Page 57 of Born for Lace

His body turns to stone at my back, and he pauses, stopping my mind from spiralling. Stops the pleasure, the build-up, the brewing of something explosive?—

A huff leaves me, my lips pursing. Sulking. I am pretty sure I’m sulking.

“What…” I pant and squirm. His fingers are still through my slit but not moving. “Why did you stop? Is it over?”

I don’t mind.

That was nice, but?—

Dark energy rushes from him right before he growls, “I’m sorry.” The hand on my hip releases me, moves to cover my mouth, and it all happens fast. Like a bolt of lightning. Energy that fizzles out of control. He adds a second finger and spears them both deep into me.

I cry out. “Ah!”

“I’m sorry,” he grunts from low in his chest as pain assaults me. Then he spears me again. “I’m sorry, little flower, I couldn’t stop myself.”

I’m crying behind his hand, his fingers catching my tears and whimpers as sensation assaults me with pain and—so much pleasure.

I am reeling. And he doesn’t stop for a moment or allow me to resist, fucking me with two fingers until the pain lessens and pleasure rolls forward, taking its place.

“You’re tight,” he rumbles at my spine. “Too tight for me. It’ll hurt every time.”

I’m out of my mind because I want to moan that I don’t care. At this moment of frenzy, I don’t care. How do I possibly say that? Who would desire such a thing? That I want the pain if it means I get the pleasure—one of life’s great experiences. That I want his warmth at my back, his voice vibrating through my spine, and the way he stirs me inside, thickening my senses.

“I want it,” I admit.

“Good girl.”

There is a direct line from his fingers to my lower belly, and he coils it until it’s so tight it strains and stains and?—

Snaps.

I arch my back on a cry, and his hand covers my entire chest, supporting me while something infinitely wonderful floods my body. My rib protests the shudders, but I barely feel it. Barely feel anything else besides Lagos.

I pulse around his fingers. It does feel like exploding while peeing… Just like Maple said.

“Mine,” he grates, restless. “Falling apart. Falling into depravity. I suppose you were right. Some things do look prettier when they fall.”

Tightness grips my thighs and holds on. Shudders of energy spark through me.

As it all eases, I slump against the rock-hard body behind me, my eyes fluttering open for the first time since it all started.

I stare ahead.

Lazily, Lagos’ hand moves from inside my knickers and slides over my body in the slick water. The skin of his fingers is rough, calloused, hot, and impossibly virile. At this moment, I finally understand whatIlike. My desires. WhatIam attracted to. What draws me, impresses me. It’s rough, hard edges, excitement, and strength. It’s everything I’m not used to, and what he is at his core.

Exhaustion closes in on me, but he massages his big hands over my body, igniting every cell, keeping me awake and aware.

My breasts rise and fall as I pant. They are tight, nipples beaded while big palms roll over them, wash them. Washme. Everywhere.

“Mine.”

I’m touched and stroked with a kind of possessive dominance. His grip is firm, his reach without bounds, authoritarian— claiming.

I’m nodding—yes.I’m yours…until I’m safe. Yours.One of his hands slides between our bodies, and he grabs himself through his jeans, hissing. For just a moment, I feel him palming his erection. Releasing it fast, his hand descends to my backside and slides between my cheeks.

“Lagos?” I hold my breath as his forefinger and middle slide over my hole, the muscle puckering against the attention.

“I can do that,” I gasp.

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