In chatting with friends and beta readers about The Walsh Series, I hear one question with tremendous frequency: why architects?
I’ll see that question, and raise it another: why not?
We all know architects are smart—they’re the ones actually using all that algebra, geometry, and trigonometry the rest of us ignored in high school—and there’s nothing sexier than a big, ahem, brain. We also know they’re creative, and we need only glance around our cities and towns to see everyday art rising from the ground, or hear their roughly whispered fantasies.
Now take that intellect and that inventiveness, and add to it a healthy dose of dedication to the craft. They let instinct guide their work, and they know when it feels just right. They also know something about expertly tailored suits, husky growls, and building desks that can stand up to the most intense meetings.
The inner workings of the architect’s mind are complex, and lucky is the lover who gets to draw it all out.
Here’s a sneak peek into the mind of Matthew Walsh, one of the most growly, bitey architects I’ve ever had the pleasure of writing.
Architects are precise.
I waited twenty-nine seconds. That seemed like an appropriate amount of time to stare at her mouth before acting. Reaching across the table, my fingers cupped her chin and my thumb passed over her lips. My hold lingered a few moments, and I saw my seed dripping from her pouty lips instead of tequila.
Architects know how to get their hands dirty.
I backed Lauren into her bedroom, my hands on her waist and my mouth on her neck, and we tumbled onto the bed, sprawling over each other and laughing. The wine was saturating my brain, and it didn’t matter whether I brought any finesse to this moment. I had my filthy girl and I was going to do terrible things to her.
Architects have vivid imaginations.
I gestured to the seats in front of the desk and tracked her hourglass shape as she sat, watching her movements, studying her hands, admiring today’s Come Fuck Me heels. The red dress accented a narrow waist rising from flared hips that called out to my hands. I saw myself bending her over the desk, hiking up her dress, and taking her right now. And I saw her liking it.
Architects prioritize their clients.
Despite wanting to peel her jeans off and fuck her against one of those brick walls, I was also in architect mode and trying to keep my client happy. My brain blew up a few times attempting to manage that line, and counting bricks was the only thing keeping me from doing wind sprints up and down the mill floor.
Architects straddle the line art and science.
Gripping Lauren’s hips, I shifted her, trying to find the right angle. It was something of an engineering problem.
Architects are perfectionists.
They didn’t need to know the client and I discussed those floor plans in bed Sunday morning, or that she sat in my home office wearing only an old UCSD t-shirt, her legs folded beneath her and her hair tucked over her ears while I drafted them. They didn’t need to know I checked every measurement three times because those swaths of bare skin were too distracting to be safe.
Architects are loyal.
Regardless of the fast-approaching end—maybe in spite of it—I wanted to see her again, and I wanted to make good on that promise to take care of her building.
Architects do it right.
I fought the urge to plunge into her right there but I wanted more than messy sofa sex. I wanted messy bed sex where there was enough room to spread her out and move in her, and then fall asleep with her wrapped around me, and then do it all over again. And after that we’d try it again with the ass-kicking heels.
There’s much more to uncover about my favorite architects, the Walshes. Be on the lookout for Matthew in UNDERNEATH IT ALL, arriving October 21, and Patrick in THE SPACE BETWEEN, arriving November 18.
And now I have to ask, why wouldn’t I want to write these brilliant, scrumptious architects?
All the loves, Kate
About UNDERNEATH IT ALL
If I had known I’d have a hot architect balls deep inside of me before the end of the weekend, I’d have made time for a pedicure.
It’s all the little things—the action plans, the long-kept promises—that started falling apart when my life slipped into controlled chaos.
After I met Matthew Walsh.
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to run screaming or rip his pants off, and most days I wanted a little of both. If I was being honest with myself, it was rip his pants off, ride him like a workhorse, and then run screaming.
A rebellious streak ran through Lauren Halsted. It was fierce and unrelentingly beautiful, and woven through too many good girl layers to count, and she wasn’t letting anyone tell her what to do.
Unless, of course, she was naked.
She wasn’t looking for me and I sure as shit wasn’t looking for her, but we found each other anyway and now we were locked in a battle of wills, waiting for the other to blink.
Sometimes the universe conspires to bring people together. Other times, it throws people down a flight of stairs and leaves them in a bruised and bloodied heap.
About Kate Canterbary
Kate doesn’t have it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean–Pacific or Atlantic–is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people—be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane—ever since. Kate lives on the water in Rhode Island with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn’t writing sexy architects, she’s scheduling her days around the region’s best food trucks. Visit Kate online at her website, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.