Page 18 of Our Elliana

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.

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