Page 28 of Our Elliana

Even if I’m frequently riddled with shame for doing so.

There’s also the firefighter and EMT me who yesterday assisted with extinguishing a three-story warehouse blaze. The wind kept whipping more oxygen into the fire, making everything take longer. Fortunately, the structure was empty.

Despite this, one of the onsite news reporters suffered a cardiac arrest during her coverage, so I administered CPR in the ambulance on the way to George Washington University Hospital. Touching a victim while my training kicks in feels so completely different from touching Elle, and this didn’t even register with me until after the emergency had passed.

One minute I’ll be soaping Elle up in her shower stall as a prelude to sex. Yet during another, I’ll be chuckling with her at a meme on her phone’s screen. I found the one of a koala gaping its mouth open in dismay midway through eating eucalyptus captioned with, “You mean I could’ve had donuts?” particularly funny.

I live a bizarre existence in many ways.

Now, come what may, we retire to the dining room to play cards. Elle cuts them as Jackson shuffles and acts as the dealer. The weather hasn’t exactly been balmy, but we’re not dressed in layers or anything. Elle’s wearing a cute head scarf and matching socks with a short skirt and form-fitting top none of the women I used to know would don in a million years.

Jackson’s in long shorts and a tie-dyed shirt. He probably regrets not putting on some socks now. Tristan’s wearing his typical black Docker-type pants, along with a black polo as well as socks and shoes. I enter this tournament of ours wearing jeans, a short-sleeved button-down, an undershirt, boxers, and socks.

Tristan wins the first hand, with Jackson winning the next one. But after that, I claim victory over the next two rounds.

Part of it is paying attention—which means avoiding the beauty of Elle’s body as more and more of it comes into view—and the other is good fortune. Somehow, I’ve managed to draw some amazing combinations. A full house. And a straight. But that means Elle is sitting there in nothing but her panties now.

It’s distracting in the extreme. I’ve been hard ever since she removed her bra. It’s funny how knowing exactly what it feels like to caress those breasts and bury myself inside her ratchets up my desire to do it again. And that’s despite knowing it’s a sin.

Another weird thing is that because her dining room table is transparent, not only is everyone visible from the waist up, we’re also exposed from the waist down. One more loss and I’ll be able to spy the pierced promised land between her thighs, something I’m trying not to think about.

Something else I’m trying not to think about is the fact that I’m not the only one with a notable erection.

With this last win, I’ve made Tristan shuck off his fancy trousers, Jackson shove his outerwear shorts down, and Elle drop those panties.

“Oh yeah,” Jackson remarks. “There go the teeny-weeny bikinis.” He reaches out and pinches her bottom, making her slap his hand away.

“Hey, I’m playing a game here.”

“I believe you just lost that game, sweet thing.”

But the musician pulls his hand back with obvious reluctance, his smirk now coming across as a bit pained. Since I’m pressing up against my zipper so fiercely, I’m in pain, too. Tristan might be if it weren’t for the fact that he’s poking out through his fly. He attempts to close the flap of his boxer briefs, but maybe his underwear is a size too small because it doesn’t work.

My own erection jerks for some reason, and I immediately glance away.

Didn’t mean to see that.

Anyway, with each of the other men down to a single garment each, one more losing hand means they’re out. Or I assume it does. Tristan, as this round’s dealer, no longer offers any cards to Elle, so that sounds right.

Yet, Jackson wears that impertinent smirk on his face like a badge of honor or something. His fingers mess with the guitar pick secured around his neck like he’s almost happy to lose. Or maybe to strip down. Elle doesn’t seem too put out about her loss either as she remains at the table as a spectator.

As I discard an unhelpful two of hearts and nine of clubs, she makes an announcement that alters everything.

“By the way, there’s a prize for the winner.”

“He gets to join you tonight?” Jackson guesses, waggling his eyebrows as he likes to do.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Tristan frowns at her. “Please explain ‘in a manner of speaking.’”

“Oh, you’ll find out,” is her cryptic answer.

As we continue the game, I find myself in the astounding position of holding five cards that all happen to bear the suit of diamonds. I’ve never had this particular type of hand before, but if memory serves, this is a flush.

A flush. One of the best hands possible.

I scuff my bare feet—I did lose each of my socks, after all—against the area rug beneath the table. Then, as everything circles back around to me, I call.

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