The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

There were short, hurried swallows of air that mixed with moans of satisfaction from both men, but E’s were louder and more urgent. His muscle-bound body flexed and contracted as he pushed me to rock my hips on him, then wedged a hand between my thighs, urging them apart. It was so he could smack his fingertips against my clit.

“Oh,” I moaned. His slap wasn’t hard or cruel. Its intent was to bring pleasure, which it absolutely did.

Clay was breathless as he growled his order. “Harder.”

E didn’t hesitate. He next slap was more aggressive, and I jolted, both from the sting of it and the acute bliss as the sensation dulled away. His strikes against my swollen clit, in combination with his deep thrusts, were going to send me over the edge, and both men sensed it.

“I’m gonna fucking come,” Clay warned.

A single breath later, pleasure twisted on his face and his eyes slammed shut. It looked like he was enduring exquisite torture as the orgasm took him. It was violent and beautiful, and I gasped with enjoyment. Sometimes pleasure was like a gift—better to give than receive, and some of the ecstasy coursing through him ran through me as well. He’d gotten off not just watching, but having his plans carried out on me.

The fingers buried in between my legs changed tactics. The biting slaps became erotic caresses, and within mere seconds, E’s strokes set off a charge in my body.

“Oh, God,” I cried. “Fuck, I’m coming.”

Arms locked around me to hold me in place. There were grunts and strained moans from behind as I rode out my orgasm on him, my whole body trembling. It sounded like he was holding back, but then gave in. I was still coming when he shoved me forward, face-down onto the tabletop. I caught myself on my forearms, but my cheek pressed to the soft leather.

Since everyone else was coming, E must have decided to join in.

His hands captured my hips, and he rutted into me, ruthless and primal. As if he were a man driven to the edge of madness and he no longer cared what he was supposed to do. There was no right or wrong, no desire anymore to stay within the rules. He pumped furiously, and his thrusts wracked my body.

God, I loved it. He’d given me so much pleasure, he earned the right to take some of his own. To use me however he needed. A few more powerful thrusts, and then he pulled out. Onscreen, I saw how he moved to yank the condom off and hurl it to the ground, then lifted on his knees so he was perched over me, his fist sliding back and forth over his dick.

He came in sputtering bursts, and the hot liquid flicked onto my back and my ass. It dripped from his tip as his hand slowed, wringing the last of his orgasm from his body while his chest heaved for air.

The way he looked at me when he came? So undeniably sexy, it rivaled watching Clay.

In the aftermath of our joint climax, no one moved.

One breath at a time, I came down from my high and began to return to reality. My back was wet, my legs were sore, and it was uncomfortable with my hands pinned beneath my body, but I stayed still. I expected a command from Clay at any moment, but he just gazed at me with a dreamy stare.

It was so nice, the floaty feeling from earlier returned and a shy smile warmed my lips. What we’d done was wild, and I was in awe of him. How willing he was to share and trust. That he’d given me a fantasy and gotten off on it just like I had.

E’s hands were damp, and when something cold wiped over me, I flinched. I’d been so out of it, I hadn’t realized he’d climbed down, cleaned up in the bathroom nearby, and returned with a damp hand towel. It glided over my skin in soothing strokes, and he took extra care on the lower half of my body.

I’d only heard E speak a handful of times, but his voice was deeper than before. “Are you all right?”

Clay cleared his throat, the sound loud and angry. It was his reminder to E about the rules, and E shot him the briefest of irritated looks before bending over to retrieve his underwear and pull it on.

“How are you feeling?” Clay asked.

I rolled onto my side to face the camera. “I’m good, but . . .” I lifted my bound hands.

He nodded. E understood, too, how I wanted to be untied, because he moved to the side of the table, took hold of my shoulders, and helped me sit up. Luckily, as long as I didn’t move and my skin stayed as it was on the leather, it didn’t hurt. His broad back blocked my view of the screen, so there was nothing to look at except the bead of sweat erratically trailing down his toned chest as he began to work on the knots at my wrists.