Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 112

Lyra

Oh my God.

Oh my fucking God.

Because he bent my knees up behind me—like a frog, like a whore—and sat on the back of my thighs, holding me completely pinned under his weight with my ass in the air, my face smashed to the floor, and my pussy exposed and open beneath him like it was made to be destroyed.

I let out a scream.

Not even a cute moan.

A real scream.

Because my ass was up, my back was arched in the filthiest fucking position, and his cock was already pushing back into me—from above again, but this time with gravity and pressure and his entire goddamn bodyweight holding me down like a helpless little fucktoy.

"Damon," I gasped, voice muffled by the floor, "Daddy—please—what—what are you doing—oh my God—I can’t—I can’t move—I can’t even—"

"You don’t need to move," he growled behind me, voice so deep and nasty it made my whole body convulse. "You just need to take it."

And I did.

I took it.

I took everything.

Because the second he started thrusting into me in that position—knees pinned under his weight, ass up, chest down, pussy leaking all over the marble—I lost every single thought I’d ever had. He was grinding so deep into me, hitting spots I didn’t even know existed, pulling back just enough to make me ache before slamming in with this sick, brutal rhythm that made my jaw drop and my eyes roll back.

I was stuck.

Fully restrained under his hips. Legs bent and shaking. Arms stretched above my head. Face pressed to the floor like a dumb little ragdoll while he ruined me from behind like it was his fucking job.

And my moans?

They were constant.

"Oh my God—oh my God—fuck, daddy—please—please don’t stop—please don’t stop—oh my fucking God—I can feel you in my throat—this position—what the fuck—why does it feel so good—why does it feel this fucking good—"

I was crying now.

Actually crying.

Tears dripping down my cheeks and onto the marble from how hard he was fucking me. My cunt was so wet the sound of it echoed in the room—every slap of skin on skin.

"You wanted this?" he growled, slapping my ass so hard it echoed. Then take it, Lyra. Take every fucking inch like the cum-dumb slut you are."

And I did.

I fucking took it.

I screamed his name.

I begged like I’d never begged in my life.

I came so hard my body convulsed beneath him, my pussy squeezing around him like it never wanted to let go, and still—he didn’t stop.

Because Damon Thornvale wasn’t here to make love.

He was here to break me.

I didn’t know how long I laid there.

My body was still twitching.

My legs were numb. My throat was sore. My cunt felt like it had been torn apart and kissed back together all in the same hour. The marble was cold beneath me, but Damon’s skin was hot, stretched behind me, warm and solid as his chest pressed to my back and his hand slid slowly down the curve of my thigh.

For a second, we didn’t say anything.

There was just breathing. Heavy. Uneven. Mine fast and shaky, his slow and controlled like he hadn’t just fucked me into the fucking stone.

Then I felt his lips graze my shoulder.

Lazy.

Possessive.

Warm.

"So," he said, voice low, still soaked in that post-orgasm growl that made my insides clench all over again, "what’ve you and Tasha been up to since I left?"

I blinked slowly, my breath catching a little as my brain tried to focus on anything besides the cum still dripping down my thighs.

"Nothing much, really," I said, voice hoarse, light, a little too casual for someone who just got wrecked face-down on the floor. "She’s been annoying. You know, typical Tasha shit."

I reached for the silk shirt he’d thrown on the chair earlier and tugged it over my head, dragging myself up to sit on shaky legs. He stayed on the floor behind me, lounging like he was watching art, eyes still burning into the back of my neck.

I was about to say something else—some joke, something dumb and flirty—but then my eyes caught on something by the window.

A photo.

Folded down. Tucked halfway under a stack of unopened mail.

I tilted my head.

"What’s that?"

I reached over, curiosity getting the better of me, fingers brushing the edge of the glossy frame as I pulled it closer.

It was a picture.

Old. A little dusty.

Elegant.

A woman with high cheekbones, dark hair swept up in a way that screamed class and power, standing beside Damon in what looked like a black-and-white wedding photo.

My breath hitched slightly.

She was beautiful. Not soft. Not innocent. But elegant in a way that made my chest tighten.

I turned to him slowly, holding up the frame as my voice went quiet.

"Oh wow," I said, blinking, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge. "Is this your wife?"

I licked my lips. My voice dropped lower.

"So tell me something, Damon."

My fingers tapped the photo once.

Then again.

Then I looked him straight in the eyes and whispered:

"Am I just her replacement?"