Page 62 of Our Elliana

TWENTY-SIX: Well, That Escalated Quickly

TRISTAN

Well, that escalated quickly is the only thought careening through my brain as Elle, Jackson, and I lock gazes with each other. I’m half-tempted to assemble the three of us in another room so we can discuss this away from the kid’s ears.

Elliana is the only one who can tell us what to do, but this caveat of her asking Noah what he wants alters the rules. Regardless, I look to her to approve this. She can still choose to shut all this down. The kid’s clearly polluted and has his customary inhibitions disengaged.

I catch Noah ogling all three of us like the Big Bad Wolf would eye Little Red Riding Hood before swigging down the rest of his pina colada. Yeah, he’s drunker than a goddamn skunk right now. Not that I object to anything he’s proposing. I know these people, and I might even trust them. Yet this entire evening has gone from risqué to straight-up rowdy.

Will Elle be all right with that?

I get my answer when she announces all loud and proud, “You’re the birthday boy.”

She lowers herself over Noah’s cock again, licking up and down his shaft. Jackson might cherish that guitar like his infant son—or daughter since he’s named it Zelda of all things—but he sets it down and skates toward Elle so fast he’s basically a blur.

Careening up behind her, he lifts the short skirt she’s wearing and brings down her opaque tights and her—oh yeah—white lace thongs. She has the most alluring underwear in the known galaxy.

He assists her as she steps out of her heels, then whispers something in her ear.

It must’ve been for her to step right back into those shoes again because that’s what she does. Jackson must’ve needed the few inches of height for better positioning. His fingers go between her legs to feel her pussy, then he peers from Noah to me.

“Oh, yeah. She’s ready for me. And Tristan, you’re up.”

It’s not lost on me that I conveyed those precise words to him the night of our trial by fire. He must think turnabout is fair play. Still, for the space of several heartbeats, I watch him as he uses those same fingers to lubricate the tiny pucker of her ass, bending her further forward.

Once his index finger is all the way inside that luscious backside of hers, he unzips and without bothering to drop his jeans any more than necessary, pushes his dick into her promised land.

Everyone but me groans. Jackson, Noah, and Elle all at once, and that’s in spite of her having her mouth full.

Goddamn.

Since the music has now stopped, I trundle over to the large flat-panel TV across from the lounger and initiate YouTube. Searching for “I Want Your Sex” by George Michael, I hit play, then shut my eyes and remember my moves. I skid into it, relying on muscle memory. I used to strip to this one nightly for about eight weeks until I was required to level up to a new routine.

Not that I would ever say I enjoyed stripping for a living, but of all the songs I’ve undressed to, this one made it easy to impersonate the singer, a man with cool confidence who oozed sex appeal.

Everything is going well for a few videos until “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails plays. This one used to be in my rotation, too, until I took it out. And the reason I removed it spins through me as the lyrics of the chorus sound off.

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