Page 120 of Masks and Mishaps

I resist the urge to close the sides of my robe and cover the lingerie set I’m wearing underneath, but he wanted a camgirl, so he’s getting a camgirl—lingerie, mask, and all.

I layer a smile on my face. My skin is crawling, but I can fake it—I don’t give a shit. “This way.”

Weston follows me into Cora’s bedroom.

“Here,” I guide, patting the bed. “Climb on.”

He seats himself with his back against the pillows and his legs extended. He’s wearing a button-down and black pants, treating tonight like a special occasion—a little gift he bought himself.

Repulsive. And still, I hop on.

His lap feels small compared to Dalton’s, but I put my hand on his cheek. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

Part of me wants to tell him to turn back now—this motherly instinct that recognizes a young man is about to do something very, very shortsighted. Another part of me, a part that doesn’t feel responsible for teaching heinous men how to predict the consequences of their actions, can’t wait.

“Give me your phone,” I request, holding out my hand.

For the first time tonight, Weston hesitates.

“It’s your phone,” I remind him, raising my hand higher. “You can do whatever you want with it.”

“What isit, exactly?”

“I’m going to film us,” I reply, smiling more broadly. “Do you consent to that? To me filming you screwing me, Weston?”

Weston blinks.

“Isn’t this half of the fantasy? You wanted a camgirl.” I tug on the collar of his shirt. “You know I take pride in my work.”

“Okay,” he agrees—like I knew he would. “You can film me.”

I set his phone against the nightstand lamp until I have the angle right and we’re both in frame. “Hey, you look good on camera,” I lie. “But sit on your hands.”

Riding the high of a compliment, Weston settles on his hands, wiggling them under his butt while I unbutton his shirt, exposing his chest. He watches me, pupils dilated, and he wets his lips.

Keeping my expression even, I push my robe down.

Weston’s eyes travel, taking in my sparsely clothed body. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs, which is the most uninspired dirty talk I’ve ever heard. Some men sayI want you so bad. Dalton Cavendish says things like,Every moment I spend not inside your sweet, dripping cunt is a year of agony that makes me want to learn how to bend time.And then, because he’s Dalton Cavendish, he’ll immediately say something like,But that seems like a ton of work, and I’d probably screw the timeline up and bring all the dinosaurs back.

I love him so much.

Dalton would do anything for me—truly anything. But more importantly, Dalton trusts that I can do anything.

Staring at Weston, I reach back and undo my bra—right as the bedroom door flings open.

And standing there in the doorway, looking menacing, is a shirtless, six-foot-five man wearing a Ghostface mask with a tattoo of an X over his heart.

Forty-Three

DALTON

WestonlooksterrifiedwhenI stand next to the bed where my girlfriend is currently topless in his lap. He holds up his hands. “She agreed—”

“I know what she agreed to,” I reply, for once enjoying the way the mask muffles me. It’s scarier.

A smile spreads across Essie’s face when she looks at me. I’m smiling back, but nobody can see it, and it’s better that way. I place my hand on her chin and drag my thumb across her jawline, tracing the curve, admiring her. She’s doing so, so good, which is no surprise. This was her idea, after all.

---