Page 67 of Ella Gets the D
She smirks. “I don’t mind taking Junior’s bed. Maybe I’ll find something worth my while.”
Morgan’s big sister mode activates. “He’s not a junior, and respect his shit. We’re all upstairs.”
“In his regular bed? Even better.”
I spend the next thirty minutes cleaning up what’s left of our night, which isn’t much, thanks to Morgan and hereverything has its placeways.
My mind won’t stop racing with thoughts about my housing situation. It was a non-issue before, or so I assumed. Neither Charles nor his attorneys flagged who owns this home, which leads me to believe he hasn’t looked. Or nothing turned up. My hope is option two. Jackson loves his room, and Haile adores her new bed.
I need more time to save and get on solid ground. A few weeks of work isn’t enough—not in this economy, and not with my salary. Julian being away in London works in my favor. It’s safer, for reasons beyond a roof over my family’s head.
My fingers sweep over the kitchen island. The lighting underneath the cabinets on the wall casts a soft glow against the main floor’s darkness. The house is quiet, minus the symphony of soft snores from upstairs. We confirmed Julian’s bed is big enough to fit the three of us. There is only one reason someone without Nick Cannon’s kids needs a bed that big, and it starts and ends with an orgy.
Janelle’s black bag of goodies sits next to the prep sink. I never opened it, and I can only imagine what’s waiting for me underneath the black and silver tissue.
Everyone is asleep.
My kids are with their father.
I’m alone, with new toys.
I stare at the source of potential pleasure with a newfound focus. I was never in the right headspace to take care of myself in the past, but maybe practice makes perfect? I bend over the gift bag for a closer look and pull out the decorative layers until my hand lands on a box I retrieve with raised brows.
A blue sticky note attached to the front grabs my attention.
I fully charged the battery in case you wanted a test drive tonight.
xo,
Janelle
My nose wrinkles as I squint at the letters that spell “G-spot vibrator.” The light purple silicone has ridges underneath a curved, thick head. Seven vibration speeds promise satisfaction on a quiet setting.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and look around. Upstairs isn’t an option to spread and moan—those nosy heiferswould wake up the second I changed a setting. The basement is soundproof, but I wouldn’t dare get off in Julian’s domain. I’m not trying to add to the collection of bodily fluids on the bottom floor. The sofa could work, but said bodily fluids could come into play if this thing turns out to be legit.
My eyes shift back to the counter— a bleachable surface. A good scrub and some disinfectant wipes would kill all germs and traces of play. Kitchen counter sex isn’t uncommon. I never did it, but I can add it to my divorce bucket list. And then cross it off.
“I’m getting mine,” I say in a shuffle. No one is awake in the house, and the neighbor’s lights are off. The lighting in here is dim anyway. If there is a peeper, they’re in for a show. Only my profile is visible. I’ll survive.
I take my place in the middle of the all-white island. My legs hang over the edge, exposing the tops of my thighs underneath the black satin robe I bought myself last year for my birthday.
The stem of my wineglass feels light when I pull it toward me and let the herbal notes from the merlot coat my lips. My hands drag behind me, and I lean back to take in the shadows on the ceiling interlaced with ambient light. A faint moan escapes as my feet glide lazily through the air.
I focus on the gift of silence. The exchange of busyness for stillness, to focus on myself instead of others. It’s a rare treat to indulge, but tonight, I give in.
The tips of my fingers glide across the side of my neck in a slow drag down my robe’s edge to the swell of my breasts. My lips part at the heat of my skin against the fabric’s friction. I close my eyes and pull open my robe, exposing a shoulder at the fall of the strap and hard nipples at my hand skating over my breast.
My breath quickens, matching the pulse hammering in my throat. I switch hands to anchor myself to the altar of self-play.
With legs splayed open and my nightgown pooled to my navel, my eyes skim the body that’s loved me when I didn’t love myself.My palms press against breasts that nursed my children. They’re fuller and dip lower than they did years ago. I travel down my stomach and untie the robe binding my hips, which are wide with light stretch marks. My thighs carry extra cellulite and a thickness that makes them rub together.
Desire quivers in my body, demanding release.
I take one last sip before my bare back presses into cold marble, and I free myself completely of the robe.
Showtime.
The toy comes to life in a quiet vibration between my fingertips, and I let it roam my curves. My back arches at the heat inflaming my skin. Moisture builds between my legs, and my nipples tighten to diamonds at the kiss of the pulsating head. Lower my hand goes to the soft skin of my stomach, which houses a flurry of butterflies. My vagina bucks in expectation and soaks the tip of the vibrator on impact.
