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

She held them out, but as he looped the tether around her wrists, the slim fingers found him under his untucked shirt, hooked in the waistband of his jeans, knuckles brushing his abdomen intimately. His lips twisted. “Interpreted that order in your own way, didn’t you? That’ll earn you some disciplinary action.”

When her eyes sparked, he knotted the tether to bind her to him. She kept her fingers where they were, and his aching cock was already chafing, straining toward that touch.

Maybe she felt his heat, but her rising desire was as palpable as his own. He wasn’t going to take her back by his table, but straight to a room where he could see how much of a fight she liked. If her need to make a man work to be her Master matched his desire to prove he could acquire that target, it was going to be a hell of an experience.

“Is this a first time for you, sweetheart?”

Her voice was throaty, velvet sin. “I sure hope so.”

Two

The advantage to two strangers hooking up in a BDSM club, versus in a bar, was there wasn’t a lot of awkward small talk, the need to get to know each other. One led, one followed, the basic rules established, and the game began. Dana preferred that, though it was yet another ludicrous paradox about what she wanted. It was impossible to achieve the emotional rapport she wanted with a Master that way.

So she’d thought.

This one was keeping her off balance. He’d brought her to a private playroom, but not a dungeon, a Victorian drawing room or a stable, some of the more hard-core settings. It was an honest-to-God garden, with plants and sod, and lights that could be darkened to show a holographic heavy moon and glittering stars above.

If she didn’t know for sure they were still within The Zone, she would have thought he’d taken her outside. The silver light reflected on her skin like moonlight in truth. Gleaming in that same light was a statue of Aphrodite, and a fountain with prancing unicorn sculptures around it. No whips, chains or restraints that she could see. While she was impressed with the production, the exorbitant temporary membership fee worth every dime for props alone, it seemed like a soft setting. She liked it hard. Had she chosen wrong? Of course, it wasn’t the first time she’d had to steer a new Master in the right direction.

She lowered her voice to a practiced persuasive purr. “Perhaps my Master thinks his new slave can’t handle it rough and dark. Perhaps he’d like to ask her the types of things she’s willing to do for him.”

Her Master-for-the-night turned. The storm-cloud eyes were dark in the dim light, but the moonlight sculpted the planes of his face, giving him an implacable look of irresistibly cruel sensuality, vibrating life and power.

“Take off your shoes.”

Most Masters wanted the stilettos to remain on, and she liked it that way, too. When you were five foot nothing, the shoes gave that sense of stature, the fuck-me sway of the hips and elongated calves that drew a man’s gaze. Without them, she felt a little too close to the “short scrapper” she’d been dubbed as a kid, because of the day she’d beaten up two boys on the corner who’d tried to take Robbie’s lunch money. It had taken Robbie a couple years to forgive her for that. But of course now he was dead, and forgiveness was out of her hands.

Damn, two seconds with the guy and she was already tapping family shit? She needed to take control of this, get out of this environment and into one where she was more comfortable.

She’d kicked off the shoes, but before she could draw a breath, he’d stepped forward and scooped her up with graceful, easy power. His hands were big and warm on her thighs and back. His hard abdomen muscles flexed as he walked, body shifting under the point of her hip. Taking her to the fountain, he studied it and then sat her down on the edge, letting her feet curl into the thick grass. The fountain wall was embedded with smooth stones like goose eggs, pressing intimately into the valley between her thighs, the seam of her buttocks. A fragrance in the water’s mist teased her nose. Behind the rush of the water, she could hear crickets and frogs.

“You’ll speak only when spoken to,” he said with deceptive mildness. “And your safe word is ‘freedom.’ Don’t move from where I’ve placed you.” As he released her, he passed his fingers along the eagle tattoo, grazing the dress’s low back, making her shiver.

Despite her doubts, she thought “freedom” might be the last word she said to him.

Straightening, he propped a foot on the wall. His leg flanked her, his body dwarfing her with his sheer size. As he undid the cuffs of his shirt, he examined her, slow and easy.

When he began to unbutton it down the front, her mouth went dry, but she didn’t get the feeling he was performing for her. Everything about his body language said she was the center-stage show, there to serve as his entertainment. As he took his time, her lower belly was drawing tighter, an odd quake in her thighs because she didn’t know what he planned. Even if she was the woman regularly in his bed, she thought she still wouldn’t know with a man like this. He’d keep the control, and he’d keep her guessing.

The moonlight caught the silver of his dog tags, as well as a St. Christopher’s medallion that fell above them. It captivated her, seeing her Master’s personal things. Winston,Peter R. That was his name.

Wanting to break the strange feeling knowing his name evoked, as well as the sense of helplessness he’d imposed on her, she reached out to help him unbutton the last two buttons of his shirt. As her fingertips grazed the cotton, her lips parted, tongue