The dark shape dismembered itself from the shadows, finding itself a silhouette. Its hand was lifted in an unspoken greeting. I returned the gesture, my cheekbones colouring.
And then, through a beautiful voice, possessing unfathomable depth, came my name – a laceration through the air separating us, the indestructible wall, keeping us from becoming truly together: "Renesmee."
I could not help but to smile, a small pleasure in the darkness, where I knew that he could not see it. How he said my name, caused me to feel as the reward rather than the outrageously fortunate victor. But he in himself was the reward, worth larger than money or jewels, gold or silver.
My greeting, as his, was unspoken, and so he approached me where I stood, stationary, a silver majesty in the moonlight, posed at the trunk of a pine tree, identical to those surrounding us. I held my eyes to the sky, unconscious to the harmony that was his feet, falling upon miscellaneous twigs and leaves.
I had always found myself somewhat strangely fascinated by the concept of the stars, of the moon. I enjoyed sitting on the immense windowsill in my cottage bedroom, wondering immature questions and theories.
I could label many constellations. My grandfather, Carlisle, had explained to me many stories of the origins of particular constellations, of their titles, when I was younger and obsessed with such wonders, when I wished to remain held against him, whilst his voice fuelled my curiosity, and the stars, a surrounding dizziness outside, caused me a drunken happiness.
A close chuckle. I did not respond; I simply allowed the large palms, as they flowered over my shoulder blades, and I heard the even breathing nearby to my ear.
"Sometimes I believe that you've disappeared to another place altogether, Ness. What is it that you find so interesting in the sky?"
I could not help but to find my sight on a particularly vibrant star. "Did you know that the stars that we're seeing now died a long time ago? That when the light reaches us, we're seeing the past?"
Jacob remained silent, a rarity. His hand whispered thoughtfully and unconsciously through the line of my shoulder and my arm, folding itself around my wrist. I did not realise that I was not exhaling and inhaling regularly, before his palm held mine in safety and reassurance. I balanced my head against his shoulder blade, and experienced the winks of the stars through the everlasting limbs of the surrounding pine trees.
His beautiful, sorrowful eyes upon me; his palm chaffing mine; his mouth touched to my earlobe.
I am aware that this is not right. I am aware that, despite what we have experienced together, this is wrong. But I cannot distance myself. And he cannot distance himself. Therefore, what is the point? No point. Exactly.
"I love you, Ness," he whispers.
"Yes," I murmur, my concentration only partially tentative to him.
An undistinguished sigh causes his body to heave. He buries his face into my hair, inhaling the distinguished fragrance of my strawberry-scented shampoo.
"I don't think that you understand," he explains, his voice seemingly cheerful, but with an underlying seriousness, as he amuses himself with tresses of my hair, "the power of love that comes from a werewolf's imprinting."
His disappointment emanated as I allowed a shrug. "Do I need to?"
I did not want to wound him, but I was aware of what imprinting was. It was only to be expected, though, that I would not comprehend the science and magic, as he, himself, was a werewolf, and I was not.
"Yes. If you ever want me to believe that you fully understand and appreciate how much I love you, then, of course, you will have to."
The question, though seemingly less than daunting, had been secreting itself beneath our frequent conversation, probing the edge between uncomfortable and loving.
I had never found it an important question, to say that, it was question that I deemed could possibly go unasked and unanswered, for the answer itself was precarious on the latter side of the edge.
I understood, because I loved him equally.
Both of us were equally aware of my prior reluctance to commit to a romantic relationship with him, and therefore, Jacob had posed his uncomfortable querie frequently.
The underlying question could be translated simply: "Yes. If you ever want me to believe that you fully understand and appreciate how much I love you, how damaged I will be if I find that you're using me selfishly, then, of course, you will have too."
"Ness," he contemplates, "if you love me as much as you always tell me."
The containing silence is uncomfortable. My answer should have gone unspoken, but his question remained, and he awaited the answer that was not going to make an appearance.
Did he not know how I was into love with him? The pain I experienced when I was aware that he was not nearby? How it enraged me uncontrollably, to recognise that my mother wished upon us that we would become a part, as it pained her whilst he touched me, whilst he kissed me? Did he recognise how I, myself, disintegrated as my mother laughed in mockery, and attempted to familiarise herself with the picture that her prior lover, would, inevitably, become a son-in-law? Did he view the pain, a preview across her face, as his palm chaffed mine, and our mouths found the other?
For he was my component, the paired half of my heart, and the piece that I had for myself fell further as I reached for a kiss, and found nothingness.
"Okay." I was attempting to keep my tone from severing. "Explain to me."
"I explained this to your Mom, after Quil had imprinted on Claire."
I grinned, suppressing the inclusion of my mother in his words. I had taken time with Jacob and his companions on the La Push reservation, and knew much about the difficult relationship between Quil and Claire.
Five years of age, Claire has begun primary school, and, recently, enjoyed explaining the letters of the alphabet and the number sequence from one to thirty, to anybody who cared to listen.
Quil remained her personal nanny, though, in the time of a few years, he would become her friend, one that she would find herself treasuring until the age of which it was possible for her to find him something more.
"As I imprinted on you, I found nothing romantic towards it. Not then, and not for a while afterwards."
His breathing was inflamed with frustration. "It's very difficult to describe. It's not similar to the concept of love at first sight at all. It's more similar to gravity moving. When you see Her, suddenly, it is not the science of gravity holding you to the earth any longer. She does. And nothing holds you more than Her. And you would do absolutely anything for Her, be anything for Her. You instantaneously become whatever she prefers for you to become, whether that be a protector, or a lover, a companion or a sibling.
"In the beginning, I was to become the ultimate elder brother. There would not have been a child better looked after than you were. And then, when you had found yourself older, and you requested an undeniable friendship, I was unbelievably understanding, more trustworthy and reliable that anybody. And now, having found maturity, I discover the romance that secreted itself throughout your earliest periods, as do you, yourself. I don't hold your hand against mine, because you are young and require guidance. Not because I'm reassuring you as a mere friend, or because I wish to explain to you a childish secret. It is because I want for you to accept romance, because I wish to touch you where I cannot when you're an infant or a young child whose advantage can be taken.
"It didn't begin to irritate me before three years ago, where you found yourself bordering the edge between an innocent immaturity, and maturity itself, too young to be loved with such fervor, but old enough to understand the concept.
"There, I remained the best friend who had mugs of coffee with your Mom and Dad, and unnecessarily guarded your home as an animal; I remained the abused ex-nanny who had broken simple words to their syllables for you to understand, and had played games from peek-a-boo to hide and seek, as you applauded and laughed and held my arm between your hands.
"Now, I can talk with you as an impossibly close friend, talk without barriers. When I arrive on your doorstep, I can kiss you automatically and without hesitation, without anybody thinking it to be strange.
"Do you understand now?"
He had been correct. I had not understood the concept before. Not as I did now.
I found the beauty that he posed me as, the wonderful truth and luck that had befallen him, though he thought it unbelievable.
His palms chafe my shoulder blades, his eyes touching to mine.
"I am undeservingly in love with you," he states. "I love you, and I am so happy that you are who I imprinted on. That you are mine."
"I'm yours," I stated, attempting to maintain the precise clarity and confidence of his voice to my own, as I his profound, ebony eyes remained upon my own. "I will always be yours."
He attempted to kiss me politely, with restraint. It was obvious that he attempted. But these intentions went up in smoke, as per usual.
There was fire everywhere, because he was everywhere. His touch ignited my skin, flames that possessed a white heat. It was not a variety of kissing that I had experienced under his influence before.
Previously, it has remained measured, unhurried. The fire had found itself present, but it had politely scalded beneath my skin. Presently, the fire lacerated its bonds, and engulfed my senses.
His palms drew my skin, burning it. His mouth found itself upon every possible particle of my face. The trunk of a pine tree heaved itself hurriedly against my back, but I did not experience pain. I could not find anything other than the burning sensation of which I was experiencing.
My hands knotted through his hair, and I held him against myself, delirious that there was another possible circumstance for us to find ourselves closer.
My legs held around his waist, the tree providing the leverage that I required. His tongue found itself entwined with my own, and there was no particle of my mind that had not found itself invaded by the insane desires that possessed me.
I found myself alight. My palms fisted themselves around the fabric of Jacob's t-shirt, roughly hoisting it upwards. I maintained a steady reassurance that these palms were of their own decisions, as I did not inform them to do such a thing. His own palms scalded the skin of my back.
I found the profound muscles of his stomach beneath my palms, held between our bodies, overthrown by intense fervor.
My mouth released his, as I attempted to breathe, and his mouth scorched my throat. I buried my face roughly in his hair, inhaling his scent, attempting to memorize the fragrance of coal, sunlight, boiling water, simple heat.
My mouth found his once more in the darkness. His palms were beneath the barrier that was my blouse. He kissed me hard, attempting a distraction, and, under my influence, I became easily distracted. I allowed him to touch my skin, to explore.
I was powerless against the desires that I found were overthrowing me, their force fuelling the flames, fuelling my hunger for him. His mouth immediately separated from my own, and found itself held to my cheek, to my earlobe.
"Enough for tonight, Ness. Good girls do not allow their boyfriends to make love to them when they are unwilling."
My desires were broken, though they hovered, balanced precariously on the outer edge of my mind.
I found the world in particles, first the temperature of the evening, before the wind tangling throughout the forest, pressuring my hair surrounding my face, in caramel-coloured tresses.
I was held away from his body, his palms holding me against the pine tree. I wished to touch again. His mouth upon my own; his palms touching my skin, scorching it with permanent wounds; his voice finding a whisper to my name.
He wished upon me to realise the complications and facts of imprinting; it was his category of realising that I loved and understood him completely.
For myself, I required his touch and tone. If he himself loved me, then he would find himself agreeing to my conditions and terms.
"Of course he loves you!" The irritating voice throughout my head found wakefulness above a profound slumber, and carved my thoughts. "His imprinting determines that! Who minds? He is in love with you. The offer is simply to receive it, or to leave it."
I was attempting to agree with this voice, profoundly irritating as it may become, but the indifferent worries moulding my stomach unhelpfully, causing me nausea and a rapid heart, were residing inside of me.
Was his fervor, his love, a simple reaction to imprinting, or could a love of unfathomable profundity become discovered? Would he find himself in love with me in such a way as he was presently, if he had never imprinted upon me – or upon anybody else?
It was impossible for me to realise. Nor did I wish to realise. If the complicated, but perhaps truthful answer was one of which I feared, then I would prefer to exist, a miniscule point in my chest, gradually growing smaller as our love progressed and our relationship found better strength, than the unfathomably difficult thought of existing without my palm in his.
I existed for the purpose of being with him; my every breath, whether it be coarse or full, was a small contribution towards him; his beautiful, sorrowful expressions flowered my thoughts every minute; for he was my all, my everything.
"Tell me," I said, progressing myself through the circle of his arms.
"Tell you what?" he asked, curiosity shrouded with a suspicious cloak. He held me closer to the warmth of his body, enabling me to balance my head tiredly against his chest.
I was hesitant to question what I truly required. The moment that I was experiencing would prove as truthfully useful as any other I would find, for the profundity of the meaningful atmosphere cast by Jacob's explanations, hovered, though faintly. Or perhaps it was a querie to be questioned when there came a time by which there was nothing for us to converse; a time, where it would appear that we had expelled our words, our tears, laughter and kisses. And I would ask of him.
Why welcomingly invite possible pain, rather than enjoying the undeniable pleasure I could cause to him and him unto myself? There was no sane or sensible reason.
I began to purposefully shroud my fingers carefully to the length of his forearm.
Amazingly, his russet skin increased in heat, though I had thought it impossible. I almost believed that my touch excited his being, as his excited mine. His precarious eyes followed my fingertips, carefully touching his skin.
"Good or bad?" I asked, continuing my caresses.
His pause caused me to think of the fatalities of our relationship. "Good."
"Okay," I whispered, continuing my touch to the contours of his collarbone. They held there. His palm held out to my neck, and his questionable fingers amused themselves with the tresses of hair on its back.
"Good or bad?" I whispered, wondering whether my question had been directed at myself, for his simple fingertips released scalding heat as they caressed my neck.
"Good," he said, thankfully, without hesitation. "Now, let me ask you."
Reverberations held throughout my spine as his palms held against my stomach, beneath the barrier of my blouse.
He held himself against me, and his heated whisper caused his teeth to graze my earlobe, his breath a lukewarm delight against it. "Good or bad?"
I found myself shivering uncontrollably as his fingertips found themselves on my back.
"Good," I choked, "very good."
"And this? Good or bad?" He had bent himself to my approximate height, and touched his mouth to my own. After the duration of several everlasting minutes, we became separated.
His eyes, a profundity of umber, held mine with a mocking earnest within themselves.
It was a meaningful moment, but all I could breathe was his mouth against my own, my mouth full to his breath.
"Good," I stated as a complete fact, as his fingers discovered and proceeded with removing my bra and I held my fingers into his ebony hair and myself upon my toes to find his lips. "Definitely good."
We held ourselves to the brackish ground, holding our eyes to the stars, after we had to dutifully completed our romance. We conversed. We listened. We understood.
I found a profound peace, held close in his arms, my head balanced against the warmth of his chest, hearing his distinct heartbeat. It reverberated tenderly against my head.
The final distinction that I recalled before I truly surrendered to slumber, was the amazing and slightly drunken sensation of lips touched to the crown of my head; arms held around me; a beautiful, lulling tone humming a broken, sorrowful tune; and stars dizzying my eyesight.
I also recalled the music break to silence, before a voice of equal beauty and ethereal quality whispered lulling phrases to my ears, words that strung together with perfection, enabling me to surrender peacefully.
"Sleep well, Renesmee."
The memory, though, more appropriately, the dream of a memory, was typical, as unpleasant dreams and memories made an uninvited appearance after pleasant experiences.
In the dream memory, I closed the entrance door carefully, as it had a tendency to squeal inappropriately if one used excessive force, and disposed of my father's tan overcoat. My schoolbag was weighty, both with tire, and the unpleasant prospect of homework.
"Mom!"
My mother was most likely expelling existences, through the Italian opera music that my father and relatives of my father's origin enjoyed, or, perhaps she was committing intimacies with my father himself.
For she was only eighteen, throughout physical appearance at the very least, though her maturity was much similar to that of a new adult, and close to that of a mother.
My mother could possibly have become my closest companion, the girl whom I confided everything: my complicated emotions towards the relationship of which she and Jacob had previously shared; my disgruntlement towards my father (an adolescent, facially, himself) and his difficult expectations and rules; the scandals throughout the Forks high school.
Often, I wished that she were that only: a friend.
She did not commit to acts such as gossiping, shopping excursions, or flirting mockingly with adolescent boys, as the majority of female adolescents would. This was not, though, for her maturity, as, after drafted research, gathered from relatives, I had discovered that she had always acted slightly awkward as a young child, an adolescent, and now, a young adult.
"Mom, I'm home!"
I found no immediate reply, though I discovered that I could find voices from the general direction of the kitchen, or perhaps the living room.
I observed the vibrant tapestries that my grandfather Charlie, an awkward man himself, much like his daughter, had provided, believing that such vibrancies would enhance our homely environment, as I called to my mother.
I was more considerate than to inform him that, after my father had reluctantly exhibited them throughout the entrance corridor, my mother had said, "Edward, don't hang them up! They're hideous!"
"Mom?"
A particle of my brain consisted of thoughts as to whether Jacob would discover my body once more this evening, having entered through my bedroom window. A separate particle considered whether to answer my mobile phone, vibrating erratically within the pocket of my jeans.
"Mom, I didn't destroy the car! Or get abducted by assassins and held as a hostage! Or even knock over the pyramid of cans at the Thriftway!"
I paused for a response, but found none.
"I didn't even go to the Thriftway!"
The conversation that I had overheard increased in volume as I approached the kitchen, the source, before falling to silence.
I had concluded that it was most likely my mother and father kissing excessively, as they frequently did, the reason for which they had stopped talking, having, most likely, heard my footsteps approaching.
I wondered as to whether my mother would be proud when she observed the pamphlet that I was holding, and notice personally from the school council system, informing my mother that I had received the greatest marking of the class for English.
Or perhaps she would be too distracted, frantically straightening her appearance beside my father before she noticed this achievement.
I used level palms to hold the door open, and, a cliché, an exhalation of hurried breath was expelled.
The notice discovered the expensively tiled flooring.
Unfortunately, the repulsive sight of which I had expected – my mother and father kissing – did not greet me.
And even more excessively distressing sight did.
Their lips were touched together, if not with fervour, then a gentle loving. I was not allowed the time to decide which.
Their lips were hurriedly separated.
I observed that my mother was assessing me, attempting to appear careful and easily simple, though that her fingers, held, flowering over his shoulder blades and his chest, proved otherwise; Jacob appeared distinctly horrified, his palm held to my mother's hip, his mouth explaining words of which I did not care to hear.
On television programs that I had observed, husbands made love to their neighbour's wives, and boys formed romance with the mothers of their companions.
I had not expected that such a situation could befall anybody in reality, much less myself.
I recognised better than I wished, that my mother had experienced previous intimacies and complicated relationships with Jacob, before I had become a particle of the larger image. I had, once, experienced a sorrowful conversation with my aunt Alice, throughout which she informed me of my mother's discomfort at my relationship with Jacob.
But that Jacob was my boyfriend, that his mouth had touched mine and other various parts of my body, countless times, caused me to feel as if I were to vomit.
I did vomit. The excessive tears made a subsequent, unwelcome appearance.
It was a pitiful observation. I held to the linoleum, my entire being stilled, the vomit, consisting of mainly bile, staining the previously delightful blue of my blouse. The colouring now symbolised only my sorrow.
My name was a repetitive from Jacob's mouth, as hurried tissues consumed the worst of the liquid vomit, and reassurances held nothing to decrease my sorrow.
It was unselfish, that Jacob would attempt to diminish his sorrow, in so that he could experience that of another.
My mother observed the circumstances, a benign appearance. She participated only in transferring the consumed tissues to the rubbish depository.
Jacob and my mother kept further apart than was necessary, as it only proved that they were embarrassed, for what I had observed had not been a result of hallucination, as I internally stilled myself.
A television program, the viewers balanced precariously on the edge of their perches, their breath held equally. Would the lovers overcome this hiccup? Or would they proceed with ending their relationship? Would the mother become labelled as an enemy rather than a dutiful parent?
Similar to these select viewers, I could only attempt a guess, as Jacob's support enabled me to stand, though shakily.
He held me close, an arm protectively on my shoulder blades, another balancing a bowl, for the circumstances in which I was to vomit once more.
We departed the kitchen, and entered my bedroom.
My mother's abused copy of Wuthering Heights balanced openly upon the duvet; my pyjamas, a well worn combination of holey t-shirts and sweatpants, held to a chair; my computer was active, programmed to my email account, a dated email observed, replying to Jacob's previous emails, and informing him that I loved him.
Simple, usual, unlike my current circumstances.
The computer's battery failed after my observation of the email. Would my relationship with Jacob discover a similar fate?
He assisted me in donning his jersey, before we surrendered, holding alongside each other on my unkempt bed, our limbs unusually failing to become entangled with one another, angled precisely so that these circumstances did not befall us.
I pondered all that I had experienced.
His kiss. My mother's kiss. A combination, held within my mind, causing me to vomit uncontrollably, countless times.
I appreciated that Jacob held my hair apart - carefully styled and tended that morning to achieve maximum potential and to impress him throughout the subsequent night – and dedicated himself to providing tissues and sincere apologies.
Our internal pledges failed, and his face balanced atop the crown of my head, his arms holding me close.
He imprinted on me, not my mother, I explained to myself repeatedly, a reassurance.
I did not recognise that the heaving against my body, and the salted damp between his face and my tresses, was his sorrow, his pledge in shame of himself and devoted love for me.
He was not aware that, on mornings when I woke subsequent to a heated evening, I heard his racked moans and uncontrollable sobs. He was unaware that I was constantly afraid that I caused him unhappiness, that he would disappear, a magician's image, conjured, before departing, forever.
Heard, but not observed.
Jacob was a small child, wishing to be held by a mother that had disappeared.
I would, truthfully, find myself unable to exist without him.
I followed myself towards him, and positioned my head in direction towards his. His eyes caught my own, an individual tear strolling the plane of his cheek.
As a young, naive child, whom had believed that the age of thirteen caused you extreme maturity, I had concluded that Jacob was unbelievably besotted with me, similar to other boys, though I had not concluded that, in reality, the boys whom strolled the streets whilst Jacob assisted me in transporting myself to chain retailers to purchase apparently 'sexy' clothing, and Jacob himself, were in love with me. For my immortal attractiveness, my natural and unintended charm, originally purposed to attract willing prey.
As he transported me towards my grandmother and grandfather's household, I playfully touched my lips to his cheek, admiring my charisma, a word I had learnt the definition for a month previously.
A cheek. How was it possible that one could underestimate a love for a cheek?
His eyes continued to probe my own. They told that these tears were not for my viewing. I recognised that he had concluded that his sorrow was unnecessary.
His mouth opened unceremoniously in protest.
"Ness."
Throughout the subsequent days and weeks, I would become frantic to commit every detail as an imprint unto my memory, all that happened afterwards that single word, my single name.
The dappled texture of sunlight holding politely to his bare shoulder blade; my heel touched to the heat of his thigh; my palms holding to his elbows; the coarse, bristly texture of his jaw, unshaved, heaving to my own; his coarse handling of my breasts; the brilliant whitened scars unto his palms and back; his face balanced precariously above my own; his midnight tresses tickling my forehead; the indescribable pleasure; his immediate hardening below; the bold, comforting reassurance of his collarbone; and the myriad of expressions exhibited upon his face, the apprehension, the tenderness, apology, embarrassment, sorrow, pleasure, and the overpowerful, everlasting hunger.
The moment of which I protested, of which I consumed these memories and explained, was abrupt.
"Stop," my whisper, harmless, helpless, fragile, in comparison to the bold courage of his palms between my thighs, though not completely upright.
"Why?"
An evening appropriate for sorrowful fervor, but not for future pregnancies and uneasy explanations, or, at the very least, a requirement for sexual protection.
"Jacob! I can't. Not now. Not tonight. Not for a long time. Just stop."
His mouth unto the tracery of my jaw was a brutality, a coarseness that caused majority sorrow rather than pleasure. A longing to weep as a small child would demonstrate overthrew me, though I resisted. I desired to plead.
"Stop."
His mouth stilled, before he drew his eyes upon my own, and, truthfully, he stated. "I can't."
It was utterly uncalled as I found myself inside of the bathroom.
He was unable to shout, for my mother would enter the bedroom, and cause him to depart the premises, for our clothing found itself upon the oaken floorboards.
My breath coarse and laboured, I balanced my back alongside of the oaken door, my palms held to my scalp, unspoken coarse language and violent movements contained within me, though I was tempted to allow them freedom.
The careful tread of footfalls; breathing, laboured similarly to my own; the diluted attachment of palms to the door's wooden surface.
"Ness?" His tone was worried, awkward, the underlying tone of beauty and sorrow. "Did I do something wrong?"
The underlying, awkward questions were posed. Had he caused me harm? Had he, unconsciously, found himself inside of me, though it was virtually impossible that he could not have noticed such vital detail?
Other questions, more difficult. When would be the right occasion? How could we possibly, cause it brilliance? Was there anything of which I needed reassurance?
Did I not find the allocated quota of attraction towards him, of unfathomably profound love?
The untruthful backgrounding of the thought itself caused me to release a high volume of racks and sobs.
"Oh my God," Jacob recognised. "Oh my God, Ness, did I-"
The door reverberated with the impact of his dull kick. I overheard coarse language, the impact of, perhaps a book, thrown to the floorboards.
"Crap, Ness," he said. "I am so sorry, Ness. I am so sorry."
The golden handle, counterpart to the door, circular, moved accordingly, and, with an undying heart, I held the mechanism.
I locked the barrier between Jacob and I.
And I cried.
I had cried not an extremely long period of time ago.
Unlike purely bred vampires, I possessed the ability to weep liquid tears, rather than dry sorrow.
Much as I possessed the ability to become pregnant, though Carlisle's science and medicine explained otherwise.
The teardrops, individually emptied themselves, and combined forces with fellow sole teardrops, dampening my cheeks rapidly.
I remained in said original position, my sobs silent, excusing those that possessed such extreme force that I feared I would disintegrate beneath their immense weight.
I did not recognise the multiple occasions where the handle of the door reverberated, the subdued lashes. Nor did I recognised the occasions throughout which he swore simply, the subjects to this abuse objects in the room, himself, or, occasionally, me.
I cried, a possession of multiple explanations.
For Jacob's unfailing, undying love for myself, though I did not deserve such affection; for hatred of my mother, her selfish actions and attempts; for myself, self-pity, all that had befallen myself; for the pure purpose of crying, though it was uncalled.
I observed my naked self within the mirror parallel to the door, the dreadful state of my tresses, the red outline of my eyes, the barely noticeable bruises along my arms, my breasts, an imprint of Jacob's fingers.
When it would conclude that my sobs had ceased, though I still reverberated with the unsubtle impact, I held the door, and observed Jacob's stationary body, flowering the width of my bed.
Though I had long disposed of the habit, I chewed my fingernails, and gnawed my lower lip, pondering as to whether it would be more appropriate to join his circumstance, or depart the bedroom.
I tiptoed, as a small child competing in hide and seek or perhaps murder in the dark, and posed myself alongside his body.
He was clothed, though merely, for his boxer shorts and t-shirt consumed him only. I clothed myself within sweatpants and his jersey.
He had presented the jersey near to the dawn of our relationship. Subsequent to our debut evening of heavier intimacies, I had committed to the jersey as clothing, and as a pillow.
His palm flowered, held bitterly to my stomach. I observed as his fingers retracted mercifully, before flowering as previously.
"You didn't," I explain, attempting to maintain the subdued atmosphere.
His silence is penetrating. "I would have thrown a chair at you, if you had." My attempted joke is unappreciated, unwanted, unloved.
"I make you unhappy." Jacob's conclusion is devastating.
"You don't make me unhappy." Forty percent, Jacob became irritating, but the remaining sixty percent caused impossible joy.
"I know that I do. If I didn't, you would do it." His palm retracts the boundary of my stomach, a subdued example.
"This, currently, is a cliché situation, whereas the boyfriend pressures his girlfriend to have sex with him."
Jacob, unhelpful to the current circumstances, chuckles.
I am held closely. I am loved. "I make you unhappy, because you think that there is always a possibility that I will go backwards to Bella – to your Mom."
I hold my palms precariously to his cheekbones. "Jacob Black, I am unfathomably and profoundly in love with you. Do not tell yourself otherwise."
His kiss is supple.
"I love you," he states.
"I love you too."
"Forever?"
A game we had committed to throughout our prior and early periods of relationship. A pact, an unbroken agreement. Unbroken, for we had managed to guide ourselves alongside of one another, through all challenges and obstacles.
The quarrels could not roil the unfathomably profound chasm of our hearts, lacerate the bounding strength of the cord that held us together, convince that our love was disappointing, an abomination.
I allowed myself pleasure within the confines of his arms. "Forever."
When I commit to wakefulness, I recognise immediately that he is present. Holding me closely to himself, his fingertips touched to my collarbone.
Jacob. My mother.
I discover an urge to break through his love, his arms, perhaps a restraint. My eyes open, careful slits, and my resolve disintegrates as I observe his face.
His eyes were closed, though I was aware that he too, had committed to wakefulness. He possessed a simple smile, and, as his eyes opened similar to my own, and observed me observing him, the smile flowered to a rose, rather than a nurturing bud.
His contentment was the outline of his beauty when he slept. The protective manner he assumed whenever he was awake disappeared, further than when we kissed one another, so that he was a small child, longing for protection himself, but with a smile worthy of the breakage of a heart held upon his mouth.
"Good morning, Ness."
The manner in which he stated my name explained all. His love, his undeniable sorrow, though an unconscious shadow, from long ago, his happiness and pride.
"Good morning, Jacob," I copy, and discover delight at his chuckle.
His yawn is momentary, before he kisses my mouth politely, and though, despite my dream memory, and my desperation to hold to him, I allowed a break, before I found myself consumed.
I recognised that we resided within my bedroom. The forest, a bed of leaves, of which I had pictured falling between the lines, him falling between, into me, had disappeared.
Normal.
Jacob's hair was adorably mussed, due to the angle on which he has slumbered, held around my body protectively, impressing that evil spirits would steal me away throughout the night if he did not remain with careful protectiveness, and enclosing arms.
A pleasurable sight. I could not help but to kiss him, momentarily, not privileging myself with the period to allow myself, or him, to excite.
"I had fun last night," he stated, pleased by my actions. Other than a simple morning greeting, he insisted on reminding me of how we had managed to excite the other with previous intimacies.
I attempted to recall his explanation on imprinting, though all I recalled was said intimacy.
His palms probing myself inside of my clothing; my bra a white leaf fallen unto the ground; his mouth moving in unfamiliar accordance and context; restraining his palms as from my body, explaining that I was not prepared to lose my virginity that evening.
"It was a brilliant night," I agreed.
"We could have gone all the way." He attempted regular confidence, though his voice fissured throughout its middle. His eyes probed my chest, an unsubtle indication that he too was recalling the intimacies of the previous evening.
"But we didn't. I'm glad that we didn't. It wasn't the right time."
"Here. Now. Would that be right?"
My shrug is pointedly towards humouring him. "It won't be super sexy and enjoyable if you make love to me while I'm in yesterday's sweaty, gritty clothes, and my hair is oily and dreadful."
"You're always super sexy," he protests, frowning at my self-discrimination. His body cautiously poses towards my own, the inches separating our coupled mouths, decreasing. "Always."
His mouth committed to memory the tracery of my own.
I shivered with immense pleasure. "Stop," I said, a mockery of confidence. "Stop, I can't."
Playfully, his fingertips traced the waistband of my jeans, as his mouth discovered mine harder.
My breath was coarse, laboured, and gradually, attempting to return his pleasurable favours, though without providing excessive encouragement, I mildly bit on his lower lip.
Before he was able to stop himself, he growled. His embarrassment was obvious, and it overexcited me.
"Oh my God," I said against his mouth, unable to contain my words. "That was so sexy. I didn't think that you could get any sexier."
Rewarding, my mouth found his own, unable to contain myself.
Jacob's mouth was immediately uncontrollable. Whilst we had been posed precariously upright, he held me to the bed, his growls frequent and uncontrollable as his kisses.
Sexy.
Eventually and inevitably, we would make love, and I would not find the possibility to retract the action. It did not matter, I concluded. Who was to discover the scandal? I was more cautious than to explain guiltily in the premises of companions or family, that I was no longer a virgin. And, unless, though it was doubted, that there was a more amazingly brilliant lover than him, Jacob was perfect for the circumstances.
Therefore, why was I reluctant?
My mouth ceased movement, and Jacob immediately panicked unnecessarily.
"Did I hurt you?" He examined every particle of my face, attempting to discover my cause for cease. "Ness, did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?"
These words caused harm, for they originated within my dream memory.
He attempted to recall all that had happened within the frenzy.
"No, I'm fine."
"Are you absolutely sure?"
"I'm fine Jacob. It was perfect. You were perfect. As usual."
I detected the subtle pride Jacob consumed.
I found myself before the mirror, observing my disgraceful appearance, though my thoughts subjected to other originations.
Jacob's eyes probed the curvature of my spine, my backside.
Would another boy differ to Jacob? Would making love to, for example, Ethan Newton, find similarity?
Jacob possessed a distinct quality and style within his intimacies. His mouth changed accordance frequently, exciting me; his fingers discovered exciting routines within observing my skin; he continually whispered my name, an exciting and interesting edge, a completion.
Perhaps, though, it would be similar, for they all found interest in cleavage, hence his observation of my backside presently, of my breasts as we conversed with hushed tones.
His arms were surrounding me, I was held close. We observed each other within the mirror before us.
"I love you," I said, confidently.
"This is wrong," he said, equally, "but I love you too."
I entertained myself with a tress of oily caramel hair, considering whether straightening my tresses would find more attractiveness.
"You're beautiful," he stated, directed for if he believed all whom observed me exclaimed similarly. "Even if you are wearing yesterday's sweaty clothes and your hair looks dreadful."
My confined palm recognised his shoulder blade and he chuckled at my mocking helplessness.
"And," he continued, carefully removing the caramel tress from my palm, almost similar to that he could assume my personal thoughts, "don't straighten your hair. It's beautiful already."
I laughed openly, as his mouth consumed my own.
His kiss was smouldering, careful. His forehead held to my own, my arms unto his neck. It was pleasant, improbably favoured other than the consuming frenzies of which we so often experienced together. He whispered his love towards me against my mouth. I concluded that these circumstances were all I wished for forever. Jacob, his kiss, his entire self within my eyelids.
He chose this particular moment of perfection to separate his mouth from my own.
I held myself against him, as his palms fisted my wrists, and, stubbornly, I held my mouth against his own.
"We have to stop."
Surprisingly, Jacob, rather than myself, conversed this notion.
"No," I stated stubbornly against his mouth, cruel, hypocritical.
I held myself, my mouth against his own.
I wished for his animal growl, an indication that our intimacy was wild, unconfined.
"We have to. It's morning."
I wished for his pleasant kiss. Simple and gradual.
"I don't want to."
I was held to the white-washed walls of my bedroom.
"I have to go," Jacob said, an adorably crooked smile flowering his mouth.
His mouth is similar in texture to the bare touch of a butterfly's wing.
I observe as he clothes himself within grease-stained jeans and fists his palm over his t-shirt.
He holds himself within the framework of the windowsill, and I hold myself before him, arms folded protectively over my chest.
He kisses me clumsily upon my forehead, and proceeds with holding his legs outside of the windowsill.
A frown curdles my forehead.
I observe his stance for his preparation to launch himself from the restraint of the windowsill.
His muscles contract, and I fist his arm.
Jacob, surprised, observes me, an adorable expression flowered to his face.
"Don't go," I pose, inaudibly.
His fingers weave unfamiliar patterns and contexts throughout my caramel tresses.
"I'll be here," he explains, a chant to couple the patterns. "I'll be here, hopeful that you may have rethought your propositions."
We smile, tentatively.
His arms close upon me, a farewell embrace.
"Love you."
"Love you."
And he is no more.