Sixteen
ESSIE
“W hat are you talking about?” I question, attempting to step back, but my bed is there.
“I’m going to eat your pussy,” Dalton repeats, alarmingly casual in his delivery before he pulls the mask over his face, covering everything but his eyes and his mouth. The black fabric is thick and wooly. Intimidating. Dangerous. The guy in front of me isn’t a double Ivy League graduate with a half million-dollar salary; he’s a near-faceless criminal ditching a break-in to carry out unspeakable acts. “Sit.”
“Dalton—”
“Sit. The fuck. Down.”
I narrow my eyes and sit, swallowing past the throbbing pulse in my neck. From my low dorm bed, he seems preternaturally tall—almost foreboding—and he’s looming over me. “I wasn’t planning on filming right now,” I counter, steadying my voice. “I’m busy. I have to tweak my model.”
“Always making plans,” he muses, pushing a lock of my bangs from my forehead. “You have a plan for everything, don’t you?”
“Making plans isn’t a bad thing.”
His fingers slide down the length of my hair, and he’s studying the ends when he says, “Plans are bad when you can’t change them to get your pussy eaten by a guy who looks—and licks—like I do.”
So cocky. “You made me wait two years. What’s another day or two?”
His laugh sounds genuine. “If you knew what it’s like to have my tongue in your pussy, tasting every slick, decadent inch of you, you would know how silly that statement is.” Dalton drops my hair and clicks his tongue. “I’m about to ruin you, sweet girl.”
Whatever. A lot of men believe they’re great at eating pussy, but a lot of men also believe they could score a point against Serena Williams in a tennis match (which, for the record, they could not). And while I have nothing but good things to say about Dalton, he’s certainly not without delusions. Just this summer, when my brothers came to visit, he thought he could blow up an entire air mattress with his mouth—like, he actually tried to do it. Then he almost passed out, so I had to sit with him on Cora’s couch with his head in my lap—
“Wait. The thing with the air mattresses…were you pretending to be lightheaded so I would pet your hair?”
Dalton blinks. “I’m sorry, was I not clear? I offered to make out with your clit for the next fifteen minutes, and you seem to be talking about…”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snap. “I know you pretend to be less intelligent than you are because it disarms people, and I know you remember everything. I know you could tell me, verbatim, the first thing I ever said to you.”
He surveys me before he says, “The first thing you said was your name.” His tone is even. “The second thing you said was, ‘I’ve never met anyone named Dalton before. I’ve also never met a guy so…huge before.’” A grin passes over his lips. “Damn right you hadn’t. I was so high on myself that I bought a Ducati.”
“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle.”
“Ev made me return it before I could accidentally kill myself.” He braces his hands on the mattress, bracketing my thighs. “And yes, I was pretending to be lightheaded so you would pet my hair, Essie.”
My jaw drops. “You manipulative shit.”
“Funny coming from you,” he replies, bringing his masked face closer, “after all the tricks you’ve been playing. Writing my name on your hand?”
“I’m—”
“You’re quite possibly the hottest woman on Earth.” He smirks. “If you didn’t know I’d be obsessed with how cunning you are, you don’t know me at all.”
“Dalton,” I begin, rising to my feet.
“ Sit ,” he repeats, gently pushing me back onto my bed. “You told me I held the fate of your next orgasm in my hands—or in this case, on my tongue. Or did you lie to me?”
My brain is spinning, pinging with questions and surprise, tangled up in the disarray that is Dalton Cavendish. “I think we should talk first.”
“Seems like a waste of time, but talk away, Romero.”
“Okay, there . Right there. When have you ever not wanted to talk to me?”
Dalton stares fixedly through the eyeholes in the mask. “I was clear: If we have a contract, this is the version of me you get. You don’t get the guy who baked cookies while he prepped you for banking interviews. You don’t get the guy who paid for your twenty-first birthday dinner. Emerald X gets this. So, spread your legs and let me see that gorgeous pussy.”
“Fine,” I murmur, reclining and parting my legs slightly, allowing my knees to separate. “But this was supposed to be my thing.”
“You should have put that in our contract,” he replies as he rests one hand on my ankle. “Wider.”
“I thought it was a given,” I protest. “I’m the professional camgirl. I’m the one who plans everything.”
“Maybe I want to be in charge,” he replies. “Maybe I want to take care of everything. How about that?” His hands wrap around my ankles. “Wider, baby.”
“And if I don’t?” I push, testing how far he’s going to take this act.
He releases my ankles. “Then you have to go on a romantic weeklong getaway to my vacation home in Rhinebeck,” he replies, undoing the small button on the cuff of his button-down as he speaks.
I snicker—until the rare, unamused expression on Dalton’s face tells me he’s serious. “Sorry—what did you say?”
“I said, if you don’t spread your legs and show me your dripping, desperate pussy, we’re going to Rhinebeck. Have you been yet? It’s boring. Pretty, if you’re into that. I’m not.”
My brow has never been tighter. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You see,” he goes on as he starts rolling his sleeve up his muscled forearm, “pretty doesn’t do it for me. I’m a simple guy and I think a lot of things are pretty. Like, the other day, I was over on U-Street, getting a hoagie. The cross-section was, like, a Renaissance masterpiece.” He finishes tucking his sleeve above his forearm. “Two full layers of mortadella. Beefsteak tomatoes. Pepperoncini. So fucking pretty.”
He holds out his other arm, but I don’t move. Usually, I can keep up with Dalton’s particular brand of disorder, but I’m so in the dark right now.
“Undo that for me, baby,” he instructs.
His other button. I reach up, and it’s only then I realize how unsteady I am.
“I’m not impressed by pretty,” he goes on, starting the folding process on his other arm. “Pretty is common. It doesn’t excite me. Doesn’t make my blood flow. No, what gets me, Essie, is what’s underneath all that prettiness.” He finishes his sleeve and stands over me, hands now tucked into the pockets of his iconically tailored pants. “You’re very pretty, Essie, but what I love about you are those parts beneath the surface. You’re shrewd for such a pretty girl, but most people don’t realize, do they?”
He’s right; they don’t. I shake my head.
“So, it surprises me someone so smart and so shrewd didn’t read her contract before she signed it. I’m pretty disappointed about that, Ess. I thought I taught you better.”
I tilt my head to the side. “What didn’t I read?”
“If you break any of the terms in the contract, we automatically dissolve our arrangement. I would no longer let you film me, and you—as a breach penalty—would have to spend a week with me at my mother’s ancestral home in Rhinebeck.”
What the fuck. “You’re lying.”
“Please. Why would I lie about something I want so badly?”
My knees snap shut. “Give me the contract.”
Moving slowly like he has all damn night, Dalton conjures the contract from his briefcase once more. I skip the boilerplate language and go right to the middle section: the terms. Sure enough, the Rhinebeck clause is in there, but two other words catch my eye. They’re innocuous—seven letters altogether. Most people wouldn’t know what they mean, but I’m a sex worker. I know exactly what these words mean, and they’ve never been on my radar—until today.
“You put a free-use clause in here,” I blurt out. “Free-use? You fucking snake .”
“I did,” Dalton confirms—and his nod is shameless. “I put it in, and you signed it . So, if I go to you in the bullpen with my dick out, you’ll suck it or ride it—or we’re going to Rhinebeck.”
“Screw you,” I snap, throwing the contract at him. “Are you punishing me?”
“No, Essie.” He puts his face near mine—close enough to kiss. His hand grips my jaw, squeezing. “Like you, I’m getting what I want. You want my cock, and I want you. Not just your pussy—although I will admit my desire could warrant a restraining order—but all of you: your body, your time, and your affection.”
“But you said you didn’t want to be together,” I protest. “You said we couldn’t.”
“And we still can’t. But for four weeks, I’m going to take as much of you as I can. I’m going to fuck you. Love you. Own you.” The corner of his mouth rises. “You’re mine.”
And his hand slides around the back of my neck, cradling my head and pulling me toward him once more. When I’m close enough to see the light tips of his eyelashes, I turn my head.
Dalton’s hand tightens. “You’re not going to kiss me?”
“If you want it, you can order me,” I snap.
His hand clasps my jaw again and makes me face him, and when he gets a glare in return, his eyes narrow. “Fine. I was going to go easy on you, but not anymore.”
“Screw you for that too. Don’t ever go easy on me.”
Dalton cocks a brow, but he doesn’t say a word. Watching me, he lowers to his knees. His motions are slow and controlled, but there’s an inherent urgency in his movements.
He wants this so much.
When he’s kneeling on the hardwood floor, he places a hand on each of my knees and parts my legs in the most agonizingly slow series of motions I’ve ever witnessed. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Have you ever had a free-use arrangement?” he asks once my legs are spread to his liking. As he waits for my response, his fingertips glide over the bare skin above my knee. “People mistake fucking for something purely carnal, but it’s a mental game too.” His hand reaches my pussy and he clicks his tongue. “Sweetheart, I don’t know if I should love or hate how you flit around this dorm with your cunt out.”
Cunt . Nobody says the word quite like he does.
“Why aren’t you filming?” he questions, shooting me a warning look.
“I want you to finish speaking first.”
“I don’t finish. I’m going to talk you through it every fucking time .” He winks. “Press record.”
I do.
“When you use someone for their body,” he goes on, sliding his fingertip along my entrance, teasing me with the promise of a thick finger, “they start to crave it. Need it. It becomes less about the pleasure and more about the usefulness.”
Palm up—cocky and assured—he pushes his finger inside…and pulls out so quickly that I may actually post his social security number on the dark web to get him back.
He smirks. “You’re going to become addicted to the feeling of me needing you to get off. You’ll love the orgasms—but you’ll be obsessed with how badly I need to put every single drop of my cum in you.”
Before I can respond, Dalton presses his tongue to my entrance and licks upwards on a slow path to my clit. His lips are gentle but deliberate, and they surround the sensitive bud before he sucks with the barest pressure.
A moans slips from my throat, and Dalton looks up at me. “Good girl,” he says before he moves back to my entrance.
My entire body has already started to tingle.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs before slipping his tongue into me, making my back arch. “Did I do that to you? Did I make your cunt think it was going to get stuffed and filled again?” Then he sucks unforgivingly, making me gasp. Already, my body is vibrating with the decadence of pleasure. I’ve had plenty of mouths on my pussy before, but Dalton isn’t just touching it, licking it, sucking it—he’s feasting on it.
“Wow,” I groan. “How are you so good at that?”
“Having a big dick means not everyone can take me,” he replies, briefly replacing his mouth with his hands. “I don’t force it—not my kink. I’ve learned alternatives for when I don’t fit.”
The implication is clear: He practiced .
Dalton’s mouth returns to my clit and sucks extravagantly. I’m teetering on the fringes of a euphoria I haven’t felt in ages, and the desperation to go over the edge swells in me. I find myself spreading my legs and hiking up my oversized shirt to bare more of my body to him—to show off my heaving, exposed tits and my pearled nipples.
And Dalton wasn’t lying; the man knows how to eat a cunt.
It’s not just the mechanics—his intuitive understanding of where to touch and what to tease and how to time it. It’s also his sheer admiration: the appreciation when he pulls back and looks down at my hole. “When you watch this later, you’re going to see how drenched you were for me. You’re going to know why your bedspread is damp where your pussy touched it.”
“Don’t stop,” I find myself murmuring while I grip one of my breasts, tugging at my swollen, puffy nipple and working the point to the edge of pain.
Going faster now, Dalton gently bites my lips—one side and then the other—before his tongue brings me closer to elevation. “Plump lips. Suckable. Love that,” he grits. “And so insanely horny. I always knew you’d feed me this pussy if I asked.”
The filthiness of his words has me surging and billowing, forcing my pussy toward his face. “I’m almost there,” I nearly whine. “Please. Please .”
His fingers—three of them—plunge in and out of me, filling my dorm room with the crude and filthy squelch of my arousal. “Clench, baby. You see how your pussy weeps around my hand? See how it coats me? You could take me up to the wrist. I bet I could fit my whole hand in this tiny fucking thing.”
“Try,” I blurt out, not even thinking about what it would be like to take Dalton’s fist—if I even could.
“Don’t worry,” he responds, breathless but with a hint of a laugh. “Your holes are going to know me so damn well.” He pulls back and pushes four of his thick fingers into me— fuck . “Can you squirt, baby?”
I inhale sharply at the mere mention of the word, but trying to squirt is a long-standing exercise in futility. Somehow, I find the wherewithal to shake my head.
“Perfect,” he replies, cockiness practically dripping from his words. “Have you ever tried?”
I nod.
“How hard did you try?” he asks before he hooks his fingers, making me cry out. “Who was taking care of you?”
“I can’t do it,” I maintain, gasping when he presses that spot near my entrance.
He clicks his tongue. “Aurora and Lilith never got you there?” he pushes. “Be honest. They’re not going to be offended.”
My body is vibrating, shivering. I claw at the sheets, grappling for purchase. “I can’t—”
“You don’t squirm like this when they eat your cunt,” he goes on, peering past the phone to look at me. “You don’t get flustered like this when your girls fuck you, baby.”
The thought of Dalton watching us is beyond me. I know he has—it’s how he found me in the first place. But imagining it—imagining him studying the minutia of my responses when I have my best friends’ mouths on me and their fingers inside me—makes my heart race.
“I don’t—”
“I know you can,” he interjects before he hooks his fingers again. “You can take it.”
“Please.”
“Deep breath,” he encourages. “Do it. Squirt on me, sweet girl. I want it on my face.” His face .
Dalton hooks his fingers again and again and again, and his big forearm flexes, muscles pulsating like the intricate mechanisms in the wheels of a steam engine. The pressure mounts, forming a crescendo at the apex of my pussy. When his mouth returns to my clit, climaxing becomes the single most important goal in my world.
“Push it out,” Dalton urges against my clit. “Make a mess of me.”
My body tingles, dancing on the precipice of a detonation. I breathe, and I breathe, and then I hold it all before I cry out, coming harder than I’ve come in months—even harder than on Halloween. Dalton doesn’t stop. His mouth sucks relentlessly on my clit, and his fingers thrust in and out so vigorously, fighting the clench of my muscles as I milk them. Deep in my center, a strange feeling arises from glowing embers until it ignites. Shock overwhelms me as my arousal gushes out and coats Dalton’s face—but the guy indulges in it. He opens his mouth, trying to catch my release on the flat of his pink tongue. He laps at me, groaning with satisfaction, and he licks all of it—my pussy, my thighs, even the bud of my asshole.
When I collapse on the bed, my body feels like all its structures have faded. I’m air—I’m nothing but weightless, vaporous air.
And I’m so messy.
“Well, look at that,” he says running his palm over his mouth. “You can squirt.”
I end the recording and toss the phone to the side as Dalton peels the mask off his face and lets it fall to the floor with an audible plop .
“I did some data analytics of my own,” he announces, smugness rich in his words. “Squirting is lucrative. This video is going to make you a ton of money.”
He reaches out, slides his fingertips through my oversensitive pussy, and brings them to his lips. He licks them.
Then he looks at me, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says with a grin, “For the next four weeks, you’re going to be so fucking in love with me.”