Page 74 of A Wolf in the Garden

“Yeah. He’s loaded, and I say that knowing I’m currently lying in the arms of a man who owns over a hundred mil in assets. He’s another billionaire with a bolthole in New Zealand, same as what they used to say about your parents. It’s in the Hauraki Gulf too, only another half hour sail from Motuwai. It’s pretty tiny, but the land is quite elevated, so you don’t feel like the ocean is going to swallow you up. Staying there is what got me looking at island properties for myself; I would have never considered Motuwai if it weren’t for that job.”

He grunts, his hand squeezing my butt. “Well I’m glad that you did. Saved me having to track you down.”

“How were you planning on doing that, by the way?” He doesn’t answer immediately, and I occupy myself by staring up through the glass ceiling at the purple morning sky, watching the stars disappear one by one. When he still hasn’t answered after a minute, I poke him in the stomach, making him grunt. “Hm? How were you going to find me?”

He lets out a resigned sigh. “Hire a private investigator.” At the look I give him — which I’m exaggerating, because I do like teasing him, sometimes — he adds, “I know, I know, like a creepy stalker. That’s why I’m glad I didn’t have to; meeting you again by chance was much more convenient, even if it was a hell of a shock.”

“Youseemed completely calm,Iwas the one in shock.”

“Mmm, you didn’t see me when your scent first hit my nose, down where I was parked on the street. I seriously almost doubled over with it, it was only Cam’s presence and other folks around that stopped me.”

“Oh, Van.” Just hearing that makes me feel all emotional again. I cling to him, burying my face in the crook of his neck. His stubble has doubled in length overnight, as it always does, and rasps at my lips as I kiss his jaw. He moves suddenly, rolling over me, the thick length of his dick heavy against my leg as he bites my neck with another growl.

“Well I’m awake now. How are you feeling this morning?”

The wonderful thing about Van is that I know he’s not going to be offended by the truth. “Like my pussy needs another soak in that bath, this time with those lavender epsom bath salts I saw on the vanity counter.”

“That bad, is it?”

“It’s notbad, it’s never bad. Am I sore? Yes. Does it stop me from wanting your dick? Nope, but I’m trying to make smart decisions this morning. Besides, if I give her a rest now, she’ll be good to go for another few rounds tonight.”

The rumble of his laugh warms my soul, as does the kiss he plants on my forehead. He pushes himself up out of bed, and I watch his perfect ass all the way until he disappears through the bathroom door, into the only room in here that isn’t built out of glass. “Give me five minutes,” he says, his voice slightly muffled through the half-closed door. “I need this boner to go down so I can take a piss, and then I’ll fill that tub up for you again.”

I pull the blankets up until they’re tucked under my chin, burying myself in them. “Thanks baby, you’re the best.”

* * *

“They really did put a lot of thought and care into this area; they must have hired a designer for it. I wonder who,” I say as I sit on the wooden bench beside the tub, looking around at the pretty little garden, the lime path that leads from the glasshouse to the bath, the way everything is set to centre the pond in the view. We’re both in fresh robes, slides on our feet, and Van kneels beside the tub, stacking kindling and wood methodically in the tub’s firebox.

“I imagine so. It’s quite a professional setup, in terms of booking this place.”

“You didn’t find it on the regular Bachbooker site, I’m guessing?”

He shakes his head. One thing about growing up knowing a billionaire family is that I’ve always had this interesting insight into how the ultra-rich live, and the existence of exclusive credit cards, venues, travel options and accommodations that most people don’t even realise are out there.

“I don’t even want to know how much you spent on this.”

“Good. Don’t ask.” He flashes me a wolfish smile, the kind that never fails to make me swoon.

“You’re so fucking handsome,” I say, and he snorts, flicking the lighter stick on and holding the flame against the newspaper he’s shoved in amongst the wood. “Seriously, honey,” I continue. “I think you’re the most beautiful man alive.”

The paper catches, the kindling crackling a moment later, edges of the split wood already starting to turn black. “Thank you baby,” he murmurs. His eyes are full of humour as he glances up at me. “You’re still the prettier one of us two.” His expression softens into something more thoughtful. “Certainly the prettiest girl I ever met.”

I watch him manage the fire until he’s satisfied that it’s going to stay lit. It’s one of the things I really appreciate about Van; I may tease him about his ‘rich boy persona’, but he’s actually very down to earth. He gets stuck in just like anyone else. He never hesitated to helpKoroand I garden, back when we were kids. He used to build driftwood fires on the beach for us, where we could enjoy the crackle of the wood and watch it burn lavender and blue from the salt of the ocean. Running a vineyard involves physical labour if you’re going to work as an actual winemaker, and he has the callouses that prove that he’s out there regularly, pruning vines, setting up irrigation, maintaining soil health, and all the other physical tasks that come along with the job. I know he’s been doing that for the last few years too, at various vineyards around the world.

He’s a good man, and I’m obsessed.

I move closer to the firebox, shivering as the warmth hits me. It may be the beginning of summer, but at dawn there’s still a definite chill in the air. Van fills the tub again with fresh hot water, while I stand warming my hands by the fire. It’s cheating, really, to have a hot tap on a wood-fired bath, but this is a luxury accommodation setup, so I get it. I can’t imagine the average rich-lister being patient enough for the tub to heat to the desired temperature by the firebox alone — that typically takes 3 hours for a tub this size, and, as Van’s father used to repeatedly say when we were kids,time is money. The fire here is really for the aesthetic, to maintain the illusion for guests that they’re living an outdoorsy, adventurous life — something that’s likely far from the truth for most of them.

“What time is the helicopter picking us up?” I ask as I strip off my robe, leaving it on the platform edge of the bath and sliding into the steaming hot water. “Ooooh,” I groan, the water lapping just below my collarbone. “The temp is almost too much, but it feels so good once you get used to it.”

“That’s what she said.”

I slap Van’s leg playfully, getting a good view of his swinging balls and thick, flaccid penis as he steps into the bath, sinking in to his shoulders beside me. The water smells like lavender, thanks to the bath salts, and the whole situation is divine, the sky above now a pretty purple with orange accents on the horizon where the sun is approaching.

“We’re here ’til ten. So we still have four hours. Plenty of time.”

“That’s good.” I relax back, sitting on the built-in bench, and close my eyes, listening to the chorus of morning birdsong and the quiet trickle from the creek that runs both in and out of the pond here. I listen to my own breath, and that’s when I feel it.

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