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

sweetest bite of pleasure. He wanted more bites, longer, sweeter, hotter, lots of them. Taking care of her, laughing with her, talking to her, making love to her.

One short weekend wasn’t going to be anywhere near enough.

Sophia closed the bathroom door gently so she wouldn’t wake Ford, then flipped on the light and checked herself in the mirror. She looked like Joan Rivers after too many surgeries. Wiping off her makeup, washing her face, and moisturizing fixed most of the damage. A glass of water did the rest.

She felt marvelous. It wasn’t like having a cold or the flu where today you were a little better than yesterday. This was bam, she was a whole lot better, the contrast between now and this afternoon punching up how darn good she felt. She had no discomfort either.

Okay, she wouldn’t try calisthenics, but she would like . . . something. More aptly put, she’d like to give Ford something. Right now.

They couldn’t make love, the doctor having suggested she wait a few days after the procedure. But intercourse wasn’t the only sex act.

The clock glowed two a.m. as she burrowed back beneath the covers. Ford was big, warm, and naked. Their time together was almost over. She needed one more taste to remember him by. He stirred as she pushed the blankets aside to trail a finger down his arm. Sighing, he shifted to his back. She continued her travels to the base of his cock, then his testicles, scratching lightly. He murmured, and his cock flexed. In the dim light of a quarter moon, she could see his erection rise.

She played lightly, teased gently, until his cock was a flagpole stretching across his belly.

Her mouth watered for a taste of him.

Licking him from root to tip with a long, wet swipe, she lifted him with one finger to slip him into her mouth. The salty-sweet zest of come sizzled on her tongue. She’d never allowed a man to come in her mouth, but she wanted to swallow Ford whole. She sucked lightly on the crown, wondering if she could get him to climax in his sleep. Tonguing the tiny slit, she gathered more droplets of come.

Three days ago, she’d have denied to anyone that taking a man’s cock in her mouth could feel so powerful and beautiful, yet Ford turned her thinking upside down. His cock was gorgeous, his taste divine. She drew him all the way in, as far as she could, then grazed her teeth along him as she trailed back up, fisting her hand at his base.

He moaned and arched, forcing himself back inside the heat of her mouth. She sucked hard on the head, and he swore.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” she said, squeezing him in her hand, stroking.

“It’s the best damn wet dream I’ve had since I was a teenager.” Laughter laced his voice, followed by a groan as she slid him to the back of her throat. “God, don’t stop.”

He was thick and delicious, and she tried every position and speed—a hard, fast suck; a slow, leisurely glide; just her tongue along the outside; then her teeth, a light nip, a swipe along his ball sac, sucking his testicles in her mouth, tongue swirling, then always back to the crown to lick off the precome.

He writhed on the bed, tangled his fingers in her hair, swore, groaned, begged. “Please, baby, please, baby.”

His legs began to tremble, and his body rose to pump in her mouth as he held her down.

She loved it, the need, the pulse, the taste, then his hoarse cry as he shot against her tongue.

It was the tastiest of meals. How she’d allowed herself to miss out on this, she’d never know. But then, it was Ford, and everything was better with him.

When the tremors died, he pulled her up against him, rolled her over, his chest to her back, his cock along her spine, an arm wrapped beneath her breast.

“Wench,” he whispered. “I can’t do anything in return.”

“All I needed was that.”

Oddly, despite no orgasm, her body felt replete and satisfied. She could awaken this way every morning.

Eight

Sophia thought the wait would be interminable, but the three days came and went in the blink of an eye, and on Thursday morning, she was sitting in her office staring at the phone, willing it to ring.

Worried she’d worry herself sick—that was a whole lot of worrying going on—Ford had barely left her alone. After her lovely performance Monday night—make that Tuesday morning—Ford agreed she was in fine form to go back to work. He arrived at her door Tuesday and Wednesday evening, too, armed with delicious takeout. They hadn’t made love, but she was developing a taste for the man. Could a man’s come be considered a drug? Because she definitely felt the beginnings of an addiction.

She was living a fantasy she didn’t want to end. But of course it would end today when she got the results. The thing was she hadn’t been able to think past today. She was terrified to think past today.

“Have you called yet?” Ford stood in her doorway, tapping the jamb with his fingers.

“I was waiting for them to call.”

Closing the door behind him, he settled in the chair opposite. “Call.”

The muscles in her legs tensed. Fear was a debilitating thing. You knew exactly what to do to alleviate it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to act because you were afraid what you heard wouldn’t be what you wanted. If you ignored it, it would go away.

“The answer’s going to be the same whether you hear it now or you hear it later.”

She admired Ford’s intuition about people and situations. Except now. It pointed out the differences between them. He was a doer. She was the one who got done. So to speak.

He raised a brow. “You want me to call?”

She realized she hadn’t said a word since he sat down. “No, I’ll call.” She was being ridiculous. Pulling the card from the desk drawer, she