Author's Note: This is my homework for Smut University from Project Team Beta, lesson one. I would label myself primarily as a Perve Swerve Style 3 – The Boyz II Men writer and reader (my fellow classmates know what I'm talking about). I love romance, poetry, and grand declarations of love. An intense emotional connection between the characters is very important to me when writing or reading love scenes. I enjoy some sensual detail, as long as it's clear that every action is intended as one of love and mutual pleasure.
I'd like to thank Jenna for looking over this for me, but all mistakes are mine.
…
It struck me sometimes, and most often at the strangest moments, during a simple human gesture like brushing a lock of hair away from my face, like now when I was looking for something to do, that I, Esme, was now actually Mrs. Dr. Carlisle Cullen. Those realizations somehow made me less sure of what to do with myself, peculiarly more aware of my body, my very presence in the world at all. I should be dead. I would have been dead, but he was literally the savior who had all but resurrected me from the dead, my usher into a world I had not the eyes to see or the mind to even fathom as a mortal. Now, I stood staring over the bedroom that I shared with him—my husband—completely distracted by the fact that he was not here, that the house was empty, and I missed him with the illusory feeling that our minutes were running out, something I was sure was merely a trick of the adjustment to immortality as well as a testament to our love; forever seemed so long in the hours he was away and not long enough while I was in his arms.
I tried to keep myself occupied, productive while he was gone. I found that my duties as a wife certainly had a new twist as compared to my mortal life. I was no longer occupied with the almost constant work of preparing three meals every day, which meant that I didn't have to shop for food, tend a vegetable garden, or clean up after cooking and eating. Carlisle had enough money for us to have every modern convenience: we have electricity in the house, our own telephone—not that we used it often—and we even had a clothes washing machine that ran on electricity. I never had to rest, and I could get things finished so quickly that I had to learn to pace myself and find enjoyment in daily tasks.
In fact, at first they did seem wondrous as I marveled at being able to see every dust mote, every thread of the upholstered furniture. I would stand in front of the paintings that Carlisle had collected and get lost, for hours it seemed, studying every little brush stroke that made up the piece. I found myself mesmerized by the textures of things and beauty seemed to be everywhere. Today I had caught myself studying the individual barbs of a robin's feathers as it sat feeding in our front yard even after a year of adjusting to my new heightened sight.
The newness of my occupation had less to do with vampiric abilities or modern luxuries and more to do with the man who I called my husband. True, he had given me all these things, but the greatest gift was my life with him and the way he cherished me with such inhibition. I found him to be the most fascinating object of study no matter what he purchased for me or showed me. Of all the grand beauty of this world, which seemed vaster than even my romantically dreaming young mind could have imagined, he was the most marvelous. He had literally dragged me from drowning in darkness to a world full of the impossible made not only possible but made as tangible as the gold band around my finger. Grateful as I was for it all, I found myself often doing little more than longing for the man I loved, each moment finding meaning only in that it was a moment closer to being with him.
I wandered through the house, searching for something to dull the sound of the ticking clock, ease the endless waiting of a surgeon's wife that I was never sure that I would get used to. I had a swelling pride in him well tucked away in my heart, a heart whose beats had been replaced more than fully by the thrumming of an eternal love. But still, as I walked over toward the window, moving aside the delicate lace curtains that I had made, noting the first rays of what may turn into an unexpectedly sunny morning pierce through the dawn fog, I worried about him.
There in the windowsill, I noticed a small plain white envelope. Even through the paper, I noted the shadow of the ink on the inside page in the light. I picked it up, smiling, not having to bring it close to my face to inhale Carlisle's scent still lingering there. He had an endearing habit of leaving me love notes in unexpected places to find while he was at work. It wasn't a daily habit, so I never knew when to expect to find one. I pulled the page out, carefully laying the envelope aside and unfolded the crisp paper. I felt the anticipation wash through me, not like the pumping adrenaline of humanity though—this was a steady, unfaltering smoothness that seemed to pour right through the core of me.
Today the letter was different. It wasn't uncommon for him to include poetry or quotations, but today there were no accompanying words of his own. It simply began, one long block quote of Tennyson in elegant script down the page. Standing alone, without even a salutation or signature, it did not seem impersonal as it might have. Instead, I found that it spoke of the deepest of familiarities because he neither had to address it to me nor sign it. I knew already that it was from him and that it was meant for me.
I glanced over the words once quickly. Then, I perched on the edge of our bed and read it again, letting the words sink in more deeply. Being a vampire did not rob me of my romantic notions, something I had been told more than once in my life were silly. The images in my mind only became clearer to me, and I could see Carlisle sitting at his desk, copying the words from memory. I could imagine him whispering them against my ear, his lips against my skin, his body close to mine.
Given back to life, to life indeed, through thee,
Indeed I love: the new day comes, the light
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults
Lived over: lift thine eyes; my doubts are dead,
My haunting sense of hollow shows: the change,
This truthful change in thee has killed it. Dear,
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine,
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world;
Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows;
In that fine air I tremble, all the past
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me,
I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride,
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so through those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come,
Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one:
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.
The words of Tennyson had been carefully chosen. I knew the piece it was taken from titled The Princess. It wasn't a love poem, but taken out of its original context, this section was perfectly romantic. The conventional often did not suit our situation, and we certainly were taken out of our original contexts as mortal humans—a removal that was what allowed us to be together.
My contemplation ceased abruptly, however, when I heard his footsteps on the front walk. My eyes darted up from the page, and I rose in one sharp movement from the bed, focused on nothing but closing the space between us. I was down the stairs in an instant, but he still had enough time to come inside. He was pushing the door closed behind him, turning the lock over with a click that spoke firmly of the readiness for privacy. When our eyes met, I felt myself almost completely transformed into nothing but a vessel of desire for him.
Still holding the paper in my hands, I rushed toward him, jumping into his arms. He caught me, holding me firmly as I locked my legs around his waist. Our lips met while my arms slid around his neck. The page fell from my hands, and I heard it sweep across the floor. For all that burst of passion, the kiss seemed demure at first. His lips barely brushed mine, and I softly pressed mine against his in return with the tenderest pressure. When he whispered my name and his lips parted all hesitation ceased. I caught his bottom lip between mine, sucking it gently. He reached up and buried one hand in my hair, tangling it around his fingers as he gripped the back of my head firmly, a sound of pleasure vibrating from up out of his chest. He pulled back, and I felt robbed. No matter how cold his skin was, the air between us felt colder, empty. His lips met mine again though before I had time to complain, and this time he kissed me fiercely. I surrendered without hesitation, and he explored my mouth like it was some uncharted territory he was greedy to reign over. It seemed sudden when he stopped, easing me back down onto my feet, my head reeling with fantasies and my body desperate with need.
"Where's Edward?" he asked, his eyes a deep honey color, darkened with a hunger I hoped was only for me.
"He's not back from his hunting trip." I pinched my bottom lip between my teeth, eagerly awaiting his response.
Carlisle nodded, sliding his jacket off of his shoulders as we stood there just looking at each for what seemed a very long moment.
"How was your day?" I asked, reaching out to take his jacket.
I walked over to hang it up, and I heard him slipping his shoes off. I bit my lip again, this time to curtail a smile, as I slid the jacket onto the hanger, inhaling the mixture of his scent, the smells of the morning outside, and of the hospital that lingered on the cloth before I placed the hanger on the closet rail, closing the door. He had a habit of wearing his shoes even after he had come in. I suppose because they never really seemed uncomfortable, mine didn't anyway. I wondered what this change of routine indicated.
"It was eventful," he replied, stepping up behind me. "I missed you. And yours?"
I turned around to find myself locked in his embrace again. "Rather dull, until I found a love note in the windowsill."
A smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned toward me slightly. "Do you find love notes exciting, Mrs. Cullen?"
"Not as exciting as you coming home," I replied, reaching up to brush his hair back.
I felt my husband's hands slide down, his fingers curling around my hips, and he pulled me firmly against him, making it clear that I was not alone in my excitement. I gasped, my entire body reacting to the keen awareness of his desire for me. I moved both hands up to the collar of his shirt. Forcing my fingers to keep an even pace, I started slipping the buttons loose. But I was aching to dispose of the barrier that kept my skin from touching his; I wanted to divest of him the lingering scents of humanity that clung to his clothes and breathe in nothing but him.
He took a few steps forward, backing me up against the closet door, working on the buttons down the front of my dress. So far, our most intimate encounters had been reserved for the secrecy of our bedroom, not merely out of propriety, but because we didn't need to sleep there, so the room had become our love nest, a place we went where there could be no question of intention. We could exchange declarations of love and flirt and kiss anywhere, but if he took my hand to lead me to our room, it was only to make love. It was rather thrilling though for him to undress me here merely feet from our front door.
When he reached the final button just above my waist, he slipped his hands between the fabric of my dress and chemise, the silk of the fabric sliding over my skin under the movement of his hands. I pushed his shirt over his shoulders, bunching up the cloth of his undershirt to pull it up out of the waistband of his pants. His eyes were still on mine while he released his hold on me to pull his arms out of his overshirt before I tugged his undershirt up over his head.
I allowed my gaze to move down over his body, the sight of his bare skin only making me more eager. It still made me feel slightly self-conscious, no matter how much I trusted him or no matter how beautiful he told me that I was, when he looked at me this way. I knew he was watching me admire him though; he had confessed to me that my appreciation of his body turned him on. I pressed my palms against his flat stomach, moving them over the planes of his chest and up to his shoulders, gripping his biceps to pull myself up for another kiss.
My affection was reciprocated ardently as he pressed me back against the door with his body, telling me of his lust with his hips and hands and silent lips. He trailed kisses down my neck, tugging my dress and chemise over my shoulders, pulling my arms free until I was only dressed from the waist down, his mouth moving down my body until I was moaning, all of his attention focused finally on the tender peaks of my breasts.
When he stood up fully again, I arched my back, pressing my body against his. I trailed the fingers of one hand down his arm until I reached his hand, and he interlocked his fingers with mine. I looked down at our clasped hands, noticing the rays of the sun filtering in, the light shimmering against our skin. It brought to mind the morning after our wedding. It had taken us so long to get to the island, his astounding wedding gift to me, that the next day was dawning before our marriage was consummated. And we had spent the entire day tangled up in each other's arms, exploring every facet of our newfound bliss. I had been married and given birth to an ill-fated son in my human life, but I may as well have been a virgin in Carlisle's arms that morning. I had no concept of the ecstasy that his love could bring me, and it still seemed overwhelming. I wondered if I ever would get used to it, secretly wishing that it would never lose its magic.
Letting go of my hand, he gathered my skirt up to unclip the garters from my stockings, pull my panties down, until they fell around my ankles. Then he slipped a hand between my thighs, grabbing my right knee with the other and lifting it up while he touched me until I whimpered, my head falling back against the door. Another soft sound escaped my lips, my eyes falling shut as I steadied myself by holding onto his arms. I had no trust in myself to not just go weak and drop to the ground like an overcome human while he was touching me.
"I've been thinking about you all night," he murmured, his ministrations of my body becoming intense for a moment, long enough to make me gasp and be just short of begging to have him inside of me before he stopped.
I felt abandoned, cheated almost, but hoped he had only quit with the intent of starting something else. I slipped out from between him and the door and started toward the staircase, assuming he would follow me. Carlisle caught my arm when we got to the stairs, turning me around. I continued walking backward as we kissed, moving my hands down to undo his trousers.
"Thank you for the letter," I said between kisses, before they became too passionate once again for me to be able to think, much less utter words.
We stopped halfway up the staircase, standing on the same step together, and he pulled me close again as we kissed. I resisted only enough so there was room between our bodies to be able to work my hand beneath his clothes and curve my fingers around his arousal. I felt triumphant that this seemed to overcome him to the point that we didn't move, and he even stopped kissing me after a moment of this intimate regard.
"I love you," I continued as he leaned his forehead against mine, his eyes closing as his lips parted. "I am more than ready to yield to you." I made no effort to hide the suggestive meaning behind my echoing of the poem as I gripped him more firmly, slipping my free hand into his.
My name escaped his lips on a sigh like some long pent up confession. I fancied myself some sort of siren in that moment, able to make him forget all things but his longing for me. But when he took my wrist and pulled my hand away, I was hurt. He soothed me with another kiss, urging me down until I was sitting on one of the steps. He pushed my dress up again, moving my knees apart before settling between them, hovering over me as I tugged his pants down over his hips. Holding himself up with one arm, he cupped the back of my head with the other hand so that it wouldn't fall down onto the sharp edge of the steps behind me.
"'Through those dark gates,'" he quoted, staring down into my eyes as his body entered mine.
"Oh, Carlisle." The realization that he was taking me right here on the stairs was overwhelming. I moaned softly, dropping my legs apart farther to accommodate him, still finding myself surprised by his generous size. But he was patient lover, sensitive my reactions, and he kissed my lips softly, filling me slowly.
Once we were fully joined, he kissed me more passionately before speaking again. "And 'across the wild that no man knows…'" His lips moved down and brushed over my breast above where my still heart lay in my chest before moving across my collarbone and up my neck, over the spot where his teeth had pierced my flesh on the night he had turned me, his body moving gently yet pushing deep into mine. "'Indeed I love thee.'" Now his words were soft and low against my ear—an erotic, almost desperate sound. "Please, come," he pleaded, "with me."