The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

Or at the very least, a peek down the stairs.

My heartbeat kicked up a notch as I wrapped my hand around the doorknob. The anticipation had been building all week, and excitement zipped through me like nervous electricity. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, only to stare down the dark and disappointingly normal staircase.

I wasn’t the only one curious, though.

A half-second later, Noir bolted down the stairs and turned the corner at the bottom, disappearing out of view.

“Well, shit.”

I flipped on the light and descended the stairs after her.

Last time I’d been in this basement, more than a year ago, the space had been set up as one large bonus room, a couch on one side and a play area for kids on the other. When Clay had moved in, he’d changed it dramatically. The carpet was gone, replaced with laminate floors, and more lights brightened the room.

He’d converted it into a workshop, sectioning it off into stations. One corner was an impressive work bench and table saw. Another held materials stored in tidy, labeled compartments, and beside it—the items too big to go into drawers or bins, like lumber and reams of black and red fabrics, which were either vinyl or leather.

I forgot all about my cat as I walked through the space, marveling at the sophisticated organization and flow of the work room.

Clay built custom furniture, and by the looks of it, it wasn’t just a hobby—it was a side business. An order form was pinned to a board, the specs highlighted, and handwritten notes were inked in the margin. Materials for the ‘pillory stocks’ build had been ordered and were supposed to arrive next week.

My gaze slid away from the piece of paper, moving toward the finished piece that stood in the corner behind the stairs. I was immediately struck by its sleek lines, but it also took me a moment to make sense of what I was looking at.

When I did, my mouth dropped open, and heat rushed through me.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

THREE

Clay had told me he was a complicated man, and as I stared at the sexy piece of furniture he’d crafted, I peeled back one of his layers.

This St. Andrew’s cross was slightly different than the ones I’d seen online, but there was no mistaking its purpose. The beams still crossed in a giant X, but this one also had crossbars at the top and bottom, so it was more like two triangles kissing.

The hourglass silhouette of it was outlined with metal, and rings were placed at every intersection. There’d be multiple places to hook on to. Spots to attach handcuffs, rope, or chains. The cross itself was covered in black and accented with red, and I couldn’t help myself. I reached out to touch the leather and found it buttery-soft.

It was so fucking sexy and stunning, it stole my breath.

My quiet, studious looking neighbor built custom, high-end BDSM furniture.

I marveled at the craftmanship as I walked around the St. Andrew’s cross. It was angled back just a bit, and a support beam jutted out the back, probably to give it extra stability. It was impossible to look at it and not imagine what it’d feel like to be bound spreadeagle to it. I wouldn’t care which way he’d have me—either facing him or away, my body exposed for whatever he wanted to do to it.

Would he spank me?

Flog or whip me?

Fuck me?

I burst into flames at the idea. I’d never explored any kind of kink before, but I was a ‘try everything once’ kind of girl, and this had always fascinated me. A quick look at my internet browser history would reveal my sexual appetite was healthy and I had wide tastes.

And to do it with Clay? I imagined him delivering a sexy spanking, and then using that same hand to push his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. He’d evaluate me with an exacting look and then adjust my positioning or correct the arch of my back with a firm hand or a dark tone.

An ache of need radiated through my body.

There was a W-shaped logo carved into the back of the cross, matching the letterhead of the order pinned to the board. I trailed my fingertips over the carving.

“Wicked Architecture,” I read aloud.

I dug my phone out of my back pocket, typed it into Google, and found the company website in the search results. Like the piece of furniture in front of me, his website was slick and sexy. When I clicked on the portfolio page, I stared at the pictures of the various pieces he’d created.

Some of them were easy to understand how they were used. There was a barrel shaped horse and a spanking bench that sort of reminded me of a small, padded picnic table. He’d already done a more traditional cross, and then something labeled a milking table, which was long and padded, had a hole cut out of the center of it, and sat on top of a cage.