Page 113 of Born for Lace

Lagos settles down opposite me, facing me, and we just… look at each other. His eyes map my face, and mine study his. He has small scars on his cheeks, tiny clear white lines.

I lift my hand and brush a dark-blonde strand behind his ear, my fingertip skimming the metal plate.

“We could make a real cot for Spero.” I almost choke, not sure why I am torturing myself with this. “I saw wood in the barn.”

Watching intently, his attention is searing. His big hand lifts so his index finger can draw a line down my nose as if he wants to remember the slope, the bump, the feel. “I could.”

We map each other.

I run my finger across his forehead, scooping dark-blonde strands to the side as I go. “And we could fix the wiring.”

His brows weave. “I could.”

I smooth the pinched crease between his eyes. “We could be happy here.”

“I would.”

A few tears squeeze free. “You wouldn’t be bored, brute?”

Lagos uses his thumb to brush the little drops away. “Not with you, little flower.”

The heavy weight of this fantasy swirls around us, changing something on a deep level. I gaze at him, disappearing into steel-grey eyes so bright against the dim of the bedroom that we’ve made our own.

I show him my body, share it, but now he sees my heart that pours through my gaze. “I like the farmhouse, Lagos.” I smile, remembering. “Tide told me that we are little bits of every place we have been and every person we have met. I would be content with just this bit.”

Lost in his gaze, I have to forcefully tear my eyes away, blinking through the shadows to where Spero sleeps at my chest. I tuck the infant under my arm and steadily climb to my feet. As I walk to Spero’s tiny nest in the corner, a cavity made with blankets and pillows, I feel Lagos’ watchful attention.

Returning to my place opposite him on the river of blankets, I whisper, “Show me how to do it. Show me how to touch myself. The way you touch me. I can dream of this place, your fingers, and your strength, and touch myself."

“Lay on your back for me,” he says, and I watch his mouth move around the dominant words, memorising.

As I do as I’m told, he lifts to his knees beside me, over me, looking down on my face and torso like a puppet master.

So close, I can feel the heat from his thighs. His balls hang and his dick fists up from them, throbbing.

My breath skitters out.

Intimidated by this monster of a man, but also… breathless with arousal, gasping for his warm touch.

As if he understands, he smooths my hair down my head, calmingly, at the same time reaching for my hand. “Use both hands, little flower. I would have my hands everywhere. Not an inch left untended.”

He guides my hand to my breast. “Like this.” He flicks my nipple with his thumb, warm milk sliding from the moist tip, dripping down my side.

“Fuck. So vulnerable for me.”

Leaving my hair, his other hand takes my free one and glides it down my trembling stomach, excruciatingly slow.

My chest pumps hard, though my breaths still seem shallow.

While cupping my breast, I let him dip my other hand between my thighs.

“Here,” he purrs, using his fingers to lead. I’m warm and wet, and the skin just inside responds to our touch, rippling and flushing. The world spins, stars suddenly skipping through the air.

“So warm, so wet.” He is a predator hovering over me, seconds away from sinking his teeth in. “Appreciate this pretty flesh, little flower. You’re sweet. Nervous. It’s so fucking beautiful.”

He called me beautiful…

I shudder as our fingers work together, rubbing between my tight folds. Messy. Abandoned.Safe.He helps me explore my hot centre.

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