Page 59 of Born for Lace

“Shaped odd and cruel?”

I glare at him. “And mean.”

Finally, my arm feeds through the hole of the shirt, and I’m free of his intoxicating hands and attention.

“A grin isn’t always cruel, more mischievous,” he states. “Isn’t it? A smirk can be cruel and unpleasant.”

“What?”

A huff of amusement leaves him, and my walls of annoyance and frustration crumble. It’s deep. So deep I feel the timbre thrum between my legs.

“Never mind,” he says. “Stupid conversation with a silly girl.”

He doesn’t always talk—loves a good grunt response—but when he does… It hits me—I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Through his rugged appearance and rebellious attitude, it never even crossed my mind. Lagos is too educated to have been born in the waste, to be an outlaw. He studied. Suspicion sets into my gaze as I measure him up again.

“You’re educated,” I state.

He stiffens. “Hm.”

I beam at him. “Too educated to be a rogue brute.”

With what could be a chuckle but too controlled, he repeats, "A rogue brute?"

“Yes.” Smoothing the shirt down my body, I feel clear and level and buzzing from my first-ever… climax. A great experience, Maple. Truly.

And I’m getting to know him; if he’s educated, then he has a Trade. If he has a Trade… then he must have a Trade name!

“What does Lagos mean?” I ask, eyeing him, watching tension build through his muscles, pump into them. Warn me—I shouldn’t ask. I should stop, but I’m mindless with what just happened between us. “Is it a geographic name?”

He stares at me, his third eyelid flicking across. Thick tattooed arms the size of trunks fold over his broad chest, pressing each bicep out further. “Lake.”

“It means lake.” I nod slowly. “In which language?”

“Whatlanguage?”

“That’s what I said.”

“An old one.”

“So...” I wiggle my brows, excited to be talking to him like this, to finally see a glimpse of the man inside the brute. “You were born a Trade man!” That sentence falls out with warm joy because he was once like me. And looking at him, it’s hard to believe he has ever conformed, or that anyone could tell him where to be or what to do, but only Trade men and women have geographical names. “What was your Trade?”

Then it all changes.

His demeanour stills the air.

Cruel, unyielding detachment claw into his black gaze, severing my mood. I swallow and shrink backward, but it’s too late.

“I'm not a man at all,” he bites out, sharp like the crack of a leather belt, harsh and final and powerful enough to make me flinch. To flatten my smile and hurt my heart. “Stop humanising me! Just because your pussy has been wrapped around my fingers doesn’t make me human. Just because you want me to be won’t make it happen. You'll be disappointed,Lace Girl. Stick with cruel and mean and add further substitutes if you wish, perhaps brutal and vile and murderous.”

He called me Lace Girl…

My lower lip trembles. “Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean I have to!”

Suddenly, he snatches my throat and possesses me, leaning down until we are nose to nose.

“Your hate for me was the only thing I liked about you.”

If he punched me, it would hurt less. “You don’t mean that.” My chin dimples as I hide my need to cry. “I never really hated you, Lagos. I was afraid and lost, and you were mean, but you have shown me you care. You don’t have to pretend that?—"

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