SM owns the characters. Being new to fanfic I completely forgot some shout-outs with the intro to my story. Many many thanks to wisdomous for the encouragement and helping me grow a pair to post this thing. Also to weepwah for making sure my grammar and punctuation were solid. You two are amazing and I love you both.
"Bella, it's been a week and we haven't had a single wine night. What the hell? Did you get a life or something?"
Rose is an unlikely best friend. I would never have imagined we would enjoy each other's company in a million years. She's everything I'm not, but we share one important trait: neither one of us take ourselves too seriously. Rose is arrogant, shallow, painfully blunt, and she just flat out doesn't give a fuck. To put it mildly, she's a total bitch. And I love her for it.
When residents of Bend, Oregon, mention "wine night," you can usually count on pinot noir, gallery walks, or at least a visit to one of the tasting rooms downtown. So many "Bend-ites" are transplants from Napa Valley who brought along that stick-up-the-ass attitude. They drink their wine with hints of pretention aged in oak.
That's just not how Rose and I roll.
Our version of "wine night" involves sweat pants, at least two bottles of wine, usually purchased at Costco, and a preventative Advil before bed. On good nights, the itinerary includes 80s movies, dancing in the kitchen, and fighting over left-over pasta.
"No, Rose. I assure you my life is as uneventful as it was the last time you took a shot at me." And it was uneventful, at least off the page. On the page, well, that was turning out to be much more interesting. I blushed at the thought and turned my head away from Rose so as not to invite questions.
"Oh God, tell me you're not hibernating in that shithole of yours, cranking out more J.K.-Silversteinian Mickey-Mouse kiddy lit. I thought you were going to take some time off from writing. I've told you a million times that shit is unhealthy. You get so wrapped up and, I don't know, lost. Sometimes I think you live more in your head than in reality. And you aren't doing those kids any favors either you know. Blowing sunshine up their asses won't help prepare them for the realities of this world. It's child-abuse, the way parents raise their kids these days, overprotecting to the point of retardation. Jesus, Bella, I feel constipated just thinking about it!"
"Yeah, being full of shit is such a new thing for you."
"Suck my dick already, I'm starving." And she plopped down into the sofa with her bottle of wine, not even bothering to use the stemware I had set out for her.
Rose is a bankruptcy lawyer in an economy that rivals the great depression. Trying to get her to understand why writing children's books is rewarding is a lost cause.
"No, Rose, actually, I've uh… changed direction."
"Changed direction? What, are you like, writing smut now?" She snorted, amused with her ridiculous accusation. I paused, trying to figure out how to explain. Before I could even begin to explain, Rose burst,
"Bella Swan! I don't believe it, you dirty little ho-bag." Rose cut herself off mid-rant, and her eyes widened, "WAIT. Tell me you haven't snapped and are now writing porn for kids! I really don't want to have to visit you in jail!"
"No, Rose. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. It's just something I'm doing for me, you know. Kind of as a release. A fun little distraction."
"And since when do you allow yourself that kind of distraction?"
Since I saw flesh and bone molded into perfection with a lanky build and bronze wavy hair, I thought. Instead, I said, "Well, Rose, bring your worst merlot over and I'll tell you exactly how the creative juices began flowing."
The preventative aspirin saves the day once again. Rose and I had the quintessential girl's night following a rundown of my latest story line. Rose knows that I've never been very graphic when it comes to fantasizing about men. That the hands I imagine touching me when I touch myself don't belong to anyone in particular. So I told her that this is changing for me. That there is a man so beautiful that I can't help but imagine his hands all over me. That fantasizing about him is oddly fulfilling. And that I feel alive now that I'm writing again. The depression that was so consuming only a short while ago seems so far away now that my pen is back on the page.
I'm heading to the Deschutes River trail, not because I'm planning to see my muse there, but because I always go there on Saturday mornings. Although, seeing him would be an added bonus, I admit. I discovered this trail 3 months ago by accident and feel like it has become my own personal sanctuary. Not too many people other than your avid fly-fishermen know about it. Most of the path runs right along the river and through the canyons. It is lined with pine needles, and the ponderosas and junipers are so thick in parts that you cannot see the sky. It stimulates every sense. The smells of pine, the sound of the rapids, the feel of tree bark and cool, damp stone, the sight of the blue-green water. The water here is so pure because it's mountain run-off, too cold for any bacteria to survive and make it cloudy. This is where I escape to write. I do not own a laptop, nor do I want to, much to the chagrin of my editor. Nothing against laptops, but the central Oregon sun is too bright to be able to work outside without glare. And besides, there are no places to "plug in" on the trail. No, I am quite happy with pen and paper.
I always laugh when I'm traveling and people assume I live in a wet rainforest climate because they hear I'm from Oregon. Truth is, only a narrow sliver of the state, the coastal side, is like that. East of the Cascade mountain range it's all high desert, tumble weeds, and sunshine.
It's chilly today. Fall is on its way. I am thankful that I remembered to grab my trusty blue wool scarf before I left. I find one of my favorite spots about two miles in from the start of the trail, by the footbridge. It's a slight protrusion of land and supports the only picnic table on the trail. It's private; you have to venture away from the trail to get there. I think one of the reasons I like it is because I can see everyone else on the trail, but no one can see me. I open my notebook and ponder why that appeals to me. I can watch, but no one knows I'm watching. I like watching unseen. Interesting. I think I have a theme for today's writing…
I hear a knock at the door and hesitantly answer it. It's my neighbor. Let me re-phrase that. It's my fuck-me-with-a-stick-and-then-put-your-dick-in-it neighbor. I don't even know his name. But I do know he has green eyes, chiseled features, skin that looks like marble, and a body that leaves me speechless. I also know that the orgasms he brings me when I fantasize about him at night are the best I've ever had. Too bad he's never been there in person to witness the pleasure he brings me.
"Hi." I greeted him, hoping above hope my voice isn't trembling.
"Hi." He smiled and ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. "Uh, the water next door went out and I was wondering if I could impose on you and use your shower?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, sure!" I felt my checks betray me and flush as I stumbled over my words and led him into my apartment.
Holy shit. This man, this demi-god, is in MY apartment. He will be in MY bathroom. Naked. Damn bathroom walls with their hummingbird print wallpaper taunting me saying, 'Bella… guess what we're about to see that you won't? Nah na-na-na boo boo…' Fucking walls that CAN'T talk.
"Listen, I was just on my way out," I lied. "There are fresh towels in the linen closet. Help yourself."
"Hey, thanks. I really appreciate it. They tell me the water should be back on this time tomorrow." And with that he made his way into the bathroom and shut the door. I was angry that he shut the door. I hesitated, but only for a second. Right and wrong went out the window through the only door that mattered—the one he was undressing behind. I walked to the door and knelt before it. It was a thick, old wooden door complete with an archaic keyhole. I dared peek inside. I had to remind myself that the antique door may be thick, but it is definitely not sound proof, and I had to hold in all gasps, squeals, and growls at the sight before me.
I hadn't thought about the details of a man's body before. But in THIS man, I saw long and lean muscles. His skin looked like silk with just a touch of hair below his belly button. His arms were tanned, and as he reached up to remove his shirt I caught a glimpse of light, curly, masculine hair under his arms. He slipped his pants off his hips and fuck it all if he wasn't wearing anything underneath. Not being prepared for that surprise unveiling itself so quickly a gasp left my mouth.
I held my breath as his eyes darted towards the door, my hiding place, for a second before turning on the water. Recovering, I gaped at what I saw.
It's not like I've never seen a penis before but holy hell, I was getting wet just thinking about what this work of art gift from God would look like aroused, hard…and ready.
He leaned over to turn on the water, and as he was waiting for it to warm up, I was reminded of what I was doing. That it was wrong to peek in on him; I had to wake up in the morning and be able to look myself in the mirror and respect what I saw.
Or… wake up with him in my bed and his morning wood pressing against my wetness, my vagina thought. I told my vagina to pipe down so I could concentrate on the visual in front of me, as it was a fleeting opportunity.
I would have plenty of time to fantasize later. The water flowed like liquid glass over the silk of his skin, making it look like patent leather. Hmmm…Patent leather, like a whip….
Bella! Later!
I focused on him again and the way the water rippled over the smooth planes of his body reminded me of the rocks in the river along the trail, so smooth from eroding water. He is stunning. The physical vision of my dreams.
Too soon the water shut off and, realizing that I was still kneeling approximately three feet from where he was standing, I tiptoed as lightly as I could across the apartment and out the door, praying that he didn't hear the floor creak.
&&&
The next day, same time, almost methodically, he knocked at my door. My heart leapt to my throat and I tried to control my breathing. Jesus loves me because hot neighbor boy COULD NOT be knocking on my door for what I think he's knocking on my door for, could he?
"Hello again. Guess what?" he said with a sheepish grin.
"Hey, no problem," I tried to hide the all too obvious enthusiasm in my voice. "You know where the towels are."
I should have felt ashamed. What I was doing was wrong, an incredible invasion of privacy. But I got away with it once and didn't have the strength to stay away from him. I assumed the position at the keyhole and felt the heat flare through my body in anticipation.
He looked in control and powerful; his movements today were deliberate and slow as he removed his clothing piece by piece. He turned on the water and paused before stepping in, as if he was deep in thought. He looked pointedly towards the door, right where I was kneeling, as if he knew I was watching. But it had to have been a fluke, because he couldn't possibly know. He just couldn't!
I felt myself relax a little as he stepped into the shower. The repeat show was as good as the first: I watched him lather up and run his hands through his hair and wash his face. From there his long fingers ran down the toned planes of his stomach and wrapped around his biceps as he washed his arms. And then his left arm braced against the wall as his right hand lowered and grasped his cock. I guess I was paying too much attention to how his hands were moving across his body to notice what was stirring below and I was abso-fucking-lutely losing my shit.
His head tilted back and his eyes closed as he gave himself a few long strokes. I was mesmerized, taking in every detail and using the rest of my mental capacity to fathom how that cock would feel pounding inside me. My mind ran wild with images and sensations…I barely noticed when he got out of the shower and shook his head, leaving the water running. Water droplets scattered from the thick waves of hair. Instead of going for the towel that was hanging right by the shower door, he disappeared behind the sink, around the corner and out of my view.
It was quiet for several seconds. If my mind was working properly I would have been wondering what he was doing and why he left the water on. But my mind was engaged elsewhere, still dazed from the water, the naked skin…
The keyhole went dark. Before I had time to panic, I heard the door click and the hinges creak. My stomach dropped to my feet and the room started to sway as the door burst open. My breath caught as his emerald eyes held mine with an intensity that was frightening. I had been busted and was rooted to the spot, not even capable of uttering a bullshit excuse as to why I just happened to be kneeling outside the bathroom door.
Not able to break eye contact, I felt a fresh tingling between my thighs and was growing wetter just by holding his glare. Just like there is a compulsion to laugh when being lectured, my nether regions were betraying me. I should be mortified, not turned on.
Why am I still standing here? Wait…why is he still standing here? Why isn't he yelling at me for being a perv and covering himself?
Ouch! His grip on my wrist was fierce, matching the burning expression in his eyes. And there, I saw nothing but need and desire. His tightened his grip on my wrist as he pulled me into the bathroom. His eyes never broke contact with mine as he cornered me into the shower.
I gasped as the water hit my back. I shivered as hot trails of water trickle through my clothes, running down the backs of my legs. He pushed me back until water cascaded over my head, over the front of me, soaking my thin tissue t-shirt. My nipples tightened in response. I reflexively closed my eyes to keep the water out. Our eye contact was broken, and I knew in that moment that all bets are off.
I heard a splash of water and feet moving beneath me and felt his hands cup my breasts and tweak my nipples through the thin, wet fabric. He pressed his warm, hard torso into mine. I felt his hard length push into my core and he began to devour me. Lips met lips, tongues thrashed with tongues, and hands groped for skin.
I moved my hands away from exploring his body long enough to wipe the hair out of my eyes that was plastered to my face so I could see him and savor the thrill of watching him touch me.
"Eyes shut, Bella," he commanded in a gruff voice. "You've watched enough."
I realized that this was both my punishment and my reward—he would not be gentle. I obeyed and kept my eyes shut and trembled with anticipation for what he would do to me next.
A branch somewhere above me snaps and startles the silence. Looking up from my notebook, I try to find the source of the disturbance. There is nothing to be found, so I shrug it off and turn my attention back to my writing.
A man named Edward Cullen with emerald eyes and bronze hair sits atop a butte overlooking the trail below and retreats before the pretty girl who has been the object of his fantasies for the past 3 months looks up towards the source of the noise and finds him out.
A/N: EPOV next chapter. I'm really excited to hear from him! Are you? Would LOVE to hear your reviews.