YesterChic
His hands were all over my body that last night. He couldn't get enough of me, and I couldn't get enough of him. Every push and pant was heavy in the air as sweat dripped from his auburn hair to the pentagram tat on my left tit.
Oh god, there was nothing as good as Eddie.
He had a rhythm to his fucking better than any beat he played on the drums, and he could go on and on and on until I was begging for mercy and water and relief; not necessarily in that order. He was better than weed. It's relaxing where he lit a fire in my pants. He wasn't comparable to heroin either—though numbing through fucking was his thing. He was more like crack: addictive, got my heart racing.
Yes. He was the coke to my snort; the pipe dream I'd been waiting for.
And from the day I met him, to the ten months I spent at his side and on his leather bench-bed on that old Volkswagen tour van, there was not a thing on earth better than that boy. He was all mine.
I spent that year trying to forget Mom and Phil and the money they took away from me because I refused to go NYU like they wanted. I hadn't meant to let that time change my mind or my future. I went to stay with Dad after graduation - sort of a farewell to the summers spent with him - and ended up spending approximately five percent of my time with him and ninety-five percent with Edward Cullen and Perl Nexklas at their shows.
It wasn't Charlie's fault. He was a great dad, but once Angela took me to that first concert, I was a goner. It took me a few weeks to trade my Spice Girl sneakers for combat boots, and my spaghetti strap tanks for flannel, but I managed the transition.
Jake called. A lot. He'd always been more a perfect mate to our high school than to me, but the loss of football practice created a boredom in him he figured only I could fill. I was a great girlfriend to him all throughout our school years, but the sound of Eddie's sexy voice in that mic and in my ear later that first night sent the idea of being good at anything but doing him out of my head.
Dad said Jake came to see me once in those months, coming to ask - beg - me to come home with him and go to school like I was supposed to. Higher education and love and futures, Dad quoted. I wasn't in Forks that night, however. I was curled up with Eddie on the hood of his uncle's 1982 Corvette after being bent over it only moments earlier.
The exchange of Jake's over-pumped biceps for Eddie's lean, taut form and thick dick was more than worth the cost of missing my first year of college. But it wasn't only about the sex.
Not to Eddie.
He fucking loved me. He told me all the time. Over and over until my heart wanted to explode, but the words never left my lips until that final night. We made love for the first - and last - time in a proper hotel room, with proper sheets and pillows, on Eddie's dime ... and I left the next morning when reality smacked me in the face in the form of a phone call on his mobile. Charlie let me know that Jake's dad had been killed in a car accident.
I was suddenly weighing the guilt of my conscience to the love in my heart.
If anyone ever tells you love wins in the end, slap them in the face. They're a liar; guilt always wins.
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A/N: loving writing this and loving the reviews. You rock my world.
xo
Q