Twenty-Five
DALTON
I ’ve watched Essie take her clothes off approximately three hundred forty-three times.
Three hundred thirty-nine of those times were on my laptop—almost every night for a year until I finally met her in real life.
Three of those times have been while I’ve filmed her.
Now, number three hundred forty-three is the first and only time I’ve ever watched Essie take her clothes off without a camera on her.
She is…uncoordinated.
“What,” I ask, “the ever-loving fuck are you trying to accomplish right now?”
“Blow me,” she responds with her face mashed against the neckline of her dress.
“If you had a dick, I would gag myself on it and thank you from my knees. Now, that said— Jesus, woman.”
I catch Essie before she crashes into the edge of her dorm bed while she hops around, trying to wriggle out of her skintight dress.
“Can you please undress me like before?” she practically begs, muffled through the fabric.
I was waiting for her to ask. “Baby, come here,” I request before I pull the dress over her head.
Now, Essie is naked in front of me, and my fingertips tingle with the idle urge to check how much cum is still inside her pussy . I’m dying to get back in it. Burying my dignity inside her and leaving it to slowly leak out feels as vital as breathing, and yet I find myself working an oversized t-shirt over her head.
“Sit, Ess,” I guide, leading her to the bed.
She perches while I go through the containers on her desk until I find a package of makeup wipes. I pull out a couple and remove her makeup, being extra gentle around her eyes.
“You’re good at this,” she mentions.
I do one more pass over her lips, and the wipe comes away clean. “I did this for Mom when my grandmother died.”
Essie’s eyes drift to the side, and she’s lost in thought before she says, “When my mom died, Tommy had trouble sleeping until I started combing his hair with a ton of gel in the mornings like Mom did.”
I want to know what anyone did for Essie, but instead I ask, “What was her name?”
“Ximena Romero,” Essie replies. “We started using her last name instead of Dad’s after she died.”
It’s a lot to take in, but every syllable feels precious. A privilege. I lean forward like I want to kiss her, but I stop short, resting my forehead against hers.
“How did you know I needed help?” she asks, putting her hand on the button on my pants.
“The bartender texted me. I’m friends with a lot of bartenders.”
Essie doesn’t question it. She moves her hand higher, sliding it under the edge of my shirt. “They like to see you,” she murmurs.
“Who?”
“My subscribers. They all want us to stream together again.” She pauses. “Well, almost everyone. One of my biggest customers messaged me and said he can’t believe I’m fucking ogres now.”
“Ogres?” I question, suppressing a chuckle. “Sounds jealous. What’s his name?”
“Make_it_Rain.”
“How breathtakingly embarrassing.”
“Your username used to be Cock_of_the_Bay,” she reminds me, and there’s a wry, judgy little smile on her face now.
“Damn right it was. You know, sitting on the cock of the bay, watching the tide roll away,” I sing like Otis Redding before adding, “It was a tribute to the Chesapeake Bay and my annual St. Michaels trip with Lander and Everett.”
Essie’s eyes widen before she starts laughing out loud. Eventually, I join her, keeping my arms around her until our laughter subsides and she rests her head against my chest. God, this girl is gorgeous—and she needs to sleep.
“I’ll take the floor,” I offer.
Essie shakes her head. “Get in with me.”
Once I’m in my boxer briefs, sitting upright in the too-small dorm bed, Essie snuggles against my leg and nuzzles her face against my skin. Her lips graze my thigh, touching my tattoo—and fuck, it’s a sight. Then her tongue pokes out, and I think…
…I think she licked my thigh.
I give her earlobe a caress, and she does it again. Her tongue drags over the lines of the treehouse, my treehouse—my place—as her hand moves to my half-hard cock.
“Essie,” I warn.
“I’ve wanted to lick this thigh for two years ,” she replies with more conviction than I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
I burst out laughing. I want to tell her I love her, but I hold back for once, using that verbal filter thing everyone is always talking about.
Once she’s had her fill of my thigh, Essie looks up at me with sleepy eyes. “Dalty, was your father the one who made you believe you were a fuck up?”
My hand stills, no longer stroking her cheek. She knows she’s right—and I know where this is going.
“We both have daddy issues,” I say with a sigh. “You called me Daddy tonight. Then I called myself Daddy, which I’ve only done once when I was at this steakhouse with Everett and I said, ‘Come to daddy’ to a ribeye as a joke, and then Everett said he hated me, which was, like, really cruel because I had just bought him a basil plant for his birthday.”
“That’s extremely thoughtful.”
“But tonight I called myself Daddy and you flooded my cock,” I finish.
She’s a statue, face etched flat and illegible. Her big eyes follow the path of my hand now raking through my hair.
I want to pace—and I’m halfway out of the bed when she captures my hand and pulls me back.
It’s a beat before she nods and says, “I did. I called you Daddy.”
I’ve been speechless so few times, and this moment is one for the ages. It’s not just the confession, but it’s the resolve in Essie’s expression—the sheer confidence behind her words.
You did,” I reiterate, breaking the silence. “Is that what you like? Is it…” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. “Have you done this before? Like, was there another guy before me who was your…”
Once the words leave my mouth, I want to vomit.
“I’ve never done this before,” she replies, and I’m unbelievably uncool for breathing an audible sigh of relief. “And you said you hadn’t either.”
I shake my head.
And then Essie and I stare at each other, both of us unmoving before we speak at the same time:
“Should we—”
“Do you want to?”
A smile passes over Essie’s face, bashful but largely relieved. And a real smile from Essie has always been—and will always be—gut-wrenching.
It’s even worse when the smile fades.
“Sweetheart, wait. What’s wrong—”
“I don’t want to make this harder on you,” she admits, settling back against her pillow. “You said you want to continue our contract, but if I let you be my Daddy, is it going to give you more feelings to work through?”
Be my Daddy. Shit. Holy shit. She really just came out and said it.
I was game to try it before, but hearing her put those words in that precise order…I think I need this.
I need to give her this.
“You’ve never let anyone take care of you,” I mention, lowering my brow to a dead-serious level.
“Nobody has ever offered,” she replies, picking up on what I’m saying.
“So, let me,” I nearly whisper, holding her gaze when the words pass over my lips. Let me. Let me be the one. Let me give you what you want, what you need, what you deserve.
Essie is quiet. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she admits, speaking softly too.
“You won’t,” I lie. I know she’s going to destroy me one day.
I don’t fucking care.
“If this doesn’t work—” she begins.
“It will.” I nod—I give her the certainty she needs. “You’re going to let me take care of you.”
And an hour later, when she’s fast asleep and I still feel the tingle of her kiss, I lean down and kiss the spot right over her heart.
Then I make myself comfortable on the floor next to her bed.