Clay’s lips were parted so he could pull in a deep swallow of air, and his shoulder moved rhythmically. What was he doing? Oh, my God. The paddle was so distracting, it took me a moment to realize he was jerking off.
My fingers curled into fists at this idea.
He was turned on, and I was the cause of it.
And what about E? It was hard to tell if he was breathing hard from the scene, the exertion, or a combination of the two. He seemed far too focused on his task to think about anything else right now.
As I whined and wiggled, it had a polarizing effect on the men. Clay’s hand pumped at a faster tempo, but E’s face took on a dark cast. It looked like he wasn’t enjoying it quite as much as he had been when we first started.
“You’ve got an ass of steel.” Clay’s expression was sinful. “I guess I need to find someplace new.”
His tone was deceptively casual, but the way E went still announced this was an order. He contemplated what to do, then rested the paddle across the small of my back so he could unroll his shirt sleeves. It was odd that the leather was cool against my skin, when it had created fire all over my backside.
Once he had the line of buttons down the front of his shirt undone, E pulled it open and off his shoulders, revealing his tan, sculpted chest. Even better? His jeans sat low on his hips, showing off the notched V that disappeared beneath his waistband. I thought Clay had a body built for sex, but E had one built for fucking.
He tossed his shirt on top of his bag, snatched up the paddle, and swung it so quickly, I didn’t have time to brace.
“Oh, fuck,” I babbled. “Fuck.”
Because he’d aimed lower, and I discovered through searing pain that the backs of my thighs, unlike my ass, were not made of steel. I jerked my head back, only for the rope to go taut and yank my bound hands with it. The agony of E’s strike went on and on, no matter how I tried to run from it. And there was his other hand, which pressed down on my hip and pinned me to the tabletop. I collapsed forward with a thud, surrendering to—
“Fuck,” I swore again, only this time in pleasure, because E’s hand moved and was now between my legs, his fingertips massaging my clit.
The distraction gave me 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.