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

When I nodded, whatever was inside the bag clinked.

E pulled it from my mouth, opened it, and dumped the contents into his palm, showing them to me. There was a pair of black-tipped alligator clamps, complete with small screws to adjust the tension, which I understood, but . . . I blinked at the rest. There were several silver balls, each the same size as a pea, and I had no idea what they were for.

He grasped two of the little orbs between his thumb and forefinger, then closed his fist around the rest of the items so he could use both hands to separate the balls. My heart skipped as he released one and it flew back to its mate.

Magnets.

And by that demonstration, they looked to be powerful, too.

But he opened his hand, fished out the two clamps, then put the magnetic balls back in the bag before stuffing it in the back pocket of his jeans. I balled my hands into fists as he took a knee beside the chair, cupped a breast, and captured my nipple between his lips.

Or more specifically, his teeth.

I tried to stare at Clay onscreen, but E’s soft bite grew hotter and more intense, stealing my focus. It became too much, and I whimpered, trying to move away. But escape wasn’t possible, and there was a jangle of metal from the clips as I strained against my cuffs.

It had the desired effect, though, because E broke the latch of his mouth. His eyes were bottomless tonight, like midnight ink as they evaluated me. He tested the pinch of the clamp on one of his fingers, adjusted the screw, and then seemed satisfied with the force it’d apply.

Air came and went rapidly from my lungs as he squeezed the clamp open, fitted the jaws around my nipple, and eased off his hold. The pinch of the clamp was white-hot, but pleasurable, and I liked the way it looked. He’d attached it so it was flush with my skin, rather than jutting out from my body.

The sweet ache of it built as he repeated the whole process on my other breast. The gentle bite of his teeth swelled toward pain, and he gauged how much I could take, then tested the clamp to find its matching tension.

I exhaled loudly as he clamped the second one down. It hurt, but felt good too, and the men could tell. It was written all over my face, expressed in my sighs, and told in the way the muscles of my arms flexed.

I was rewarded with a stroke of E’s hand between my legs, and my moan was deep and grateful. But like last time, I only got one circuit of his hand before it was gone, which was crueler than the persistent pinch of the clamps. My body was taut from the physical restraints but also the throbbing need the scene was causing.

Onscreen, Clay unbuttoned his jeans, dropped his zipper, and wedged a hand inside. I licked my lips, feeling parched. I couldn’t tell if E was aroused because he was still on his knees beside me and dropped his head to the first breast he’d attached a clamp to.

“Oh,” I groaned. His tongue flicked over the nub of my skin trapped between the metal jaws, creating a sensation that nearly split me down the middle. It was pain and pleasure, and my mind fractured.

He bit the underside of my breast, but it wasn’t until he brought his fingertips down across my pussy in a sharp slap that I jolted. Even though my ankles were restrained, the rest of my legs weren’t, and my knees turned inward, instinctively blocking him from repeating the action.

“Open,” E growled, jammed a hand between my knees, and flung them apart. Hearing him speak when he wasn’t supposed to was the biggest shock of all, and my gaze darted to the screen, anxious of what Clay thought of this development.

But if he was unhappy with it, it didn’t show. Perhaps he was too distracted watching the scene and stroking his fist over his cock. Or maybe it was exactly what he would have said, and this had been the most efficient way to correct me.

Or . . .

The men were melting back into one, becoming a singular dominant to master me.

The next blow struck me right on my swollen clit, and I jerked against my restraints. That one hurt, and I blinked rapidly as the pain radiated and dissipated. There wasn’t much of a reprieve. E’s fingers slapped against me repeatedly, varying in force and tempo, so I was constantly on edge.

Clay said it like he was accusing me. “You’re so fucking wet. Why’s that?”

“Because . . .” I started, but the next strike was hard enough to steal my thoughts. I had to focus on not whimpering.

“Because,” he finished for me, “you like those clamps on your tits.”

I didn’t need to confirm it. He knew it was the truth, because both men could see the color of heat splashed across my cheeks and the desire smoldering in my eyes.

His tone was so wicked, it bordered on sinister. “I bet you’ll like it when they come off too.”

It was his signal to E, who gripped the ends of the clamp and released my nipple from its hold. I flinched and cried out when pins and needles stabbed at me, the unfortunate side effect of my blood rushing back to the area where the clamp had temporarily disrupted circulation.

It hurt way more than the ache of the clamp, or the sting of E’s slaps.

So, the word no flitted through my mind and nearly escaped when his mouth latched onto my nipple and sucked, hard enough that it carved hollows in his cheeks. I bucked on the chair, nearly coming off it.

“Hmm.” Clay shot me a disapproving look. “I guess you’ll need help staying still.”

I choked back a groan as E replaced the clamp and the rubber-tipped metal bit into my tender nipple. It made