A/N: I must thank MsKathy for her initiative to help Haitian victims of the earthquake and also for the generosity of "Twit-ro-ducing" me to her amazing beta. This awesome girl is TwilightMundi, who deciphered my PortEnglish enigma and made this little story work in actual English. Thank you, guys! And, please, let's keep Haitian people in our thoughts.
Disclaimer: Edward and Bella belong to SM. I put them together in a darkroom and just look at what they did there…
*~*~*~*
Aftershock
Oh, no… You shouldn't be doing this… So bad. Very very bad…
... Ahem.
That would be my mind thinking.
Happily, it was up to my body to do the talking right now.
"Oh, yes! Yes! So good. So so so... So good…" I mumbled, incapable of articulating anything else. I could feel my second climax building and was willing to hold on to the great sensation. It was beyond anything I ever felt before.
"Fuuuck!" Edward whispered, closing his eyes. Our foreheads were touching and each time he whispered profanities I could feel his tasty breath washing over my face. Hot air, a remnant of mint and man. Scented just like him.
He had me. I couldn't think of anything else. Not the risky situation. Not that we could get caught – and fired.
All I thought was him… inside me.
And the way our hot bodies rocked against each other, his hand preventing my back from bumping into the thick wall.
His other hand held my hips; his fingers were pressed deep in my skin while he pushed in and out of me. My legs enveloped his body tightly, my heels scratching behind his thighs, luckily still covered and protected in slacks. The movement of him burying his hardness in me, filling and stretching me was almost maddening.
Everything about him and our surroundings spurred me on. The alluring amber lights in this small darkroom. Even the strong odors coming from the chemicals in the trays that held my now-ruined photos. And, oh, his strong chest moving against my hard nipples…. The latter made me very grateful I'd opened his shirt and that he'd taken off my dress.
My deep blue dress. One of many that he teases me about. All Chanel-like, with classical and elegant cut so I can look like the professional I am. Edward says I dress like a petite bourgeoisie. Yeah, his French accent is perfect and even this little offense sounds hot coming out of his mouth. Not fair.
Plus, I bet he thinks his combination of slightly scruffy slacks and shoes, with rolled up sleeves and an eventually loosened tie around his sturdy neck is the ultimate defiance look.
For the entire last year clothing was only one of many things on which we disagreed. The animosity between us started from day one. It was almost twelve months ago that I started as a section news editor for The NY Daily Globe. One day in my first week there I was on my way to get my coffee fix when I heard a commotion coming from the kitchen.
"Shit! Why do I always have to make a mess?!" a man groaned, the sound echoing through the hall.
"Relax, man. You've been distracted, that's all," the owner of the other voice was repressing a laugh, apparently. Yet his tone was low and melodic. "Here, this will absorb…-No! Not the international pages, man!"
"What!? Jeez… Were you planning on keeping them? These are from last week!"
"It doesn't matter. Ok… Here you go. Culture. This is suitable to clean coffee, wrap fish and stuff." Now he was actually laughing.
I took that as my cue.
"Excuse me?" I asked from the door, holding my arms down and closing my fists so I could resist the urge to put my hands on my waist.
"What?" he asked as he turned to face me from across the room, holding the smile on his face. I momentarily lost my words. His green eyes, messed hair and thick jaw suddenly diminished my hate. And I hated myself for allowing that.
"Let me introduce myself," I said, in an instant unease that made me annoyed. "I'm Bella Swan, culture news editor for Daily Globe," I recovered myself, putting my hand out, making a head movement motioning to the pages on the floor while I gave him my best bitchy-angry face.
The smug bastard just kept smiling. Maybe even more than before. He was clearly making fun of me. He also didn't take my hand. I was about to retrieve it when the blond one took it for a quick shake.
"Err… Nice to meet you Miss Swan. I'm Jasper Whitlock, senior reporter of the Political section…." He was clearly embarrassed and seemed very polite. The gentlemanly type, an endangered species, I thought. I could imagine in front of me an updated version of Henry Fleming, from Crane's The Red Badge of Courage. Maybe Alice would like to meet him....
I dared to focus my eyes on the smug handsome and the prick was still smiling. Well, I was not.
"And you are…?" I had to swallow my pride, because my curiosity was bigger.
"Edward Cullen, investigative reporter and special correspondent" he answered, looking amused, with his arms crossed in front of him and a steaming mug in hand.
And then it hit me. His prize-winning covers of the Afghanistan and Iraq wars were part of the reason I had looked for a position at that very newspaper. Those pieces had put Daily Globe's name side by side with the bigger newspapers once again.
His articles were inspirational. Not only for the writing style, but mostly because, through his text, he came out as a natural story teller. His point of view was unique and guaranteed to ensure that the Daily Globe constantly had something different from other publications.
Judging by the kind of real characters whose life stories he presented in his articles, one could say he was a brave reporter with techniques from the old school. He was always in the field, searching through people, while other colleagues did their research through phone calls and the Internet – inside climate-controlled and safe rooms.
I myself am more like a safety-seeker. Besides my love for literature and all kids of art, that was what brought me to the culture section in the first place. It was rare for one to get hurt inside a museum or a library – of course I could manage being an exception to that statement.
With my lack of luck and clumsiness I couldn't afford working in a war, barely in the streets. But I admired journalists who did. And Edward Cullen was the first name on that list. Of course when I read his articles I didn't imagine him being so young or sexy. Nor so full of himself either….
"Well, Cullen, I suppose your articles get framed at the end of the day, huh? If they aren't recycled as fish wrappers or dog house covers with the rest of the paper..." I trailed off.
"I'm sorry if I insulted you," he said, the smoldering tone in his voice running in full mode. "But I really don't think many people would miss it if the paper came out one day without the culture pages. But take away political or international articles and you'll probably see the edition stuck all day in the newsstand. No one will buy it." His emphasis was final.
"I can't believe you just said that…" My voice came out weak, what only made me angrier. I was too offended to disguise.
"Look, it isn't personal…. You see, you just began here, right?" I gave a slight nod and he continued. "I'm certain it will take only a couple of months until you're able to conquer a position in an important section yourself. Culture will be just the beginning, I bet."
My rational side knew he was trying to put my mind at ease. But meanwhile he was upsetting me beyond reason. And he seemed to have no clue of this at all. Oh, if only he could read my mind….
I just turned around on my heel and left the kitchen without another word. And no coffee either.
If anyone had told me then that one year later I would be in this darkroom with him I would have said it was craziness. Madness, lunacy even.
But in this very moment…
…breathing his hot breath,
…feeling the tight hold of his arms around me and
…his hard-on pushing in to ignite every pleasure cord I had, uh…
I felt crazy, mad and lunatic for not realizing sooner how every time he picked on me, every single time he pushed my buttons and made me angry, during all these months, were just a sick kind of foreplay for both of us.
"Isabella." My name coming out of his lips was the sexiest thing I've ever heard. He called me that since he discovered my real name and that I used and preferred the short version of it. Another tease in our routine.
"Hmm?" It was the only sound I could make with my bottom lip between my teeth.
His hand climbed my back to hold my face, the light caress leaving a tingling trail in my damp skin, until his palm cupped my jaw. As he held our motion, I was mesmerized by his intense gaze. Each stroke of his fingertips on the nape of my neck sent a wave of desire that reached the lower part of my body, right where we were joined.
He licked his lips looking between my eyes and my month. My tongue came out to moisten my own as an automatic response as I heard his request.
"Can I go deeper? Can you take me?"
"Uuuuhhhh" I let out a moan along with my breath. "Yes, please. I need you, Edward. Anything. Everything…" I told him because I was in overload. I could keep nothing to myself right now. I would regret so much if I didn't tell him. He might not be here to hear if I wanted to say it later. He was leaving and we didn't know for how long.
He pulled out of me and I almost whimpered. But then he brushed his lips on mine and I opened my mouth, eager to have him in. When our tongues touched, he pushed inside me again. All the way.
Without breaking our kiss he rocket my hips, shifting me in his arms. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, more than I thought was possible. We both moaned with the feeling. I've never felt that complete before. He started moving again, in long and slow thrusts.
We were breathing hard and fast. His tongue was deep in my mouth. He was consuming me as eagerly as I wanted to take him. The feeling threatened to overwhelm me.
The intensity coming from him had only increased since the moment he'd found me earlier. I was developing the photos I had just enlarged from old film. Two reporters and I were organizing a special piece about the contemporary baroque period. It was the last month of a Velázquez exhibition at the Metropolitan and I had found in archives the negatives of photos of an exhibition that took place in the 70's. One of the reporters had cited that exhibition in his article and the designer wanted to use the images in the page composition.
I put the paper in the developing liquid and admired one of the pictures as the image came to life. A noise drew my attention to my phone vibrating in the counter.
I, where are you? ~E
Humpf.
In the darkroom, developing some photos. I'll be out in a couple, but you can go ahead. ~B - not I.
Ok, I. ;D But I won't be able to go 2day. Must talk 2 u. Have u alrdy fixated the films? Can I come in? ~E
What could he possibly have to talk to me about that couldn't wait? It was Tuesday, the official drink day. We had settled on this particular weekday to enjoy happy hour, because Friday was crowded. Getting out on a Tuesday night also gave the illusion of a shorter week. The weekend always came faster this way.
He'd never missed a happy hour on such short notice. I was texting back to ask him why he had to bail out on me when I heard a low knock on the door.
"Isabella?"
"Urgh, will you quit with the full name thing already?" I asked in an annoyed tone of voice, only to hear his low laugh from the other side.
"So, can I come in without ruining your film roll?"
"I'm not developing a film. I'm just enlarging some old pics. And why can't you wait until later, anyway?" I asked while I gently rocked the tray back and forth to develop another photo.
"Hmm. Actually the reason I want to talk is the same I'm not able to go to the happy hour later…" He was quiet for a couple seconds. "Hey, girl, I'm standing here talking to a fucking door… I know most of the staff is already gone and no one will pass by and call me crazy, but…"
The alarm sounded interrupting him. I took the picture off the chemical, put it in the stop bath tray and went to the little room entrance.
As I opened the door as slightly as possible – so the light from outside wouldn't ruin my pictures – I could hear him loudly exhale. He seamed to relax as he did it.
"Thank you" he said stepping in.
I closed the door behind him and turned to look at him again. He looked aggravated. And that was a rare demeanor on him.
In fact, during this entire year I had only seen him like this once. It was the week following the coffee incident.
I had received an internal invitation in my inbox.
Dear Editor,
It is an honor to announce another conquest of our newspaper. The special series "War in terror's hole," by Edward Cullen (published in The NY Daily Globe from 27 to 31 October 2008) won the George Polk Award. You are invited to attend the dinner party that will be settled next...
"Are you going tonight?" Angela, one of the reporters who worked with me, asked.
"Where?"
"Cullen's party... Didn't you receive the e-mail? He won a priz-"
"Oh, yeah, I was just reading. But the dinner is only next week, it says…" I passed my eyes through the screen again to be sure.
"Oh, yes. The dinner is. But the guys in international and political will throw him a little party tonight in their newsroom. You know, a less formal celebration…" She informed.
"Hmm… Well, I don't think I can be there…" Mostly because the honoured of the day didn't exactly get along with me… Why would I go there, anyway? "But you should go and have fun," I encouraged her.
Later that evening I was in the bar down the street having a drink by myself. It had been a tough day, I guess. I was at the bar and heard when the stool next to me was moved.
It was him. But he didn't seem to have noticed me. His expression almost made me forgive him for his harsh words the prior week. Almost.
"You should be happy," I told him. He turned to look at me seeming a little confused at first. I could see in his eyes when he'd recognized me.
"Huh? Oh. Yeah… I am. Very happy…" His barely noticeable sigh only showed that he really wasn't. He waved and the bartender gave him a foreign beer. I assumed he was a regular. "You didn't seem very happy last week though…" He teased, taking a sip from the bottle and smiling crookedly at me. What a smug. Beautiful charming smug.
"Yeah. That. It was choice between leaving the kitchen or wasting all my karate on the editor-in-chief's goody-goody reporter…" I said without looking at him.
"Wow. Tough…" He laughed lightly and his smile widened. "I wouldn't guess you were the violent type." And more teasing.
"Usually I only hit when asked to." I needed to show him I was no pushover.
"Fair enough. But I can see you're still angry. Just don't send me the doctor's bills when you get an ulcer from so much karate restraint, please".
"Are you always such a prick?" I had to ask.
"Actually no… But I guess some people just stir up the best in us, right?"
"Right…" I let that one go.
We kept drinking and his distant and cold expression came back after a while.
"So… Why are you here while your friends are throwing you a party back in the editorial room?" He kept looking ahead, his elbows fixed on the bar, his big hands and long fingers playing with the condensation on the beer bottle. He chuckled and turned his head at me, lifting one eyebrow.
"Curious, are we?"
"Aren't all journalists?" He had to know my curiosity was more about human behavior than about him. Yeah, right.
"Hmm… I didn't know that could be applied to the ones who worked in culture section and barely left newsroom, though..." He spat and I rolled my eyes. "However, let's just say I don't like all the attention."
"U-huh. You're so shy after all, right?" I mocked.
"It's not so much about shyness… It's more about… satisfaction."
I was left hanging. What he said didn't make any sense to me. "You're saying winning prizes, money and prestige doesn't satisfy you?"
"No… I would be lying if I said that. Having award-winning articles is always good when you want the editor to believe some expansive special covering your work is worth it… And the prize money's nothing to be sneezed at. But, I don't know." He looked at the game that was playing on the TV inside the bar before concluding quietly. "I guess war and death is no reason for partying and celebrating."
I didn't quite understand his behavior, but I could sympathize with the feeling.
"You shouldn't feel guilty for this. It's a good thing people come to know the horror of war, you know? And if you get an award for reporting this, it only means you did a good job."
"Yeah, but celebrating or being happy about it would make me feel kind of a monster." The harsh statement softly said in a velvet voice knocked down some of the walls I had built around him in my head.
I tried putting myself in his place. He had spent the last seven years of his life between the US and Middle East reporting executions, terrorist attacks and missile fires that destroyed entire cities, houses, families. I guess he had seen too much. Too much loss, too much death and way too much blood.
"Why you do this?"
"Do what?" He seemed truly confuse.
"Why did you choose to be a war correspondent?"
He didn't think for long before answering. "Well… Besides that being the dream of most journalism students… I really like the idea of being able to write history in present tense. I get to see with my own eyes facts people will only know through other people or books for years, decades or even centuries ahead."
"I see… I know you'll scoff at me for what I'm about to say, but… Yeah, and I can blame Steinhäger afterwards if you annoy me and I feel obligated to use my karate skills on you, please remember this…" Liquor had definitely got me at that point.
"Oh, I will. Please, go on." He looked amused.
"Ok. No, it's just I believe the most used and also the better way to tell a nation's history or even human history is through art," I said, putting a daring look in my face.
"Don't you think you're kind of biased, being the culture editor?" he said dismissively.
"Oh, no. I trust facts to talk by themselves with no need of my opinion whatsoever. Let's see… Picasso's Guernica is the best representation of the inhumanity and brutality of Spanish Civil War, for example. Or let's take the Sarajevo Haggadah for an instance. This book, this beautiful artistic manuscript, can tell the history of several people, and not only Jewish. Its pages survived the obscure period of the Middle Ages to the Holocaust and the Serbian genocide of the 90's. And those are just a couple cases...."
He took a long gulp of his beer, without removing his gaze from my face. I fought to avoid the blush that threatened to come to my face at the fierceness of his narrowed eyes. His voice was low and harsh when the talked.
"Nice speech. But, let's add more evidences to your cases, shall we? Picasso's painting is that important historically speaking because it's about a war. The Haggadah, in its turn, is even more important to human history because it has survived many close calls during wars. Sorry to stain your colorful dreams, girl, but true history is written with blood. And by the winner's point of view, of course."
I had to check my jaw to be sure it was not hanging. "Ok. That's a pointless quarrel anyway. I won't convince you about the importance of arts and culture journalism. And I'm not buying the prattle about how being a war correspondent is the best job in this field either."
"Hey, I didn't say I had the best job –"
"Again, pointless quarrel…" I interrupted him.
He shifted his position in the stool, turning his torso to the TV and away from me, showing unease.
I sighed. "Ok. As much as I know you love wars, I'll wave the white flag here." I said, putting my hands up and opening my palms to him. "What are your plans now? Going back to Middle East?"
"Actually, no. After Obama declared the intention of ending the war, there've been more combats here in the US then in Iraq – politically speaking, of course. So, I won't leave the country so soon."
And he really didn't. Through the following twelve months he stayed in the States. He wrote great articles during that time. A remarkable one he did with Jasper's help. Their investigative work culminated in the discovery of a tax fraud scandal involving a former New York City police commissioner.
Between the two of us, our truce was only partial and we ended up battling frequently after that day. But that aggravated look I saw on him that first Tuesday never came back.
Until now, when he stood in front of me in this little amber lighted darkroom. But even the frustration in his eyes didn't lessen the gloriousness in him. His pouty lips were separating and joining together nonstop, while he seemed to be rehearsing something to say and didn't emit any sound.
The darkroom was really small and mostly unneeded nowadays, since the emergence of digital cameras. We were really close in the restricted space, my back almost against the wall. I could feel the heat pouring from his body to mine.
"What is it? You're making me nervous…"
"Uh. Ok. What time was it when you left newsroom?"
"I don't know… Around 5 o'clock I guess… Why, what time is it now?" I asked him because my phone was still in the counter, behind him, and I couldn't reach it.
"It's eightish, I guess…."
"Wow… I had no idea it took me so long to find these films and begin developing the photos…" I trailed off, looking around me.
"Yes, well. Focus. I came to tell you something, remember?" He said in a rushed way, with an alarming tone in his voice.
I crossed my arms in front of me waiting.
"Ok. This afternoon an earthquake affected Haiti."
"How big was it?" I asked quickly.
"A magnitude seven," he answered in a weak voice.
"Oh my God! That's terrible…" my comment was muffled by my hand that had reached my mouth in a reflexive motion.
Automatically my mind flew to the little Caribbean island I only knew from TV, news and books. I thought about the suffering people, who had such a beautiful past – being the only nation born of a slave revolt, after winning their independence from France – and such a bloody and violent early history and present – with the 30-year-long dictatorial government of Pap Doc and Baby Doc and also the rebellion almost six years ago.
"Yeah… From what we saw and heard so far it's really disgraceful. The number of deaths can surpass one hundred thousand in Port-au-Prince area…"
"No shit!"
"Their government is appealing for humanitarian aid right now. Mostly to help looking for survivors. They think many people can be underground, below the damaged buildings…." He took a deep breath "And here it is… the paper needs to send someone there. They fixed a plane to the Dominican Republic that leaves in the early morning. And I need to… They asked me to… I… I have to go."
"NO!" The cry romped in my throat and went through my mouth before I could even think. "Are you nuts? Do you even know if the airplanes are landing there? And what about aftershocks? These big earthquakes never come alone, you know that!" I nearly shouted.
Then I noticed the way his eyes were widening and I realized what I'd done. I was being ridiculous. Both my hands covered my mouth and I closed my eyes in shame.
He had told me once why he had this job. He liked the danger, the adventure. He thought he had nothing to lose. He had no family, kids nor a wife. Not even a girlfriend. And what did I just do? He doesn't need anyone at his feet, looking after him. I was only his colleague. Yeah, a colleague who was obviously confounding stuff. Oh, so much for having my pride…
He caught my hands over my mouth and unclenched them from there. But he didn't let them go. I slowly opened my eyes. He looked at me with a frown in his face, transmitting confusion. His eyes trailed off of mine. He said the next words very weakly, still holding both my hands.
"I don't wanna go..."
Oh, my… Look at the mess I had made..."What do you mean? You have to go, it's your job. Who else would they send?" My voice showed all my restraint. My mind expressed that sentence. I knew he was the man for the task. Aro, the editor-in-chief, also knew that. He had been in Haiti already, reporting on the United Nations stabilization mission there five years ago. And he wouldn't have any language barrier either, with his flawless French.
But my body and my heart were not convinced by that, quite the opposite.
He let go of my hands and I felt the loss immediately. His fingers went to his head, tugging in that mess of a hair. A gesture I recognized after these months as his personal brand in moments of anxiety or anger.
"What the fuck!" Yeah, anger it is... I thought. "I've been roaming around this fucked up city for the better part of the last year, digging and jumping for each slightly different agenda or investigation for the sake of surviving completely tedious... And when the first fucked up situation presents itself so I can go and actually do what I know what to do... I DON'T EVEN FUCKING WANNA GO!"
He was yelling now, still looking away, everywhere but me. That made me nervous and I could barely restrain the tears. When he turned to me his expression seemed to lighten up faintly. His voice was lower, but still harsh.
"Why, Isabella? Why do you think that is?"
"Fuck you..." I said trembling and unable to stop a couple of sobs that came out while I spoke. "Fuck. You!"
"Oh, shit". He covered his face with his hands. "Girl, please. Don't cry. I can't handle crying, you know that...."
I took a very deep breath. When he dropped his hands I must had been appearing calmer, because his face and shoulders relaxed.
"Look, I'm sorry," he murmured in a kind way I hadn't seen on him before. He NEVER apologized. And he offended me a lot over this year with his teasing. But I guess I had never sounded defeated or weak like that before. "Hey, girl?"
"What?"
"Ask me. Ask me not to go…" He stepped closer. We were so close that I would touch him if I moved. If he took a deep breath his chest definitely would brush my body.
"Wouldn't you if I asked?" I questioned, not with hope, but with defiance in my eyes.
"No." If nothing else he had the decency to be honest.
I let a single sad chuckle out and went to the door.
Or at least that's what I tried. But in my attempt I bumped against his hard chest. And that was not the only hardness I felt. My hand accidentally rubbed the huge bulge in his slacks.
Not so accidentally, I left it there. I heard his strong intake of breath and while he closed his eyes I couldn't help but let mine be drawn where my hands were.
Fuuuck.
Of course I thought about him like that. All the time, actually. But I never imagined my implausible aroused deliberations to come truth. Especially because when he made me angry, which was a lot of times, the desire I had for him only made me more upset with myself than with him.
"Bella..." He murmured my name like a prayer. I quickly looked at his face and his eyes shot open. His face held the guilt of one caught while doing something very wrong.
I touched his length very softly with my fingertips and tiptoed until my mouth could reach his ear, where I whispered.
"Don't you mean Isabella?" It was my turn to tease him with it.
He gave an amused throaty chuckle before grabbing my neck in a rough delicious way. He looked at me and licked his lips. I wanted him to leave it for my tongue to moisten those luscious lips.
"I should leave now. But I don't know if I can." He began nosing my cheek, moving down. "God, your scent…" He mumbled, mostly to himself. When I felt hot air, the gentle touch of his lips in my neck, and his stubble on my skin, the point where I was coherent enough to form words was left behind. "You know this isn't right, yeah?"
"U-huh..." I don't care anymore, I wanted to say. If he was going away, at least I could have this. We could have this. My blood rushed everywhere but my brain. But if I couldn't speak, I could act. I started opening the buttons of his shirt, purring kisses on each new bit of skin I found.
Without moving our hands off each other, we discarded his shirt and my dress. Then he firmly cupped my chin and I tried not to stare directly into his eyes.
"Look at me," he muttered. When I met his gaze he gave me his crooked smile. "I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, Isabella."
I don't know how long ago he had said that. I had lost track of time. I only knew from the growing intensity between us that it wouldn't last much longer.
"Fuck. I can't. Girl, come with me. I need to feel you coming around me."
The harsh request surprised me.
"Oh, Edward. Uuhhh…" I said in a noisy moaning way.
Edward kissed my lips gently and my cheek, reaching my ear, where he spoke softly. "As much as I would love to hear you yell my name… we can't be any louder, ok, girl?" His words and the hot air reaching that sensitive point in my skin put me right where he was asking me to go.
"Edward," I followed his low tone. "Please. More. Make me come around your hard cock, please…."
"Shit." He picked up his pace, thrusting into me relentlessly. "Fuck, I can feel you… clenching me. Fuck. Bella…"
He reached my lips again and kissed me hard. I felt his hardness pulsing inside me. Each pulse echoed one of the pleasure waves that threatened to split me in pieces.
It was so much. Almost too much.
He held me tight while we caught our breath, until I could collect the domain over my legs again to stand up.
Within minutes we were fully dressed once again. He opened the door and leaned against the frame. He kept silently watching me while I discarded the ruined photos. In every movement I made I could feel his eyes on me, burning me in the best way. Suddenly I felt unease. Not for what we had just done, though.
"Edward?" I turned to look at him, playing with the edges of the couple photos I had managed to develop.
"Hmm?"
"Please. I… I just need you to say this. You're going to take care of yourself, right?" I don't know what came to me. I was feeling frail and hated that.
He closed the door once again and turned back to me. His smile carried a hint of mischievousness.
"Of course, Isabella. I can't risk leaving you without another taste of my hard cock, can I?"
"You're an asshole," I retorted. I had to repress a laugh so I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. But I think he noticed what he (and his hard cock) did to me.
"Asshole, huh?" He approached me, cornering me once again, this time against the counter I had just cleaned up. One of his hands held me by my waist while the other grabbed one of my ass cheeks and squeezed hard. "Yes, if you really want it, we could try that."
I managed to hold in a whimper. I definitely didn't want him to win this round.
So I moistened my lips before replying, delivering my best sexy voice.
"Maybe when you're back," I smiled, tilting my head slightly and fluttering my eyelashes at him.
He pleased me, widening his eyes and looking pretty much caught off guard.
Yeah...
Definitely next time.
*~*~*~*
A/N: I know… Bella is such a tease, right? I hope until next week I get to update this story with its last part. If you like it, please add it to your story alert. You can talk to me on Twitter, I'm BraGirl2 there.