Breed Me, Daddy Alpha-Chapter 8.

Fuck. There was no point honestly.

There was no fucking point in even checking the time again.

No point in grabbing my phone again or pretending I’d sleep. Sleep was a lie. A cruel fucking fantasy I kept telling myself while my body throbbed, my cunt ached, and my skin burned like someone had set fire to it from the inside.

My limbs wouldn’t stay still.

My legs twitched.

My feet kept flexing.

My fingers? Still tingling.

Every time I closed my eyes, I didn’t see dreams.

I saw him.

Damon. Alpha. Daddy. The man whose voice had already broken me from the other side of a door. Who hadn’t even touched me and still left me shaking through three orgasms that barely scratched the itch he put in me.

I shifted on the bed, and my thighs stuck together..wet, raw, used. The slick was cold now, and it made everything sharper. I could feel it drying on the inside of my legs, between my folds, everywhere.

I should’ve gotten up.

I should’ve cleaned up.

But I didn’t want to.

I wanted to feel it.

I wanted the mess to remind me of what I’d done.

Of how filthy I’d been.

Of how loud I’d moaned for a man who wasn’t even in the room.

I swallowed hard.

My throat was sore.

Had I been crying?

No.

Moaning.

Whimpering. Begging. Gasping.

Like some fucking heat-sick Omega in the middle of a rut.

And maybe I was.

Because nothing else explained this.

This need.

This deep, bone-level, spine-cracking ache that lived in my womb now. It wasn’t just arousal anymore. It was possession. Fever. It was a sickness with his name tattooed on it.

I pulled the pillow tighter around me and tried to breathe.

It didn’t work.

My nipples still hurt. My pussy still pulsed. The air against my skin still made me clench like I was seconds from breaking again.

I rolled onto my side.

The robe slipped down my hip.

I didn’t fix it.

My skin was slicked in sweat, hair clinging to my face and neck, and I felt feral. Desperate. Like I’d crawl across the floor if it meant someone would fill this fucking emptiness.

And not just someone.

Him.

"Do you know what this cock would do to you?"

Fuck.

My hips bucked just thinking about it. I squeezed my thighs together and whimpered when that pulse hit me again. That sharp, sensitive throb that started in my clit and echoed up through my belly like lightning.

I could touch myself again.

I could.

But I knew it wouldn’t help.

Nothing would. Not unless it was him. Not unless he was pressing my face into the mattress while he stretched me open, whispering cruel things while I cried from how good it hurt.

I moaned.

Out loud.

No shame.

No one was awake.

Everyone was asleep.

The guards. The maids. Tasha.

Even him. Probably.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he was sitting in the dark somewhere.

Half-naked. Cock hard. Drink in hand. Thinking about how wet I’d been when he had me against the wall. Thinking about how I whimpered when he said I couldn’t take him.

I could still hear it.

"You think you can take me? That sweet little virgin cunt of yours wouldn’t survive a fucking inch."

My breath hitched.

I rolled back onto my back and pressed my palm against my belly.

It was warm.

Still twitching.

Still hungry.

I let my hand slide lower, hovering just above my mound. I could feel the heat rising off me. My folds were so swollen I didn’t even need to part them to know I was soaked again. Already.

I pulled my hand back.

No.

No, not again.

My body couldn’t take another orgasm. Not without breaking.

"I need a drink," I whispered. "I need to get the fuck out of my head. I need to waste myself until this goes away."

Even though I knew it wouldn’t.

Even if I drank the whole fucking bottle, the ache would still be there, whispering his name through my skin.

I sat up.

Slow. Shaky.

My legs were unsteady, and the sheets clung to my thighs from the mess I’d made. My robe was twisted around my waist. I didn’t bother adjusting it. What was the point?

It was already open.

My breasts were already out.

My nipples were already hard and begging to be sucked. Pinched. Bitten.

The cool air hit me the second I stood.

And fuck, I felt it.

Everywhere.

Between my legs.

Across my chest.

Down my spine.

I didn’t fix my robe.

Let it hang.

Let it show everything.

I padded barefoot to the door, body still aching, pussy still leaking, and I didn’t care.

Because somewhere in this house, there was whiskey.

And somewhere deeper in the dark, maybe... just maybe...

He was awake.

I stepped out into the hall, and the silence swallowed me whole. It felt like the walls were holding their breath.

The floor was cool under my feet, but my skin was too hot to care. Every step I took made the silk of my robe slide against my thighs, brushing my sensitive folds. My slick made it worse. The way it clung, wet and sticky, had me clenching with every brush of air.

I moved like a ghost.

Down the stairs.

Past the long windows and old family portraits that glared at me like they knew exactly where I was going. What I looked like. What I wanted.

I didn’t stop.