CHAPTER 6 – A SECRET RENDEZVOUS
Jack
When the museum director buzzes us in, the old bastard gives me a once-over and then grins, not even pretending he’s here for any reason except to ogle my date. I roll my eyes.
“Yo,” I greet.
The other man shakes my hand.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, bud?” he asks.
I incline my head at Eliza, who’s standing just behind my shoulder.
“Eliza, this asshole is Daniel, a friend from my Air Force days. He’s saved my ass more than once, and I guess they liked him so much that they made him the head of this museum.”
Dan, who’s always had a thing for pretty girls, takes Eliza’s small palm in his own and lifts it to his lips.
“Don’t listen to anything this asshole says,” my friend chortles. “But you two have a good time. I’ve told the security guards not to bother you, so you’ll have plenty of privacy.”
Then, with a wink, my bud strolls off, leaving us alone in the foyer of the National Aviation Museum.
It’s just me and my date because I called in a favor from Dan, who was only too happy to oblige.
We’re at the museum during after-hours, which means we have the whole place to ourselves.
It’s going to be me, a beautiful young blonde, and a warehouse of ex-military metal.
I pull my date into the hangar, which echoes with a kind of quiet I haven’t felt since the desert: the kind that’s both too much and not enough at once.
Rows of warbirds are lined up under flickering lights, props stilled and wings folded in like sleeping animals.
It smells like dust, oil, and paint. I take it in—never gets old, this feeling—and then look at Eliza, expecting her to be bored or overwhelmed.
Instead, she’s electric. Her blonde tresses glow under the sodium lamps, and her green dress curves beautifully around her big bust and wide hips.
Even better is the look of wonderment in her eyes.
She spins a slow circle, taking it all in. “Okay, this is actually pretty cool. Did you fly any of these?”
I laugh. “Yeah, maybe one or two. Or their younger cousins, more accurately.”
She wanders toward a Vietnam-era jet, tilting her head as she reads the plaque. “Tell me which one was your favorite. And don’t say the B-2, because everyone picks the stealth bomber.”
I shake my head. “No love for the B-2. Too many computers. If I’m getting shot at, I want something that lets me feel every rattle.” I lead her past a row of fragile biplanes, up to a C-130 that’s been stripped of seats and turned into a floating classroom.
Eliza’s hand ghosts along the wing, fingertips tracing the pockmarks in the aluminum. “You ever take fire in one of these?” she asks, voice pitched low.
“Not in the States,” I say. “But over the Middle East? More times than I can count.”
She looks up at me, and there’s a calculation in her eyes. “You like living on the edge, don’t you, Jack?”
I shrug, but she’s already smiling, like she knows the answer.
The museum is technically a single building, but the interior is maze-like—there are a multitude of catwalks, ladders, little nooks with half-dissembled helicopters or engine blocks.
I take her hand to steer her through a tight spot, and she doesn’t let go, even when the path widens.
Her palm is smaller than mine, skin so soft that I have an urge to caress her.
I remember the last time a woman held my hand in public, and the memory is so faint it might as well be fiction.
We pause at a display with a table covered in Vietnam-era radios. Eliza eyes the battered headsets and picks one up, turning it over in her hands.
“What’s this one do?”
I take the set from her and fit it over her ears, then flip the PTT switch. “This is a field com. You’d use it to call in an airstrike, or beg for backup, or, if you’re like most pilots, complain about lunch.”
She giggles and bites her lip. “Did you ever call for help?”
“Once. Didn’t like it.”
She cocks her head. “And now you never ask for help?”
I meet her gaze. “Not unless I’m out of options.”
Something in her expression flickers—sympathy, maybe, or the understanding of someone who’s had to claw her way up from nothing. She smiles, but there’s empathy in her eyes. “It must be hard to be a soldier,” she whispers, then sets the headset down.
We drift through the rest of the exhibits, and I tell her stories, some true, some a little warped by time.
Eliza laughs at all the right moments, asks intelligent questions about how to steer, how to evade, what it’s like to land a bird that’s leaking fuel and on fire.
She’s a good audience, but more than that—she wants to know, wants to feel it through me.
I show her the cockpit of an old fighter, the seat barely wide enough for my ass, let alone her curves.
“Want to sit?” I ask, half-joking.
Eliza smiles and climbs up, hoisting herself into the cradle with more grace than I expected. The skirt rides up her thigh, showing off ivory flesh and my fingers itch to grab her to me. But I resist as Eliza pretends to fly the plane, curving the steering wheel right and left.
“Pew-pew!” she cries, pretending to fire machine guns.
“Very realistic,” I deadpan.
She giggles. “I bet you made way more embarrassing sounds in the cockpit.”
“Not unless you count praying.”
She lets the yoke rest and turns to me, her face close enough that I can see every detail— the little flecks in her iris, the pink at the tip of her nose.
“Show me how to fly it,” she says.
I wedge in behind her curvy form, hands on her shoulders, and lean down so my lips brush her ear. “The trick is, you never really control the aircraft” I say. “You just nudge it in the direction you want to go, and hope the wind doesn’t fuck you up.”
She shivers when I say it, and for a second, I’m not sure if it’s arousal, excitement, or both. She glances back at me, mouth parted.
“Sounds familiar,” she says, voice a little breathless.
I want to kiss her, right here, with her legs splayed and her hands on the throttle. But instead, I help her out of the seat, gripping her waist a little tighter than necessary.
We end up at the last display: a battered simulator, the kind that costs more than a luxury car and runs on software older than either of us. I dig the key out of my pocket and flip the switch; the thing powers up with a whine and a flicker of ancient LEDs.
Eliza perches on the edge of the seat, eyeing the console. “Are you going to teach me to fly for real?”
“If you want.”
She smiles sweetly. “Yes, definitely. Strap me in, Commander.”
There’s something naughty about the way she says those words, or is it just my imagination?
Nonetheless, I take her hand, wrap the webbed harness around her torso, and buckle her in.
The belt cinches under her chest, compressing those big tits until I have to look away or do something criminal.
My fingers brush the bare skin of her collarbone, and she catches my wrist, holding it in place.
“Jack,” she says in a flirtatious tone, “am I making you nervous?”
I growl in my throat. “No, not at all, sweetheart. Just trying to do this right.”
“But is there a right way to what we’re doing?” She looks up at me, and in the low glow of the monitor, her skin glows gold.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “But if there is, I’ll find it.”
For a second, neither of us moves. The silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable. I rest my hands on her shoulders, then slide them down her arms, feeling the tension in her muscles. She lets me, her body soft, open, ready.
“Start the program,” she says softly. “Show me what it’s like.”
I punch a few buttons, the display blips to life, and the simulated world appears: clouds, horizon, instrument readout. I guide her hands to the controls, showing her how to pull up, bank left, level out.
She’s a quick study. Her touch is tentative at first, then stronger, more confident.
“Can I crash?” she asks.
“Not in here,” I say. “But I’ll catch you if you do.”
She looks over her shoulder. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I say, and this time I don’t bother holding back.
I bend down, press my mouth to the slim length of her neck, and taste her skin—salt, perfume, a sweetness that’s all her own.
She doesn’t freeze, doesn’t shy away. Instead, she lets go of the yoke and reaches up, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I take it slow. My hands bracket her ribcage, and I can feel her heart hammering through the thin fabric of her dress. She turns in the seat, twists to face me, and her lips find mine. It’s soft, hesitant at first, but then she bites down—just enough to make me grunt.
“Is this what you want, Jack?” she whispers.
I’m a grown man. I should be able to say no, keep a lid on it, but I’ve had enough of saying no to the things I want.
I kiss her back, hard, tongue slipping between her lips as her arms snake around my neck. She moans into my mouth, and the sound goes straight to my cock. I unbuckle Eliza’s seatbelt, drag her out of the simulator, and then spin her so she’s sitting on the plane’s wing, legs spread around my hips.
Her thighs grip me. I grind against her, the friction exquisite through the layers of clothing. Yet she’s warm and trembling beneath me, her big breasts pressed up against the hard wall of my chest.
“Eliza,” I warn. “If we keep going, I’m not going to be able to stop.”
She smiles, all teeth and mischief. “So don’t stop.”
I grab the young woman’s hips, hoist her into my arms, and stumble until she’s pressed up against the nearest wall that shows some redheaded pinup grinning over a bomb bay. Fitting.
Meanwhile, Eliza wraps her legs around me, dress riding up to her waist. I slide a hand up her thigh, hook a finger under the edge of her panties, and holy fuck, but she’s soaked—no surprise, but the confirmation makes me spurt into my pants.
“You sure about this?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods. “Yes, Daddy. I’m yours.”