Page 87 of Masks and Mishaps

I want to do this forever.

Essie has to put her hands on my shoulders and lever herself to get my cock out of her, and she beams as she grabs her laptop from my dresser and plants it on the end of the bed.

While she works, I switch the camera feed back to the laptop. Then I bring a damp towel over to her, and spread her legs so I can drag the warm cloth over her pussy and asshole.

“Five minutes,” I say in warning once I’m done. Then I sit next to Essie and watch her wind down the final minutes of the stream. She reaches over, and her fingertips dance over the ink on my thigh, absentminded and natural. I wonder how the points of connection between us feel for her. Her body fits mine like a glove, but so does her quintessential being—the very Essie-ness of it all. Does she feel it too? Does she wonder if there could ever be anyone else so perfect for her?

The expectation has always beenless.You’re too big, Dalton. You’re too loud. Sit still. Drink less. Be less.But Essie always asks for more.

I jolt with surprise when she snaps the laptop shut. Now that the stream is over, I peel my mask off and toss it aside. Essie does the same. She smiles.

I don’t smile back for once.

She’s naked, entirely exposed, pussy still pink and bearing traces of her arousal and her cum. “What’s wrong?” she asks, voice sweet as always.

My restraint never stood a chance.

I crash my lips against hers, taking her mouth in a kiss that starts hungry and somehow grows more ravenous with each passing second. I know it won’t last—it never lasts.

And then she doesn’t stop me.

She’s tugging me on top of her, urging me onto her naked and ready body.

She’s going to let me fuck her.

She’s going to let me kiss her and worship her, and maybe she’ll fall asleep in my arms.

But we can’t do this.

I promised her I would take care of everything. I promised I would be her Daddy.

I wrench my lips away and spring off the bed. Every part of my body wants her—my heart most profoundly—but she’s counting on me.

“You were amazing,” I make myself say, pretending the kiss was a show of admiration. The words are true, but the intent is a lie. I’m proud of her—but it’s not why I kissed her.

Luckily, Essie is still smiling. “We’re amazing together. Do you want to see how much we made?”

I force another smile, making sure this one reaches my eyes. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, sweetheart,” I say, sitting on the bed next to her again. “That’s all.”

Thirty

ESSIE

Allweekend,Idon’ttell Dalton about Weston, and luckily, I don’t have to yet. On Monday, instead of going to Hannington-Hale, Dalton and I pull up at Hawthorn Hall, Alyssa and Dalton’s ancestral home in Rhinebeck where we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving and the wedding. At the end of a tree-lined road, green tendrils of vines emerge from the ice-frosted ground, coating the estate in centuries-old vegetation that weaves and tangles through black shutters against the pristine white siding.

It’s unusual to see my three younger brothers on the stone steps of a house with an indoor fountain that exceeds our collective net worth, but they’re here. Luis and Tommy, the twins, have facial hair now—hideous and thin, but they love it. They’re freshmen at MIT, both eighteen and studying computer science, and I’ve gotten so much more sleep now that they’re in the same time zone as me. Christian, at twenty, is the closest in age to me and a sophomore at Boston College. We exchange a look before he hugs me, and I recognize the flat line of his mouth, tucked as if to say,The fuck is going on right now.

Dalton greets each of my brothers with big bear embraces, playing the role of a good host even though he just arrived. His game is subtle, but I see how he can tell the twins apart even though he’s only met them once before; how he shakes Christian’s hand when they end their hug like he’s acknowledging him as the oldest boy; how he leaves generous space between us when we’re around my brothers—soon to be his as well.

When it comes to Dalton, the twins are like moths to a flame. Christian gives me one more extended look, and I dip my chin in acknowledgement: We’re four poor kids from California whose mother immigrated from Mexico when she was nineteen, and we’re about to get a twenty-nine-year-old, six-foot-five financier with a trust fund and a roman numeral IV after his name for a brother.

The scenario is even more surreal when I think about how I work with this guy and fuck him too.

Alyssa breezes into the foyer next and makes a beeline for me. Her arms wrap around my back while she murmurs, “My love, I’m so happy you’re finally here,” and I can’t comprehend how a hug could bestow a feeling of home in a place I’ve never been and with a woman I’ve only known for two years.

I look at Dalton, who’s already glancing in our direction with a half-smile on his face, and despite how much I’ve dreaded this week, this moment is a snowdrop flower emerging through the winter ice.

The chill turns stark when I notice my father standing by the staircase. Only then does the riskiness of our contract dawn on me.

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