Page 25 of Masks and Mishaps

Her smile broadens, but her mien is outright lusty. “Here,” she murmurs, handing me her phone.

I take it, confused at first, but she dips her chin.

“Do it.”

Of course she knows I’m obsessed. I take a picture of those luscious tits and text it to myself before I put the phone on the couch. “Say it,” I instruct, putting my face close to hers.

Essie’s eyes bore into mine. “Say what?”

“Say the shit you were saying in the elevator,” I urge, rubbing my palm against my cock. It’s hard in my pants, swelling with blood with every passing second.

But she’s toying with me. Her hand goes to the small letter X tattooed on my pectoral, and she traces the diagonal lines with a shiny gold fingernail. “You got a new one,” she mentions. Then her fingertips move to my ribcage, caressing the flowers stretching from my abdomen to my back. “And you have one on your thigh. How many do you have now?”

“Four,” I reply hastily. “Now, say it. You made me repeat what I said the night I met you. Now, I want you to repeat what you said, Essie.”

Finally, Essie bites her lip and says, “I’m offering it to you,” and it takes everything I have not to mouth the words along with her. “My body. Use it however you want.” And she pushes her top to her waist, giving me more of her skin.

“Yes,” I mutter, undoing the button on her jeans with a flick of my thumb. “Say the last part.”

“Pick a hole, Dalton.”

She’s not even done speaking when I dive forward and attach my mouth to one of her nipples, finally getting the taste I wanted.

I’m fucking ruined.

I switch to the other one, and the swollen nub presses against my lips. Her nipples are outrageous. The tips are entirely suckable—and that’s the thing about Essie: Her body legitimately looks like it was made for fucking.

“I’ve been dreaming about tasting these nipples for two years,” I groan. “You don’t know how many times I wanted to hook my finger in those little tops you wear.”

Essie lets out a smooth moan and parts her legs even wider. “How do they taste?”

“Delicious,” I reply, lapping at the tip. “Tell me how it’s possible they’re actuallysweet.”

Her response is breathy. “I put cocoa butter on them—wait, slow down.”

“Please don’t make me,” I nearly whine. The pause is agony—literal agony.

“Hold on. I’ll set up my phone.”

“What for?” I ask while I play with the nipple I’m not allowed to suck right now—rude.

“For filming,” she replies.

And my stomach plummets—and I meanplummets.It’s a skydive without a parachute. It’s a satellite crashing to Earth.

It’s typical.

This one time when I was thirteen, I was pretty sure my dad was going to surprise me with tickets to the Super Bowl for my birthday. I hadn’t been subtle about wanting to go—at all. In fact, I’d basically wandered down to breakfast one day, nudged the newspaper he was reading so I could see his face, and said, “Hey, can we go to the Super Bowl?” To which my father had said, “Football?” At which point, Mom chimed in and said, “Of course, my darling. Of course we can.”

And then my birthday rolled around, and instead of tickets to the Super Bowl, Frank informed me we were having lunch with Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

…Which, yes, in retrospect was, like, the third best day I’ve ever had, but at the time was really fucked up.

My reaction to Essie’s declaration is as bad as the Super Bowl/RBG switch.

“You were asking me to film,” I realize aloud before I rise to my feet. “Shit.”

“I thought you said—”

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