Page 64 of Masks and Mishaps

Twenty-Four

ESSIE

Thewalkisawhirlwind, and holding Dalton’s bloodied hand and trailing him through the packed, post-concert streets outside the arena in Gallery Place is a version of foreplay I never envisioned.

He’s the human equivalent of a beacon on his feet, taller than everyone else—bigger than everyone else—and far more attractive than most people would ever be lucky enough to witness in a lifetime. I stay close, unsteady in my heels, marveling at the way the world seems to part for him—how the chatter of concertgoers and drunk Hill workers goes quieter for the brief moments when he’s around.

I don’t want to wait anymore; I’m going to let him fuck me.

And yet I understand how unfair this is to him. I can’t give him everything he wants, and taking what I need and depriving him of intimacy and affection and love feels borderline inhumane.

“Wait,” I protest.

He stops and faces me.

It’s the worst irony when I realize we’re mere feet from Hannington-Hale. The building is dark for once—Saturdays are the rare nights in banking when the world shuts down.

When I hesitate, Dalton pulls me close. “I had an epiphany,” he explains. “You were right when you told me I didn’t know you. The thought hurt me, Essie, because I like to think I know people. I’ve made a career remembering what they want and using that information when I need it.”

I don’t respond. To be honest, I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“But you don’t totally knowmeeither,” he goes on. “I can tell you though—and I can show you too. Will you let me?”

I nod, and to my surprise, Dalton leads me into Hannington-Hale.

The gloomy welcome screens in the lobby illuminate the marble tiles in faint white light, and the metronome click of our footsteps offsets the ping of my racing heartbeat. Dalton is moving fast, and the tightness of his hand around mine betrays his steadiness. He looks different. He feels different. There’s certainty in his motions like he knows exactly where he’s going and exactly what he’s doing, rather than operating on a whim as usual.

When the elevator arrives, the harsh lighting is jarring until we step into the car. Then Dalton has my back against the mirror lining the wall while he looms over me. He eyes me like he could devour me whole, and I let him, knowing my expression is likely just as ravenous.

“Fuck it,” I say before I throw my hands around his neck and kiss him again.

The heat deepens to the point of no return—where I’d be happy to hike up my dress and let Dalton fuck me in this elevator, but the ride stops far too soon.

He carries me.

The way he brings me straight to his office without stopping his indulgent exploration of my mouth is distressingly hot. He has muscle memory for this journey. This guy works so much that he could get here in his sleep—and I love that shit, I do, because how can I not be obsessed with a man who has ambition in his veins?

He shoves everything on his desk onto the floor—papers and pens and multimillion dollar deal packets—all to lay me over the surface. He scans my body, and his pupils are big and black and unceasing. “I’m never going to get over how beautiful you are,” he murmurs before he bends at the waist and presses his lips against mine.

I’m caught up in the kiss, in the weight of his body, and barely notice his movements—the rustling and shift of his figure before he holds up a mask: silky, black, and simple.

A frown conquers my face. “I thought…”

“Masks on,” he says needlessly. “I’d give anything to fuck you without one, but I want to prove I know what you need. Right now, all I want you to think about is fucking me. No worrying about tomorrow or my feelings—just this. This moment. You, me, our bodies—and doing what we both do best.”

What we both do best.

The mask sits comfortably on my face, and when I tie the satin ribbons in the back, the transformation sets in. Dalton’s mask covers half his face as well, and the stunning realization heplanned thishas me bursting at the seams.

He props my phone against the clear wall facing the pitch-black bullpen. Then, in true Dalton fashion, he’s unceremonious, tugging down the bodice of my dress and shoving up the skirt. “Jesus,” he blurts out. “Do youeverwear underwear?”

Elevating myself on my elbow, I look at my nearly naked body. “You said free-use, so…”

“But we were giving each other space tonight.”

“And neither of us believed you could actually stay away,” is my cheeky response.

Dalton lets out a slow sigh. “You’re so perfect,” he murmurs before he undoes the buttons on his shirt and strips. I can’t help but inhale.

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