Sins Of The Past
Sins Of The Past
~Lyra~
I lay there on the bed, half–draped like a girl who had just been struck by a category five orgasmic hurricane, my legs still twitching every single time I tried to take a deep breath, and he just stood there watching me.
Not helping.
Not speaking.
Just watching me like I was the greatest thing he’d ever destroyed.
Like he was proud of the mess he made.
Like he hadn’t just made me forget my own birthday, my own address, and maybe even my own f*****g name.
His mouth was still glistening with me, his lips shiny and swollen from all the sucking and licking and sin
he’d just committed between my legs, and his eyes? Oh my God, his eyes sparkled like he knew exactly how
owned I was. Like he didn’t need to say a word because I already belonged to him and we both knew it.
And what made it worse–what made me want to slap him and ride him at the same time–was the fact that I
loved it.
I hated that I loved it, but I did.
“Better?” he finally asked, his voice gravel–thick and soaked in sin, the kind that made my already sore p***y clench again even though I had absolutely nothing left to give. Not energy. Not sanity. Not a single rational
thought.
I sucked in a breath, pouted like the dramatic little demon I was, and said, “No. Still mad.”
And yes, I was lying. Yes, I was panting like someone who’d just sprinted through hell barefoot. Yes, my thighs were still soaked with his mouth, his voice, his everything. But I wasn’t about to let him win just because he could eat p***y like it was his profession.
He raised one eyebrow at me.
Just one.
And then, like the arrogant bastard he was, he stood up slowly.
Still completely naked.
Still completely hard.
Still every shade of dangerous that made my insides twist with need all over again.
He didn’t say anything else at first. He just reached down and wrapped one hand around his c**k–casual as f**k–like it was nothing, like he didn’t just spend ten minutes making me scream loud enough to raise the dead. And then he stroked it. Once. Twice. Slow. Like he knew I was watching. Like he wanted to see my eyes go wide and my mouth drop open and my thighs squeeze together all over again.
And of course, I did.
Because a bead of precum had just glistened right at the tip of that goddamn weapon between his legs, and I Swear my mouth actually watered. Like I was hungry. Like my p***y was hungry. Like all of me was just…
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starving for him, even after everything.
Even though I was still mad.
Even though I still had questions.
Even though some woman just threatened to turn me into Swiss cheese with a pipe.
He leaned closer, his voice suddenly dropping an octave lower than hell itself, and said, “Then come here.”
I blinked. “Huh?”
He stroked himself again. Slower this time. More commanding.
“Be mad on my cock.”
And I swear to f*****g God, my soul left my body. Again.
Because who says that?
Who the f**k says that and makes it sound like a damn invitation to heaven and hell at the same time?
I stared at him, mouth parted, thighs already betraying me, and all I could think was–damn it, I was supposed to stay mad. I was supposed to make him suffer a little. I was supposed to be a strong, empowered, rage–filled young woman with standards and boundaries and-
But no.
Because if being mad on his c**k was an option?
Then baby, I was already on my way.
***
It had been a week.
Like a full–ass, seven–day, one–hundred–and–sixty–eight–hour week since that night I nearly drowned him with my p***y and moaned his name so many times I swear it echoed in the walls. And somehow, despite the s*x, despite the everything, despite the way he ruined my body and made me come like I was possessed–I was
still mad.
Not at him, though. Weirdly.
But at her.
Tasha.
Because even though we were under the same roof and technically still best friends and technically still breathing the same air, we hadn’t really talked. Like at all. Not one real conversation. Just a few awkward good mornings and a couple of fake laughs when we passed each other in the hallway like ghosts who used
to be real.
And yeah, Marcus was gone. Disappeared.
But honestly?
That was their business. Not mine.
I was busy.
Busy letting Damon f**k the heartbreak out of me, busy pretending I didn’t care, busy licking my wounds in
Sins Of The Past
private while pretending I was over it. I wasn’t. Not fully. But I could fake it better than anyone. And besides, school was starting tomorrow.
Yup.
Summer was officially over. The sun had packed its bags, the pool was closed, the vibes were gone, and real life was about to slap me straight across the face with early alarms, long lectures, and exams that made me
want to scream into a void.
Was I tired of school? Absolutely yes. Like, burn–the–books–and–cry–into–my–bed tired.
But it was my final year.
So yeah. Let’s just f**k with it.
Anyway, we were in the kitchen.
Me and Damon.
And it was one of those weirdly soft evenings where everything was calm–too calm, like the universe was
taking a breath before the next disaster.
I was standing by the counter in one of his oversized black shirts and nothing else, because duh, comfort
was key and I liked feeling his clothes against my thighs.
He was next to me, bare–chested in grey sweats, slicing veggies like the sexy domestic menace he was, and
the whole place smelled like garlic and butter and sin.
Tasha had gone out to do her nails. Classic. Acrylics to cover the guilt. French tips for the betrayal. I hoped
the nail tech made her cry with the file, honestly.
And then, out of nowhere, Damon said it.
“What’s going on with you and Tasha, kitten?”
His voice was casual, but not really. It had that edge, that low, knowing tone he always used when he was clocking something deeper. He didn’t even look up–just kept slicing peppers like he hadn’t just stirred up a
storm with a single question.
I blinked. “Huh? Nothing really.”
He paused. Just for a second. But I felt it.
“You know how much I hate lies, kitten,” he murmured, setting the knife down and finally looking at me. “Tell
me what’s wrong.”
And oh my God, the way he looked at me–ugh. That face. That voice. That f*****g alpha energy that made me want to sob and scream and f**k him all at once.
I sighed. Dramatically. Because I’m me.
“Nothing. It’s just-” I shrugged and tried to pretend I was cool about it. Like it was whatever. Like I hadn’t been stewing in it for a week. “She f****d my ex.”
He choked.
Like legit choked.
I turned toward him just in time to see him coughing like he’d inhaled a jalapeño and didn’t know what to do
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with it. His eyes bulged slightly, and I swear he looked at me like I’d just told him the house was on fire.
“What?” he finally gasped, grabbing a glass of water like the words alone had burned his throat. “She what?”
I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter, hips out, attitude on full display. “You heard me. My best friend–well, ex–best friend now, probably–f****d my ex–boyfriend. While I was in this house. Probably while I was waiting for her to come watch a movie with me or something. I don’t know when exactly. I don’t even
want to know.”
His jaw tightened.
I watched it happen in slow motion.
That little tick.
That dark shadow that fell over his features like a storm cloud had passed through his skull.
“Marcus right?” he asked, and his voice was no longer casual. It was cold. Like murder–cold. Like
Damon–about–to–do–something–illegal cold.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Marcus. My first dumb mistake. Apparently, also Tasha’s first opportunity to stab me
in the back with her vagina.”
He stared at me for a beat too long, and I knew that look. That look meant he was calculating something. Probably how much bail would be if he tracked Marcus down and broke his nose. Maybe his knees. Maybe
his d**k.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said finally, quietly.
I shrugged again, softer this time. “What was I supposed to say? Hey Daddy, I know we’re busy doing unspeakable things in your bedroom, but just FYI my best friend decided to get dicked down by my ex–boyfriend and now I’m emotionally unstable but still really horny?”
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even smile.
He just stepped closer.
Put the knife down.
Wiped his hands on a towel.
Then cupped my face so gently it made my eyes sting.
“You’re not unstable,” he said, kissing my forehead like I was something sacred. “You’re just hurt.”
“I’m both,” I whispered, pressing my cheek into his palm. “Like emotionally damaged with a splash of slut.”
He growled low in his throat, and I knew that growl. That growl meant I was about to be carried out of the
kitchen and thrown on a counter.
But I didn’t care.
“Do you want me to find him and rip his f*****g throat out?”
The words came out of Damon’s mouth so casually, like he was asking me if I wanted extra butter on my toast or maybe a ride to school tomorrow. Except this wasn’t breakfast. This was bloodlust. This was murder talk. This was that deep, dark part of him I only saw when he was ready to destroy something–or someone-
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for me.
And oh my God.
Did I love it.
I blinked at him, not because I was shocked, but because I needed a second to process how violently turned on I was. My heart started thudding in my chest like I’d just sprinted around the block and my thighs pressed together on instinct because apparently my p***y didn’t give a single f**k about morals or logic or anything
remotely sane.
“You can do that?” I asked, voice soft and kind of dreamy because holy s**t I was actually considering it.
“Yes, I can, kitten,” he said, voice low and dark and deadly like he was just waiting for me to say the word. “I can find him. I can make him cry. I can make him beg. And I can make sure he never f*****g forgets what happens to boys who touch what belongs to me.”
I stared up at him, and I swear my knees went a little wobbly. Not because I was scared. But because I was wet. Again. For like the fiftieth time this week. Because what the f**k was wrong with me? Why was threat–of–murder Damon my favorite version of Damon?
“That’s kinda hot,” I said, like a literal demon child with no soul. “Not gonna lie.”
He smirked, and oh my God, I knew that smirk. That was the smirk that came right before I lost the ability to
walk.
Royalty Writes
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