Page 11 of Meating Dalton

I’m a fucking monster.

But I don’t let that reminder stop me from sliding her panties down her legs. Furrowing my brow, I cock my head at the white piece of paper taped to the center of her underwear.

What the fuck is that?

After sliding a finger down the center, I bring it up to the weak moonlight streaming through the window. Red paints my finger.

Fuck, she’s bleeding. This really couldn’t get any better. My eyes laser in on the dark curls and the puffy lips beneath them. Licking my lips, I yank her panties the rest of the way down her legs, tossing them to the bedroom floor.

I don’t want to taste her from a fucking napkin. I want to drink straight from the source, like my own personal tapped keg.

Yes, little flower, give me all of your nectar. Settling on the bed without jostling her is tricky and I frequently dart my eyes to her face to ensure I haven’t woken her up. If I do this right, she’ll chalk this up to a wet dream, and I’d have satisfied an odd craving of mine. We both win.

Lying flat on my stomach between her legs, I don’t move hers aside. No, I focus on her opening and the bit of blood sticking to her lips. Using my fingers to part her folds, I drive my face forward, groaning when she coats my tongue.

She tastes so fucking good. The blood mingles with her naturally sharp taste. It’s an odd cocktail, but the metallic taste of blood is familiar. I wonder if I can make her taste even sweeter next time. I’ll have to look that one up, but for now, I swipe my tongue in and out of her channel, letting her blood flow to land on my tongue.

Weak moans spill from her and I switch from gluttoning myself on her flavor to trying to tease more moans from her. Her hips move slightly, encouraging me. My free hand snakes down, sliding into the waistband of my pants and stroking my cock.

It’s only ever risen for her. She’s truly a fucking enchantress, weaving a spell on me. But fuck it. If she wants me to be her damn slave, I’ll do it so long as she lets me eat her up anytime I want.

My tongue mimics my hand, sliding up and down in tune with my rough strokes. Her moans get louder and her hips lift more and more off the bed. She’s close and I want us to detonate at the same fucking time.

Come for me, sweet flower. Let me taste it.

I say none of that. When her hips jerk as I slide my tongue around a little nub above her slit, I switch tactics again. Clearly, it’s a pleasurable spot for her. I wrap my lips around it and suck at the same time I jerk hard on my cock.

“Ah!” she moans, whimpers chasing the sound. I keep sucking and swirling my tongue until pleasure zips down my spine and my cock twitches, releasing in my pants. Panting against her pussy, I rest my forehead on her mound.

Shit. That was better than any fantasy I could’ve cooked up in my head. Risking a glance up, I notice her lashes still rest on her cheeks, but a delectable flush stains her skin. I guess it was as good for me as it was for her. It’s definitely going on my list of things to do again.

I’m in so much fucking trouble when it comes to Natalia Bell, but I can’t bring myself to care as I slowly extricate myself from between her lush thighs. Sliding off the bed, I smirk at the wet spot right between her legs. Blood isn’t the only thing that leaked onto those sheets.

I don’t wipe the liquid coating my chin. I want to leave her home while wearing her on my face. Kneeling down, I pocket the discarded panties and pull the blankets back over her. If she can sleep through that, then I’m sure her mind can come up with an excuse for why she went to bed without underwear.

Affording myself one final glance at her sleeping form, I creep out of her bedroom.

A week. I’ll give myself a week to clear my head, plan for housing my alluring guest, then I’ll snatch her up like I did her panties.

A week. Surely, I can get whatever the fuck she did to me out of my system in a week, right?

Of course, I can. I’ve never let prey get the best of me before. Even if I am still wearing her blood and juices on my face.

I’m the hunter and she’s the meat. That’s all there is to it.

But I can’t shake the fucking feeling that I’m lying to myself.

THE OTHER WOMAN

DALTON

How. Fucking. Boring. My fingers twitch around the blade that made its way into my hand. Dark lashes rest against mocha skin, full lips parted, letting out huffing breaths every few minutes. A black cap hides dark hair the same shade as her furrowed eyebrows. She’s asleep with her forehead creased and I shoot a glare at the waste of flesh sleeping next to her.

I can kill him. The knife begs me to feed it life’s blood, staining the pretty metal a lovely shade of red, but that’s messy. I need to take Natalia and do it in a way that doesn’t raise alarm because who the fuck knows how long it’ll take for her to break. After the run-in at the restaurant and my snack a couple of days later, I thought staying away for another week would dull the effect she has on me but the urge to kill the man sleeping next to her presses insistently against my thread of self-control.

He’s a waste of flesh that doesn’t deserve my temptress. Stepping carefully along the plush carpet in the spacious bedroom, I make my way to Mr. Wrong’s side of the bed. His phone charges on the nightstand and inspiration sparks.

Snatching it up in a gloved hand, I kneel, sliding a finger up and tilting the camera to capture his face. It unlocks. Hello, Cami, why are you texting Natalia’s man at—a quick glance at the time—three in the morning?

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