Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
My pussy convulses wildly with the big dildo crammed deep inside. I scream and cry out some more, Jack’s name on the tip of my tongue as waves crash into my form, my insides going hot and wild. I ride it out, clutching the sheets, as the chat floods with applause and money. For a second, I forget there’s anyone else watching. It’s just me and the man that I’m attracted to, and I want to stay here forever.
But the afterglow is short-lived because actually, the real Jack is waiting for me. Yes, I still have my date with the alpha male tonight, and flash a quick smile and wave at the camera before thanking my viewers. Then, I log off and wipe down, pull off the mask, and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are wild, my golden locks a mess. But I look happy because in my mind, I was with Jack.
With quivering fingers, I close the laptop and flop back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The feeling in my chest is too much to process—guilt, want, need, and something that tastes like hope. Could it be true? Do I have high hopes about a real relationship developing between me and the older man?
Don’t be silly, the voice in my head speaks. He’s a vet who’s about honor and dignity. What you just did is about the most undignified thing ever. You did it for money too, which makes it worse.
Regret crashes over my form, and I close my eyes, tears smarting at my lids.
I know the voice is right. I know that Jack would never approve of my cam-girl lifestyle.
But for now, he doesn’t know, and I have a date to get to. I take a deep breath and then sit up. I’m Eliza Shaw, who works hard and can make anything happen. Right now, I want to see my dad’s best friend … and for now, he wants to see me too.
6
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.”