Page 124 of Ella Gets the D
“Julian,” she says through a hitched breath.
“Let me take care of you.” I reach down and pull a nipple into my mouth.
She lifts to brace her hands on the shiny black hood and rocks into my fingers. The soft pouch of her stomach rolls as we watch her juices coat my fingers. The squelch of her wetness slices through the air, and a rush of pink stains her cheeks. Ella comes in a cry for release I’m happy to give her.
Her lips part at the fingers I used to bring her to orgasm swirling in my mouth. I’ll spend a lifetime savoring her taste and will never get enough.
Ella grabs my long sleeve tee and tugs the white fabric to pull my lips back to hers for a slow, savory kiss. Her hands fly across my belt to unbuckle the leather and then my jeans, pulling the zipper in a rushed hiss. She reaches inside to free the engorged flesh pulsing against my boxer briefs and excites a groan from me.
I grip her ass to drag her closer, push my pants and briefs further down my hips, and bottom out inside her. Her cries are smothered by my mouth at every thrust, and the turbulence radiating from our joined bodies rocks the car underneath us. A burst of sensations vibrates through me like liquid fire.
Rage for the ex who’s making her life hell.
Hurt for the pain I can’t take away.
Sorrow for leaving her, because it’s the only way to keep her safe.
My back tightens, and I fall onto the hood, covering my body with hers. I’d give my life to see this woman happy without having to look over her shoulder or wonder how long it will last.
We seal our last moments together with an endless kiss until Otis texts me it’s time to go.
Chapter 47
Ella
“Asher Campbell is headed back to Palm Beach.” Grier holds back a laugh to take a bite of her sandwich that has more pickles than turkey. “Remind me not to pissyouoff.”
I blame Angela Bassett. Her pursed lips and narrowed eyes are why I woke up and chose violence after a long weekend of sulking. Thursday night’s Scooby Doo reveal confirmed what I knew, sans half brother. But Julian leaving was the final straw. Our separation, while temporary and because of an ex who refuses to let go, is too much. Even the strongest person would crack. Anyone exhausted from holding it together would lose it, so I buried my face inside a tub of cookie dough ice cream on Saturday, contemplating who I pissed off in a past life to have ended up the object of a narcissistic cheater’s obsession.
Sunday was a different story.
After church with Ms. Thelma (and two hours of wishing I’d stashed snacks in my bag for the late morning service), I put the Lifetime movies away for a Terry McMillan classic, one that had me marching to my closet to prep for a showdown with fancysuits. It’s why I headed west this morning instead of driving back to DC after dropping off Jackson at school.
I wanted to reclaim my power without lighting a cigarette next to my ex’s burning car. It worked inWaiting to Exhale, but I won’t risk a case. Or these eyebrows.
My shoulder lifts. “Can’t go wrong with Angela.”
I parked my car in the main lot of Mt. Corbel Health headquarters and straightened my sunglasses for the stroll between low-rise buildings shackled in metal and glass. Each step I took was slow and cautious—not because I was second-guessing my decision to poke the bear, but because of my choice of heels. Sleek patent leather pumps are a look, but that linebacker strut was not.
The benefit of my pending divorce is that I’m still Charles’s wife on paper—with a key that unlocked access to the executive suite. Gloria, Charles’s longtime assistant, was one hug away from tears at my unexpected visit but none the wiser about my ulterior motives. Her ability to see only the best in others through her rose-colored bifocals is a gift and a curse. I’m not in the habit of breaking grandmothers’ hearts, but I paid my respect in smiles and hugs to a woman who’s been nothing but kind. Then I began the long walk down the carpeted corridor to the C-suite conference room.
Fifty shades of gray-haired men swiveled in their overpriced chairs watching my figure through the wall of glass panels. I smile into my coffee cup at the memory. “Papa Charles wasn’t happy with my drop-in.” Understatement of the year. If the man could have sniped me when I stepped through the door, he’d have taken the shot without blinking.
Grier’s lifted chin exposes her neck, which is garnished in the crisscross of two thin gold chains over a light gray blazer.
“But you came dressed for the occasion,” she says, her Annalise Keating brow rising with pride at my black pants and ivory blouse.”
I extend my nude pumps. “I even brought the toe cleavage.”
“The cleavage is a must.” She sips her coffee and wiggles a black stiletto.
“Charles Sr. didn’t take too kindly to the Board of Trustees finding out about his extra son. But what’s the mother of his grandchildren to do when a man who claims to be his only son’s half brother pops up on security cameras? He could be a con artist.”
Grier’s head falls back with a cackle. “I know he was beet red when you passed around the receipts. Exhibit A, your other son showing his ass.” Our heads bump on a snort.
Nate came through with the footage that showed dear Asher in a black Acura outside of Swigs on six separate occasions. Anyone could brush it off as circumstantial—until he popped up in front of the townhouse. Once? A coincidence…maybe. Three times? True crime territory.
I left Charles to explain why he was at a company event with a stalker and came to meet the attorney next to me, who’s laughing her curly bob loose, at the courthouse. The mission: secure a temporary protection order. The verdict: victory.
