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The Choice
The Choice
~Damon~
When I received the call from my neighbor informing me that Camilla had a gun to her head, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t freeze.
I didn’t even stop thrusting. There was no panic in my blood, no spike in adrenaline, no sudden jolt of concern racing up my spine. Nothing. Not even a f*****g heartbeat out of rhythm.
All I felt was annoyance.
A deep, simmering, venom–laced kind of irritation that spread through my chest like acid. Not fear. Not worry. Not even curiosity. Just a cold, bitter fury that she would dare interrupt me while I was still buried balls–deep inside Lyra.
I was still coming down from the high of my orgasm, my c**k still twitching from the aftershocks, the veins
still swollen, the base still thick and hot and pulsing.
And Camilla?
She wanted to kill herself?
What the actual f**k did that have to do with me?
I didn’t even reach for the phone out of care. I didn’t answer it because I gave a damn about her life. I picked
it up because the buzzing in my coat pocket kept vibrating against my hip with the kind of persistence that
killed my rhythm.
It was annoying. Distracting. I was trying to enjoy the sound of Lyra’s soft, whimpering cries as her
overstimulated cunt kept spasming around my c**k, and the goddamn phone wouldn’t stop.
So I answered it.
“Damon,” the voice on the line finally said, rushed and breathless. “It’s your neighbor. Camilla’s outside your
house. She’s holding a gun to her head.”
I smiled. Not out of joy. Not out of concern. But because of the sheer absurdity of it.
The moment those words hit my ears, I slammed into Lyra. Hard. Brutal. Deep enough to make the table creak and groan beneath us. Her gasp ripped through the air like she hadn’t been ready for it. Her legs buckled slightly, and I didn’t let her fall.
Her entire body was still fluttering. Still drenched. Still riding the waves of the orgasm I had already wrung out of her minutes ago, and all I could think about was how f*****g incredible it felt to still be inside her.
Not the call. Not the drama. Not the suicidal woman screaming in my driveway. Just Lyra’s heat. Her -tightness. Her wetness. The obscene slick sounds of my c**k moving inside her.
“She’s screaming,” the man continued, clearly shaken. “She said if you don’t come to her, she’s going to blow her brains out. Right here. In the driveway.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny. But because it was so predictable. So like Camilla. So entirely on brand for the
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emotionally manipulative, attention–starved b***h who had never once been able to take a damn ‘no‘ like a f*****g adult.
“She said it’s your fault,” the guy added, his voice trembling like that was supposed to do something to me.” She said she wants you to see it.”
See it? What the f**k does that even mean.
“Damon,” he tried again, panicked now. “You need to come now. She’s-”
I cut him off. Not with words. With movement.
I slammed into Lyra again. Harder. Deeper. Her mouth fell open, and a sound escaped her throat that wasn’t
even a moan anymore. It was something feral. Something unholy. Something completely owned.
“I don’t give a single f**k if she pulls the trigger,” I said finally, my voice low and lethal, grinding my hips into
Lyra with such slow, cruel pressure that her back arched and she whimpered.
“Let her do it. Let her blow her miserable f*****g brains out and paint my driveway with the filth I never wanted in the first place. I am not leaving my Luna. I am not saving her. And I sure as hell am not stepping
out until I’ve made my Luna come again.”
Lyra whimpered beneath me. Not because she was scared. Not because she was shocked. But because the sound of me saying that–the raw, vicious truth of me choosing her while I was still deep inside her–sent her over the edge again. Her cunt clenched around me. Tight. Hot. Grateful. Mine.
“I’m still inside her,” I told the man on the phone, my voice shaking with pleasure. “I’m still f*****g hard. She’s still dripping. And I’m going to f**k her again before I even think about Camilla.”
I didn’t wait for a reply.
I dropped the phone. Let it fall to the floor. Then I kicked it under the table with my boot like it was trash. I didn’t give a s**t if the line was still open. I didn’t care if the man was still screaming on the other end. None
of it mattered.
All that mattered was Lyra.
Bent over in front of me. Shivering. Moaning. Still dripping my c*m.
She looked back over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wild, her lips parted in disbelief. Her hair was stuck to her face with sweat and s*x, and her whole body looked like it had been loved too rough and too real.
“Are you serious?” she whispered. “She’s outside right now with a gun, and you’re still-”
“Yes,” I answered instantly, cutting her off. I bent forward, letting my chest press against her spine while my c**k stayed buried deep inside her. “She’s outside. I’m inside you. That’s how serious I am.”
I kissed her shoulder. Bit her neck. Dragged my tongue across the shell of her ear while her breath hitched
again.
“You are what I want, kitten,” I whispered. “Not her. Never her. She was a contract. A f*****g human leash they shoved into my bed just because I didn’t have a mate. But you”
I paused. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. My c**k throbbed inside her. I leaned closer. Pressed my lips against her ear.
“But you,” I murmured, “you are my fate”
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The Choice
“But Damon,” she breathed, and f**k, the way she said my name–like it hurt her to even speak it–made my c**k twitch inside her. “Please.”
I didn’t move.
I stayed bent over her, letting her feel the full heat of me against her back, letting my palm slide down her
belly like I was reminding her exactly who she belonged to. But I didn’t answer. I waited. I made her say more.
“Please just…” Her voice cracked, and her brows furrowed, like she hated herself for even thinking it. “Just
let’s go back to the house. Make sure she’s not actually going to–”
“To what?” I cut her off, my voice dark and steady. “Make sure she’s not going to kill herself?”
Lyra swallowed hard.
“I know she’s a b***h,” she said quickly, her voice rushing out in a messy stream, like she was trying to speak
before I punished her for it.
“I know she’s manipulative and crazy and I f*****g hate her, I swear I do. But if she’s really going to do it, Damon–if she really pulls the trigger–I don’t want you to blame yourself later. I don’t want that to live in your
head.”
I stared at her.
Hard.
Unmoving.
I watched her eyes. Her lips. Her trembling thighs.
“I’m not going to blame myself,” I said calmly, like I was telling her the weather. “Because I don’t give a fuck.”
Lyra gasped.
“I don’t care if she’s outside choking on her own blood right now. I don’t care if her brains are already sliding down the pavement. You want me to pull out of this perfect, soaking, c*m–dripping cunt and go see Camilla. Over my f*****g dead body.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
Because her eyes had gone wide again, her breath catching in her throat as I started to f**k her slowly again.
“She can die out there for all I care,” I hissed, my teeth brushing her ear. “Let the grass soak it up. Let the
crows pick her apart. Let her name rot in the f***** soil. But you, Lyra–you stay right f*****g here.”
“But Damon,” she whispered again, tears burning her voice now. “What if she’s really hurt? What if she’s not faking this time? What if you open the door tomorrow and find her body there, just–just lying there?”
“Then I’ll walk over it,” I snapped. “I’ll step over her corpse with your scent still all over me, and I’ll carry you to breakfast like nothing happened.”
She whimpered.
Her whole body curled around the truth of it.
Because she knew I meant it.
The Chore
Because she knew I wasn’t bluffing.
Because she knew I would choose her over the entire !*****g world.
But she still couldn’t help it. Her heart was too soft. Her voice too trembling. Her hands fisted the table like maybe just maybe–there was still some mercy in her.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please just make sure she doesn’t die.”
I grabbed her hair again. Pulled her head back until her throat was stretched and vulnerable, her mouth parted, her eyes fluttering like she was caught between guilt and lust.
“You want me to stop f*****g you to go check up on a woman, who would rather see you dead?”
“I want you to stop pretending you’re not human,” she said, eyes glistening now, voice shaking. “Because you are. You feel. And no matter how much you hate her–deep, down, somewhere–you know you’ll never forgive yourself if you find her corpse tomorrow.”
“Okay. Fine, kitten. You won” I said, my voice low and sharp as a blade. “Let’s go.”
I pulled out of her, slow and heavy, watching the way her body reacted–her back arching, her breath catching, her thighs trembling as the thick mess of my c*m spilled out of her and slid down her legs like a goddamn
signature.
I stood upright, adjusted my pants with steady hands, then ran a palm down my face and let out a breath
through my nose.
“Let me be clear about something,” I said suddenly, my voice low, heavy with steel. “If I pull up to that house and find her standing and breathing then I swear to every god I’ve never bowed to, I will take you back home, bend you over the war table, and f**k the apology out of your throat.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then her voice came through.
Soft. Breathless. Almost trembling with heat.
“Yes, Daddy.”
I ran my tongue across my teeth, stared at her for a second longer, then exhaled through my nose. “Come here, kitten,” I said, low and commanding. “Let me clean you up. Then we leave.”
To be f*****g continued.
Royalty Writes
#Vote# Thank you all so much for your amazing support. Wanna find out what would happen next! Who knows I might drop something
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