by Nina Lane
For him, I guess everything turned out just fine. For me, not so much. But in some cobwebbed part of my mind, I remember that being sexual can feel good.
I rest my head on the pillow, looking at the ceiling where moonlight slants through the uncurtained bedroom windows. The house creaks and rumbles comfortingly around me.
I think of him again—his hand gripping my wrist, the intensity of his eyes. Apparently my body still knows how to react to a man I find compelling because my nipples are hard, and a warm pulsing spreads through my core.
When was the last time I masturbated? Is one brief encounter with a hot stranger—less than three minutes—enough to spark my sexual urges back to life? If my tingling skin and throbbing blood are anything to judge by, then… oh, yes.
I touch my breasts through my cotton nightgown, gently twisting my nipples. Heat courses down between my legs.
What does he look like naked? A solid, muscular chest, maybe patterned with a dusting of dark hair, smooth shoulders and thick biceps. Long legs corded with muscles and tendons. A ladder-like abdomen, traceable ridges guiding the eye downward to a heavy, thick cock. One that sticks straight out when erect, juts past the waistband of his boxers, stretches and fills my aching pussy…
Jesus.
I grasp my nightgown and pull it up over my hips. Despite the chilly air, my naked skin is warm to the touch. Suppressing a twinge of embarrassment, I push the covers aside and open my thighs. I dip a tentative finger into my folds, drawing in a sharp breath when I discover I’m wet. Ready. Like he’s already primed me to take him.
A hot flush rises to my face. I close my eyes and ignore whatever misgivings I have about this. I’ve been slut-shamed and sexually demeaned enough in recent months. Those vile echoes will not be allowed in the privacy of my own bedroom.
I slide my nightgown higher, exposing my breasts to the cold air. I’ve forgotten how sensitive my nipples are. Just the light brush of my fingers over them sends currents of heat into my veins. I stroke my hands over my belly and back up to my breasts, cupping and squeezing them. Though my breasts aren’t particularly large, in the midst of the scandal I’d taken to wearing boxy jackets and shirts that hid all my curves and concealed my femininity.
Here, now, I don’t have to hide anymore. And damned if the touch of my own hands doesn’t feel exquisite—light, cool, arousing. I skim my palms across my hips and down to my thighs, taking my time and reacquainting myself with the feel of my own body.
Would he like my body?
The question emerges through the warm haze of lust descending over me. Would he like the fact that my breasts might fit perfectly in his big hands, my nipples peaking at one touch of his fingers? Would he admire my legs—not long, but well-shaped and toned—and the soft curves of my hips and belly?
Would he like me?
I stretch one arm over my head and slide my other hand between my legs. It’s a bit shocking how wet I am. If he were here, he could slide his thick cock into me without any resistance whatsoever. I run my forefinger over my labia and up around my pulsing clit.
I imagine him looking at me, gray eyes burning like storm clouds, muscles tense and coiled with lust. His erection sways, the swollen tip glistening as he pushes my thighs apart and positions himself between them. He slides into me, a slow easy penetration, filling and stretching my inner flesh, setting my nerves on fire. His breath is hot on my skin. He pulls back and starts to fuck me.
Shivers rain down my spine, little pulses of electricity popping and cracking. A moan rushes through my lungs. I rub my clit harder and slide one finger into my channel. Though the penetration pales in comparison to what he would feel like pushing his cock inside me, I’m so aroused by being aroused again that my excitement ratchets up quickly.
Raw images fill my mind—his fingers digging into my bare thighs; his sweaty chest moving above me, muscles shifting smooth as cream under his taut skin. His veined shaft, slick with my fluids, thrusting in and out of my pussy, drives us both to our peaks.
My body bouncing and jostling underneath him, cries of pleasure streaming from my lips. Time dissolving, pain disappearing, thought evaporating, everything else conquered by the power of pure erotic pleasure.
He pulls out of me, leaving me momentarily bereft before making a sharp gesture that is an unmistakable command. I turn and get onto my hands and knees, my heart pounding and my head swimming with lust and urgency. He opens my slit with his fingers before easing his cock into me again, such a full, intense pressure that I gasp and stiffen in resistance.
He stops, spreading one hand over my lower back. Our breath rasps through the hot air. He slides his other hand between my legs and strokes my clit, an expert, precise manipulation that loosens the tension in my spine. I fist the bedcovers and thrust my hips backward in invitation. He pushes forward, filling me, his flat stomach pressed tight against my ass.
Oh my God.
Sweat trickles between my breasts. I pump my hips upward, working my fingers faster and faster against my clit. Delicious pressure wraps around me like bright red ribbons.
He’s fucking me hard now, rhythmically, his grip tight on my hips. My whole body sways and jerks with the sheer power of his thrusts. I lower my upper body to the bed and squeeze my eyes shut. My nipples chafe deliciously against the sheets. Reaching my peak, I open my thighs wider, and they tremble with strain. I’ll be sore in the morning, but I want him to keep going, deeper and harder, to fuck me until the world shatters and everything else ceases to exist.
“Fuck, yeah…” The coarse words fly from my lips. “Do it… fuck me harder… make me come… I need it so badly… I’m going to… ah!”
Explosions burst through me, a fireworks display of color and sensation. The instant my rapture peaks, I see him pull his cock out of me and grasp the shaft, stroking and stroking… until a deep groan rumbles through his chest and he comes, a warm, wet spray coating my naked ass. His gorgeous body shudders and jerks as he crests the wave.
I rub my clit gently until the final sensations ebb from my blood. Panting and sweaty, I collapse back against the pillows. As my eyes drift closed, I can almost feel the evidence of him—his come dripping down my ass, the ache in my pussy, the bruises forming on my thighs.
As if he stripped me bare, opened me up, and turned me into someone new.
CHAPTER FOUR
The toilet hisses at me. I ignore the insult—wish I’d honed that skill earlier—and reach into a web of ancient cobwebs to turn the shut-off valve. The October morning sun streams through the bathroom window, shining an unwelcome light on the moldy caulk around the toilet base.
I flush the toilet to drain the tank and gingerly grasp the slimy flapper attached to a rusted chain. After employing pliers to wrench it off, I take the new flapper and secure it to the side pegs.
So far, so good.
Studying the website on my phone, I follow the instructions to attach the chain. Then I turn the water back on, watching anxiously as I flush the toilet and wait for the tank to fill. I fully expect the hissing to start up again, but it doesn’t.
The toilet is silent.
I flush again. The tank refills and then politely shuts up.
I’ll be damned. I fixed the toilet.
Only when my phone buzzes do I realize I’m just standing there grinning to myself. It’s an email from Sarah, the owner of the East Coast artists gallery. Eve, thanks for stopping by yesterday. Sorry we’re not hiring now but we’ll keep your info on file.
Not a surprise. Also not my last option either.
Feeling rather badass—I had a spectacular orgasmic fantasy last night, and I fixed a broken toilet this morning, so get the hell outta my way—I head downstairs to make a cup of tea with honey.
As the fragrant Earl Grey steeps, I make a list in my organizer of all the things that need immediate repair: wobbly staircase banister and doorknobs, leaky faucets, loose floorboard in the foyer. Hopefully I can get it all done before winter hits.
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br /> Winter. If I were still living in Los Angeles, I’d imagine a Maine winter and a ramshackle house as a thoroughly romantic combination. Wood-burning fire, cozy quilts, hot chocolate and all that. In my present circumstances, however, I envision myself waking up with icicles on my eyelashes and my teeth rattling.
Which means that despite my can-do attitude toward repairs, I am going to have to hire a professional to make sure the roof and heater will get me through winter.
My stomach knots. I have no idea what to do if I can’t find a job. Asking Juliette for money has never been an option. She’d made it clear when I turned eighteen that I was on my own, and I’ve always been driven by the need to prove to her that I can do it. Caving now and asking her for money would just add ammunition to the arsenal she already has.
I pack my satchel for the day, then take a shower and search through my wardrobe of high-quality clothes I’d purposely selected to command respect among my colleagues and students. Hopefully the professional styles will still work. I dress in a navy pencil skirt and pale blue, button-down blouse, adding silver stud earrings, my watch, and a chain necklace.
I walk out to my car. My heart stutters at the sight of the big, German Shepherd mix hovering near the woodlands. He watches me warily, ears perked. I hesitate, not wanting to do anything to spook him.
For a moment, we look at each other. His body is guarded, cautious, like he’s ready to spring into self-defense if attacked. Weirdly, I understand his demeanor. I’d felt that way myself for months.
The dog barks once, then retreats, turning to trot off into the woods.
I press a hand to my chest and hurry to my car. If the dog is lost, it doesn’t make much sense that he’d keep returning to Uncle Max’s house. The humane society hasn’t responded to my email yet, so I’ll try calling them this afternoon.
I drive to Ford’s College and find the building housing the art history department. I’ve always loved college campuses. I love the students shuffling from class to class with their ratty backpacks, take-out coffees, and dangling ear buds. I love the big lecture halls and smaller discussion rooms, the whiteboards and projectors. I love that the air hums with knowledge, curiosity, boredom, and ambition all at the same time.
But when it felt like an entire university population had turned against me, the campus became my battleground. Even now, my shoulders tighten as I approach the art history office, my whole body alert to potential whispers and laughter.
The chairperson, Dennis Peterson, greets me cordially and invites me into his office. After an exchange of pleasantries about the town, I get straight to the point.
“I’m sure you’ve heard stories about what happened out at UCLA,” I say.
He responds with an uncomfortable laugh, which tells me right away that he knows all about it. He’s probably seen the goddamned pictures. I steel my spine and keep going.
“I fully admit to having made mistakes, but I’m not the person I was made out to be.” A flush begins to scorch my neck. “A private situation unfortunately became public, which led to my termination.”
Dennis clears his throat. “Uh, you don’t have to explain, Dr. Perrin. Eve.”
“Yes, I do. I know everyone has heard the rumors, but the truth is a different story. I’m not a stalker, and I didn’t do the things I was accused of. I’m telling you this because regardless of what happened, I’m still a scholar and an art historian. I love research and teaching, and I miss them both. I’d like to get involved with the art history department here, if at all possible…”
Dennis holds up a hand to stop my words. I swallow hard. My flush deepens. If I sound desperate, it’s because I am.
“Dr… Eve, unfortunately our staff is full and none of our professors are scheduled for leave or sabbaticals. But I’d be happy to keep your CV and contact info on file.”
Though it’s the response I was expecting, disappointment stabs me hard. I nod and pick up my satchel. “I’d appreciate that.”
I’m not about to reduce myself to groveling—at least, not yet. I thank Dennis again, and he walks me to the door. As I leave the office, I hear the receptionist ask him, “Isn’t she the woman who…”
Bitterness swells in my throat. Will I ever peel away the disgrace still clinging to me like a black, oily film? No doubt the speculation here is the same as it was in LA. What was she thinking? Did she really do that? Crazy bitch.
I return to Lantern Street and walk to the Castille Art Museum, a quaint brick building with white shutters. In the foyer, a greeter’s desk is covered with museum flyers and local brochures.
“Hello, there.” A woman in her sixties approaches, her face open and friendly. “Come on in. Have you been here before?”
“No, but I’d like to see the exhibits. I just moved to Castille.”
“Welcome.” She takes a museum plan off the desk and hands it to me. “We don’t get too many new residents these days. I’m Miriam Walker, education coordinator.”
“Eve Perrin.”
I’m starting to get wary of even introducing myself, but thankfully my name doesn’t appear to register with Miriam in any significant way.
“Come in, Eve.” She waves me into the galleries. “I have to staff the front desk, but I can give you a quick tour.”
We enter the exhibition spaces. One room documents Castille’s history with photographs and artifacts, and the main collection contains paintings and sculptures by artists who’d had a connection to the area.
I pause in front of a portrait in the main gallery. A young, fresh-faced woman sits at a piano in a darkened room, looking with frank directness at the viewer. A spray of flowers on the piano top adds a splash of pink, and a glowing light falls over the woman like a warm caress.
The plaque beside the painting is engraved with the title: Portrait of Allegra King, by Andrew Wyeth, 1987.
My interest flares.
“Allegra King.” I look at Miriam. “My uncle used to be a professor at Ford’s. I think he mentioned her a few times.”
It’s a purposeful understatement since I don’t want to give Max’s secrets away. He’d more than just “mentioned” Allegra. He had been deeply in love with her.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Miriam studies the painting. “Allegra is married to William King, who was a three-term mayor of Castille. He owns a finance company in town, and her father had made his money in ship-building. Her family used to be quite prominent in Castille, but they’ve all either passed or moved away. She’s the only one left.”
“She’s very beautiful.” I nod toward the painting.
“Yes. She’s always been renowned for both her beauty and all the good she’s done for Castille. She really loved this town. Still does, I imagine.”
“Does she still live here?”
“More or less.” Miriam shakes her head with a slight frown. “The Kings have an estate on Bird Lane, just outside of town. Allegra and William live there for most of the year, but unfortunately she’s become a shut-in after suffering health issues. She’s still young too, only in her fifties. But she never visits town anymore, and her husband has taken charge of all her affairs. Terribly sad, really.”
A weight descends over my heart. Had Max known that about Allegra? He’d have been devastated to know of her suffering, even if they hadn’t seen each other in over fourteen years, if not longer.
“Do you have any other paintings of her?” I ask.
“No, just the one. If you’re interested in Wyeth or other local artists, however, we do let people look at our storage area and archives for research.”
“I’d like that.” I hesitate for a second before taking the plunge. “I’m an art historian, so this is all within my field. If you’re looking to hire a curator or consultant, I’d love to be considered.”
“Hmm.” Her lips purse. “Our budget is always tight, but let me contact the museum director. Can I get back to you?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Miriam g
lances at her watch. “I need to staff the front desk, but feel free to look around. I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to the director.”
She hurries back to the foyer. Heartened by both her welcoming attitude and the lack of an immediate rejection, I study the paintings and artifacts relating to Castille’s history. Several other visitors arrive, and an elderly man leads a group of schoolchildren on a tour.
My phone buzzes with a call. I take it out of my satchel and swipe the screen. Graham. Relief and pleasure lights inside me. My PhD advisor had been the one person in the world who believed me instead of David and all the nasty rumors.
Moving to a quiet, isolated corner of the gallery, I answer the call. “Graham.”
“Hello, Eve. Thought I’d call and see how you’re settling in.”
The warmth of his greeting brings an unexpected tightness to my throat. How welcoming to hear a friendly voice.
“Oh, just fine,” I manage to say. “I even fixed a toilet that predates the Civil War, so I might have a new career as a plumber in my future.”
He chuckles. “You could probably make more money as a plumber rather than an art historian, but it would be a terrible waste of your talent. How’s the job search going?”
The tightness forms into an outright lump. Jesus, Eve. Don’t cry.
“I have a few possibilities.” I try to keep my voice light. “Nothing yet, but I’m waiting to hear back from a few art gallery owners.”
“What about Ford’s?”
“They’re not hiring or looking for lecturers at the moment, but they’re keeping my CV on file.”
“I’ll give them a call, put in a good word for you.”
I bite my lip, torn between gratitude and the worry that Graham’s intervention will lead to more speculation about me and him.
If Juliette had heard rumblings about something untoward going on between me and Graham, then what if he—or worse, his wife—had heard it too? I don’t want to contribute to such gossip. In fact, I’ll shut it down however I can.