Page 25 of Meating Dalton

How long did I hate my skin, thinking maybe it’d be easier to be their child if at least my skin tone matched theirs?

Theydid that, not Sarah.

Calloused hands slide along the arms I wasn’t aware I’d wrapped around Dalton. Maybe I’d unconsciously thought to physically push the pain away by pressing my body into his. He doesn’t complain, nails digging into my skin. He holds me as tightly as I hold him.

“She used to lock me in dark closets for hours.” His voice cracks on the word “dark.” I don’t need to ask if he developed a fear from it. “Sometimes she wouldn’t feed me or command the staff to refuse to give me food. So, I’d lie in those closets, afraid, weak, and hungry.” As impossible as it was, I press closer, wanting to absorb some of his pain so it could join my own.

“She hated me.” Silence fills the room. Inhaling deeply, I confess to the one thing that nearly cost me my relationship with my sister.

“Mine didn’t hate me. They just loved Sarah more.” Dalton nods as if he understands, but as far as I’m aware, he grew up alone.

“They regretted adopting us. We weren’t their flesh and blood, so we would always be a mistake, an imperfection in their eyes,” he snarls, nails digging hard enough to draw blood. Tears leak down my face; scabbed wounds ripped open by his perfect summary of my life among the Bells.

A mistake. That’s what Dalton and I were to our parents.

“I can’t justify what you did, but I get why,” I murmur softly, breath kissing his skin. Maybe if my parents did to me what his had done, I would’ve turned out the same.

“Maybe if mine had been abusive—” His bark of laughter, an ugly harsh sound, interrupts me.

“You think that’s why I’m fucked up? Because I was abused?” he asks, venom seeping into his voice. Red caution signs flash in my mind’s eye. That way lay danger, and it’s clear he hasn’t healed from his childhood trauma. But right now, he doesn’t need a jury to judge him for his sins. He needs a fucking friend, and I bet he doesn’t have any.

“I leave the psycho mumbo jumbo to my sister,” I tell him honestly. Sarah did a stint in mental health during nursing school and probably after. Hell, the guy she is with has mental issues. She’s far better equipped to deal with someone like Dalton than me.

But the idea of her anywhere near him, touching him, causes flares of jealousy to erupt behind my ribs.

Dalton’s words act as a balm. “I’m so glad you’re not your sister,” he says, and I get the impression he means it. I rub my face back and forth across his back, soaking up his warmth. Dalton’s choosing me and maybe that’s what my childhood self needed to hear at that moment. Someone pickingmeover Sarah, even if he is a psychopathic killer.

Suddenly, he whirls around and pushes me to the bed, looming above me.

“I’m so glad it’s you,” he growls, leaning down to kiss me. He pulls back to whisper, “You’re fucking perfection,” and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said to me. Even better, I’m pretty sure he told me that before he kidnapped me. Smiling stupidly, I pull his face back down to entwine our tongues and wrap my legs around his waist.

Dalton rolls us and our mouths slip apart.

“Ride me, sweet flower. This time, I want you to claimme,” he pants, hands guiding my hips along his length. Moaning, I grind my pussy against his cock, nipples hardening. Yes, this is what I want. My hands slip impatiently between my thighs and I rise on my knees, notching the tip of his cock at my entrance. Dalton watches me with dilated pupils, lips parted to allow rapid exhales.

Slowly, I slide down his cock, moaning at the way he fills me. His head tips back, exposing his neck. His groan strokes my ego. Who knew being a guy’s first sexual experience could be so addictive and empowering? Nearly everything I do makes him groan like he’s in pain. I kind of like the idea of torturing him. I bet that’s something he’s never let anyone do since becoming an adult.

“Fuck. That’s it. Please, ride me,” he begs and I do. After sinking to the base of his cock, I raise my hips back up before slamming down again. Oh! His cock strikes a spot not even Jason managed to find. I do that again, throwing my head back and giving into the pleasure. Dalton growls, hands finding my hips to speed up my movements. Oh, fuck this.

Leaning back on my hands, I unfold my legs out from under me so I can use them as leverage to fuck myself with Dalton’s cock. He hisses at the sight of my pussy stretched open by his thick length. Smirking, I raise up his cock again, sliding to the tip and dropping back down. The next groan from his lips is long and low. Muscular thighs tremble beneath me. We’re both close and unlike earlier, I don’t want him coming before me.

“Dalton,” I beg, sliding a hand to my clit. He catches on, knocking my hand aside and watching me slide up and down his cock like it’s his favorite show. It probably will be after this. Deft fingers make small, firm circles on my clit and I come apart on Dalton’s cock with a choked cry. His hand falls away and his hips raise off the bed to roughly fuck me. Sliding my legs back beneath me and slumping forward, I go limp, letting him use my pussy until his groan fills my ear. His fingers spread my ass cheeks wide as he pistons his cock in and out of me. I can feel the jerk and twitches, letting me know he’s releasing inside of me.

I’m too wrung out to care, blinking drowsily. When he’s done thrusting through the aftershocks, powerful arms wrap around me and soft lips press a kiss to my forehead.

“Go back to sleep, my flower. Tomorrow will be a better morning,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice. Smiling sleepily, I nod, closing my eyes. I never thought I’d comfortably fall asleep in a Lasher’s arms after unpacking some of my childhood trauma.

Life certainly has a sick sense of humor.

MORNING AFTER

NATALIA

Blinking open my eyes, vision blurring, for a moment I’m not sure where I am. An etched ceiling with flower patterns looks down at me, weak sunlight streaming in from the window behind my head. Sitting up, clutching the bed sheet to my naked breasts, I discover the spot next to me is empty.

Running a hand over the cool satin sheets, the events of the past forty-eight hours come rushing back, the kidnapping, the skinning of Jason, and… Dalton. Cheeks burning hot, I slide my body out of the bed, chancing a peek out of the window I failed to notice last night. My mouth falls open. An impressive wood line stretches behind the house.

I glance around the room with fresh eyes, combining it with the glimpses of the rest of the house that I’ve seen, painting a picture. Either whoever Dalton’s foster parents are is well-off, or he’s rich. My lips tilt down into a frown, walking toward the dresser. Of course, rich people get up to crazy shit when they’re bored, like kidnapping and maiming.

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