Alpha's Dark Desires-Chapter 217: Fantasies Fantasies

Elena POV:

My fingers were slick the second they touched my folds. Soaked. I wasn’t just aroused—I was dripping, soaked with the kind of need that no amount of cold water could drown.

I let my mind go. Slid back into the dream.

Damon’s breath in my ear.

His cock pressing against me.

The sharp sting of his palm on my ass.

The sound of his voice—rough, low, possessive.

"Tell me to enter you."

"Feel what you do to me."

"If you keep making those noises, I’ll assume you’re dreaming of me."

I was. I fucking was.

I circled my clit with practiced pressure, moaning under my breath. My hips started moving in slow, desperate little circles. Every flick of my finger sent sparks through my thighs. My nipples tightened under the spray, the cool water doing nothing to offset the heat coiling tighter and tighter in my belly.

I imagined his hands. Rough. Strong. Pinning me down.

I imagined his cock again, thick and hot, rubbing between my folds.

I slipped one finger inside myself and gasped — not enough, not close, but it gave me the illusion. I added another. Pumped them slow, curling, imagining him — fucking me from behind, whispering filth into my ear, his voice full of dark promises.

His mouth on the back of my neck.

His teeth scraping over my shoulder.

That raw, fucking primal energy that only he had, like he was made to ruin me and knew it.

"Fuck... Damon," I gasped, picking up speed, grinding against my own hand like I was chasing the edge of something too good to survive.

I was close. So close. Everything was on fire — my skin, my clit, my thighs, my fucking soul. I moaned again, louder this time, not caring who heard.

Then in my mind — his voice again.

"Brace yourself, little mate."

I snapped.

The orgasm tore through me like a tidal wave. My knees buckled — I slapped a hand against the tile to hold myself up as I came hard, gasping his name, shaking under the spray. The release crashed over me in pulses, every muscle clenching tight, my breath caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The aftershocks rippled through me, twitching my thighs, my fingers still inside me, my core throbbing with sweet, devastating relief.

Holy. Shit.

That was—

I don’t even know what that was.

Insane.

Obscene.

Possibly illegal in some states.

I finally slid my fingers free and braced both hands on the wall, panting under the water, slowly coming down from the high.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

But fuck, if it didn’t feel like my body knew better.

I shut the water off, still trembling, still sensitive all over, and stepped out of the shower. Steam clung to every surface like it had been a sauna in there — like the air itself had gotten off with me.

I dried off slowly, still a little dazed, legs wobbly and weak.

When I opened the bathroom door, Damon was in the hallway.

Leaning against the opposite wall.

Arms crossed.

Waiting.

I froze.

His eyes raked over me, lingering on the towel barely clinging to my damp skin. His nostrils flared like he could smell what I’d done in there.

Fuck.

"You know," he said, voice low and amused, "for someone who wanted me gone, you sure made some very interesting sounds in there."

I wanted to die.

Spontaneously combust.

Vanish into the towel forever.

Instead, I narrowed my eyes. "You were eavesdropping?"

He smirked. "It’s not eavesdropping when you moan my name loud enough to wake the dead."

I pushed past him, muttering a whole string of curses under my breath as I stormed back into my room.

But my body?

Still humming.

Still aching in all the right — and wrong — places.

And Damon?

Still watching.

Still smirking.

I didn’t make it two steps into the room before Damon’s voice slid across the back of my neck like a silk-tipped whip.

"Dream of me often, do you?"

I froze mid-stride.

The nerve. The audacity. He was still standing in the hallway like some smug sex god with a license to torment, arms folded, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and that loose tie dangling like he just strolled off the cover of Sinful Bastards Monthly.

I turned slowly, gripping the towel tighter around my chest.

"Do you ever shut up?"

He tilted his head. "Not when my name gets moaned with that much enthusiasm."

Heat surged up my neck like fire licking my skin. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep the image from earlier from flickering in my brain again — me, panting in the shower, fingers deep inside, whimpering his name like it was the only word I’d ever known.

I failed.

Miserably.

He stepped closer.

I stepped back.

He followed, slow and casual like a predator who already knew he’d won.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I had a very vivid dream last night too."

I glared. "Was it about your own reflection again?"

He chuckled darkly, stopping just in front of me. "Nope. It involved you. Moaning. Begging. Writhing. On your knees."

My breath hitched. "You’re disgusting."

His grin widened. "You’re wet."

I choked. "Excuse me?!"

He leaned in, mouth dangerously close to my ear. "Still. Even after your little shower... I can smell it."

A low, involuntary noise clawed out of my throat. My knees turned to pudding. I hated him. I hated him.

I wanted to climb him like a damn tree.

"Fuck you," I breathed, shaking, skin on fire.

He exhaled slowly near my neck. "Say the word."

I snapped.

Maybe it was the way he was looking at me — like he could see straight through the towel, into the mess of thoughts and desires barely contained beneath my skin.

Maybe it was the scent of him, sharp and dark and maddening, invading every breath I took like a drug I hadn’t realized I was already addicted to.

Maybe it was the fact that I was still wet, not from the shower anymore, but from him — from the damn dream, from his voice, from his words that wrapped around my throat like velvet chains.

But whatever it was, I snapped.

I grabbed him by that loose, infuriating tie and yanked him into the room.

He stumbled forward with a low, surprised laugh that turned into a groan as I shoved him up against the wall. His hands came up, but I slapped them down, pinning them at his sides.

His grin turned feral.

"You’re finally catching on," he breathed, eyes glittering like liquid sin.

"I said fuck you," I hissed.

"And I said say the word," he murmured back, voice a slow-burning flame. "But this is good, too."

He moved—just a tilt of his hips—but it was enough. I felt him, hard and ready against my thigh, and my breath hitched like a faulty engine. My knees damn near buckled again. It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t feel this good just standing there.

"God, I hate you," I muttered, but my fingers were already curling into his shirt, dragging it open, buttons popping.

"Not what your body’s saying," he murmured. "You’re trembling for me."

"I’m cold."

"You’re flushed."

"I—shut up, Damon."

"Make me."

Challenge accepted.

I crushed my mouth against his before I could think better of it.

He met me halfway, like he’d been waiting for this since the second I opened that bathroom door. His hands didn’t stay at his sides for long—he grabbed my hips and hauled me up, and I wrapped my legs around him on instinct, towel be damned.

We hit the wall again, this time harder, teeth clashing, breath mixing, lips bruising from the force of it. He kissed like he fought — greedy, relentless, like it was his birthright to devour.

And I kissed him back like he was a sin I was done resisting.

His mouth tore from mine only to trail down my jaw, my neck, biting and sucking and marking like a man claiming territory.

"Say it," he growled against my throat.

"Say what?" I gasped, fingernails digging into his shoulders as his teeth grazed my pulse.

"Say you want me."

"I want—" The words caught, melted, reformed as a moan. "God, Damon..."

"Close enough."

He gripped the towel and yanked — it slipped, fell, forgotten, pooling at our feet.

I should’ve been embarrassed. I should’ve shoved him off and thrown him out.

But I was too far gone. Too high on him, on this, on the weeks of tension finally snapping like a stretched wire. freeωebnovēl.c૦m

He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled — and that was somehow worse. Better. My body arched into him, aching, hungry, trying to get closer even though we were already skin to skin.

"I’ve thought about this," he whispered against my lips. "Every night. Every fucking time you looked at me with those eyes like you wanted to kill me. I knew underneath it, you felt this."

I didn’t deny it.

I couldn’t.

His hands explored like he was memorizing every curve, every reaction. When he brushed his knuckles down the dip of my spine, I shuddered. When he kissed the place just beneath my collarbone, I whimpered.

And then—

He pulled back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to leave me breathless and blinking.

"I could take you right now," he said softly, eyes locked on mine. "I could make you come so hard you forget your own name. You know it. I know it."

"Then why aren’t you?" I asked, voice hoarse.

"Because when I finally fuck you," he said, voice dropping like thunder, "I want you begging. I want you desperate. I want every part of you screaming my name, not just your body."

My stomach dropped. My thighs clenched. My heart all but exploded in my chest.

"You already had me moaning your name in the shower," I said shakily. "Isn’t that enough?"

He grinned like the devil himself. "Not even close, little mate."

He stepped back, letting my legs slide down until I was standing again, trembling and completely naked in front of him.

Then he had the audacity to smirk, adjust the very tie I’d just used to drag him in here, and turn to leave.

"I’ll see you at breakfast," he said casually, like we hadn’t just combusted against the wall.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

Gone, while I stood there naked, wrecked, wanting.

My knees gave out and I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, heart racing, body still buzzing with the ghost of his hands, his mouth, his everything.

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