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

Last time we’d played, he’d sat at the desk in his hotel room, but tonight he had his laptop beside him on his still-made bed. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and lay on top of the covers, his back against the headboard. Everything appeared casual and relaxed, but there was no doubt who was in command.

“You might say the word ‘no’ during the scene when you don’t mean it.” He said it like a professor giving a lecture. “‘Stop’ will always mean stop. But if a ‘no’ happens, I’ve told Mr. E to use his best judgement on whether or not to keep going. Is this something you’re comfortable with?”

I swallowed thickly and my tone was skeptical. “And why might I be saying ‘no’ when I don’t mean it?”

Clay’s chest lifted with a deep breath. “It could be a coping mechanism to the pain.”

Holy shit.

Since he’d finished with my wrists, E had gone motionless, and my gaze drifted from the laptop so I could glance up at him. Was that apprehension lurking in his eyes? No. It wasn’t dread; it was like . . . restlessness. He waited for my answer like a person waiting to parachute out of a plane. Nervous but excited.

“Yes,” I said, my gaze fixed on E because he was the one who most needed to hear it. “I’m comfortable with it.” And then I spoke to both men equally. “I trust you.”

Because our unconventional arrangement wouldn’t work without it.

E’s shoulders softened as he let out a tight breath of relief, and the unease faded from his expression.

“Good,” Clay said. “What word do you say when you want to stop?”

My pulse raced. “Stop.”

His tone was pleased. “Have a seat.”

The seat portion of the chair was so short, only my ass fit on it, making it more of a place to rest the weight of my body, but once I was laid back against the angled chair, it was comfortable, and I didn’t worry I’d slide off.

E grasped one of the clasps on the cuffs I wore and lifted it over my head, then clipped it to the ring behind the chair back. He had to lean over me to attach the other cuff, and I took in the faint, woodsy smell of him. Fuck, he smelled good.

Once it was done and my hands were restrained, he went to the laptop, adjusted the angle so I was centered in the frame, and returned to me. He took a knee, scooped up the cuffs he’d dropped beside the chair, and began the task of securing my ankles.

I stared straight ahead at the screen, watching on one side the man who lounged on his hotel bed, and on the other side, the naked, breathless brunette bound to the chair and the man on his knees in front of her. Since my hands were overhead, my breasts were high, and my nipples hard.

Clay’s stare was as inescapable as the leather cuffs holding me in place.

There was a faint metallic click as the last clasp was hooked to the bar at the base of the chair. Since I was restrained, I expected E to stand up and get started on whatever was next, but he remained kneeling in front of me, his gaze pinned on my ankles.

He grasped the bar with both hands and pulled outward, spreading the telescopic rod out and forcing my ankles with it. The action was so surprising, I gasped, and heat pooled in my center.

“If you have trouble staying still,” Clay’s voice was seductive and not threatening, “I can belt your waist to the chair too. But let’s see how you do without it first.”

E climbed to his feet, stood back, and admired the view. His gaze trailed over my curves, drinking in all my bare skin, and lingered at the nakedness between my parted thighs. I was vulnerable, completely at the mercy of both men, and I—fuck—I loved the feeling. Every nerve ending in me was tingling with anticipation, sensitized with waiting.

Blood rushed in my ears, and my heart pounded as E went to his bag to retrieve something. What would we be using tonight? A flogger? A crop?

The black velvet bag he produced was much too small for those things. The bag had drawstrings and was roughly the same size as the palm of his hand. How could something so small cause me enough pain that Clay worried it’d be too much?

“Open your mouth and then bite down,” Clay ordered. “You’re going to hold on to this bag while I get you ready to use what’s inside.”

An evil smile twitched on his lips. He knew I was curious about the contents of the bag, and he was purposefully keeping it a secret. I did as told, though. I opened my mouth and waited patiently for E to hold out the top of the bag for me, and then bit down.

Whatever was inside didn’t weigh much, but I clenched my teeth harder when E skimmed his fingertips over my breasts. He drew designs on my skin as he moved along, caressing my arms and my stomach. He bent at the waist to go lower, brushing his fingers on the insides of my thighs.

Goosebumps pebbled across my legs in waves, and my breathing went short. It took no time for the bag and its strings in my mouth to become damp with my saliva, even as I tried to swallow it back. E’s sensual touch was the opposite of pain, and just the faintest edge of his fingernails scraping over me caused sparks of pleasure to cascade up my spine.

My back bowed as he pressed the pads of his fingertips to my clit and rolled them in one slow, grinding circle. It was wild how quickly the men made me out of my mind with need, and my moan of encouragement was muffled under the velvet bag.

Clay’s voice was so sinful, it sounded like he