Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 125

Lyra

I lay there on the bed, half-draped like a girl who had just been struck by a category five orgasmic hurricane, my legs still twitching every single time I tried to take a deep breath, and he just stood there watching me.

Not helping.

Not speaking.

Just watching me like I was the greatest thing he’d ever destroyed.

Like he was proud of the mess he made.

Like he hadn’t just made me forget my own birthday, my own address, and maybe even my own fucking name.

His mouth was still glistening with me, his lips shiny and swollen from all the sucking and licking and sin he’d just committed between my legs, and his eyes? Oh my God, his eyes sparkled like he knew exactly how owned I was. Like he didn’t need to say a word because I already belonged to him and we both knew it.

And what made it worse—what made me want to slap him and ride him at the same time—was the fact that I loved it.

I hated that I loved it, but I did.

"Better?" he finally asked, his voice gravel-thick and soaked in sin, the kind that made my already sore pussy clench again even though I had absolutely nothing left to give. Not energy. Not sanity. Not a single rational thought.

I sucked in a breath, pouted like the dramatic little demon I was, and said, "No. Still mad."

And yes, I was lying. Yes, I was panting like someone who’d just sprinted through hell barefoot. Yes, my thighs were still soaked with his mouth, his voice, his everything. But I wasn’t about to let him win just because he could eat pussy like it was his profession.

He raised one eyebrow at me.

Just one.

And then, like the arrogant bastard he was, he stood up slowly.

Still completely naked.

Still completely hard.

Still every shade of dangerous that made my insides twist with need all over again.

He didn’t say anything else at first. He just reached down and wrapped one hand around his cock—casual as fuck—like it was nothing, like he didn’t just spend ten minutes making me scream loud enough to raise the dead. And then he stroked it. Once. Twice. Slow. Like he knew I was watching. Like he wanted to see my eyes go wide and my mouth drop open and my thighs squeeze together all over again.

And of course, I did.

Because a bead of precum had just glistened right at the tip of that goddamn weapon between his legs, and I swear my mouth actually watered. Like I was hungry. Like my pussy was hungry. Like all of me was just... starving for him, even after everything.

Even though I was still mad.

Even though I still had questions.

Even though some woman just threatened to turn me into Swiss cheese with a pipe.

He leaned closer, his voice suddenly dropping an octave lower than hell itself, and said, "Then come here."

I blinked. "Huh?"

He stroked himself again. Slower this time. More commanding.

"Be mad on my cock."

And I swear to fucking God, my soul left my body. Again.

Because who says that?

Who the fuck says that and makes it sound like a damn invitation to heaven and hell at the same time?

I stared at him, mouth parted, thighs already betraying me, and all I could think was—damn it, I was supposed to stay mad. I was supposed to make him suffer a little. I was supposed to be a strong, empowered, rage-filled young woman with standards and boundaries and—

But no.

Because if being mad on his cock was an option?

Then baby, I was already on my way.

It had been a week.

Like a full-ass, seven-day, one-hundred-and-sixty-eight-hour week since that night I nearly drowned him with my pussy and moaned his name so many times I swear it echoed in the walls. And somehow, despite the sex, despite the everything, despite the way he ruined my body and made me come like I was possessed—I was still mad.

Not at him, though. Weirdly.

But at her.

Tasha.

Because even though we were under the same roof and technically still best friends and technically still breathing the same air, we hadn’t really talked. Like at all. Not one real conversation. Just a few awkward good mornings and a couple of fake laughs when we passed each other in the hallway like ghosts who used to be real.

And yeah, Marcus was gone. Disappeared.

But honestly?

That was their business. Not mine.

I was busy.

Busy letting Damon fuck the heartbreak out of me, busy pretending I didn’t care, busy licking my wounds in private while pretending I was over it. I wasn’t. Not fully. But I could fake it better than anyone. And besides, school was starting tomorrow.

Yup.

Summer was officially over. The sun had packed its bags, the pool was closed, the vibes were gone, and real life was about to slap me straight across the face with early alarms, long lectures, and exams that made me want to scream into a void.

Was I tired of school? Absolutely yes. Like, burn-the-books-and-cry-into-my-bed tired.

But it was my final year.

So yeah. Let’s just fuck with it.

Anyway, we were in the kitchen.

Me and Damon

And it was one of those weirdly soft evenings where everything was calm—too calm, like the universe was taking a breath before the next disaster.

I was standing by the counter in one of his oversized black shirts and nothing else, because duh, comfort was key and I liked feeling his clothes against my thighs.