I do not own Twilight.
I also seem incapable of writing PWP.
—

Project Team Beta's Smut University 2012
Pre-Assignment
Write some smut.

*For my classmates and all those who are as terrified as I am when it comes to writing lemons (and simply posting, in general).*

— Diary of a Prude —

A continuous smack, smack, smack reverberates throughout my apartment—fast, steady, deliberate. The sound matches the thumping of my heart, the pounding in my ears, my quick, sharp intakes of breath. It echoes within the walls of the studio space thinly chambered off into four sections: the living room to my right, my bedroom on a raised dais to my left, the dining-slash-office in between, and the kitchen I'm standing in that spans the length of the main floor. The wide, open space no longer feels large and airy as the walls contract like my chest and belly. The tapping of my three-inch heels only adds to the cacophony.

I still and gaze down at the business card in my hand, which began to sound more like a ticking bomb than stiff paper incessantly smacking against my palm.

Smut University
E.A.M. Cullen
(608) 555 – 7688

Dark red print on stark white, the words are simple but heavy, scary. As a writer, I am ashamed of that fact. Words are my life. They are my closest friends, the best extension of me. My greatest tools, which I have worked hard to sharpen and perfect in their strung-together lines and that I am proud to have bounded, they also bring my paycheck. The result is comfort and security, but most importantly, writing holds my dreams and adventures, all with a small sense of anonymity, a non-confrontational facelessness to expression. It is therapy and confession—not an escape, but a real and humbling pleasure.

I have never hated or been so afraid of words in my life. One is more terrifying than the rest: Smut.

The smacking and tapping—ticking and tocking—resume, picking up speed with the double-time glugs of my heart. I need to make a choice. The time to withdraw is running out. All it would take is one phone call, and I have ten minutes to make it. Pick up the phone and say goodbye to the unknown and my pride; it should be easy. Or, I can walk out the door, wave farewell to ignorance and hello to the experiences and confidence I need to help transform words.

With a frustrated cry, I throw the card on the long butcher-block island in front of me, slapping my hands atop the counter as I glare. I am no coward, no quitter. The precise and prideful sort, I have skydived to know the pull of gravity, even though heights were—still are—my greatest fear. I have alpine climbed to thoroughly understand the sport and live its dangers, have backpacked through Europe with little money, camped in a desert during a sandstorm, and lived in numerous countries to know the feel and the ins and outs of each, firsthand. I have even tried the Filipino delicacy balut, a fertilized duck embryo, to describe the taste and texture of gooey feathers and a beak with disgusting accuracy, for God's sake! No, for research and writing materials' sake!

I can certainly have meaningless sex with a stranger (and hopefully have an orgasm or two) for the same reason, right?

I grit my teeth, knowing the answer but still torn. An author doesn't need experience to write about any subject, and I'll be setting a bad example for young aspiring authors by acting otherwise, particularly when it comes to the matters of sex. But I don't need to tell my teenage writing group what I'm doing, and I'm almost 30 years old. I'm an adult and can make the choice that involves very little recklessness because I have Smut U, a professional, summer-long course of sex.

Exclusive and highly selective, the class requires various tests and full disclosure in the application process. I've endured physical exams, interviews, and background checks, even a private investigator tailing me to observe my lifestyle and daily routines. It is to ensure that I am healthy and disease-free, to judge my character and emotional and psychological stability, and to put credence to how badly I want to attend and power behind my oath to stay faithful to the students and instructors in every manner. Safety for the students, professors, and the course itself is of the utmost importance, they've told us, along with discretion.

Word of mouth is the course's only advertising. How Alice got the card, and from whom, I'll never know. The why, I never want to know. We're not supposed to ask or tell anyone, anyway—not a word of who, what, where, when, and how. It is an aspect that I'm grateful for and became a pro in my versus list on whether to apply or not. The cons side, I am ashamed to admit, was small—for my intentions, at least—and there were no other appealing and viable options. Sex with just anybody, without security and guarantees … no, thanks. I don't have the patience or the time. The first draft of my attempt to step out of YA is startlingly blank and due in three months. I can't fail, not without trying first.

My antique Bahnhäusle, an intricate cuckoo clock from my trip to the Black Forest in Germany, chimes twice—the original design oddly not having birds or the cuckoo mechanism. Time has run out. No matter how chicken or cuckoo I am, I can't back out now.

My shoulders droop. I am so screwed. At least, I will be tonight.

I grimace at the unintentional pun, the worst kind because it wasn't made with careful purpose like any good author would do. Or maybe it just shows my natural brilliance.

I snort. Right, Bella.

Trying to calm down, I take a deep breath and straighten, running my sweaty palms on the invisible wrinkles of my grey pencil skirt. Alice said to dress up, warning me that my usual work attire of pajamas would only send the wrong message and limit my choice in candidates—if I decide to go, that is. Two sharp exhales stop the thought of who they could be, of what that would mean and what I would gain—like an orgasm I've never had and need to know, for example.

The ridiculous thought is enough to drive me.

With a resolute nod, I snatch my keys and purse, before shooting one more glare at the card and stomping away. Curse Alice for giving it to me six weeks ago. Damn the obsessive-compulsive part of me that whispers must, must, must because I'm dying to learn and know and get it right, that perfectionist, over-achieving, critical side of me that won't rest until I'm satisfied with the printed orderly lines, given to best of my ability. It's a sickness, really, made worse by fear.

And have I mentioned that I'm terrified? My knees shake as I lock my door, walk down the hall, and ride the elevator down to the garage. I wrestle with my car door, fumble to fasten my seatbelt, put the keys in the ignition and the car in reverse, and clumsily steer. I run the first stop sign out of my warehouse district turned trendy condo neighborhood, hyperventilate the entire fifteen-minute drive, and park crookedly in front of a clothing boutique, which is a block from the private art gallery where everyone will meet before receiving the first assignments.

I'm not brave enough to park there, not wanting to see who walks through those glass doors, though I know there are empty spaces that I could.

I find myself glancing anyway, only to quickly look away. A flash of wild hair, the color of deep amber—like rich Auchentoshan Three Wood Single Malt Scotch seen from the bottom of a glass as it embodies light—hurriedly ascended the steps before tinted windows swallowed it. My mouth goes dry. My heart speeds up. My eyes fall on the clock on my dash. I curse, realizing that I'm fifteen minutes early, and grip the steering wheel.

It's okay. Breathe. It's good.

I need the time to relax and prepare, to stop shaking and get a damn grip that doesn't involve my car or any other inanimate object.

But so much time is also bad. I can't help but rethink what I'm about to do as I smooth down my sleek, high ponytail and check my teeth.

Great sex. I've had mediocre, at best. Even then, it was only twice; my first when I was 21, and the second … well, let's just say it's in my top five list of the worst things I've ever done and tried, right up there with balut.

Is the supposedly wonderful, shuddering Great Release worth the stress, discomfort, and possible humiliation, as well as thousands of dollars, all for the sake of knowing? The feel of someone slowly sliding in, stretching, accommodating; hard, deep thrusts that one has to hold on to something because he/she can't hold, contain, what's coiling and growing inside of him/her—I've never experienced the latter, have only read about it, and I can't recall the former. It's been that long.

More than three years and, while I've had urges, I have never craved sex. A warm body next to me, and to be touched? Sure. Someone to fulfill my few and far between fantasies and give me momentary release? Eh, not so much.

Maybe it's because I can't miss what I've never had. Maybe there's something wrong with me, or it's just not in the cards. Maybe it's like Rosalie said: I'm a prude, worried of what the man will think, afraid of being selfish and taking what I want and of not being in control—afraid that I might actually enjoy it.

Assuming I'm scared to experience it, how scared will I be when I try to write it? How accurate will the emotion, positions, and actions be if I can't remember? If I don't know? I've done topical research and read countless books containing all types of smut, but I don't know. Doubt is a writer's worst enemy. I can't worry and second guess myself because there's enough doubt and fear with anything one writes. I don't need more.

Rosalie has said that I don't have the guts to follow through, that I may seem adventurous, but I'm really not. Everything I've done was for research; if I didn't have that, I wouldn't have given any of it a thought. And while I have the same reasons to explore amazing sex, I won't attend the course's introductory meeting, let alone stay overnight at hotel with a complete stranger. My sexual history is evidence enough, and supposedly, according to Rosalie the Psychologist, not only has my horrible sexual experiences made me wary of the deed, but I also don't allow myself (and others) to get too close, too personal and attached. Meaningless sex undoubtedly can lead—and has led—to more, especially for women. And for me, it would mean certain death. Suicide.

Well, I'll show her and her dramatic reverse psychology, and once again, I'll be grateful for it.

Hopefully.

= IVI =

I am not grateful. Not for Rosalie and her reverse psychology, or for my itch that's begging to be scratched, screaming must, must, must in harmony with know, know, know and to get it right, right, right, though the latter has led me and my three-book series on the USA Today and internationalBest Seller lists. Neither am I laughing and having a surprisingly good time like I was at the meeting.

I am a quivering mess, regretting my choice for my first Smut U assignment as I ride the Trump International Hotel and Tower elevator with the bellhop, James.

It doesn't help that he's eying me with unhidden interest and trying to strike up a conversation, and that I think the front desk knows why I'm here. The fact they were told to expect me, specifically, and knew who I was without an introduction, is enough to make anyone uneasy. But Afton's knowing and personally pleased smile, as well as his ominous yet reverent "You'll see" reply to my question of who told them to expect me, can make the most trusting person suspicious.

And, really, one would be nervous about masturbation.

Just the thought of seeing it, doing it, is nerve-wracking. To be instructed and watched, during what is supposed to be a solitary act, when I've always been uncomfortable with simply trying it, alone … well, no one can blame me for shaking.

I don't know what caused me to slip that assignment card into the bowl, like some secret tithe or prayer to a sex god completely unknown to me and absent in my life. The Bloody Mary I had on impulse might have helped, as it made me brave. Mike, a fellow student and new acquaintance, with his hilarious commentary on the phallus sculptures, offered a distraction and much needed relief in an otherwise stifling, awkward room, delaying me from leaving. His "nothing ventured, nothing gained" comment before he gave his own tithing assignment card also hit home.

It didn't hurt that many of the instructors were attractive, either. The Smut U Dean, Edward Cullen (Mr. Three Wood Single Malt Scotch), can certainly make any woman optimistic and willing. Why, with his smooth, cajoling voice, those warm emerald eyes that can be alight with teasing laughter or darkly seductive in a moment's turn, and a dominating presence belied by an adorably lopsided, self-deprecating smile, the man can tempt a nun into giving up chastity and God for the unknown smutty one.

No. Undoubtedly, I made the choice because I didn't know it would be my first lesson, the directions in our small, personal leather binders simply stating to pick one sexual act we've been too scared to try—though I have tried, and with nothing but a shudder and frustrated groan as the result.

It was only after returning home and receiving a phone call did each student learn the specifics of what, where, and when.

Not a damn word on whom.

One only needs an imagination on the how.

Which mine has led me to be twenty minutes late, as I had another internal debate while my imagination went wild on what could go wrong with the lesson—and with my book, if I don't come tonight and my imagination isn't accurate, despite what the reviewers, fans, and books sales say on the matter of my imagination.

I stifle a groan. I'm thinking in repetitive circles again.

But, at least James has stopped talking.

With a start, I realize why. He's holding the elevator doors open, an expectant yet concerned look on his face. I glance up for the floor number, and blink. 86th floor.

"But—but I thought …" I thought the hotel rooms were below the 28th floor.

"Mr.—"

My gaze flies to James; I'm eager to know whom, for him to finish that sentence.

He coughs, catching himself. "You're on the right floor. It's the residence on the left."

Residence? I shift a little further into the elevator. No one said anything about a residence. What happened to discretion?

Impatient, and with no small amount of pity, James holds out my overnight bag.

I don't take it.

Sighing, he drops it where he stands right outside the elevator and looks at me. "This is where I leave you."

Still, I don't move.

"All right." He steps back inside, leaving my bag where it is on the glossy white tile. With a finger hovering near the third floor button, he raises a brow.

I stare at him blankly.

He presses the button.

"Okay! Okay." I step out and shoulder my bag. The elevator dings, the doors close behind me, and it's gone. I didn't miss James' grin, though; neither did he escape my glare.

After taking a deep breath, then another, and one more for good measure, I turn.

And stop. Stop moving and breathing.

Leaning against the doorjamb, in a black t-shirt and charcoal grey pajama bottoms, is my first instructor—Caius Volturi—eating a bowl of what looks like French vanilla ice cream.

Similar to the disparity in his name and how he actually looks—the difference between a haughty, classical Roman aristocrat that a person anticipates upon hearing his name and the brooding, lean gladiator one actually sees—his current demeanor contradicts my first impression of him from the meeting. Instead of stiff and intimidating, he is a surprising picture of comfortable male nonchalance. Broad shoulders relaxed, torso and narrow hips against the jamb, barefoot, and an ankle crossed over the other, he balances a crystal bowl in a large hand that is as pale yellow as the ice cream.

His slate-grey eyes locked on my own brown, he doesn't move, except to scoop a spoonful and bring it to his mouth, casually, languidly. His straight, dandelion-white hair—that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but only enhances the strong angle of his jaw and adds an otherworldly quality to him as a whole—still staggers me. Though seemingly colorless, the strands glow, like strands of the blinding desert sun.

His grey irises are even more striking, like storms clouds trapping lightning. His expression reveals nothing about him or what he's thinking, and yet those eyes seem to say everything about me, as if they know all my secrets and the beholder can expose them one by one.

The prospect should scare me, and it does. Yet I can do nothing but stand there and stare, and not even that moves. I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, the sliver of skin peeking above a dark waistband with every raise of his arm, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, but it's all on the edges of my shrinking vision. I can't focus on anything other than the cool eyes that won't release me.

He just continues to eat, scooping again and again, deeper, more. The silence grows heavier, the foyer smaller, his gaze more intent. And oddly, I am transfixed, letting him dig.

Finished, he sets the spoon in the empty bowl and licks his lips. I shift and lick mine.

Curiosity flashes across his face, before vanishing. He tilts his head to the side ever so slowly, the ends of his hair barely brushing his shoulder before he stops. Bringing his bottom lip between his teeth, he bites down and scrapes across it with deliberate, tempting slowness.

I resist the urge to the same. He's watching me, testing me, waiting for me to react. His slow, tiny smirk tells me he knows I've realized it, too.

Suddenly, I know—I know I'll get what I came for tonight, but won't be getting off easy.

My body begins to tremble. Short bursts of breath ricochet, puncturing silence. A knot forms in my throat, in my chest, moving lower. Panic is setting in, but so is anticipation. I should run; a voice inside me says that, while I won't regret it, I won't be the same after this experience.

I ignore it and squeeze my bag, hard. My elbows press into my sides, holding me together and keeping me steady. I raise my chin and then a brow.

Wordlessly, he pushes off the wall and reaches me in three strides. I don't know how I thought, for one moment, that he isn't intimidating. He towers over me by almost a foot. Even with an arm's length of distance between us, I have to tilt my head back to look at him and he crowds. Two feet feels like mere inches, and as his gaze becomes more heated—or maybe, that's just me overheating—it feels even less.

I wish he would say something, that his mouth—full, a little pouty, and much too perfect for a man—would move and give me some direction, invite me inside, smile and break the tension, something. It doesn't. He doesn't. He simply slides closer and reaches out. Somehow, without touching me or moving his eyes, he slips his hand beneath the straps of my bag at my shoulder and eases it down my arm, taking it from me.

Then, he leans in and whispers, "I'd say 'Come with me,' but I do hate it when a Romance author writes that, much less hear it said aloud."

I laugh, so caught off guard and because I couldn't agree more. Who comes on command? Is it even possible? Considering the circumstances, his words are funny and apt, a perfect opening. The man continues to surprise me. The trace of a light Greek accent is also unexpected.

He smiles and gestures to his door. "Come inside. Wait. That sounds dirtily accurate, too, doesn't it?"

Leading the way, I chuckle and grin. "No. Cocky, and not happening."

He laughs. Free and deep, the sound ripples across skin like water. "Oh, I should have known better than to play on words with an author."

I only hum in reply. He knows who I am—at least, what I do—and I'm not exactly comfortable with it. Passing the threshold, I stop and wrap my arms around me, my nerves returning. The foyer is dimly lit. What I can see of his living room on the other end is, as well. The brilliant city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a startlingly beautiful view, but not a relaxing or distracting one.

I turn to look at him as he shuts the door behind him with a foot. He sees my expression, and his smile falls, face hardening.

"Relax. Make yourself at home. Take a look around. Go and freshen up. Whatever you need to do to get comfortable." He lifts the bowl. "I'm going to put this away."

I swallow and nod, but my feet don't move.

Those grey eyes, searching my own, are dangerously knowing. "You can always leave, Isabella." Kind words, dark tone. It hints at a challenge, disapproving disbelief, a condescension meant to provoke.

And by God, it's working.

I glare. He raises his chin and smiles.

Turning, I walk briskly to his living room and mentally add 'haughty' back on his list of traits with 'intimidating,' as well as 'surprising,' 'witty,' 'annoyingly perceptive,' 'maddeningly mercurial, maybe purposely so,' 'wicked smile,' and … I halt, taking in the extremely large but cozy living room.

And 'good taste, on top of common sense.'

Clean, contemporary lines blend with soft, romantic curves. Dark wood furniture with creamy white upholstery mix with hand-painted muted grey, weathered sepia, and oxidized-copper green pieces. Throws and fluffy pillows, potted ferns and fresh flowers are interspersed among them. Mirrors, paintings, and charcoal sketches share space with framed hand-drawn architecture outlines, family photographs, and children's finger paintings. Filled bookcases line the walls, and one section in the corner houses a neatly stacked library of board games, while another holds countless sleeves of old records.

The smell of coffee beans permeates the air, and the fireplace lit on my left adds warmth to a stylish yet inviting room. It's eclectic, well done and clean, but obviously used and lived in, too.

It's not at all what I expected. Strictly bachelor-esque, perhaps, or uncomfortably snooty considering it's a Trump Tower residence, but definitely not Renovation Style magazine with a strong personal touch of family.

Caius comes up beside me and places my bag on a wingback chair. Feeling thrown off balance, more so than I already was, I don't look at him, and pointedly ignore the setup in front of fireplace, as well. My eyes land on a photograph of him and Edward Cullen, both in their mid-twenties, grinning from ear to ear, and each with an arm around a beautifully happy, dark-haired girl in Northwestern purple regalia. I know because I had once worn the same at my graduation.

Caius answers my unspoken question. "My sister—well, adoptive sister—and cousin Didyme, who is Edward's sister by blood, which also makes him my cousin and adoptive brother." He laughs. "Though, we normally drop the cousin and adoptive part to avoid having to tell the entire story and family history, as interesting as both may be."

No doubt the story is interesting, and the affection in his tone is so strong, there's also no doubt they're all close, even with the adoptive adjective. My heart warms and causes me to ask the question I've been dying to ask, though more sharply than I intend.

"What am I doing here?"

He smiles genially, too genially. "You tell me."

"You know what I mean," I snap, scowling. His return scowl, even if mockingly done, makes me sorry to ever see it and rethink my tone.

"I mean, I thought no one met at their own homes for safety and discretion, to avoid awkward situations and the possible student stalker. So what am I doing here, in your condo?" I gesture to the intimate setup in front of fireplace, with the blown-out candles grouped on any available flat surface surrounding the carefully lain out blankets and pillows. "You were obviously expecting me, and I'm sorry I'm late, as well as grateful that you haven't thrown it in my face. But why here, and not a hotel room?"

He places the bowl on an end table as placidly as he answers. "Effect."

I frown. What does that mean?

Before I can ask, he turns to me, crosses his arms—all joking and kindness aside—and asks a question of his own. "Are you finished? I thought you would last longer, at least up until we've sat down for a minute or two. But you've talked yourself out of staying already, haven't you?"

"What? No!"

"Good." He reaches behind his neck, pulling his shirt over by the back collar.

I swallow and shift, flustered, but not enough to look away. He's more defined than I originally thought, and the sprinkle of hair on his toned chest, under his bulging arms, and the trail beneath his taut belly button are more golden than the platinum white-blond on his head, though he's all dusky orange and gold in the firelight and seeming to get darker the farther down.

My eyes narrow. I wonder ...

The thought goes unfinished. He shakes out his head of fine hair and stalks toward me, dropping the shirt to the side.

I back away. "What are you doing?" My face heats. A grown woman, I sure as hell know what he's doing.

"Getting started. Not giving you the opportunity to think. Stripping. Pick whatever verb you like." He thumbs the waistband of his pants and pushes down. This time, I look away and have to bite back a moan.

I love boxer briefs, especially the white, ribbed ones. How's that for a verb?

"I'm glad you like them, and that's a very good verb," he says, and my eyes bulge as I choke, now aware that I did say my thoughts aloud. It's a recurring problem of mine, like my meeps when I type.

"Although," he continues, "I'm surprised you used the word 'love' for these. I figured they'd scare you and that you'd have a hard time with the action, passive or active."

I gasp, my gaze snapping back to his. "Hey! What does that mean?"

He nods thoughtfully, ignoring me and tucking his hair behind his ears. "I should probably get rid of them. Don't want you give another reason to leave, just in case you are scared."

Glowering, I try to keep my eyes trained above his neck as I shuffle backward and, not even bending, he drops the now offensive piece of clothing, stepping out of them.

Oh God, it's …

"Oh, watch out," he warns, pointing over my shoulder. "There's a large column in fron—I mean, behind you."

I snort at his intentional slip, as tactless—though accurate—as it is, and if only to stop my startled, anxious laugh when the hard structure hits my back. I don't move, however, trying to hide how nervous (and intrigued) I am by the one in front of me as well, jutting out—thick, hard, and heavy—between his legs and moving with each stride.

I mentally tack on my confirmation. Two shades darker, if that, and as neatly trimmed as the rest of him.

As he comes to stand in front of me, I want to tell him to stop, to stop moving and playing games and looking at me as if he's stripping me with his eyes. I'm fond of word games and puzzles, but not so much of the fore- and word-play. I want to tell him that he wins. I don't know if I can do this, and I don't know why I'm so scared. As I go over his previous words and observations, I want to tell him to go fuck himself. How's that for a verb, a dirtily accurate one considering the lesson?

But nothing goes said. I'm better with words on paper and keeping my wants—though not thoughts—to myself.

By now, I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. He bends down, trying to catch my eye as he asks, in a tone so low and soft that I have to strain to hear him, "Are you all right?"

My shoulders sag. I tilt my head back. His eyes are liquid grey, concerned and searching as they implore. For an answer? To continue? Both? I don't know. That's just it—I don't know. I don't know whether to stay or leave, what to do with my book, when it comes to sex and how to enjoy it. My emotions are swirling, but my mind is … undecided, blank—and has been for months.

With his dipped down, I notice his hair escaped his ears and has curtained forward. I reach up to touch the ends.

"Not only dandelion-white, it's dandelion-soft, too. Now I know."

His boyish grin tells me I did say that aloud, but he mercifully doesn't comment or laugh. He simply waits, patient and silent, careful not to touch me as he keeps his eyes trained on mine. The intensity's there, but they're not coaxing. It's while he lets me feel his hair, even moving his head so the strands swoosh between my fingers, and we smile stupidly at each other that I know my answer.

"I'm fine." I clear my throat, before repeating, louder, "I'm fine. Just … just no more games." I scoff, feeling ridiculous for saying it, and at my age.

He holds no judgment, though, as he nods and agrees. "No games."

I sigh and drop my hand, trying to relax as he peels one side of my favorite, most comfortable boyfriend cardigan sweater off my shoulder. I shake my head at the mouthful of a description—and to rid the insecurity of being seen naked—as he eases down the other side. Again, he doesn't touch me, and I'm about to ask why, but he speaks.

"Rule number one …"

I gape, and then hiss. "No games!"

He shakes his head and pulls on my sweater. "It's not a game."

I shift so the sweater falls from my back. "It sure sounds like a game. Only games have rules."

"Isabella—"

"Well, I guess that's not true. Schools have rules, too. So does writing."

"Stop talking," he snaps.

I can't help but laugh. He's suddenly so serious, and it's like being seduced by a spider as he tries to tug down my yoga pants without touching me.

"Rule number one," he repeats, still trying to shimmy the tight fabric from my hips with just the pinch of his fingertips. "You keep your eyes on me the entire time."

Rolling my eyes, I grab my pants and shove them off, kicking them aside. "Okay, I'll play along. Eyes on you the entire time. Got it."

His hair blocks the light, and flickering shadows hide his face, but I think he's looking at my tank top. Chuckling and figuring, Might as well, I yank it off. Air hits my chest, so does comprehension, and I stop laughing, my top already slipping to the floor.

"You …" I wrap my arms around me.

"Don't."

My arms tighten. "You tricked me." A childish statement if there ever is one, and I can marvel at how he accomplished to get me to undress, but I feel duped and too exposed, even in underwear and a bra.

"No, I distracted you."

Calloused fingers brush the line of my jaw, pulling me and all thought to a stop before I can retrieve my clothes. Awareness buzzes through my body, joining shame. I expect him to bring my chin up; isn't that what always happens?

But he doesn't. His other hand strokes the other side of my face, temple to chin, short nails grazing my skin as his fingers uncurl and drag under my ear, into my hair. He holds me there, thumbs sweeping and comforting in a way that I do and do not want as he speaks to the top of my head.

"There was no other way to get those clothes off. I can tell you how incredibly beautiful you are, but you won't believe me. I can tell you I had this"—he thrusts forward, and I laugh nervously, shifting away—"for you all day, since the moment I saw you at the meeting. But again, you won't believe me. It only makes you more uncomfortable, and saying it is a little cliché. Seduction does the same, worse even. You overthink a—"

My head snaps up. "I do not."

"And you talk too much."

I smash my lips together and give him a scathing glare, though I know it's all true—in a way. I always cut a third of my first drafts before submitting them, mostly description and adverbs and the word 'that.' I should probably add 'and' to that list, too, though I don't think I've ever had that problem before.

"Whatever you're thinking about right now—stop."

I laugh. We both do. But mine turns pitiful before dying in my throat. He can read me so easily, and his fingers massaging the nape of my neck are making me edgy—warm, but edgy.

Now his smile turns pitiful. "Obviously, I talk too much, too. I can see you're getting anxious, probably thinking of running again, so let me get straight to the point." He drops his hands and steps back. "I'm not touching you until you do."

"What?" Now that his hands aren't on me, I want them back.

"You have your pride; it brought you here, keeps you here. Well, I have mine. I want that orgasm you've never had, Isabella. I want to see it, be the cause of it." He palms himself, and I've never been more jealous in my life as he squeezes and groans. "I want to be the one who gives it to you—helps give it to you. The next time you touch yourself, I want you to think of this night, of me and everything I could do to you, to get yourself to come."

Jesus. I don't know what bothers me more: Him rubbing one out right in front of me; the fact that I rub my legs together and he focuses on the movement; or how the word 'come' sounds like a smooth Greek delicacy from his mouth and it makes me want to, right there, on the spot.

And it's not even a command.

Maybe that's why it's so arousing. It's not a command. It's a plea, like my body is suddenly pleading and his pumps are strongly suggesting.

I dig the heels of my hands into the top of my thighs to get the heightening sensation to stop, to make my legs stop. Caius's burning gaze would then move from the apex of them to something else, and I wouldn't feel like I'm going to reach a summit, then plummet, and drown.

I succeed, partially.

Caius is no longer staring. His hard lines are inches from my soft curves. His face is buried in my hair as he breathes me in, causing tingles down my spine with every inhale, shaky exhale, and the words that he could say but doesn't.

My legs don't offer friction and give me away. His hands, replacing my own, are clenched around my thighs, at the base of my hips, pressing me flush against the column. It almost hurts—the stone digging into my spine, his hold on my legs, the ache between them.

I don't feel as though I'm trying to climb, only to fall. My hands grip his wrists and anchor me in place—as well as him. I don't want him to move away, or any closer.

Except, I hope for both and know he won't.

True to his word, he's only touching what I've touched. We're frozen in that position—in suspended anticipation and tightly held restraint, with only two veils of lace from making it thinly held to non-existent—until I move.

And I so badly want to move.

Forehead settling on his shoulder, I drag air into my lungs. He smells of clean male, of warmth and Dial soap, of a little sweat intermingling with refreshing cologne deodorant. I push down uncertainty, the fear of disappointment—his, mine—and all the questions I want to ask. I do what I know I should, and have always been too chicken to try.

I let go.

My hands release their controlling grip, skim up his forearms, and pull him closer by his elbows. I swallow the lump in my throat, my heart lodged there, though it hammers in my chest.

"Tell me what to do." Because I want to know and get it right.

My hands shift to his abs, enjoying the feel of his muscles flexing as I stand on my toes to smell him at the base of his neck, hoping my trembling goes unnoticed.

"I could, but you won't enjoy it." My stomach brushes against the tip of him, and he hisses. "And you don't need it. Faster, harder, deeper"—his hips buck with mine at the inflection—"you'll know exactly what you need, what your body's demanding."

I still. Okay. But what to do next? Transition—flow—is important, and momentum, that building courage, will be lost by missing a step, a beat, which could change everything.

Warm air fans down my neck, across my shoulder, and follows the slip of a bra strap.

"Don't think."

Goosebumps erupt all over. I feel the words as much as hear them, and like writing, I let emotion, sensation, an innate feeling guide me.

It's in fingers—his, running down my other bra strap, no skin-on-skin contact. They speak in silence of what should happen next, like a gentle tapping at insistent keys that want to be touched and also need to be: i before e except after c, him but only after me. So I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, a sigh resounding at the freedom from all day restraint, followed by a bated breath that dangles in the air like the flimsy fabric. Before my mind can get the best of me, I let the bra fall.

There's embarrassment and insecurity—the real terror of revealing too much, displaying what few have seen, and being judged or not accepted for it—because I'm not perfect. I feel small, unable to change who I am and how I'm shaped, yet still proud and needing to put myself out there, bound or unbound. One is a yearning I've had since childhood, and now that I'm older I can't decide which is scarier: To bare myself on paper or to a man I hardly know.

He fists himself, muscles straining but not moving otherwise. Neck stiff with a tick in his jaw, he stares openly, taking me in from head to toe before meeting my eyes. His show, and not merely tell. Smoky—the look, the shape, the color—grey eyes smolder. Admiration and wonder, mixing with want, make them gleam. With his every glance down, heavy lids and dilated pupils hint at a different kind of desire before flicking back up, licking flames over sensitive flesh like his tongue across his mouth.

I know what he's not saying, and I want it, too.

But I hesitate, and again, lending an invisible hand, he leans in and blows words across my skin. "Rule number two."

We laugh, low and breathy.

I can't help but smile and goad. "You're fond of rules, aren't you?"

"I am." Hands planted against the column, he slowly sinks to his knees, and trailing measured breaths tease. My hands balled at my sides, I squirm, but then freeze when he stops. Face a hair's breadth from my right breast, he grins up wryly. "Particularly this one—you take what you want, when you want."

Embarrassment colors me. He's referring to more than that rule. Skin tight—nipples tight—my hands fly up to cover them.

I should've known better, and maybe a part of me did, but it matters little.

His hands cover mine, fingertips caressing the outer edges and the undersides unhidden. I squeeze—I can't help it—and he groans, mimicking the action and pushing them together before dipping his head.

Hot lips, a tasting tongue, and a day-old scruff elicit a moan. I'm conscious—self-conscious—of the sound, but my hands are already buried in his hair as his tongue draws circles that make me dizzy and lazy and just goddamn crazy. His mouth closes around me, tongue still swirling, and my gasp turns into a throaty sound more embarrassing than the last.

But revolving need overrides. My body pushes, and arms pull; he sucks one side, and his fingers rub the peak of the other. I tug dandelion locks; he tugs with gentle teeth before pulling away. Gazes meet, and expressions match: dazed and glazed eyes, parted mouths, and jaws held forward a little.

Glistening? I'm not a fan of the term in sexual instances, but God, is it accurate to describe where his mouth was. My head drops back as he switches sides. What is it with men and symmetry? Must both boobs match? For once, I'm enjoying the mountain of wanting a man, but also crave more.

And he knows. I hate that he knows. He probably did it on purpose, or I'm talking aloud again and unaware of it.

Nuzzling, he stays where he is. "Take what you want, when you want, Isabella."

Adrenaline spikes, along with anxiety.

Sensing retreat, his hands and mouth slow and actually cheat. He massages my wrists, loosening my hold on his hair. Feather-light kisses on my stomach leave a whisper where my hands should start, before he drags his nose along the skin above my underwear and inhales. Temptation flutters with muscles.

He abruptly returns to my boobs, and I can only groan in frustration. At this rate—my rate—we'll be here all night, and though we have it, my nerves are wearing thin. I'm sure his are, too.

Skipping another ten minutes and more needless lines, my hand follows the one his nose led. Pausing, I close my eyes and think, Outside, underneath, or off?

Long fingers enclose my wrist, and he decides. Underneath.

I sigh, grateful to have a triangle of fabric hiding my hand and that his own doesn't follow. I try not to think as I explore, concentrating on his hands on my breasts instead of what one of mine is doing below. Nibbling on my upper lip, I try not to think in terms and words because they only make me shift and uneasy—another problem I'm trying to alleviate by personal research, by experience, with the pressure escalating in my body and beneath my hand, and exactly like it.

I whimper, grazing a part so damn sensitive that it shouldn't be ignored but is anyway. I tell myself I'm dragging it out—procrastinating—but I know better. I'm afraid.

Caius stills. I remember his first rule and open my eyes. Dark and fathomless in all his silver- and gold-white form, his eyes threaten to swallow me whole if I stop. They hold and lure, drawing me in, and promising waves of pleasure in a sea of grey. He might not be watching what my hand is doing, but there's something incredibly sexy with him not being able to see because of my underwear, yet still know. Heat rushes.

Not able to take it, I jerk my hand out—at least, try to—but his joins mine as he swiftly stands. My jaw drops in surprise, mouth ready to protest, yet no words escape. Only air and the wants I've never had and won't voice pass my lips.

Foreheads pressed together with open mouths hovering, he won't kiss me like I want. We pant and tease, but won't take.

Our bodies pushing into each other, his hand grinds against mine like my sex does, when it's his sex I want—the one hard and throbbing on my stomach as he cages me in.

Against the column, hips rock while fingers intertwine, securing above and rubbing below, instead of us on the floor, with me on top of him like I want.

The fast-approaching sensation that speeds and does not sneak up because blood races and pulses, making me grip with all my might before I lose control completely—I want it, and don't.

I tense and stretch, trying to break away as I ground out a warning. "Caius."

He isn't having it. He won't stand for it.

He drags us to our knees, his thigh wedging between my legs and trapping our hands as his free arm encircles my waist and he sits on his heels. He shifts and inserts fingers—one of his and mine—before pulling me back down. There's no escaping him or the impending release. He draws my knee up from between his legs, and the angle, with him adding a circling thumb, his own hips bucking, a muscular thigh driving up more pressure …

"Oh, G—"

He kisses me then, but a heat so profound floods my body that I hardly notice anything else. Everything seems to condense before falling away—noise and thoughts, nouns and similes, cares and fears.

It's only after I'm coherent enough of verbs—gasping and quaking mostly—do I realize that, even though Caius's mouth is hard against mine, his tongue is gentle. It's only after we remove our hands from me, and he wraps them around his sex, does embarrassment really hit and I try to help him come. And it's only after hearing our hard and harsh breaths, do I think—of the words unspoken, of a phrase I've never used, and a notion that once terrified me.

Seeing him throw his head back and laugh, I know I was thinking aloud.

There are no words.

An enthusiastic, orgasmic thank you to Arianna-Janae and Twimarti for holding the hand of a critical, insecure writer, telling her the story (and the concept) is not a stupid idea, and giving her the courage to post it.