Twenty-Six
ESSIE
“Y ou’re late,” Dalton states when he opens the door to his apartment.
My scoff is so loud that it makes him flinch. “For my own stream? It starts in an hour, and let’s be clear: I’m never late because it starts when I’m here.”
“I know. I was just excited to see you,” he confesses, grinning before he runs his hand through his hair, mussing it. “I’m always excited to see you.”
Fuck me— he’s so cute.
“I was excited to see you too,” I admit, and his face beams so brightly that NASA may look into it.
It’s been five days since we hooked up on his desk and decided we would continue our contract. Tonight, we’re doing our first (technically second) stream together, and we’ve spent the last five days planning and waiting, and planning and waiting, and when we haven’t been planning and waiting, we’ve been working.
Needless to say, the last five days have felt like five years.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks. “I bought a case of those coconut waters you like so you can stay hydrated—”
“To squirt on you.”
“No, you little freak. It’s to keep your electrolytes up,” he replies, leading me to his kitchen with a smirk that clearly says, I want you to squirt on my fucking face . He takes one of the cartons out of his fridge. “Drink,” he encourages.
“I’m not in the mood.” I’m lying.
Dalton’s eyebrow rises. “Ess,” he warns. His placid expression slowly transforms into admonishment with a hint of a threat—something I’d enjoy even under the guise of a punishment.
“What?” I question, equal parts innocent and probing. “I don’t want it.”
“You need it,” he emphasizes, extending the box further. “I know what you need.”
“I need cock,” is my response. I cross my arms.
“You’re about to get plenty, so let me prep you before I fuck the shit out of you.” His tongue pokes through his lips, wetting them before he murmurs, “I’ll be rough like we talked about—like a frustrating little tease deserves to be fucked on camera.”
Fair enough.
I hold out my hand, and Dalton unscrews the plastic top before giving it to me. While I drink, he leans back against the marble countertop and doesn’t bother hiding his satisfaction.
Triumphant, I place the empty box on the counter, but before I can walk away, Dalton catches me. “You did so good. But you’ll do anything for my cock, won’t you? Bet you’d pay for it—as much as I’d pay to fuck your pretty little cunt for the rest of our lives,” he drawls like a man who knows I’m a sure thing—who knows he can say and do whatever he wants for the next few minutes because no matter what, I’ll be on his dick before the night is over.
So, I wait. Dalton lives for a reaction, after all.
His eyes narrow slightly—a microscopic sign of confusion—but he recovers quickly. In true Dalton fashion, his recovery involves my pussy.
He pats the marble counter. “Panties off, skirt up, and bend over,” he delivers—seven words, one breath, and the most self-satisfied expression I’ve ever seen. The order is abrupt. Horny. Bizarre.
Classic Dalton Cavendish.
But I’ll uphold my duties. I signed up for free-use, so he gets free-use.
Classic Essie Romero.
“What panties?” I question before I look him in the eye, lift my skirt over my butt, and bend over.
Between most couples, this scenario would be a test of wills and a show of degradation, but Dalton and I aren’t into that. Both of us are far too horny for me to stand quietly and wait for instructions in humiliated silence.
“Take out your cock and write your name on my ass in pre-cum,” I request, not bothering to look back.
Naturally, Dalton loves this shit. He takes in a sharp breath through his nostrils, and his hand goes to my ass cheek. “I knew you’d be fun to use,” he muses, dragging his fingers over my skin. “You won’t let me buy you, but I knew you’d let me claim you.”
Claim me. And then I feel it—the smooth bulb of his cockhead against my ass and the unmistakable shapes of letters.
DA on one cheek.
…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 commit a little white-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.
Can he see it? I wonder. Can he see his pre-cum?
The answer comes in the form of his fingers revisiting the letters: D-A-D-D-Y.
The moment thickens until all I hear is the hum of warm air passing through the vent in the corner and the pop of the candlewick on Dalton’s nightstand.
“Mask on,” he instructs in a low voice.
It’s the last thing he says before he walks out of the bedroom.
***
Camming is equal parts sales and sex.
The only people I’ve ever streamed with are Valeria and Cora, and they’re pros. Dalton is new, so I assumed I’d have to teach him to use the performer-side of the website and explain the sounds my laptop makes when I reach certain tip thresholds.
Except Dalton knows all of it .
In the days since we renegotiated our contract and decided to stream together, Dalton took it upon himself to learn everything—and not just the fine art of managing a stream, but also the lines in the carefully plotted script I wrote with Valeria.
I’m seated at the desk he set up for me in the corner, looking over my shoulder where he’s halfway out of the bedroom. He’s dressed in black pants and nothing else—shirtless with his sparse tattoos on display. I can already predict the kinds of messages we’ll get in the chat tonight.
“Horny,” he mutters, pretending he’s not into it—pretending he doesn’t know he’s fine as fuck. He winks and disappears into the dark living room, leaving me to start.
Taking a deep breath, I stare at my masked face in my laptop’s screen. I’m not Essie Romero anymore, but Emerald X—and she’s about to get fucked.
Three. Two. One.
When the livestream starts, Emerald takes a shot of water but she pretends it’s tequila. “I’m having the best day,” I lie. In reality, I spent most of the morning at a networking event where Weston latched onto me like a starfish. Still, I push a smile through. “But I’m ready for a night out.”
For the next ten minutes, I welcome viewers and set the mood—and pretend to get drunker. When I take off my robe and reveal the see-through set Dalton bought for me, the tips start coming in. OrganGrinder: Heyy hot stuff pour one out for me CaptainMunch4455: Best nipples in the business HelloGoodBi: Where’s the guy w the wine bottle for a dick
There’s a clatter in the living room, and I glance back like I’m listening. “Weird,” I murmur. “I thought I heard something.” I face the laptop again. “Anyway, I went on a run today, and—”
The lights flicker once, and I pause again, waiting—like we rehearsed. A moment later, the lights go out entirely, switching my laptop camera to night mode.
“Shit. Let me flip the circuit breaker,” I say. Then I change the camera source from the laptop to the tripod, cross the room, and freeze.
Dalton’s body fills the doorway in a shadowy silhouette. He’s enormous. Hulking. And under the flames from the candles on the nightstand, the most defined parts of him are the vacant and elongated black holes set in the white of his mask.
He’s also wearing leather gloves. His arm muscles flex, tightening to enunciate his pronounced veins, and I do exactly what we planned next.
I run.
Almost immediately, Dalton catches me around my waist and throws me onto his bed even more carelessly than he did on Halloween. I land on my stomach and try to crawl to the opposite side, but he latches his hand around my ankle and hauls me back.
“No,” I protest, clawing at the bedspread. “Please—” But Dalton just tugs harder.
When I’m close, he flips me onto my back, and his eerie, masked face stares at me. My heart is throbbing in my chest. How can this feel so real ? And judging by the wave of chimes and bells on the laptop, it looks real too.
“Miss me?” he asks, and his voice crackles with unforgiving sarcasm.
“Please don’t,” I beg, trying to kick him away. “I’ll be good. I swear.”
He ignores my kicks like they’re pesky fruit flies and climbs onto the bed. It dips with his weight as he straddles my body, and he tugs my arms over my head. I fight. I thrash. I resist.
It has literally no effect.
Pinning my wrists with one hand, Dalton looms over me. He drags his gloved hand over my face, across my neck, and stops at my breasts.
“I can fucking see them ,” he grits, pushing his fingertip underneath the mesh bra and snapping the strap. “You’re showing these perfect tits off to anyone who pays? It’s that easy to get a piece of you?”
“I’m sorry,” I lie, making my words breathless and pleading.
“These tits are mine,” he continues, cupping and covering one with a full hand and a proprietary grip. “How many times do I have to remind you that your body is mine? That you’re mine?”
Without waiting for a response, he tugs my brand-new bra down, splitting the seams. My bare breasts spill over the top of the stretched fabric, and he slaps them—left, right, left again—before he catches a nipple and pinches it like he’s proving a point.
I cry out from the surge of pain and pleasure. “Let me go,” I plead. “I’ll cover them—I’ll never take them out again.”
When Dalton releases my breast, the blood swells back into my nipple, sending a rush of intense sensation that makes my back arch and my lips part. As soon as he sees my open mouth, he fists a handful of my hair, pushes my head forward, and grabs my breast—because he wants me to lick my own tit.
It’s a stretch, but I can get my own nipple into my mouth when he forces them together like this. Then I’m doing it—I’m sucking my own nipple, lapping at my own areola—something I’ve never been able to do before tonight.
“Horny,” he muses, maintaining his unforgiving hold on my folded body. “You’ll suck anything I put in that needy mouth. Will you suck a stranger? Will you suck any cock that breaks into your bedroom, even if you can’t see his face?”
I groan around my nipple, and my pulse has hit a crescendo of steady, rapid beats. It’s unreal how well he’s doing—a natural performer.
Without warning, he drops me like I don’t matter, and my breast escapes my lips. “Don’t move,” he warns as he climbs off the bed. Then he stands between me and the camera and gets naked.
Jesus. I’m not even naked yet.
He tosses his pants and lets his arms hang at his sides, and I can’t help but gawk. The defined muscles covering his figure speak to hours in the gym, a constant body in motion, the flash and flurry and chaos that is Dalton Cavendish. It’s the body of a man who ran to me, who protected me—and can also fuck me into a mattress or crush me if he feels like it. To make myself vulnerable to a body like this is an act of trust.
Of course I trust him though; I trust him with my life—and I don’t say that about many people.
He tugs off one of his leather gloves and shakes it out as he walks toward me. “Open,” he instructs, thwapping the leather against my closed mouth.
I part my lips hesitantly, forcing myself to glare at him—and it has no effect.
“Let’s stretch out that mouth first,” he muses. “Open wider for Daddy.”
Daddy.
My jaw flies open, and Dalton shoves the glove in, filling my mouth with leather. The earthy taste overwhelms my senses, and I cough around it, but I don’t protest. I want him to be proud.
“ Good fucking girl . See how nice it is when you’re good for me?” He slides his thumb around the edge of my mouth, wiping away the drool leaking from the corner. “Up.”
While I scramble to my knees, Dalton lays down. His cock is engorged and mouthwateringly thick, and I crawl over him so I can suck while he shows my pussy to the camera.
“Shit,” I hear him say, and I look back—and to my horror, I realize I accidentally knocked his mask off.
“Fuck,” I say, spitting the glove out of my mouth and diving on top of him. I slam my hands onto his face to cover him. “Oh my god.”
“Baby,” Dalton murmurs, but my hands are muffling his mouth.
I can’t find the mask on the bed, so it must be on the floor. Frantic, I scoot my body up, letting my thighs block Dalton’s face from the livestream while I lean over, searching.
“Sweetheart.”
“I’ll find it,” I assure him, bending over the edge of the bed and pawing on the floor.
He chuckles. “Baby, you’re covering my face with your pussy.”
I pause before I burst out laughing, breaking character. Once I have the mask, I climb off and use my body to block him from the camera and our audience.
For a few seconds, I see Dalton’s face, and he’s grinning. He’s not the rough-fucking, domineering stranger in a mask; he’s my best friend—effortlessly handsome, so funny, and unbelievably committed to this ridiculous idea.
“I’ll take the mask,” he says, nodding at me. “It’s all good.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” I reply.
The man beams before he puts his mask back on. “Forget the mouth,” he decides, tugging me back onto the bed. “I want to fuck you already.”
No complaints here.
He guides me to straddle his waist and slips his hand between us, where he runs two fingers through my pussy. “So damn little,” he muses, playing up our size difference. “Will it fit? If it doesn’t, I’ll make you squirt on me first. Get it wet enough to fit that tight cunt.”
“It’ll fit.”
“Doubt it,” he lies—and the skepticism feels real.
“Fuck you,” I snap, trying to pull away, but he catches me and flips me onto my back. Immediately, I slap him across the face, letting my palm collide with the mask’s hard plastic.
Dalton just laughs.
I thrash like I’m still fighting, like I don’t want the glorious stretch of his cock in my body, but it comes easily right now. I hate the game we’re playing. I hate the idea of Dalton doubting me for a minute. Countless men have underestimated me in every part of my life, but never him, never Dalton and—
I don’t realize I’ve shut my eyes until I feel two soft pats on my cheek—Dalton’s fingertips.
“Hey,” he murmurs, speaking so the camera can’t hear us, “you good?”
I swallow audibly, staring at his masked face. “It’ll fit,” I remind him, hating the way my voice quivers.
He bobs his head once. “I know, baby,” he assures me. “I know.” He cups my cheek with his hand before moving it between our bodies. “Eyes on me.”
I focus on his mask just as he notches his cock at my entrance and offers a probing thrust. “Oh, it’ll fit,” he declares. “You can take it. You can take every inch of me, sweet girl.” He slides in further, pushing inch after inch, filling more of my body with him. When he’s sheathed as far as he can fit, he stops.
“More,” I implore, knowing he’s not fully inside. “Let me choke your cock.”
If I thought those tender words and gentle caresses earlier were a sign that Dalton would turn tender, I was deluding myself. My filthy request is a catalyst, and Dalton fucks me like he hates me.
His cock pummels in and out of me, merciless beyond measure, nothing short of brutal. The decadence of him pulling out and reentering at just the right angle makes me want to scream, but I don’t. I take it all, urging for more with the swell of my hips. I whimper. I strain. I claw at his exposed arms before finding his back and latching on, driving my nails into the surface of his skin in the process.
“Good girl,” he’s grunting. “There it is. There it fucking is.”
“Daddy—”
“I don’t know how you can take my entire cock in this tiny hole, but you do such a good job, baby,” he grits, driving another thrust that leaves me breathless. “ Fuck , you’re tight.”
“Is it everything you wanted?” I can barely get the words out.
“God yes,” he grits. “This pussy is mine, and I’ll fucking kill anyone else who touches it .”
Holy shit. The threats could be part of the scene we’re streaming or real—doesn’t matter. This version of Dalton makes me want to sabotage our parents’ wedding just to keep him.
“Tell me it’s mine, baby,” he orders, bearing down into me, lighting up my body. “Take every inch of it like you were made to. You know you love cock, so take it, squeeze it—milk all the cum out of it.”
I raise my hips to meet his undulations. “Use me—until I’m aching so everyone knows you can have me whenever you want.”
Now, the surge of his thrusts becomes bruising—like he could split me open. I take it while whispering I love it, I want it, that his cock is the best I’ve ever taken. None of it’s a lie. He’s a walking show of godlessness and eternity all at once, and heat unfolds in my veins.
My body is pliant, but I’ve never felt stronger or more capable than right now. This is it, I have to believe—this must be how Dalton always feels: taller, bigger, stronger than everyone. My body is limitless, infinite—coursing with energy and power and the fine shocks of electricity racing through the network of my veins. The sweep of his cock makes my lips part, and I’m begging for it—pleading for it.
I’d never begged a day in my life until I met him.
“Never been so deep,” he’s muttering, barely getting the words out. “Choking me. This pussy loves me, doesn’t it? This pussy knows what’s good. I’ll defile it, and you’ll thank me—that’s how much you need a fat cock like this.”
“Make me come. Please, Daddy. Please. I need you—”
“ I’m going to lick you clean when that camera is off ,” he whispers.
The wicked duo of Dalton Cavendish’s words and his skillful strokes make my body detonate, and I lose control—and I don’t even care.
My orgasm pulsates through every inch of me, and I squirt when I come, gushing around him in a way that outdoes obscenity. And Dalton truly basks in it, holding his cock and watching me drench it.
“Fuck yeah,” he groans over the crude sounds I’m making. Now, he enters me full sheath and comes deep in my body. The warmth of his cum heightens the tingling aftereffects of my climax, and I’m quivering, babbling, and taking it all, every drop. “No matter what, you need a pussy full of my cum,” he’s murmuring as he pumps in and out, making his cum slide down to my ass. “Don’t push it out—don’t you fucking push any of it out.”
When he believes me—when he knows I’m not going to waste a drop—Dalton pulls out of me.
And that’s it. My best friend, my colleague, and my soon-to-be stepbrother and I just streamed together. A few minutes later, I end the stream and flop back onto the bed with my laptop.
It’s his first staged performance, and I can see the multitude of emotions painted across his unmasked face. In true Dalton fashion, the most obvious emotion is smugness. He likes seeing me as a slumped, sweaty, cum-covered mess. “I could fuck you for hours, Essie Romero,” he murmurs. “You’re so ridiculously fun.”
I already want him again. I want to lay on the floor at his feet and spread myself until he embeds me into the carpet fibers. I want his entire body to cover mine, to splay over every inch of my skin until I’m reduced to an aching, used-up pile beneath him.
But I have to be careful. Dalton thinks he loves me, and I have to be careful .
“Come here,” I encourage. I pat the bed next to me, so I can show him the laptop.
When he sits, he holds my face and studies me. “Did I hurt you? Don’t lie.”
“Not at all. I loved it.”
He nods like he’s convincing himself. “Good,” he decides. “I’d hate myself if I ever hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Satisfied, Dalton nods again, and the next few minutes can only be described as worship—like he promised.
Dalton literally licks me clean.
His lips start on my neck and trail down. He sucks my arousal off my thighs and pussy lips. He places his tongue on my entrance and flicks it inside before he rises over me again and dips his chin.
I open my mouth.
His tongue presses against mine, and we exchange it in our mouths—an inimitable mingling of both of us—his cum and mine.
“Swallow it. Swallow for Daddy,” he urges while he drags his thumbnail over the line of my collarbone. He wraps his fingers around my neck and applies pressure as I swallow—and even more when I’m done. The heat in his gaze emanates and brushes over my sensitive skin, and I shift under his touch, whimpering when he lets up his grip. I want more—always more.
“Wait here,” he instructs before he disappears into the bathroom and emerges with a damp towel and two ibuprofen.
“Dalton,” I protest. “I—”
“You took me like a professional, yes—all of me.” He holds out the pills. “But we’re going to take very, very good care of this pussy, Ess, which includes taking care of you.”
I dry swallow the pills, but he gets me another coconut water anyway. And while I’m laying back, spread and drinking, he wipes my pussy down.
Eventually, he looks up from between my legs. “How’d we do?”
“Even after the site’s take, we just paid off your camera.”
A chuckle escapes his lips. “Let’s fucking go ,” he whispers.
I put my hands on his cheeks. He wants me to kiss him—and I would. I would kiss him until I could never lose the taste of him—but we can’t do it. Careful .
I’m completely fine.
“Thank you,” is all I say.
If he’s dejected, he doesn’t show it. I get another smile and a reassuring wink. “Can I put you to bed?” he asks.
I nod, grateful for the offer. “Thank you, Daddy.”