Page 7 of Hidden Desires

What is she talking about? But as I watch, the naughty girl lifts one big breast to her month and licks the nipple, never breaking eye contact with me. Then she does the same to the other, licking and sucking her own teats as she moans.

“It feels so good,” she purrs. “It would feel even better if it was your mouth doing the licking, Uncle Jack.”

What the hell? What is she saying? But then a large hand comes down on my shoulder, the weight heavy.

“Hey bud, you look like you’re overheating. You want to come in for some ice cold beer?”

I jerk on the lounge chair, every hair on my head raised. But when I turn to the pool, Eliza’s gone, only a ripple in the water a hint at her presence.

“My daughter swims like a seal,” Gerald chortles. “She’s fine out here by herself. Come on, bud. You seriously look like you’re about to get heatstroke, and I don’t want to have to call 9-1-1.”

I manage to haul myself up to a standing position.

“Yeah, sure,” I rasp in a near-normal voice. “A drink sounds great.”

Then, I follow my friend into the house, turning only once to look back. Eliza’s not there … but I know the beautiful nymph’s waiting and watching somewhere, ready to continue her naughty teasing.

3

CHAPTER 3 – A DANGEROUS FLIRTATION

Eliza

If getting ready is a martial art, then I’m a black belt. In fact, I’m already three steps ahead by the time Dad even texts “JACK’S ON HIS WAY. ETA 3 MINUTES.” I snap my phone shut, sidestep the heaps of laundry that I keep promising I’ll put away, and do a full-body scan in the hallway mirror. Perfect. I’m wearing denim short shorts that curve lovingly around my ass, and a tiny crop top that hugs my big tits. But it has the U of M Gopher on it, so it’s perfect for the game this afternoon.

Skipping down the stairs, I flip my golden hair over one shoulder, and it catches the last ray of afternoon sun slanting through the kitchen window. If Mom sees me, I’ll get the look—the one that says “Is this how I raised you?”—but Nancy’s out at a church potluck, leaving me the run of the place. And I already know Dad won’t say anything about my hoochie outfit because that’s not how Gerald works. He still sees me as his little girl, and I’d have to be clad in a garbage bag with horns growing out of my head before he’d notice something out of place.

But game day means snacks, so I set the scene: chips in a blue bowl, salsa in a fake cut-glass dish, and a backup jar of store brand cheese in case Dad wants to test his lactose tolerance. I angle the bowls on the living room coffee table, fussing with the placement until the colors pop under the overhead light. Even the napkins are on theme—gold, maroon, the works.

The door opens and in comes the cavalry: Dad first, shoes off at the mat, face already set in the expectant grimace of a man who’s hoping his team will not be humiliated this week. Right behind him is Jack. The huge man enters with a confident step, taking in the room with that airman’s radar scan. His black hair is wind-ruffled, and he’s wearing a faded squadron T-shirt and cargo shorts that show off his tanned calves. There’s the tiniest hint of grey at his temples, but it just makes him look more dangerous, more “I could kill you with a pencil” and less “over the hill.” I catch those piercing blue eyes on me for exactly one second before he deliberately shifts his attention to the snack table.

“Eliza,” he says, voice just a little rough. “Good to see you again. Is work treating you well?”

“Like a queen,” I say, and lean in for the hug he can’t quite refuse. His body is solid as a rock, arms locked in a holding pattern an inch from my waist. I squeeze playfully, just to let him know I’m not a kid anymore, then step back and grin. “You know Gibson Grant couldn’t function without their most organized paralegal.”

Jack nods, surveying the snacks.

“Well, the snacks definitely look pro,” he rumbles before casting a glance my way. “I love the maroon and gold.”

Dad gives me a peck on the cheek and sits in his La-Z-Boy, remote already cocked like a loaded weapon. “You girls want beer?” he calls, even though it’s just me and Jack and the football gods.

I flop onto the couch, angling my knees so that they’re closed and proper. Jack hesitates for half a beat, then lowers himself onto the cushion opposite, leaving exactly two feet of neutral ground between us. I see the way his hands flex on his thighs before he folds them in his lap.

I pop the tab off a soda, take a slow sip, and watch the game warm-up in silence. The TV’s got the sound at “loud enough to stun livestock” and the announcers are already using words like “gritty” and “high-octane” about teams that haven’t had a winning season in years. Dad is already red-faced and Jack laughs, but his eyes don’t reflect genuine mirth. The rest of him is all tension … and I think it’s from being so close to me.

For good reason too, because I start my campaign with small moves. First, I stretch out on the couch so my bare thigh almost brushes his knee. Then, when Dad asks for more chips, I stand and lean way, way over the table, arching my back just enough that my top rides up and Jack can see the tender line of skin above my shorts. I catch the older man watching in the reflection of the TV. He closes his eyes for a beat, jaw flexing, as if trying to maintain control.

The next time I pass him a beer, my hand “accidentally” grazes his knuckles. His skin is hot, and the moment lingers longer than it should. My pulse jumps. I want him to grab me by the wrist, haul me into his lap, and tell me to quit being such a brat, but instead he just clears his throat and says, “Thanks, kiddo.”

The word “kiddo” is so hilariously off-base I almost laugh. If he thinks of me as a child, why does his gaze keep sliding down to my breasts when I’m not looking? He’s watching my every move the way a predator tracks something it wants to eat, and honestly, I like it.

The first quarter goes by in a haze of touchdowns and passive-aggressive snack refills. I barely watch the game because I’m watching Jack. Every time he shifts on the cushion, the muscles in his arms bulge under the sleeve. When he laughs at Dad’s bad jokes, the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkle just so. Sometimes, I catch him glancing at me, and there’s a flash of hunger before he locks it down again.

I decide to up the ante. When Dad yells “Touchdown!” and pumps his fists, I squeal and bounce on the couch like a college cheerleader, clapping so my boobs jiggle for maximum effect. Jack looks away fast, but not before a harsh flush appears on those high cheekbones. His crotch twitches, and I smile to myself. Oh yes, this man is only too aware of me.

During the commercial break, Dad runs to the bathroom. As soon as the door clicks shut, Jack leans in, voice a low rumble.

“Eliza, I need you to stop.”