Page 24 of Masks and Mishaps

“Yes.” My response is immediate.

A beaming grin spreads across her face. “Really?” She clasps her hands together and tucks them under her chin.

“You’re kidding, right? This is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

Essie throws her arms around me. “Dalton,thank you,” she breathes, speaking into my chest. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Wow. We’ve only fucked once, but she’s already thanking me for it, which is understandable. I slutted myself out for the better part of a decade, so I’m good at what I do. But I’ll be honest: Nobody has ever beenthisgrateful for my dick.

Guess I really exceeded all her expectations last night.

I scoop her up and drop her onto Lander and Valeria’s couch.

“Wait—right now?”

“Hell yeah,” is my response while I stand over her and tug off my sweatshirt and shirt. Without breaking eye contact, I throw them to the side, not bothering to look where they land…

…until I hear a thud. Shit. I think I broke something.

“I’ll pay for that,” I assure her, clearing my throat. “Where were we?”

“You don’t want to wait until tonight?”

“Can’t.” I pause. “Do I need a condom?”

Essie pauses too. After a beat, she shakes her head. “I have an IUD.”

“No condom,” I murmur. “No fucking condom.”

I undo my belt buckle before I lower to the ground and kneel on the floor between her legs, spreading them wider. I place my hands on her denim-clad thighs and slide them up, feeling the heat of her skin through the fabric.

Essie always looks perfect. Her hair, her makeup—even the delicate earrings she wears—everything matches. If she’s anything like me, she endured a sleepless night memorizing the marks on the ceiling in between pacing and rewatching our stream. Still, she looks perfect today.

It helps that Essie is so incomprehensibly beautiful.

When I met her, it was the first time I saw her unmasked, and I was legitimately blown away. Some people glow, but Essie Romero was iridescent. Her big brown eyes stared up at me through the awning of her long eyelashes, and I knew—I just knew—I was in so much trouble.

I texted Everett and Lander that night:Hey, I’m going to marry that one. They thought I was kidding.

I was not fucking kidding.

Over the following weeks, I set out to memorize the parts of her face that had been covered by her mask. I learned the precise shape of her pink apple cheeks and the swoop of her round nose that so elegantly flowed down from her full eyebrows. I contemplated the exact placement of the sparse freckles on her nose when her skin gets sun-kissed in the summer.

But my favorite part about Essie has always been her little grin. Her plump, rosy lips—heart-shaped when she’s not smiling—offset her smirk. For months, that smile graced my presence during late nights prepping her for banking interviews, sometimes until the early hours of the morning.

She’s smiling again today.

“You’re so handsome,” she murmurs, placing her hand on the side of my face against my jawline.

“Not interested in talking about me,” I reply, moving my hands higher. My fingertips sail over her flat stomach, skimming her abdomen when she breathes. When my fingers find and move a shoulder strap, she doesn’t stop me.

I turn my attention to the other side. Now, both straps dangle on her upper arms, exposing the top of her cleavage and teasing at what waits mere inches below the edge of the fabric. I tug the straps until her top slips over her breasts.

No bra.

In the gold morning light, Essie’s nipples have never looked more tempting: warm brown and pearled, surrounded by the speckles and bumps on her areolas.

“Ess,” I murmur, running my hand along the underside of her breast, watching as goosebumps emerge in the wake of my touch. “You have no idea how many times I jerked off to these tits.”

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