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

He was thick and long and a lot to take, but he moved slowly, and the sensation of fitting my body around him had my toes curling into points inside my shoes. Sheer concentration was etched in his expression as he eased deeper, like he was struggling mightily to keep control.

Inch by inch, he slid inside . . . all the way until I put a hand on his bare stomach, signaling for him to stop. That was as far as he could go. He might have been the biggest guy I’d ever had, and I was going to have to work up to being able to take more.

“Shit,” I groaned when he withdrew his hips and then pressed forward again at a painstakingly slow pace. Pleasure swamped my brain, graying out the rest of the room so only these two men I was trapped between remained.

“You like it?” Clay’s tone was provocative. “Tell him.”

The man’s tempo picked up to a steady, perfect pace. Fast and deep enough to drive into the right spot, but just slow enough so I could feel every movement—even the subtle flex of him when I gasped with satisfaction.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “It feels so fucking good.”

The man’s jaw tightened. He liked hearing that, and maybe he wanted to reply, but it looked like he was holding it back. Perhaps he worried how that would go over with his friend, the one who was in charge of this scene and could end it at any moment.

“Yeah?” I didn’t have to see Clay’s corrupt smile to know it was there. I heard it in his question. “Is he stretching you out?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

I sank further into the couch and back against his chest as the man clamped a hand on my hip, leaned closer, and held me in place so he could fuck me better. It was madness being sandwiched between these two men, and there was hardly any space between us. The man was inside me, and Clay was wrapped around me, so it felt like we were all connected. One unit, rather than three separate people.

It was indescribable how much I liked the concept.

Since he still had his suit on, a bead of sweat formed at the man’s temple and trickled down. I understood. I was sweating as well beneath the boning of my corset. Did Clay somehow know? His hands went around me and slid up the front of my top . . . stopping when they reached the top slide-clasp.

He undid the first one, then another.

It wasn’t enough to expose my breasts to the man or anyone else in the room. He’d only done it to make room for himself, so he could slip a hand inside and cup one of my breasts. I moaned when his fingers found my nipple and began to pinch.

“Everyone’s watching you,” he said, squeezing harder. “Just like you wanted. You look so fucking sexy, they all wish they were him right now.”

I tried to picture what they saw. How the man’s thrusts were pushing deeper inside me, little by little. The way my legs were wrapped around his hips, one hand splayed out on his chest and my other still bent behind me to hold on to Clay. He had one hand down the top of my undone corset, and the other at my waist where my skirt was bunched.

And while my gaze was locked on to the man in front of me, my attention was split equally with the one at my back. The man was physically inside me, but Clay was inside my mind, stoking my wicked thoughts.

The pinch on my nipple grew in intensity right along with the man’s hurried tempo, and Clay’s grip was no longer pleasant. It turned achy and white-hot as it went on. Even when I whimpered and my breath went ragged, he didn’t back down. His unrelenting pinch rode the rise and fall of my chest, never losing tension.

It hurt.

And yet . . .

Like his ruler, I liked the pain. It focused me into the moment and made me experience both men physically at the same time. One was pleasure, and one was pain, and my body had no idea which one it liked more.

Clay shifted beneath me, and I could feel he was aroused. The man’s thrusts were hard enough they reverberated through me, making me rock against the erection at my back. Did the man realize as he was fucking me, he wasn’t just giving Clay pleasure through the visual—he was causing it as well?

“Fuck,” I whined. The pain in my nipple was agony and would have scrambled my thoughts—if I’d had any left. I didn’t because the man drove into me at a mind-numbing pace. All I could do was experience.

Since my mind was voided out, Clay moved in and took over the space.

“I’m the one who made this possible.” His hand on my waist drifted up, and for a split second I panicked that he was going to put his other hand inside my corset. I wouldn’t be able to take it if he decided to pinch me on the other side too. But his hand continued to travel upward. “Everything you feel right now is because of me. All this pain, all this pleasure. His big cock filling you up? That’s me.”

I heard Clay’s words while I stared at the handsome stranger, and it only further blurred the two men together into one.

My body was desperate and aching for relief. An orgasm had been a distant dream but suddenly closed in as a very possible reality, and heat built in my center. My soft moans swelled into gasping, urgent cries. When I grew shamefully loud, Clay’s hand went over my mouth, his fingers catching and muffling my needy groans.

I dangled right on the cusp for a second and an eternity, the moment suspending between wanting it to be over and begging for it to never end.

The man’s hips beat furiously into me, and Clay dropped his head into the crook of