Page 45 of Hidden Desires

I pour another whiskey, neat this time. My hands are still trembling, and I watch the glass slosh like a rookie.

What do I do now? Confront her? Pretend it never happened? Secretly bankroll her so she never has to do this again? The absurdity makes me laugh again, loud and bitter.

I can’t get Eliza’s image out of my head though. The way she smiled, the little flutter of her fingers when she thanked her customers. The way she came, sweet and erotic, for a crowd of men who have no idea what she’s really like—her intelligence, her wit, her heart.

I check the clock. It’s almost midnight. My first instinct is to call, but that’s insane. There’s no playbook for this. No protocol.

So I do what I always do: I plan.

I pull up my phone, thumb hovering over her name in the contacts.

Finally, I type:

“Dinner at my place tomorrow? 7pm? Wear something you want me to rip off.”

She replies in seconds: “Absolutely, Commander. Can’t wait.”

I put the phone down and stare at the blank wall, the afterimages of her body still burning in my eyes.

The house is silent. I listen to the fridge cycle, the ice machine spit cubes into the tray, the faint click of the heating system.

I pour one more drink and wait for morning.

There’s a weird fugue that sets in after a shock. In war, it’s called shell-shock or PTSD or a dozen other acronyms, but at home, it’s just numbness: the way your brain floats above the facts, refusing to deal until forced by reality. I spend the day in a haze, cleaning the house until every surface is spotless, then setting out steaks, wine, and a wedge salad so perfect it could star in a cooking magazine. I check the oven twice, arrange the silverware in careful formation, then stare at the clock and will it to run out of minutes.

At 6:57, headlights flash through the window. My chest tightens. I force myself to breathe steady, like I’m prepping for a jump.

The knock is soft, and when I open the door, she’s there—Eliza, glowing with impossible youth, eyes huge and lips glossy. She’s dressed up, blonde hair curled, a dark coat that skims her curves and ends just below the knee. She’s even wearing heels. My heart does a weird skip, like maybe this is just a nightmare and everything’s normal.

She steps in, shivering in the cold. “You look handsome,” she coos, pressing close to kiss my cheek. “Is this a special occasion, or do you always set the table like you’re about to host a presidential dinner?”

I can’t help smiling, even now. “I clean up when it matters,” I mutter around the frog in my throat.

But Eliza doesn’t notice. She follows me into the kitchen, shedding her coat and revealing a line of bare shoulder that makes my cock twitch, even as my stomach roils. She moves around the kitchen, light and confident, stealing a carrot from the salad and popping it between her teeth with a sassy crunch.

I pour wine and hand her a glass. Her fingers brush mine, linger a second longer than normal, and it takes all my willpower not to yank her in and demand answers right then.

Instead, I set the steaks to sizzle and keep my eyes on the stove.

Eliza leans against the counter, sipping her wine. “You okay, Commander?” she asks, head tilted. “You seem… I don’t know. Distant.”

I grunt. “Long day. Had some weird dreams last night.”

She watches me, searching my face. “Want to talk about it?”

I shake my head and flip the steaks. The sizzle is loud, masking the pounding of my pulse.

Dinner is smooth, but it takes every ounce of my energy to hide my nerves. The food is perfect, but it tastes like cardboard. I try to ask her about work, but the words stick in my throat. Fortunately, Eliza fills the silence, telling a story about a lawyer who accidentally emailed a sex tape to an entire listserv, but even that doesn’t land. I just nod and mumble responses, waiting for her to call me on my bullshit.

She sets her fork down, eyes wide and hurt. “Jack. Seriously. What’s wrong? You’re on edge tonight.”

I drink half my wine in one go. “Nothing. I’m just distracted.”

She leans in, her hand on my forearm. “Is it me? Did I do something?”

The words hang in the air, daring me to say them. I want to chicken out. I want to pretend I saw nothing, that I can keep going like it doesn’t matter. But the image of my girl, nude and gorgeous on some stranger’s computer, will never leave me.

I clear my throat. “Can we sit in the living room?”