The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

How did he do that? His words filled me with this dark, impatient craving.

Clay’s hand slid onto my back, then down over the curve of my ass, squeezing me just hard enough to remind me of the marks he’d put there.

“I really like your enthusiasm, though,” he whispered.

Fuck, I nearly melted.

But instead of doing anything else with me, he glanced at his watch and announced it was time for his meeting. I followed him back down the noisy staircase and into the main floor lounge, then sat down in the chair he directed me to, while he sat on the couch.

While we waited, I surveyed my surroundings in greater detail. The music was loud as it streamed through the open doorway to the nightclub room next door, but I could also hear activity in the red room down the hall. Perhaps they were finishing setup for the show.

One of the doors to the private rooms across the way was closed now. In use, he’d said. There was a tall, narrow window framed between the two doors, but it was dark. Was it a functional window where the shade was drawn, or had it been painted black? I couldn’t see any bodies moving beyond it, and suddenly that was all I wanted.

I’d been at this sex club for thirty minutes, and other than the woman who’d flashed her pussy on the dancefloor, I hadn’t seen any sex. It was so much tamer than what I’d done with Clay this afternoon, not to mention . . . this all felt normal. It only ramped up my sex drive.

And I felt like I was fucking starving.

Clay’s client was a skinny man in his fifties, who had a ponytail and wore black leather pants over his lanky legs. The guy’s southern accent was thick—much deeper than a Nashville one, and I wondered what he sounded like when he ordered his submissive around.

As he evaluated the different swatches of fabric Clay had given him, the man talked about wanting extra padding on the kneeler. His sub was older, he said, and he wanted to be careful of her knees.

That little detail caused unexpected warmth to slide through me.

Up until now, I only knew the commercialized stuff when it came to BDSM. Porn and countless movies had conditioned me to think only young, beautiful people were allowed to play, to enjoy. But this guy and his older sub were real people—not the manufactured stories I’d seen. I was surprised by how much better I liked reality.

So, I wouldn’t call Ponytail Guy good looking, but . . . was it strange I found him sort of attractive in his own way? His confidence and ease were undeniable. Or maybe it was the level of care he had for his partner. As the men continued their conversation, the guy revealed his wife was currently at the table in the other room with their friends. He’d snuck away for this meeting, because he was having Clay build the custom piece as a surprise for her.

While details were hammered out, the window across the room abruptly lit up, and my gaze flew to it like it was magnetized.

Holy shit.

SIX

The woman was curvy and, although she was larger than I was, she had beautiful proportions. She wasn’t entirely naked because her skirt was bunched around her waist, and a black collar wrapped around her throat, but everywhere else she was bare. Her large, sexy tits swayed each time the man behind her slammed his hips against her ass. Since she was bent over, she braced herself on the window with her hands, her fingers splayed out on the glass.

Had she sensed me? The woman peered out through the glass, her gaze searching, and when she found I was watching, she locked in on me. A sultry smile bowed on her lips, wordlessly announcing how she wanted me to watch.

Jesus, I was on fire, but I didn’t dare look away.

The way the man fucked her was rough. The slap of his body rippled and reverberated across her skin, and his face twisted with pleasure. The woman definitely liked it, but it seemed like she was enjoying me even more. To put a finer point on it, she leaned forward and flattened her breasts to the glass. Her tits became two perfect circles of pale skin surrounding her dusky nipples.

Clay’s voice was sharp enough to break through. “Lilith.”

My attention snapped to him, only to discover both men on the couch were looking at me expectantly. Clay had been sketching something on a notepad he must have been carrying in his suit pocket, but his pen was frozen mid-stroke.

The client laughed. “Your sub didn’t hear a word I said.”

I jolted. He thought I was Clay’s submissive?

Was I?

I didn’t correct the guy. Instead, I pinched my knees together and squeezed against the ache the thought of belonging to Clay caused. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I, uh, got distracted.”