The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3)

by Nikki Sloane

  It was a stolen moment between us, because once more, Clay cleared his throat. In response, E shifted to one side and finished undoing the ropes, and now the phone screen was visible again. Clay was relieved to see me, and guilt flashed through me. He’d given me this gift. An amazing experience with someone other than himself, plus an enormous amount of trust. The least I could do was think about him and not the man at my side.

  The rope fell to the floor, and my hands were free, and I marveled at the indentations left from the thick cord. It was a gorgeous pattern—like woven bracelets tattooed across my skin.

  While I was looking at them, E went to the workbench, removed my phone from the stand, and brought it to me. I took it, and he sat beside me, close enough that our legs touched.

  “Are you cold?” Clay asked.

  My body was cooling off, and I was going to answer, but E abruptly scooped me up into his arms.

  “What—?” The rest of my question died as he dragged me into his lap. I was now sitting sideway on him, and his thick arms circled around me. My gaze bounced from the man holding me to the phone in my hand.

  “How was this for you?” Clay’s focus was on me and his tone curious. “Did you like being tied up?”

  “Yes.”

  It was distracting how E’s hands smoothed over my skin while I talked to Clay, but I enjoyed it. He not only kept me warm, but the connection was nice. Plus, I was tired like I’d just run for miles and had the overpowering desire to cling to him.

  “And the paddle?”

  “Oh, I liked that a lot.”

  Behind his glasses, Clay’s thrilled smile reached his eyes. “At any point did it get to be too much? More than you’d want in the future?”

  I shook my head, and my voice went soft. “It was just the right amount.”

  My words affected both men. E’s hands skimmed up my back, over my shoulder, and down my arm until his fingertips skated along the rope pattern.

  “Anything you didn’t like?” Clay leaned closer to the camera like he wanted to be closer to me. “Anything you wished we’d done?”

  My gaze went to the St. Andrew’s cross like it was magnetized, tracing the lines and lingering on the rings where restraints would be clipped. “I thought we’d use the cross.”

  Clay gave a surprised half of a chuckle. “Maybe next time.”

  Next time.

  E lifted my wrist and pressed his lips to the underside, kissing the indentations there. It made my heart flutter. He was supposed to be a surrogate, giving me what Clay physically couldn’t, and although my partner had been attentive last time after we’d played together, this tender kiss from E seemed out of character for Clay.

  It was half-teasing, half-serious from me. “You weren’t like this last time.”

  “No,” Clay sucked in a heavy breath, “but sometimes the sub isn’t the only one who needs aftercare.”

  There was so much meaning in what he’d said and how he’d done it in a measured tone. Clay was a dominant who didn’t need to snuggle or bond afterward . . . but he wasn’t going to ignore the needs of the other person in the room. Even if he wanted me to pretend the scene had only been between us.

  I watched E as he continued to rub and kiss the marks on my wrist like he was worshipping them. So, I wasn’t sure who I was speaking to when I made my announcement. “I love the way the marks look.”

  “Mm, me too,” Clay said. “The ones around your throat are beautiful.”

  It was like E hadn’t been aware of them until then, and his hot mouth lifted from my wrist so he could set his lips against the side of my neck. I shuddered with pleasure as he kissed me.

  While I stared at Clay onscreen, E’s kisses carved a path, following the line of the rope, and I went weaker with each one, sinking further into his arms. Clay’s expression was fixed. It seemed like he was trying very hard to stay indifferent, and I was struck with the thought.

  With all we’d done today, the way I’d been shared between the men, it was only E’s innocent kisses that caused worry to pool in Clay’s eyes. Wait a minute . . . It wasn’t worry.

  It was jealousy.

  TWELVE

  After Clay and I spent Wednesday night talking about things we wanted to explore with each other, Thursday’s session was more . . . intense. E arrived not long after Clay had called, and I’d been eager to head down to the basement.

  Once again, the St. Andrew’s cross was ignored, and I stood beside it in my disappointment while E disappeared inside the storage closet. He emerged a moment later, carrying a piece that looked heavy and confusing—until he set it on its front foot and unfolded it.

  It reminded me of a weight training bench. It had a small seat and a tall adjustable back that could be set up at different angles or lay flat. Plus, there was a metal bar at the base of the front foot with rings at either end. Like Clay’s other designs, this one was sleek and elegant, covered in black vinyl with sexy red accents.

  While E finished setting the chair up, I was instructed to get naked, and when I had my clothes folded in a neat stack on the workbench, E pulled leather cuffs from his bag, dropping one pair of them on the floor with a loud thud beside the chair.

  My breath caught.

  Whatever Clay had planned for us, I sensed it was a level up from what we’d previously done. There was a different mood than last time, and the air crackled with electricity. E’s posture wasn’t awkward, but it was stiff. As if he were anxious.

  He stalked toward me with the other pair of black cuffs in his hands and a stern expression. It was seriously hot, and I was giddy with excitement, holding out my wrists eagerly.

  The thick leather was lined with faux fur. It was fitted around me and buckled, one wrist then the other, and the metal clasps tinkled as they dangled down.

  “You won’t need a safe word tonight,” Clay said from the screen of E’s laptop, which rested on the workbench. Our conversation tonight had started on my phone, but once we’d moved downstairs, E had pulled his MacBook from his bag, linked into Clay’s WiFi, and called him through Skype. It allowed us to see everything on a bigger screen—not just Clay, but what E was doing to me too.

  “Okay,” I said, somewhat confused. We hadn’t discussed safe words yet, so it seemed unnecessary for Clay to tell me I wouldn’t need one.

  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.”

&nb
sp; 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 was right beside me, whispering. “Ready to see what’s inside?”

  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 my head spin at how it hurt—yet it turned me on. The delicious misery primed the rest of my body as easily as flipping a switch.

  I was breathing heavy as E stood and moved to his bag on the workbench, and pride flooded my center as I caught sight of the bulge pressing against the fly of his jeans. He was just as turned on as everyone else in this scene.

  The black Velcro strap he retrieved was cinched around my waist, plus the back of the chair, lashing me in place. To test it, E tugged at a clamp and pulled it free. The pain stormed in, but no matter how I tried to squirm, I could barely move.

  He’d looked unsure before we’d begun, but that emotion was gone. As he watched me unsuccessfully attempt to wriggle away, power flared in his eyes and his palm drifted down to his erection, squeezing himself through the denim.