Page 26 of Meating Dalton

Ghosting my fingers over the clothes spread out on top of the wooden dresser, I cringe at the attached price tags. Only a psychopath pays five hundred dollars for jeans. A considerate psychopath, I amend, sliding them up my thick thighs. They fit like a glove, contouring to every curve. I hate wearing jeans because they’re rarely tailored to women over a size ten. I didn’t even have to jump to get the rough material over my butt.

A pair of nude ballet flats rests near a spot where the pile of clothes used to be and I applaud Dalton’s thoughtfulness again after sliding them on. They fit perfectly. Blowing a breath, I eye my hair critically. The curls appear tangled and knotted, sticking to my scalp. Shaking my head, I remind myself I shouldn’t care what Dalton thinks of my appearance, even if there is an ache between my thighs from how many times I let him fuck me last night.

A new day brings clarity.

Taking deep, even breaths, I stride from the bedroom in search of my psychopath.

* * *

Stepping down the last step of the curving black staircase, bacon teases my nose. A kitchen winks at me and through an open doorway, I spot a glimpse of blonde hair. Slowing my steps, I approach the kitchen on what I hope is silent feet, wishing to observe him unaware. Pausing in the open doorway, a smile teases my lips, a familiar tune being hummed floating to me.

It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day

It’s a new life for me, ooh

And I’m feeling good

Snickering, I cover my smile, but he caught me, piercing blue eyes ensnaring me. His smile stretches wide and he sets down the spatula, hurrying over to me. Telling my heart to calm down is useless, staring up into his eyes, his body crowding me into the frame of the doorway.

“Morning,” he whispers before claiming my mouth, our tongues getting reacquainted. Pulling him to me, I let my fingers brush the shaved back of his head, soft fuzz brushing my palm. His groan echoes through my mouth before he pulls away.

“You look good in the clothes I picked out.” Heat simmers in his eyes, but he pulls away, reaching for my hand, tugging me into the kitchen.

“Sit, my lady. I’ll serve breakfast shortly, and I’ve got champagne and orange juice for mimosas,” he says, winking at me. His good mood nearly infects me, my butt landing in a high-backed wooden chair.

I rest my cheek against my raised palm, watching him work, another pair of black jeans cupping his taut butt. A black shirt stretches across his muscled torso, sunlight kissing the brown tones in his sandy blonde hair.

My eyes travel to the tattoos that start below his fingernails and travel all the way up the peak of his shoulders. Garish bones etched into his skin, shaded in with black ink. In the dark, I’d probably mistake him for a walking skeleton, except for his face remaining blemish free. He’d even tattooed his neck. Mentally, I jot down “high pain tolerance”, adding to my catalog of this strange man who’s taken me hostage.

“Liking what you see?” he fires over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around, walking toward the silver fridge. I open my mouth to respond, words getting trapped when the fridge flies open, Jason’s flayed skull judging me from its position on the top shelf next to the orange juice Dalton pulls out. Still humming, he reaches for the neighboring champagne, bile rising in my throat at spotting a second head.

Jumping to my feet, adrenaline rushing through me, I’m tempted to run. Dalton looks over at me, shutting the fridge closed with a boot covered foot.

“Where’s the fire?” he jokes, smiling. I shake my head, nostrils flaring. I can’t do this. It was dumb to consider I could.

“Natalia?” he asks, setting his items down, walking toward me. I jump back, a wall blocking my retreat.

“Woah!” His hands raise in the air placatingly, palms facing me.

“What the hell got into you?” I point at the fridge, tears rising up. He glances from it to me, eyebrows shooting up. After a moment, his face shuts down, dread tingling down my spine.

“I see,” he says quietly, walking to turn the burners off, sliding eggs and bacon onto a plate. I wait, heart slamming against my ribs. Turning back slowly, hands fisting at his side, his jaw clenches and unclenches.

“So, this is the part where we get back to reality. Where you realize,” his hand slaps his chest, “I haven’t changed in the hours since I first put my dick inside of you.” I flinch at the blunt words.

His eyes slide away from me, face etched in stone.

“Dalton,” I whisper, uncertainty swimming among the dread. He shakes his head at me and I swear I see a glint of unshed tears.

“No, you’re right. How idiotic of me to assume for a moment that someone cared about me. That last night meant something, that it was special.” He doesn’t meet my eyes and his words splinter into my heart.

“I need some air. Enjoy your breakfast or don’t. I doubt you’ll be here when I get back. At least give me a head-start before you call the cops.” His defeated tone lances through me.

“Dalton—” But he’s already striding away from me, boots slamming into the floor. Feeling worse than dog shit, I watch him leave, sliding to the floor, back against the wall.

How did this happen?

FIX IT

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