Page 68 of Hidden Desires

Jack looks at me, and for the first time ever, he’s nervous. “I wanted you to know you’re not just a guest here. You’re home, Eliza. Even if your dad never talks to us again, even if the whole town thinks we’re deviants. I want you to stay.”

The dam breaks. I start to cry, loud and messy, the kind of sobbing I hate myself for, but Jack just pulls me in and lets me soak his shirt for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“I love you,” I say, voice ugly and wrecked. “Thank you for being so kind. For taking care of me.”

He squeezes me tighter. “I love you too, sweetheart. And now you have the meatball to prove it.”

We stand there for a long time, holding each other, until the candles gutter and the only sound is my sniffling.

Finally, when I can speak again, I hold up the keychain. “Does this mean I get a key to the house?”

Jack laughs. “You’ve had a key since the first night. You just never used it.”

“Oh.” I swallow, cheeks red. “I was scared it wouldn’t work.”

He wipes my face with the back of his hand. “It’ll work. Every. Single. Time.”

I kiss him, slow and grateful, then slip the keychain onto my lanyard, right next to my office badge and the USB drive that holds all my secrets.

For the umpteenth time since I walked in, I feel at home. I feel seen, even with all my weirdness, anxieties, and flaws. I feel wanted. This man is my home, and I adore him with every cell of my being.

The next thing I want—more than food, more than sleep, more than even a minute of peace—is to make this man feel exactly what he makes me feel. Desired. Real. The only true thing I’ve ever done.

I look up at him, eyes coquettish, and say, “Bedroom?”

Jack grins, so handsome that my knees go weak. “You’re the boss, sweetheart.”

And I am.

Bedroom. I don’t say it again, just pull Jack by the wrist, determined, ignoring the dishes, the wine, the evidence of our dinner. I want him. I need to claim every inch of this man, to show him what he’s done to me. I want him to see every feral, undomesticated impulse I’ve ever had and know that none of it is for show, not a performance, not a plea for attention, but something hot, animalistic, and totally for him.

Up the stairs. The house is quiet, but my breath is thunder in my ears. I’m not self-conscious. Instead, I’m thrumming, alive, and prickling with energy I haven’t felt since the first time I ever cammed. Only this is different, because there’s no stage, no lens, no paying audience. Just him and me, and the headiness of anticipation.

Jack is half a step behind, probably thinking I’ll lose my nerve, but I don’t. I get to the bedroom, flip on the bedside lamp, and turn to face him, letting the silence settle between us. He’s expecting me to blush, or murmur, or giggle. But I don’t.

Instead, I reach for the buttons on his shirt and pop them, one by one, eyes fixed on his face. There’s a scar on his collarbone I never noticed before—a little raised line, white against tan, the color of old milk. I run my finger along it, a question, and he says, “Iraq. Stupid accident. You want the story?”

“Maybe later,” I murmur, pushing the shirt down his arms and letting it puddle on the floor. He smells like the kitchen—meat, spice, the barest hint of woodsmoke—and under it, clean male sweat.

I kiss the scar, then his neck, then the soft hollow under his jaw, feeling him tense as my teeth graze the stubble. He’s huge, with heavy, defined pecs, and strong, and I could let myself be crushed under his body, but tonight I want something else. I want to orchestrate, to build a symphony out of every craving and secret I’ve ever had.

Jack gets it, somehow. His hands hover at my waist, then fall away, letting me undress him, his muscles rippling with anticipation and restraint. He lets me undo his belt, lets me palm his erection through the fabric of his pants, lets me push everything down and off and then just stand there, naked, waiting. OMG, my man’s huge. I’ve been with him many times now, but I’m always awed by the sight of his massive cock. It’s ten inches, thick and heavy, and hot in my palm. I squeeze it, and he groans, throwing his head back.

“Sweetheart,” he says in a guttural voice. “Shit.”

Then he tries to touch me, but I push his hand away and say, “No. I want this to be about you, Jack.”

I strip off my own shirt, then skirt, then everything else. I leave on only my black pumps, the ones with the ice-pick heels before jiggling my ivory tits at him. My nipples are hard, my thighs trembling, but it’s not nerves. It’s pure, volcanic desire, and my pussy moistens and swells before his gaze.

“Oh shit baby,” he mutters. “Oh shit shit shit, you’re making me leak.”

Sure enough, Jack sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back, cock hard and proud, and it’s dripping pre-come already. A white bead forms at the tip before sliding down that massive length, and it’s everything I can do to not sink to my knees before him, running my tongue up the length to lap up his male goodness.

But tonight, I want more than that. I want to be consumed and to consume him in turn.

I go to the nightstand, open the drawer, and pull out a toy I bought last week. Not the cute, pastel one I use on cam, but a big, black silicone beast that frankly, resembles a police baton. I also grab a slim, glass plug—my favorite. And lube, because I know what I want to do, and we’re going to need the extra liquid. Jack watches, eyes widening, before a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face.

“Holy shit,” he says, voice low. “Baby, are you sure?”