Breed Me, Daddy Alph Chapter 114

Chapter 114: Chapter 114

Lyra

"Look at you," he growled, voice like thunder, voice like sex, voice like punishnt wrapped in silk and sin. "Running your mouth like a fucking tap."

I tried to breathe.

I couldn’t.

Not with him that close.

Not with his hand still gripping my throat like it belonged there.

"You want to know the truth?" he hissed, lips brushing my ear, cock hard again against my thigh like my little tantrum had turned him on. "You want to throw accusations like you know a single fucking thing about , about my past, about her?"

I opened my mouth.

He shoved two fingers in before I could speak.

Just like that.

Right between my lips, deep to the knuckle, stretching my mouth wide around his thick fingers as he growled low in my ear, "Do you want

to fuck this mouth again, little girl?"

My legs almost buckled.

I was shaking all over.

He pressed harder. His fingers curled against my tongue, soaking them in spit, rubbing slow and deep like he owned the inside of my mouth. And I couldn’t do anything—couldn’t breathe, couldn’t argue, couldn’t even think—because holy fuck it felt too good and too wrong and too him.

"That’s what you want, right?" he snarled, pulling his fingers out slow, letting my spit trail from his hand to my lips like a string of fucking surrender. "You don’t want the truth. You want

to shut you up with cock and bruises until your only thoughts are yes, Daddy and fuck

harder."

I whimpered.

Actually fucking whimpered.

Like the needy, shaking, ruined ss that I was.

"You’re eighteen," he said darkly, his hand sliding down my throat, over the shirt that was still clinging to my sweat-slick skin, down to my bare thigh, "but you’ve got a mouth like a whore and a cunt that screams to be filled. You stand here demanding answers like you’re in charge, like you get a say, like this isn’t mine—" his hand slid between my thighs so fast I gasped, "—this soaked little pussy, this dripping ss you keep handing to

like it’s all you’ve got."

I moaned.

I didn’t an to.

But fuck, my body betrayed .

He shoved his thigh between mine and pressed up, grinding slow, making my clit scream through the thin fabric of his shirt as I bit my lip and whimpered into his chest.

"Talk all that shit, Lyra," he growled. "Go ahead. Ask

your little questions. Cry about the wife. Scream at the picture. But don’t fucking pretend you don’t know what you are."

I clawed at his arms.

He grabbed my face again.

"You’re mine," he snapped. "Not hers. Not anyone else’s. Mine. You know it. I know it. Your pussy knows it."

His hand slamd behind my thigh and yanked

up. I wrapped around him before I could stop myself, legs trembling around his waist as he carried

across the room again—this ti to the nearest chair. A black leather throne that looked like it was made for punishnt.

He dropped into it with

straddling him.

And he didn’t even hesitate.

He slapped my pussy through the shirt.

I scread.

He did it again.

"You want to know where my wife is?" he hissed, rubbing

through the soaked silk. "You want to play detective while your pussy begs to be fucked again?"

"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, I do, but—I can’t—I can’t think when you do that—"

"That’s the point, baby," he growled. "Thinking’s not what you’re for. This little mouth and this little cunt—that’s what you’re for."

His fingers pulled the shirt up. My thighs spread on instinct. My whole body arched like a drugged little slut begging to be used.

"Open your mouth again," he said, voice low, voice deadly.

I obeyed.

He shoved his fingers in again, deeper this ti, fucking them into my throat while his other hand slapped my pussy hard enough to make

cry.

And I did.

Tears sliding down my cheeks as I gagged on his fingers and rode his hand like I was losing my goddamn mind.

I couldn’t think.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t stop moaning.

And through it all, I just kept hearing his voice—low, cruel, dominant.

"She was never you," he snarled. "And you will never be her. You’re worse. Dirtier. Wilder. Filthier. And I fucking love it."

His hand grabbed my throat again as he slamd

on the leather chair. Fuck.

Not enough to choke.

Just enough to make my vision tilt, my brain fuzz, my breath stutter like it belonged to him.

He was under —hard, huge, dangerous—his leather chair creaking beneath us like it knew what was coming. And his voice—oh my fucking God—his voice was pure goddamn poison. Slow. Dark. So fucking calm it made my stomach flip.

"Why don’t I fuck you again," he said, voice low and venom-slick, "right here in this chair...and tell you who the fuck my wife is while I’m balls deep in this soaked little pussy you keep handing

like it’s a fucking gift?"

"Would you like that kitten"

I gasped.

Like loud. Fuck can he be more hotter!!!