Page 25 of Our Elliana

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.”

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