Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 117

Damon

Fuck.

Fuck.

What the hell have I done?

Why did I lie to her?

I kept pacing the bathroom like a fucking maniac, trying to get my breath back, trying to ground myself in something that wasn’t the memory of her cunt squeezing me like it was sculpted to break men apart.

The air in the room was thick with steam and the smell of sweat and sex. My skin was still burning from the way her nails raked down my chest, from the way her mouth trembled when she asked me the question I never wanted to hear—why did you keep her photo?

And I lied.

Not because I’m a coward. Not because I’m cold.

But because I didn’t want what we have to end.

That was the fucking truth.

That’s the part I didn’t say.

I didn’t tell her my wife was still alive that Camilla lost her mind because of her drinking and drug habit.

I didn’t tell Lyra that I sent Camilla to rehab not because I loved her, but because she was a menace and nearly killed our daughter because of her addiction.

But more than anything—I didn’t tell her because Lyra is young. Too young. Just eighteen. Too fucking dangerous.

She feels everything with her whole body, her whole mouth, her whole soul.

And she could make one stupid decision in a moment of panic that would tear this whole fucked-up thing apart. Walk away. Shut down. Decide she’s better off. Decide I’m just like every other goddamn man that’s ever taken too much from her.

I couldn’t risk that. I can’t risk that.

Because I need her.

God help me, I need her.

Not just her lips. Not just her body. Not just the way she arches her back when I grip her throat and slam inside her like I’m trying to erase her past.

I need the way she cries when she comes. The way she pants and claws and begs like she was born to be on my cock. I need the sound of her voice—filthy, cracked, unraveling—as she whispers "Daddy" like it’s not just a kink but a fucking claim.

I can still feel her.

My cock is still hard. Still throbbing. Still twitching from the way she milked me dry.

Her pussy is the tightest fucking thing I’ve ever felt. Not just tight—it’s alive. It’s fucking aware. It clenches when I curse.

Pulses when I growl. Squeezes when I slap her ass and spit in her mouth and tell her she was made to be ruined by me. She responds to me like her body knows me. Like it’s not just sex—it’s submission. Worship. Madness.

I can still feel her cunt swallowing me, still dripping down my balls, still warm and slick from the way she came three times in one goddamn session.

I still see her face—mouth open, eyes rolled back, drool on her chin from how hard she moaned when I told her she wasn’t a replacement, but something worse. Something more. Louder. Filthier. Mine.

The silk shirt she was wearing is still in the corner. Soaked. See-through. Her nipples were so hard when I touched her, they could’ve cut glass. Her thighs shook.

Her stomach quivered. Her legs opened for me like they belonged that way. And when I slammed into her from behind, bent her over the chair like she was a fucking ragdoll, she screamed like I’d just saved her from drowning.

She calls me Daddy like she knows it makes me weak.

She smiles while I fuck her like I’m going to hell and she’s riding me there.

God, I love her mouth. Her mouth that never shuts up, that talks while she rides me, that keeps talking even when she’s crying from overstimulation and saying she’s going to die on my cock. I love the way she whispers "I’m yours" when I knot her down, when I grip her by the waist and slam her so deep her voice breaks.

I love everything about her.

And I hate it.

Because it means I’m falling for her.

Not just her body.

Her.

Her chaos. Her wildness. The way she doesn’t apologize for anything she feels. The way she cries and laughs and begs and curses all in the same breath. The way she looks at me like I’m the first man who’s ever seen her.

And I don’t want it to stop.

I don’t want her to wake up one day and decide she regrets me. I don’t want her to take back the way she moaned "Fuck, Daddy, it’s too big, it’s too much, I’m gonna break" while I told her to shut up and take every inch. I don’t want her to stop throwing that filthy little smirk at me when she’s still leaking down her thighs and asking if I’m going to fill her again.

So I lied.

I fucking lied.

I told her Camilla was dead.

And now I can’t breathe.

My lungs feel like they’re made of glass, every inhale dragging across the inside of my ribs like broken shards. My grip on the sink tightens until it creaks beneath my palm.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I am standing here, in this bathroom, trying to pretend I’m still the kind of man who knows how to handle the consequences of his own decisions. But the truth is—I don’t. Not anymore. Not when it comes to her.

Not when it comes to Lyra

But honestly I told myself I was just using her. That this was temporary. That it was physical. Nothing more.

But that’s a lie too.