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

fury that Peter drew to the surface, simmering darkly for so long with no outlet.

He might kiss her. The very thought ignited spiraling pleasure in her lower belly, its potential heat capable of burning the rest away like a big trash burn, the shit that had been roiling in her gut for months. Instead, though, he hiked her up against his body so she had to wrap her stiff, tired legs around his hips. She wasn’t sure where he was taking her until he laid her down on her bed. Before she could anticipate him, he’d stripped her of her pajama bottoms and the cotton panties beneath.

Holy shit. She wasn’t ready for this, and she defended herself the only way a helpless animal under attack could. Rolling into a ball, she wrapped her hands in the base of the sweatshirt so he couldn’t take it off. She shook her head, knew she was saying “No, no, no” in that muted, hateful whine that echoed off the inside of her skull.

He was strong enough to uncurl her, so she was braced to lose, panic threatening to make her hyperventilate. But he settled next to her. His fingers caressed her ear, her nape, a soothing stroke. Once, twice . . . until nerve endings stopped cowering and reached for his touch instead. Then his lips were there, teasing flesh that had not forgotten that wonderful, free-fall feeling of arousal, those nerves strumming to life. He reclined on his hip behind her, his large hand stroking down the length of her thigh, his denim-covered groin cradling her bare ass. She stayed still, barely breathing, a rabbit hiding as he went down to her knee, then back up, tracing the curve of buttock as she quivered and a breath escaped her.

She hadn’t been touched by anyone but doctors and nurses for months. They examined, poked, prodded. Even though they made every effort to put her at ease, to be gentle, it was always as if they came from every direction, like an enemy attack. She refused to go back to the therapy sessions to learn “how to be blind.” She pretty much had a grasp of it.

It sucked, and since she could barely hear what most people said to her, being around people at all was exhausting. She’d stopped paying attention. The dark void was quiet and dull, and attempts to draw her out of it made her angry and vicious, as she’d just demonstrated in such an embarrassing way. When she couldn’t see or hear people’s reactions, she’d found she didn’t give a rat’s ass if she pissed them off or hurt their feelings.

Peter’s every emotional reaction was physical and immediate. And they mattered to her, damn it. Whatever decibel he was using, she could hear him without strain. It was good but frustrating as well. He wasn’t going to be ignored.

Curling into a ball had not been a well-thought-out plan, either, for his fingers followed the curve of her buttock to her pussy, teasing the petals with gentle, light but inexorable fingers.

“Peter . . .” She couldn’t help the whimper, the tears that squeezed out at being touched in such an intimate way, after everything else. If her body aroused like a normal healthy woman’s, when she was anything but, she might shatter. “I can’t bear it.”

“Shh . . . let me hold you. I’ve burned to hold you, sweetheart.”

His other arm tunneled beneath her, wrapping around her chest so she automatically latched her hands onto his forearm. Because of that, he brought her fetal-curved body farther into the shelter of his body. But he changed that altogether paternal image when he collared her throat with a large hand, forcing her head up and back against his shoulder.

Every nerve ending detonated, and not merely the physical ones. Damn him for knowing a submissive’s mind too well. The shudder went all the way from that point of contact to her toes, and her thighs loosened a little more. His fingers dipped in, found moisture and spread it over those lips like honey. She mewled, gasped some more.

“You won’t call me by my name without permission, sweetheart. You know who I am.

Tell me.”

She couldn’t call him Master. She wasn’t that person anymore, couldn’t pretend she was.

Whatever this moment was, he deserved better, more, and that was a road she could no longer travel with him. She had nothing to give. So she shook her head against his hold, even though she couldn’t change the thundering of her heart, the aching hardness of her nipples, needing his mouth and touch, the ruthless tug of his fingers. Ah, God, she’d thought a million times about the things he’d done to her breasts.

Two fingers entered her pussy, stroked, thrust. One leg shifted over hers, keeping her legs in their folded position, thwarting her desire to open them. His thumb passed over her clit again and she cried out. She wanted to fight this, wanted to shut everything down, shut him out, but he wasn’t letting her. If she could shut down her emotions, maybe she’d dare to perform like a whore in truth. He’d know, and be pissed off enough to leave her alone.

But she couldn’t.

Every good thing she’d had in the past months had revolved around thoughts of that night, of those letters Dana had long ago committed to memory.

Even though I’d love to hear your sweet voice, even if it was only words on a page, itdoesn’t matter. When I sleep, I share dreams with you. You’re right next to me in this cot.

I hear your breathing, and feel peace; at the same time I ache because you’re also so faraway. I think loving you, having you in my life, will be like that. A never-ending cravingand peace at once.

“Dana, say it.”

She shook her head again. She couldn’t give herself that dream. Not for real.

He rolled her to her back. She clutched the shirt, but she’d defended the wrong perimeter.

Putting her legs