The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood Book 3) Nikki Sloane (sight word books TXT) 📖

much-needed relief from the pain, and the stroke of his fingers on my damp panties was so good, if he kept doing it, it wouldn’t take long to bring me to orgasm. It was like the pain was a shortcut, a way to bypass foreplay or prepare my body in seconds.

“Look at me,” Clay demanded, but there was an edge of a plea to his words.

Endorphins pumped through my system, and my head was a chaotic mess, but hearing him centered me, and as I raised my fuzzy gaze to find him, E pulled my panties to the side and slid a finger deep inside me.

My moan was low and throaty, and onscreen I watched both men enjoy the effect they had on me. E’s mouth hung open with lust, and Clay’s hand moved fast enough it made his shoulders vibrate.

I tensed the muscles in my arms and back when E added a second finger and began to fuck me with them. He wasn’t done either. He raised the paddle and returned to swatting my ass, where the skin had graduated from pink to a brilliant red.

“It was worth it, wasn’t it?” Clay’s voice was hypnotic. “Taking the pain to get the pleasure?”

“Yes,” I whispered. A thousand times over, yes.

“You look so fucking good like this. Your ass painted red and tied up for me to use any way I want. You want that, too, don’t you?” His hand moved faster still, and pleasure dripped from his face. “You want to be used?”

“Yes,” I moaned.

He looked thrilled but feigned a scowl. “Naughty girl. You’re going to make me come.”

“Show me,” I begged.

As Clay reached forward and tilted the camera down, I shifted my focus to E for a fraction of a second. He’d paused the paddling, perhaps to focus on what his fingers were doing, or maybe to catch his breath. He had a faint sheen of sweat on his face and chest and was breathing hard. I understood. All I had to do was lie across the table and take it, and I was sweating, too.

Clay’s lower body came into view. His pants were undone and around his ankles, and he ringed his thumb and forefinger around his cock. His light grip pumped up and down in short, shallow strokes, focusing mainly on the tip. These weren’t maintenance strokes to keep himself hard—these were edging ones. Like a full fist wrapped around himself would be too much and he wasn’t ready to lose control.

“See what you do to me?” he asked, although his question was rhetorical. He pushed the screen up so his face was back in the camera’s view, and his attention drifted to E. “Again.”

The fingers inside me retreated, and E’s deep breath in was so heavy, it was audible. He had reservations, but Clay did not, and he looked irritated at how his stand-in was hesitating.

“Again?” Clay asked me. If I wanted it, that should help with E’s unease, wouldn’t it? And I did want it . . . because E had stopped touching me, and with the pain I’d get pleasure.

“Again,” I confirmed.

ELEVEN

E’s inhale had been loud, but his sigh was so quiet, I doubted the microphone picked it up. Clay didn’t seem to hear it either. He was pleased when E adjusted his grip on the paddle and prepared.

Trepidation swirled in my stomach, and shivers broke down my legs. Would it be worse this time? And if so, would the ‘after’ be even better? Or would the strike of the paddle be less intense than the anticipation of it?

On top of it all, there was my strange fascination with the experience. A large part of me wanted to see how much I could take. It hoped for the vicious slap of leather in a place that would make tears spring into my eyes. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and held my breath, bracing for the blow I knew was coming while my gaze was fixed on both the man who’d ordered it and the man who’d carry it out.

The paddle swung so fast, as it cut through the air it made a whooshing sound, and I heard the crack of it against my skin before the impact registered. The pain entered my body through the back of my thigh and stormed up my body, filled with fury. It consumed me with its white heat, the strength of it so powerful I couldn’t breathe.

Agony carried me away, but this time instead of fighting it, I let it sweep through me. A sob welled in my throat, but I cut it off, so it came out as a startled cry. In my misery, I was only vaguely aware of the paddle dropping to the floor and the hands on me.

I stared at the screen through blurry eyes, seeing one man while being touched by another, and the two of them began to morph into one. He told me I was beautiful while his fingers stroked my clit, and as the pain gripping me started to relax, I began to float.

“Such a good girl,” the man cooed. “You’ve earned this.”

He pushed his fingers inside me and reached around with his other hand to rub my clit, and a long moan poured from my mouth. My ass and the backs of my legs were on fire, but everywhere else was lit up and singing.

In my floaty space, time seemed to slow to a crawl. Even my thoughts slowed, as if my brain had been powered down to conserve energy and only the critical systems were still operating. It was nice and dreamy.

But it couldn’t last forever.

A sense of urgency grew and swelled, spinning my mind back up and making me aware. Oh, my God, I needed to come. The fingers plunging inside me, working together with the ones massaging my clit, created an ache that rivaled the one throbbing in my skin. I had an irrational fear that all the tension inside me was a bomb, and