Thirteen
ESSIE
I t’s not even ten when I learn my first finance lesson for the day: When an outrageously wealthy man dies, three things inevitably happen within the first few hours of his passing.
The first: His family starts talking about inheritance.
The second: His business associates start talking about…business, obviously.
The third: The stock market starts talking shit.
I’ve never seen the bank (or any workplace) devolve into panic so quickly. When the news broke, the central bullpen—the analyst and intern workstations—erupted. Since then, it hasn’t subsided below a flurry of ringing phones and analysts wrenching off their jackets and ties. On the overhead televisions mounted to the walls, tickers that were green this morning have flipped to red, and trend arrows have plummeted downwards like black diamond ski slopes.
For the second time today, someone in a suit sprints past my station to get to the glass-walled senior offices on the left side of the floor. He stumbles up the bullpen’s stairs, but makes a beeline for Dalton’s office, where Dalton is pacing behind his desk with his phone on his ear.
Dalton doesn’t flinch when his office door swings open, but he does face the guy who just entered. Panting, the guy clutches his side, holds up a stack of papers—
—and collapses in the middle of Dalton’s office, eliciting a collective gasp across the bullpen.
Before anyone can react, Dalton throws down his phone, leaps over his desk like a robber sliding over the hood of a getaway car, and kneels beside the unconscious analyst. His fingertips go to his neck in one beat, and in the next, he starts chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth.
Thirty seconds later, when the analyst rouses, the bullpen explodes into applause. Dalton is too preoccupied to notice.
He points to the chair on the other side of the desk, and before the guy even sits, Dalton picks up his phone once more and immediately begins talking because he just saved someone’s life. While muted. On a business call.
And as Dalton resumes his call, he rolls his chair over to his briefcase in the corner and produces a granola bar, which he passes to the analyst.
A flicker from one of the nearby television screens catches my eye, alerting us to yet another update in the story dominating the airwaves: the unexpected death of media billionaire Bernardo Villatoro.
“Did you know he had so much in the bank?” Weston asks, watching the screen as he speaks. “What do you think his AUM was?”
AUM: assets under management—or the amount of money Hannington-Hale managed for him.
“Technically zero,” I explain. “He made his investments under the umbrella of his holding company, Villatoro Enterprises, which did five hundred thirty-seven million with Hannington-Hale last year.”
There are countless ways for investment banks to make money, but Hannington-Hale—as a DC-based bank—focuses on defense and government contracts. The field is small, however, so having a gigantic holding company for a client is how a niche bank stays afloat and competes against the New York banks.
Villatoro Enterprises pays our salaries. The commissions on those transactions are the backbone of our cash flow.
I watch the news ticker on the bottom of the television. Market shock. Downward outlook. Dow faltering. Nasdaq stumbles. “He left it to his beneficiaries.”
Weston sighs. “If his heirs pull their money from the bank or temper their investments, we’re—”
“Screwed,” I fill in. “This man’s death may very well dent your own inheritance.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he mutters. With his eyebrows dusting the ceilings, he abandons his workstation and heads to the stairs leading to the executives offices—his father’s office.
With Weston gone, I turn my attention back to my monitor. With the day’s fluctuations, profit margins are becoming razor thin if not red. For the next few weeks, things are going to be exceedingly volatile while the market reacts to Villatoro’s death. Moments like this underscore just how risky it is to run a business on money and money alone.
Personally, I don’t mind volatility, but it’s not for everyone.
Hours later, when trading closes, the energy in the bank shifts from frenetic to discouraged. The calls die down, the stock tickers flatline on red, and nobody else passes out. Across the expanse of the bullpen, Dalton remains at his desk, reclined in his ergonomic chair and facing the ceiling. As if he senses me watching him, his eyes find mine over our colleagues’ weary heads.
He could be thinking about me. He could be thinking about the pussy he hasn’t tasted yet and the cum he wants to leave inside me.
After he left on Friday night, I rubbed the cum he put on my belly into my skin. It felt filthy and ridiculous, and I did it precisely for that reason—because filthy and ridiculous is what Dalton would have wanted.
And that’s not all I did with his cum.
Dalton keeps staring. Whether or not he realizes it, he’s eye fucking me like there’s not a sea of miserable people between us—and nobody eye fucks quite like Dalton. His gaze doesn’t settle, roving like he’s making individual plans for how he’ll worship each inch of me. His fingertips toy with the edges of his chair’s armrests, drawing small, lazy circles against the padding—the barest of caresses. He’s good with his fingers; he knows exactly what to do with his fingers.
This is my chance.
The best part about Dalton’s glass office is how he can see me coming, and no matter how hard he tries to be aloof, the way he traces my body is a tell: He likes to watch me walk. His eyes are still raking over me when he beckons me in with a tick of his fingers.
Seated at a tempered glass desk and surrounded by the immaculate touches of his modern, all-white office, he looks expensive. In the enclosed space, he even smells expensive—floral soap and cologne.
“So, how screwed is Hannington-Hale?” I ask once I’m in the fancy white chair on the opposite side of his desk. “And don’t lie and tell me it’s fine. I watched you perform CPR on a second-year analyst.”
The sigh he releases is languid and drawn out. “I actually forgot about Shaughnessy.”
Before I can respond, Dalton reaches back, opens the bottom drawer of a file cabinet, and takes out a bottle of bourbon.
“I stole this from my dad,” he explains as he pours liberally into his coffee mug. “Poor Shaughnessy. I think it was low blood sugar. Probably didn’t need to do mouth to mouth…I wonder if it’ll be weird between us now. I haven’t kissed a guy since college.”
My eyebrows rise.
“It was Everett,” he goes on without me asking. “Two times. Three—actually. First time was in high school because we were curious. Second time was also in high school when this guy in our chem class stole my Wheat Thins right out of my backpack. I said if he didn’t return them, I would seduce his boyfriend, and he said I didn’t have the balls to make out with a guy, so I had to prove him wrong—”
“In chem class?”
“No, we knew him from chem class,” Dalton clarifies before taking a sip of his spiked coffee and releasing a satisfied exhalation. “We actually made out during calculus class.”
“ How ?”
“With our mouths. I got my Wheat Thins back.” He grins. “And the third time was in college to piss off our dads.”
“Did it work?”
“Marvelously,” Dalton replies, full-on smiling now.
“Well, Shaughnessy is fine.”
Dalton doesn’t dwell on it—like saving someone is just another Monday for him. “The bank is dead if Villatoro’s heir doesn’t stick with us. Do you know about his daughter?”
I shake my head.
“It’s tense,” Dalton clarifies, releasing a measured breath. “We’re all going to have an interesting Christmas...”
“The dollar looks good against the euro even with the market ripples,” I mention. “That’s something.”
Dalton’s heavy eyes flick upwards to meet mine. “What’s your take on the euro?”
“Volatile—in a bad way. I wouldn’t short it.”
“I agree completely.” He straightens his spine and rotates in his chair to face me. Maybe it’s the bourbon, but he seems livelier than when I came in. “You’re good at this, Ess.” He eyes me over the rim of his mug, looking—dare I say—impressed.
Perfect. I take a deep breath. “Do you want to have dinner together?”
“Maybe. What are you in the mood for?” Another sip.
“I don’t know. How about a load of your cum in my throat?”
Dalton immediately spits coffee onto his desk. “ Shit ,” he grits, pulling a tissue out of the nearby box and dabbing at his tie. “Lander got me this for my seventeenth birthday. It’s practically vintage.”
“I just offered to let you feed me your cum, and we’re talking about ties—which, I’m sure you know, are weird gifts for seventeen-year-olds.”
“It’s Hermes,” he replies, and this guy is truly his mother’s son. Exhaling, he drops the tissue into the trashcan by his desk and pins me with a hard stare. “I already told you I’m not camming with you.”
“But you taught me to never take no for an answer.”
“Well, when it comes to sex, I strongly encourage you to disregard that advice if you ever want to live within five miles of a school.”
“Listen,” I pitch, leaning forward, “I’m not looking to make things complicated. Let’s agree on a schedule and a timeline. Clear parameters. Boundaries.”
Dalton considers me. “It’s a partnership,” he finally states.
“Exactly. No mess and minimal repercussions. We’ll wear masks and stay anonymous, and we’ll pre-record as much content as we can. Then, I’ll slowly release it until I graduate and start working full-time.”
“Estimate?” he responds like we’re talking prices out in the bullpen.
“My earnings will go down once the novelty wears off, but with the quality of your… assets , the drop won’t be precipitous. This is going to make both of us a ton of money.”
“Even with the cut the site takes?” he questions, and the derision is apparent in his tone. I’d only mentioned it in passing, but apparently the site’s cut bugged him.
“Yes.”
Dalton rests his chin on his hand and looks down. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, but eventually, he raises his head and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a worse idea, which is saying something because Cabrera recommended we try a Ponzi scheme if we’re concerned about payroll.”
“This money would change my life.”
“Money?” he demands. “If it’s about paying for Georgetown, let me handle it. I’ll pay your tuition, I’ll pay for Christian’s criminology degree, and I’ll pay for Luis and Tommy to go to MIT. I’ll put all four of you through grad school if that’s what it takes.”
“Absolutely not.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Are you seriously too prideful to accept money you need?”
“We’ll do it until the wedding,” I say, uncrossing my legs and crossing them in the other direction to distract him—and it totally works because his eyes dip downwards and linger. “Four weeks. That way, you won’t be my stepbrother when we’re filming. Hannington-Hale makes offers in December, so by the time I give my final internship presentation, we’ll be done with our contract. See? Not messy.”
“But I can’t fuck you without bringing feelings into it. You know how I feel about you. I haven’t even been with anyone else since I met you.”
The confession makes me inhale so forcefully that my nose stings. “Wait, what ?”
“I haven’t been with anyone since I met you,” he repeats word for word—and it’s so Dalton to say it twice. No obfuscation, no games. He just says it—and his expression darkens. “Have you been fucking a lot of people, Essie?”
I don’t respond. I’ve fucked Valeria and Cora during collaborations, but aside from them, I haven’t been with anyone either.
“Did they make it good for you?” he goes on, not waiting for an answer. “Did they pinch your nipples the way you like? No—don’t do that. Don’t look surprised. You know I know what you like, Emerald X.”
“It’s just sex.”
“You and I would be different. Do you really think you wouldn’t want more from me? Because I would always want more from you.”
“I could handle it.”
Dalton’s expression is skeptical. “You could sit on Lander and Valeria’s couch and watch a movie without remembering me on my knees for you, licking every inch of your nipples?”
My nipples are little sluts for immediately hardening at the memory. I swallow, suppressing my reaction. “Doesn’t mean I’d act on it.”
“And after four weeks, you could move on?” he continues, and his fingers go back to tracing his armrest with slow, lazy circles. “You could spend the rest of your life as my friend and stepsister and possibly colleague, knowing that for one month, we did everything together?”
“Dalton—”
“Everything,” he emphasizes, keeping his lips parted after he says the word. Then he wets them with his tongue before he says, “Because if you give me a month, Essie, I’m going to do everything to you. Not with you— to you .”
I cross my arms. He taught me how to make deals, so I know he’s trying to force a reaction from me. He has two plays:
The first: He remembers everything—a skill I’ve never seen anyone else wield quite so effectively. If I lie, he’ll catch me.
The second: He’s a charismatic but chaotic motherfucker, like a cross between a golden retriever and a centuries-old dragon who’s been bored since the Crusades. I cannot react. If I do, he’ll mirror my reaction and amplify it until I’m too riled up to be rational.
Luckily, I have three younger brothers; I could gray rock a hurricane.
“I would be fine.” Completely fine.
“For four weeks, I would live between your legs, filling your perfect, wet pussy with everything from my fingers to my tongue to my cock. Your gorgeous legs would be draped over my shoulders and shaking, and you would drench the mattress from top to bottom. I still wouldn’t stop unless I was positive I couldn’t work another one out of you.” He cants his head, again waiting for a response.
I still don’t cave.
“I’d make it fit,” he continues, dropping his eyes to my legs again. “My cock. That cock you were gaping at like you couldn’t believe it was bigger than you imagined. Don’t deny it—I saw you drooling over it. And before you say you already know I fit in your pussy, don’t misunderstand me: I’m not talking about your pussy.” He smirks. “So how would that go? Would we play Monopoly together on family vacations knowing I once fucked that tight ass while you begged me to let you come?”
I’m completely fine. “I’m sitting in your office days after you came on my stomach. It’s not weird.”
He clicks his tongue, his eyes thin minutely, and I can see it—that quintessential Dalton Cavendish predilection for pandemonium. “And what about ten years from now? Are you going to introduce me to some cuck who thinks he can fulfill you as a husband even though I once fucked you airtight, Essie? Because I would. I’d stuff every one of your holes at the same time. You’d take my cock in one, of course, and then maybe a dildo in another. Maybe a vibrator. Could you handle all that? I bet you could. I think it would have you sobbing and pleading for release, but those pretty cum holes of yours could take it.”
Shit. He’s not bad. His dirty talk is already professional-level, which only makes me want this more. I layer an annoying, coy expression. “I’m sure you won’t be thinking about any of my holes. Hopefully, your future wife can distract you from the stepsister you screwed a couple times.”
His lips flatten into a line. “It’s a no, Essie.”
“The alternative—what you’re proposing—is that we never fuck again.”
“Then we never fuck again,” he says with obvious reluctance. “Stop tormenting me.”
I let out a sigh. “Fine. I didn’t want it to come to this, but you told me months ago that I deserve everything I want. Do you remember?”
“I was talking about your career.”
“And until I get a full-time offer from Hannington-Hale, camming is my career,” I remind him while I take out my phone. Watching him, I open my messaging app. “Consider this a last resort.”