Thanks go to wandb, lulum and all the wonderful friends on my WCs who let me tease this! :)

~One Last Kiss~

"Now I don't believe in nothing anymore...

'Cause love is permanent not temporary

And it's driven straight into our chest

And buried much too deep

To just pull out like weeds in a garden

It's permanent

Well I'm sorry"

~"Permanent" by Jason Reeves and Colbie Caillat

"So, you're just going to ignore me?" He raises his voice a bit. I hate it when he antagonizes me. It makes me feel like a child.

The door to the restaurant pushed open, letting in a gust of air as it closed. I shivered in his arms, and he sought to warm me with his hands. But they were cold.

Dinner was good. The wine was vintage port, and I feasted on different cheese fondue and a chocolate fondue pot to top it off. Conversation was light and we laughed at each other for fumbling with the skewers. He was sporting several small, thin drips on the wrist cuff of his shirt, and I had a glob of chocolate on my chin.

He kindly picked up a napkin and blotted it off, but stopped. I looked closely at him, and then backed away from the napkin. He lowered his arm, sat down the napkin, and then fell back into his chair, defeated.

"What are we doing, Edward?" I asked.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't believe I know anymore, Isabella."

I finished my dinner and we left.

After that, a cold resentment has settled in the pit of my stomach. Years of love and warmth have dwindled down to nothing but ashes. Things fall apart slowly. The first scratch is always the hardest, but it's easy to hide, to overlook, because the rest looks so new. Then, one scratch leads to a ding, then a scrape, and before long, there's nothing new. Its allure has faded away.

"Look at me, Isabella," he says.

I can't. Every time I do, a little bit more of us slips away. It's the way he searches my eyes and finds nothing.

First it was his fault, and then it was mine. He pushed too hard and claimed I didn't give enough. I didn't trust him. But it wasn't just him I didn't trust. We were too different, too young, and too naïve to see that forcing a square peg into a round hole wouldn't work. It was painful and futile. It was embarrassing and sad.

Memories of love that burned when we touched had turned into ache and regret. We both tried, even his family tried, but no one had the courage to state the obvious. No one wanted to admit that it was over. One good intention gone wrong.

He smooths his thumb across my lips, ghosts his fingertips down my face and holds it there. His touch is pleading and, in answer, I turn my face to the palm of his hand. There is no spark, no electricity, just memories. He cups my face delicately, twining his fingers in the stay strands of hair that lay loosely over my shoulder.

A sigh escapes his lips. "Please say something."

I can't. Words fall, empty, littering the ground around us.

I raise my head and, without meeting his eyes, brush my lips over his. His breath is icy, soothing. He doesn't move, doesn't push, as I bring my hand up to trace the contours of his face.

I touch his mouth, his beautiful jaw line, letting my fingers crawl up to the creases in his brow. They are permanent from worry. He never stops worrying, planning, or thinking. He never stops to talk to me. That beautiful mouth.

I kiss him with regret, with sorrow. I pour all my hurt and apologies onto his lips. They melt into mine like they were molded and made for me. My hands grab his neck hard, holding him, trying desperately to make this moment last.

"The loft overlooks the city, but it's still a bit secluded, you know. There's a great public park right down the street, and we're only a few hours from home." He stood at the window, looking out over the busy streets with fascination.

I hated it. "It's nice, Edward. I thought we talked about something outside of the city, though."

"I know, but the lease on this was a hot deal, and it wouldn't have stayed on the market much longer, so I didn't have time to bring it up. This is a better situation, Bella. We're close to everything, and..."

He kept talking, but I didn't hear anything he said. He'd made the decision without me again. I looked around at the drapes and the couch, the pictures on the wall and sitting on the end tables, and realized that Esme had been here. She'd apparently decorated, probably at his request, and it looked spectacular. It looked just like him.

I tried to smile as he walked towards me, I really did. It must not have been enough, though because his face fell as he clasped his hands on my shoulders and ran them down my arms. "Please, be happy, Isabella. We have a chance to make a new life here. I need you with me. Please, don't be sad. Not tonight."

When I didn't, couldn't, say anything, he dropped his hands and stuffed them in his pockets. "I'm trying so hard. I don't...what can I do? I'm at a loss. You're so far away sometimes; it hurts."

I sniffled back the unshed tears that pooled in my eyes and, before looking up at him, I thought back to our first date, our first kiss, and the first time we made love. I smiled a genuine smile now, and met his eyes. "I'm okay. Really. It's just a lot to take in. Thank you, Edward. It's beautiful. The decorations look great."

His smile reached his eyes now, and he turned me towards the living room. "They do, don't they? It give it a real modern feel. Mom really went the right direction..."

Again, more words and gestures towards all the things on the wall and all the pictures of us smiling and us laughing. The irony of it was that right here, surrounded by photos of our happiness, we were becoming strangers.

He leans into me, his weight heavy, and his hands grasping at anything he can hold on to. They tangle in my hair, and he drives his lips hard against mine, then slowing and savoring. Each kiss tries to repair the damage, to heal the scars, but it's no use. His lips move to press against my cheek, my forehead, my eyelids before landing softly back where they began. He traces my bottom lip with his, and I open slightly, feeling the smoothness of his tongue as it meets mine.

I taste him, seeking out every inch of his mouth, drinking him in with slow, languid movements. I'm heady with his breath in my face. His intoxicating smell is so potent that I doubt I'll ever forget it. I don't want to forget.

His hands roam down my neck, my shoulders, till he's desperately groping me through my shirt. His movements are hard, wild, and speak to the neediness of the moment. When he feels my stiff nipples, he opens his mouth and sighs heavily, so taken by the feel of me. I let my head fall back as I give myself to his hands.

His impatience get the best of him. Before I know it, he's caressing the smooth skin on my stomach and inching my top over my head till it's gone and I'm exposed. He kisses me again, quickly, before savoring my neck, and then lower, until he's bent down cupping my breast. He kisses around my nipple, brushing his lips across the raised flesh. My hands smooth his beautiful hair. I feel him give one last kiss before he's leading me backwards to the bed.

He lays me down, discards his shirt, and crawls up my body, drinking in my form like a starving man. His tongue dips into my navel, sending sharp shivers straight up my spine. I push into his mouth and he pulls away. He always pulls away.

"We're no good for each other, Isabella," he said. "I have things on my mind, other things I need to focus on. I can't spend my time trying to be something I'm not right now."

I stared at him, vacant. "Don't. Don't do this."

"I'm sorry; I've let this go on much longer than I should have." He bowed his head, reverently. "Of course, I'll always love you, in a way."

"Please, Edward..." I begged for my sanity, for my life, and I could see in his eyes that I was too late.

He laid a hand softly on my arms. "Take care of yourself, Isabella." He kissed my forehead and left.

For hours, I sat by the window and grieved. Days blurred together, and I swear my heart stopped beating at some point. Months went by as I replayed everything he said, hoping I was wrong. When I saw his face, I felt again. When he said he was sorry, that he was confused, and that he was so miserable without me, I gave in. But instead of a steady beat, a healthy rhythm, my heart was sick and hurting. And it was never quite the same.

Gripping the top of my jeans with his teeth, he tugs and I wince. They scrape down my legs, and as I arch up to shimmy them down, I feel him pressed against me. His breath huffs out as we touch and I kick them off.

His hands roam every inch of my exposed skin, tracing up the planes of my stomach. His head dips down and laves my nipple slowly, and then he blows.

I try to roll to the side, eyes closed, but he pushes me down. I beg for his mouth. "Please."

He kneads my breast, squeezing and tugging as he sucks the pink, pale flesh in. We both moan, giving ourselves over to the sensations. He increases the suction, flicking the tip repeatedly, and rolls the other nipple softly between his cold fingers before releasing me.

His nails bite into my skin, down my stomach, my sides, and over my hip. His lips follow the same line as his nails, kissing away the burn. When he reaches my hip, he sucks the flesh into his mouth. I cry out and he does it again.

He keeps kissing down until his hot breath is right over my center. His hands wrench my legs apart and he stills. He takes in the sight with wonder, amazement. He cups me, and I moan in satisfaction as he starts grinding the heel of his hand hard against me. Then fingers. He slips one in, testing, and then another.

He bends down and lets his nose graze the very tip of my sex. Darting his tongue out, he teases and tastes. I hiccup and squeak, holding it in, but he wants this. He desires those little noises I try so desperately to suppress, so he stops teasing and licks thoroughly from bottom to top before taking my clit into his mouth. I cry out and move to get more, more of his mouth, and he lays a hand against the crook of my thigh, holding my legs wide. His fingers curl and he pinches the sensitive skin.

"God, you're beautiful like this," he says

A tear falls as he speeds up, the smooth in and out of his fingers and the heat of his mouth, and I give into my body's ache over and over; his name drips off my lips. He slowly brings me down with soft touches.

When I can open my eyes, he's staring into me, knowingly. I pull him by his hair until his mouth meets mine, and we kiss. It's not soft or silent. It's riddled with tongue and teeth and moans of pleasure. Reaching for his belt, I fumble to release the buckle, snapping every button fly, till I see his cock peaking over his boxers. When the last button pops open, he groans. They're both gone in seconds

He stills above me, teasing me with his cock. I reach down and replace his hand, rubbing the head around my clit and stroking him. He's trembling.

"I..." his confession starts.

I cover his mouth and shake my head. "Not like this."

He enters me with a content sigh, and a tremor shakes his body. I shudder around him and he falls forward on his elbows. It's just the tip, he pushes, and then I feel all of him. I pull him close, wanting more, but he pulls out. Again he teases, and again I'm left moaning because of him. He languidly strokes in and out, and it starts to feel cold. His eyes are shut tight and his head is turned. He's not here anymore. He always leaves.

I reach up and pinch his nipple forcefully. He thrusts hard into me. I do it again and he cries out. His eyes finally meet mine, looking for answers.

"I..." I see the word form on his lips, so I push him away. He's surprised. I push again, but he pushes back. One more time and it all changes. The surprise in his face was painful, but the anger is welcomed.

His pace picks up as he punishes my body. He's crying out into my shoulder with each thrust.

My eyes flutter, but I don't want to close them. I want to see him beg for this, beg for me to come, to give in. He never begs, and he never asks. I dig my nails in his shoulder.

I want to let go. I thrust my hips hard into his and dig harder. He grunts and pulls my arms away, throwing them down and pinning them on each side of me. I thrust up again, and he lays his weight solidly on top of me. He pushes in hard, jarring the bed, but it's not hard enough.

I try to pull him deeper, push him harder, but I can't move. I try to get loose, but his grip tightens. I wretch by body to the side, but he lays harder on top of me. His head rests against my shoulder, and he's lost in the moment.

Without warning, he picks my body up by my forearms and shoves it back into the bed. The frame moves as he fucks me into the mattress. It's not love anymore. It's the most honesty we've had in so long.

We sweat and nip at each other, and I can feel the burn from his grip. I don't want him to let go. He pushes faster, harder, and my back arches. He lets go of one arm and I grab a fist full of hair. He reaches down between us and pinches my clit and that's all it takes.

I release all the anger, the hurt, the pain and finally the pleasure he's brought me. His thrusting turns erratic as he pushes us chest to chest, digging his forehead into the nap of my neck and finds his release. He doesn't say my name.

When he stops shaking, he slips out of me and rolls us on our sides. He's looking in my eyes and wiping wet strands of hair from my forehead. He doesn't smile, and neither do I.

"Don't go," he says. His arms reach to pull me to him, but I turn away. I lay for a moment, feeling the ache in my body. I tear up at the irony. My body finally mirrors my heart. As I sit, I rub my shoulders and forearms and rake my fingers through my hair. He's behind me, and I feel him trace a tender spot on my shoulder. Everything leaves a mark.

"Are you scared, Edward?" I ask, but I already know the answer.

"Terrified."

"I am too." I find my disheveled clothes and began to piece myself back together. Irony, you bitch. "You'll always be that one for me, you know? The one who showed me that I'm capable of falling in love. The one who taught me to see myself as beautiful and important. And the one who showed me what happens when love is selfish. It's as painful as it is wonderful. And I'll never forget it."

"Bella, I'm..." he tries. He always tries, but it's never enough.

"No, don't, Edward. I'm not angry. In a way, I'll never stop loving you. I'm grateful for you, for us. It meant everything to me. But I'm ready now. And so are you."

I walk out the door to the sound of words that would have brought me back not too long ago. "I love you, Isabella," he says.

Now, I keep walking.