Hi, this is Lisa, and here's a special treat for Friday night! I'm not gonna lie—I LOVE lemons if they're well done, and I think this one's all right, but please read on and see, then tell me what you think. (I'm working on a version from Carlisle's POV too, if there is interest in that). Thanks and see you later!
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns "Twilight"—the following is purely for entertainment purposes (and even though I wrote it, I have to say that I was entertained ).
The Honeymoon
Esme's POV
During lulls in their conversation on the drive up to the house where they'd be honeymooning, Esme sat beside Carlisle and thought about what was going to come next. She was…nervous, but she had an odd feeling that Carlisle was as uneasy as she was. Kissing him the night before had felt fantastic, but honestly, the intensity of her own reaction had startled her—she'd loved Carlisle for years, but apparently she'd underestimated the extent of her physical passion for him. After all, as a human, she'd never enjoyed her husband's touch—she'd scarcely been able to tolerate it. Of course Carlisle was utterly different from Charles; but Esme hadn't guessed that her own feelings for the physical aspect of marriage could be so completely changed after just a few months as an immortal.
Mercifully, she could only recall moments, intense and terrifying thought they were, of the years of abuse she'd suffered at her first husband's hands. Looking back, Esme realized that as bad as it was to have Charles nearby, some of her worst memories involved waiting for him to come home, wondering what new indignities she'd suffer that night and what new bruises she'd be hiding the next day—
Esme swallowed hard, then straightened up before laying her head to rest against Carlisle's shoulder. His arm was around her, and he tightened his grip without speaking. Carlisle had never pushed her to talk about Charles, though she'd had a great deal to say about him when she'd first begun to look back on her life as a human, but he'd said very little during these conversations. Rather than giving her advice or making excuses for him as people had done during her life as a human, Carlisle had simply listened while all the fear, all the venom had come pouring out of her, and the relief she'd felt when she'd finished talking and he'd simply embraced her had been indescribable.
She'd been just as grateful that he'd never threatened to hurt Charles. Esme was careful to avoid thinking of him when Edward was around because she knew, without having his power, that Edward wanted nothing more than to end the life of Charles Evanson, to make sure that the man who had harmed the woman he now thought of as his mother breathed his last. Esme was eager for his life to end, if only so he couldn't hurt anyone else; she could admit that, but she would not kill him herself. Esme was resolved to leave him be, and she didn't want Carlisle or Edward to end the man's life either. Somehow, she felt, if she killed him, it would make her like him.
Ending her former husband's life would seem to require a kind of ruthlessness that she couldn't tolerate in herself, and Carlisle at least understood that perfectly. She knew he hated Charles Evanson, that he wished he'd never been born, but she also knew that Carlisle believed, as she did, that it wasn't their place to end his life. Edward was inevitably frustrated by their determination in this matter, because he saw it as naïve, proof of their belief in a God that was merciful. Since becoming an immortal, Edward had had little faith to spare for a merciful God—a vengeful God was all he believed that vampires, as well as humans like Charles, could rely on.
Esme tried again to force herself back into the present. Looking up at Carlisle, she found that he too was deep in contemplation, of what she didn't know.
"Carlisle?" she said softly, "you're putting a lot of thought into something."
He chuckled. "Did it look that way? Really, I was just thinking about how you look just now. Have I already told you how much I like that dress?"
"You may have mentioned it once or twice," Esme said, quietly thrilled with the compliment. As she kissed him on the cheek, his scent flooded her nose and mouth, and suddenly she had a wild urge to ask him to pull over, to crawl into his lap and kiss him until they—what, exactly, was she hoping for? She knew what the act of love had been like with Charles, so why was she half-mad with longing to try it with Carlisle? A sudden surge of hope, of…desire really, accompanied the thought that maybe it was really going to be as different as she imagined. Her body was telling her, every time she touched him, that it would be better than tolerable to consummate her marriage to Carlisle: it would be incredible.
"It's getting dark," Esme said, forcing herself to say something rational. "Are we almost there?"
"Nearly," he said, and Esme only barely stopped herself from groaning with impatience.
A few miles more of driving through dark forest and they'd arrived at a large house. Esme smiled as soon as she saw it—it was two stories, a bit old, but full of potential, the roof and foundation perfectly intact, and in a wonderful location: too far from humans for hunting to be dangerous, but close enough to a small town that things like books and clothing would be easy enough to come by.
"It's a bit…rustic," Carlisle said, obviously worried by her silence. "But we won't be disturbed, and the hunting around here is—"
She kissed him then—it was suddenly impossible to wait any longer, and to her delight, he responded with equal enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap, just as she'd imagined. But the car was small, and Esme realized virtually the same moment he did that they needed more space if they wanted to continue like this without damaging the vehicle. She watched as he all but leapt out of the car, opened her door, and then picked her up without preamble.
"Hey!" she laughed, surprised by the breathless quality of her voice.
"What?" he said, grinning, and Esme realized suddenly that that smile of his was really rather dazzling, especially up close. And his eyes, those were just as distracting as his mouth…
"It's tradition, Mrs. Cullen, and I'm afraid your husband is nothing if not old-fashioned."
"That suits me just fine," she whispered, pulling him close for another kiss. Though she knew that dizziness was not something that immortals were afflicted with, she still felt like her head was spinning, and it was a bit of a relief to leave walking up to Carlisle. She thought he might set her down when they reached the door, but a second later, she heard the sound of the lock being crushed, and she kissed him even harder when she heard the door open. Alone. They were finally alone, this was their honeymoon, and though she'd felt uneasy before, at the moment all Esme could think of was that his jacket needed to come off, now, and that his shirt should quickly follow.
The thought of seeing Carlisle with his shirt off made her pause, both with clumsiness born of impatience and some lingering anxiety, and in that moment, he eased his mouth away from hers and finally allowed her feet to touch the ground again. As soon as she was standing, albeit rather unsteadily in her estimation, he spoke.
"I'll get our bags and shut the door. Would you like to pick out a bedroom?"
Esme grinned; there was still a faint fluttering of nerves to contend with, but she realized suddenly how much she was truly looking forward to this. Slowly, she reached out and traced one side of his jaw with her fingertips, and was delighted to see him shiver at the contact.
"I'll see you in a minute then," Esme said, the low tone of her voice surprising her slightly—she didn't feel like herself, and now she didn't sound like herself anymore either. That, she had to admit, was a comforting thought: this was a very different wedding night, with a very different man for her husband this time, and she was a different person now. Before, she'd been terrified and humiliated at the thought of marriage in the physical sense. But now, with the circumstances so utterly different, her feelings about marriage were just as changed. She'd been waiting years for this night, and suddenly she felt a powerful wave of relief course through her—relief and something else, something wilder. She wanted this, and so did he, and they loved each other. There was nothing to be afraid of, and no reason to wait any longer
Esme slowly smiled to herself and stepped onto the staircase, moving slowly and looking back at him to make sure he was watching her. It was still new to her, the sensation of being desired, but she knew that she was feeling it when Carlisle's eyes followed her up the stairs. She stepped into the first room she came to and shut the door carefully behind her before pulling off her dress and removing her jewelry. Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser and smiled; the slip she'd worn under the dress was something she was proud of, having never had an article of clothing quite like it before. She wondered, rather gleefully, what Carlisle's reaction to it was going to be.
Just then, he knocked on the door. She laughed. "That was much less than a minute, you know."
"Sorry," Carlisle said, grinning as he stepped into the room. "Well, not really. I just—" Then he froze. Esme struggled to suppress a grin—this was a very satisfying reaction. The slip was pink, very small, and not the sort of thing she ever would have dared or desired to wear while human—now however, she had someone she wanted to look sexy for, and she certainly felt sexy now. Still, Carlisle's silence became a bit unnerving as the seconds passed."The last time I was shopping, I—well, I liked the color, so—" She started speaking, both pleased and a little uncertain about his silence, but in an instant, he'd crossed the room, and his arms were around her.
"Esme," he whispered simply, and she shivered at the sound that had begun in the back of his throat—it was as if he were stifling a growl, but somehow the shiver she'd felt had nothing to do with fear. She liked the sound, and she liked the way his hands were restlessly stroking her back, her hips, the way that all of him was pressed against her so closely that she could feel the firm, lean muscles of his arms moving as he touched her. He's so…hard. Is that his…? Oh. Oh…
"Are you very attached to…this, and if so, will you ever be able to forgive me if I accidently tear it to shreds?" Carlisle said very quietly. Esme could feel him shaking slightly, and suddenly she was too. She'd never imagined that it could feel like this, that she'd be ready to tear off his clothes and push him onto the bed and jump on top of him and—
She tried to clear her head of that particular thought, appealing though it suddenly seemed. He's controlling himself, so I will too, Esme promised herself firmly, though she sensed that whatever self control they were exercising now wasn't going to last long. Slowly, she un-tucked his shirt and moved her hands to touch the bare skin of his back, which was as smooth and muscular as she'd expected, but then she surprised herself by skimming her hands down lower and pulling his hips toward hers just as she moved a little against him.
He gasped, and Esme was only slightly surprised when the beginnings of a growl started in her own throat.
"I'll forgive you," Esme whispered, trying again to distract herself from thoughts of destroying his clothes by taking his bottom lip between her teeth. "Accidents happen."
"And if I do it on purpose?" Carlisle whispered, his expression almost rapt as, after a brief kiss, she began the process of removing his shirt. I hate buttons, Esme thought impatiently, but then the shirt was open, and it was Esme's turn to stare at him. Oh…she thought again. Well…wow..
The word 'perfect' didn't seem good enough for Carlisle somehow. Esme had never considered the male body in abstract terribly attractive, but Carlisle's chest looked like something modeled after a Greek statue dedicated to beauty. He was lean, but he was also more muscular than she'd expected, and suddenly she was remembering the day they'd first met, how cold his skin had felt against hers. Now he felt warm, and Esme thought she felt her own body temperature begin to rise as his arms tightened around her. Esme smiled slowly as she pressed her hands against him and began to run her fingers along the contours of his chest, his abdomen—
He caught her hands in his and pressed his lips to each of her fingers in turn before he found her mouth again. Esme sighed against him when she tasted the first brush of his tongue against hers, and then she wound her arms around his neck just as he began to run his fingers along her thighs. A pleased hum of satisfaction turned into a gasp when he suddenly pulled her feet off the ground, his hands cupping her buttocks as he moved her against him. Esme groaned and moved her hands up into his hair, desperate to have him as close as possible. His clothes, which he'd looked very dashing in that day, suddenly seemed annoying and quite unnecessary.
Since he was already supporting her, it took only a second for Esme to wrap her legs around his waist. At this, he groaned, and Esme moved her hips against his—suddenly, nothing seemed more important than relieving the delicious tension that was building somewhere beneath the pit of her stomach. The inherent grace and strength of a vampire were, Esme guessed, the only things that kept Carlisle's feet steady as he moved them quickly to the bed—he was more distracted than she'd ever seen him now, and though the bed was now inches away, he made no move to set her down. Esme realized through a growing haze of desire that he didn't want to simply jump on top of her, but he also didn't want to let go of her long enough for either of them to lay down.
She smiled against his lips before grabbing the collar of his jacket and leaning back with enough speed and force to pull him down onto her. This particular aspect of newborn strength was satisfying, to say the least. Carlisle made a noise that was something between a shocked laugh and a moan, and at that Esme decided that it was really time for his shirt and jacket to go. When those had been shredded like tissue paper, Esme moved her hands down his back and felt herself arch against him as he started to ease the chemise up her thighs. His mouth suddenly left hers, and then she felt his lips and teeth moving against her neck, tracing the scar he'd left there.
Esme bit back a shriek. She'd often touched the scar herself, had even tried to recall what it had felt like when Carlisle had bitten her, and now, to have his lips right there again…
Next he traced her collar bone, and suddenly his mouth closed over the swell of her left breast. For an instant, Esme was too shocked to move, but then she heard a low, desperate cry spill from her throat as he nipped gently at her skin, his tongue wetting the silk of the chemise and making it move against her nipple in a way that banished every coherent thought from her head. By the time he moved to her other breast, she was practically whimpering.
"Carlisle," she managed, moving a hand between them until her fingers found the front of his pants. He jerked with arousal, but rather than stopping, his mouth moved more fiercely against her now. For a moment, she held his head against her and moaned, but then she touched him again, moving her hand up and down his length until he was emitting as many sounds of delight as she was.
"Please," she said at last. Esme was about to send his pants to join the remains of his shirt and jacket on the floor when he gently untangled her legs from his hips and moved to stand beside the bed. Without thinking, she hissed and tried to pull him back, and he chuckled quietly, though the sound was low and guttural. Then he removed his shoes, socks, and finally the suit pants and underwear beneath them, and in a flash, Esme felt herself freeze and contemplate him with both awe and apprehension.
All right, he's taller than Charles, she thought frantically. I guess I should have realized he'd be…proportional.
"Carlisle," she said breathlessly, feeling nervous but still desperate enough to wrap her arms around him when he rejoined her on the bed. "Do you think…does the next part feel as good as everything else has?"
Esme could feel the tension in his body build as he struggled not to move—her chemise was the only thing between them now.
"Esme, look at me," he said, his voice very gentle. She met his eyes then—she hadn't noticed that she'd been staring at the wall, her head turned away from his face. When she looked up and saw his golden eyes gazing into hers, she felt herself relax.
"I'm not afraid," she said honestly. "But I wondered…"
"I don't know for certain, but I think," Carlisle whispered, "that the next part feels better. But you have to tell me if something hurts, if I—"
"I will," she promised, lowering her hands to his hips as the feeling of delightful anticipation she'd felt before slowly returned.
"Then, how does this feel?" he murmured, supporting his weight on one arm as he trailed one hand between her breasts and over her stomach before stopping at the apex of her thighs.
Esme couldn't speak, but she guessed that the wild way she gasped told him exactly how it felt. Smiling radiantly, he pushed her legs apart further with his hand before easing one of his fingers inside her. Esme felt the vibration of a moan building in her throat before she registered the sound, and frantically she moved her hips forward as he added another finger, then another. Suddenly, his hand withdrew, and Esme very nearly snarled with frustration in the pause, no more than an instant, that ensued. Then his mouth replaced his hand.
Esme could feel her hands shaking as she seized his hair and pressed his mouth closer. He was right, it is better, she managed to think, and then a slight motion of his tongue made her shriek. Swiftly, everything around her seemed to fade: she was conscious of his scent, of the way he was touching her, of his own sounds of satisfaction in addition to her own, but all other stimuli seemed insignificant. She'd never felt anything this good, either as a human or as an immortal, and suddenly the feeling was intensifying, his teeth grazed just the right part of the sensitive nub of flesh he'd discovered, and—
She cried out then, a long, low moan that was almost a snarl, and just as the blinding wave of pleasure coursing through her began to subside, she felt him moving again, kissing his way up her body until his mouth was hovering over hers. She could feel him waiting for her, his body pressed against every inch of hers, but he didn't move, though the wild look in his eyes showed her how eager he was. The knowledge that he wanted so much for her to enjoy this, to be sure that she was ready for what came next almost made her feel like crying. She'd spent so many years hoping, wishing to be with him, that the fact that she was as dear to him as he was to her seemed almost impossible; yet somehow here they were, about to be married in every sense of the word. Now she knew why it was called "making love," and that was what this was. Smiling up at him, Esme slid her legs out from under his, wrapped them around his hips, and pressed herself against him.
They both groaned as he sank into her, and for a moment, Esme waited as Carlisle lay perfectly still, his head pressed against her shoulder. She too tried not to move, though her fingernails dug into his back reflexively. She remembered then, after having thought of it only in passing that day, that he'd never done this before, that everything she felt was just as new to him—more so really, because he had no unpleasant previous experiences to compare the ecstasy of the present to.
"Are you all right?" he whispered, turning to meet her eyes. His were an inch from hers, the same shade of gold, and now Esme began to stroke his face, his shoulders, his back and lower—
"Better," she whispered, panting slightly. "So much better than all right, Carlisle. Now, please, I need you to move, or I feel like I'm—I—"
She struggled to describe what had just happened. She'd known from hearing other women whisper about it that sex wasn't by definition unpleasant, but how could she explain what she'd felt a few minutes ago, what she felt she was right on the edge of now?
"I feel like I'm going to explode," she whispered, grateful that blushing was impossible and that he was the only person who would ever know every detail of tonight.
Much to her relief, he didn't laugh. In fact, the shaky breath he took before speaking suggested that he knew exactly what she was talking about. "I'd very much like to see that," he whispered, beginning to pull out of her. Esme was on the verge of dragging him back to her when he moved, filling her again, and as they groaned together, she understood that moving now only made things better, though she was going to make sure he didn't move too far. Within seconds, they'd synchronized their movements, and Esme was gasping, trying to stifle the louder cry that was building in her throat as his lips traced every line of her face before returning to her neck. She could feel it was close again, that moment when sublime pleasure effaced everything and made every inch of her feel so exquisite, so utterly his—
Then it happened, and she shrieked out his name as she came. This orgasm was more powerful than her first, but even as it happened, she was waiting for him, wanting him with her this time, and then an instant later she heard him cry out as he spilled into her. That sound alone was almost enough to make her come again—Carlisle, who was always so restrained, so perfectly in command of himself and his desires, was as completely undone as she was by their coupling, and Esme could only grin at the knowledge that after this, he was going to be as voracious as she was. Now that they knew how this felt, when and how were they ever going to find enough self-restraint to stop?
His skin against hers seemed even warmer now, and she clung to him they kissed again, gently this time, relishing the heat, real or imagined, that their exertions had generated. Shifting slightly, Esme moved until her head was resting against a pillow, though she realized, with only a trace of embarrassment, that with him on top of her like this, even the floor would have seemed comfortable.
"Carlisle," she whispered, wishing she could find the words that would do the feeling justice. "That was…I feel…that was amazing."
"Amazing," he agreed, moving away from her just long enough to slide the blankets and sheets out from underneath them and cover her. She sighed contentedly when he rejoined her under the bedding, moving to lie beside her. Already she missed the feeling of having him inside her, but the way he was rubbing her back made her think that she wouldn't have long to wait before she got to feel it again.
"We don't get cold," she pointed out playfully, wondering what the blankets were even doing here.
"No," he murmured, grinning. "When I called this morning to ask someone from town to check that this house was still standing, they must have thought that the place needed a housekeeper's touch before it was habitable. Which, in this part of Canada, would be perfectly true for humans, who do need blankets."
"So why are we under here?" Esme wondered, snuggling closer to him. Her curiosity was rapidly being replaced by lust more potent than she would have imagined herself capable of even a few hours ago.
"Your chemise is gone," he pointed out, his grin visible even under the blankets in the dark room. "And so are my clothes. That fact suggests to me that we need something to tear apart other than the bed, which already looks a bit shaky to me."
Esme raised her eyebrows, confused, but then she followed his gaze to several large holes in the quilts and sheets beneath them. There were matching holes in the mattress too, and Esme realized with a start that the holes matched her fingers.
"When I was…gripping the blankets," she guessed, too amazed to even feel embarrassed. Every time she thought she'd gotten used to her monstrous new strength, something like this happened, and being an immortal surprised her all over again.
"I made a few too," he whispered, and now she saw that some of the larger holes corresponded with where he'd supported himself when he'd been on top of her. Smiling now, Esme slid a hand out from under the cave of blankets they'd made and felt the bottom edge of the bed frame.
"The frame's full of cracks," she whispered, giggling despite her shock.
He chuckled too. "There are four beds in this house," he murmured, pulling her close again. "I bought this place furnished, so there are plenty of sofas too. And chairs, and tables, and desks, and—"
She covered his mouth with hers, secure in the knowledge that when they'd destroyed this bed and all its linen, there were plenty of other places where they could enjoy their honeymoon.
