Page 90 of Born for Lace

“No?”

“I...”

Lagos trails down the ladder of my ribs. “You.” And breathes hot air against my belly button. “Say it again.” Groaning, he rubs his face on the supple part of my lower belly, and even through my dress, his rough beard reminds me that every inch of him is hard, coarse—male. “Mean it. Say stop and mean it." His hips thrust in the air. Even without the pressure of his body on mine, I can feel him tightening against his instincts. Restless with restraint.

I can’t say it again. I don’t want him to stop, but I need to catch my breath.

When I don’t answer, he hums. “Don’t open your thighs for me.” I roll my hips up to the sound of his raspy timbre, a sound steady with control yet somehow volatile.

Prowling down my body the last few inches, his nose meets my knickers. He inhales and growls. My toes curl and my back arches, my body obeying the beast’s unspoken commands.

“You have no idea how much I need this,” Lagos states, hunger a raspy phantom in his tone. Needy.

Thisneed, a man’s instinctual desires and emotional burdens, is what my Trade is all about—to accompany, relieve, and soothe.

His tongue laps at the material, then down my closed legs. He teases a wet, hot trail down the valley between my pressed thighs.

I squeeze them tighter.

“It’s not your fault. Remember that, when you dream about what I did to this body, remember it’s not your fault,” he snarls and shoves my thighs apart.

My heart thunders in my chest.

Exhaling heavily, he stares between my legs. The white material, barely covering me, is damp from my arousal.

I can’t look any more, dropping my head back, brows tight, staring at the ceiling, and gripping his hair tighter.

“Do you still want to know what I like?” Lagos ducks, his mouth on my knickers, heat exploding across the sensitive area.

I hold his hair, my tether to the moment, or else I’ll fall—plummet.

Oh, that feels good.

“Yes,” I whisper, my eyes rolling back when he licks over the fabric and buries his nose at the very top, inhaling, it’s erotic and wrong, and…

Rolling his nose against me, he purrs, “I like the smell of this soft red hair between your thighs. Strawberries and cream. What a delicate flower you are.”

Spreading me further, pinning my thighs open, he fills the space with his large shoulders. One hand on my thigh, the other feeds under my knickers so a long, relentless finger can slide all the way, deep inside me.

I moan wildly. There isn’t any pain this time—only pleasure.

Until he hits something, shooting me with an unnatural sensation like someone massaging my bones from the inside.

“Not very deep, little flower, but so fucking tight. And pink…” Sliding his finger in and out of me, my arousal makes wet sounds. “Everywhere. So much pinker in here.”

Oh, he’s lookingthere.Embarrassment becomes a blanket of pink and perspiration.

My backside tries to pulse off the blankets, to work with his finger, but he has me locked beneath him.

“Lagos...”

“Gentle. Your hips don’t know what they’re asking for is dangerous.”

Unbridled moans cascade from my throat.There.There. Close. To that feeling… The same one I felt at the waterfall. The same one…Oh.

His tongue glides up, stopping at a collection of nerves and circles, and circles. And circles.

My head makes the same motion, my mind coiling with pleasure.

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