I shower fast and throw on my usual: slacks, a dress shirt—teacher starter pack.
I lean down, press a kiss to her shoulder. Her arms snake around me. “I love you, Star. I’ll see you after work.”She kisses me back and rolls over, half-asleep.
Her and Ansel’s classes are on break; unfortunately, mine’s not for another two weeks. We’ll each get a week off—separately.
After work:
I come home, drop my keys on the entry table. Soft music’s playing from the bedroom, paired with giggles. Familiar.
I head into the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, and walk toward the open bedroom door.
Stella’s perched on her art stool, a canvas propped in front of her. Ansel sprawled across our bed, and from the speakerphone, I’m guessing Blythe’s the one yapping.
“Stellllla… his hand was around your throat?” Blythe’s voice is shy, almost scandalized. “Isn’t that scary? What if you can’t breathe?”
Stella dips her brush into a pale bluish-white and swirls it gently across the canvas. “Blythe,” she says calmly, like they’re discussing grocery lists, “it’s not scary. It’s sexy. It’s… intense. Erotic.”
I should announce myself.
But I don’t.
“The feeling of his hand wrapped around your throat?” she continues, dragging her brush through sea foam. “It’s not abouthurting. It’s about claiming. That possessiveness? The trust? It was the best fucking orgasm of my life.”
She says it like she’s describing a cup of tea. Like my sex life is just another shade of sunset in her ocean skyline.
“I could never,” Blythe breathes. “Sinclair would never.”
Ansel giggles. “Sinshine, are you clutching your pearls over there?”
Stella laughs. “Be nice, Ansel. Not everyone likes the same kind of sex. As long as she’s getting standing O’s, that’s what matters.”
She switches brushes, dipping into peach, sweeping it across the skyline.
“Hey Stella,” Ansel teases, “tell Blythe about the time you gave Donovan a hand-necklace.”
My eyes widen.Oh, fuck.She told Ansel that.
“Ansel!” Stella yells, tossing a clean brush at her. “You can’t just blurt out my sex life.”
“Wait,” Ansel says in a gasp, “Stella… did he call you Daddy when you were dominating him? Or did he call you mommy instead?”
I clear my throat from the doorway.
“Evening, ladies.”
They freeze like they’ve been caught stealing from the altar.
“How about we go out to eat tonight?” I add casually. “Blythe, you’re more than welcome to join us.”
Stella
The sun is finally out today, bright and unrelenting. We’ve had nothing but downpours for the last few days. The grass is still damp, the air still smells like wet earth—but the sunshine on my face feels like little kisses.
Growing up in Arizona, I never thought I’d get tired of seeing rain—it's the one thing Agave Hills is seriously lacking. But after three and a half years in Virginia, I can say with full confidence: the rain is a menace.
Ansel and Blythe already have a table waiting at The Bayside Diner. All-you-can-drink mimosas, a club sandwich to share, and my favorite berry salad—already set out like a chaotic little offering.
I wave at the hostess and walk straight through to the balcony seating. We’ve got the perfect view of boats pulling in and out of the harbor, the ocean breeze tangled with fresh salt and citrus.
