Page 8 of Meating Dalton

I just haven’t found the right time or the right words to tell Zaiden I’m pregnant. Maybe I make a sound or maybe a voice whispers to him because he whips his head up and zeros in on me standing in the doorway of what I’ve come to call his “pet room”. My eyes stay focused on him or my skin will crawl from the various enclosures and insects flitting around in them.

The father of my child has a bug problem. He fucking loves them and finds the odd chirping, fluttering of wings and sliding of scales to be soothing. Sometimes, I’ll lead him into this very room if I suspect he’s having an episode or disassociating.

“My Sarah,” he says, lips curling into a wide smile. I return it without stepping further into the room. Instead I lean against the wood door frame and crook a finger at him. He hurries to me, claiming my mouth in a possessive kiss when he reaches me. His mouth swallows my moan as he pins me against the doorframe.

My thigh rises, hooking around his waist to pull him closer. Our mouths part and heavy pants fill the space between our faces.

“Are you alright, my raven? You took the day off?” he asks, running the tip of his nose along my neck. Tingles rise across my skin, goosebumps pebbling. I don’t tell him I called in sick because I had the worst case of morning sickness shortly after he left for his own check-up with Dr. Shaw.

A wry smile twists my lips. It’s still unbelievable that I’m not only on a first name basis withtheDr. Benji Shaw, but I have his number on speed dial and he plays chess once a week in the park with Zaiden. They also walk the trails, enjoying the solitude of nature—or rather, Zaiden enjoys the various insects present—or simply catch up. He always seems more centered when he returns from his visits with Dr. Shaw. The man wields magic on Zaiden’s mind.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” I tell him honestly, running my hands down his scarred torso. I’ve memorized every groove and abrasion at this point. A day doesn’t go by where we’re not connected at some point. His body has become as familiar to me as my own. I wouldn’t change a thing, not even his struggles with his mental disorder.

He’s mine, flaws and all. My tongue licks into his mouth and his groan travels straight to my core which clenches on air.

“Sarah,” he growls, grip tightening around my neck. He’s naturally submissive but my body tightens with expectation when he seizes control. I don’t want sweet Dayton, who looks at me with complete adoration while I perform the most mundane tasks. I want Zaiden, who stares at me with ownership blazing in his eyes as his cock wrecks me.

Right now, I want to be owned. I want my body aching with reminders tomorrow of who I belong to.

“Fuck me, Zaiden. Make me feel better,” I murmur against his lips. A mewl leaves me when he hefts me in his arms before slamming me back into the wall. My back complains but my legs tighten around his waist, hips grinding against the hardening cock in his pants.

“Mine,” he growls and my pussy weeps in response.Yes, I’m yours. It’s the last coherent thought I have before Zaiden marches us from the doorway of his “pet room” and walks us to our bedroom a couple of feet down the hall.

TEMPTATION

NATALIA

Metal scrapes against porcelain like nails on chalkboard. Little needles that jam into my brain causing micro-hemorrhages. Jason talks around a mouthful of steak with juices dripping to coat his lip.

My eyes focus on the glistening sheen and my fingers curl, resisting the urge to take up a napkin and wipe it off. He continues droning on obliviously about the new merger happening at his company.

He’s dissatisfied with his position as a mid-level manager. His monotonous voice slips into condescending tones concerning the importance of his position and a permanent smile keeps my lips curled upward. It says “I’m listening and I sympathize with you” when really I want to jam a fork into his palm to shut him up.

I do none of these things, letting the crisp notes of his voice lull me into a semi-state of consciousness. In other words, I’m bored to fucking tears, but my smile never falters.

It’s the same one I wear at conference meetings, board meetings, and wellness checks. With my demure smile, I’m friendly and approachable, not an angry black woman that wants to turn a deaf ear to your problems, which is what everyone expects when they get a full look at the coily hair brushing my shoulders and my dark skin tone.

They immediately shelve me into the box of “unprofessional” and “difficult to work with”, all without having a conversation with me. How odd that the man I share a bed with necessitates me donning my workplace persona as if I never turn it off, even in the comfort of my own home.

Movement flickers in my peripheral vision and my head shifts, eyes landing on someone I never thought I’d never see again. The young smooth talker from Louie’s.

“You’re fucking radiant.”

Aqua eyes pierce me from a few tables away. Temptatious lips curl into a smirk. Black ink outlining bones shine on his ivory skin, soaking up the light. He lures my eyes like a moth to flame and I’m angry at the inability to look away.

“You’re a goddamn Goddess.”

He captures my gaze, refusing to relinquish it. A black button down dons his lithe torso. Only the bones tattooed on his fingers draw my eyes. Squirming in my seat across from my boyfriend, I remind myself I shouldn’t feel anything toward the stranger.

“And I’m old enough to do more than just buy you a drink.”

He’s not Jason.

“Are you even listening, Nat?” the man in question demands. I blink at him, pulling my gaze from a distraction I do not need. In five years, I never stepped out on Jason or considered it. Many times I’ve considered just ending things, but each time, something held me back. Even now, I bite the words back and rise from my seat.

“Nat!” Jason hisses, and I ignore it.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I tell him, walking away from our table without waiting for a response. My heels sink into the plush carpet lining the restaurant that Jason picked to celebrate our five-year anniversary at. What should be a joyous occasion sends dread into my veins. My hands push open the door to the ladies’ restroom and I wonder once more what’s wrong with me?

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