Page 23 of Meating Dalton

“I can work my way up or at the least gain some experience. I can take a secretarial or janitorial position. You know I’m not picky.” My molars grind at having to essentially beg, thanks to Samantha, even if it comes out as a calm request. The bitch dies today.

My eyes swing to Samantha’s incredulous ones. She thinks he won’t agree. Check fucking mate. Letting the smile spread across my face, oozing charm while menace dances in my eyes, I tell her, “If you’re worried about my mental health, Mother, we can always get me evaluated by someone in human resources. I think they have a psychiatrist on payroll.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Zachary?—”

“Charles, you can’t be serious!” she shouts, waving a hand at me and the pamphlets but I’m the picture of perfection, blonde hair styled similarly to Charles, dimpled smile showing a hint of white teeth. He never saw what she clearly does and it will be her end.

“Give the boy a chance, Sam, before shipping him to a loony bin.” He stands, snapping the paper into its original shape, effectively dismissing the conversation. Piercing brown eyes lance me.

“Get your ass to the office on time, bright and early Monday morning. You’ll be my assistant, so I can look out for you. If anyone is going to teach you business, it’ll be me.” My father strides to his wife, who’s still stammering about the institutes.

“Leave it be, woman. Come here. You know I won’t be back until Monday.” An arm pulls her into him and I nearly gag, rolling my eyes as they kiss goodbye. Pathetic.

“Try not to get rid of our son before I’m back,” he mockingly whispers against her lips before briskly walking out of the room. His suit case rests near the door, I’d heard the horn of Henry the driver blowing before we sat down for breakfast.

Samantha looks at me, undisguised disgust twisting her face. We stare each other down, my ears waiting for the telltale sound of Henry driving off with Charles in the backseat.

“This only buys you time, Zachary. You are going to one of these places for help.” She jabs a finger at a random pamphlet. I shrug, a mocking smile plastered on my face. We shall see, bitch. With an aggravated huff, her heels click, legs striding away from me.

Big mistake giving me your back, Mumsie. Toodles. Swinging my legs out of the chair, kicking my shoes off onto the plush carpet—who the fuck puts carpet beneath a dining table? Roach magnet.

On silent feet, I close the distance and perhaps feeling my body heat, she whirls around, bringing that pale neck even with the serrated edge of the pocket knife I unsheathed and held up. A quick jerk of my hand and blood gushes. Her hands come up to stem the blood, legs giving out, but I know a fatal injury when I see one.

Kneeling near her ear, I make another cut, widening the first, blood staining carpet and marble flooring.

“Night, night, Samantha. But, don’t you worry,” I bop her nose, euphoria racing through me at hearing her death rattles. “Charles is in excellent hands. We both know he’s fucking his secretary and spends every weekend with her. And who could blame him? He married you.”

My smile drops, anger resurfacing, but I want her to die slowly, like she would’ve let me if she had her way. “He won’t mourn for long or ask too many questions. He’ll be free to fuck and marry his young secretary. I’ll get the house and bury you in the basement. It works out for everyone. Really, you were the third wheel, so if you think about it, I’m doing it for Charles.”

Laughing, I stand, grip an ankle, and drag the bitch to the basement. First thing I’ll do with the trust fund I’ll gain access to at twenty-one is build a playroom for occasions like this. Then, I’ll hire a PI to discover who the fuck my birth parents are so they can truly regret handing me over to the Lewis’.

It’s their fault, really, that Samantha is dying. My real mom would’ve baked me cookies. I whistle with every bump of Samantha’s head down the stairs. Speakers would go nicely in a playroom too, so I can listen to music while I work. Samantha’s last breath wheezes out of her on the literal last step of our journey, landing in the open floor of the basement.

I knew I should’ve just drugged her and dragged her down here, then we could’ve played all weekend. Oh well, live and learn, I say.

“Dalton?” Natalia’s voice sends the past scampering back into whatever corridor it snuck from.

“You know him.” It’s not a question. Playing back the events that lead to putting my cock inside of Natalia, I recall she jerked away upon hearing my first name and then asked if I knew my father.

“Dalton—” My hands wrap around her neck and I roll us again, never letting my cock leave the cavern of her pussy. Pissed as I am at her withholding the information, her pussy still belongs to me.

“Start talking, sweetheart. Who is he? How did you know? Are you fucking him?” My grip tightens, hips surging forward. If she fucked my father, I’ll fuck her so damn hard, her pussy will take the shape of me, forgetting any dick before me. Then I’ll cut his dick off and fuck him with it as a punishment for touching my flower. No one touches my flower.

“Dalton,” she chokes, slapping at my hands. I relax the hold on her throat, but don’t remove my hands. She’s got me fucked up if she thinks I’ll share her.

Coughing and eyes watering, she turns her head away and I give her another hard thrust as punishment. A strangled moan slips from her and I do it again, reminding her who she belongs to now.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

I chant it over and over, hips slamming into her, feeling her walls clench around my cock. Removing one hand, I brace with it, speeding up until she’s gasping beneath me, rising to meet every drive of my cock inside her sweet cunt. It grips me tightly as if it knows, too, who it belongs to.

“Natalia,” I groan, balls tightening. “Fuck, tell me. Who is it? And don’t fucking lie if you fucked him. He’ll die either way.”

“Dalton,” she gasps, eyes rolling back. Fuck. She liked that.

“I’m going to peel the skin from his bones, just like Jason.” She shakes her head, but I feel her walls flutter. Oh, you naughty girl.

“I’ll cut off his dick, freeze it, then fuck him with it later. Maybe I’ll do that before the skinning begins?—”

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