Page 71 of Masks and Mishaps

…DDY on the other.

When he’s done, he skims his fingers against my pussy, teasing but not entering. “Go get dressed, baby.” His words are a rolling whisper. “Put on your pretty new outfit—the one I picked.”

Go. I have to go. If I don’t, I’m going to beg him to fuck me right here on this counter—and if I beg, Dalton will give me whatever I want.

I brush past him and grab my tote bag before I head to his bedroom. I stop in my tracks.

Situated in the middle of the room, pointed directly at Dalton’s bed, is a tripod and a professional camera.

Dalton appears in the doorway moments later. His cock is tucked away and zipped up, but he’s doing that thing where he runs his fingers over the shadow on his jawline like he’s contemplating how he can get his mouth between my thighs.

“What the hell is that?” I gesture at the camera.

“Don’t you love it?” He weaves around me and pets it like such a boy. “I can’t wait to fold you in half and make you whimper in front of this thing.”

“Can you relax,” I reply, letting out a sigh—a sigh that barely masks how ready I am for Dalton to turn me into origami.

“I literally cannot,” is his immediate response. He smiles at me, and that dazzling smile is still the most preternaturally beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Forcing myself to avert my gaze, I tap the power button, and the viewfinder glows blue before it displays Dalton’s perfectly framed bed. He obviously set it up before I arrived. “How much did you spend?”

He shrugs. “Fourteen…fifteen, maybe.”

“Hundred?” I blurt out.

“Thousand,” he clarifies.

“Thousand?But we’re only doing this for two more weeks…”

“And you assured me we would make more than the cost of this camera,” he reminds me, linking his hands behind his back. His posture is casual but business-like. “Consider it an investment. I’ll even write it off on my taxes.”

“You can’t write this off,” I protest, glancing at the innocuous little camera that apparently costs more than a Nissan. “You’d have to file as a self-employed performer.”

“Fair enough. You’ll write it off.”

“But I didn’t pay for it.”

“You’re afraid of tax fraud?” The corner of his mouth rises. “I know we haven’t gotten to this chapter in your banking education yet, but let’s skip ahead: You’re probably going to commita littlewhite-collar crime every now and then.”

My lips part, but before I can protest, Dalton pushes the record button. “Get on the bed.”

“But we’re streaming in half an hour—”

“Be a good girl,” Dalton enunciates, “and get on the bed.”

There’s not a bone in me—not a drop of blood—that feels compelled to disobey. The only objections are from my rational brain, who knows our relationship should be purely professional and nothing more.

Fuck it.

I sit on the end of the bed, and the whole thing feels deliciously porny until Dalton flips the viewfinder around.

“Look how pretty you are,” he murmurs, unbuttoning his shirt as he speaks. “The only camera that should ever record you is a professional one like this. Lean back.”

I drop to my elbows. “Like this?” The words come out soft.

“On your stomach.”

Once I’ve flipped, I flinch from surprise when he drags his fingertips up the back of my thigh. Air meets skin when he lifts my skirt. Turning my head, I let my cheek touch the luxurious white duvet cover, and the bed smells expensive like Dalton.

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