Page 31 of Hidden Desires

He grins, all teeth and stubble. “Good girl.”

I make it to my car with my hair wild, dress wrinkled, and no panties (because they’re probably lost somewhere in Jack’s bedroom). I’m buzzing with happiness, unable to stop smiling even when I almost hit a recycling bin backing out of his driveway. The streets are empty, my phone is dead, and the only thing buzzing in my head is the memory of his hands on my hips, his voice in my ear, the way we fit together.

Halfway home, the afterglow starts to fade, replaced by cold panic. I rehearse the excuse: Stayed late at the office on a Friday night. Big case. Paralegals have to do as told, we have no choice. If I say it like I believe it, Mom will let it slide. Maybe.

But when I walk in the door, Nancy is in her robe, coffee in hand, and her face is set to maximum concern.

“Where were you?” she asks, voice sharp. “You didn’t call, and you know your father and I don’t like that. You still live under our roof.”

I give her the “long night at the office” spiel, down to the fake eye roll and the woe-is-me about being overworked and underpaid. She narrows her eyes, searching for the flaw in my story, but I keep my expression flat, just a little tired, and very annoyed. She lets it go.

“Go get changed,” she says. “An all-nighter is never easy.”

I smile, grateful for the out, and race up the stairs. My bedroom is untouched—laundry in a heap, makeup scattered across the desk, everything right where I left it. Perfect.

But when I plug my phone into the wall, it immediately starts buzzing with notifications, and my heart drops. I never should have let it lose power last night, but the fact is that I was too caught up in Jack. In his presence, his scent, and most of all, his lovemaking. Sure enough, when I stare at the screen, there’s a barrage of missed calls from Mom, multiple texts from Tara, and, at the bottom, a camming site reminder:

“SHOWTIME: Your premium fans are waiting.”

“SHOWTIME: Five minutes until live.”

“SHOWTIME: You have not logged in. Your fans are waiting.”

“SHOWTIME: A penalty will be assessed. Repeated violations will be reviewed by our team.”

I stare at the screen, heart sinking as realization hits me hard. I had a scheduled performance last night, and I completely forgot. This is the first time I’ve ever missed a show, and there are probably angry DMs, refund requests, maybe even a drop in subscribers. Oh shit.

I set the phone face-down and flop onto the bed. My body feels spent, my thighs sore, my lips bruised. I close my eyes and run my tongue over them, tasting the faintest hint of Jack. I remember the way he touched me—real, rough, not for anyone but us. It’s so much better than any show, any chatroom. The difference is laughable, and my mood lifts because what’s the camming in comparison with an actual, live alpha male? The truth is that there is no comparison whatsoever. Jack makes me feel seen on a human scale, whereas the other men are mere taps on a keyboard.

I lie there for a long time, letting my mind drift over the competing narratives. On the one hand: a handsome alpha male who makes love to me in real life, my curves sizzling with pleasure. On the other: customers whom I don’t actually know, paying money to see me perform lewd acts in my bedroom. Again, there’s no comparison whatsoever, and I sit up, resolute. So what if I missed a session? I’ve made so much money for the site that they’re not going to kick me off just like that. Plus, my customers can wait. They’ve seen enough of me as is, and there are tons of saved videos on-line that they can pay to access. Right now, I don’t want to share myself with strangers. I want to keep this, all of it, just for Jack.

With that, I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and change into PJs. It’s 7 a.m. now, and most of the world is just waking up and taking their first sip of coffee. But I fall into my bed, the comforter pulled up to my chin, and when I dream, I dream of flying: of being carried, held up, with a pair of strong, safe arms wrapped around me.

8

CHAPTER 8 – SAY YES TO MEATBALLS

Jack

It’s a seventy-degree day and the Shaws’ backyard is full of the kind of faces you see once a year at best: work buddies, college friends, and random neighbors with bright, smiling faces, kids in tow. Gerald is at the grill, sweating into his Gophers visor, one arm windmilling tongs like he’s hailing an airstrike. Nancy floats between coolers and the pop-up tent, offering drinks like the consummate hostess she is. Kids orbit the adults in centrifugal packs, faces sticky with day-glow orange powder, the boys already shirtless and weaponized with Nerf blasters.

I see her instantly.

Eliza. She’s sitting on the far side of the picnic table, laughing at some unfunny joke her mother made, a paper plate balanced on her lap. Sundress, blue again, with those little white flowers. The fabric clings to her chest, making it impossible not to stare, so I snap my eyes away while pasting a vacuous smile on my face. I’m not sure what’s more dangerous: looking, or being caught looking.

We’ve tried to be discreet though. In the past month or so, we’ve been meeting only in private places, which include my house and a few hotels a couple towns away. My truck, once or twice, which isn’t “safe” per se, but Eliza’s made me forget what the word “safe” means because it’s been a clandestine operation: her showing up at my door at midnight, me driving a hundred miles for two hours of sweaty, desperate fucking in a Days Inn. Even worse, every time we say “we have to be more careful,” it’s a guarantee that we’ll lose control within the next forty-eight hours, and I’m not a man given to self-delusion. We’re going to be caught, I’m sure of it.

But right now, in the bright suburban sunshine, we are nothing to each other. Mere acquaintances at a barbecue, me her dad’s best buddy from long ago. Eliza knows the rules, maybe better than I do.

I grab a beer from the cooler, nod at Gerald, who’s cranking the lid off a container of brats and telling a story about a pothole lawsuit. He waves me over and I take my spot at the periphery, where all the ex-military and low-key alcoholics lurk. I know most of the faces: guys from the local bowling league, a few dudes who have an insurance outfit downtown. They’re all fatter and grayer than last year. Nobody here knows I’ve been inside their buddy’s daughter, and nobody will, if I can help it.

Across the yard, Eliza is half-turned away, but every now and then she glances over the shoulder of whoever’s talking to her and locks eyes with me, just long enough to make my heart jump. She doesn’t blush, but she does smile, just the tiniest bit, before tucking a lock of golden hair behind one ear. Damn, this woman is beautiful, and if I could, I’d claim her as mine in front of the whole world.

But I can’t. Not now, and I know it.

Meanwhile, Gerald’s prattling away: “You remember Jack, right? He’s the one who almost got court-martialed for flying an F-16 under the I-94 overpass.”

Laughter, all around. I smile, try to look sheepish. “I maintain the bridge had sufficient clearance.”