NINE The First Survey
E LLIANA
Client Survey
Please answer the following questions so Elegance can better serve you.
I eye the questions from the comfort of my jacuzzi tub, glad to have the bubbling, hundred-and-one-degree water soothing my lady bits. Not that any of the guys were too rough. But up until last night, I’d never taken three cocks of various sizes one right after another.
Especially not one with the length of Tristan’s—and I’ve had some long men before—or as thick as Noah’s. Damn, that kid has some girth.
So, yes, I’m sore. And even though I wanted this, and it’s a good kind of sore, a little R and R is definitely my due.
Besides, I need some time to myself to mull over everything. Tonight has been one of the most pivotal of my life and yet it didn’t go down like I imagined it would. I didn’t foresee myself getting more than a couple of orgasms out of it, but I did. Any doubts I might’ve had about desiring three concurrent lovers have now been booted out on their ass.
It’s just that obtaining exactly what I’ve been wishing for has been a bit overwhelming.
I soak for a while before checking my email for the survey I know to expect. It’s short and to the point, asking about my satisfaction with each man under individual headings.
Physical appearance.
Solicitousness.
Thoroughness.
Sexual gratification.
Overall satisfaction .
There’s a rating system of one through ten with a ten being the highest. I’m even able to toggle through everything before choosing my answers. At the bottom resides a blank comment section requesting feedback and a link back to the main site should I want to decline any or all of this batch of contractors and start over again.
Yeah. That won’t be necessary.
Sure, it threw me for a loop when Noah confessed to being a virgin—never saw that coming—but he proved he can follow instructions. Every sexual relationship has a learning curve, and if his is more extensive than most, at least I’m teaching him how to provide me with what I need.
Besides, first impressions count. I like him, as well as the others. And although each of those men has an energy as diverse from each other as its possible to be, I’m delighted to have such excellent chemistry with all of them.
That means we’re doing this thing.
Making it easy on myself by giving them a blanket nine out of ten on the various rating scales, I conclude my bath and dress in a new tank and pajama short set I bought, whisking a light kimono-type robe over it. Then, I take my time strolling down the stairs.
It’s fascinating to observe their respective reactions once they catch sight of me. Tristan goes from a near doze to bolting upward on one end of my lounger, all watchful onyx eyes.
Jackson has been scratching a pendant of a necklace experimentally along the hanging copper basket over the kitchen island, but he falters when he spots me, taking two steps in my direction before staring into my face hopefully.
Noah is on the opposite side of the lounger from Tristan, but on the floor with his feet tucked under the edge as he does sit-up after sit-up. No wonder that brawny boy has abs that look like they’re carved from stone.
But then again, all these contractors have bods to die for. Tristan’s sculpted pecks and the deep V that frames that monster between his legs. Jackson’s lean tattooed frame.
What’s not to like? Time to put them out of their misery.
“I want you. All of you.”
Again, they display responses that couldn’t be more different from one another’s if they tried. Tristan closes his eyes and takes a noticeable breath as if he just set down the weight of the world.
Noah jumps up from his sit-ups like an eager puppy then pauses there as if not sure what to do next. And Jackson beams at me in a manner that’s as sincere as it is flirty. At least until his lips morph into that smirk of his, and he adds a flagrant wink to go with it.
I delivered this news rather stoically, but now, I let my shields down a bit. We’re going to be spending half a year together in this house, so keeping them at an emotional arm’s length won’t provide me with the results I’m after. Also, it’s past midnight. Which is why when my doorbell rings, I frown.
Who would be here this late?
“Want me to get it?” Noah asks, already halfway there. I nod but continue to traverse the room, curious about who’s calling. But it’s not a person, it’s luggage. A whole shitload of it. Noah grabs onto a couple of banged-up navy suitcases that might’ve been released back in the 90s. “Our stuff is here.”
Tristan has two hard-side pieces on rollers—black, of course—along with a matching garment bag, while Jackson picks up a tan duffle and a guitar case that might’ve been through either a hurricane, a tornado, or both.
Guess me turning in my ratings triggered something on the Elegance site. Somehow, two vehicles that must belong to these men have been left parked in my paved driveway, as well. An older pickup and a motorcycle. Is it just me or is it a little creepy to have something online work so swiftly in real life?
Kudos on the efficiency quotient, I suppose.
“Come on. Let’s get you guys settled,” I tell them, twisting toward the stairs.
“We’re not staying with you in that pussy pink room of yours?” Jackson asks in the cadence of a man all too willing to thread my needle for a second time. And probably a third and a fourth.
But since that is not on the agenda at this late hour, and it’s time for me to establish my boundaries, I allow myself a wide grin as I shoot him down.
“No. You’ll have your own separate accommodations. I’ll let you know if and when I want you back in there with me,” I carelessly wave a hand toward my room.
My soak in the tub refreshed me, but I’m still looking forward to catching some shuteye. They all must need that, too, since there’s no further discussion. Like billiard balls, they roll into the guestrooms I’ve set aside for them—the spaces pretty much identical—and I leave them to check out the attached ensuites and closets they’ll all have.
Then, I go to the master bedroom. I would’ve thought insomnia would strike since there are basically three unfamiliar males in my house with me, all within mere steps down the hallway. But maybe due to all the “exercise” I shared with them, I drift off as soon as my head hits the pillow.
The subsequent morning I’m awakened by the scent of bacon and something that smells buttery. I had a grocery delivery yesterday, so I know there’s food in the house, even if I don’t enjoy making it.
Well, unless it’s a dessert. That I can get behind because I don’t mind the effort of baking every once in a while. Also, a have a sweet tooth. But cooking two or three squares for myself every single day?
Not a fan.
Getting dressed in some clingy white yoga pants that hit just below the knee and a loose heather blue t-shirt that dips off one shoulder, I follow my nose.
Tristan is there in my kitchen, appearing far more at home there than I do.
“Good morning,” I greet him, and he casts me a brief glance before returning to what he’s doing.
“Morning. I’m hoping that since these are the ingredients you keep in your fridge you enjoy what I’m preparing.”
I breathe in another whiff of savory goodness as I sit at the dining room table. I love this piece of furniture. It’s modern and industrial with its two-inch thick glass top and shiny steel teeter-totter-like foundation. Sadly, I rarely use it. Maybe now that’ll change.
“If it tastes like it smells, it’ll be golden.”
“It does,” he tells me with all the confidence of a professional chef when Noah appears. He says nothing, however. Instead, he’s observant, taking in the scene.
“Have a seat, kid,” Tristan tells him, and after waiting for my nod, Noah does.
Okay, that’s a bit over the top. Yes, I hired these guys, and yes, I want them to provide the services I’m paying them to give me. But I’d never insist that they turn into a group of automatons blindly doing my bidding. Except occasionally in the bedroom.
I’m figuring out how to nip Noah’s guarded obedience in the bud, when Jackson saunters in, wearing shorts that hang dangerously low and an open sleeveless button-down.
Damn.
I don’t know where Elegance gets its recruits, but if I didn’t know better, I’d swear these men were manufactured rather than born.
Tristan brings over a pot of what smells like freshly brewed coffee—nectar of the gods—and sets it on a decorative silicon trivet at the center of the table. Next, he delivers the plates of food, and I’m ready to squeal about what he’s prepared. There’s bacon all right, but with it is poached eggs laying on a bed of rice with some cherry tomatoes he’s somehow sliced into roses.
It’s like art.
“Jesus, Tristan, this is a masterpiece. It’s almost too pretty to eat.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his features as his eyes make fleeting contact with mine. Unlike Jackson, he’s not one to go off at the mouth a lot. Tristan’s much more of a communicating through the windows-to-his-soul type.
I can work with that.
And speaking of eyes, mine take a rolling trip to the back of my skull as I take a bite. Yum . This sampling of my new resident chef’s cooking is better than any brunch I’ve ever attended, and I’ve attended more than a few. I take a second bite and groan with contentment. That gets all the guys’ attention. Jackson even ceases his noshing to rub his hands together.
“So, how we gonna handle this?”
“Handle what?” I ask him. “Breakfast? Tristan has it well in hand.”
“I’d like to take you in my hands.” He makes a squeezing motion with each hand as if feeling up my imaginary ass, waggling his eyebrows. “You know you won’t be sorry.”
Jesus, Jackson’s a ham.
“You could focus on lawn care and vehicle maintenance instead. Men are born with the genome to be experts on that shit, right? Or does conventional wisdom have it wrong?” I bat my eyelashes at him. Conventional wisdom also purports that I should be unemployed, pregnant, and the one sequestered in that kitchen. Barefoot , preferably.
To hell with that.
Besides, I have next to no talent in said kitchen. My mom was an excellent cook, but no matter how much she attempted to teach me, I never had the flare she had for it. I just can’t seem to master the culinary craft, nor do I have any desire to try.
Her dying when I was fifteen might have something to do with that. If someone as loving and patient as my own mother couldn’t get me much further than boiling water, then no one else stands a chance.
Jackson laughs, in on the joke, and so do I. Yet I’m trying to figure him out. Does he want me to think of him as some sort of incorrigible perv, or is this just an example of his humor and personality? In order to find out more, I rattle off an idea at random.
“I say we play a game. Are you all in?”
“Of course, sweet thing,” Jackson drawls, but he’s the only one.
“What kind of game?” Tristan asks.
“Hot Seat. I’ll ask the three of you random personal questions, and if I feel like you’re being honest, you get to ask me one in return.”
Tristan seems to measure the pros and cons as he tips his head back and forth, but it’s Jackson who I study more closely. For a passing moment, his expression dims as if a raincloud is hovering over his head, but as soon as I see it the look is gone.
Was it ever even there?
“All right,” my chef agrees with a shrug, bringing my focus back to him.
“Okay,” Noah joins in good-naturedly.
“I’ll start with you then,” I squint at my youngest contractor with mischief. This ought to be interesting. “If you could text someone without that person ever being able to identify you, who would you text and what would the message be?”
That could be fairly juicy. But though I expect him to give me a softball answer, he digs right in.
“If I could be a fly on the wall, I’d do it to Elder Lehi. He’s the one whose accusations against my mom and dad for stealing church funds got us all excommunicated. I’d text, ‘I have proof that you’re the one who actually stole that money, not the Canters, and the evidence exonerating them has already been sent to the council.’ Then, I’d stand by to see if he would squirm.”