Page 46 of Ella Gets the D
To be honest, I’m not mad at this position, but I lift her hips so she’s not on my dick, which is hard for the second time this evening.
Ella’s pants become ragged breaths. Her palms flatten on the side of my face, her cleavage teasing me to peek inside the loose tee hovering in front of my face. Neither of us makes a move to get up. Our eyes lock.
The heat between us rises.
She pulls away and crawls to the coffee table to check her phone for the third time. The nanny cams from her old house are in her and Jackson’s rooms. “It’s late. I should go.”
I stand and tuck my hands into my pockets. “I had fun tonight.”
“Me too,” she says with a smile. “Thank you again…for everything.”
All I can do is nod.
Tonight was the most fun I’ve had on a Friday night in a long time. Not because Ella straddled me or we almost kissed. There’s something different about her, and it tugs at my interest. She has layers, and I find myself wanting to peel each one back and learn more.
Chapter 19
Ella
“You two fucked.”
The accusation cuts through Frankie Beverly and Maze to hit me square in the throat. I choke on the greens speaking to my taste buds in a seasoned love language and wipe my mouth with a white linen napkin, one that has no business being at a backyard barbecue.
Erica sits across from me with a plate of ribs she nearly wrestled from a guy with a man bun, her wrinkled brow hovering above turquoise-rimmed shades. She glances at the suspect in question, who’s getting shoulder-bumped away from the grill. Julian’s exuberant laugh tickles the hairs on my arms. I’m hyperaware of my heart hammering against my chest at his light-hearted tone and the way his Adam’s apple bobs at his dad’s jab.
An “Mm-hmm” brings me back to the nosy-ass friend in a jewel-toned summer dress, one I wouldn’t mind stealing. Her lips curl into a smile, daring me to play in her face.
I grab my fork and study the collection of soul food blessing my plate to avoid her attempt at an FBI investigation. “Was thata question or a statement?” Rich potato salad slides off my fork and into my mouth.
“Play with your mama if you want, but y’all are fucking.” She shakes her head and chuckles before grabbing a rib off her plate. “You two have tracked each other since you arrived with the kids. It’s cute how he looks to see if you’re okay and if Haile and Jackson are safe. But…” She curls a magenta thumb into her mouth to suck off sauce. “A man doesn’t do all that out of the kindness of his heart.”
“He…we…” The sun choose that moment to stretch beyond the trees and bore into my back. The literal hot seat. I fan myself and take a sip of ice water. “His family is like my family.”
My living situation with Julian isn’t public, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“I don’t see him looking around for Morgan.”
“Who’s looking for me?”
I roll my eyes and groan. Morgan’s gaze flits between me and Erica. She frowns but brushes it off, pulling out the chair next to me with one hand and putting her plate of rabbit food on the table with the other. Morgan never eats anything with dark sauces if she’s wearing white or pastels. She has both on today, a spaghetti strap pink top and white linen pants.
At a barbecue.
Morgan crosses her nude sandals under her chair and assesses her plate of salad and fruit under a light drizzle of Greek dressing. “What are we talking about?” Her fork goes to work.
A sinister grin stretches Erica’s face. “Julian and Ella,” she says in an innocent tone, one that’s as fake as her lashes.
Nope, not doing this. I stand and say, “I’m going to check on the kids.” They’re playing on the playground Langston installed a couple summers ago. Haile left my side to join Duke and Jackson after her brother promised not to cramp her style and treat her like a preschooler. Sheisa preschooler. The trio isvisible from here. I wouldn’t have sat at this table otherwise, and neither would Morgan. But Erica only has a few seconds before she gets reckless with her mouth, and I’m not sticking around for the aftermath.
Morgan frowns again. “We can see them from here, El. Sit. I haven’t seen you since you got here, and I need a break from smiling at my parents’ guests.”
The Brooke family barbecue is the kickoff event of the summer, an invitation to enjoy seasoned meats in DC’s Gold Coast. The traditional 1920s home upholds the history of Langston’s father, as he and other Blacks moved into the Crestwood neighborhood. Edward Brooke passed down the brick colonial to Langston, who carried on the a legacy of attorneys who’ve changed the world in their own way. Minus Morgan, who took a different path.
Every window holds a story, and for as long as Morgan remembers, her home has been a place for Black joy. Now, friends and colleagues witness the power of her interior design prowess firsthand. Langston gave his daughter free rein to update the five-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath home. The dining room is my favorite. It shares space with the open kitchen and has a wall of windows facing the backyard, the location of the annual holiday soiree. Today is my first, as I usually take the kids to visit my mom for Memorial Day.
The property next door eventually became part of the family portfolio, to accommodate out-of-town guests and expand the outdoor entertainment space. There’s enough room for a dance floor, tables and chairs, cushioned loungers, and serving stations for the caterers. Langston cooks most of the meat, but he’s intentional about hiring small, Black-owned catering companies and restaurants. At least fifty people are here, from partners at the firm to old college buddies.
And then there’s Julian, prince of “the tingles,” in an ivory polo and matching shorts. The tattoos on his right forearm flex every time he takes a sip from the cup nestled in his firm hand. His stance is wide, courtesy of thick thighs coated in muscle. With his shades on, the man looks like a professional athlete with a brand deal.
