Breed me Raw, Alpha

Good Girls Don't Sit at the Table With Alpha Cum Drying on Their Thighs

I woke up aching, ruined, and alone.

Sunlight sliced through the guest room blinds and painted gold stripes across the sheets that still smelled like him. My thighs were sticky. My pussy felt swollen and used, fluttering around nothing every time I shifted. The bite on the back of my neck throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a brand hidden under my hair that screamed mine, mine, mine with every pulse.

He'd carried me here at four in the morning, silent as a shadow. I'd been half-conscious, limp in his arms, his knot finally deflated enough for him to pull out. He'd cleaned me with a warm cloth, slow, possessive strokes between my legs that made me whimper even while I drifted. Then he'd tucked me in, kissed the bite he left, and whispered against my skin, Sleep, little girl. Daddy's not done with you yet.

I wanted to die. I wanted to do it again immediately.

I rolled out of bed and nearly collapsed. My legs shook like I'd run a marathon. The mirror showed a stranger: lips swollen, throat dotted with bruises shaped like his mouth, eyes glassy and wild. Between my thighs, a slow trickle of him still leaked out, pearlescent and filthy. I smelled like sex and alpha and utter surrender.

I locked the bathroom door and turned the shower scalding. I had to get him off me. Out of me. I scrubbed until my skin turned pink, but every touch sparked memory. His hand fisting my hair. His teeth on my neck. The brutal stretch when he forced his knot inside and made me take every drop.

My fingers slipped between my legs to rinse him away and ended up stroking instead. I sank to my knees on the tile, water pounding my back, and fucked myself with two fingers while I remembered the way he growled mine against my ear. I came shamefully fast, biting my own arm to stay quiet, his name a broken prayer on my tongue.

I hated myself. I hated how much I didn't hate it.

Dressing was its own torture. The bite was too high to hide with a normal neckline. I pulled on a thin white high-neck tank and a loose cream cardigan even though it was already eighty-five degrees outside. Panties were out of the question; he'd ripped mine to shreds and pocketed the scraps with a smirk that promised he'd sniff them later. Just the thought made fresh slick coat my thighs.

I looked innocent. I felt like a walking crime scene.

Downstairs smelled like coffee and bacon and danger. Chloe was slumped at the breakfast island, sunglasses on, hair in a messy bun, nursing a hangover.

"Morning, babe," she croaked. "I swear those margaritas were ninety percent tequila."

I managed a weak laugh and slid onto the stool across from her, thighs pressed tight together so nothing dripped onto the leather seat.

Then he walked in.

Damian Voss in a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, top two buttons undone just enough to show the dark hair on his chest. Grey slacks hugged his thick thighs. He looked like he'd slept ten hours and ruined zero virgin omegas before breakfast.

He set a plate in front of me: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast cut into perfect triangles. His fingers brushed mine as he let go.

"Eat your breakfast, sweetheart," he said, voice warm and fatherly. "You need the protein after last night."

Chloe snorted. "Tell me about it. I'm never drinking again."

I nearly choked on air. Heat flooded my face. Under the table, his bare foot slid up my calf, slow and deliberate, forcing my knees apart. His eyes never left mine while he sipped his coffee, black and steaming.

I was going to combust.

Chloe kept talking about some pool party next weekend, oblivious. Damian's foot climbed higher, the arch pressing against my inner thigh, nudging until I had to spread wider or make a scene.

Cool air kissed my bare pussy. I gripped my fork so hard the metal bent.

He reached into his pocket.

A low buzz started inside me.

I jolted so hard my orange juice tipped, spilling across the marble.

"Shit, sorry..." I yelped, scrambling for napkins.

The vibration was steady, maddening, right against my clit. He'd slipped something inside me while I was half-conscious in the early hours. I remembered now: the cold press of silicone, his dark chuckle when I'd whimpered.

Chloe waved me off. "Relax, clumsy. Dad doesn't care."

Damian's lips curved. "Good girls clean up their messes, Selena."

He said it soft, conversational, but the words punched straight to my core. I mopped the juice with shaking hands while the toy pulsed inside me, slow and cruel.

Chloe's phone rang. She groaned and answered, sliding off the stool. "Hey, Aunt Liv... yeah, I'm alive, barely."

The second her footsteps faded toward the living room, Damian clicked the remote again.

The buzz went vicious.

He was on me before I could breathe, crowding me back against the fridge, one hand over my mouth, the other yanking my cardigan open. Buttons pinged across the tile.

"Come for me," he growled against my ear. "Right here with my daughter twenty feet away. Quiet like a good little slut."

I shattered instantly, knees buckling. He swallowed my scream with a filthy kiss, tongue fucking my mouth the way his cock had ruined my pussy hours ago. My nails clawed at his shoulders.

Slick gushed down my thighs.

He pulled back just enough to lick his lips, eyes black with victory.

Then he straightened my cardigan, smoothed my hair, and walked away like nothing happened.

Chloe came back thirty seconds later.

"Dude, you okay?" she asked, frowning. "You're flushed as hell and shaking."

I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

Damian answered for me, calm and smooth. "She's just not used to the summer heat yet."

He refilled my orange juice, fingers brushing mine again, and I felt the toy click off. Sweet relief and aching emptiness at the same time.

Chloe grabbed her beach bag. "Come on, pool time. You need to cool off."

I stood on wobbly legs. Damian caught my wrist at the patio door, thumb stroking the racing pulse there.

He slipped the small black remote into my cardigan pocket, closing my fingers around it.

"Two o'clock," he murmured, so low only I could hear. "My office. Wear the red bikini. Nothing else. If you're late, I'll bend you over my desk, spank you raw, and leave the window open so the groundskeepers can watch you cry and beg."

Then louder, for Chloe's benefit: "Have fun, girls."

Chloe tugged me outside into the blinding sun. I followed like a puppet with cut strings.

The toy was silent now, but I could still feel it, nestled deep, waiting for his next command.

I wasn't just fucked.

I was owned.

And the worst part? I was already counting the hours until two o'clock so I could crawl to him again.