Honor Bound by Joey Hill (speld decodable readers .txt) 📕

swept her hand into his hair, held on tight, and rocked against his cock.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice tight with strain. “Fuck me.”

She did, sliding on and off his cock, so close she gritted her teeth to keep her orgasm at bay. And he tangled his fingers tighter in the laces of her corset.

“Fuck me harder.”

His voice was gritty with strain. Ella fought to hold on, so near to orgasm she teetered on the ragged edge. But still, she held back.

“Come with me, Clay.”

He rolled her over onto her back, slid his hands under her and grabbed her ass, tilting her pelvis up to meet his, then drove hard and deep, sliding against her clit and shattering her.

She couldn’t hold back anymore, and neither could he. At his first guttural cry she let go, arching against him and digging her nails into his arms as her orgasm swept through her like a tidal wave of sensation and pleasure, rocketing her over and over again until she fell to the mattress, Clay with her.

She didn’t know how long they lay like that, Clay on top of her, Ella caressing his back, listening to him breathe. He finally rolled them back to their sides and she opened her eyes. One by one he undid the laces on her corset until she let out an exhale of pure relief.

Clay pulled it aside and kissed her breasts. “You’re beautiful in that. Wear it for me again.”

“I will.”

“On our honeymoon?”

She laughed.

“I love you,” he said. “I hope you can get used to me saying that. A lot.”

“I love you, too. And I hope you do say it a lot because I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

They cleaned up and Clay grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of his car while Ella threw on sweats and a long-sleeved thermal tee. She made coffee and they sat at the table.

She found it incredibly domestic, and as she did she realized she hadn’t thought of James the entire time they’d been here, which was unusual.

Maybe it was time to finally lay her husband to rest. Not that she’d ever forget him, but he had been the first chapter of her life. Clay was the second.

And with putting James to rest, she put her fears to rest, too. It was time to start living again, to take a chance on love, on those strings she’d been afraid of. There were no guarantees in life. She’d just have to love Clay every day, and make sure he knew it.

“So now what?” she asked. “We both have separate businesses.”

He took a sip of coffee and shrugged. “Haven’t gotten that far in my thinking yet. I’m still getting used to the idea of only having one woman for the rest of my life. Give me time.”

She punched him in the arm. “Asshole.”

He laughed and leaned over and kissed her. “We can do it either way. Keep the

companies separate or merge them.”

“You’re not going to demand I quit my job? You could live with us being competitors?”

“In business? Sure. It’s worked fine for both of us for years. Why would we stop now?”

“You’re an amazing man.”

“And you’re an amazing woman. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend the rest of my life with.” He took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “Details are details. We’ll figure them out. We’re together, and that’s what’s important. Are you sure you can handle the strings that tie us together?”

Her future. Her love. She was so lucky. “I’ve never wanted strings more in my life.”

Jaci Burton is thrilled to be living her dream of writing passionate romance. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband. Visit her website at [http://www.jaciburton.com]

www.jaciburton.com. Don’t miss her exciting new novel, Bound, Branded, & Brazen, coming in March 2010 from Berkley Heat. Turn to the back of this book for a sneak preview.

La Petite Mort

JASMINE HAYNES

One

In her dream, she died.

She didn’t wake up with a scream lodged her in her throat. She awoke with a whimper, her lashes gummed together with tears and mascara.

Forty-three years old, former model turned cosmetics executive, Sophia never retired for the night without removing her makeup and attending to her regimen of moisturizers.

But she hadn’t done it last night.

And when she’d finally slept, she’d dreamed about what the doctors would do to her on Monday. Hair freshly done, makeup perfect, she’d worn a pink St. John suit with black piping and pearl buttons. They’d stripped her down to nothing, yanked her feet up into the stirrups, pumped drugs into her arm, and made her count backward from one hundred, just like in the movies. She couldn’t remember past ninety-seven.

Then the dream doctors removed it while she slept. It. A thing. A growth. A lump attached to her uterus. They would poke it, prod it, do whatever the hell they did with those things. And in three days, they’d give her the results. The nebulous they. Malignant or benign?

Sophia knew what the answer would be. She rolled out of bed before she starting

screaming for real.

She was catastrophizing. Sophia had gone from a lump to uterine cancer to death in one fell swoop. It was natural to be frightened, but things would have been easier if she’d had someone with whom to talk through her fears, help exorcise them.

But she didn’t. So her thoughts kept running to the extreme.

Thank God the interminable day was almost over. Her panty hose felt too tight, her feet ached in her pointed shoes, and she’d botched her presentation. How on earth could she have forgotten the board meeting? She hadn’t even practiced her talk. The night before a meeting, Sophia always did several run-throughs in front of the mirror, perfecting the hand gestures and facial expressions that would most effectively get her point across. Not to mention choosing the right outfit.

The only thing she’d done this morning was studiously avoid the pink St. John with black piping.

As the other VPs and board members, six men, five