Page 121 of Masks and Mishaps

Releasing my gentle hold, I step back. Weston reads the situation a beat too late (as usual), and before he can move Essie, I get on the bed behind her. My shins pin his legs, and while Wes makes a futile attempt to escape from underneath both Essie and me, I slip one of my hands behind Essie’s loosened bra cup. I do the same with the other, and once my hands are in place, Essie releases the bra. Now, the only thing keeping Weston from seeing her tits is me.

If I gave a shit about metaphors, I would find one here.

Essie tilts back, and her head rolls onto my chest while I massage her breasts. Shifting her arm over my neck, she makes me bend so she can reach my face. She sucks the skin below the edge of my mask, kissing me, licking me, showing the man whose lap she’s in that she belongs to me, that she’s mine.

And if she hadn’t brought her point home enough yet, she pushes her own mask away from her face.

Weston can see all of her.

And it’s not just her face, but all of Essie—all of the ruthlessness and want and ambition and shamelessness tied up in a girl so unbelievably perfect on the outside. On the inside? She’s perfect for me, but someone like Weston would never be enough for her. Essie would be wasted on simplicity—complicity—on a nepo baby whose ambitions could only amount to blackmailing a woman.

Weston’s eyebrows are high, but they go even higher when Essie takes my mask off next.

My lips find hers immediately, kissing her proprietarily, sliding my tongue into her mouth. When I open my eyes—still kissing Essie—I find Weston glaring at us with clenched fists and concentrated vitriol. He can’t do a damn thing about it.

I’ve done a lot of things—a lot. Frankly, my sluttiness knows no bounds. But cuckolding my boss’s son? That’s new.

And cuckolding is the most diabolical thing Essie could have done to Weston, which is poetic because reducing her value to sex was the most diabolical thing he could have done to her. She’s showing him that he can have everything, but he can’t have her.

I can have her though.

I can take his fatherandthe girl he wants.How does it feel, Weston? How does it feel to be powerless?

“Sweetheart,” I say, moving my lips off her mouth, “tell Weston who fucks you.”

“You do, Daddy,” she responds, looking right at him as she speaks.

“I do,” I reiterate. “And nobody else is ever,evergoing to put his dick into you.”

Weston’s expression goes from vitriol to outrage. Finally, he wrestles himself off the bed, but even once Weston is no longer beneath us, Essie doesn’t stop. She rotates in my lap to face me, not caring that my hands are no longer covering her breasts. And while Weston is watching us, she starts rubbing her nearly-naked body on me.

“I’m going to ruin you,” Weston warns, and the acridity in his words holds promise. He’s irate and compressing it deep into a place where Essie and I will surely encounter it later.

But if any part of me believed Essie would find Weston’s threats intimidating, she immediately snuffs those embers when she says, “I’m going to come that much harder on Dalton’s fat cock tonight, knowing you can’t actually do a damn thing to me, Weston.” She doesn’t even bother to take her mouth off mine when she speaks, and the level of unfiltered want it inspires in me is beyond compare.

The words “Evil cunt,” and a door slamming behind me are a sure indication Weston is gone.

Essie barely seems to notice. Her kiss continues and escalates, growing deeper and needier as her grinds evolve into more than frottage and foreplay. When her tiny moans have escalated into full groans, she shoves me onto my back and makes quick work of my pants.

Naked, I stare up at her, absorbing the wantonness in her hooded gaze, her heaving chest, and her roaming hands. We could stop now. We got what we needed. But right now, the moment feels different.

Essie’s hands clutch my cheeks, and she presses her lips against mine. The kiss is slow and indulgent, and the mere act of kissing has never been more obscene or felt more monumental. The only things between us are her skimpy panties and my thick cock, heavy with blood and weeping pre-cum at the tip. It’s pinned between our sweat-damp bodies, and she’s rubbing her perfect cunt on me. And what makes it so special isn’t the languid invasion of her tongue or the way she says my name alongside deities and profanities alike.

It’s the camera on us—the red light glowing across the room.

Weston never noticed it with Essie in her little robe in front of him. That’s the beauty of Essie: She’s so distractingly gorgeous and sweet that it’s nearly impossible to realize she’s so many steps ahead.

Frankly, even I don’t see it coming when she takes my hand, loops it around her back, and guides my fingertips along the crevice of her pert ass until I find it: a plug.

I blink, taking in Essie’s expectant expression. My surprise melts into curiosity. “How long…”

“Long enough,” she assures me, dragging her hand until it rests on my heart. “I can take it.”

She can take it.“Wow.” I breathe out, stroking the plug’s silicone base. It’s snug against the taut rim of her asshole, and her body shivers when I graze my fingers over the sensitive nerve endings. “Ess, I’ve never—”

“You’re going to tonight,” she interjects. “Let me be your first. Let me be your only one. Let me take care of you tonight.”

She’s offering something I’ve never tried even though I’ve been dying to do anal as long as I’ve known it existed. “I just don’t think it’s going to feel good.”

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