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

about that. You’re going to serve me the way a slave should. I’m going to keep you hot and wanting, all day long. You’re going to talk, a lot, and tell me everything going on in that head or heart of yours. You’ll trust me with everything. If you hold anything back, if I suspect at any time you’re hiding anything from me, I bring you back out here, and we go again. Believe me, I’m pissed enough to take pleasure in beating your ass a few more times.”

She heard the rough emotion under the hard words. He was controlled, but that

roughness, what it implied, was harder to face than a hundred more times at his whipping post. She didn’t want to care how he felt. She’d kept herself walled up, feeling as if she’d fucking tear the world apart if she let loose, but he was strong. Maybe tougher than her.

Right? He could handle it. But that itself was too damn appealing, too fast.

She rested her temple against the piling, fingers digging in again. “What will it change?”

she asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

His hand slid around her front, cupping her hip bone. When his tone softened, she choked on a sob. “Why don’t we see, sweetheart? I know you’re scared about tomorrow night.

But I’m going to have a gift for you, something that will help you embrace your own pleasure without fear. I promise. So I don’t want you to worry about that, about anything.

Okay? Can you do that for your Master? Will you trust me that much?”

I want to. Oh, how easy he made it sound, and yet she felt as if he’d put her on a roller coaster before she was ready to go to dizzying heights at such speeds. But there was an amazing, small part of her mind that didn’t want to cower, a burning light that made her summon up a scrap of courage, and speak. “You said something about a sip of your beer?”

He gave it to her with her hands still tied, so she had to lay her head in the cup of his palm, trust him to guide the fluid into her mouth. As she swallowed, he stroked her throat, then down over her sternum, teasing the tops of her breasts as if he saw no scar tissue at all. They didn’t behave as if they were anything less than they’d always been, nerves awakening under his hands, the curves swelling and nipples hardening further.

When he finally released her from the hook, he took her back to the bench, keeping her hands tied. As he sat down, holding her between his knees, she imagined how he looked there, in a pair of jeans fitting just right, maybe his arm stretched across the bench. She could sit down next to him, or on that knee, but her mind turned to what she’d almost done in the apartment, the way she’d gone to her knees. She’d been goaded by darker feelings then, but now . . .

She realized she was trailing one of the fingers of her bound hands along his knee, a two-or three-inch stretch, a nervous movement back and forth. “My slave appears to know what I like best with my evening beer.”

His voice was husky, and she swallowed at the sound of a loosened belt buckle hitting the bench, imagining the purr of a zipper. She envisioned his cock stretching up in all its hard, thick glory, him leaning back against the rail, sipping the beer as she serviced him with her mouth. That organ glistening with her saliva, her ass red with his punishment.

Her knees were already folding beneath her, without conscious direction. His hands were there, though, guiding her down, and he held her weight until he’d put a cushion on the boards for her knees. His touch lingered on her nape as both sets of her fingers crept up his inner thighs, accommodating her tied wrists.

She hadn’t had the opportunity to touch him much that first night, or even last night. Now he indulged her pace, letting her explore the texture of the light mat of hair on his muscled thighs, the smooth flesh of the insides, the encroaching heat of his groin as she drew closer to his testicles, working her way to what she knew awaited her.

When her hand closed greedily over the hot, hard base, she felt him suck in a breath, a gratifying one. Dominance and submission were all about power and control, a perfect state of trust and surrender. By taking away so many of her decisions right now, Peter was giving her the chance to fully evaluate the one decision that would be hers to make when three days were over.

Before her injury, she’d wanted that perfect state handed to her on a platter. Ironically, blindness and Peter’s arrival had shown her the devastating truth. It was a leap of faith.

Had she lost her ability to leap that far, though? How could she even know the right direction to leap when she couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear the sound of his heart calling to hers?

“Shh, sweetheart. Stop thinking.”

The reassurance and warning in his tone returned her attention to the weight of him in her hand. Heated, silken skin over steel, the musky, aroused aroma as she brought her mouth down, stretched her lips over the broad head, tasted the salt of him, fluid already gathered on the tip.

He stroked the shell of her ear that had the hearing aid. He didn’t dislodge it, the movement easy and familiar, not the exaggerated care that would have distracted her. It brought her back to thinking about what had changed since they’d last seen each other.

And yet, she liked it when his fingers convulsed abruptly as she went down, relaxing her throat to take him deep. Skills that didn’t rely on her sight and hearing were enhanced by this singular focus on taste and smell, his physical reaction.