Page 68 of Masks and Mishaps

I do one more pass over her lips, and the wipe comes away clean. “I did this for Mom when my grandmother died.”

Essie’s eyes drift to the side, and she’s lost in thought before she says, “When my mom died, Tommy had trouble sleeping until I started combing his hair with a ton of gel in the mornings like Mom did.”

I want to know what anyone did for Essie, but instead I ask, “What was her name?”

“Ximena Romero,” Essie replies. “We started using her last name instead of Dad’s after she died.”

It’s a lot to take in, but every syllable feels precious. A privilege. I lean forward like I want to kiss her, but I stop short, resting my forehead against hers.

“How did you know I needed help?” she asks, putting her hand on the button on my pants.

“The bartender texted me. I’m friends with a lot of bartenders.”

Essie doesn’t question it. She moves her hand higher, sliding it under the edge of my shirt. “They like to see you,” she murmurs.

“Who?”

“My subscribers. They all want us to stream together again.” She pauses. “Well, almost everyone. One of my biggest customers messaged me and said he can’t believe I’m fucking ogres now.”

“Ogres?” I question, suppressing a chuckle. “Sounds jealous. What’s his name?”

“Make_it_Rain.”

“How breathtakingly embarrassing.”

“Your username used to be Cock_of_the_Bay,” she reminds me, and there’s a wry, judgy little smile on her face now.

“Damn right it was. You know, sitting on the cock of the bay, watching the tide roll away,” I sing like Otis Redding before adding, “It was a tribute to the Chesapeake Bay and my annual St. Michaels trip with Lander and Everett.”

Essie’s eyes widen before she starts laughing out loud. Eventually, I join her, keeping my arms around her until our laughter subsides and she rests her head against my chest. God, this girl is gorgeous—and she needs to sleep.

“I’ll take the floor,” I offer.

Essie shakes her head. “Get in with me.”

Once I’m in my boxer briefs, sitting upright in the too-small dorm bed, Essie snuggles against my leg and nuzzles her face against my skin. Her lips graze my thigh, touching my tattoo—and fuck, it’s a sight. Then her tongue pokes out, and I think…

…I think shelickedmy thigh.

I give her earlobe a caress, and she does it again. Her tongue drags over the lines of the treehouse, my treehouse—my place—as her hand moves to my half-hard cock.

“Essie,” I warn.

“I’ve wanted to lick this thigh fortwo years,” she replies with more conviction than I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

I burst out laughing. I want to tell her I love her, but I hold back for once, using that verbal filter thing everyone is always talking about.

Once she’s had her fill of my thigh, Essie looks up at me with sleepy eyes. “Dalty, was your father the one who made you believe you were a fuck up?”

My hand stills, no longer stroking her cheek. She knows she’s right—and I know where this is going.

“We both have daddy issues,” I say with a sigh. “You called me Daddy tonight. Then I calledmyselfDaddy, which I’ve only done once when I was at this steakhouse with Everett and I said, ‘Come to daddy’ to a ribeye as a joke, and then Everett said he hated me, which was, like,reallycruel because I had just bought him a basil plant for his birthday.”

“That’s extremely thoughtful.”

“But tonight I called myself Daddy and you flooded my cock,” I finish.

She’s a statue, face etched flat and illegible. Her big eyes follow the path of my hand now raking through my hair.

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