The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3) by Nikki Sloane (top e book reader .TXT) 📗

If I had any doubt about what he planned to do with it, it vanished as he smacked one end of the ruler against the palm of his other hand. He hadn’t done it as a threat. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at me. He studied the ruler and his open palm, evaluating it. Satisfied, he turned toward me.

Oh, my God.

Blood rushed loudly in my ears, dulling the sound of Clay’s footsteps as he came close. My gaze was fixated on what was clenched in his hand, and goosebumps burst across my arms and legs.

While I was focused on the ruler, his gaze burned into me. “You understand what I intend to do with this scale?”

Was that what the ruler was called? “Yes,” I said, squeezing it out between my short breaths. “I do.”

“You’ll show me you’re okay with trying this,” he said, “when you cross your wrists behind your back.”

The feeling coursing through me was the same one as stepping onto a rollercoaster and pulling the bar down to lock me in place. I knew what was about to happen. It would probably feel scary but exhilarating, and I went to it willingly. Eagerly, even.

I leaned forward, resting the flat of my chest on the top of the chair back, and put my hands behind me, stacking one wrist on top of the other. My long brown hair draped down over my face and toward the floor, and I shut my eyes, mentally preparing myself for what would come next. Not that I had any idea what that triangular-shaped ruler was going to feel like when it—

The cold metal kissed my skin, and I flinched reflexively. Both of my hands resting on the hollow of my back curled into fists.

He hadn’t actually spanked me.

All he’d done was set the scale against my ass, creating two chilly lines on my bare skin, and my overreaction to it caused a chuckle to roll out of Clay’s throat. But then his voice turned serious. “Have you ever done something like this before?”

My eyes popped open and my hair shimmered as I shook my head.

The cotton of his t-shirt and the heat of his body was abruptly warm on my back as he leaned over, bringing his mouth right beside the shell of my ear. “I’m glad I get to be the first.”

I swallowed a breath as he straightened, and a split second later, the ruler slapped against me in a sharp, quick strike.

It stung. The sensation of it forced me to suck in a breath through tight teeth.

But apparently this wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for, because Clay repeated the action, and this time the crack of the ruler brought fire. Pain throbbed and lingered in the aftermath of the metal biting into my skin.

“Fuck,” I swore.

His tone was sinister. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

My head spun at this version of him. Up until yesterday, he’d been my shy and quiet next-door neighbor. I’d never expected him to be assertive. Or so . . . dominating.

And, shit, I hadn’t expected to like it so much.

I wished I had known sooner, because I would have come over asking to borrow a cup of sugar. Except I would have been hoping for something other than sweetness.

He struck my ass again, hard and unapologetic and right across my cheeks, and the pain from the contact seared through me. As it radiated down my limbs, I whined and squirmed, trying to make the feeling dissipate faster.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” I groaned.

It was like his dark voice was inside my head. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I said softly. My emotions were fractured, all over the place. But I felt strangely more aware and present in the moment than I ever had before. I didn’t want him to stop, but my voice was barely a whisper. “Is that weird?”

His answer was resounding and excited. “No.”

I turned as best I could to see him and marveled at the way his lips were parted so he could drag heavy air in and out of his lungs. The ruler was clenched in a white-knuckled fist at his side, and an impressive bulge pushed at the zipper of his jeans, tenting the front of them.

“You like the pain?” he asked, studying me. “Does it turn you on?”

Yes? Well, more like maybe. I didn’t know the answer with certainty, so I stuck with the truth. “I like the way you look right now.”

That was what was turning me on. How he was in complete control of what we were doing. The way he gripped the ruler at the ready and stared at me with excited urgency, willing to do what had to be done to his naughty neighbor. He was prepared to get me back in line.

I shouldn’t like what he was doing. He was hitting me hard enough to leave marks, and I was aware I was in way over my head with him. And yet, why wasn’t I nervous? Why did I feel . . . safe?

Perhaps it was because he hadn’t done anything I hadn’t agreed to or asked for. The unforgiving ruler was exactly what I’d been craving.

I had to strain over my shoulder to see him as he grabbed a handful of my skin where the raised red lines crisscrossed each other, and he squeezed until I clenched my teeth. His grip intensified the lingering ache in my sensitive, welted skin, but it was oddly pleasurable. The connection of his touch only turned me on more.

He grunted a sound of approval as he grasped my tender flesh. “I like the way you look right now, too.”

When he released his hold, I sighed in contentment, only for him to bring the ruler crashing down with a brutal slap. I cried out, canting my hips to run from the pain, and dug my nails into my palms.

But just like the way he stared at me, the hurt and the longing for him to do it again was