Page 30 of Masks and Mishaps

The best part about Dalton’s glass office is how he can see me coming, and no matter how hard he tries to be aloof, the way he traces my body is a tell: He likes to watch me walk. His eyes are still raking over me when he beckons me in with a tick of his fingers.

Seated at a tempered glass desk and surrounded by the immaculate touches of his modern, all-white office, he looks expensive. In the enclosed space, he evensmellsexpensive—floral soap and cologne.

“So, how screwed is Hannington-Hale?” I ask once I’m in the fancy white chair on the opposite side of his desk. “And don’t lie and tell me it’s fine. I watched you perform CPR on a second-year analyst.”

The sigh he releases is languid and drawn out. “I actually forgot about Shaughnessy.”

Before I can respond, Dalton reaches back, opens the bottom drawer of a file cabinet, and takes out a bottle of bourbon.

“I stole this from my dad,” he explains as he pours liberally into his coffee mug. “Poor Shaughnessy. I think it was low blood sugar. Probably didn’t need to do mouth to mouth…I wonder if it’ll be weird between us now. I haven’t kissed a guy since college.”

My eyebrows rise.

“It was Everett,” he goes on without me asking. “Two times. Three—actually. First time was in high school because we were curious. Second time was also in high school when this guy in our chem class stole my Wheat Thins right out of my backpack. I said if he didn’t return them, I would seduce his boyfriend, and he said I didn’t have the balls to make out with a guy, so I had to prove him wrong—”

“In chem class?”

“No, we knew him from chem class,” Dalton clarifies before taking a sip of his spiked coffee and releasing a satisfied exhalation. “We actually made out during calculus class.”

“How?”

“With our mouths. I got my Wheat Thins back.” He grins. “And the third time was in college to piss off our dads.”

“Did it work?”

“Marvelously,” Dalton replies, full-on smiling now.

“Well, Shaughnessy is fine.”

Dalton doesn’t dwell on it—like saving someone is just another Monday for him. “The bank is dead if Villatoro’s heir doesn’t stick with us. Do you know about his daughter?”

I shake my head.

“It’s tense,” Dalton clarifies, releasing a measured breath. “We’re all going to have an interesting Christmas...”

“The dollar looks good against the euro even with the market ripples,” I mention. “That’s something.”

Dalton’s heavy eyes flick upwards to meet mine. “What’s your take on the euro?”

“Volatile—in a bad way. I wouldn’t short it.”

“I agree completely.” He straightens his spine and rotates in his chair to face me. Maybe it’s the bourbon, but he seems livelier than when I came in. “You’re good at this, Ess.” He eyes me over the rim of his mug, looking—dare I say—impressed.

Perfect. I take a deep breath. “Do you want to have dinner together?”

“Maybe. What are you in the mood for?” Another sip.

“I don’t know. How about a load of your cum in my throat?”

Dalton immediately spits coffee onto his desk. “Shit,” he grits, pulling a tissue out of the nearby box and dabbing at his tie. “Lander got me this for my seventeenth birthday. It’s practically vintage.”

“I just offered to let you feed me your cum, and we’re talking about ties—which, I’m sure you know, are weird gifts for seventeen-year-olds.”

“It’s Hermes,” he replies, and this guy is truly his mother’s son. Exhaling, he drops the tissue into the trashcan by his desk and pins me with a hard stare. “I already told you I’m not camming with you.”

“But you taught me to never take no for an answer.”

“Well, when it comes to sex, I strongly encourage you to disregard that advice if you ever want to live within five miles of a school.”

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