ELEVEN Peace Lilies
E LLIANA: SEPTEMBER
As summer rolls into early autumn, more complications arise. Tristan and Jackson continue to have these battles of will, and while they never come to blows or even—since the souffle incident—raise their voices when I’m around, the tension between them is thick as fuck.
And having three grown men underfoot is more of an adjustment than I’d been prepared for. Sure, it’s less lonely, but it’s also far less private.
Then there’s Noah, or more accurately, his career as a firefighter.
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that watching him stroll out my door to go risk his life day after day would be so anxiety inducing, but it has me as antsy as all hell. Every time I hear a siren during his shift, my blood pressure doubles, and my mind fills with worst-case scenarios.
What’s happened? Is it a car accident? A fire? What if there’s a blaze that spirals out of control? What if it catches him off guard? He’s fit and trained, but he’s still a relative novice. And even if he does everything right, something could still go wrong.
What if his breathing apparatus fails? What if he winds up trapped under something and unable to get out? What if he gets severely burned? What if his shift comes and goes without him returning to me?
What if? What if? What if?
Of the three of them, I bonded with my virgin from Utah the fastest. It’s ironic in a lot of aspects considering how differently we’ve been brought up, and how opposite our personalities are. That’s not bothering to mention the age difference, either.
But the thought of him being in danger...
It’s worse than anything I could ever have imagined. He might be a virtual skyscraper next to me, but I feel this need to watch over and protect him. Now that he lives with me instead of his family—he’s never even had a place of his own, for fuck’s sake—I’m responsible for him.
Yet it’s not like I can keep him safe while he’s out there blasting water into the middle of the flames. Telling him not to fulfill the duties of his job isn’t part of our contract, and it wouldn’t be right to rob him of that, anyway. Still, I have to limit my downtime and stay busy when he’s gone in order to keep from worrying myself sick.
Who’d have thought having three big strong men around would make me worry more ? It sure as shit isn’t me.
I never saw this coming.
Despite his hazardous-ass occupation, of all of them, this handsome blond boy is the one with the most soothing spirit. So much so that I’ve felt tempted to let him sleep in my bed after our sexy times, even though I haven’t allowed any of my contractors that privilege.
While I rest better with endorphins in my system, and I’ve always had what I suspect is an abnormally high sex drive, allowing myself to drift off next to one of these men—even Noah—is still forbidden. That sort of intimacy and absolute trust is meant for love not lust. A true-life boyfriend not a hired sex worker.
Regardless, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate having him give me a neck rub when I come home and he’s off work. I also love it when he provides an exfoliating scrub of my back when I’m in the shower or tub. More than once as a prelude to sex, he’s smoothed lotion all over my feet and then moved the party gradually upward.
I enjoy those activities almost as much as I enjoy having him buried to the hilt inside me.
Even though he’s the tallest and brawniest of the guys, he’s also the gentlest. Which due to that monstrously wide cock of his is definitely a good thing. That’s why after having Tristan’s extended length and Jackson’s rambunctiousness, it feels nice to switch to a bit of tenderness during his turn.
Not that the others are too rough. In fact, the three different techniques suit me right down to the ground. And their choices while naked complement their personalities fully dressed.
Not only does Tristan cook up the best meals I’ve ever eaten, he shares my love of new period dramas with more diverse characters. I never would’ve expected any of these men to be into Bridgerton and willing to discuss it with me afterward, but Tristan totally is.
I adore it.
Jackson keeps impressing me with his musical prowess. Me or one of the others can merely hum a few bars of a tune or even ask him about a sliver of a certain song we can’t remember, and it’s like he can pull the whole melody out of thin air. Not only does he remember it, he can both sing and play it on Zelda, and it’s like having Spotify or Pandora there at my disposal.
Jackson’s the one who campaigns to join me in the bedroom the most often. He’s indefatigable when it comes to having sex multiple times in a twenty-four-hour period, arranging himself—and as a result me —into unusual positions, and having a willingness to explore untried scenarios.
That’s how we started up this habit of him joining me for a quickie on my lunch breaks. I’d been refusing to allow him to take over my nightly choice, going with Tristan or Noah for the entirety of a week to make my point. But I’d been having issues concentrating that day. The epiphany came from out of nowhere.
I wish one of my guys would show up to give me some relief.
Knowing Noah to be at the firehouse and Tristan to be working on some experimental meal for dinner, that left me with my guitarist. So, I sent a text.
Elliana : Are you available right now?
Jackson : Available for what, sweet thing? Please say sex.
Elliana : Yes, sex. Here at my workshop, though we’ll have to keep our activities on the down low. No one should hear us. Can you be here in ten or fifteen minutes?
I sent the address.
Jackson : I’ll be there in five.
He roared up on his motorcycle, and I met him on the salesfloor. After a brief tour of my shop and introduction to Andre, we wandered over to the deli across the street for some food, then back upstairs together.
After that, I had him sit in my armless office chair over in one corner, riding him to some heady if muffled completion. Since that day, he began showing up several times a week without me having to ask him.
I’m not complaining.
It feels clandestine and naughty somehow, even if technically it’s not. The guys are supposed to do whatever I wish. But the fact that Jackson is basically sneaking over midday—I honestly don’t know if the other two have noticed this or not—for this semisecret rendezvous has become like an addiction for me. It never fails to start my juices flowing.
It’s after another such session that I linger over the most recent jewelry products I’ve been working on to examine their construction.
While having Jackson, Tristan, and Noah residing with me has proven to be more complex than I might’ve bargained for, it’s also coincided with a tremendous explosion of creativity for me. I don’t know if all this perpetual satisfaction is the cause or not, but I’ve never been so prolific.
I glance at a necklace, ring, and bracelet set that are all slightly phallic in shape and design. Okay, so maybe the satisfaction has something to do with it. Probably because I now have unlimited access to three fresh specimens to draw inspiration from.
Today, Jackson managed to time his climax to be simultaneous with mine as he stared into my eyes, and as I study the emeralds I’m placing in their settings, I realize the gems remind me of his rich green irises.
So, that clinches it. Art is definitely imitating life.
My bestie has been getting a major kick out of all my shenanigans. Andre has teased me about Jackson’s lunch booty calls more than once. He also seems to delight in it any time I arrive at Blingblang—the name of my shop—all bleary-eyed.
Like the Monday after my mens’ trial periods, for example, when I dragged myself into work wearing sunglasses and feeling half hungover. My BFF peered over his wide rectangular eyeglasses and regarded me with a single raised eyebrow.
“Those delicious pieces of man-meat wore you out, didn’t they?”
I didn’t hesitate to reply. “You know it.”
He approached for a high five which I promptly returned. “Damn, get it, girlie girl.”
“I am, and there’s no need for my bad boy right now.”
Then, we both bumped hips and laughed hysterically. “Girlie girl” and “bad boy” are our codenames for one another. They go all the way back to our barhopping days in our early twenties when he’d be my wingman/comrade in arms/defensive tackle.
I’d sometimes end up being hit on by creeps or some dude who liked to be too aggressive, and this was how he inconspicuously checked on me. If I didn’t need him, he’d be Andre. If I did, he’d be bad boy.
“So, you keeping things to one at a time, or you going for the quad right from the beginning?” Andre knows all about my fantasies and sexual bucket list. I’ve shared the guy’s profiles with him, too.
“One at a time so far. It’s all fine and good to imagine it, but having three flesh and blood men all there is a serious challenge on the logistical side of things. And the vibe has to be right, too, you know?” Yet it hasn’t been. Not yet. I wave my hand in front of myself dismissively. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I bet it’s three kinds of hard,” he quips, and I punch his solid arm. My bestie is no stranger to the gym. “You’ll do it when you’re ready. Living small isn’t in your DNA.”
I hug him. Andre has believed in me and my goals all along. What’s more is he did so back when the vast majority of the other people in my life sneered at them.
“Ooh, I’m jealous,” he confesses. “I’d like to see what it’s like to be in the middle of a muscular man-sandwich.”
“You could be,” I remind him. “You know Elegance has options for same-sex lovers.”
He looks thoughtful for a second before shaking his head. “I know. But Gerald and I are trying to make it work.”
“Gerald? I thought you broke up with him last week.”
“I did, baby. I did. But you know how it is.” He shrugs. I love my BFF with my whole heart, but his taste in men is just deplorable. He’ll take the lout over the dependable nice guy every damn time. Still, I get the compulsion to not abandon the devil you know even if Gerald is a royal asshat.
I’ve been there.
Just goes to prove that Elegance really does have several niches out there it can fill.
We dish about my men’s pecs, abs, penis sizes and shapes. It’s an occupational hazard of having a bestie who manages the shop I own. We can’t help but gossip every morning before we open, and sometimes we discuss my get-togethers with Jackson as we lock up for the evening.
It’s around an hour prior to closing when the postal service usually pops in to deliver our mail. Andre collects the handful, and since most of it is junk, only passes me the stuff addressed to my name specifically.
My workshop door is open by a crack, so he simply lays it on a small table and vanishes without disturbing me. He knows that I often become lost in my own world while cocooned in what I call my designing sanctuary.
I raise my optivisors—goggles jewelers utilize to view miniature objects—and wipe my hands down my apron. I have a belly ring with pink diamonds that I’m doing my best to perfect, so when I pick up the single envelope he left, it’s with a distracted mind.
At least until I scrutinize it more closely.
Then, I frown.
It’s a card. I can tell from the heft and feel of it. I do have a birthday approaching but not for two more months. Once I crack the seal and unsheathe the thick paper, I discover it’s not a birthday card at all. Instead, on the front is a picture of peace lilies over a pale gray background saying, “With sincerest condolences and heartfelt sympathy” in a script-like font.
I flip it open hoping to find out who sent this to me.
Inside, though, it’s blank. No personal markings of any kind are written anywhere. I check the envelope again but there’s no return address. Why would someone send this to me? The last relation of mine to pass away was my dad five years ago. Has someone he’d known just now discovered that he’d died? And if so, why not sign their name?
It’s odd, no doubt.
But after a minute or two, I lose myself in my work again.