Page 23 of Hidden Desires

I look at the young woman, really look, and for the first time in years, I feel light. My heart feels like a feather, and my entire being feels like it could float away.

“It was fun,” I rasp, tucking a stray piece of golden hair behind her ear. “But you’re a bad girl, you know that?”

“I know. But where to next?” she asks.

I grin. “I’ve got a place.”

We step into the night, and as the moon shines on our forms, something new coalesces in my heart. I don’t know what it is yet … but only this particular young woman can make me feel this way.

La Rosette doesn’t have a sign; it just has a door. Heavy oak, polished to a spit-shine, with a brass handle that’s cold and heavy as a sidearm. Inside, it’s low light and old school accents—vinyl banquettes, actual candles, the kind of cutlery you could rob a bank with. I know the owner, Serge, from the old days: Air Force food procurement in Guam, a pair of black-market caviar scams, and more than a few all-nighters that ended in police stations. He’s portly now, bald as a missile, but his smile is the same: big, predatory, and full of secrets.

“Jack!” he shouts, arms wide, and then lowers his voice when he sees Eliza. “And mademoiselle, what a pleasure.” He gives her a once-over and nods approvingly. “You have my best table. No one will bother you.” He escorts us through the restaurant’s main room, past the glitterati of St. Cloud—if such a thing exists—and into a nook screened off by tall planters and a half-wall of vintage Champagne crates. It’s almost a booth, but not quite, forcing us to sit on the same side or risk brushing knees every time we move.

We decide to occupy the same side, and Eliza slides in first, smoothing her dress around her knees, blonde hair a golden wave on her shoulder. I take my spot next to her, close enough that our thighs touch, and within seconds, Serge is back with a bottle of red and a basket of bread still steaming from the oven.

“You want to start with the house favorite?” he asks, already uncorking.

I nod. “And bring whatever you think the lady will like for dessert. The best.”

He winks and is gone, leaving us with a bottle, two glasses, and the velvet hum of other people’s lives just out of sight.

Eliza pours herself a glass, swirls, sniffs, and takes a long, slow sip. The wine leaves a stain on her lips, dark and glossy. “This is amazing, Jack. And the museum was incredible too. You really know how to impress a girl.”

I raise my glass. “You’re the one who’s amazing, sweetheart. But I’m glad you enjoy it because I do my best.”

The pretty blonde leans in, voice low. “But is this what you do on all your dates? Private museums, fancy dinners?”

I shrug a little and grin. “Only for the good girls who deserve it.”

She bites her lower lip, and it’s either the wine or the lighting, but her pretty pout is so swollen that I have half a mind to whisk her out of the restaurant before devouring her in my car. But that would be incredibly caveman-like and so we talk. And by talk, I mean we truly communicate, layer by layer. She asks about my last deployment; I tell her the PG version, then the real one, just for her. I ask about her job, and she admits she hates being a paralegal, despite being incredible at her job.

“Then why do you do it?” I ask, brushing her knuckles with my thumb.

She shrugs. “It’s all about leverage. I need the references if I apply to law school. I need the experience on my resume. Otherwise I’m just another girl with a psych degree and nothing to show for it.”

I shake my head, eyes serious. “You’re not ‘just another’ anything.”

Eliza sips her wine, eyes downcast. “You don’t know that.”

I lean in, so close our noses almost touch. “I do, sweetheart. I’ve seen a lot in the world, and you’re someone special. Exquisite. Delicate, yet strong. Sweet, yet with a backbone of steel. You’re amazing, Eliza.”

There’s a moment, then, where neither of us moves, and the air between us is thick with feeling. The tension isn’t new—hell, it’s always been there, but this time it’s different. It’s not just about the physical because I connect mentally with Eliza too. We understand each other, and the intimacy between us has grown.

At that moment, Serge appears with food: steak for me, duck for her, potatoes for both. He pours more wine, cracks a dirty joke in French, and vanishes again.

Eliza slices her duck, spearing a perfect bite, and smiles. “How’s your steak, Commander?”

I chew, swallow. “Perfect. How’s your bird?”

She licks her mouth, making her lips glossy, and smiles coquettishly again. “Delicious.”

She’s doing it on purpose, the little minx. Every time she raises her glass, she makes sure her fingers brush mine. Every time she leans in to whisper something, a big breast grazes my arm. By the time dessert arrives—a triple chocolate mousse—it’s a miracle I haven’t just thrown cash on the table and hustled her in the coatroom.

Eliza dips her spoon in the mousse, then holds it up, glossy and sweet, right in front of my mouth.

“Taste?” she purrs.

I close my lips around the spoon, suck the chocolate off, and lick it clean. Two can play at this game. Her eyes go wide. For a second, the whole world narrows to her breath, her flushed cheeks, the brightness of her eyes as she watches my mouth.