Shot In The Dark

by Forbidden Fruit Contest

Dr. Carlisle Cullen knows better than to get involved with a patient, especially one dealing with an affliction such as Miss Platt's. When circumstance brings him face to face with exactly what he's been avoiding, will he manage to stave off his hunger? Or will he give in to a taste of the forbidden fruit?

Subject/Email Header: Forbidden Fruit Contest

Title: Shot in the Dark

Summary: Dr. Carlisle Cullen knows better than to get involved with a patient, especially one dealing with an affliction such as Miss Platt's. When circumstance brings him face to face with exactly what he's been avoiding, will he manage to stave off his hunger? Or will he give in to a taste of the forbidden fruit?

Pairing: Carlisle x Esme

Rating: M

Word Count: 6817

DISCLAIMER: Twilight and its inclusive material is copyright to Stephenie Meyer. Original creation, including but not limited to plot and characters, is copyright to the respective authors of each story. No copyright infringement is intended.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

– Shot in the Dark –

(Carlisle)

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, counting down each second until my next patient arrives.

It's a mid-winter Tuesday, the snow-swirled sky dark as midnight at 6:24 p.m. She'll be knocking on my door at any minute.

I scribble furiously onto the yellow notepad, hurrying to record my observations from the previous session. I need to get it all down now, before she gets here—before my mind loses its grip and I forget everything other than her, and her… issues.

With a final tap of the pen I finish, but before I have time to even breathe a sigh, the doorbell rings. My pulse immediately leaps into overdrive. I'm not ready. Though I don't think I could ever be ready for her, or what she does to me.

I've been a psychologist for quite a few years now, and I've heard a lot of things in my time. My specialty as a Sex Therapist means I spend my days immersed in all kinds of potentially arousing conversations, but I've never had an issue maintaining a professional level of separation. Nothing that anyone has ever said or confessed to has ever affected me on anything more than a doctor/patient level.

But that was before I met her…

Young Miss Esme Platt, barely twenty-two years for this earth, a study of radiance with flowing caramel hair and rich, milk-chocolate brown eyes. She is resplendent with youth, her skin smooth and pale, the slightest hint of peachy warmth barely kissing her cheeks. Her lips are ripe as raspberries, full and sultry in their pout, every curve of her mouth forming a plea to be devoured.

My temptation.

The only taste I've ever wanted of the forbidden fruit.

I would eat her whole.

But I must not indulge those fantasies.

I take a deep breath as I stand from my desk. It's only a few steps from my home office to the foyer, where I can see her outline through the frosted glass inset. I'm not normally one for vanity, but I make a quick check of myself in the hallway mirror, satisfied that my blond hair is still tidy, my light blue eyes clear, and there's only the barest hint of the evening's stubble rising on my cheeks and chin. After smoothing out my navy Oxford shirt, I breathe deep one more time and open the door.

The snow is coming down in earnest as she stands on the front steps, dusting her hair and shoulders in powdery white. "Miss Platt," I greet gently, ushering her inside. "Do come in."

"Hello, Dr. Cullen," she says brightly, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she looks down to unzip her heavy coat. "It's snowing like crazy out there!"

"I see that…" I gaze out at the thick winter air, the sky a white blur of heavily-falling flakes. "Did you drive?"

"I did," she answers as I shut the door and turn to take her coat. She's already hung it on the hook, though, and is slipping out of her wet boots. "It was pretty hairy. The roads are a mess."

"Oh dear," I muse absently, watching her fluff out her long wavy hair and straighten her clothes. She's wearing light blue jeans and a soft pink sweater, every curve and swell of her taut, youthful body hugged by their snug fit. "Perhaps we should have rescheduled."

Esme stops what she's doing and looks up at me with wide eyes. "No! Definitely not. I mean, I really look forward to our sessions…" Her raspberry lips twist up coyly as she holds my gaze.

I swallow the rush of saliva that pools in my mouth. "As do I," I tell her softly, hoping my voice doesn't betray any of the sudden lust her statement has brought on. "Shall we get started then?"

She nods and follows my lead into the office, where she sinks delicately into one of the two plush grey chairs facing my dark mahogany desk.

I take my own seat and fold my hands atop the table. "Are you comfortable?" I ask gently.

This is our third session, so Esme knows the ritual, how we begin. When discussing such intimate affairs as I do with my patients, I've always found it's best to keep them awash in familiarity, to start with an affirmation of who they are and why they are here.

"Yes," she says. Her eyes are shining with excitement, her pale cheeks filling with soft peachy color. I nod encouragingly, and she continues. "My name is Esme Anne Platt, and I'm a sex addict."

My cock is rock solid already. These words, the same words I've heard spoken thousands of times by hundreds of patients, are like a siren song when they flow from her mouth. Her wants, her desires, her needs… pent up within her and begging, pleading to be fulfilled.

It's unethical at best, criminal at worst, the things I feel for her. I could lose everything if I were to give in—my license, my practice, my self-respect—not to mention how it might affect her and her progress. Nothing good could come of the situation; it simply could never be. I must remain strong.

"Thank you, Miss Platt," I reply, keeping my voice soft and soothing. As is customary for me with new patients, we've spent our first two sessions in mostly casual conversation, building a comfortable rapport. Up until now, I have encouraged Esme to speak and share whatever she felt at ease to, without my attempting to push or pry. Today we will start off the same, but the time has come for me to lead her into exploring some of the deeper facets of her issues—a thought that both excites and terrifies me. "How was your week?"

She sighs. "I lost my job again. Third one this year."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What was the reason?"

Esme bites her lip, looking abashed. "I drew breasts on a cake. Filled the o's in 'Get Well Soon' with bright pink nipples. I didn't even know I'd done it until they brought it back."

Her own nipples are obvious beneath her shirt, tight and straining against the thin knit fabric. "I see…" I reply gently. "Do you recall what was on your mind at the time? Why you might have subconsciously done this?"

She shrugs, the barest hint of a smile playing at her mouth. "My own breasts. I wanted to touch them so badly that day." One of her hands ghosts up to her chest, her fingers trailing absently over the swell before she drops it back to her lap. "It was almost impossible not to, even in the bakery, with all those people around. I guess I was distracted. Daydreaming."

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I should be digging deeper, imploring her to tell me more so we can get to the root of this, but my mind's eye is stuck on the image of her hands on her breasts, teasing her nipples with her head thrown back in a moan.

It is so unlike me, this loss of mental restraint. I barely know what to do with it.

I clear my throat quietly and steeple my fingers against my mouth, trying to buy a moment to get my mind back on track. "Was it your own touch you were distracted by, or the thought of another's?" I finally ask.

Esme's gaze, which has been pointed at her lap for the last few moments, peeks up at me through her lashes. "Either. Both. It didn't matter, really. I just wanted to feel hands on me."

Interesting. "Do you usually prefer your own touch to someone else's?"

She looks up at me fully. "I wouldn't know. I've never let anyone else touch me."

The room goes absolutely still as I stare at her in shock. "Excuse me?"

Esme grins coyly. "I know how it sounds, but… I've just never met a man I thought would do it right."

Holy hell. While certainly not unheard of, this is a revelation I wasn't expecting. "I see. So you're… a virgin?"

"Well that depends on your definition of 'virgin.' I've never had sex with a man, but I've been fucking myself for a long time now, Dr. Cullen."

The room is once again awash in silence, but there's a heavy throbbing in my ears—from my brain, from my cock… I can't be sure. All I know is that with this one little confession, she's gone from forbidden fruit to the tree itself; no, a whole secret garden, pure and untouched, an orchard of carnal knowledge that no man has yet picked from.

I am so damned, the devil come and take me away.

I clear my throat, determined to get through this. I have a job to do—an oath to fulfill, and to uphold. I can't allow myself to be weak, for either of our sakes. I have to press on. "When you say… 'fucking yourself,' do you mean… masturbation? Do you masturbate often?"

She sighs, her eyes closing in feigned satisfaction. "All the time. I can't help myself. I just… need to feel it."

The mental images flooding my brain are almost too much, but I push them away. I must remain strong. I need to stay focused on helping her.

Once again, I go silent as I work through the possibilities in my head. An infatuation with the idea of the perfect sexual experience could potentially lead to obsessive fantasizing, and in turn, the need to explore one's own body to both find, and then play out, what they desire most from a partner. It's quite simple, actually, and would not be all that difficult to treat, if she is receptive. I decide to follow this avenue and see where it leads.

"Is this your preferred method of sexual expression, then? If you were to find the right man, as you said—someone who could, in your words, 'do it right'—would you be open to a sexual relationship with someone other than yourself?"

Esme's milk-chocolate eyes lock with mine, and she licks her lips slowly. "Yes. Yes, I would."

A quiver of weakness ghosts up my spine as she holds me with her stare. "I see…"

We both go silent, the ticking of the clock the only sound between us, until a sudden gust of wind rattles the window. I tear my eyes away from her, momentarily grateful for the distraction, but then a nervous twinge twists my gut as the wind starts to howl loudly outside.

Perturbed by the sound, I stand from my behind my desk, thankful I'm wearing jeans rather than dress pants, so the arousal I've been mired in for the past twenty-five minutes isn't as obvious as it might have otherwise been.

I'm shocked when I part the Venetian blinds and see that the heavy snowfall I noticed when Esme first arrived has now grown into an all-out blizzard. The howling wind has churned the air into a thick mass of swirling white, swallowing everything further than a few feet beyond the house. "Oh dear," I mutter, the gravity of the situation settling like a chunk of ice in my gut.

"What is it?" Esme asks, coming to stand beside me at the window. She peeks through the slats herself and gasps. "Oh my gosh! You can't see anything out there! Uh… I don't think I can drive in that."

"No, you certainly cannot…" I agree, my voice low with concern.

Esme looks up at me, catching my gaze and giving me an uneasy smile. "It looks like you're stuck with me," she says lightly, but there's a question behind her eyes that I can't quite read.

My pulse is pounding as I stare at her. I can feel it in my throat, in my hands, in my groin. This situation is beyond inconceivable. Snowed in not only with a patient, but a tantalizing young woman barely half my age, a virgin sex-addict whom I've been fantasizing about in increasingly explicit detail since the very first moment I laid eyes on her at my door…

It's an unbelievable cruelty. A test I can't dare fail, even though I want nothing more than to do exactly that.

I am so very, very damned.

Esme's smile falters when I don't reply, stunned still as I am by what is currently unfolding. "Unless… that's not okay?"

I shake my head to clear it, forcing my hands to relax at my sides. I'm still the professional here; I need to get a hold of myself and act like it. "Of course it is," I tell her kindly. "I only want to be sure you aren't made uncomfortable by the situation. That is, being here with me outside our normal confines—I don't want you to be afraid."

Esme's coy grin returns, with an added glint in her eyes that leaves me feeling slightly nervous. "I think I'll be all right," she says. "Um, do we have to stay in here all night? I mean, our session is technically over, so…"

I follow her gaze to the clock on the wall, which reads 7:02 p.m. "You're right, it is. No, we don't have to stay in here if you don't want to. Would you like to sit in the living room instead?"

Esme nods with enthusiasm. "I would."

"Okay then." I smile softly and turn to lead the way.

When I chose this house years ago, I had done so with a home-based psychology practice in mind. The office and powder room are just inside the front door, with the rest of my home hidden down a hallway, allowing me some separation and privacy from my work. I've never had a patient come into my personal space before.

Esme follows me down the hallway, which opens up to a spacious living room at the back of the house, with a kitchen and dining room around the corner to the right, and the bedrooms and bathrooms around the corner to the left. The living room boasts almost an entire wall of large windows, with Mount Rainier in prominent view from my Seattle suburb property. At least it usually is, but right now the only thing you can see outside is a near solid mass of white.

I press a button on the wall, and the automatic roller blinds begin their decent. "I'd rather not look at that," I tell her. "I don't know about you, but it makes me feel cold."

Esme laughs lightly. "Agreed. Hey, does this work?" She's pointing at the fireplace, the box now dark and empty.

"It does. Would you like me to light it up?"

"I would love that," Esme says. "It'll make it nice and cozy in here."

I pause, suddenly wondering if this is a good idea after all. I'm not sure I want her feeling 'cozy'—it sounds a little too intimate, and I definitely need to keep things out of that territory. I do want her to be comfortable, however, and the raging blizzard outside has definitely lent a chill to the air. It's just a fire; I'm probably overthinking things.

Within moments I've built up a low-burning blaze, and a pleasant warmth begins to fill the room. I settle a large log of dried Ash into the flames and move the screen back into place, stepping back once I'm satisfied with how it's going.

When I turn back around, I see that Esme has settled herself onto the couch, and she's watching me with an intense gaze. "How's that?" I ask.

"Perfect," she replies, but her eyes are on me rather than the fire I've just built.

I clear my throat gently, trying to ignore the hunger her stare is awakening in me. "Can I get you anything? Glass of water? Cup of tea?"

"Do you have any wine?"

"Yes," I answer carefully. "But I don't think that's entirely appropriate, Miss Platt."

"You can call me Esme," she says, a hint of an amused grin twisting her mouth.

My pulse is speeding up, but I remain outwardly calm. I have to. As much as I would love the casual familiarity of first names and a shared bottle of wine, it seems like too much of a slippery slope. I need to keep my feet firmly planted on solid ground so I don't go careening off the cliff of forbidden desire. I'm too close to the edge as it is. "I don't think that's a good idea, either," I tell her. "I think it's best, under the circumstances, if we maintain a professional demeanor. For propriety's sake."

Esme quirks an eyebrow. "Propriety?" she says coyly. "What is this, 1847? Besides, my session was over fifteen minutes ago. We're not a doctor and patient right now, just two people stuck in a snowstorm."

If only that were true. "Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way."

Esme shrugs. "Who's gonna know?"

I stare at her, and she stares back. My resolve is wavering, and it must show on my face, because her small smile turns smug. "Just one glass," she whispers.

Resigned, I sigh. I'm pretty sure I'm about to buy myself a one-way ticket to hell, but the way she's looking at me makes it impossible to refuse. "One."

Esme grins triumphantly and stands to follow me into the kitchen. She leans on the island countertop as I pull a Spanish Grenache from the rack. "Red?" I ask, holding up the bottle.

"Yes, please."

I pop the cork and pour us each a glass, sliding one across the smooth, grey-veined marble counter to Esme. She picks it up by the stem and inhales deeply from the bowl, taking a small sip and letting it wash slowly over her palate. "Lovely," she says, raising the glass to me in appreciation.

I eye her curiously. Not many twenty-two year olds have an affinity for fine wine.

"My parents own a vineyard," Esme says, catching on to my expression.

"Do they?" I'm suddenly intrigued by just how much I don't know about her, aside from her sexual proclivities. "Here in Washington?"

Esme nods. "It's a family estate, started by my great-grandmother Platt. I was born and raised among the vines. These hands have picked a lot of grapes." She flutters her fingers at me and smiles.

"Really," I muse, taking a sip of my own. This really is a delectable vintage; it will be difficult not to have a second glass. Although no more difficult than not drinking from the fountain before me…

Esme is positively radiant in this moment, glowing with the enthusiasm of conversation. Her caramel hair glints warmly in the firelight emanating from the living room, framing her face and falling softly in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, deep pools of melted milk chocolate, catch me looking at her and a soft, peachy blush kisses her cheeks. One corner of her mouth twists up before as she takes a drink, a stain of deep red glinting wetly on her bottom lip when she pulls the glass away.

I want a taste. I need a taste. I've never known a hunger like this before, and I don't know how much longer I can manage to stave it off.

I am so incredibly, irrevocably damned.

"How old are you, Dr. Cullen?" Esme asks me.

Pulled from my trance, I contemplate her question with a slight thumping of my pulse. I'm not sure if I should answer, something is telling me I shouldn't, but I also can no longer think of a reason why.

"I'm thirty-six," I answer.

Esme's eyes go wide. "You… do not look thirty-six," she says, her face awash in surprise.

I chuckle softly. "Thank you. I do try to take care of myself."

"Well, it shows. I never would have guessed."

I shrug nonchalantly and take another sip of my wine, hiding my smile behind the glass.

"You're not married, though?" Esme prods, nodding toward my bare left hand.

The question sets off all kinds of alarm bells in my head, but I can't seem to stop myself from answering. "Not at the moment."

Her expression tightens. "Oh, but you're… taken? Engaged?"

I shake my head. "Divorced."

Esme relaxes visibly, save for a contrite twist of her face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's fine," I tell her. "It was a long time ago."

She tilts her head and regards me with interest. "How long ago?"

"Ten years now."

"You've been divorced for ten years?"

"Mmm hmm."

"So you got married when you were…?"

"Twenty-four. We were young and naive; we learned pretty quickly that we weren't compatible beyond the most basic of levels."

Esme's gaze is intense. "What does that mean?"

I'm on shaky ground here, blurring the line with far too much familiarity. My past romantic circumstances are the very last thing I should be discussing with a patient, least of all one who struggles with keeping her own sexuality in check. Once again, I find myself unable to hold back, though—she's just too easy to talk to. "It means we had a strong physical attraction, but not much else."

"And you want more than that?"

"Absolutely."

Esme nods and takes another sip of her wine. The effect this conversation is having on her is obvious—her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, her nipples hard and straining through her sweater.

I'm not faring much better. My cock has been a solid mass of aching desire for nearly an hour now. That can't be healthy, physically or mentally. I'm making poor choices, letting my instincts guide me rather than my brain. I need to rein this in before things get completely out of hand.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Miss Platt?" I ask, motioning toward her empty wine glass. The formality sounds mildly ridiculous all of a sudden, but I need to remind myself of who she is, and why I need to stay in control.

"No thank you, Dr. Cullen," she replies, the teasing inflection she adds to my name stirring up an almost mad desire in me. I want nothing more than to hear her call me Carlisle—to say it, moan it, scream it—but I can't. I can't be anything other than her therapist. I need to remember who I am. "May I use your bathroom, though?"

"Of course. It's just around the corner, first door on your left."

I exhale a heavy breath once she's gone, leaning my elbows on the countertop and letting my forehead drop into my hands. Try as I might to control it, the train to Damnation Station just keeps barreling along at full speed. I've been steadfastly refusing to acknowledge it all evening, trying to keep it all on my side, but the mutual attraction between us is so potently obvious that I'm nearly choking on it.

The way she looks at me leaves no question.

She wants this just as much as I do.

If she comes right out and says it, I don't know if I'll have the strength to refuse.

Esme returns from the bathroom, but rather than returning to her previous spot on the other side of the island, she comes and stands beside me, leaning her back against the counter.

"I want to be an architect," she says out of the blue. "Your Northwest Contemporary home is stunning. I especially appreciate the exposed beams in your ceilings and extensive use of local woods and materials. My favorite music is jazz—anywhere from the early '50s to '79—though I do enjoy some modern sounds, too. I love Italian food. Spaghetti alla puttanesca would be my request for a last meal, followed by a lemon semifreddo with blueberries, and an espresso. I like hiking, and swimming, and long drives in the country…

"Is that compatible enough for you?"

I don't even know what to say, for the truth is, she could be perfect for me. Everything I could ever want, and probably more.

"Miss Platt…" I reply, and though I mean the words to be firm, my voice comes out husky with every shred of desire I'm trying so desperately to restrain.

Esme's been staring at my stove while she spoke, but now she turns to face me. Her eyes are burning with such an intensity I think she might set fire to my very soul. "It's you, Dr. Cullen," she presses on. "You're the one I've been waiting for. Someone intelligent and experienced—someone I can share my body with, rather than give it to. Guys my age just aren't right for me; they want different things. I need a man, and I know it's you. It has to be you."

I'm not moving, not breathing. A heat so searing it's like lava in my veins flows through me, burning up every last thought or reason I had for resistance. I can't say no. I won't say no. It's a shot in the dark for my career, for her treatment, for the idea that our age difference can be overcome and lead to something real, but I'd face the very gates of hell before I let this moment go.

Esme is staring at me, her milk-chocolate eyes wide and pleading. I exhale deeply as I bring a hand to her face, gently tucking her hair behind her ear. The instant my fingers trace her cheek, warm and soft and blushing even further under my touch, I know I'm done for.

I bring my hands to her waist, but instead of pulling her to me, I slide them down to her ass and lift her easily onto the countertop. I move in between her knees, and now we're face to face. I take this one last moment to look her over as she is—fresh, ripe, and untouched—before I take the bite I've been hungering for and and leave my mark on her forever.

Our eyes lock, and once again I reach up to her face, but this time I hold her gently as I lean in for a kiss. Esme sighs as our lips meet, sliding her hands around my back, her hands gripping my shirt and pulling us closer together still.

The electricity between us is palpable. Undeniable. I no longer know why this could be wrong, why society, or morals, or ethics could have any reason to be against us. The only thing I'm certain of in this moment is that this needs to happen, and it will. There is no stopping it now.

I deepen our kiss, letting my tongue explore her mouth, tasting sweet, tangy wine on her breath. She responds fervently, matching my boldness, her lips moving purposefully with mine.

My hands are resting on her hips, and I move them slowly upward, hooking her sweater with my thumbs. Our mouths part as I inch ever higher, Esme's fingers releasing their hold on my back so she can lift her arms as I pull the garment from her body.

She's left in a pink cotton camisole, her lacy white bra obvious beneath the thin fabric. I brush her hair back behind one shoulder before my lips descend on her neck. Her scent is a heady sweetness, cloying in my senses as I breathe deep. Esme drops her head to the side as my mouth moves along her skin, over her collar bones, down toward her breasts.

Her whole body shudders as I tease a taut nipple through her shirt; she gasps as I bite gently on the sensitive flesh. I have one hand splayed against her back, holding her steady as she leans slightly away, while the other runs up her side to the swell unoccupied by my mouth. I pinch and pull lightly, squeezing with the slightest pressure, playing her in the ways I know makes a woman wild.

For she is a woman, untouched though she may be—inexperienced but not naive. I'm reminded of this truth as her hands move to the buttons on my shirt, popping each one deftly and with no hesitation. She hungers just as I do; she lusts, just as I do. Seeking fulfillment in flesh on flesh, she'll feed on me just as I feed on her.

We will feast at this table together.

Esme sits up straighter and pushes the shirt from my shoulders. It drops to the floor just as she sweeps her camisole over her head. My hands are immediately at the clasp on her bra, unhooking it with ease and tossing it away. Now we're half bare, gazes roaming, drinking the sight of each other in. She is majestic. Smooth-skinned and pale, not a mark or wrinkle marring her youthful flesh.

I know my own body, slightly aged yet still toned, but I wonder if Esme will find it suitable to her youth. She must, because her eyes are enraptured as her fingers glide over the planes of my chest, her touch trailing over my pecs and then down my thinly-muscled arms.

"You're beautiful, Dr. Cullen," she whispers. Her gaze finds mine again, and I can see the truth of her words in her stare. All her admiration, all her desire, all her trust that this is right and pure.

"Oh, Miss Platt," I reply huskily. "You have no idea what you do to me. What you've done to me since you first stepped into my office. Weeks of wanting you, dreaming of you, of a moment like this—that I thought I couldn't have."

Esme's hands grip my shoulders and she pulls herself closer to me, bringing her lips a hairsbreadth from mine. "You can," she says against my mouth. "I'm yours. Don't wait any longer."

I don't. My fingers dig into her ass as I lift her from the counter, urging her legs to wrap tightly around me so I can take us to the living room. She's so light, I barely notice her weight as I carry her to the couch, leaning over and laying her down gently on the cushions.

My hands move over Esme's bare breasts, down her flat stomach to the button on her jeans. I pop it and lower the zipper. I'm so hard as I push down her pants, wanting nothing more than to climb atop her and relieve the strain I've been under, but I won't. I need to go slow, to revel in her body, to give her all the pleasure she's been dreaming of—and more.

Her panties are white lace, a match to the bra I discarded earlier. I pull them down, too, and then she's naked before me, her skin flushed and glowing in the firelight. Esme's eyes are wide as I remove my belt and my own pants, watching as I slip out of my boxer briefs and my cock springs free. I kneel down beside her, prepared to slowly enjoy every inch of her, but she surprises me when she reaches out and runs a finger down the length of my shaft.

I suck in a breath when she wraps her hand around me and squeezes gently, an hour's worth of pent up desire threatening to spill all over her palm. "Is that okay?" she asks, looking up at me.

A low-throated chuckle escapes my lips. "Yes, better than okay."

Esme grins. "I always wondered what it would feel like—if they're as hard as they look. I wasn't expecting it to be soft, too. Smooth…"

I groan as she gives my cock a few slow pumps. "Sweetheart, that feels amazing. But if you keep doing it I'm not going to have anything left to give you in a moment…"

Her smile widens. "That feels good?"

I lean down and kiss her deeply, trying to distract us both so I'm not undone before we even get started. "Yes," I say against her lips, grateful when she releases my cock and rests her hand on my bicep instead. "Let me focus on you, though. Let me show you how a man pleases a woman."

"Okay," she whispers, trembling and breathy, filled with anticipation.

Esme's grip tightens on my arm as I move down her body and take one nipple into my mouth. She sighs lustily as my tongue plays against her, arching her back up for more. I switch to the other breast as I trail a hand down her stomach and into the apex of her thighs, where she is already hot and slick with need. I glide a finger lightly along the swollen flesh, careful not to press too hard because I can tell she's already on the edge.

When her hips buck up I gently push them back down, urging her to stay still. "Go slow," I tell her softly. "Trust me, it's better that way. Just relax…"

The frustration is obvious in her throaty groan, but she complies and loosens her taut muscles, letting her legs fall open slightly as I continue to work her slowly toward release. I want her to come before I enter her, for her to be spent and satisfied so she can enjoy the movement of our bodies and not be straining toward completion.

I watch intently as Esme begins to tense again, but this time I let it take her. I'm enraptured by the way her face twists into beautiful ecstasy as her orgasm peaks, her eyes squeezing shut and her lips parting in a moan. She's trembling all over as the pleasure radiates through her, panting and writhing as I still my hand and leave it pressed firmly against her.

"Dr. Cullen," she breathes, once the last waves of climax have ebbed. "That was incredible. I've never made myself feel anything like that."

I reach up with my free hand and brush a damp lock of hair from her forehead. "It is different with someone else. I'm glad you enjoyed it."

Esme props herself up on her elbows and looks at me. "We're not done, though, right? I mean, we're still going to…?"

I would certainly never forgive myself if I refused. "Yes, of course. So long as you want to."

"I want to," Esme says immediately, her eyes moving from my face to my still rock-solid cock. "You do, too?"

"I've never wanted anything more in my life." I tell her honestly. "Just let me go get a condom."

When I return she's still lying on the couch, watching me eagerly as I tear open the small package and roll the rubber on. Once I'm safely sheathed, Esme lets her knees fall open, making room for me to climb atop her, but I have other plans for her first time. I want her to have some semblance of control, of active partnership—to sit tall and look into my eyes as we move so we can truly share this experience.

I take her hands and encourage her to stand, drawing her to me for a searing kiss once we're at a closer level. When I pull back she's breathless again, her nipples hard against my chest as I am against her belly. Unable to hold off another second, I sit on the couch and guide her to straddle my lap.

"You're sure?" I ask one final time as I position myself beneath her.

Esme's eyes are positively burning, searing a path straight into the very depths of me. "Absolutely."

I hold her gaze as I find my mark, and then with my hands on her hips, I gently urge her downward. The look on Esme's face is pure euphoria as I bury myself inside her. She doesn't flinch, or clench, or gasp. Her earlier opinion was right—though untouched by another, she is certainly no virgin; her body yields and accepts me easily.

Slowly, I encourage her to move, gripping her hips and helping her find a rhythm with me. It isn't long before we're completely in tune, grinding fluidly together like we've been lovers for years rather than minutes. Like we were made for this—for each other.

Esme's hands are on my shoulders, her fingers digging in harder the longer we work. I don't know her body well enough yet; I don't know if she can orgasm from penetration alone, but the increasing intensity of both her sounds and her facial expressions are leading me to believe that she just might.

I keep moving steadily, for both her and myself, enjoying the feel of her everywhere we touch. The sex is incredible, undeniably so, but I can't ignore the fact that she has awakened something much deeper within me as well. Something that wants more of her, all of her—something… that could love her.

As much as I tried to convince myself earlier that this was wrong, that it could never be, now that we're here… it feels so very, very right.

With this truth in both my mind and my heart, I increase our speed, needing to seal the moment in some kind of finality. I watch carefully as Esme's face twists once again into the beautiful ecstasy of climax, letting myself follow her into release once I know she's gone over the edge.

Spent and shaking, Esme collapses against me, resting her cheek on my shoulder. "Oh my god," she says, her voice hoarse with both emotion and exertion. "That was… incredible. So much better than I ever thought it would be."

Moved in a way I wasn't expecting to be, I wrap my arms around her back and hold her tight. "It really was," I reply, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head. "It really was."

– SitD –

When I wake the next morning, I'm in my bed, but Esme is not. I blink a few times, staring at the empty spot where we'd made love again before falling asleep, where I'd pulled her against me as we drifted off and swore to myself I'd never let go.

But she's gone.

I sit up and sigh, running a hand through my hair.

Was it all a fantasy, the thought that we could actually be together? Did she wake up and realize that what we'd done was… wrong?

I certainly didn't feel that way this morning, but I wasn't the one who—

A creaking floorboard cuts into my thoughts, and then she's there, in the doorway, holding two small cups of coffee. My heart relaxes at the sight of her, disheveled as she is, but then jumps into overdrive when I realize she's wearing my Oxford shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned and hanging open over her white lace panties.

Good god, what a sight to behold. How could I ever have thought I was damned, when clearly I've gone to heaven instead?

"Good morning, Dr. Cullen," Esme says, climbing back onto the bed and handing me a steaming mug. "I hope you like your coffee black. I didn't see any cream or sugar out so that's what I assumed…"

"Yes, that's perfect," I reply, taking a sip and immediately appreciating that she brewed it to perfection. "This is excellent, thank you."

Esme smiles at me and takes a sip of her own coffee—black, too, I notice.

"Um, I'm not much of a cook, but I saw you have bacon and eggs. I was thinking maybe we could make breakfast together?"

I'm moved beyond reason by the suggestion, by the idea that this amazing creature is here with me and could possibly be all the things I've dared to hope. "We can certainly do that."

Esme tilts her head as she looks me over. "Is everything okay?"

I chuckle softly. I didn't mean it to, but my voice came out low and husky with emotion, and she noticed. I can't help but be pleased that we appear to be so in tune already. "I thought you'd left," I admit. "I'm just… very glad you didn't."

Esme laughs lightly. "I looked outside. The snow is a foot and a half deep. My car is buried. I'm not going anywhere. Not for a long time…"

"No?"

Esme shakes her head, a sly, satisfied smile twisting her lips. "Like I told you last night, Dr. Cullen. You're stuck with me now."

"Hmm," I say, reaching over and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I look into her eyes, and the truth I see reflected there, a mirror of my own hopes and feelings, tells me all I need to know. "In that case, then… call me Carlisle."

– The End –