Breed Me. Daddy Alpha novel Chapter 63

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< His To Keep

His To Keep

~Lyra~

I didn’t even get the chance to breathe.

Because the second those words left his mouth, he grabbed me.

His hands slammed down on my hips like he was done pretending, done letting me run wild, done letting me act like I had any control over this. And then he dragged me forward, yanked my soaked little cunt right over his c**k, and slammed me down so f*****g deep I swear I blacked out for a second.

My whole body convulsed.

My mouth opened.

And the sound that came out of me didn’t even sound human.

“Oh my f*****g God–Damon..fuck..Daddy..shit..I wasn’t ready..why the f**k does it feel even bigger now..I swear to God I can feel you in my ribs..”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t give me a second to process.

He just thrust up again, brutal and slow, grinding deep into my core like he was trying to carve out every thought I’d ever had. And I couldn’t stop the words pouring out of my mouth because I was overstimulated and ruined and shaking all over again.

“You can’t just say that..you can’t just say you’re gonna f**k me while talking about your wife–do you know how insane that is–I’m literally leaking all over you and you’re about to give me trauma and orgasms at the same time–I don’t even know if I should cry or moan or scream–oh my God–I think I’m doing all three-”

He slammed up into me again.

I screamed.

My legs started shaking instantly. My clit throbbed. My n*****s were already tight, brushing against the silk shirt that was still clinging to my body like it had given up trying to hide anything.

“She was my wife,” he growled, voice low, dangerous, vibrating straight through my spine as he thrust up again. “Her name was Camilla. She died ten f*****g years ago. You think I would keep her around? Keep her in this house? You think I’d touch you if I was still touching her?”

I tried to answer.

But I couldn’t.

Because his c**k was already hitting too deep again. Too hard. Too f*****g good. My body was clenching around him like it wanted to eat him, like it needed him to stay there forever.

“You’re not a replacement, Lyra,” he snarled, grabbing my hips tighter, slamming me down over and over until my moans turned into sobs. “You’re not second best. You’re worse. You’re filthier. Louder. Needier. You don’t shut up. You don’t listen. And you make me so f*****g hard I forget I ever had a past.”

“Oh my God–f**k–f**k, Damon–Daddy, I swear I’m gonna die like this–your c**k’s in too deep-I can’t even

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sit still—it keeps hitting this spot like you’re trying to pull the orgasm straight out of my f*****g soul–I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore–I think I forgot my own name–just keep going–please keep going–f**k

I was riding him like my life depended on it.

Except I wasn’t even doing it. He was making me. He was forcing me to bounce. His hands were locked around my waist and he was just using me, dragging my soaked p***y up and down his c**k like I was a toy built just to take it. And I was. I felt like it.

Like I didn’t exist for anything else but this.

“But you want to know about her?” he grunted. “You want to hear about the wife while I f**k you stupid?”

I nodded–too hard, too fast.

“Yes–yes–I want to know–I need to know–I can take it, I swear–I’m already a mess, just give me the truth- I’ll take it with c**k–I’ll take it with everything–f**k–Damon-”

“She was a good girl,” he growled, dragging me down hard. “Too good. Too soft. She didn’t fight me. Didn’t scream at me. Didn’t talk back like you do.”

I clenched.

So f*****g hard around him I almost screamed again.

“She died in a car accident,” he went on. “Ten years ago. Drunk driver. Hit her head–on. I held her while she bled out in my arms.”

My body stilled.

Just for a second.

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t let me pause.

He just slammed back up into me and forced the orgasm out of my silence.

“She bled all over me. And I haven’t touched anyone since. Not until you.”

My mouth dropped open.

I moaned.

Loud.

So loud I almost scared myself.

“Oh my God–f**k–f**k–Damon–I’m gonna come–don’t stop–please don’t stop–keep going–keep going- tell me more—I want to know–I need to know–I want to feel everything–I want to feel your wife’s ghost and your rage and your f*****g guilt all inside me while you break me open-”

“You’re sick,” he growled, slamming me down again.

“I know,” I sobbed, nails clawing at his shoulders as I rode the edge. “I know–I’m sick–I’m so sick and needy and wrong–but I’m yours–I’m your mess–your little fucktoy–your cumdump–I don’t care if I’m second–l don’t care if I’m nothing–just don’t f*****g stop-”

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“You’re not nothing,” he hissed. “You’re everything I shouldn’t want. Everything I swore I’d never touch again.”

And then he flipped me again.

Fast.

Brutal.

He yanked me off his lap, bent me over the armrest of the chair, and slammed into me from behind so hard my scream hit the windows.

“You’re everything!“he growled.

“Then why did you keep her photo?” I moaned out. “Why was it there–right there–next to your goddamn mail

like she’s still here–like she still matters more than me-”

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 f**k 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 s**t 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 c**k 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 f*****g name.”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

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

1. 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 f****d 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 f*****g steal it.”

He thrust again.

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So deep I screamed. f**k.

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 p***y 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 f*****g smiled.

Not a sweet smile.

Not a relieved smile.

A dirty, wicked, f****d–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.