Breaking Meredith (Disciples 4)

Yanking open the SUV’s door, I look into her shocked eyes.

The bright light coming from the overhead light in the car is all that illuminates the enclosed space. My chest is heaving in breath, each one pulled deeply through my nose as I stare at her.

She will only bring my ruin if I don’t end this now.

James was the catalyst to this. Just seeing her with him has brought me to this moment. I’m no longer sure if I’m an animal or some savage.

Reaching in past her lap, I push the seatbelt release then look back into her eyes.

She’s kept her eyes warily trained on me this entire time, and I have no doubt that she tried to watch me out in the darkness before I opened her door.

Grabbing her by the wrist, I pull her from the seat, but I feel her dig her feet into the cement as she asks, “What in the world is wrong with you Simon?”

“If you want to live through the next five seconds, move your ass,” I growl out without looking back.

Tugging her wrist hard, I move us forward, pulling her as much as pushing myself through the darkened garage. When I finally reach the door, it seems as if the lock takes an eternity to get the tumbler inside to open.

Then the keypad for the security alarm inside the door gives me a failed number entry before I slam my fingers into the pads, finally hitting the correct code.

Too much time has passed for me. I simply can’t control what my body wants any further. My mind is falling into a dim awareness. It’s somewhere between mindless lust and murderous rage.

What is happening to me? How has she driven me to this point?

Pulling her through the mudroom, I get to the kitchen island before my feet can no longer push me any further.

Spinning around to face her, I rip the stiletto from my pocket.

Pushing the button, it comes up between us.

Her eyes widen in fright and she tries to step back away from me.

“Don’t fucking move,” I growl as I advance on her.

Bending down, I grab the hem of her dress in my hand, pulling it tight as I begin to slice through the wispy fabric.

The loud hiss of metal slicing through cloth fills the dead air of the kitchen.

“Simon, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she shrieks as I near her stomach.

“Be silent, Meredith. I would not be happy if we marred your perfection.”

My words have the desired effect because she stiffens and stills.

She must sense that I can barely keep control of the razor sharp knife.

The blade slowly, but shakily, travels up the dress, coming to a stop at the right side of her left breast.

Just above the heart, almost at the exact place I pushed a similar instrument of death between Cherry’s ribs.

I could end this once and for all right now.

Remove her from my life.

No more headaches, no more uncontrollable urges.

Nothing but silence.

I even have approval to do with her as I wish.

What I wish for though is something entirely different…

Giving the blade a final jerk upwards, the dress falls open. I push the split front apart to expose the tanned flesh of her heavy breasts.

They heave up and down in a hypnotizing rhythm.

I have no doubt if I look up into her eyes, I’ll scare her with the intensity of my look.

Pushing the button to close the stiletto, I drop it back into my jacket pocket.

My hands shake as I remove my jacket and drop it to the kitchen floor.

Then slowly I lift the ragged edges of the dress where I split it open.

Pushing them aside, I watch as it slides down her sculpted shoulders. It falls to the floor in a slow, fluttering sigh, and pools around her feet.

Taking a step back, I look at my perfect ballerina. That’s what she reminds me of so fiercely right now. So fiercely that I can’t suppress the memory that’s springs forth from my childhood.

Siting in the opera box as I watched the ballerinas lift high on their tiptoes, their arms arched above their heads. Their perfect hair pulled tight, their pristine faces made up to be beautiful beyond compare.

Meredith has no idea of how very powerful of a drug her body is for me. It’s as if my body craves hers more than it needs air to exist.

Standing before me she wears nothing but heels and a matching white lacy bra and thong. I have no doubt if I were to her turn around, I would see the taut muscles of her shoulders pulled back proudly.

Her ass would stick out, begging for my hand to strike it red.

Punish her for her impudence or ravish her for her being unable to control her own sexuality?

Stalking towards her, I push up into her personal space.