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

feeding it between my bound wrists in a figure eight pattern. It wasn’t tight, but snug and inescapable, and my pulse quickened. And once he’d repeated threading it between my wrists enough times, he guided the rope up to my shoulder.

I dry-swallowed as he slipped it behind my neck and leaned in, scooping a hand in to sweep my long hair free from the rope. The texture of it wasn’t unpleasant against my bare skin, but my heart clattered to a stop when E continued to wrap the rope around my neck. Shivers cascaded down my arms as it was looped a second time around my throat, and he repeated the action, pulling my trapped hair free from beneath the it.

“If it’s tight at all,” Clay said, “let me know.”

I was disoriented by what was happening; it felt like Clay was right here and not miles away. The black rope circled my throat for a third time, and although it wasn’t constricting, I felt its dominance on every inch of my body, all the way down to my toes. This time, when E adjusted my hair, he was more thorough and lingered close enough I could feel the heat of his body. His fingertips brushed over my skin as he fluffed my hair, ensuring no strands were caught.

The rope was brought back down to my wrists, and the loose end of it was no longer on the floor. It brushed against my knees before he wrapped it a final time around my bound wrists and tied it off. He’d used all the rope without running out of it or having too much to spare. There was no need to undo his work and start again, because this was a man who’d had practice.

Who knew what he was doing.

His pause this time was far more pronounced, and I peered up at him, desperate with questions I knew better than to ask.

“Tell me you’re ready,” a voice demanded.

I was in a delirious haze, unable to tell which man had spoken, but when it registered it was Clay, my gaze shifted to him. He was framed perfectly so his handsome face filled most of the screen, and it made it so I could see every drop of lust coursing through him.

“I’m ready,” I said.

E ran his fingers over the ropes strung between my wrists and my throat, like he was examining a necktie, but abruptly clenched them in a fist and jerked it forward. It was so startling, I stumbled and crashed into him. Since the rope was wound around my neck multiple times, the tension distributed evenly, barely tightening against my throat. And as soon as the pressure had come, it was gone, and my collar relaxed.

He’d had to let go to steady me in his arms.

God, this guy was solid. His chest was a wall, and his arms were warm stone, and I liked the way they felt around me. But I didn’t get to enjoy it, because he gripped the ropes again and used them to lead me to the workbench, pulling me along like an owner using a leash.

Heat blasted up my legs, thickening in my center. The juxtaposition of his tenderness with my hair to his rough yank of my harness had me spinning in the most exhilarating way.

There weren’t words from Clay to tell me what to do. E tugged the ropes and pulled my hands to the top of the workbench until my arms were stretched across it and I was bent over the table. My forearms rested on the surface that was faintly gritty with sawdust, and I peered into the camera, seeing the miniature version of myself in the corner of the screen. The black rope draped across my throat, reminding me of a collar, and it looked so fucking sexy.

E stood beside me and rummaged once more in his bag, and then a new item was presented to me. The black leather paddle was squared off at one end, rounded at the handle, and accented with beautiful red stitching. It wasn’t large, but I suspected it was plenty big enough to get the job done.

“Yes?” Clay asked again.

I imagined my consent was as much for E’s benefit as it was Clay’s, so my answer was breathy but sure. “Yes.”

He sat back in his chair and got comfortable as he waited for the show to start.

On screen, I could see E standing behind me with the paddle gripped in a hand. He studied my body, but I couldn’t tell if he was figuring out placement . . . or simply admiring the view. My green panties were cheeky cut, exposing the bottoms of my ass to him.

I drew in a slow breath when E set the paddle against the back of my underwear, and he rubbed the flat side of the paddle in circles on my ass, each rotation growing wider and quicker. It felt nice, but also like he was winding me up. Priming me for what was would happen next.

Since I could see onscreen, I knew when the first strike was coming, but it surprised me all the same. It didn’t hurt in the slightest. For such a strong guy, I’d expected him to put more force behind it. It hadn’t been a spanking. This had been a kiss.

When a smile bowed on my lips, Clay smiled too, but I got the impression he was smiling for an entirely different reason—like he knew something I didn’t. He did, didn’t he? He’d scripted this evening.

E slapped the paddle against me again, this time on the other side of my ass, and I swallowed back a giggle. “Is that supposed to hurt?”

E’s gaze flicked to the screen, and he cocked an eyebrow in question.

Clay laughed lightly. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

Was he answering me? Or speaking to E? Maybe both.

E’s strikes increased both in intensity and frequency, heating me inside and out. My skin warmed from the rush of blood, and I watched the screen with fascination.