CH 7
The day I'd cut myself in Biology was the first time we had sex without the Ice Breathing Dragon pissing me off first, but certainly wasn't the last. I swore that he spent more time with me than her as the winter months dragged into the first signs of spring, and not all of that time was spent in bed—or wherever else we found to be together.
We did, however, spend a lot of time there, in bed, both his and mine. We liked having the room to play, not to mention the comfort. Winters in Forks were damp and really chilly, and getting naked outside wasn't an option a lot of days. Even his well-insulated car was pushing it most times. With Charlie's odd shifts and his mom and dad both working as well during the week, we managed to spend most afternoons screwing each other's brains out and really, really enjoying it. He wasn't shy and there wasn't a reticent bone in his body when it came to anything we did, and in that we were perfectly matched. There wasn't anything I couldn't talk to him about. I never worried he wouldn't understand or that he would judge me on any subject, sexually or intellectually.
He was just a good time—the entire package.
I decided that Princess was not only a small minded, self-centered, raving bitch, but—most unforgiveable—she was butt stupid. How she wasn't taking advantage of everything he was, all he had to offer, I had no idea. How she could resist him, I had no idea. I sure couldn't, even though I knew the situation was completely beyond what I'd originally intended and rapidly escalating out of control. All he had to do was smile, lick his luscious lower lip, or wink, and I was gone. That wasn't how it was supposed to go, but there we were.
And where we were at that moment was in my bed. I liked his better because it was bigger, but he liked mine because it was smaller. It was a good-natured argument we'd had many times, but in the end, it didn't really matter to me. As long as we were together in somebody's bed, I didn't care.
He lingered at my breasts—he always seemed to enjoy them so much—and then kissed his way down my stomach, pausing to smile up at me before lifting my legs, spreading them, and settling his shoulders in between. I sighed, running my fingers through the cool strands of his fiery hair, and opened my knees wider.
I sighed again, dreamily, as he set his mouth on me. He'd gotten so much better at it over the past few months. The first time he'd gone down on me, he admitted he'd never done it before—boy, did I change that right quick—and it had been tickly and odd. He'd wanted me to show him, tell him what I liked, what he should do, and I was more than willing to let him work on his technique as often as he wanted. He was doggedly determined and became very proud of the fact that he could have me gasping, growling, and pleading within minutes.
Add sweating, yanking, and writhing to that equation, and that's right where I was—on the edge, filled with his scent, warmth, his fingers. Oh, God, his mouth. Tongue. Lips and teeth on flesh so sensitized it was exquisite. I came, my body taut and tuned to every swipe, lick, and gentle bite.
"So good," I breathed, unable to open my eyes, lift my hand, or even smile. I felt his head settle on my belly, and it was the perfect finish. So weighted and warm and silky soft, right above where I throbbed in heavy accompaniment to my heartbeat, a lingering echo of the stroke of his mouth and tongue.
"Good deal," he whispered, lying heavy and prone with his shoulders between my legs. I squeezed him with my thighs, locking my ankles around his torso, and I felt his smile against my stomach. He ran his hands up and down my calves, around my knee, tickled the inside of my thigh. "I just want to lay here with you like this all afternoon."
"Charlie won't be home for a few more hours," I told him. "We don't have to move until then."
He sighed. "I've got to get home. I have some things I need my parents to look over and sign and stuff."
"Oh yeah?" I asked, my eyes drifting closed and fingers sifting through his hair.
"Yeah. I'm not going to have as much time after school. Baseball starts pretty soon."
My eyes opened, and I stared at the ceiling, frowning. "You play baseball?"
I felt his shrug. "Yeah."
"I didn't know that."
"Well, there's no reason you would. You just started school here in the fall. You wouldn't have seen me play before, and practice hasn't started yet. Not for another week or so."
My frown remained as I glanced down at the top of his head. It felt like it was something I should have known about him. I'd seen him in a letter jacket, but I'd simply admired and never really wondered why he had it. It was just a prop to his usual deliciousness. I didn't like the fact baseball practice—and later the games—would take some of our too little time together, but I was getting very selfish where he was concerned. Jealous of his time. Maybe even just jealous.
"Doesn't Bitchy Poo mind that you spend so much time away from her?" I asked, trying to hog-tie that nasty little green-eyed monster inside me.
"Bitchy Poo?" He snorted, disentangling himself from my legs and sat up, trying to smooth his rumpled hair. I patted the pillow next to me, and he slid up to prop himself against the headboard, pulling me against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. "No. I don't even think she's noticed. Not as long as I'm there to escort her to the party after the game on the occasional Friday night, maybe when she wants to go out and been seen on a Saturday. The Spring Formal is coming up soon. I'll probably have to take her to that."
Cullen in formal wear. Yes, please. I'd have to have him wear it for me just so I could admire and then strip him out of it. And then really admire. I set my head on his bare shoulder and admired that. I couldn't help myself.
"My boyfriend back in Arizona, Jake, he played baseball for ASU."
"Like us baseball boys, do you?" He smirked.
"I didn't even know you played until today," I pointed out.
"So, Jake," he prodded comfortably. "You've never mentioned an old boyfriend. I knew you didn't get all this knowledge just from reading."
His eyebrow quirked, daring me to contradict him.
"Well, I do read a lot, and erotica these day is not only surprisingly well written, it's quite educational."
"I don't doubt it." A smile curled one corner of his mouth as he waited patiently for me to continue.
"I like sex. I've always been precocious," I shrugged, and he made an amused sound. "But I'm smart enough to be safe, and be careful in who I pick. Usually. I've only been with Jake and now you."
"Huh."
"What, huh?"
"That wasn't a judgey 'huh,'" he told me mildly. "It's just you're awfully good at it. And confident. It's what attracted me to you."
"Other than the fact I was willing to blow you the same minute I introduced myself?"
"You blew me before you introduced yourself," he said with a grin. "But yeah. You were so confident, so at ease with yourself. I hadn't seen that in a girl before. It was amazingly sexy. I was intrigued."
"And going down on you had nothing to do with it," I said dryly.
"Well, you did have me at 'blowjob,'" he admitted with a laugh, and I had to join him at the cheesy misquote. "But that wasn't the only thing. Seriously. You're a sexy, intriguing, beautiful girl, Bella Swan, and I was dying of curiosity and wanting to know more about you. Even with that smart fucking mouth."
"You like—"
"Fucking your mouth," he finished, rolling his eyes. "I know. And I do. But I also like what comes out of it, too. Talking. Waiting to see what you'll come up with next. I never know what it will be, but I do know it will be fascinating."
That might have been the best compliment I'd ever been given. I liked the "you're sexy and amazing in bed" part—not gonna lie—but the fact that he really enjoyed talking to me, listening to me, that he looked forward to it…yeah. That felt pretty amazing, too. I felt the smile cross my mouth and thought it might take a while before it left.
"So, your turn," I told him.
"Well, I wasn't any good at this until you came along."
I turned to look at him—at the second amazing compliment in as many minutes. He turned to meet my look and shrugged. "It's true.'
"It isn't," I protested, remembering that first time in the back seat of his car, how he'd just known how to hold me, how to move, to watch and listen to what made us both feel good and then make it better. How he always seemed to do that. "I wouldn't have come back for more if you hadn't been pretty damn amazing."
"Yeah?" he asked, sounding pleased, and I realized I wasn't the only one that liked hearing compliments.
"Yeah. Otherwise I'd just devised a way to kill your fucking girlfriend and get rid of the body. My dad's a police officer. I know many useful ways to hide evidence. And bodies."
"I'll keep that in mind. You're already ornery enough when you get pissed, but now I know how to talk you down."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He grinned. "And it doesn't involve talking at all."
"You're avoiding the question."
"What question?"
I just gave him the brow, and he sighed.
"I've known Rosalie forever," he said with a shrug. "We started going out, and at first I was all 'wow' and 'holy shit' and 'this is the best thing ever,' but then… everything just became kind of by rote. I mean, I was a seventeen-year-old kid. Of course I wanted to have sex, but…"
He shrugged again, and I thought about what he'd said. It seemed kind of sad, because he liked the things we did, experimenting, having fun, doing some crazy stuff. I couldn't imagine him just climbing on top, pumping a few times, and rolling off. How incredibly fucking boring, and what a hideous shame. He was so good at the fun stuff, and even better, he really seemed to enjoy it.
He gave me a sly, almost shy look through his long lashes. "It was weird, being with her. What she did."
I snorted. "She's weird? You don't call what we're doing—what we do—weird?"
He laughed. "No, not like that. What we do is good weird. Really, really good." He grinned at me, and I had to return it, because he was fucking right. "I mean, she's weird in a weird way about sex—getting naked, that kind of stuff."
"What, she just pulls up her skirt or shoves down her jeans and turns her head? Lets you go at it?"
"No, not exactly. She likes to be naked, but not for me."
"Who else is she naked for?" I wondered why in the world she'd want to sleep with someone else.
He chuckled. "Not like that. She's a little narcissistic, right?"
"Yeah," I said slowly, not getting what he was trying to say, and then it hit me. "Oh, shit. You don't mean…?"
"Yeah." He watched the dawning horror on my face. "She really is in love with herself. She likes her own body. Likes to see it, you know?"
I shook my head violently and held my hand up to him, begging him to stop, trying not to laugh. The mental image… Oh, fucking hell no. "Shut up, please."
"I wasn't allowed to touch her more than necessary," he continued despite my protests and exaggerated retching noises. "I was supposed to just brace myself over her while she ran her hands all over her body. It was kind of sexy at first, but then, ugh."
"Ugh is right. Please stop." I bit back horrified amusement.
"Her favorite was doing it in front of a mirror. I stood behind her, and she watched, running her hands all over herself. It was kind of awkward. I mean, she wouldn't even bend over or anything, so it was hard to…well, you know. I guess it blocked her view too much or something. It was just weird. Like I didn't even need to be there at all."
I was staring at him, my eyes bugging out and my mouth wide open. He'd managed to do something most people have been trying to do my entire life—render me speechless. He must have noticed, because he flushed and did that shrugging thing with one shoulder.
"That's so fucking creepy," I managed to whisper. "It's a wonder you're not scarred for life."
He laughed, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me on top of him so I straddled his hips. "It's you. You're saving my sanity. Showing me how things should be."
He was joking, trying to lighten the mood, but we both stilled as we stared at each other, feeling the truth of his words. What was between us was how it should be. It hadn't started out that way, but at some point things had changed. What we did was how it should feel to make love.
Oh, shit.
Make love.
Was that what we'd started doing? It was still fucking, because we both really liked that, but it was different. More necessary. More tempting, irresistible, all encompassing. Was I starting to care about him?
I was. I really was.
"What?" he asked, examining my face, reaching up to push my hair behind my ears. I had to close my eyes at the tenderness behind the gesture. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to creep you out. I shouldn't have told you."
"No, you shouldn't have, because—damn. But that's not it. It's just…" I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet his eyes. There were so close, just under me, soft, intense, and so very green. "How do you feel about what we do?"
The hand that was stroking the hair behind my ear went to my cheek. He didn't blink, but I felt his chest expand as he, too, took a deep breath.
"I love it."
A violent shiver ran through my body in reaction to his words. His eyes flared, and he strained up to take my mouth, kissing me, and that was something we rarely did. He wanted to make up for lost time, it seemed, because he wrapped his arms around my waist and rolled so I was underneath him, like he was afraid I'd try to escape. And then he really kissed me.
It was fantastic.
He tasted spicy and warm and so, so good. I knew he had a wicked and clever mouth, having experienced his skill with it other places on my body—all over my body. It was different, that kiss, those kisses. He felt less studied, less in control, his emotions guiding him instead of concentrating on technique. I went wild at the change in him, sinking my nails into his arms, pulling him down, me up, rising to get closer, opening wide and taking everything he needed to give me. I wanted to be able to give him something, too.
"Tell me what you want," I whispered when he lifted his head for a second.
We stared at each other, panting, lips heavy with wanting to touch again. I'd asked him before in the throes of passion, and he me—many, many times—but he knew that time was different. He knew, in that way he had, in the way he was starting to know me, that I was asking about something more. And that was kind of scary.
He was silent for a few minutes, and I felt him shift above me as he put the condom on. He never took his eyes from mine, so when he whispered, "You," I knew he wasn't just talking about by body. Sex. Fucking. Even making love, although for the first time, we both thought maybe that was a part of what was between us.
He entered me but still didn't look away. Not when he moved, not when I matched him, not when I came and he gritted his teeth, the tendons in his neck straining, the vein in his forehead throbbing, trying to hold on as I came again, not when he gasped and rocked and cried out with his orgasm. Only when the pulses stopped, the contractions slowed, and the strength in his arms gave out did he close his eyes and kiss me. And kiss me and kiss me.
"What do you want, Bella?" he asked sometime later, when we were stirring, knowing we had to leave the bed and get dressed, go back to the real world.
I stopped and stared at him, wondering if anyone had ever asked me that before. I looked at him, really looked, and saw him, the real him, the one he kept hidden from everyone at school. The one I only ever saw when he was alone with me.
"You," I blurted, and knew that was exactly what I wanted. "I want you. I want you to not sleep with your fucking girlfriend any more."
I didn't know where that had come from, but it was the complete truth. He stared at me as he pulled his jeans on, and I waited in an agony of suspense until he nodded and bent down for his shoes.
"Okay."
Okay? Okay? That was it?
"That's it?" I demanded, hands on hips. I knew he'd look up, because I was only in my bra and jeans, and I might have made sure my breasts jiggled just enough.
He smiled, pulling on his shirt and walking over to me. He put his large palms over each breast, squeezing appreciatively and leaning down for a kiss. "Yep. Okay. I haven't slept with her for long time now, anyway. For a very long time."
"Oh. Good." I frowned, wondering what that meant.
He dropped his hands, but just stood close, not moving away, until I met his gaze. "I'd do that for you. And anything else you might ask me, too."
He paused, waiting, and there was some kid of meaning in his eyes, something I was supposed to understand but didn't. I searched his expression, but I didn't know what he was trying to say.
"Okay," I whispered, wishing desperately he'd just tell me. I'd give him anything he asked, too, if I could. "Thanks."
I saw a flash of disappointment, and I almost felt like I wanted to cry. I didn't want to disappoint him. He smiled and kissed me, and I realized I was clinging to him just a little as I returned it.
"I've got to go."
"Okay." I struggled to say something meaningful, something that expressed how I felt, but I didn't know what I was feeling. Mixed up. Messed up. Wanting him. "I'll see you later, Edward."
He smiled, wide and brilliant, and I felt a little better.
"Good deal, Bella," he said softly, kissing me soundly one last time, and then he was down the stairs and gone.
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Thank you so much for reading.