Page 110 of Masks and Mishaps

Dalton kneels in front of me again, and I guide his hand back to my pussy. He blinks, eyes locked on mine, and he inserts his fingers into me—four altogether. “It’s good you’re so wet and engorged already,” he mentions. “It’s good I made you squirt.”

“Have you done this before?” I reply, forcing myself to breathe out slowly.

“No, but I’ve been researching it for weeks. I’ve got this.” And right then—when he bites on his lip in focus—I know I’m going to marry this man one day.

We stay in this place, with Dalton working his four fingers in and out of me, adding lube and occasionally working the tip of this thumb in with his packed fingers. Again and again, he concentrates, never ceasing his motions.

Good girl. So good for me. Look how wet you get for Daddy. It helps that you squirted on yourself, so filthy and open and ready for me.Again and again, gentle but prying, working more and more into me.Pussy’s so good. This pussy makes me insane. Tell me I can worship it like this forever. Tell me I can fill it, breed it. Tell me it’s mine.

“It’s yours,” I murmur, body quivering and misted with sweat when he finally pushes past the jut of his palm. “I’m yours, Dalton.”

And there it is—his hand inside me. It aches, but there’s an inherent beauty behind the intensity of what we’re doing. I couldn’t do this with him in a mask—and I’m not sure he could either. He can see my face, and I can see his, and the connection allows us to join our bodies in a way we’ve never done before.

An act like this requires patience and diligence and vulnerability—things nobody would outright associate with Dalton—but I know this man. I know what he keeps behind his mask. Above all, I know this moment requires trust.

I’ve never trusted anybody more than him.

“I love you,” he murmurs, staring at the connection point between us, gaze heavy with admiration. “I think you were made for me.”

“I think so too,” I respond, swallowing hard right as a tear slips from the corner of my eye.

He kisses away my tear and moves his hand slowly. In and out, he rides the wave of my arousal, heightening the pressure and stimulating every nerve ending he can touch.

The fuck is characteristically brutal, and yet it’s the most reverential lovemaking I’ve ever experienced. He slaps my tits before nestling his face between them, grabbing a handful, and whispering, “These belong to me. I can fuck them, bite them, and lick them whenever I feel like using them. But I need more. Let me fuck a baby into you and fill them up with milk,”while he drags his thumb over my swollen, sensitive nipples.“Let me take care of you.”

The intensity is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, but my body is thriving. It’s stretched and pulsating, and I can feel pleasure coursing through me, traveling the network of my nerves and shimmering on my skin in glitter and sensation. My senses are screaming, like the room is brighter and the rustle of the leaves outside is louder, and the coaxing words Dalton gives live in my ear, in my heart, in the places where nobody else has ever seen me or touched me.

This is only for him—and only for us.

My climax enters my life the way Dalton did: unexpectedly and severely and so messy—but remarkable. I gush around his hand, crying out and collapsing back onto the hardwood, shaking through the racks of sensation reverberating through me. The entire time, his hands are on me, caressing me, easing me.

And when my breathing is level, he holds me close like he’s afraid I’ll leave him.

I slide his cock back into my well-fucked pussy, and he relaxes at once.

And gradually, safe from the snowfall and the bitter chill outside, we fall asleep together, wrapped in each other’s arms, on the floor of the treehouse.

Thirty-Nine

DALTON

ForaslongasI can remember, loud music, a crowd, flowing drinks, and the possibility for havoc have called to me. Occasionally, I’ve wondered where I get this gravitational pull toward a good time. Then, I remember who my mother is.

Mom’s a party animal, but not in the messy, mishap-prone way I am—but the elegant, extravagant way Jay Gatsby was—and the woman loves a spite party. She canceled her wedding on a Thursday night, and by Saturday, she repurposed the vendors to host the most over-the-top post-Thanksgiving party the Hudson River Valley has ever seen. And I like a party, it’s true—

But I like kissing Essie a lot more.

On the day we were supposed to watch our parents exchange vows, I’ve shoved her against the inside door of the walk-in pantry. One of my hands is under her perfect ass, holding her up; the other is doing masterful work on one of her perky nipples. She’s wearing this tiny little dress I bought her. It’s so tight around her breasts that I can’t get my fingers underneath, but her nipples have beaded through the thick fabric, and her tits look heavy and swollen the more I work them.

“We have to stop,” she manages to say in between kisses—as if she hasn’t been kissing my face for literally sixteen minutes like a woman trying to make up for lost time.

I let her. I’m generous like that.

“There’s, like, four hundred people out there. They can all entertain each other,” I reply before I unabashedly extend my tongue to the base of her neck and lick the entire column. “I want to make you squirt on my face.”

“Dalton!”

“You have to be quiet though, baby,” I urge, grinding against her bare, exposed pussy. “I can’t have four hundred people hearing you moan. They’ll all know how you devolve into a horny, shameless mess when your cunt gets filled with something thick.”

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