Page 12 of Hidden Desires

“I have no idea,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “But I want you, Uncle Jack. I can’t stop thinking about you. Us. Together.”

“Your dad would murder me if he knew I was here,” he growls, blue eyes flashing. “But I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

There’s a lull, the kind that would be awkward anywhere else but here it’s thick with possibility. I wonder what he’d do if I slid my foot out of my shoe and rested it on his thigh under the table. I don’t, but the thought makes me flush all the way down to my chest.

Then, Jack leans back and the spell is broken. What the hell? Why did his mood morph all of a sudden? It must be something to do with his PTSD, but I lean in as he tells another story, this time about a bar in Guam where a goat got loose and the MPs had to be called in. I lose the thread of the tale halfway through because all I can do is stare at his hands. How they move, how they clench and relax, how I want them all over my body, making me sigh and moan. Jack says the words “honor, duty, dignity” at some point, and that throws me for a loop. I flinch reflexively like he’s tossed cold water in my face because if he knew about the camming, about the way I make money by showing my body—would he run? There’s certainly nothing dignified nor honorable about what I do at my secret job.

I push the thought aside. We’re just getting to know each other, and it’s too early to trouble myself with these thoughts. There’s a time for everything, and something tells me that time isn’t now.

By the time the cookie is gone and the chai is mostly cold, the café has filled up. There’s a couple making out in the corner, and a cluster of teenage girls studying but mostly gossiping.

“It’s getting loud,” Jack says, half-standing. “You want to take a walk, sweetheart?”

I nod, already gathering my bag and phone, and soon, we’re outside. The afternoon is cool and windy, but not unpleasant with the sun shining on my blonde curls. We stroll side by side, not touching, but so close our arms brush every third step. I wonder if he’ll reach for my hand, or if I should reach for his, but we keep the suspense going, like it’s foreplay.

At the corner of the block, Jack stops and turns to me. “You know,” he says in a deep voice, “You make me feel about twenty years younger.”

I smile sweetly. “Is that a compliment, or are you just outing yourself as an old man?”

Jack laughs, a real one, and I’m surprised by how much I like the sound.

“I’m saying I like being around you,” he says, quieter now, “even if it’s reckless.”

I smile coquettishly. “Reckless is underrated.”

There’s a beat where I think Jack’s going to kiss me, right there by the bike rack. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gestures at the little park across the street.

“Walk with me?” he asks.

I nod, and follow, not caring if anyone is watching.

Inside, my pulse is a time bomb. I don’t know if I want him to kiss me, or if I want to keep this right where it is—a suspended, electric maybe.

We pass under a maple tree, leaves raining down around us, and I want to say something clever and witty, but all I can think about is his hands on my waist, running through my hair, or anywhere they want to be.

I risk a glance at the alpha male, and those patrician features are set. He’s focused, like he’s about to make the biggest decision of his life. I want to make it for him, but I don’t because I know this has to be on him. Jack’s reached a turning point … and it’s up to him to make a choice.

I smile sweetly as we stroll deeper into Lakewood Park. It’s filled with verdant greenery this time of year, with towering trees, waist-high shrubs, and lots of darkened, private spots.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask hesitantly.

The handsome man stops, turning to face me. “Maybe. But I’m trying to be mysterious, so a penny wouldn’t be enough.” There’s something behind the joke, though—an intensity in his blue eyes that makes my nipples harden as my insides go soft. This man calls to everything feminine within my soul, and I absolutely love it.

We keep walking, the path bending around a low hedge, opening into a small grove of oaks that hides us from the main drag. Here, the air is cooler, the only sound the dull roar of highway in the distance and a few birds that apparently didn’t get the memo about urban sprawl. There’s a bench, but Jack doesn’t head for it. Instead, he stops in the shade, hands in his pockets, looking at me with a conflicted expression. I can sense how much he wants me, and how he’s forcing himself to maintain distance. Yet I also know that he’s on-edge, and just a moment from losing control.

“What is it, Jack?” I ask in a soft voice.

He looks tormented.

“You sure about this, Eliza?”

“About what?” I ask, tilting my head.

He snorts. “You know damn well what.”

There’s a flash of the old cockiness—this is the man who landed a C-130 with one engine out, the guy who talks shit about city council but would give you his jacket in a blizzard. I love that about him. I want to see if I can break him.

“Maybe I do,” I say, “but maybe I want to hear you say it. It’s important that the words come from you because … well, it just is.”