His Lady (Boston Doms Book 5) Read online

  His Lady

  Boston Doms Book Five

  Jane Henry

  Maisy Archer

  Blushing Books

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Author

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  ©2017 by Blushing Books®, Jane Henry and Maisy Archer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

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  The trademark Blushing Books®

  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Jane Henry and Maisy Archer

  His Lady

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-185-9

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Chapter 1

  “Blake! Yes, baby. God, yes! Just like that. I’m so close!”

  This information was not a surprise. Blake had every ounce of his considerable focus trained on the woman who was currently riding him. He’d seen how her eyes, potent and dark as black coffee, had widened, and how her creamy skin had flushed a deep pink, all the way from the graceful arch of her cheekbones down to the rosy-tipped breasts that brushed his chest each time she took him deep inside her. And it was not a minute too soon—he could feel his own orgasm ready to overtake him, his balls tightening in a way that said this one was going to be bigger than anything he’d ever felt before. The taste of her on his tongue was like a fucking aphrodisiac, and he couldn’t hold out for long. Patience was not one of his virtues.

  But first he had to take her over one more time.

  “Find it, angel,” he ordered, his fingers digging into her lush backside to hold her in place as he pistoned his hips up beneath her. “I want you to use your fingers and take yourself there.”

  She braced one hand against his shoulder, levering herself up, while the other trailed over his chest, across the hard, chiseled plane of his abs, and down to the place where they were joined. Her beautiful eyes went unfocused.

  Christ Jesus.

  “That’s it, gorgeous. Touch yourself. I want to watch,” he growled. “I want to hear you when you come apart and scream my name.”

  Her eyes cleared for a moment and met his.

  “You want an awful lot of things,” she teased breathlessly, even as her fingers found her clit and began to circle in perfect counterpoint to the rhythm he’d set. Her eyes stayed locked on his, and her lips—those fucking pillowy lips that he’d been picturing wrapped around his dick for-fucking-ever—clamped shut as she fought to stay quiet, to stay in control, to deny his command, to defy him.

  That would never do.

  “You’re gonna give it to me,” he told her, his voice sounding like sandpaper even to his own ears. “I own your screams, just like I own this sweet pussy. Just like I own the rest of you.”

  Her eyes met his—hot with challenge and begging him to prove his dominance, just the way he liked it—and she rode him harder, her even white teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she stayed stubbornly silent.

  Blake smiled. God, but this woman—his woman—was perfect for him.

  “Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me that you belong to me.”

  He lifted his hand to one bobbing breast and cupped it, his fingers toying with her. She whimpered and clenched her eyes shut, while the fingers at her core moved faster and faster.

  “If you wanna come, you’re gonna do what I tell you, young lady.”

  Her pussy clenched around him as his words drove her higher, just as he’d known they would. Young lady. Old enough to be legal, but young enough to turn heads. Young enough that if the world ever saw his hands on her body, the way his callused fingers tweaked her nipple, they’d be appalled. They’d call him a lecher, an old man who’d knowingly corrupted a sweet young thing.

  And they’d be right.

  She was more than that, of course. Not just a young lady, but his lady, his lover and partner. But it was also no less than the truth, and the taboo of it sent a shudder through her body that made his dick impossibly harder.
<
br />   “What if I don’t wanna say it?” she moaned, testing him… testing them both.

  The fingers tugging her nipple tightened to the point of pain and he stilled beneath her.

  Her mouth and eyes flew open with a startled “Ah!” She glimpsed his face, and whatever she saw there made her shake her head desperately. “Oh, no! No fair! You can’t just stop!”

  She moved both hands to his stomach and pushed against him, trying to gain leverage, to slide herself more firmly down his cock, but he easily captured one of her wrists in each of his hands, and clamped them against her hips, holding her immobile.

  “Seriously, Blake! You can’t just stop like this!” she cried. “It’ll hurt you as much as me!”

  He snorted, but didn’t bother to reply. It would very likely hurt him more and they both recognized it. Nevertheless, she knew very well that he could and would stop, even though it would take every particle of the self-control that he’d honed over decades as a soldier and as a dominant to keep him from thrusting up into her wet heat.

  Their eyes held, kindled—her will battling against his—until finally, inevitably, she swallowed, and the tension bled from her body. One side of her mouth kicked up in the lopsided smile that he loved, and she gave him the words he craved.

  “You own me,” she said, low and serious like a vow. “You own me, Blake.”

  “Fuck yes, I do,” he snarled. “You’re mine.”

  His hands released hers, only to clamp her hips tighter, holding her at just the right angle for his thrusts while their eyes remained locked. One pump, then two… that was all it took. She threw back her head and her long black hair tumbled behind her, the feathery ends brushing the tops of his thighs as she came and came and came… screaming his name the entire time.

  He eased her through it, though his heart was thundering in his chest, until her last tremors had subsided. Then he planted himself firmly inside her, wrapped his arms tight around her, and flipped them so that she was on her back beneath him. He lifted her leg higher, planting her knee against her chest, and began to stroke, faster and faster, lost to the sensation of being inside the woman he loved and the soft clench of her body as he moved against her.

  “Mine,” he repeated. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

  Motherfucker. Not again.

  Blake threw himself from the bed as though it were on fire. His mind was a haze of lust and confusion, his chest was tight, his dick was hard enough to break rock, and his balls ached like he’d just been practicing his kickboxing without his fucking cup.

  Jesus. A dream. Another goddamned dream, and he’d woken himself up with the sound of his own voice calling out. Disgust settled like a lead weight in his gut, cooling the worst of his arousal… but not taking it away completely. Nothing seemed to do that anymore.

  He braced a hand on the tall chest of drawers near the bed and breathed deep. In-two-three-four. Hold-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. Hold-two-three-four. He imagined what the recruits he’d trained back in the day would say if they could see their Master Gunny using the combat breathing techniques he’d taught them to keep his shit together after a stupid sex dream.

  He clenched the hand he’d braced on the dresser into a fist and felt a reluctant tug of amusement. He was in combat, in a way. A battle of the wills. Master Gunnery Sergeant-turned club owner Blake Coleman versus… his own damn self.

  His eyes lifted to meet his own reflection in the mirror. God, but he looked tired. Tired and old, with every one of his nearly fifty-five years showing plainly on his face. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the silver-streaked brown hair he usually kept ruthlessly tidy was now tousled and wild. Out of his control, like so many things in his life had been from the moment he’d learned that his wife, Josie, had cancer a year and a half ago, through her death three months later, and every damn day since. But no longer.

  This is the end, he promised his reflection. No. More.

  Grief was a part of life. He wasn’t fool enough to believe a man could escape it through strength of will, and he hadn’t tried. He’d railed, he’d cried, he’d bargained. He’d stepped back from his friends. He’d loosened the reins at The Club, the BDSM mecca he owned and operated just a stone’s throw from Fenway Park, and allowed his trusted friends and employees to take on more responsibility. But he’d be damned if he would allow his own mind to turn traitor on him, to make him dream in glorious fucking detail about shit that he should never be contemplating, about a woman who was wrong for him on every level.

  Unacceptable. It was time to get a handle on this.

  He scrubbed his forehead with his free hand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  When he opened them a moment later, he caught sight of the framed pictures which had been arranged just-so on the top of the dresser, first by Josie, and then by their cleaning lady, Consuela, who had started coming once a week when Josie got too sick to keep the house as pristine as she liked it.

  “Keep Consuela on after I’m gone,” Josie had begged. “You’ll need someone to take care of you, at least for a while.”

  Her concern was baseless, if you considered that he’d enlisted in the Marines the day he’d turned eighteen and had spent years doing his own cooking, cleaning, and laundry. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

  But Josie hadn’t wanted him to have to. Blake had learned early on in their marriage that Josie delighted in taking care of him, both as his wife and as his submissive.

  So when her tired eyes had grown round and alarmed at the idea of him managing the place on his own—maybe picturing him suffocating under the weight of a decade’s worth of dust—he’d agreed to keep Consuela on, and he hadn’t had the heart to change his mind in the months that had passed since Josie’s death.

  Without conscious thought, his hand snagged the picture frame and dragged it closer, so that he could inspect it in the milky, pre-dawn light.

  It was an image he’d seen a thousand times before—him in his uniform, hair high and tight, fresh back from a stint in Saudi Arabia during the first Gulf War, not even thirty years old and cocky as hell. Josie in her puffy dress, all white satin and lace, with her blonde curls fluffed out to the nth degree and looking for all the world like the twenty-year-old virgin she was. He was looking straight at the camera, ready to take on whatever life threw at them. She was looking at him, awestruck, like he’d hung the moon.

  A familiar pang twisted his stomach.

  Their marriage had been a good one. They’d never been able to have kids, but that hadn’t seemed to bother Josie much once the initial disappointment faded. She’d instead found her calling in studying and researching dominance and submission, and mentoring others in the D/s community through her blog, SubHaven. And Blake… well, he’d opened The Club.

  He ran his thumb over the smooth wood of the picture frame. A quarter of a century had passed since that day. Sometimes it felt like yesterday. Sometimes he could barely remember who he’d been back then.

  His mind tripped to Slay and Matteo, Diego, Paul, Donnie, Dom and Tony, the younger men—all dominants, like him—who he considered the core members of The Club. He considered all of them friends, despite the fact that all of them were currently around the age he’d been when the picture was taken.

  He snorted. In a lot of ways, those guys were further along than he’d been at their ages, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. But back then he hadn’t even known what BDSM was. He’d thought he’d have to subdue the protective, dominant qualities that had served him so well in the military for the sake of his marriage.

  If it hadn’t been for Josie, he might never have known better.

  She’d been the one who’d read the romance novels, the one who’d gotten the idea that his natural leadership and her natural submissiveness could become something more. She was the one who’d approached him, encouraged him to talk with other dominants, introduced him to the concept of chat rooms back when the internet was in its infancy. It had opened
his eyes to what their marriage could be, what he could be, and allowed him to fulfill his potential in so many ways.

  He owed Josie, huge. And he always would.

  He straightened, and the brush of his soft flannel pajama pants against his still-hard cock made him shudder.

  Fuck.

  He owed Josie, and this was how he repaid her? Humping the bed like a teenager with a wet dream? Having completely inappropriate fantasies about a woman who was decidedly not his wife, and who was… who was…

  He slammed the flat of his hand on the dresser top, then spun around and stalked down the hall to the kitchen, ignoring the way his cock tented his pants. The whole situation was intolerable, and it was up to him to fix it.

  He reached the kitchen and went through the motions of fixing himself a cup of coffee, while his mind turned over the problem.

  Issue number one: he had gone too long without sex. He waited for guilt or shame to rear its head as he acknowledged this fact, but neither did. He had a sex drive, a strong one, and always had. Sex was a biological need for him, a simple fact of life. He’d done the deed exactly six times since Josie had passed, and each time he’d been slightly less uncomfortable, feeling less like he was cheating. Every other time he’d gotten off, which was to say, every morning and most evenings, he’d relied on his own damn hand, and that was because of…

  Issue number two. Ironic as it might seem given that he spent nearly all his waking hours in a club that catered to many people who were willing and eager for no-strings sexual gratification, those offers didn’t apply to him. He wasn’t just a member of The Club, or even an employee of The Club. He was the owner. The man who sat behind the video monitors and ensured that everyone stayed safe, sane, and consensual. A father figure to some, a mentor to others, Big Brother to the rest. Essential, but… apart. He needed a partner who understood his need for dominance, but wasn’t in awe of him. And that brought him to…