The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

There was a box of tissues on his desk, and Clay went to it, pulling several out, and then returned to me, gently cleaning up the mess on my back and fingers.

His voice wavered, less confident than before. “How are you feeling?”

I wasn’t sure how he meant.

Physically? Emotionally?

The truth was I didn’t know. The welts on my body were still smarting, but I kind of liked it. It was an aching reminder of what he’d done, and mentally, my head was foggy. Not exactly dreamy, but sort of . . . floaty.

It was nice and made me bold.

“I’m feeling,” I said, “like I wish we had kissed before we . . .”

He let out a tight breath. “I can fix that.”

Then his hands were on my shoulders, easing me back off the chair. For the first time in ages, I tottered on my heels like they were brand new. Like I wasn’t comfortable standing or walking in them, even though I wore high heels every chance I could since I’d turned twenty.

Shit, this floaty state was distracting.

I shuffled in place, turning beneath his guiding hands to face him. Clay studied my lips with the same focused look he’d given me earlier, and it didn’t allow my racing pulse a moment to slow down. This time when he touched me, he used both hands. He slid them into my hair so he could cup my face and hold me still, then lowered his mouth to mine.

Like everything else had been, his kiss was not what I expected. It wasn’t controlled or restrained, but it wasn’t deep or passionate either. It felt . . . calculated. It gave me a strange thought that he’d drafted how he’d approach kissing me, even down to the specific angle he’d use. Had he designed it to the exact degree? If I went poking around in his papers, would I find it sketched out somewhere?

His kiss felt planned.

It wasn’t a bad thing, though—just different. It still had heat and intimacy, enough to make me feel lightheaded. There was just a hint of tongue, and as soon as I tried to reciprocate, it was gone.

The kiss was over.

He drew back, keeping my face cradled in his hands, and an emotion I couldn’t place drifted through his eyes. Regret? I hoped not.

“I had planned,” he said, “to have a conversation with you before we went any further, but—”

“I disrupted your plans.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “We still need to have it, but before we do, you didn’t actually answer me. Are you hurting? Do you want ice or a pain reliever?”

I wasn’t hurting, mostly just uncomfortable, and I was too curious about what he wanted to talk about to care much about the dull heat banding across my skin. “I’m all right.”

His discerning look said he didn’t believe me. His hands slid away, did up his jeans, and collected my stack of clothes off the desk. “Come with me.”

I wasn’t given a choice, but I didn’t need one. I was just like the cat slinking around his house—too curious for my own good.

He led me into his bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. The evening sun was setting on the far side of the house, making the room dark and moody and sexy. He deposited my clothes on the top of his dresser and motioned to the unmade bed. “Lie down on your stomach.”

He wanted me to get into his bed? I didn’t need to be told twice. I put a knee on the mattress, crawled along the sheets in a way I hoped he found seductive, and lay down with my head on what I suspected was his pillow. The sheets smelled faintly sunny and woodsy, like the scent of his detergent battled for control over his cologne and body wash.

I’d expected him to join me in the bed, but instead he disappeared into his bathroom, flipping on the light and moving deeper inside, out of my view. There was the sound of a door opening, perhaps the linen closet, and then the faucet ran for a moment. I propped myself up on my elbows and peered through the doorway to watch him wring out a towel.

It was only a few moments later when he brought it into the bedroom and draped the cold, damp towel over the marks on my skin. I flinched, but the coolness of it soothed me instantly.

“Thank you,” I said.

Clay sat on the side of the bed, turned toward me with one leg tucked on the mattress and a contemplative look streaked his face.

“What did you want to talk about?”

He drew in a heavy breath. “Remember how I said I’m complicated?”

I nodded. I’d thought he meant the BDSM furniture, but the way he was now made me unsure. He looked more nervous than he was the first time he’d used the ruler on me.