Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Dahlia
My breasts are tingling with sensation, milk rolling over the curve.
The torch is on, so I put a shirt over the spot to filter the beam. Outside the farmhouse, the Redwind howls and prowls, shaking the glass in the frames.
I sit naked on the blankets, with Spero cradled in my arms, his mouth latching onto my nipple almost immediately. Awe curls around me at the beauty of nature and life—the violent weather beating at the windows of the secure room where I breastfeed Spero for the first time.
We did practise before I even had anything to offer, and now he seems eager to explore this new sensation.
He swallows.
“He did it.”
“You did it.”
I look up to find Lagos has returned to the room, standing naked in the open door, holding a box of sorts as he stares intensely down at us.
He is magnificent, with his rough, battered skin, rippling ink from neck to ankle, and long shadows carving each muscle. Thrumming on his abdomen, a hard, smooth dick, the underside licked from root to swollen crown with protruding veins.
Arousal and something sweeter, happiness, fill my chest, and it is bittersweet, given this moment—Lagos, me, and Spero—is destined to end. Soon.
I am not ready for it.
Lagos closes the door and leans against it. A steadfast guard. “I have food for you, little flower. You need to eat.”
“Okay.”
He studies me. “Your rib?”
I sigh at the small talk. “It’s fine. Can we stay another day?” The vulnerability in my voice scares me, but I don’t have time to hide my emotions. It’s now or never. Time moves even when we wish to stand still.
Oh, how I wish to pause it.
“ Yes ,” he says.
I hold Lagos in my sights, unable to tear my gaze away from what appears to be affection and softness blazing so outwardly in his gaze.
“The Shadow baby is lucky to have you,” he rumbles.
“Spero,” I correct, though I know he doesn’t really think Spero is beneath him. On the contrary, it’s self-loathing that haunts his tongue, that expels punishing words. “If you keep calling him a Shadow baby, I’m going to start calling you a Shadow daddy.”
“Okay.”
My breath catches from the seriousness in his deep timbre, and I smile, gaining reluctant courage.
“Do you think that…” I swallow, nerves fluttering in my neck. “If things were different… That we could live in a place like this?”
He watches me. “Yes.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
I exhale hard, retreating my gaze to Spero, flooded with emotions too sad and sweet to bear. It’s too much. We are doomed, but I wish to drown tonight. It’s wonderful—and painful. It has to end, but we have now. Tears fire behind my eyes, glossing them over.
Wild fantasies are not virtues.
“Can we pretend that we are from the old-world?” I gaze up at Lagos the Rogue, huge and formidable, a guard dog at the door, and he stares back at me, naked and breastfeeding. “And I am yours, and you are mine. Can we pretend that this is our home and that Spero is our baby?”
“Yes, little flower. You can pretend.”
“Lie with me?” I hold my hand out for him. “ Please . Lagos.”
He stares at my small hand, his throat bobbing, before he walks over to me. I was once afraid of the way he moves, stealthy but lording, too graceful for a man his size.
He takes my hand in his, his warm, coarse fingers wrapping around me. He follows me down as I lie on my side with Spero at my chest. My nipple is between his lips, but slumber makes his eager sucking slow and intermittent.
Lagos settles down opposite me, facing me, and we just… look at each other. His eyes map my face, and mine study his. He has small scars on his cheeks, tiny clear white lines.
I lift my hand and brush a dark-blonde strand behind his ear, my fingertip skimming the metal plate.
“We could make a real cot for Spero.” I almost choke, not sure why I am torturing myself with this. “I saw wood in the barn.”
Watching intently, his attention is searing. His big hand lifts so his index finger can draw a line down my nose as if he wants to remember the slope, the bump, the feel. “I could.”
We map each other.
I run my finger across his forehead, scooping dark-blonde strands to the side as I go. “And we could fix the wiring.”
His brows weave. “I could.”
I smooth the pinched crease between his eyes. “We could be happy here.”
“I would.”
A few tears squeeze free. “You wouldn’t be bored, brute?”
Lagos uses his thumb to brush the little drops away. “Not with you, little flower.”
The heavy weight of this fantasy swirls around us, changing something on a deep level. I gaze at him, disappearing into steel-grey eyes so bright against the dim of the bedroom that we’ve made our own.
I show him my body, share it, but now he sees my heart that pours through my gaze. “I like the farmhouse, Lagos.” I smile, remembering. “Tide told me that we are little bits of every place we have been and every person we have met. I would be content with just this bit.”
Lost in his gaze, I have to forcefully tear my eyes away, blinking through the shadows to where Spero sleeps at my chest. I tuck the infant under my arm and steadily climb to my feet. As I walk to Spero’s tiny nest in the corner, a cavity made with blankets and pillows, I feel Lagos’ watchful attention.
Returning to my place opposite him on the river of blankets, I whisper, “Show me how to do it. Show me how to touch myself. The way you touch me. I can dream of this place, your fingers, and your strength, and touch myself."
“Lay on your back for me,” he says, and I watch his mouth move around the dominant words, memorising.
As I do as I’m told, he lifts to his knees beside me, over me, looking down on my face and torso like a puppet master.
So close, I can feel the heat from his thighs. His balls hang and his dick fists up from them, throbbing.
My breath skitters out.
Intimidated by this monster of a man, but also… breathless with arousal, gasping for his warm touch.
As if he understands, he smooths my hair down my head, calmingly, at the same time reaching for my hand. “Use both hands, little flower. I would have my hands everywhere. Not an inch left untended.”
He guides my hand to my breast. “Like this.” He flicks my nipple with his thumb, warm milk sliding from the moist tip, dripping down my side.
“Fuck. So vulnerable for me.”
Leaving my hair, his other hand takes my free one and glides it down my trembling stomach, excruciatingly slow.
My chest pumps hard, though my breaths still seem shallow.
While cupping my breast, I let him dip my other hand between my thighs.
“Here,” he purrs, using his fingers to lead. I’m warm and wet, and the skin just inside responds to our touch, rippling and flushing. The world spins, stars suddenly skipping through the air.
“So warm, so wet.” He is a predator hovering over me, seconds away from sinking his teeth in. “Appreciate this pretty flesh, little flower. You’re sweet. Nervous. It’s so fucking beautiful.”
He called me beautiful…
I shudder as our fingers work together, rubbing between my tight folds. Messy. Abandoned. Safe. He helps me explore my hot centre.
“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 that full feeling.
“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.”
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.”