He knew she was hurting. Ever since their son left, she kept to herself, sketching when she could, refurbishing old antiques, but mostly she sat quietly on the balcony; the French doors wide open, the sheer white curtains swaying against the swooshing wind. Her brilliant, chocolate tresses cascaded over her shoulders. She was made for this, he knew, albeit he wanted to convince himself otherwise. If their kind could sleep, she would sleep for very long time—perhaps until Edward came back.

She must have been in a deep trance, for she didn't turn her head when he came in. He breathed in her amazing scent of lavender and vanilla—the scent he never forgot even when he met her as a girl of sixteen. He had pushed himself away from her, leaving for Chicago soon after, knowing he couldn't get involved. That was past, and this—her—was the present. He paused, leaning against the mahogany chest dresser, and watched her. Every few minutes she would run her hands through her hair, but continued to stare into the moonless night.

"Esme." Her name escaped his lips in a mere whisper, but she heard it. She turned and stared directly at him, sending chills throughout his body. Over the past few months, her brilliant red eyes were fading into amber, and soon, they would be like his—golden toffee against cream white.

A small smile spread across her face, an attempt to be happy while her dead heart was broken. "Carlisle, I didn't hear you come in."

No, dear, you didn't. He managed a grin. "Have you been here all day?"

She nodded, turning around, and adjusted herself in the chair. She thought he was disappointed at her, but he wasn't. "I sketched a few things." She gestured to the heaps of paper on the floor.

He leaned down and picked them up. Sighing, he thumbed through some of them. Edward. He was all she drew, and she drew him quite well, down to his prominent jaw and tousled hair. Edward had been gone six months now, and Carlisle could still remember the pain and sorrow etched in his wife's face when he announced his departure. Carlisle knew his son tired of their lifestyle: drinking animal blood. Edward wanted more—to taste silk across his tongue, penetrating all parts of his mouth, and spreading warmth through his veins.

Before he realized it, Esme stood in front of him, and he dropped the sketches onto the floor. Inhaling, he took in her glorious scent, and he ached with something that wasn't hunger. His wife took his hands into hers, playing with his fingers before lying them on her waist.

"I've been a horrible wife to you," she muttered, inhaling his musky scent.

"Nonsense," he countered.

"Don't lie to me, Carlisle."

His eyes wondered to hers and then to her lips before kissing her. Their lovemaking had been empty the past few weeks, and Esme knew it. Perhaps she could make up for lost times. She welcomed his kiss, allowing his tongue to explore her mouth, and deepened it, heightening his senses, and pressing her body against his.

"Esme," he breathed, releasing his lips from hers.

She looked at him, confused. "Carlisle, I want you." The passion inside her was raging, and he would satiate it. She wrapped her arms around his waist. Slowly, her hands crept to his chest where she began unbuttoning his shirt.

He watched her. She was beautiful. Words were unable to express her softness, her gentleness, and the pure delight she brought into his world. He began undoing her dress. Be careful, he told himself, feeling the fire inside him rage. Esme, however, wasn't so careful. The shirt didn't stand a chance as she ripped it off him. She looked at him, growing warm in her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

He chuckled as she stepped out her dress, but said nothing. His eyes quickly surveyed her body, and he swore she grew more beautiful as time progressed. Carlisle pulled her closer, suddenly needing her closer to him, to feel the warmth of her body against his.

Esme quickly pulled Carlisle's trousers from his body, and he stepped out of him. Her hands wandered across his chest and to the small of his back. Carlisle removed his wife undergarments with ease and his wife did likewise with him. His lips hovered over hers, and he kissed her forehead, nose, cheeks, and finally her lips. He moved to her neck and her collarbone as Esme raked her hands through his golden blonde hair.

In a fury of passion, Esme was against a wall, her legs wrapped around Carlisle's waist. She moaned, the heat inside of her growing, and he tasted warm venom across his tongue.

"Carlisle," she said before pressing her lips against his.

"I've missed you," he said between kisses.

She apologized again, unsure of what else to say. From the wall, they moved to the bed—a seemingly unnecessary item, but Esme wanted it for moments like these. Carlisle felt a smile spread across her face as he ran his hands through her silky hair. Her hands raced across his chest, touching him wherever she could. She remembered every part of his body, where muscles contracted, where his skin was the smoothest, where he liked to be touched.

Unknowingly, he let out a groan, and Esme giggled. Her giggle was soon silenced as his mouth wandered below her collarbone, and she felt the wetness of his tongue against warming skin, causing her to wrap herself tighter around him.

"Carlisle," she whispered.

He knew what she wouldn't say. She was never good with naughty words. She didn't need to be because her body language spoke all the things she wanted to say. Yet it had been such a long time since he felt such passion between them that he had to tease her. "Say it, Esme."

Her cheeks grew warm, and her fading, red eyes searched his golden pools. "There isn't—"

"Esme, tell me what you want." Biting her lip, she muttered something even he couldn't hear. "Yes?" he asked.

"I want you," she began, "inside of me, please."

Carlisle laughed at her manners, but obeyed. The moment he entered her, she let out a small moan. It was always in moments like these when she became more vulnerable than she already was. His Esme could never be a hurtful person, for she loved all too dearly to act such a way. She surprised him when she adapted quickly to their diet and lifestyle. She loved him too much to betray him.

Their lovemaking was on a rocky road before this night. He teased her, and she teased him right back. The last time they destroyed furniture had been their first few months together. Even so, they tried to keep themselves out of doors during that time. But tonight, Carlisle didn't want to restrain himself and neither did Esme.

He placed greedy hands on her hips and she wrapped her arms around his body. Their lovemaking was rhythmic, filled with more emotion and passion than Carlisle could ever imagine. He wanted to be good to her, for he knew the past still haunted his beloved, whether she became more of his kind and less human. Esme kissed him full on the lips, tongue entwining in his, and her body yearned for more. They ignored the loud crack of the bedframe. He straddled his wife, pushing himself farther into her.

Esme gripped the light blue bed sheets and bit her lower lip. "Carlisle…" He loved when she said his name during lovemaking. It brought an ease to him and he allowed the world to melt away. It amazed him how he spent almost three-hundred years without a woman in his life. Yet every moment from the day he turned her into one of them had been a blessing.

He kissed her hard on the lips, moving to her collarbones, and between her breasts. Esme ran her fingers through his blonde hair, always wanting to remember moments like these. Their breath raced, increasing, heightening as they progressed. His wife licked her lips as her back arched.

The two climaxed, breathing unnecessary breaths and blinking unnecessary blinks. A smile spread across his wife's face as she cupped his face and kissed him.

"My love," he whispered.

Her face glowed, and he lay down with her head on his chest, running his fingers through her silky hair. He heard Esme giggle—the childlike laughter he remembered when he first met her as a teenager—and he raised an eyebrow.

"Carlisle," she said, glancing at the broken armoire, "the furniture—"

He shushed her, putting a finger over her lips. "Not a word."

Esme looked at her husband. "I love you."

He smiled. "I love you, too."

And she knew he did.

------

Author's note: I don't remember how long it takes for their eyes to turn from red to amber, so forgive me if I'm wrong. I've actually had this sort of smut in my head for a while, and I finally found time to put it down. This was actually better in my head than it came out so I'm sorry if it sucks, lol. I really wanted to capture their love and compassion for one another more than anything... Hopefully, I did.