CHAPTER 7 – DOUBLE TROUBLE
Eliza
There’s a certain ridiculousness to walking up to a man’s house holding a small bouquet of dandelions I yanked from the curb because men are supposed to bring flowers for women, and not the other way around.
But I know that the smallest touch of irreverence makes Jack Landry’s blue eyes crinkle with pleasure, and I want to see that.
I want to make him laugh, make those blue eyes gleam, and then to watch him moan as I milk his cock with different parts of my body.
After all, I haven’t seen Jack for a week now, and it’s been pure torture.
Still, I went on with my life after our date at the museum.
I spoke with my colleagues, and got lots of work done.
I had dinner with my parents, and politely excused myself after meals.
I even did a couple camming sessions, much to the satisfaction of my customers who haven’t seen as much of me as of late.
They don’t know it, but it’s because of Jack.
I just can’t seem to derive as much satisfaction from camming when I’m thinking only of one man.
Yet my lover has no idea about my secret job, and I have no intention of telling him… for now at least.
But I put that troubling thought out of my mind because I’m excited for our date tonight.
Jack’s invited me to his home, which feels like an intimate gesture, opening new vistas to our relationship.
As I stroll up the walkway, I take in his abode.
The house is classic and compact: one-story, flat-roof, a rectangle set deep into its lot with minimal landscaping and three American flags visible from the front walk.
I spot a solar-powered security cam, a tiny “beware of dog” sign (he has no dog), and a row of pebbles meant to trip up would-be prowlers.
No curtains—he thinks that’s for cowards—but the windows are so clean you could surgically operate on the glass.
I press the bell and the door opens immediately.
There he is, in a gray polo that hugs that athletic physique and blue jeans that on another man, would scream “dad mode.” On Jack, the effect is devastating.
He looks every inch a relaxed male animal, but when he sees me, his posture changes—suddenly attentive, every cell vibrating with my nearness.
“Eliza,” he growls. Just my name, but it’s enough. He has this way of putting all his force behind a single word. Then he sees the bouquet and cocks an eyebrow. “Are those for me, sweetheart?”
“Only the best for you, Commander,” I giggle, holding them out. “Picked fresh from your front lawn.”
He takes them, inspects the raggedy green stems, then plucks a single blossom and tucks it behind my ear.
His hand lingers just a second on my jaw, thumb tracing the edge of my cheekbone, and I nearly sway off my feet.
He steps aside to let me in, and as I pass, the aroma of a juicy steak greets my nostrils.
“Mmm, that smells good.”
The alpha male grins, flashing even white teeth.
“Good. I hope you’re hungry, sweetheart,” he rasps while leading me inside, “because I plan on burning some serious calories tonight.”
I giggle while following behind that big form, taking in the decor.
The house is exactly what you’d expect from a man who’s never married, never needed anyone to organize his life: open-plan, floors so clean they squeak, but everywhere, trophies of masculinity.
The mantle is lined with brass plaques and little crystal pyramids, each commemorating a tour or a medal or, in one case, a “record for fastest cross-country” flight in some plane I’ve never heard of.
The coffee table is built from a chunk of airplane wing, the glass top bolted directly to the aluminum.
Instead of pictures of family, the walls hold black-and-white prints of WWII dogfights and one enormous painting of a hawk in mid-dive.
There’s nothing girly, nothing soft—except, weirdly, for the pristine white orchids on the dining table. I run a finger along the petals, amazed they’re real. “Are you a secret botanist, Jack?”
The handsome man shrugs, looking sheepish. “Wasn’t sure what flowers girls like these days. Figured the ones that don’t die easy are the safest bet.”
I laugh, because it’s exactly the answer I expected.
He motions me to a dining table off to the side, and it’s set for two: plates, real silverware, actual linen napkins.
Steak, thick and perfectly seared, is resting on a wooden board, and asparagus glistens on a tray like little green soldiers.
There’s a bottle of red breathing in a decanter, and two glasses already poured.
He pulls out my chair. “I hope you’re hungry, milady.”
“I am, thank you, kind sir,” I smile sweetly while sliding into the seat, legs crossed under the table. Jack plates everything with surgical precision, fast and sure.
“This looks amazing,” I breathe, and I mean it. The table is picture-perfect, the steak a color so beautiful that my mouth waters.
Jack grins, slicing his own portion. “You like it medium rare, right?”
“You remember from my dad’s barbecues?”
“Never forget a thing,” he says. “At least not when it comes to you, Eliza.”
I blush hard because Jack can floor me with a single compliment. I had no idea he noticed! But our banter is easy, the meal better than most restaurants in town. He’s even made potatoes—roasted, crisp, seasoned with a heavy hand.
For a while, we merely enjoy the food, the only sound the soft scrape of forks and the distant thrum of some jazz station he’s left on low.
I let the steak distract me, but my real hunger is for him: the line of his jaw, the strength in those hands, the heat of his stare when he thinks I’m not looking.
“You said you’d tell me stories,” I prompt with a warm smile. “War stories, I mean. Or maybe flight stories.”
The alpha male sets down his fork and leans back, wine glass in hand, considering.
“What would you like to hear?” he asks.
I think for a moment.
“Have you ever had any close calls?”
The alpha male takes a long sip of his wine before nodding. “Three times, by my count. But you don’t want to hear about those because it makes me sound like a drama queen.”
I shake my head, leaning forward. “Try me, Commander.”
He nods, blue eyes flashing. “Okay, how about this? One time, over Kandahar, we took fire on approach. Lost hydraulics. Most guys would have punched out, but that’s a good way to get yourself shot.
So I hand-flew it down, no flaps, skidding all the way to the tarmac.
Landed so hot I thought the wheels would melt off.
Tower said it was the prettiest crash they’d ever seen. ”
“Is that when you got this scar?” I reach for his hand without thinking, running my thumb over the jagged line just above his knuckle.
“Nah,” he says. “That one’s from a can opener. But it sounds better if I blame the Taliban, so that’s my story.”
I giggle at his sense of humor. “Liar.”
He grins, unrepentant. “You said you wanted stories, not the truth.”
We talk, and I mean actually talk. The alpha male tells me about flying in and out of airfields so rough the runway was more suggestion than surface.
About Christmases spent eating C-rations with “the world’s most degenerate men,” as he calls his old squadron.
But it’s not a one-sided conversation because Jack asks me questions about my life too, drawing out emotions from below the surface.
I admit how much I hate my job, and how working at a law firm is just babysitting grown children who never learned to use email.
I try to keep it light, but Jack listens with real attention, nodding even when I veer into complaints about the other paralegals and their obsession with Pinterest.
He listens. He makes me feel interesting, important, not just another distraction from the boredom of civilian life. Even when I’m yammering about nothing, he’s looking at me like he’s memorizing every word.
The food disappears fast, and Jack is the one who clears the plates, piling them in the sink but not bothering to wash yet.
“Let’s move this to the couch,” he says, grabbing the wine and the glasses. “I want to feel those curves, sweetheart. They’ve been distracting me all during dinner.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. We settle in, and this time I don’t bother pretending I’m not excited. The couch is wide and soft, the cushions perfect for curling up. I kick off my flats and tuck my feet under me, before leaning against the huge bulk of my man, reveling in his heat and nearness.
Jack pours more wine, but I barely taste it because all my senses are attuned to him: the warmth of his body, the strength in his arm when it drapes behind my neck, the way his eyes go dark when he looks at my lips.
There’s a silence, thicker than the jazz in the background. It’s a moment you could cut with a knife, but neither of us moves, like we’re waiting for the other to give permission.
Finally, he speaks.
“I haven’t been able to think about anything but you since we met, Eliza.”
The words are powerful, making my heart swoop as my cheeks go hot. I bite my lip.
“Same,” I admit. “It’s kind of scary, actually.”
He laughs, but it’s soft and gentle. “Scary’s okay. Sometimes it’s the only way to know you’re alive.”
I put my hand on his knee, just to see what he’ll do. His thigh is warm, the muscle tense. He covers my hand with his own, squeezing gently.
“I want to kiss you,” he rasps.
“So do it,” I whisper.
He does. Not tentative, not gentle. The first kiss is rough, a test of wills, tongues colliding and breath stolen. I clamber onto his lap, straddling his hips, my dress bunching around my thighs. His hands go to my waist, pulling me in, and I can feel him already hard under the layers of fabric.
Jack breaks away for a second, his blue eyes almost black with desire. “You’re not what I expected, sweetheart.”
I smile. “Good.”