Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 116

Lyra

His hand slammed across my ass so hard the crack echoed like a gunshot.

"She doesn’t matter more than you," he snapped. "But she’s the reason I didn’t touch anyone for a decade. Until you. You—eighteen, mouthy, filthy little you—you ruined every promise I made to myself."

"Then break them," I sobbed. "Break them all for me. Ruin yourself. Touch me again. Use me. Make me forget who she is. Make me forget who I am."

"You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying."

"I do. I know I’m shaking. I know I’m dripping. I know I’m your little fucktoy and I don’t give a shit if I’m twisted and insane and wrong for liking this—just keep going—don’t stop—please don’t stop—"

"You think I don’t know what I’m saying just because I’m eighteen?" I hissed. "You think I don’t understand what this is? I do. I understand it too well. I feel it. Every time you touch me. Every time you growl in my ear like I’m something you’re trying to resist but can’t.

"Every time your cock throbs inside me like it wants to claim me forever.

"I know what I’m saying. I know what I’m doing. I’m begging you to destroy me, and I’ll beg again I want every piece of you inside me until I can’t breathe without tasting your fucking name."

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

He was just standing behind me, breathing hard, cock still twitching like it hadn’t finished making a mess of me.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was so low, so tight, so chained, I could hear the restraint bleeding through every word.

"You want all of it?" he growled. "You want the filth and the truth and the blood and the ghosts?"

"Yes," I gasped, panting against the leather as I turned my head, licking my lips, eyes half-lidded and fucked out but still burning for him.

"I want the parts of you that you haven’t even looked at since she died. I want the parts that still remember how she smelled and the parts that pretend they don’t. I want the guilt. The shame. The dirt. The lust. I want to sink my nails into the part of you that belongs to her and fucking steal it."

He thrust again.

So deep I screamed. Fuck.

My orgasm exploded without warning, sharp and violent, ripping out of me like fire, and I couldn’t stop shaking.

He groaned behind me, low and feral, and finally pulled out.

My body dropped forward. I couldn’t hold myself up. I collapsed over the arm of the chair, breathing in hard, gasping like I’d just drowned and come back to life in the same minute.

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

Everything hurt.

Everything throbbed.

My pussy was so swollen and tender it felt like it had been claimed by war and crowned with pleasure all in one brutal act.

He stood up behind me, adjusting his pants, not even wiping off the mess he left behind. I turned my head just enough to see him walking away.

"Where—where are you going?" I asked, voice wrecked, breathless, cracked beyond repair.

He didn’t answer.

Just muttered, "I’ll be right back."

Then walked into the bathroom.

And I just laid there.

Still folded over the arm of the chair, my thighs twitching, my chest with sweat, my cunt wrecked and leaking and still aching from how deep he’d been inside me.

But I couldn’t help it.

I smiled.

I actually fucking smiled.

Not a sweet smile.

Not a relieved smile.

A dirty, wicked, fucked-up little grin that curled across my face like a secret.

Because thank God she was dead.

Camilla.

Gone.

Buried. Burned. Whatever.

I didn’t care how it happened. I didn’t need the obituary. I didn’t need the backstory. I didn’t need a timeline or closure or any of that dramatic adult grief bullshit.

She was gone.

Which meant Damon was mine.

All mine.

No ring on his finger.

No quiet, elegant woman sipping tea in his bed.

No one to call him husband except me when I screamed it during sex just to hear him growl.

I arched my back a little, winced at the soreness, and bit my lip because I liked the sting. It reminded me that I’d earned this. That I’d taken him. That I’d fucked him so hard the ghost of his dead wife probably felt it wherever she was.

Yay me.

Don’t judge me, folks.

Seriously.

Don’t.

If you were in my shoes—if you were eighteen and dripping and throbbing and freshly fucked by a man who made your bones vibrate—wouldn’t you be happy too?

Wouldn’t you laugh a little knowing the woman who came before you was out of the picture forever?

I wasn’t a saint.

I wasn’t the good girl in anyone’s story.

But I was the one in his bed now.

I was the one he just shoved against a chair and filled so deep I still couldn’t close my legs.

I was the one he wanted so badly he forgot how to breathe.

So yeah.

Camilla was gone.

And I was fucking glad.

Because if she were still here, I’d probably have to kill her.

And something told me Damon would still fuck me after.