s. Each was exquisite and I felt like I was in my own private art gallery. Just before the stairs there was a large painting showing a group of mermaids pulling a sailor down into the water. On his face was a mixture of pain and ecstasy. I could see Mr. Stone's touch in every painting and found myself smiling at his good taste. Rich, handsome and ... really amazing at picking art. Not the first thing you thought when you saw him.
I stopped at the top of the st aircase and found myself mesmerized at the sheer size of the mansion. I'd been half-asleep last night when Mr. Stone had carried me in and so I'd only gotten hints of what it was like. Between the marble floor, lush carpets, artworks tucked in nooks and giant chandelier I didn't know what to look at first.
I walked down the stairs feeling like I was suddenly in some giant museum and only wearing a robe.
At the foot of the stairs I looked around, trying to guess which direction the kitchen was in. Where was Mr. Stone? I heard a faint thudding from the left and then the sound of a kitchen knife.
Bingo.
*
To my disappointment Mr. Stone wasn't in the kitchen. Standing behind a simply enormous granite bench was an older blonde woman who looked like a Swedish milkmaid, including a thick plait of hair down her back.
I stopped in the doorway but she waved me in to sit on a stool by the counter.
"Breakfast , Miss?" she asked.
"Um ... yes. Thank you. That would be lovely."
She poured a small glass of orange juice and then set it in front of me. Mr. Stone had staff who looked after his home. Who made his meals. I knew staff chefs existed but had never met one before. Was I meant to tip her? Was I allowed to talk with her?
She must have seen the look on my face because she wiped her hands on a towel and came around the bench to hold out her hand. I took it and she smiled a million-watts at me.
"I am Nadine. You are Delilah and I am very pleased to meet you. I will make you breakfast."
She shook my hand and then went back around to continue chopping parsley. I felt myself relax and we started chatting.
Nadine was actually Swedish and had worked for Mr. Stone for three years as his personal chef. I asked her what his favorite food was but she only gave me a smile and changed the subject. On the topic of Mr. Stone she gave nothing away and soon we were talking about her children who were teenagers and went to a local school. In between all our chatting she whipped up an incredibly thin savory crepe and some of the fluffiest yellow scrambled eggs I'd ever had. She finished the breakfast with a pancake made from a single dollop. It was about as round as a coffee-cup and I swear my eyes nearly rolled back in my head when I tasted it.
"That was incredible," I told her, wiping my lips on a serviette.
"Thank you very much," she said and gave a small bow. "Mr. Stone has not had such a lovely young girl here in so very long. You are good for him."
With that stunning pronouncement she wiped her hands on her apron and disappeared out the pantry door behind her, leaving me sitting there with my mouth hanging open and serviette dangling from my hand.
"Excuse me Miss," said a voice from the doorway. It was a no-fooling-actual-English butler. He was an older man and impeccably dressed in a black suit.
"Oh, hello," I said, coming to my senses.
"We have laid out clothes for you up in your bedroom. Mr. Stone has left you another note also. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
"No, thank you ... um ...
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