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

he didn’t care if I enjoyed it. I was there for his pleasure. He was so freaking big and hard, it was a lot to take. His hips pumped furiously, pushing deep enough that I choked and gagged. He eased off but didn’t retreat entirely, and his shallow, slower thrusts gave me just enough time to recover before picking up the pace again.

It was messy. Saliva dripped from my lips, dangling in a thread onto the leather, but it was ignored. I wondered what Clay thought. From his angle and with my hair held back, surely he could see everything. My jaw began to ache from how rough and big E was, but . . . shit.

It was so freaking hot.

I gasped for air as he abruptly pulled back and released his grip on my hair, and my head hung down while I tried to catch my breath. The condom was snatched up as he got down off the table and shed his underwear.

“Turn around,” Clay ordered. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

A shift went through the room. E’s time was over, and we were back under Clay’s direction. It was awkward following the order since I was tied up, but I managed it, and once I was on my hands and knees facing the other way, E climbed up behind me and rolled on the condom.

A gasp burst from my lips when he buried himself inside me.

“Shit,” I groaned at the abrupt intrusion. Like last time, he pushed deep enough it was right at the edge of discomfort. How the fuck did girls take a big dick in porn like it was easy?

I attempted to watch us on the screen, but the last thing I saw was E tangle a hand in the hair at the crown of my head before he jerked me back, forcing my gaze up toward the ceiling. Was this how Clay intended to fuck me? Rough and urgent?

As E tugged my head back, it made the rope between my neck and my wrists go taut. The cords wrapped tighter around my throat, and my back arched, allowing him to drive deeper inside me.

My moan was a mixture of dissatisfaction and pleasure, and my brain was in total conflict. How did something that was uncomfortable also feel good? Like, really good?

Careless hips slammed against my ass, creating hot, stinging slaps on my irritated skin. His hand fisting my hair was harsh, inadvertently twisting and pulling strands with each thrust he gave, and my scalp ached, but the gasps and moans he twisted and pulled from me were more deliberate. His other hand was locked on my waist, tight and merciless, steadying me so he could maintain his punishing rhythm.

As his intensity built, so did the aching need inside me. I’d already had one orgasm, but my body was greedy and begged for another. E’s hand on my waist came off, only so he could pause his tempo for a split second and crack his palm against my ass. It sent heat up my spine like lightning.

And then he had both hands in my hair, pulling me back farther as he sat back on his heels. I’d been up on my straight arms with just my fingertips planted on the table for support, but I sank back into his lap, my back against his chest. In this new position, he couldn’t thrust quite the same, but he let go of my hair and put his arms around me.

Now that his hands were free, he used them to touch. One cupped my breast, and the other gripped the rope stretching down the center of my body. I turned my head toward the phone, wanting to see what we looked like, but also . . . What did Clay think about this?

Did he like watching another man fuck me on the furniture he’d built?

The answer was a resounding yes.

Clay’s shoulders moved violently as he jerked off, his face coated with desire, and it was so sexy, the muscles inside me clamped down. It brought me oh-so-close to coming.

It was beyond strange my partner was so far away, yet it also felt like he was right here. He wasn’t physically in this room, and yet he flooded every inch of it with his dominance. Even as the man at my back moved inside my body and his warm, ragged breath filled my ear, I saw Clay. All this pain and pleasure I’d been given, it came from him. He was fucking me just as much at E was.

There were short, hurried swallows of air that mixed with moans of satisfaction from both men, but E’s were louder and more urgent. His muscle-bound body flexed and contracted as he pushed me to rock my hips on him, then wedged a hand between my thighs, urging them apart. It was so he could smack his fingertips against my clit.

“Oh,” I moaned. His slap wasn’t hard or cruel. Its intent was to bring pleasure, which it absolutely did.

Clay was breathless as he growled his order. “Harder.”

E didn’t hesitate. He next slap was more aggressive, and I jolted, both from the sting of it and the acute bliss as the sensation dulled away. His strikes against my swollen clit, in combination with his deep thrusts, were going to send me over the edge, and both men sensed it.

“I’m gonna fucking come,” Clay warned.

A single breath later, pleasure twisted on his face and his eyes slammed shut. It looked like he was enduring exquisite torture as the orgasm took him. It was violent and beautiful, and I gasped with enjoyment. Sometimes pleasure was like a gift—better to give than receive, and some of the ecstasy coursing through him ran through me as well. He’d gotten off not just watching, but having his plans carried out on me.

The fingers buried in between my legs changed tactics. The biting slaps became erotic caresses, and within mere seconds, E’s strokes set off a charge in my body.

“Oh, God,” I cried. “Fuck, I’m coming.”

Arms