Page 4 of Our Elliana

TWO: Seduction Auditions

ELLIANA

Prior to coming downstairs this morning, I peered out my second-story window, taking in the normalcy of this sultry summer day here in our nation’s capital. Neighbors jogging through my neighborhood don’t know that the heat outside is about to be surpassed by the heat in here.

That’s the hope, anyway.

Sitting here on the large bracket-shaped dual lounger sofa in my living room, I’m wearing a brand-new sunset orange bustier, matching panties and heels, as well as my usual face of makeup like its warpaint.

I’ve straightened my hair and have donned my favorite pieces of jewelry in preparation for today. If my cosmetics palette serves as my warpaint, my jewelry is my armor. I’ve long used them to feel at my best and most powerful. Because while confidence at work comes to me naturally at this point, what’s coming up will toss me right out of my element.

And while I don’t dare show it, I’m intimidated as fuck. What I’m essentially conducting here are seduction auditions.

Yes, I know. It’s ironic for me to be intimidated by something I’ve asked for. Hell, yearned for over the past couple of years. I’m about to conduct some of the most important meetings of my life, and if all these guys pass muster, I’ll willingly pay them a hundred grand a piece to engage their services over the next six months.

But nothing is set in stone. Not yet.

The three men from Elegance have ranged themselves around me, every one of them strangers, even if I have an extensive list of details about them. Tristan, the chef with olive skin, an aquiline nose, thick dark hair and chin scruff.

He’s stationed himself by the granite island that separates my main living space from the kitchen. Wearing head to toe black, he casts me a stare that skims along my body but focuses on my face.

His eyes are pure onyx, and there’s a glint in them that exudes this unwavering intensity. He looks like he wants to eat me alive.

You’ll get your chance, hot stuff. Don’t you worry.

I’m struck by how young Noah, the blond kid and firefighter, looks now that I have him face to face. Something about his profile pic drew me in—the vulnerability in his eyes, maybe—and I’m not gonna lie. The idea of being with a man hitting his sexual peak intrigues me.

At twenty, he’s old enough to be on the right side of legal, but he seems almost anxious as his broad shoulders hunch in on themselves.

He’s so enormous to be acting so shy.

His profile listed him as six foot six, and in person, not only does he tower over me, I’d be willing to bet that his ribcage spans half again the width of mine. And that’s including my D cups. He glances at me with irises that are an arresting turquoise blue, even as they dart back away like a startled bunny’s just as swiftly.

Aww.

But is his bashfulness an act? Some roleplaying game he frequently immerses himself in for his Elegance clientele? He’s not genuinely daunted by being here. Is he? I can’t tell yet, but like the rest of us, he signed up for this.

Then, there’s the musician. Jackson might not be carrying the guitar mentioned in his profile, but he holds himself like a rockstar. He’s slender and lithe with a loose posture that screams self-assured.

His long light brown hair curls down past his shoulders and his beard, while full, is well kept. He’s the only one wearing a half-open shirt that shows off a tattoo underneath—some sort of bird with extended wings—and he ogles me with obvious interest.

He’s also wearing a smirk so blatant he must want it to be noticed. Sexuality rolls off him in waves. Yeah, this guy is probably the one who’d be up for anything.

“Something I can help you with, sweet thing?” he asks, but I don’t respond or even change expression.

I have to play this cool.

Since the time I watched them disembark from their sleek limousine and enter my home, I’ve been aligning myself as the person of rank in the room. I’m the one who’ll be employing them, and I’ll be the one in charge. So even if I’m trembling internally—which I absolutely am—externally, I try to come off as strong. Haughty. A woman who rules her own roost.

Still, my throat is as dry as the Sahara and swallowing proves difficult.

Get your shit together. You handpicked these men. They’re basically made to order, for fuck’s sake. It’s now or never. My inner dialogue serves as both chastisement and pep-talk.

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