Page 125 of Masks and Mishaps

It all comes together at once. The cum-soaked cock in my ass—the one I devirginized tonight. The thickness in my pussy. The bulbed head plunging into my throat. They come together in a triumvirate of pleasure, but it’s the eternal promises from Dalton’s lips that send me over the edge.

My climax is rapturous and loving at the same time, pulsating, throbbing with sensation. I’m wrung out with satisfaction, succumbing to the tendrils of decadence that grip me.

My boyfriend smiles at me, whispering admiring words while I come once and then twice, squirting my release and inundating us both. It’s the same smile I saw two years ago, when I met a guy in a bar and knew he’d be mine one day. I knew I would be his too. To use. To love.

To take care of.

Dalton lays next to me, sweaty and spent. “We should shower,” is the first thing he says, and I can’t help but laugh. Grinning, he tugs me close. “Part one done. You think Weston is going to take the bait?”

“No doubt in my mind,” I reply. “But I’ll think about it later. Right now, all I want to think about is how much I love you, Dalton. Thank you.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. I should be the one thanking you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me bask in the glow of your terrifying shine, Esmeralda Ximena Romero,” he replies, cupping his hand over my pussy to pull me closer to him. “And for embracing my mishaps and messes.”

“It’s about to get messier,” I reply, resting my head against the tattoo he got for me. “How do you think it’s going to go?”

“Honestly?”

I nod.

“It’s going to be chaotic as fuck,” Dalton replies, sighing.

I chuckle. I know he’s right, but I’m surprisingly at ease with what’s on the horizon. “Luckily,” I say, “I don’t mind a little chaos.”

Forty-Five

ESSIE

Hannington-Haleprickleswiththeenergy of pageantry on Monday morning. All the interns are wearing their best business attire, and the bullpen has morphed from a moneymaking pit into a haven for pre-capstone jitters. Freshly roasted coffee permeates the air, and the usual sound of clacking keyboards and phone calls has been replaced with laughter and conversations.

Weston flinches when he sees me, but he tracks my movements. After I place my bag at my station and settle into my chair, he puts a coffee in front of me.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Dalton warns, appearing behind Weston. He drops the entire cup into the trashcan between our desks before his eyes meet mine. “Morning,” he says as if I didn’t sleep in his arms last night—as if he didn’t tell me he loved me eight times while he bent me over the bathroom counter and watched our bodies in the mirror’s reflection.

“Hi,” I reply, smiling.

Dalton smiles back before he looks down at Weston. “VPs are meeting in the big room before the presentations. Do you want me to save the spot next to me? I’ll be on your dad’s right. As usual.”

Weston’s jaw clenches. “Yeah, Cavendish. I’d love to sit right next to you.”

Dalton gives me a long look, checking to see if I’m okay. I am.

Once Dalton leaves, Weston leans in, eyes slivered. “You think you can humiliate me with that stunt? This is the last day you’re ever going to step foot in an investment bank,” he spits.

I scoff. “I give fewer fucks than a monastery.”

Weston’s glare darkens. “Didn’t have to be this way, Romero.”

“You’re wrong. It was always going to be this way because I planned it this way, Hannington.” I toss my hair over my shoulder. “See you in there.”

***

Intern presentations are fifteen minutes long: fifteen minutes to summarize why someone’s life is worth changing.

Shane Anderson’s capstone is dull and dispassionate, but he’s the only intern interested in defense contractors, so he doesn’t think it matters. And Morgan Carter’s first slide has three typos, which is surely an automatic disqualification. Honestly, I’m underwhelmed.

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