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

It was one thing to hear and feel the sharp slaps of the leather while my hands were tied and my bare breasts were pressed to the table, but that was just the first layer. I could also watch E as he swung the black paddle through the air and see how he enjoyed the reverb of each strike as it rippled across my flesh.

And at the same time, I got to see Clay’s reaction to it and the way his eyes hooded behind his glasses. He stared at us with so much hunger, it should have been frightening—but of course it wasn’t to me. It only turned me on more.

The blows alternated sides, and even though my panties were still on, the whisper-thin fabric didn’t give me any protection when E really began to spank me. He reared back and brought the paddle crashing down on me hard enough that the smile on my face dried up.

It didn’t hurt, really.

The discomfort was like sitting on too-hot leather seats in the summer, only more focused.

The man who loomed over me had his attention locked on to what he was doing, and his jaw was set. It wasn’t until a soft moan slipped out of me that it broke his focus. His gaze flew to the screen, checking in with both me and Clay, and when he determined my moan was in pleasure, he resumed his work.

He looked even more beautiful like this. All the power was supposed to be Clay’s, but E was the one wielding it, and satisfaction streaked across his face as he delivered blow after punishing blow. The loud, uneven tempo of his paddle filled the room, and my skin began to burn all over from his relentless paddling.

Clay asked it even as he already knew my answer. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” I dropped my head forward, resting my forehead against the bindings around my wrists.

“No.” His tone was stern. “Eyes up and on me.”

I lifted my head and peered at him through the strands of hair that had fallen into my face. Behind me, the paddling had paused. It was so E could grab the back of my underwear and wedge it up between my cheeks, exposing more of me to his spankings. My skin was the prettiest shade of pink I’d ever seen.

I groaned with both pleasure and discomfort when he swung again. The blow was so hard, I lifted on my toes and my back arched, but that made E scowl. He put his hand on the small of my back and shoved, pushing me back down into position. His corrective hand stayed where it was like a warning, and I burned even hotter at his touch.

Oh, my God. Could he see how turned on this was making me? My underwear had to be soaked, and more heat flooded my face. The paddle cracked against my skin, and I pushed air out in a hiss through my tight teeth.

E’s spankings were merciless, but so was the way Clay stared at me, and weren’t these spankings really his? He’d drafted and designed this scene, probably down to how many strikes I’d receive and how hard I’d get them.

“Shit,” I groaned. Pain banded across my cheeks, and I tried to shift under the weight of E’s hand, encouraging him to find a different spot for his next blow. And yet . . . even though it hurt, I still liked it. The prickly heat left after the leather was gone felt intoxicatingly good.

Clay’s lips were parted so he could pull in a deep swallow of air, and his shoulder moved rhythmically. What was he doing? Oh, my God. The paddle was so distracting, it took me a moment to realize he was jerking off.

My fingers curled into fists at this idea.

He was turned on, and I was the cause of it.

And what about E? It was hard to tell if he was breathing hard from the scene, the exertion, or a combination of the two. He seemed far too focused on his task to think about anything else right now.

As I whined and wiggled, it had a polarizing effect on the men. Clay’s hand pumped at a faster tempo, but E’s face took on a dark cast. It looked like he wasn’t enjoying it quite as much as he had been when we first started.

“You’ve got an ass of steel.” Clay’s expression was sinful. “I guess I need to find someplace new.”

His tone was deceptively casual, but the way E went still announced this was an order. He contemplated what to do, then rested the paddle across the small of my back so he could unroll his shirt sleeves. It was odd that the leather was cool against my skin, when it had created fire all over my backside.

Once he had the line of buttons down the front of his shirt undone, E pulled it open and off his shoulders, revealing his tan, sculpted chest. Even better? His jeans sat low on his hips, showing off the notched V that disappeared beneath his waistband. I thought Clay had a body built for sex, but E had one built for fucking.

He tossed his shirt on top of his bag, snatched up the paddle, and swung it so quickly, I didn’t have time to brace.

“Oh, fuck,” I babbled. “Fuck.”

Because he’d aimed lower, and I discovered through searing pain that the backs of my thighs, unlike my ass, were not made of steel. I jerked my head back, only for the rope to go taut and yank my bound hands with it. The agony of E’s strike went on and on, no matter how I tried to run from it. And there was his other hand, which pressed down on my hip and pinned me to the tabletop. I collapsed forward with a thud, surrendering to—

“Fuck,” I swore again, only this time in pleasure, because E’s hand moved and was now between my legs, his fingertips massaging my clit.

The distraction gave me