Breed Me, Daddy Alph Chapter 91

Chapter 91: Chapter 91

Lyra

I didn’t even sit up.

Didn’t bother wiping the cum off my thighs or pulling the sheets over my wrecked, twitchy, utterly defiled body.

I just held the phone to my ear with one hand, stared at the ceiling like I was God’s favorite disappointnt, and let a smile slowly curl across my face.

"Oh my God," I whispered sweetly into the receiver. "Marcus. What a surprise. Did your dick finally get signal?"

He stuttered.

Actually stuttered.

Typical.

"I—uh—I just wanted to check on you. See how you were doing."

"How I’m doing?" I purred, voice sticky with fake innocence. "That’s so sweet of you. Really. Because the last ti we spoke, you called

useless. Rember that? Because I wouldn’t let you stick your pinkie-dick in

in the backseat of your mum’s Corolla after youth service?"

Silence.

Oh, I was just getting started.

"Well, guess what, baby," I cooed, flipping onto my back with a wince because my poor pussy was still screaming in multiple languages. "I’m doing fantastic. Never been better. Life is just... pounding

in all the right ways."

"Lyra..."

"I got fucked," I said plainly, staring at the ceiling like it owed

rent. "Properly. Completely. Fucking. Ruined. Like the Virgin Mary looked down and had to cover her eyes."

"You what?"

"Oh don’t act surprised," I laughed, breathless. "Isn’t that what you always wanted? Well, congratulations, asshole. I finally did it. Except it wasn’t with so acne-faced, testosterone-deficient high school reject who thinks fingering is just aggressively poking the clit like a doorbell."

He sputtered.

I went on.

"It was a man, Marcus. A real one. With hands the size of your self-esteem issues and a cock that touched my lungs. You hear ? Lungs. Not uterus. Not cervix. Lungs. I was gagging and moaning and fucking crying, and he still didn’t stop."

Silence again.

Dead silence.

I licked my lips and smirked like the devil’s favorite slut.

"Do you know what it’s like to be knotted, Marcus?"

"I—what the fuck are you talking about—"

"Oh, sweetie. You poor, clueless baby." I giggled, nasty. "It ans he stretched

so wide I could feel his cock lock inside . Like a seatbelt. Except the only accident was my dignity. I was clenching so hard my soul left my body."

"Lyra, who the fuck—"

I cut him off.

"Do you want to know what I scread when I ca?" I whispered.

"No."

"I scread Daddy."

He groaned like he’d been punched.

I smiled like I’d won the lottery and used the prize money to book a vacation to hell.

"Yeah," I said. "Daddy. Because the man who fucked

into next week? He’s not just hot. He’s not just rich. He’s not just older. He’s my best friend’s dad."

Silence.

I could practically hear his balls shriveling.

"You’re lying," Marcus muttered, voice brittle with denial. "You’re just saying this shit to piss

off."

"Oh Marcus," I whispered, "I’m not lying. I’m leaking."

And I was.

Still.

There was cum on my thighs. My sheets. Probably on the ceiling if I looked hard enough.

I rolled my eyes.

"I just thought you should know," I added airily. "Since you were so sure I’d never be good enough. Never sexy enough. Never worth fucking. Guess what? He’s fucked

four tis since sunrise and I still can’t close my legs. So maybe you were just too small to make

feel anything."

"You’re disgusting," he spat.

"And you’re pressed," I sang. "Enjoy your miserable little ego trip, Marcus. Maybe next ti you try to slut-sha soone, you won’t lose them to the first man with working stamina and a house bigger than your future."

"Fuck you," he snapped, voice cracking like his pride.

I laughed. Full, broken, feral.

"Baby, you couldn’t even if you tried" I hissed.

"Fucking bastard"

Click.

I ended the call.

And I swear to God, if my pussy had vocal cords, she would’ve applauded.

The kitchen was way too bright for soone who got absolutely wrecked less than twelve hours ago.

I sat at the island with my legs tightly crossed, hoodie pulled all the way down to my knees like it could cover the truth seeping out of my pores.

I had one hand wrapped around my glass of juice, the other half-heartedly holding a slice of bread I hadn’t bitten into yet because my throat still felt like I’d swallowed a ghost. A big one. With tattoos. And a goddamn six-pack.

Tasha was standing by the stove, flipping eggs like she didn’t know my body was currently recovering from a full-on, knot-wielding, cervix-rearranging, consciousness-snatching Dicking. That’s right. Capital D. Like his cock had its own birth certificate.

Then she turned around.

She turned around so slowly, so deliberately, that my entire soul paused in my chest. She had a plate in her hand. A perfectly made, innocent-looking plate of scrambled eggs and toast. But her face? Her face said murder. Her face said confession booth. Her face said bitch I’m about to wreck your spirit.