His to Belong To

by jm blake

  JM Blake

  His To Belong To

  The Possession Series Book 1

  First published by JM Blake 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by JM Blake

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  JM Blake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  JM Blake has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Cover: By the ridiculously talented Okay Creations- Sarah you brought Ayden to life!

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Note from JM

  A Little Forgiveness :)

  Acknowledgments

  I. LONDON

  Before

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Ayden

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Ayden

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Them

  Bash

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Ayden

  Bash

  Home

  II. SAN FRANCISCO AND HOME AGAIN

  Ayden

  Ayden

  Ayden

  Bash

  Ayden

  Cassidy

  Ayden

  Brin

  Sneak Peek- “Hers To Belong To”

  Playlist

  Cassidy’s Dr. Pepper Cake

  Also By JM Blake

  Excerpt From “Impelled”- The Power Series #1

  Blake Squad

  About the Author

  Note from JM

  I wasn’t a normal kid.

  When I was a little girl, I loved playing in the garbage. I mean the actual, literal trash. And being that I lived in NYC, it was plentiful and easily accessible. Yes, this drove my family crazy and embarrassed the shit out of them when the neighbors caught me, but I kept on doing it. My grandfather sat me down one day and asked me why I was out there rummaging around in other people’s crap, and I told him that I liked mixing all of the stuff I would find— old medicine bottles and whatever other gross thing was in there. He didn’t get it, but to curtail this questionable hobby (and prevent my poor nana from having a conniption), he bought me a chemistry set. It came with beakers and test tubes, an alcohol lamp, and all the bits and pieces my little heart desired.

  That lasted a month.

  Then I decided that I wanted to be an acrobat. (Ask me another time about when I fell out of a tree and broke all kinds of bones.)

  The most important part of the story is not that I was weird (still am), that I loved science (always do), or that I was the first recorded Garbage Pail Kid in history (I’m sure). It was that way back then when it wasn’t cool for girls to like “boy things”- my ahead-of-his-time grandfather nourished and encouraged my passion. He didn’t tell me that I should be playing with Barbies or learning how to cook- he helped me raid the pantry to figure out how to mix up flour and ginger ale and then heat it. (Don’t try this at home- also, he was a firefighter, NYFD— I was in good hands.)

  So in honor of the hot mess that I was/am, and how awesome my still kicking-ass grandpa was/is, I’m dedicating a portion of the proceeds from “The Possession Series” to CalGirlS Collaborative- a series of programs dedicated to engaging young girls in STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math). It will fund a “mini-grant” here in my home state of California.

  Please visit their website for more information: https://ngcproject.org/collaborative/california-girls-in-stem-calgirls-collaborative

  And for all of you girls out there doing awesome things…this one is for you.

  A Little Forgiveness :)

  I know that Brits are super severe about aristocracy- something I tried to respect with every fiber of my being. However, I did take some liberties with lineage and titles etc. (hopefully not too egregious).

  I don’t want to give too much away, but please be assured that I did my best to blend my wild fantasies with some sort of accuracy.

  If you read my previous series, you will finally find out why Nick Grant called Ayden all of those annoying nicknames. Enjoy!

  Also note- this book is told primarily from Ayden’s POV. Don’t worry, Cassidy has a full voice in “Hers To Belong To” :)

  Best,

  JMB

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to all the usual suspects- my family (especially the husband), friends, and readers. Ayden is such a joy to write, and before you grouse at me, I promise you the journey is worth the pain.

  Cover: By the ridiculously talented Okay Creations- Sarah, you brought Ayden to life!

  Until next time.

  I

  London

  Destiny: a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency—

  ‘How did this come to be

  I don’t know how you found me

  But from the moment I saw you

  Deep inside my heart, I knew’

  —Jim Brickman

  Before

  The Surrey-Mark Hotel is famous for three things.

  One- the opulent appointments of its guest rooms and private clubs. Situated in a hidden nook in the heart of Knightsbridge, the Nash-inspired architecture highlights the ultra-luxe decor, marked by pristine antiques, lush textiles, and warm lighting. Each of its fifty-five suites is filled daily with fresh flowers (personally chosen by each guest), beds made with the highest thread count available, and stocked with the rarest wine and spirits. The top three floors are a combination of privately owned lofts and leased apartments occupied by everything from a tech billionaire to a Middle-Eastern prince.

  The second, is the Surrey’s stringent promise of absolute discretion. Employees are put through rigorous background checks, social media monitoring, and several non-disclosure agreements. So important is this vow of prudence, that some workers don’t even tell their families where they work. Guests can be assured that all of their deeds (good and bad) will be studiously ignored, making the hotel a favorite of visiting diplomats and the Hollywood elite.

  Lastly is the ‘Campus’—a clubby bar with high-backed leather booths and a selective clientele. Billion-dollar deals and noble marriages have been arranged inside of its walls; it’s not unusual to hear plans for ending wars or the next electric car being spoken of in hushed tones. It’s not a place for the newbie: the Steward closely guards the entrance to the Campus- a position gained only by heredity or decree. In the two-hundred and thirty-five-year history of the hotel, only four families: T
he Soames, The Westons, The Mayerlys, and the Thackers have held that role- a source of pride and distinction. The current Steward- A Soames/Thacker offspring- is a veritable lion with his entree cocktail- simultaneously rejecting and granting admittance with a ruthless relish.

  So you can understand my utter confusion when I overhear the absolute bullshit coming from the two knobs sitting behind me. I’m in the process of nursing my fifty-year scotch and debating on taking home the hot little blonde who’s been eye-fucking me the last hour, but I keep getting sidetracked by their nonsense. I’ve been halfway listening to these two idiots blathering about this and that for the past hour- and I’m tempted to have the Steward kick them straight to the street. I managed to block out most of what they were saying until I unwittingly tuned back in.

  “It’s her. I would know those lips anywhere,” Arsehole Number One says excitedly. He has a flat American accent, along with a sickening tendency to form foamy spitballs at the corner of his mouth. The first time I turned around, he had two large ones sponging his lips together.

  “No way, dude. She’s supposed to be what-five-ten or eleven? She’s a supermodel for chrissakes. This chick is nowhere near that tall,” Arsehole Number Two replies. “Plus, what would she be doing here? Chicks like that are like on the Riviera or Ibiza—not in an old ass hotel in London.”

  Alright, first, he mispronounced Ibiza (as most Americans do), and second, did he call the Surrey-Mark an ‘old-ass hotel’? I glance/glare over my shoulder again, but they are both oblivious. Their attention is focused squarely on a booth to the left of all of us. I crane my neck to see who they are talking about, but all I see is the very top of a dark head of hair.

  “I’m telling you she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I’m about to go over there and ask for her autograph,” Spitty is practically bouncing off of his stool. His top-shelf whiskey sloshing all over the tabletop, and the spitballs have returned. I can feel my top lip curling involuntarily as I take in his ill-fitting suit and sweat-stuck hair. The two fingers that are clutching his rock glass are stubbed with dirty fingernails, and ink stains his palm. His partner is no better with a shiny bald head and smarmy smirk glued to his face.

  “You’re drunk, bro. That ain’t Melina M, and that chick is nowhere near as hot. Hey, maybe she’s an escort? I read an article about how hookers in Europe post up in tony places like this and look for rich men. That whole nerdy thing she has going on is probably just a front. Listen, how much cash do you have on you?” He pulls a pitiful stack of notes mixed with American dollars, and his friend does the same. They whisper loudly, predicting what kind of service their money can buy, while the object of their focus remains blissfully ignorant to the hell about to be unleashed upon her.

  I take the last sip of my scotch and sigh deeply. There’s no way I can let this poor girl be subject to these two twats. I throw a few fifty-pound notes down and slide out of my chair. I know Melina M personally— she runs in the same fast circles that I do. There’s no way she would be caught dead in Campus. It’s too quiet, too cerebral for her. She prefers the flashy lights and stormy scenery in Chelsea, Mahiki in Mayfair, or Notting Hill. Areshole Number Two is partially correct, at least.

  I slip past them to the right and make my way in a full circle, passing acquaintances and the hot blonde who I’m still taking with me. I give her a quick wink and a nod, and she squeals something to her friend. I’ll remember to have her repeat that sound when I’m stroking into her later.

  Not-Melina’s booth is curved into a corner, almost facing the wall. As I round the curved seat, I see that her tousled dark head is bent over a laptop and that she is simultaneously typing and making notes onto a ratty pad of paper. She’s all dressed in black and utterly unaware of the fact that someone is standing in front of her. I clear my throat loudly and wait.

  Nothing.

  I clear it again and knock lightly on the table.

  Still nothing.

  I lean over and see that she has headphones in her ears and can faintly hear the steady beat of a dance track. Her fingers are flying over the keyboard, and she whips a calculator out of nowhere, punching in numbers at a record pace. An accountant, perhaps? A student? I move closer to get a look at the writing on the pad, jostling the table a bit, and her head shoots up in surprise. Her eyes lock onto mine, and her mouth forms a soft “O” in shock.

  Fuck me standing. She’s gorgeous.

  I can see where the resemblance to Melina is causing spasms in the bloke at the bar. Melina is famous for her abundant pout and brilliant blue eyes. I can’t tell the exact color behind her thick glasses, but her pillowy and wide lips are the stuff of dreams. Her skin is like heavy cream, and even with the dim light, I can see a flush creep up her cheeks. Her thick dark hair is full of curls and bumps, spilling in wild abandon around her shoulders. I know I’m staring like a fool, and I mentally shake myself out of my inspection. I glance up and see the Twin Terrors about to make their way to her table.

  “I don’t have time to explain, but trust me, just follow my lead,” I hurry and slide in close to her, draping my arm around her shoulders. She fits perfectly under my arm, and I feel her stiffen. Leaning in, I place my lips close to her lobe. The scent of her- heady vanilla mixed with fresh lavender tickles my nose. “There are two men who are headed this way- and trust me; you do not want to face them alone.” Her breath quickens, and she nods once. I keep my face buried in her fragrant hair as she quickly flips over her papers and shuts her laptop. She turns her body toward mine slightly and curls into me.

  “Excuse me, are you Melina M?” Arsehole One asks without preamble. His friend is standing slightly behind him, that smarmy expression creasing his mouth. His eyes flit over us and lock onto me. He takes in my tailored suit and zeros in on my Rolex Daytona watch. His mouth opens slightly, and he takes a little step back. Smart man.

  The vision in my arms turns her head slightly and gives the duo a hard look. “Excuse me?” Her voice is a bit raspy but sweet. The biggest surprise- she’s American.

  “I said, are you Melina M? Ya know, the model. Are you her?” Spitty’s voice is grating and loud, and sure enough, a round spector of saliva is growing at the corner of his mouth. I can see her eyes zero in on it, and feel her spine stiffen in disgust.

  “No. I’m not.” She turns back into my chest with a huff, but the two won’t leave.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you look just like her,” the fool rambles while whipping out an outdated cell phone with a cracked screen, “See?” He shoves the phone close to her face, and I feel a growl crawl up my throat. The blurry picture is one of Melina—and yes, the resemblance is uncanny, but this sod is pissing me off with his rudeness. He’s pushing himself into what I consider her personal space, and any minute he’s going to be touching her. Fuck this.

  “She said no, mate. I suggest you leave before I have you removed, or I will do it myself.” I grit out the last bit and lift my hand in a slight gesture. I see the Steward quickly take in the scene and lift his antique phone. After a few words, he nods at me, and I turn my eyes back to the soon-to-be-departed. “That wasn’t a request. She’s not who you think she is. Now kindly leave.” I lock eyes with his friend, and my threat is clear—I’m not one to be messed with. My eyes flit over his shoulder, and I watch as two hulking yet discreet security post themselves at the entrance. All I need to do is lift an eyebrow, and they will be tossed onto the street.

  “C’mon Sid. It’s not her like I said.” Arsehole Two pulls at his friend’s arm and whispers something low. Spitty sniffs nastily and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Nah, you’re not her. My bad.” His wet lip curls up, and they turn to amble drunkenly toward the exit. The two guards follow them at a distance while I once again meet eyes with the Steward. With a quirk of my mouth, I ensure they will never be allowed back.

  “Thank you.”

  The angel in my arms has pulled back from my tight embrace, peering up at me through her glasses. A thick
strand of her hair has fallen over her cheek, and I unconsciously tuck it behind her ear. I take in her unbelievable features from a smooth forehead, down her slim, straight nose locking onto that mouth. Her lips are upturned with a dark pink color, a slight indent in the middle of the lower one. They look like cotton candy and wet dreams. I can already picture them wrapped around my cock, and it twitches hard with the mental image.

  “Are you ok?”

  Her rough little voice is puzzled as I shake myself and realize that I’ve not only been twirling her hair around my finger, but I’ve also been staring at her from a very short distance. I probably look like a complete lunatic.

  “I’m fine, love. How are you? They didn’t frighten you too much, did they?” I find that I don’t like the idea of her being upset. At all.