Page 115 of Masks and Mishaps

My hands are shaking, but I face him and dip my chin. “I understand.”

“Good.” Weston wears his usual beaming smile, but for once, I notice how hollow it is. “You’re going to go back to your desk and tinker with your little model, and you’re not going to say a word. If you do, I’m going to get up at your capstone and tell the entire staff what you and Cavendish are. Now, go.”

I do. The walk back to my station is a minute long, but it seems infinite—and I know Weston is behind me.

When I take a seat, my monitor is dark. My face looks back, mirrored in the dead black screen, and by most standards, I look fine. The woman in my reflection is young and she’s pretty. Her cheeks have always been rosy, and her eyelashes are full like a cartoon princess. When she forces a smile, it looks real—it floats to her eyes, and she looks happy to be here in this bank, at this desk, next to a man who saw her and assumed she was weak.

I’m not fucking fine.

Anger is swelling in my chest. Tears are fighting against the smile I’ve plastered onto my face.

I worked for this opportunity. I earned it. To have it stripped away by a petty, small man is a fate too many women endure, but not me—notme.

Part of being a camgirl is understanding what makes men feel powerful and giving it to them.

Weston wants to feel powerful. And absent of an opportunity to feel powerful against his father and against Dalton, he waited for someone small enough and weak enough for him to use as he saw fit. He chose me because he assumed I was meek, and he threatened me and the man I love.The man I love.

But knowing how to make someone feel powerful makes it easy to take their power away. Weston can underestimate me; I encourage it, frankly. Because at this point, I have a motto I should bedazzle on a sparkly green bra that I can flash at men who think they understand me:

You don’t know a damn thing about me.

Forty-One

DALTON

“Icouldgetusedto this,” I announce when the most glorious sight on Earth greets me at my door. Essie is waiting with her hands clasped behind her back. Her expression is placid, almost serene, and I don’t even bother taking off my coat before I draw her into my arms. Our kiss is chaste but eager, and her mouth is hot against mine. I linger, indulging in the sensation of her hand curling around the back of my neck and sliding under my shirt collar to find my skin.

“I want to try something if you’re willing,” she mentions when we separate.

Something? Sick. Last time Essie wanted to try something, I fucked her down with her butt on my couch and her head on the floor. Ten out of ten—can absolutely recommend.

“I’m game,” I agree, grabbing a fistful of her dress and hiking up her short skirt.

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Don’t care. I’m game.”

Her expression is skeptical. “I’d be more flattered by your eagerness, but you once let Everett practice-paint your nails black before he did Cora’s, so I strongly suspect you’re game for anything.” She goes to the kitchen table. “Come here, Daddy.”

When I take a seat, she finally shows me what was behind her back: a pair of handcuffs.

“Let’s fuckinggo,” I murmur, watching the silver chain unfurl when Essie drops one end. “I’m so into that.”

“I knew you would be.”

I spread my legs—lap dance position. But Essie doesn’t straddle me when she cuffs my wrist to one of the chair arms. And after she takes a second pair of cuffs from the pocket of her sweater and binds me to the other arm, she takes an emphatic step away instead of getting into my lap and bouncing on that dick.

Or, like, taking out her boobs.

Huh. I am decidedly less into this now.

Essie’s expression is still serene on some level, but determined. Her pupils dance as she takes in my features, studying me not with scrutiny, but more like admiration. She bows, cups my cheeks with her hands, and says, “I have to tell you something.”

“So you’re not going to take your tits out?”

“…Mytits? For fuck’s sake. This is important.”

“So are your ti—”

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