Exposed: An Anthology

by Brooke Cumberland

  “Yes, awful,” he agreed. “We should definitely make out instead,” he added playfully.

  “Horndog,” I teased.

  Ms. Thompson strolled back into the parlor, candle in hand, muttering an apology for her interruption. She looked like she has bad news.

  “Again, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just heard on the radio that the main road out to the interstate is blocked by a downed tree. It may be morning before they can get it off the road. I think you two are stuck here for the time being.”

  Oh my God, I was stuck in a Bed and Breakfast with Logan. I didn’t know whether I should jump for joy or pass out in fear.

  Logan turned to me, worry clearly showing on his face.

  “I’m so sorry, Clare. Is Maddie going to be all right? Should I figure out a way to get us home?”

  It was a sweet gesture and I was really wondering how he planned on getting us home, but I declined.

  “No, it’s fine. She’s fine with Leah. I just have to make a phone call.”

  Oh God, that was going to be interesting. No doubt Leah would have some advice on what I should do.

  “Okay, have you ever gone a night without her? Will you be all right?” he asked, still concerned. He was always checking on both of us.

  “Yes, she’s spent the night at my parents quite a few times. She’ll be fine,” I assured him. He looked visibly relieved.

  Ms. Thompson had been politely quiet during our exchange and now placed herself back into the conversation saying, “Okay, good. Now, should I make up one room or two?”

  Well shit.

  Logan

  Clare looked to me as if I was supposed to answer the question. Oh right, because I was the organizer of this grand date? Well, this was definitely not in the plans and I had no fucking clue what to do.

  “Ah, um...well.”

  I’m stuttering. I’m fucking stuttering!

  I stood, unable to sit there anymore. Pacing the floor, I turned back. They were both looking at me now. Two sets of eyes waiting for an answer. Why should sharing a night with a beautiful woman be such a difficult decision to make?

  Body said good idea.

  Mind said bad.

  Fuck.

  “Two, please,” I answered quickly.

  A brief look of disappointment flashed across Clare’s features and then was quickly replaced by something else. Rejection?

  She felt rejected? Oh, hell no. That shit was not happening.

  Ms. Thompson said her goodbyes and went off to prepare our rooms for the evening. I swiftly grabbed Clare’s hand, pulling her from the couch and rotating her around in my arms, as our bodies collided together against the nearest wall. She needed to understand how badly I wanted her.

  I pressed my body against hers, letting her feel every hard inch of me. She gasped and her eyes went round in surprise.

  “Do you remember what I said to you in the garden?” I asked.

  She nodded breathlessly.

  “This isn’t a casual fuck for me, Clare. I refuse to screw this up like everything else in my life.”

  Her eyes softened at my words and she opened her mouth, no doubt to rebuff my words, and soothe me. But I was in no mood to be soothed. She thought I rejected her in refusing to spend the night with her, and that seriously pissed me off. Lifting her at the waist, I grabbed her legs, wrapping them around my body, and rocked myself deeper against her core. She gasped, her eyelids lowering as she let out a small moan.

  “But don’t think that me making the decision, the very hard decision, to refrain from taking you up those stairs to make love to you all night long, has anything to do with me not wanting you,” I reiterated before I released her legs, letting them drop gently to the floor. I still kept her pressed against the wall, our bodies tight together.

  “Am I clear, Clare?”

  She simply nodded, eyes wide, as a sheepish grin spread across her face.

  “Good, now go stand way over there, across the room, while I think about old men running naked on a beach," I begged

  She busted out laughing as I pulled away from her and dropped my hands to my knees, panting. I glanced up as she walked over to the over side of the room, clutching her sides in hysteria.

  She was cracking up while I could possibly be dying of blue balls, all because I wanted to prove a point.

  Clare

  I never felt so bad for a man, but I couldn’t stop laughing. He actually looked like he was in real pain, with his hands on his thighs, and his breathing heavy and staggered.

  Could men die of blue balls? Should I Google this? Hmmm...

  He looked up at me, straightening, looking much better. Okay, good. At least I wouldn’t have to explain to Ms. Thompson why he looked so…ill.

  “I’m good. Thinking about naked old men. Works every time,” he admitted.

  Ewww…. “I so didn’t need to know that.”

  He gave me that lopsided grin I loved so much and joined me on the other side of the room, his attention focused behind me.

  I followed his eyes, and saw a large painting in the corner of the room. It was hard to see in the dim light, but once you did, you couldn’t look away. It was of a young woman dressed in period clothing from the late 19th century. She was beautiful, with dark brown ringlets and a fully adorned Victorian gown. Her skin was the color of porcelain, which was in stark contrast to the deep red of her cheeks and lips. Her vivid green eyes reflected a deep emotion and I took a step closer trying to discover it.

  “Ah, I see you’ve found Catherine,” Ms. Thompson announced as she re-entered the room. Logan and I had been so mesmerized by the painting we hadn’t heard her.

  “Pardon?” I said, still staring at the painting. It had an almost haunting quality to it that made it difficult to look away.

  “That is Catherine Ann Thompson. She was the eldest daughter of my great-great grandfather William Conrad Thompson,” Ms. Thompson said proudly.

  “She’s beautiful,” I told her.

  “Yes, she was. I found that painting in the attic after my father died and I couldn’t let it sit in the darkness anymore. It’s too beautiful to hide.”

  “Why would anyone want to hide it?” Logan asked.

  “My family was ashamed. She broke a betrothal, secretly marrying a man outside her social class. It was quite the scandal,” she remarked as she quietly fixed herself a cup of coffee and settled herself on the sofa adjacent from us.

  “Catherine, as you mentioned, was beautiful. She had many suitors and her pending betrothal was the talk of the Commonwealth. Our family was very wealthy, owning the majority of the tobacco fields in the area, and my Grandfather knew an alignment with the right family could create a powerful business merger,” she sighed, taking a sip of her coffee and continued, “Love wasn’t a factor in marriage for wealthy families back then. It was all about power and wealth, and William knew his daughter’s beauty and his good name could get him more of both. She was soon engaged to Edward Norton, the son of a cotton gin tycoon.”

  I couldn’t imagine having my fate set without my consent. How times had changed. I looked over at Logan, suddenly grateful that I was able to choose my life. I couldn’t imagine the terror of standing in a bedroom on my wedding night with a stranger, expected to give myself to someone just because I was a good match on paper. The wedding night I shared with Ethan, though sometimes painful to remember now that he was gone, was magical, full of love and commitment. It was as every wedding night should be.

  “What my great-great grandfather hadn’t realized,” Ms. Thompson continued, “is when he was out creating business deals and mergers, Catherine was falling in love with someone her father had never heard of. No one knows for sure how they met, some say she lost her chaperone while in town, others say it was while she was out in the fields picking wildflowers while he was painting. The point is, they met. His name was Jakob, a son of an immigrant from Germany. No one knows how long they secretly saw each other, but we do know he was the on
e who painted her.”

  Yes, I could see it now. That emotion I saw shining in her eyes, and tugging at her full red lips. Love. She loved the man who had captured her image on the canvas.

  “What happened to them?” I asked, knowing it couldn’t possibly have ended well if she ended up being the shame of the family.

  “When her father came home and announced she was to be married, she panicked. Unwilling to marry a man she didn’t love, she and Jakob ran away. When she returned, she was married and carrying Jakob’s child. Her father disowned her, kicking her and her new husband to the curb. By this time, the civil war was in full swing, and Jakob did his duty and enlisted. He didn’t want to leave his new wife, pregnant and alone, so he left her in the care of his parents. As he left, he swore he would return to her before the baby was born.”

  “He never made it back?” I whispered, grabbing Logan’s hand in fear my guess was correct.

  “No, he did. He was injured near the beginning of his service, but quickly recovered. But during his recuperation, the Confederate military discovered his talent for painting and found another use for him. He was sent all over the South painting war scenes to boost morale and enlistment. Because of his new freedom, he was able to come back to Virginia for the birth of his child. Catherine’s labor was difficult, as many were back then. Jakob lost them both that night. He carried her lifeless body back to the plantation that night, and banged on the door until someone answered. William came to the door, furious to be woken at such a late hour, until he saw Jakob holding his daughter's body. ‘What have you done?’ he screamed, ‘What have you done?’ Jakob, a broken man, was barely unable to speak, tears running down his face. He placed her on the front porch, kissed her one last time and asked her father to please take care of her...and he disappeared. He never returned to the Army. A deserter. But many years later, this portrait appeared on the front porch. We assume it came to us after his death but no one ever took the time to find out for sure.”

  “So tragic. What did her father do?” Logan asked her quietly.

  “Despite her father’s shame, he did bury her in the family plot. Her grave is marked with a simple stone that reads ‘Catherine’. Ever since I put that painting up, sometimes I swear I can hear her walking through the halls, calling for Jakob, wondering where her long lost love is. The floor boards will creak, or the curtains will flutter. Maybe I’m just a superstitious old woman,” she smiled, taking another sip of her coffee. “But I always wonder if she remained here waiting for him.”

  I took one last look at the painting, hoping she and Jakob were somewhere else, together and at peace.

  Ms. Thompson led us up to our rooms. Logan and I had said a quick goodnight in the hall and went our separate ways, both deciding a quick goodbye was best. Our impromptu host for the evening had loaned me something to sleep in. I couldn’t think of anything better than a long, hot shower, aside from sliding into bed with the man who currently resided in the room next to me.

  As my dress slid to the floor, I let my thoughts drift back to those brief moments this evening when Logan had my body pressed against the parlor wall. That could have been one of the singular hottest moments of my life. He had been so enraged, turned on and out of control. It was a titillating combination.

  I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade down my body, remembering the feel of Logan’s hands as they touched my sensitive skin. It had been so long since I felt anything so intimate. Unlike Leah, who had an entire drawer of toys that she individually named, I wasn’t nearly as adventurous. It had been years since I felt the release of an orgasm. When Ethan died, that desire died, too. It took a defunct ballet barre, a trip to the ER and a very special man to stir it awake again. I knew it wouldn’t be the same with just anyone, and having Logan touch me today left me aching.

  My hand wandered down my body, becoming bolder with every touch and caress of my skin. Moving down my hips and slowing working back up, I grasped my aching breasts, pinching the sensitive nipples and rubbing the tips. Need blossomed in my belly, making my movements bolder. Would it feel this way if Logan touched me here? Needing more, my hand descended to the juncture of my thighs, spreading the tender folds with my fingers. My heart was racing, and my breath became ragged in anticipation. Knowing Logan was in the next room, mere inches away, drove me further, my fingers slipping into my tight, wet core. My knees suddenly weakened from the contact, and I braced myself against the shower wall with my other hand. My fingers brushed my clit, oh God, it felt glorious.

  For a split second, I worried that Logan might hear me, but the new, bolder Clare took over, and she didn’t care. I sunk my fingers in further, moving them in and out, rubbing my clit at the same time. My stomach muscles tightened, and I felt a familiar flutter begin to bloom deep in my pelvis. My fingers moved more quickly in and out as my mind replaced my fingers with Logan’s hard lean body.

  “Oh God,” I moaned out loud.

  Just when I thought I might pass out, I came, seeing stars as I called out my release. My knees finally gave way, and I sunk to the bottom of the shower in a mindless puddle.

  Somehow, maybe years later, I managed to eventually stand and finish my shower. I couldn’t imagine what I just cost Ms. Thompson in water.

  Completely sated, I finished my nightly routine, or what I could, considering the lack of toiletries. I slipped into the borrowed night shirt and climbed into bed, utterly relaxed.

  I was dreaming when I abruptly awoke, startled by a noise in my room. I kept still, listening intently. Suddenly, the floor creaked as if someone was walking toward me and I screamed. I flipped on the light next to me and found myself in an empty room.

  “What the hell?” I swore.

  I jumped again when there was a loud knock on my door.

  “Clare, are you okay?” Logan asked, before barging in completely, concern clearly showing on his face.

  He obviously left his room quickly when he heard me scream because he was wearing a pair of boxers. Only. And holy shit, the view was nice. My eyes roamed over his broad shoulders and chiseled chest. He had those sexy hip bones I loved on a guy that created a perfect “V” framing his tightly packed abs.

  “Clare, are you all right?” he asked again.

  Mmmm...Right. He said something.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry, I heard a noise. It sounded like someone was in here. It freaked me out. Guess the ghost story got to me a little more than I thought,” I answered quickly.

  “Oh, good. You worried me, I− what the hell are you wearing?” he questioned, noticing my night shirt for the first time.

  “Oh!” Completely embarrassed now, I answer, “Ms. Thompson lent it to me so I wouldn’t have to sleep in my dress. Do you like it?”

  The night shirt in question reached down to my knees and nearly swallowed my size four frame. It was periwinkle purple and had the words “#1 Grandma!” written in bright yellow script.

  “It’s hideous,” he laughed.

  “Yes, I know. What you have on is much, much better,” I added, continuing my leisurely journey up and down his body.

  Taking a cocky step forward, he faltered before stopping himself altogether.

  “I should go,” he said, keeping his feet glued to the floor, not taking a single step toward the door.

  “Stay with me,” I pleaded.

  I could see an internal war brewing in his brain.

  “Just hold me. I don’t want to sleep in this room alone. If I hear another creak, I’m heading for the car,” I stated. And it was the truth. I loved old houses but I think Ms. Thompson might have ruined this one for me. Who knew I was scared of ghosts?

  “Okay,” he agreed as he joined me under the blankets. His skin brushed mine, so warm and comforting. He wrapped his arms around me and I curled up onto his chest, throwing my leg over his, feeling cherished and secure. He smelled like the soap from the bathroom, clean and safe.

  His hand absently ran up and down my back, causing me to shiver
.

  “What’s your father like?” I asked.

  He hadn’t mentioned his father much. I knew they didn’t get along.

  “The exact opposite of yours I suppose,” he mumbled, still stroking my back.

  “Was there ever a time you got along? Did something happen?”

  “My father isn’t like most fathers. He’s cold and calculating. When I was young, he set expectations and goals for me. I had a track and a plan. Private school, Ivy League and then some pre-approved career. Lucky for me, I loved medicine, which was a relief. I knew I’d rather do anything in the world than work for my father. As long as I followed the plan, I received his approval. Not praise. Just approval,” he explained, his words as emotionless as the man he was describing.

  “When I married Melanie, she met his approval. She was from an approved family, had wealth of her own. When the divorce became public, my father basically disowned me. I haven’t spoken to him since. My father is all about image. And I tarnished that.”

  He paused, as he often does in the middle of a memory, as if he was trying to find the words to express it properly.

  “I moved down here to disappear. I realized I’d been living my entire life according to his predetermined plans, and I was done. With all of it. I wanted to find my own path, separate from my father’s expectations.”

  “And have you?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Found your own path?” I whispered.

  “I’m starting to.”

  Chapter Nine

  Clare

  The next three weeks passed in a blur. When Logan and I returned from the Bed and Breakfast, we returned as a couple. Waking up together, wrapped in each other’s arms, we couldn’t go back any other way. There was no nervous pacing around the phone wondering if he was going to call and ask for a second date because everything between us fell naturally in place. Logan spent every free moment away from the hospital with Maddie and me. He would join us for a movie during the day when he had to work a night shift. He’d take me out for dinner when he had a night off. He fit into our lives seamlessly, like he was supposed to be there. A missing piece.