Page 44 of Masks and Mishaps

“Cabrera, how’s your desk going?” she asks immediately.

“Not bad,” he responds, facing us. He shrugs. “Cavendish put me on a pretty big account.”

“Foster,” I confirm as I pull my fingers out and slide them to her asshole, where the tight, puckered skin I’ve fantasized about is waiting for me.

Cabrera bobs his chin at Essie. “So is it true you’re just doing computer stuff?”

“Yes,” Essie confirms—and I don’t like her downplaying it, so I slip the tip of my finger into her hole. “Algorithmic modeling,” she clarifies, taking the hint. “I’m maximizing profit potential by reducing inefficiencies from transaction delays.”

The guys stare back at her, expressions blank.

Fighting my instincts, I wait, expecting Essie to say more, but nothing—not a word.

“Essie is doing great,” Weston interjects, slurring slightly. “You should check out the model.”

Cabrera snorts and glances at Barnett. “I’m all set—”

“And what the hell have you done, Cabrera?” I interrupt. I take my fingers out from Essie’s skirt—reluctantly, but I do my best intimidation when my hands aren’t knuckle-deep in the finest pussy I’ve ever seen.

The room goes quiet save for the music playing from the speakers in my living room.

“I mean it. Your capstone is in a few weeks, and you’ll have to do this anyway, so tell me what you’ve done.”

Cabrera shoves his hand through his hair. He’s sweating. “I—”

Essie shoots me a look. Shit. I went overboard.

“Cabrera, I’m fucking with you. You’re doing great,” I lie; he’s pretty average.

Cabrera forces a smile, but he doesn’t talk to Essie anymore, and she doesn’t talk to any of them either.

…We’ll have to work on that.

Nineteen

DALTON

Thirtyminuteslater,I’mgetting the interns and Weston into coats, listing off the best bars in the neighborhood, and ushering them out the door.

Essie follows closely, but I catch her by the arm.

“You stay,” I whisper.

As soon as the door closes, Essie fixes a glare on me. It lasts three seconds, partially because Essie likes me too much to stay mad, and partially because I’m holding up my shirt and showing her my abs.

…I mean, if we’re being honest, it’s mostly because of my abs.

“What are you doing?” she questions, but she doesn’t look away. In fact, her eyes are locked on the ridges of my muscles and she’s biting her lower lip, denting it.

“I’m delaying the scolding you were about to give me for making you come over…and then notmaking you come,” I explain, notching my shirt higher so one of my nipples peeks out. “How are we feeling? Horny and not mad?”

“Still mad,” she replies before she shifts her attention to my face. “Your abs aren’t miracle workers.”

“Sounds fake.” I drop my shirt and close the space between us. “We need to talk.”

“What is it? Did Warner—”

“Nothing bad,” I assure her, cupping her shoulders with my palms.

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