The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

“No, I honestly don’t.” I stared at the tiles, pretending I was talking about backsplashes and not my partners. “They’re attractive to me in different ways.”

He stared at the samples, which were similar, and both cast in varying shades of gray. “I get that.” His voice was off. “Well, I can’t have both. That’s just . . . not how it’s done.”

“I don’t know. Some people do it.” My heart was hurrying along. “Maybe it’d create something really unique and amazing.”

“It sounds like a lot of work.”

I nodded. “I don’t think it’d be easy, but it could be worth it.”

He picked up his wine glass, took a long sip, and stared at the wall like he wished the backsplash were already installed. “A decision doesn’t have to be made tonight,” he said. “Let’s not talk about tiles anymore.”

It wasn’t tense between Clay and me after that, but the mood had taken a hit, and conversation was stilted until the doorbell chimed. Clay set his wine glass down on the table beside the couch and moved to the entryway, while I followed behind. When he opened the door, the other man came in and scoured the room until his gaze landed on me, and his shoulders relaxed. As if the sight of me had a calming effect.

“How did it go?” The band was back around my chest, tight with worry, and I squeezed the wineglass in my hand.

His eyes had a hint of sadness, but they were clear. “It was good. Peaceful.”

“Good,” I said.

The three of us fell into awkward silence for a moment, but Clay rescued us. He motioned that we should move into the living room.

“Did you want something to eat?” he asked Travis. “You had to skip dinner.”

“No, thanks. I grabbed something quick after I left the zoo.”

“Wine?”

“Sure.”

Clay left us, his footsteps growing quieter as he disappeared into the kitchen. Travis held my gaze as he steadily approached, moving in like nothing else existed. It was so intense, I began to retreat, only to bump up against the back of the couch near the center of the room.

He took the glass of wine from my hand, deposited it on the side table next to Clay’s, and then cradled my face in his palms. It was so he could hold me still while he leaned down and claimed my mouth with his. I went rigid under his kiss. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I could hear the other man in the kitchen as he opened a cabinet and retrieved a wine glass.

But I was pliable in Travis’s hands, and even though I didn’t know if this was allowed or respectful, I began to soften. His slow, sensual kiss was less about romance and more about seduction. It was dangerous.

Which also made it exciting.

Clay’s footsteps grew louder as he approached. There came a soft, surprised intake of breath from him as he discovered what we were doing, but Travis took his time ending the kiss. It made my head spin.

Wait a minute.

Was this . . . a pissing contest?

Anger began to swell in the pit of my stomach. In the right scene, I liked how the men used me. There was a certain kind of enjoyment in being treated like an object, or a toy to bring my partner satisfaction. But we weren’t in a scene right now, and—

Travis took the glass of wine that was meant for him from Clay, gave me a hard look, and said it in a dominating voice that would have made any submissive weak. “Now, kiss him.”

The muscles low in my belly clenched. Travis didn’t often give me orders, and when he did, they’d always come from the other man. But this command was undeniably his, and he stepped to the side to give me room to follow it.

Electricity swirled, charging the air in the room as I took the two steps toward Clay. He wasn’t exactly smiling with his mouth, but it lurked in his eyes. He liked our partner’s order just as much as I did and looked forward to how I would carry it out.

He tasted like the wine we’d been drinking.

I initiated the kiss, but the second our lips touched, he took over. It wasn’t quite as earth-shattering as the one he’d given me earlier today, but this wasn’t in his script either, so it was untamed and raw. His palm slid down my back and clenched a handful of my ass, and it drove me deeper into his kiss.

When it was over, I pulled back just enough to turn my head and glance at Travis for approval. He sipped his wine like he was savoring both it and the way Clay had kissed me. Goosebumps shattered across my skin.

The realization hit me then. Travis’s kiss hadn’t been competitive or territorial—it’d been a test. A hurdle to overcome and help keep jealousy at bay. It meant there was trust even when we weren’t in sight. It demonstrated Travis wasn’t going to do anything with me he wouldn’t be comfortable with Clay also doing.