Page 16 of Masks and Mishaps

I’m speechless, which hasn’t happened since my mother informed me she was going to marry Essie’s father and subsequently ruin my entire life. Like,thanks mom—way to bring me into the world and then implode it. Super appreciate it. Can’t wait to send you a Mother’s Day card. Definitely not going to buy you a bar of scented soap and pretend I got it in Paris when I actually got it at CVS—a place you’ve never been in your life.

But it’s true; I’m speechless. It’s legitimatelyridiculoushow beautiful she is.

Essie’s eyes travel down to my hand and stop there—and I look down too.

Oh. Damn.

My hands have tightened into fists of their own volition. When I look back at Essie, her top teeth have dented her lower lip, and she’s gazing at me—or at the mask where my face would be.

“You’re sure about this?” I ask, and part of me hopes she’ll be the one to stop us. We shouldn’t be doing this—I know, I know, I know…but I’m not known for my impulse control.

And to my chagrin—or relief—Essie nods. “You can make it hurt.”

Fuck.

She takes a small step forward. “I just hope it fits.”

FUCK.

I’m going to hell for this, which is fine by me because everyone knows the good fuckers go to hell. I bet it’s a nonstop orgy. I bet it’s, like, tits and sweat for eons—really nasty shit too.

Fine. I’ll accept my fate.

I put my hand on my mask to remove it, but Essie darts forward and tugs it back down. “It stayson,” she asserts, eyebrow raised in that stern way of hers. “Don’t try that again.”

Oh shit. I see what’s happening here…

…Essie’s a little freak, which bodes super well because I am too. I mean, not little, obviously.

Obviously.

“Anything you want,” I reply before I put my hands on her waist, lift her, and toss her onto the bed behind her. She sails phenomenally—like we could be figure skaters in another timeline—and when she bounces on the mattress, her tits bounce with her. Her little nipples are pointed right at the ceiling, erect and needy, and I want to kiss and suck and lick them more than anything. Butit stays on, my girl said, so the mask stays on.

Time for my hands to shine.

I climb over her splayed body, careful not to put too much weight on her, and I run my hand over her breasts. The first contact spurs an unfettered, wicked groan from my throat.

We’re actually doing this.

I can’t take my shirt off because of the mask, but I unzip my jeans and slide them down, taking my boxer briefs with them until I’m looming over Essie, half-naked.

Her jaw lowers.

Part of me wants to pretend it’s because she’s scoping out the thigh tattoo she’s likely never seen before. Part of me wants to pretend it’s because she’s finally seeing what it looks like when a guy takes leg day more seriously than the signing of the Magna Carta (which I don’t fully understand because I don’t remember what the Magna Carta is, but it’s some shit Everett mentions all the time, so it must be important).

I know it’s because she’s scoping out my dick.

Essie has wanted this dick for two years now. I know it. She knows it. Everyone knows it.

All that certainty doesn’t stop her from mouthing the words, “Holy shit,” before she reaches out, tugs me onto the bed, and rolls me onto my back.

When I’m laid out like a picnic, Essie straddles me and positions my erect cock upwards. Her hand doesn’t even fit around it, but she grips it firmly like I always knew she would—like a girl who loves a fat cock would. And in the fastest series of motions I’ve ever witnessed, she orients her pussy right over the head and sinks down onto me.

It’s my turn to say, “Holy shit.”

I’ve never, ever made a sound like the one I make when Essie seats her pussy around my cock in a single swoop. My groan isungodly.

Her pussy is the tightest thing I’ve ever felt, and the gravity of the moment is beyond definition. It’s momentous—and yet Essie is gyrating on me like she has no interest in memorializing it at all.

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