Page 114 of Born for Lace

“Such a good girl. Don’t be too shy to go deeper.” He pushes two of my fingers deep inside, his long digit mounting and guiding mine through my clinging muscles. “Like this.”

“Oh…” I moan, lifting my backside from the blankets against thatfullfeeling.

“And out again,” he orders.

I copy his rhythm. His larger finger moves inside me while two of mine try to match his pace and depth.

“Oh,Lagos.”

My eyes roll back.

“Feel how soft your pussy is, how supple and delicate it is. You’re so fragile here. A man could sink his teeth in. Lick hard enough to taste blood. You’re sensitive. So fucking vulnerable.” He groans, leaning over me to lick the milk sliding down the curve of my breast. “Mine. Remember who you belong to when you fuck your fingers at night.”

He pulls his hand from between my legs, placing it on my thigh, pinning me down for his dark gaze.

I try to concentrate on both of my hands, but it’s hard. And while my eyes roll back to the thrusting of my fingers, back arching and pelvis lifting, I seem to paw impatiently at my wet breasts.

I become a desperate mewling being on the blankets, squirming and trying to finish myself, edge closer.

“This is your clit.”

Then he is there. His hot mouth is above my fingers, creating suction as his thick, ardent tongue licks hard at what feels like hundreds of tiny nerves.

I pulse off the blankets.

Crying and mewling, I struggle to keep my hands on their task, finding myself careless, rough, thrusting harder, deeper, to match the buzzing of his mouth.

“Oh, Lagos… I can’t— I need—” I don’t know what I need, but he does, so when he pulls his lips away from me, gazing down with predator-like intent, I whimper at the loss of heat, suction…

A chill sweeps across my core.

“Make yourself come, little flower.” He moves my wet fingers to a knot above my entrance.

Lagos fists his dick as I nervously circle the sensitive area. He looks down at me while I play with hesitation and uncertainty. Already aware of the powerful pleasure this special place can offer.

“That’s a good girl. Don’t be shy. Rub around the hood and feel your little clit inside rise for you.”

I get closer to the bundle, my circles tighter, a noose around the bud.Oh…I twitch. So strange, my legs spasming when I press down on the very peak.

Sweat gathers on my skin.

“There she is.” He rasps, breathless. “Good girl. Keep going. Rub that sweet, little clit. Good girl. That’s my girl.”

Milk beads on my nipples.

My mouth dries and tingles, and parts of me—toes, thighs, ears—come alive with sensation without ever being touched.

“Eyes on me,” he growls, pumping his dick hard, the flushed head dripping and engorged. Massive. Intimidating.

The air in the room boils.

Working myself to the point of tiresome agony, it is the sight of him so violently thrusting into his own fist, abdominal muscles bunching, virile beyond anything human, that finally throws me over the edge.

Groaning, I come shuddering and bucking, my legs kicking out and toes curling. I feel like speared prey, and I realise how closely pain and pleasure are experienced.

“Will you think of me?” My gaze slides up to his, hazy with pleasure. “When you touch yourself?”Or when you’re with other women…I think the horrible truth but don’t say it, despising it.

“Like this. Just like this,” he says darkly, black eyes dragging across my exposed figure, tight fist sliding up and down his length. “With milk dripping from your breasts and your body flushing from a sweet orgasm.”

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