Page 20 of Meating Dalton

I could be like Jason. Or raped. Or still chained downstairs.

He wants something from me. I just need to convince him to let me live past giving it to him. One task down, two more to go.

Rising from the water, hair cascading down my back, retaining all of the water it soaked up, I reach for the bath towel folded over the edge of the tub. His soap smells like him, amber and pine, woodsy and masculine. Scrubbing my skin until it itches, I try to convince myself I hate the smell.

When I’m cleaner than I was the day I was born, I step from the bathtub, water droplets pelting the floor as I pad to the double vanity housing the folded bath towel to dry myself with. Wrapping it around me, hair dripping water, I inhale deeply, mentally preparing myself to do battle with the devil.

He wants a show. I’ll give him one that’ll make him think twice about killing me.

THE SHOW

DALTON

One. Two. Three. Four. Five?—

The bathroom door eases open slowly, disrupting the count of my bedroom knives. I keep a pouch of my favorites in one of my dresser drawers. They gleam in the light, begging me to use them, whispering “kill, kill, kill,” but the sight of Natalia stepping out of the bathroom, towel draping her, hair glistening with water, silences the chant.

Curls bounce with each step closer she takes, weaving a spell on me. When she’s within touching distance, eyes on my knives, leather pouch unfolded on top of the dresser, I reach a hand out to touch a stray curl. Hissing, I snatch my hand to my chest when she swats it away, glaring at me.

“No touching the hair,” she snaps, showing more spirit than she has all evening.

“But I?—”

“No! Do. Not. Touch. My. Hair,” she enunciates each word carefully as if I’m a child, anger sparking in brown eyes. All the fuss over some hair? I blink, tilting my head, wondering if I should show her some scalps I’ve collected. They don’t complain about me touching them. A curl bounces, drawing my eye. They’re just so springy, like those Slinkys I toss down the stairs as a kid.

Her finger raises, pointing at me like a weapon, chin lifted.

“I mean it. I’m not a pet.” My lips break into a smile. It’s cute. My little flower forgetting where she’s at.

“No, you’re a beautiful cacao flower. And I just want to touch one because it's so bouncy.” Like a moth to flame, my eyes travel back to her hair.

She folds her arms across her chest, unimpressed, silently refusing to allow me to touch one curl. Just one! I wouldn’t hurt it. Pouting, I run a finger down one of my blades. They never tell me no.

Shaking her head at me, she gestures at my treasures. “Are these your murder weapons?” Tears spring to my eyes and my chest aches from the laughter bubbling up out of me. She is so adorable! As if this is my only set. I swipe a stray tear with a finger. Her ears burn an umber red.

“Yes, sweetheart, these are a set of very many. Now,” I glance at her towel meaningfully, cock twitching in my pants. “I believe we had an agreement and you’re overdressed. Shirts are in that second drawer,” pointing with the hand not caressing my babies, “and boxers are in the top drawer. I like the big dill ones. They’d look good on you.” I lean to the side to peer at her ass and she snatches the drawer open with a huff.

I don’t see the problem. Like any gracious host, I’m letting her wear my clothing, use my bathtub, and cook my food. It’s a far fairer deal than Jason got or Goldie will get once I get my hands on her. She should be grateful I haven’t killed her yet, letting her glide around my home like some Grecian temptress, curls bouncing all around her head like several Slinkys strung together.

She pulls out a random black shirt and matching boxers. How disappointing. I wanted her to wear the white ones with dill pickles and the words “big dill” printed on them. If this is what it's like having a pet, then no wonder I killed all the neighbors’ dogs. Obnoxious little things yapping at me when I strolled in late at night, a body slung over my shoulder. They had to die. It was as simple as that.

“Now, now, sweetness. Don’t forget our deal,” I remind her, watching her ass sway away from me toward the bench at the foot of the bed. Tossing the clothes down, her freed hands reach for the top of the towel, slowly unraveling the tuck, spreading it out like wings.

Scowling, I debate marching over there and snatching it down. Her left arm lowers first, slow enough to test a saint and a saint, I am not. I don’t remember slipping one of my darlings into my palm, but the cool handle calms me as the temptress teases me, lowering each side of the towel slowly until it collects at her feet.

Holy fuck. My balls tighten painfully, threatening an eruption in my pants right there. Toffee skin for days, flawless skin begging for my lips and fingers and cock. Drool could collect and I couldn't care less, feet pulling me forward until one hell of a dessert stands inches from my mouth.

* * *

NATALIA

Air kisses my tightened nipples, and warm breath floats across my nape. Heat wafts off him, warming the air between our bodies. I don’t turn around, heart hammering in my chest, waiting to see what he’ll do. Lips twitching, I bite them, holding back a smile, remembering his affronted behavior when I smacked his hand. My head isn’t a petting zoo, but the fact he let me hit him without retaliating has me curious about what else he’d let me get away with.

Could I run?

No, long legs like his would catch me in no time, but slick coats my thighs, imagining him catching me. Nonononono. We do not fantasize about murderous kidnappers.

When a finger ghosting down my arm, raising goosebumps like the undead, I jerk away, tilting my face toward him, discovering it inches away. Dilated pupils send more dampness collecting between my thighs, clenching them tighter on reflex. He shouldn’t look at me like that and I shouldn’t like it.

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