Page 115 of Born for Lace

He drops his head back, baring his teeth as he comes, spurting white ropes across my chest and chin. Grunting as his dick visibly pulses in his fist, his eyes stalk over the claim he paints on my skin.

“This is the image, little flower,” he pants heavily. “I’ll play over in my mind each night.”

ChapterThirty-Five

Dahlia

We spend the entire next day in the bedroom,pretending. Well, I pretend while Lagos humours me.

He takes my body.

Hecango all day.

We have been intimate, many times. We never stop, only to eat and feed Spero.

Inside me with his fingers, or mouth, or dick, he rolls me around, so even while I fight to stay awake, I sense his hands on me. Spreading. His eyes on me. Gazing. Memorising.

The day ends too soon.

And then we leave at first-light. Tomar locks the house up, saying he hopes to visit again in the future as there are more supplies than we can fit into the truck.

Goodbye, farmhouse.

One little death.

Now, Lagos is driving, and Tomar has his feet on the dashboard, his hood pulled down, and deep, rough snores coming from under the brim. I don’t think he slept much last night… And Lagos and I didn’t come up for air either; all three of us are exhausted.

“He snores,” I half-laugh.

“Hm,” is all I get from Lagos.

Spero is in my lap, feeding from my breast, and the feelings of bliss coursing through me has a wide smile rushing along my lips—I did it.Wedid it.

My cheeks heat, and my lips part as I remember what I let Lagos do to my body last night, how I let him lick me between the thighs and suck milk from me while I was half-asleep.

It is so wrong.

So, so wrong.

And yet, when the milk comes down it feels like a release. When Spero is there, there is nothing but wholesome peace, but when Lagos is there, the sensation seems volcanic and strange and overwhelming. I’ll never say it aloud; I’ll never admit that I enjoyed it.

I look up from my tiny assassin and peer out the window to watch a curtain of red sand beating the glass between me and The Cradle.

I can make out the hazy outline of a mountain. We have been following it for half a day. The desert burns like wildfire. We haven’t seen a windmill or any sign of civilisation for many hours.

Lagos watches me in the mirror, every time I lift my gaze, his eyes catch mine in that moment. As if I might disappear, slip through his fingers before we have a chance to say… goodbye.

Goodbye to a little death.

“You’re you. Bits of every place you have been and every person you have spoken to. Unique.”

But he doesn’t feel likeabit… Saying goodbye to him doesn’t feel likeone littledeath. It feels like all of them.

My throat tightens.

Accepting the unacceptable— Lagos is not a part of my future. I swallow, and my breasts tingle. My pulse, or emotions, or heightened state, seem to stimulate the milk production.

I inhale hard and exhale.

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