His To Have Read online

  Table of Contents

  Sneak peek

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  His To Have

  Devon Birchley

  Alpha Romance Press

  Copyright ©2017 by Devon Birchley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events and businesses is purely coincidental.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Sneak peek

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Sneak peek

  “Exquisitely made,” he says. I spin around and receive my second jolt of the evening. I’m face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man...He has golden-brown hair, cut short at the sides, with a long-top pushed back in a messy quiff, dark, straight brows, and dark scruff covering a firm jaw. His lips are full, and his eyes are soulful, golden-brown, and almost puppyish. In short, he looks like he just walked out of a fashion shoot in Brooklyn, or some equally edgy neighborhood. I’m holding the crop in both hands, but he’s not looking at it—he’s running his eyes all over my body without a hint of shame.

  “Is it?” I say, as neutrally as I can.

  He nods. “Very. But the real beauty is in its execution. I’d be happy to show you how it works.” There’s a flicker of heat between my thighs.

  “I—I’m not into this stuff.” One of those straight, thick eyebrows lifts a smidgen in tandem with a corner of his mouth.

  “Sex? You’re not into sex?”

  “I mean…” I gesture at the row of whips hanging on hooks along the stall front. “This. Bondage.”

  The quirk in his lips becomes a full-on smirk. “Bondage is something a little different. But it could certainly be a precursor to me using a whip on you.”

  “Whatever. It’s not my thing. None of it.”

  He leans in, using his height advantage. “I think it is.” His voice has become a gravelly purr, like the sound a predatory animal makes when it has its prey in its sights. And he’s so close that I can smell him—a rich, spicy scent tempered with expensive cologne. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  1

  “Come on, it’s just for a couple of hours. What else would you be doing anyway?” Dominique is inches from my face, watching me with slanting, black eyes, her purple, bejeweled eyelashes fluttering with every blink.

  “Maybe sleeping.”

  “Grandma.”

  I sigh. “I worked 12-hour days all week. And—it’s just not my thing. I’m a small-town girl. We don’t have places like that in Springfield.” I’m sitting on a beat-up ottoman in the living room of the cramped apartment we share, trying hard to shuffle away from her. But she’s got me cornered, sparkly-pink lips pursed, hands braced either side of my knees. Her black, corkscrew curls are wild and her gaze unwavering, and I’m suddenly reminded of a predatory creature about to pounce. An eyebrow arches.

  “How much did you say junior ad executives get paid again?”

  I’m trying hard to be unyielding, but I can’t resist a smile. “Peanuts.”

  “Ex-actly!” She draws the word out, dazzling me with her perfect white teeth. “All you’ve got to do is hand out a few flyers. I’ll pay you seventy bucks. And you might have fun,” she finishes in a stage whisper.

  I don’t want to go out tonight. Moving to a new city and starting a new job—actually, my first ever grown-up job—has taken it out of me these past weeks, and all I want to do is curl up in bed, exchange messages with my best friend, Monica, back home, and watch movies. And I definitely don’t want to go to a Sexpo. Whatever that is.

  But Dominique has persuasion down to a fine art.

  “I haven’t got anything to wear.” I’m aware how lame an excuse this is, and a wicked look glimmers in her eye.

  “I can help you with that.”

  “We’re not the same size,” I say quickly, having observed that her closet consists of burlesque outfits, slinky bathrobes, and slouchy tracksuits.

  “Just wear your normal clothes then. You’re beautiful, and you’ve got a great figure, Reagan. Skinny jeans and a tight black sweater will be perfect.”

  “Don’t people get dressed up in gimp masks and latex bodysuits?”

  “One or two.” She gives me a wink. “Seriously, it’s not a sex party. It’s an exhibition. Like an RV show. Or Comic-con. But with better exhibits. It’s very tame, I promise.”

  I sit up straighter, knowing I’ve already lost. “And all I do is hand out flyers to people and tell them when your next performance is going to be?”

  “Yes, Reagan.”

  I let out an epic sigh. “Okay. But just because I want to help you out. I’m not taking your money.”

  “Shush. It’s the going rate. And I’d rather be paying you than some random stranger I find at the venue instead.”

  She leans forward and reaches for my hands. At the same moment, her lilac satin bathrobe comes undone, and I’m treated to a flash of her costume, which is no more than two heart-shaped nipple pasties, panties, a garter belt, and stockings. I roll my eyes and let her pull me to my feet. “You’re very good at getting your own way.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, honey.”

  An hour or so later, I’m standing in the middle of the Sexpo in a leather pencil skirt, black knee-length boots and a clingy black sweater with a mesh back. If I’m going to do this, I might as well look the part. My brown hair is loose and left in natural waves, and I’ve applied a slick of red lipstick to make me look a little more alive. I’m also carrying Dominique’s purse, which is bulging with her flyers and weighs a ton.

  “Wait until my show’s over before you hand them out,” she’d instructed me before rushing off to the performers’ area. “That way people will already be curious about me.”

  While I’m waiting for her to go onstage, I buy a fortifying shot of vodka from one of the bars and wander around the stalls. Aside from the performers, just about everyone’s wearing normal clothes. So far, so good. But the stalls are something else. We really don’t have things like this in Springfield. There’s every kind of kink I’ve heard of, and plenty I haven’t. The vibrator stall is generating a lot of buzz. Literally. People are jostling each other to grab hold of the dildos and press them against the tips of their noses. Across the aisle is a stall devoted to adult-sized diapers and onesies. Another place exhibits swi
ngs and restraints that you can test drive before you buy. But I don’t get it. It doesn’t feel sexy to me. It’s all a bit cringe. Full of married couples desperate to spice up their tired, old sex lives and company bosses trying to convince their secretaries that they’re cool and experimental. The guys’ tongues are hanging out, while the women mostly look bored.

  There’s a program of live shows all night long, and Dominique, a.k.a. Violet Sundae, is first up. When her act is announced, I head up to the front and pick a spot off to the side so she can’t see that I’m watching her.

  I have some idea of what to expect, but it doesn’t lessen the impact when she comes onstage. I stifle a gasp. She looks gorgeous. She’s wearing a corset, making her tiny waist even tinier, a purple net petticoat, and a tiny bowler hat set at a jaunty angle on her head. She gets a great reaction from the audience too, with lots of clapping and whistling as she begins her show. It’s kind of surreal watching my petite roommate on stage, commanding all that attention. When she begins to take her clothes off, I decide to make a bathroom trip. It’s not like I haven’t seen her half-naked almost every day since I moved into the apartment, but I’m starting to feel like a seedy dude at a pole-dancing club.

  I take my time fixing my lipstick and examining the dark shadows beneath my eyes—another consequence of being a junior ad executive. They suit me in a way—lending me a nocturnal, vampirish air. When I come back out, Dominique is just finishing, and I catch a glimpse of her peachy, G-string-clad ass as she gives a final wave to the audience and sashays off stage. So here’s where I hand out the flyers. I grab a stack from the purse, affix a smile to my face, and offer them to people as they depart from the stage. I have prior experience, having handed out discount vouchers in a downtown Springfield supermarket when I was 16. But this is way easier. Almost everyone takes one, and a ton of people ask me questions about her.

  Before long, I’m starting to enjoy myself. So, maybe I was being a little prejudiced earlier. Most people seem pretty normal, quite a few around my own age, and I end up chatting and joking with them, suddenly obscurely proud to be associated with Dominique.

  And then I see him. I swear my heart stops beating, and my breath rushes out as if I’ve just been winded. Less than ten feet away, in a latex tank top, black leather pants, and studded collar is one of the account directors from my company. Jeremy Standish. Mr. Suave. I can feel my eyes bug out, and before I have time to turn my head away, we make eye contact. I stand stock-still, as if I’ve been nailed to the floor with a giant nail gun, and snap my jaw shut. Shiiiit! my brain is screaming.

  He steps forward, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Hello, Reagan.”

  I bend my lips into the shape of a smile. “Hello, Jeremy,” I reply in the tone of a creaking hinge. “I’m just helping a friend out for the night.”

  He nods once, very seriously. “So I see. Goodnight.” He strides off, accompanied by a good-looking man wearing a similar outfit. I watch him go, my heart making up for all those missed beats, pounding until I feel dizzy. I’m working for one of the most competitive, cut-throat agencies in the city, and I’ve just seen my boss wearing latex. He could fire me for this without any difficulty. I’m little more than an intern. He could just tell human resources that my work sucked, and that’ll be it.

  Through the fog of panic, I realize that I’ve got to follow him. If he leaves right now, it’s bad news. It means that my presence has upset him a lot, and he’s going to want to get rid of me A-sap. But if he stays, maybe it’s not that big of a deal.

  Of course, it’s not a big deal, I tell myself as I weave through the crowds, trying to keep him and his hot companion in sight. He wouldn’t walk around in public dressed like a condom if it was. I push through a swarm of people, just in time to see him passing through the exit.

  “Fuck. This is not good.” It’s so bad that I’m even talking to myself. Entire career sabotaged in five seconds flat. Graduate jobs at Koln & Mathers are like gold dust. Usually, you don’t even get an interview unless you know somebody. But I got mine through sheer persistence—calling them up and sending them ideas for ads until they invited me to meet one of the bosses. Eight interviews later, I was hired on probation. But I get a sense they don’t trust me yet. I’m not one of their preppy, Ivy League types who was born with a bucketload of charm. I’m more irreverent, more of a loose cannon. And now I’ve blown it. I might as well not even go into the office on Monday morning to spare us both the humiliation. I’m not cut out for any of this—the big city life, the cut-throat career, the Sexpo. Who am I kidding?

  I peer at the exit, desperately wanting to leave and take the bus back home, but I’ve got Dominique’s purse, which contains all her valuables. Instead, I walk back into the throng, trying to find her. I eventually discover her in a corner, surrounded by a bunch of people, both men and women, showering her with compliments and having their photo taken with her. I decide I’ll hand the purse to her and leave.

  But it’s impossible to get close. And I feel bad for disrupting her big moment. She looks like a tiny, beautiful starlet, and shoving her purse at her right now would be extremely unclassy. I back away, remembering that I’m supposed to be handing out flyers. Sunk in gloom, I haul out another handful and start offering them to passers-by.

  Before I know it, they’re all gone, but Dominique is still busy being fabulous, so I sacrifice another five dollars of my earnings to buy myself a beer, then wander aimlessly from stall to stall, thinking moody thoughts, and replaying the horrific moment when Jeremy’s eyes met mine.

  For no particular reason, I stop in front of a stall selling nothing but whips. There are riding crops; whips with a single, long, thin tail (bullwhips, apparently); whips with lots of tails (floggers); and a very nasty-looking thing called a cat-o-nine-tails. Somehow, a riding crop ends up in my hands. It’s black leather, about three-foot long, and has a soft handle. When I whack the flat tip against the side of my boot it makes a satisfying thwhup. And when I test it out on my forearm, it hurts way more than I expected it to, leaving a bright red stripe in its wake. Am I tipsy? I wonder as the heat spreads from my arm through my body. And then a deep, masculine voice comes from behind me, close enough I can feel the warmth of its owner’s breath on my ear.

  “Exquisitely made,” he says. I spin around and receive my second jolt of the evening. I’m face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man. But aside from that, the voice ought to belong to someone else entirely. My eyes dart from side to side, wondering if it’s possible that someone else had been speaking. But no, he’s the only man near enough. The voice is rich, resonant, and commanding, but I can practically hear “hipster” being drawled in Monica’s derisive tones. He’s wearing a wheat-colored sweater with a deep V-neck, exposing a light scattering of chest hair and a wisp of black ink—a wing, or a feather maybe? A pair of oversize glasses hang from the V; an earring hangs from his right ear. He has golden-brown hair, cut short at the sides, with a long-top pushed back in a messy quiff, dark, straight brows, and dark scruff covering a firm jaw. His lips are full, and his eyes are soulful, golden-brown, and almost puppyish. In short, he looks like he just walked out of a fashion shoot in Brooklyn, or some equally edgy neighborhood. I’m holding the crop in both hands, but he’s not looking at it—he’s running his eyes all over my body without a hint of shame.

  “Is it?” I say, as neutrally as I can.

  He nods. “Very. But the real beauty is in its execution. I’d be happy to show you how it works.” There’s a flicker of heat between my thighs.

  “I—I’m not into this stuff.” One of those straight, thick eyebrows lifts a smidgen in tandem with a corner of his mouth.

  “Sex? You’re not into sex?”

  “I mean…” I gesture at the row of whips hanging on hooks along the stall front. “This. Bondage.”

  The quirk in his lips becomes a full-on smirk. “Bondage is something a little different. But it could certainly be a precursor to me using a whip
on you.”

  “Whatever. It’s not my thing. None of it.”

  He leans in, using his height advantage. “I think it is.” His voice has become a gravelly purr, like the sound a predatory animal makes when it has its prey in its sights. And he’s so close that I can smell him—a rich, spicy scent tempered with expensive cologne. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  For once in my life, I’m stuck for words. And then my anger flares. “Who are you, and what the hell do you think gives you the right to pass judgment on me?” I snap. “You know nothing about me.” I’m speaking loudly, but he seems unabashed.

  “Nothing? Well, let me see… you’re at the biggest sex exhibition in the northeast in a provocative outfit, and you’re caressing a whip. And you have very vulnerable eyes.”

  I scowl. I’ve been told often that my eyes look innocent, and I don’t like it.

  “I’m just working here, helping a friend out, and I got bored waiting for her.”

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out one of Dominique’s flyers. “This friend?”

  I fight to keep my expression blank. “Have you been watching me?”

  “What if I have?” His face displays such evident enjoyment that I want to slap him.

  “You’re a freak.”

  He takes a half step closer, and his smile doesn’t falter. “If I am, then so are you,” he says in an undertone. “But seriously, you don’t need any of this crap.”

  I fold my arms. At this point, I don’t even know why I’m continuing to stand here and give him an audience, but I can never back away from confrontation. “No? What do I need?”