by Jane Henry
His Babygirl
Jane Henry and Maisy Archer
Blushing Books
Contents
His Babygirl
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
About the Author
About the Author
EBook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
Blushing Books
His Babygirl
Boston Doms – Book Four
By
Jane Henry and Maisy Archer
2016© Blushing Books® and Jane Henry and Maisy Archer
©2016 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®,
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The trademark Blushing Books®
is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Jane Henry and Maisy Archer
His Babygirl
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-923-5
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
Alice darted a nervous glance up and down the quiet street. After assuring herself that it was completely deserted, she put a slightly crumpled cigarette between her lips and lit it. As she inhaled deeply, letting the acrid smoke sear a path down her throat and into her lungs, she felt something inside her loosen and rolled her eyes at her own behavior.
Sneaking around like you’re sixteen again, Alice?
She reminded herself that smoking, while hardly the healthiest choice for many reasons, was not illegal for God’s sake—not even in Boston, so long as she stayed away from building entrances. And if the residents here on Queensborough Street—a mixture of professionals from the nearby medical center and students from the multitude of surrounding colleges—wanted to clutch their collective pearls about anything that happened on the street this evening, they had bigger things to gripe about than a lone woman leaning against a lamppost and having a cigarette break.
She wondered how many of the residents knew that the unassuming, unmarked brownstone with the small, shabby bar beneath it was actually the home of The Club, the BDSM playground so well-known and respected in the Boston D/s community that it didn’t need any other name. If the neighbors knew, they kept the information to themselves.
It helped that Master Blake, The Club’s current owner, had invested God-only-knew how much money in getting the place secured and soundproofed. She knew for a fact that inside the building was a cacophony of music and laughter. Out here, though, even just a few feet from the entrance, all she could hear was the noise of cars passing in the distance and the whistle of the bitingly cold wind as it whipped between the buildings, making the little white Christmas lights on the trees dance and sway. And with all of his high-tech cameras monitoring the place from every angle, Blake had made Queensborough one of the safest streets in Boston.
A scuffle of sound to her right made her whirl on the spot, her heart pounding, but when she turned… nothing.
Gah! What a ninny! She would not jump like an idiot every time a dead leaf blew across the sidewalk. She was a mature, adult woman who made her own decisions, for better or worse. She answered to no one but herself.
She ground her teeth together and deliberately took another deep drag.
She knew exactly who she was afraid would catch her smoking, and the knowledge made her want to shake herself. It wasn’t the neighbors she worried about disappointing, nor her boss, nor one of her friends. It wasn’t her parents, even though they’d probably rant about how this was another sign of her moral weakness, the way they had about almost every decision she’d made since the fateful night almost seven years ago when she’d lost her virginity and gotten pregnant all in one fell swoop. It wasn’t even her own six-year-old son, Charlie, who knew enough about the dangers of smoking that she’d have to do some pretty quick verbal tap dancing to explain herself. No, she was worried that she’d disappoint the one person whose opinion she should care about the least—Alexander “Slay” Slater.
Why should she worry about disappointing someone who had made it overwhelmingly clear that he didn’t want her to be accountable to him?
She w
ondered sometimes whether Slay’s attitude towards her was her own fault. Since she’d started working at The Club as a bartender last spring, she’d had the most overwhelming crush on him. And God, who could blame her? He was six feet, five inches of hard, tattooed muscle, and everything from his shaved head to his piercings to his heavy motorcycle boots screamed badass. He was a restless, broody tattoo artist with eyes that said he’d seen and done terrible things and needed comfort she instinctively wanted to provide. He was a former Marine and Dungeon Master with an inherent need to lead and command. The sexual submissive inside her couldn’t help but respond. And if all of that weren’t enough? He was some kind of undercover-operations-hero who’d helped rescue not one but two of her friends from sketchy, dangerous situations in the last year, and gotten himself shot (yes, shot!) in the arm in the process. For a girl who’d grown up in a household so conservative it made 1950s sitcoms look edgy, he was the ultimate bad boy fantasy.
So, she’d followed him around like an obedient little puppy, hanging on his every command, unable to stop herself from trying to please him. You want me to work the stupid outer bar at The Club where nobody tips and nothing fun ever happens? Yes, sir, Slay, whatever you say! You want me to stay out of the playrooms during my off-time, and never participate in any of the scenes? Sure thing, no problem!
And what had that cooperative, submissive attitude gotten her? A thinner wallet than any other bartender or waitress at The Club, and a case of sexual frustration so bad that she couldn’t stand it. Meanwhile, Slay had gone off and made a play for Hillary, the girl his best friend Matteo Angelico had been trying not to fall for. And when that didn’t work out for Slay, and Matt and Hillie finally got together (because duh, anyone with eyes could see that Hillie and Matt were meant to be, no matter how hard Matt had tried to fight it), Slay had gone on a man-whoring rampage, doing scenes with every skank who expressed the slightest interest in him and making sure that Alice knew all about them. And just in case she hadn’t gotten the message that he had no interest in her whatsoever, he’d taken it one step further and had gone out of his way to avoid conversation with her since October.
Since he’d been shot.
Since she’d rushed to the hospital to sit by his bedside and had been firmly rejected.
So, screw him. The crush was officially over, and so was her desire to obey him.
Since Slay was Master Blake’s right-hand man, Alice still had to be professional and polite, of course. But over the last month or two, she’d deliberately stopped following his every order as if it were gospel. Now she worked the real bar, in the members-only part of the club (for which her wallet cheered), and she definitely participated in the scenes from time to time. Nothing serious, nothing hardcore—a good spanking, a little rope play, but enough to take the edge off.
And if she noticed that Slay’s jaw got hard and his eyes smoldered a bit when he heard about her participating in a scene, she ruthlessly squashed the instinctive desire to back down. Honestly, there were a multitude of things in this life that she was powerless to control—her ultra-religious family, the rich bitches who ran Pevrell and Brahms where Charlie went to school, the way her landlord was always around when it was time to raise the rent but never when she needed things repaired—and it was nice to feel like she still had some power over her own life.
Even if the only thing she could control was having a damn cigarette when she felt like it.
She took another deep drag and held it until her lungs were ready to burst, then slowly exhaled. It was like a Zen meditation thing, only much less healthy.
“Was it good?”
The deep, soft voice made her drop the cigarette and spin on the spot, sinking into the fighting stance she’d learned in her high school self-defense class.
Slay ran his gaze over her pose and snorted dismissively. His arms were folded across his chest in a casual way, but there was nothing relaxed about the tension in his shoulders or the tight set of his jaw.
“Damn it, Slay!” Alice said angrily. She stood up straight again, and laid a hand over her chest, where her heart was still pounding crazily. A man as big as Slay should move like a lumbering elephant, not a fucking ghost.
Slay took a step forward, placing himself between her and The Club. He deliberately put his boot over the butt of her cigarette, which still smoldered on the sidewalk, and twisted his foot.
Alice shut her eyes and sighed. Of course it was too much to hope that he’d missed the part where the cigarette was in her hand. Cue the lecture.
But no lecture was forthcoming. Slay just stood there, silently watching her. Assessing her. Judging her. Making her want to squirm.
It was freaking cold out here. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now the early-December chill seemed to seep into her bones. The temperature didn’t seem to faze Slay in the slightest—he was a veritable space heater, and her body leaned toward the palpable warmth of his before she forced herself back. She folded her own arms over her chest, mirroring his position, fighting the urge to speak under the weight of his silence.
Being immune to him was a lot easier when he was ignoring her.
Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer.
“My break’s almost over,” she said as politely as she could, unclenching her arms and making to scoot around him to head back into the building. “So, if you’ll excuse me?”
Something flared in his eyes. He nodded his head once, as if coming to a decision, and moved his big body quickly, gracefully, to block her.
So Alice stepped to his other side.
With that same fluid grace, he moved in front of her again, so close that his crossed arms nearly brushed her chest.
Alice looked up. “You have something to say?” she demanded. Just get it over with and go back to ignoring me before my body spontaneously combusts from being so close to yours, damn it.
Slay’s eyebrows rose. “I was still waiting for you to answer my question.”
Alice frowned. “What question?”
“I asked you if it was good,” Slay reminded her. “That cigarette.”
Alice expelled a breath. “It was terrific,” she said flatly. “Best five minutes of my night.”
Slay nodded thoughtfully. “I guess it would have to be.” He pursed his lips and regarded her silently for another moment, making no move to get out of her way.
God, his Mr. Inscrutable routine was annoying. And fucking sexy. And annoying.
“Fine. I’ll bite. What does that mean?” she asked, bracing her hands on her hips. The beam of the streetlight cut across his face, highlighting his eyes—golden brown, and fringed with long, thick black lashes that any supermodel would envy. On any other guy, those eyes would lock comically feminine. On Slay, they just emphasized his all-consuming masculinity—the hard angle of his jaw, the slash of his cheekbones. At the moment, she found all of that annoying, too.
Slay gave an exaggerated shrug as though the answer were obvious. “It means, you violated the terms of your employment. I would imagine it would’ve had to be a damn good cigarette to be worthwhile.”
Alice felt her jaw drop. What the hell was he talking about?
“Violated the terms of my employment?” she scoffed. “For smoking? Half the people who work here smoke.” She hated that her voice sounded so high and defensive, and forced herself to stand taller.
“Mmm,” he agreed. “But those people didn’t put non-smoker on their applications.” He leaned toward her just slightly, and her poor heart started hammering again, reminding her that he was nearly a foot taller than she was, and least a hundred pounds heavier; that he was a predator, and she was prey. “And to be honest, little Alice, I don’t give a shit whether any of them smoke.”
It was so tempting to twist his words, to take them to mean that she was special to him in some way. But Slay had made it clear back in his hospital room that this would never be more than a fantasy. His big brown eyes, groggy with sleep and pain meds, had opened, focused
on her for one moment, and immediately filled with alarm and anger. “Jesus, Alice! Go home, you hear me?” he’d slurred. “I don’t want you here!” A man couldn’t be much clearer than that.
But Slay was the ultimate dominant. No matter how lukewarm his feelings were for her personally, his desire to protect was woven into every cell of his body, and he couldn’t just turn that shit off. This little intervention was him protecting her from what he thought was a bad decision, whether she wanted his interference or not. Like she was his kid. Or his sister.
Humiliation complete. She definitely liked it better when he was just ignoring her.
“Slay,” she said, pleased to hear that her voice sounded reasonable though she spoke through gritted teeth. “I appreciate that you wanna protect me, but this is not the tack to take. I know it’s not healthy, but single moms only get so many vices, okay? A cigarette here and there is not a big deal. And we both know it’s total bullshit to think that you could get me fired for having a cigarette. You’re insulting my intelligence here, big guy.”
He stared at her intently, and a slow, wide smile broke out over his face. But the smile didn’t reach his molten eyes. Her heart thumped wildly.
“You sure about that, Alice? You wanna take your chances? Be my guest.” He stepped to her side and swept his arm out, as though inviting her to lead them inside. Then he leaned down and whispered directly in her ear, “Let’s just see what happens when I tell Blake that his employee was smoking right out in front of the building, tarnishing the image of The Club.”
Alice swallowed. His hot breath on her neck was messing with her mind, making her nipples bead against the lace of her bra, making her forget her own name. It was true that most employees smoked out in the back alley, but she’d assumed that was more preference than official policy. She licked her lips nervously.