Damon’s Girl
-Lyra-
Oh damn.
f**k.
My Damon,
I love that he defended me in front of that b***h. I love it so much I might actually cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and hump the air just thinking about it.
Gosh, the way he stood in front of me, towering like a whole wall of sin and testosterone, voice calm but lethal, looking like he could throw her out the window and then bend me over the counter before she even hit the ground–God. I think I just fell in love with him all over again.
And yes. I said my Damon. Because I don’t care what anyone says, not even that dusty–ass, bleached–blonde ex–wife with the $20,000 ass and $3 personality.
He is mine. Mine in the way his voice dropped when he told her off. Mine in the way he touched me after, like I was delicate and dangerous at the same time. Mine in the way he kissed my temple like I was a goddamn reward for surviving the storm.
He looked so hot doing it too. Like full–on, ruin–my–life, blow–my–back–out, eat–my–soul–with–a–fork hot. I might just think about giving him a blow job in the car before he drops me off at school. I mean, as a thank–you. A ” thank you for almost ripping your ex’s head off for calling me a child” type of gesture. It’s the polite thing to do, right? Like baking cookies. But sluttier.
And who the f**k knew that b***h was human? Like, seriously. What a plot twist. If someone had told me yesterday, I would not have believed it. I still can’t get over that–was just a regular human and not some elegant, immortal vampire queen or a psycho Alpha female with claws and fangs, I would’ve laughed. Or maybe gagged. Because she walks around like the world owes her a spotlight. Like she invented s*x. Like she isn’t just some collagen–filled, rehab–returning, soul–sucking she–devil who thought her flat ass and fake smile could intimidate me.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
And honestly? If she isn’t careful, I might rip her apart in my wolf form. No jokes. No games. If she tries that slut–shaming, slap–threatening, skirt–policing crap again, I swear on every last inch of Damon’s d**k that I will shift right in front of her and rip her botoxed lip off with my canines.
Because what she did wasn’t just rude. It wasn’t just bitchy or jealous or pathetic. It was dangerous. That woman tried to hit me. She raised her hand like I was some street rat and she was the queen of the palace, and it was only Damon stepping in that stopped her from leaving this kitchen with a f*****g broken wrist. And I know, I know, I should be calm right now. I should be heading to school with my bag and my books and my teenage dignity intact. But instead I’m walking to the car, still tasting adrenaline, still dripping in leftover slick from the night before, still mentally replaying the way Damon said, “She’s not just a girl. She’s mine.”
Oh my God.
He said that,
7/3
Damon’s Out
He really said that in front of her. Like I was his property. His possession. His favorite toy. And I know I should
be worried about how f****d up that sounds, but honestly? I’m not. Not even a little. Because the way he claimed me wasn’t just sexy–it was real. It was honest. It was everything I wanted someone to say. He didn’t just defend me. He chose me. Out loud. In front of his past.
And that matters.
That makes all the difference.
So now I’m sitting in the car, legs pressed together because if I spread them even an inch I might start leaking again. My skirt’s already tight. My thighs are sore. My underwear’s barely holding on. And my brain is still spinning like, Damon just verbally castrated his ex–wife for me, and I have to go to school like a normal human being after that?
f**k no.
I don’t even know what subject I have first. I don’t care. All I know is that if Damon so much as looks at me in the rearview mirror on the way there with that deep, broody, possessive stare, I will unbuckle my seatbelt, crawl across the console, and make sure he never forgets this morning for the rest of his life.
Because I’m not just a girl.
I’m his girl.
And everyone better get used to it.
The second I spotted him stepping out of the house and walking toward the car, I swear my whole body lit up like a f*****g Christmas tree.
My breath caught. My thighs squeezed together. My hands got all fidgety like I was about to do something illegal. And to be fair–I kinda was.
He looked too good. Way too good. Broad chest. That dark shirt straining over his biceps. His jaw clenched just enough to make me imagine it grinding between my legs again.
The way he walked–confident, big, slow strides like he owned the earth and was just being merciful enough to let it spin. And when he reached the car, opened the door, and stepped inside, locking it behind him like we were sealing ourselves into our own little sin chamber?
I knew I was going to be on my knees before we reached the stop sign.
He looked at me immediately. Not the road. Not his phone. Me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and tight like he was still pissed. “Did she hurt you?”
“No, Daddy,” I said softly, biting my lip a little, because I couldn’t help it. His eyes darkened. His fingers
twitched near the steering wheel like he wanted to grab something. Probably me.
He looked me over, and then he groaned. Loud and deep. Like I was the problem. Like the fact that I was still breathing next to him in this skirt was a threat to national security.
“Damn,” he muttered, smirking “She wasn’t lying. This skirt is deadly.”
I smiled, innocent as pie, even though I was sitting there without panties and still tasting him in the back of my throat from last night.
2/3
Damon’s Gul
Then he squinted at me like something just clicked.
“Hold up. You’re going to school like this?” he asked, voice rough, a little louder now. “If any boy so much as looks at you… of breathes near you… or thinks about talking to you tell him I’m going to rip his ng eyes
out.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, grinning now because I loved it. I loved the way he said it. I loved the way he looked at me like I was his little problem and also his favorite f*****g thing in the world.
“Hmmm,” he growled, dragging his eyes over me like he was trying to figure out what was real and what was just his dirty imagination. “You’re calling me Daddy. You naughty little girl. What’s going on in that filthy head of yours, huh?”
I blinked up at him with my best innocent smile, heart pounding, lips curling just enough to tease.
“Nothing, Daddy,” I said sweetly. “I just wanted to give you a little something… a thank you. For defending me. For being the only man who’s ever made me feel like I’m worth fighting for.”
And before he could say another word, I was moving.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid toward him, slowly, deliberately, my skirt riding up higher with every inch. His eyes dropped immediately. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel. His chest stopped moving like he forgot how to breathe.
I crawled right into his space, leaned over the console, and whispered in his ear, “Let me make it up to you.”
He turned his head to look down at me, his hand already moving to adjust the seat backward. His smirk was pure filth now, eyes narrowed, voice thick with hunger.
“What are you doing, you naughty little girl?”
Royalty Writes
#Vote# Who else thinks Lyra is a crazy ass
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