The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

I watched E as he continued to rub and kiss the marks on my wrist like he was worshipping them. So, I wasn’t sure who I was speaking to when I made my announcement. “I love the way the marks look.”

“Mm, me too,” Clay said. “The ones around your throat are beautiful.”

It was like E hadn’t been aware of them until then, and his hot mouth lifted from my wrist so he could set his lips against the side of my neck. I shuddered with pleasure as he kissed me.

While I stared at Clay onscreen, E’s kisses carved a path, following the line of the rope, and I went weaker with each one, sinking further into his arms. Clay’s expression was fixed. It seemed like he was trying very hard to stay indifferent, and I was struck with the thought.

With all we’d done today, the way I’d been shared between the men, it was only E’s innocent kisses that caused worry to pool in Clay’s eyes. Wait a minute . . . It wasn’t worry.

It was jealousy.

TWELVE

After Clay and I spent Wednesday night talking about things we wanted to explore with each other, Thursday’s session was more . . . intense. E arrived not long after Clay had called, and I’d been eager to head down to the basement.

Once again, the St. Andrew’s cross was ignored, and I stood beside it in my disappointment while E disappeared inside the storage closet. He emerged a moment later, carrying a piece that looked heavy and confusing—until he set it on its front foot and unfolded it.

It reminded me of a weight training bench. It had a small seat and a tall adjustable back that could be set up at different angles or lay flat. Plus, there was a metal bar at the base of the front foot with rings at either end. Like Clay’s other designs, this one was sleek and elegant, covered in black vinyl with sexy red accents.

While E finished setting the chair up, I was instructed to get naked, and when I had my clothes folded in a neat stack on the workbench, E pulled leather cuffs from his bag, dropping one pair of them on the floor with a loud thud beside the chair.

My breath caught.

Whatever Clay had planned for us, I sensed it was a level up from what we’d previously done. There was a different mood than last time, and the air crackled with electricity. E’s posture wasn’t awkward, but it was stiff. As if he were anxious.

He stalked toward me with the other pair of black cuffs in his hands and a stern expression. It was seriously hot, and I was giddy with excitement, holding out my wrists eagerly.

The thick leather was lined with faux fur. It was fitted around me and buckled, one wrist then the other, and the metal clasps tinkled as they dangled down.

“You won’t need a safe word tonight,” Clay said from the screen of E’s laptop, which rested on the workbench. Our conversation tonight had started on my phone, but once we’d moved downstairs, E had pulled his MacBook from his bag, linked into Clay’s WiFi, and called him through Skype. It allowed us to see everything on a bigger screen—not just Clay, but what E was doing to me too.

“Okay,” I said, somewhat confused. We hadn’t discussed safe words yet, so it seemed unnecessary for Clay to tell me I wouldn’t need one.

Last time we’d played, he’d sat at the desk in his hotel room, but tonight he had his laptop beside him on his still-made bed. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and lay on top of the covers, his back against the headboard. Everything appeared casual and relaxed, but there was no doubt who was in command.

“You might say the word ‘no’ during the scene when you don’t mean it.” He said it like a professor giving a lecture. “‘Stop’ will always mean stop. But if a ‘no’ happens, I’ve told Mr. E to use his best judgement on whether or not to keep going. Is this something you’re comfortable with?”

I swallowed thickly and my tone was skeptical. “And why might I be saying ‘no’ when I don’t mean it?”

Clay’s chest lifted with a deep breath. “It could be a coping mechanism to the pain.”

Holy shit.

Since he’d finished with my wrists, E had gone motionless, and my gaze drifted from the laptop so I could glance up at him. Was that apprehension lurking in his eyes? No. It wasn’t dread; it was like . . . restlessness. He waited for my answer like a person waiting to parachute out of a plane. Nervous but excited.

“Yes,” I said, my gaze fixed on E because he was the one who most needed to hear it. “I’m comfortable with it.” And then I spoke to both men equally. “I trust you.”