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

it rose slowly up the length of my body, evaluating each curve and every inch of bare flesh.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “I like it a lot.” His expression heated as he took a step closer, but he arched a disapproving eyebrow. “But I don’t do well with surprises. I don’t like the unexpected.”

I had no idea what to say. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

He acted like he hadn’t heard me, because his expression remained stern. “I don’t like my plans being disrupted.”

It bubbled up out of habit. “I’m sorry.”

“And I had plans for you. This,” his gaze swept over my nude form, “is way ahead of my schedule.”

If he had sounded playful or teasing, I would have laughed with nervous excitement—but he hadn’t. If anything, his tone hinted at his annoyance, and it had a strange effect. I was eager to please him, to alleviate his irritation with me, even when I had no fucking idea how. I was already naked and throwing myself at him. It spun me for a loop that he was upset about it. Especially when he’d said he had plans for me and getting naked was on his schedule.

I crossed an arm over my stomach and gripped my elbow, wanting to reach for him but unsure of how he’d feel about it. I regrouped, shifted on my heels, and let go of my elbow so I could put my hand on my hip.

“Oh, yeah?” I tried to achieve the same sultry tone I’d used earlier. “And did your plans include us going downstairs to your workshop?”

My question caught him so off-guard he reared back a step and tension flooded through his frame. “Excuse me?”

Oh, shit. I’d misread his reaction. He wasn’t surprised by my question—he was offended.

His eyes narrowed, and I shrank perfectly in time with them. My brain fumbled and searched for a way to fix it. “It’s beautiful, you know,” I said quickly. “The cross you’ve built, and all of the—”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to go into my basement.” He was hard and cold, even as his eyes burned with outrage. “That’s my private space, and you had no right to be there.”

“That’s not entirely true.” I didn’t like his accusation. “You kept the door closed, and I respected that all week, until I couldn’t avoid it. Yesterday, when I was over here, there was a huge crash, and I needed to make sure something terrible hadn’t happened.”

He paused. “What?”

“Those boards you’d left leaning up against the wall? One of them fell over. I had no idea what that sound was, so you can’t blame me for checking it out. What if it had been part of the ceiling falling or a beam collapsing or something?”

Clay’s gaze slid away from me as he considered this new information. We had to look ridiculous, me standing there buck naked in his study while he was fully clothed.

“I wasn’t snooping, I promise,” I added. “I was trying to be helpful. Trying to be good.”

He repeated the word like it was unfamiliar. “Good.”

“Yeah. I didn’t plan to go down there and find your workshop, but”—I shrugged—“you can’t blame me for looking. I was interested. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything, even though I wanted to.”

He looked at me cautiously, unsure if I was telling him the truth.

“And I’ll say it again.” I wanted him to hear the honesty in my words. “The stuff you’ve built? It’s gorgeous. Like, the fucking sexiest art I’ve ever seen.”

His shoulders lifted as he drew in a deep breath, and when he pushed his glasses back on his nose, Clay seemed to collect himself. My compliment had a powerful effect on him, which he tried not to show. He straightened. “It’s not art.”

“Why not? Because it serves a function?” I smiled wickedly. “Okay. Let’s go downstairs and you can show me.”

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, mostly to muffle the “fuck” he muttered under his breath, but the action gave him back some of the control he’d lost. Curiosity lurked in his expression. “You’d be up for that?”

When I nodded, he walked the few steps toward me until there was no space left between us, and he peered down with a discerning look. The shift in him strengthened until power radiated from him. It was formed like a question, but it rang in my ears as a demand. “Can I touch you?”

I nodded.

Rather than put his arms around me, he slid one of his hands into the hair at the nape of my neck, cradling the back of my head and angling it up. His voice was as smooth as warm honey. “You want me to strap you to the cross and do what, exactly?”

His gaze traced over the curves of my face before landing on my lips. My pulse raced, and he was so close, I could barely breathe.

“You can do whatever you want to,” I uttered.

“Hmm.” It was the perfect answer because sinful darkness danced in his eyes. “Maybe I want to punish you for screwing up my plan.”

Did he mean his plan of getting me naked?

The air in his study was thick with lust, and Clay’s strong hand cupping the back of my head made it hard to think straight. I pictured myself in cuffs, bound to his beautiful St. Andrew’s cross downstairs while he teased and tortured.

He tilted his head a single degree, adjusting to a better angle to plant his lips over mine. “Would you like that?”

My body was clamoring for it. “Yes.”

A smile curved his mouth. He already knew my answer. “Is that what you need? A little bit of discipline?”

Awareness lurked in the back of my mind. He was older and obviously more experienced, but my eagerness made me ignore the warning. I was hungry for his kiss, looking forward to whatever punishment he wanted to dole out. “Yes,” I whispered.

He slid his hand away and stepped back so abruptly, I swayed at the sudden absence of him.

“All right.” His tone was cool