Page 37 of Hidden Desires

When I come back out after a quick rinse, Jack is at the stove, bare-armed and focused, turning steaks with a pair of tongs like he’s defusing a bomb. He’s made a salad and opened a bottle of wine, and the table is set with actual cloth napkins. For a moment, I watch this man, admiring the contrast: the roughness of his hands against the delicate stemware, the way he moves with purpose even in the most mundane of tasks.

I sidle up next to him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. He leans back into me, nuzzling my cheek.

“You make this look easy,” I murmur.

He shrugs, flipping a steak. “Forty-five years and I’ve cooked for myself for forty-four. You pick up a few tricks.”

We move in tandem, plating the food, pouring the wine, bumping hips and laughing when we collide. The air between us is different now—still electric, but softer at the edges, the heat tempered by something like comfort. I didn’t know that was possible, not with him, not with anyone.

At the table, we sit close enough that our knees touch. I rip into my steak, moaning with pleasure at the first bite.

“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” Jack asks, feigning worry.

“God, no,” I say. “I’d die.”

He smiles, chewing thoughtfully. “You could probably live on wine and cake if you had to.”

“Wine, cake, and you,” I reply before I can stop myself.

Jack’s eyes flicker with something devious—filthy thoughts? Amused thoughts? “You planning to keep me around that long, sweetheart?”

I flush, but hold his gaze. “Maybe. You haven’t scared me off yet, big boy.”

He laughs, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s because I’m on my best behavior.”

I giggle. “You call the endless raunchy lovemaking your best behavior?”

He shrugs, the movement sending a ripple through his arms. “I want to do even more, sweetheart. I want to fuck you into next week, and then five ways on Sunday.”

“Oh you!” I giggle helplessly. “You’re so bad.”

We finish the meal, talking about nothing and everything: his days in the Air Force, my nightmare boss at the law firm, the weird neighbor who tried to sell him a taxidermied armadillo. It’s easy, effortless, like we’ve been doing this for years.

At one point, I drop my fork and say, “Can I tell you a secret, Jack?”

The dark man nods, setting his own fork aside. “Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.”

I take a deep breath because this is a declaration.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t laugh. Instead, he stands, walks around the table, and pulls me up into his strong arms.

“I could get used to that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and kisses me, soft and sweet this time.

“Oh good, because I don’t want you going anywhere,” I admit in a soft voice. His eyes gleam, but they’re filled with adoration and security. Jack makes me feel safe, and I’m so happy to be here, in his arms.

After, we clean up together, the mundane domesticity oddly intimate. I wash, he dries. Every so often, he flicks water at me, and I retaliate with a soap bubble to his cheek. We move around each other with a familiarity that feels dangerous, like if we’re not careful, we’ll end up wanting this every day for the rest of our lives.

We end the night curled up on his couch, a shitty action movie playing in the background, my head on his chest and his fingers idly tracing circles on my arm. For the first time in weeks, maybe ever, I’m not counting down the minutes until I have to be somewhere else. I’m just here, and it’s enough.

Before I drift off, I hear him whisper, “You’re trouble, Eliza. But I like it.”

I smile, eyes closed, and let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be his trouble forever.

I wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft, unmistakable sound of someone humming Sinatra, which is not a thing I would have ever pegged for Jack Landry, ex-military, anti-karaoke, anti-anything-embarrassing. But here it is: low and smooth, almost sweet, drifting into the master bedroom where I ended up sleeping like a log after the movie. I was so tired that we didn’t make love, but that’s okay. I have Jack Landry to myself for the whole weekend, and I can’t wait.

I tiptoe to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and then do the walk of shame—barefoot, bedhead, and nothing else but Jack’s shirt—down the hall to the kitchen. He’s at the stove, making French toast, and the sight of him in boxers and a battered t-shirt, spatula in hand, is so domestic it makes my ovaries clench. There’s something about seeing a man like Jack in a kitchen, cooking for you, that should be illegal, or at the very least regulated by the FDA.