The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3) by Nikki Sloane (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

and indifferent. “Then, you’ll get dressed right now and go home.”

FOUR

My heart thudded to a stop. One second ago, Clay’s lips had been a scant inch from mine, and now he was gone.

“What?”

He said it plainly. “You wanted to be punished. I’m punishing you,” he casually tossed a hand toward me, gesturing to my nakedness, “and I don’t want to encourage this behavior.”

My body refused to move, so I stood there dumbfounded and with my mouth hanging open. “Are you kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

No, he certainly didn’t.

His expression was fixed, and all the heat between us dissipated in an instant. My brain couldn’t process what had just happened. How had he turned himself off so quickly? Disappointment descended on me like an avalanche, and hot irritation quickly followed.

I closed my mouth with an audible snap, and as I reached for my clothes in a huff, the last thing I expected to hear from him was a deep, satisfied chuckle. But that was what he did, and the sinful sound reverberated through me.

“Look at you,” he said darkly. “All upset you didn’t get your way.”

My hands slowed. What the fuck? He was being an asshole, and I glared at him, ready to unleash my tongue—

“God, you’re even hotter when you pout.” Seduction threaded his voice. “You’re so fucking hot, Lilith, I can’t even stand it.”

What?

He gave me emotional whiplash, and I blinked rapidly, trying to understand him. But it was impossible because he stared at me now like a starving man, his expression dripping with desire, and all thoughts emptied out of my mind.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he declared. “Turn around. Put your knees on the seat of the chair.”

I was still processing his command when he grasped my elbow and guided me to the leather wingback chair I’d been sitting on when he came home. He set his fingertips on my back and eased me forward, until I had my knees buried in the cushion and my forearms draped over the top of the chair.

It caused an arch in my back, and my bare bottom jutted out toward Clay, and he skated a finger along my spine, tracing a line from my shoulders to my hips. And then his featherlight touch was gone.

“You want to be punished.” It was a statement, but it was clear he was waiting for confirmation from me, so my head bobbed in a nod. “Good,” he said. “I hope you’re not fragile.”

His hand came down quickly, and although the smack of his palm against my ass sounded loud, his blow fell painlessly across my skin. A stunned smile buzzed my lips. I’d never really been spanked before, and this was what I’d hoped for. Part of me was disappointed I wasn’t bound to the beautiful cross he’d built, but the rest of me was pleased. I’d yearned to sexually explore, and it didn’t matter that much where or how it happened.

I was grateful he was willing to partner with me.

Clay spanked my ass again, and this one had more of a kick to it, but I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling. Was that supposed to hurt? Because it didn’t, not by a longshot. I understood, though, how he was testing me. Better to start soft and build up to it, rather than do too much, have to back down, and potentially scare me off.

His palm cracked against me once more, and this one was serious enough to make my body jolt—but it was simply from the force of it and not in pain. My breath came and went in quick bursts, but otherwise I didn’t make a sound. Could he tell my short breath was caused by anticipation and not discomfort?

He sounded begrudgingly impressed. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Guess I’m not fragile.” For added effect, I wiggled my hips.

He let out a short laugh, and it sounded very much like, “We’ll see about that.”

The wood floor beneath his feet creaked as he adjusted his stance. Then the sharp smack of skin meeting skin punched through the quiet of the room, quickly followed by another slap.

And another.

He alternated between sides, spreading the blows around, varying tempo and placement.

I gasped at the rhythm he created, the warmth that bloomed over my skin, and a muscle deep in my belly clenched in pleasure. When a moan slipped from my lips, he hesitated, making it possible for me to hear he’d become as out of breath as I was.

“It feels good,” I said quietly.

He sounded surprised. “It doesn’t hurt?”

I turned over my shoulder to glance at him and subtly shook my head. Fucking hell, he looked so incredibly sexy as he stood behind me, desire hazing his eyes.

A moment stretched heavy between us before he asked it. “Do you want it to?”

His posture was rigid, announcing everything hinged on my answer, and a dark voice inside me spoke up, encouraging me to try something new.

I’d always had a high threshold for pain—at least that’s what I’d been told. I didn’t mind a blister or a shoe strap cutting across the top of my foot. I dealt with the discomfort because I loved my heels and enjoyed both the ache and the release of slipping off my shoes at the end of the night.

Would it be the same now? Would the pain he gave me, followed by the absence of it, be pleasurable? I was eager to find out. He’d asked me if I wanted him to make it hurt, and it was startling how confidently my answer came.

“Yes.”

He exhaled loudly, and with deep satisfaction, and the sound gave me a delicious shiver. I licked my dry lips as his focus swung to his desk, and then on to the drafting table. Whatever he’d been searching for, he found it there.

He strolled to the table, picked up a long, silver ruler, and seemed to evaluate its weight in his hand. It wasn’t a flat, normal ruler—it was one of those triangular drafting things