Page 70 of Masks and Mishaps

My scoff is so loud that it makes him flinch. “For my own stream? It starts in an hour, and let’s be clear: I’m never late because it starts when I’m here.”

“I know. I was just excited to see you,” he confesses, grinning before he runs his hand through his hair, mussing it. “I’m always excited to see you.”

Fuck me—he’s so cute.

“I was excited to see you too,” I admit, and his face beams so brightly that NASA may look into it.

It’s been five days since we hooked up on his desk and decided we would continue our contract. Tonight, we’re doing our first (technically second) stream together, and we’ve spent the last five days planning and waiting, and planning and waiting, and when we haven’t been planning and waiting, we’ve been working.

Needless to say, the last five days have felt like five years.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks. “I bought a case of those coconut waters you like so you can stay hydrated—”

“To squirt on you.”

“No, you little freak. It’s to keep your electrolytes up,” he replies, leading me to his kitchen with a smirk that clearly says,I want you to squirt on my fucking face. He takes one of the cartons out of his fridge. “Drink,” he encourages.

“I’m not in the mood.” I’m lying.

Dalton’s eyebrow rises. “Ess,” he warns. His placid expression slowly transforms into admonishment with a hint of a threat—something I’d enjoy even under the guise of a punishment.

“What?” I question, equal parts innocent and probing. “I don’t want it.”

“You need it,” he emphasizes, extending the box further. “I know what you need.”

“I need cock,” is my response. I cross my arms.

“You’re about to get plenty, so let me prep you before I fuck the shit out of you.” His tongue pokes through his lips, wetting them before he murmurs, “I’ll be rough like we talked about—like a frustrating little tease deserves to be fucked on camera.”

Fair enough.

I hold out my hand, and Dalton unscrews the plastic top before giving it to me. While I drink, he leans back against the marble countertop and doesn’t bother hiding his satisfaction.

Triumphant, I place the empty box on the counter, but before I can walk away, Dalton catches me. “You did so good. But you’ll do anything for my cock, won’t you? Bet you’d pay for it—as much as I’d pay to fuck your pretty little cunt for the rest of our lives,” he drawls like a man who knows I’m a sure thing—who knows he can say and do whatever he wants for the next few minutes because no matter what, I’ll be on his dick before the night is over.

So, I wait. Dalton lives for a reaction, after all.

His eyes narrow slightly—a microscopic sign of confusion—but he recovers quickly. In true Dalton fashion, his recovery involves my pussy.

He pats the marble counter. “Panties off, skirt up, and bend over,” he delivers—seven words, one breath, and the most self-satisfied expression I’ve ever seen. The order is abrupt. Horny. Bizarre.

Classic Dalton Cavendish.

But I’ll uphold my duties. I signed up for free-use, so he gets free-use.

Classic Essie Romero.

“What panties?” I question before I look him in the eye, lift my skirt over my butt, and bend over.

Between most couples, this scenario would be a test of wills and a show of degradation, but Dalton and I aren’t into that. Both of us are far too horny for me to stand quietly and wait for instructions in humiliated silence.

“Take out your cock and write your name on my ass in pre-cum,” I request, not bothering to look back.

Naturally, Dalton loves this shit. He takes in a sharp breath through his nostrils, and his hand goes to my ass cheek. “I knew you’d be fun to use,” he muses, dragging his fingers over my skin. “You won’t let me buy you, but I knew you’d let me claim you.”

Claim me.And then I feel it—the smooth bulb of his cockhead against my ass and the unmistakable shapes of letters.

DA on one cheek.

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