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This is screaming the fucking place down.
My boyfriend comes as I milk his cock, but that’s not the extent of the orgasm Josh is having. Not even close. Josh is having an anal orgasm off the charts. Well done, Heath.
I’m humbled by the expertise in this room, so grateful to be a part of it.
When the orgasms are done and finished with, the guys give each other a high five, and then pull me in for a hug. I feel like a newbie all over again, like I know nothing. And I don’t. Not compared to them.
But I’m learning…
Heath leads us downstairs and opens another bottle of wine in celebration, and we are an hour over schedule by the time Josh and I leave for the night, but I couldn’t care less. We both wince as we get in the cab, and we laugh together. He takes my hand and raises it to plant a kiss on my knuckles.
“I’m so proud of you, Ella. You were a superstar.”
“A superstar with a superstar.”
“Heath’s down to earth for a superstar, so don’t worry about that,” he says, but I shake my head.
“I was talking about you, Josh.” I look at my boyfriend with pure adoration. “You’re the superstar, not Heath.”
Josh leans in for a kiss, and we’d be in the cloud of Romeo and Juliet for three days straight – if my phone didn’t start vibrating in my handbag.
“Damn it. It better not be Connor,” I say. “It’s nearly 4 a.m., for fuck sake.”
My heart stops when I see the name on the screen. Because it’s not Connor, or unknown, or private number. It’s Dad. And I get a glimpse of the notifications window in the background.
Eighteen missed calls.
What the hell?
“Dad?!” I say when I answer. “Are you ok?! What’s happening?”
“That’s the question I’m calling to ask YOU!” he shouts. “What the fuck is happening with YOU?!”
I wait for it. Oh fucking hell no.
The jackass has done it. I know he has.
“Connor called and told us you’re a prostitute, Ella. He said Josh is your pimp, and you’ve been selling yourself for cash since he left you. Tell us he’s a liar, please. Conniving piece of shit! We’ve been worried sick by this crap.”
But I can’t do that.
I can’t lie to them.
Not like this.
“Josh isn’t my pimp,” I say, and Dad lets out a sigh.
“Good. Thank fuck for that. And you’re not a whore either, right?”
I can’t speak. I stay silent. The seconds tick by like hours.
“Ella!” Dad yells. “You’re not a whore, are you? You’re in PR!”
I close my eyes, hating my sonofabitch ex with every scrap of my being.
“I am in PR,” I tell my dad. “I’m an entertainer.” And then I pause. It has to be done. I can’t lie to him.
“An entertainer? And what’s that?”
