I actually started tearing up as I wrote this—thank you so much for your reviews and support. I would've quit this long ago without y'all.
My cousin André's wife is pregnant, some of the hormonal outbursts are borrowed from their past week…
Today is the one year anniversary of Michael Jackson's death. Don't bash him in your reviews, it's gauche to speak ill of the dead.
I hope you enjoy: you know the drill, read, review, repeat (check out my other stories if you're a Teen Titans fan)
Viva
JPOV (Jacob)
The sense of excitement and barely restrained comfort laced with anticipation is nearly palpable at this point. It's not something you can just exude on others, this is genuine. Out of the corners of my eyes, I can see it surrounding the smiling faces around me, affecting every gesture—it's a large, soft thing, tends to glow a soft yellow and smells like the air around my sisters often did when we were gathered under the Christmas tree shredding at wrapping like our lives depended on it.
"Geez, Esme! Do you think we're never coming back?" She shrugs the comment off, piling my arms with still more pans of casseroles and bags that I'm sure contain nothing but cartons of strawberries since Edward has been craving them 'with a passion'. Secretly, I'm just sure he knows that it's really quite torturous to watch his lips and fingertips become stained with red juice as he peers up at me from beneath those long lashes, watching me squirm at the beauty of him round with child, just tempting me to see him in this condition again.
After a few more good-natured jokes and awkward hugs to both the bearer of my child as well as I (though the former protests in the way that only disgruntled, hungry, pregnant women know how) we're loaded in the car, food in the backseat, luggage filled with clothes that a certain bulgy someone can't fit into. The widows are rolled down because someone needs the feeling of air on their face to keep them content, and we're off!
The silence isn't tense, it thrums with the sound of old automobile and long, pale, fingers drumming on a muscular thigh that just so happens to be mine.
"I missed you," his voice is so soft that if I wasn't who I was, I wouldn't have heard him. I spare a glance at Edward, amused that I think I've figured out the origin of the 'tousled' hair.
"I missed you too, Mr. I'm-gonna-ride-to-school-with-my-head-out-the-window-so-people-will-think-i-have-great-hairstyling-skills." He swats me on the arm and tries to stifle a grin.
"How do you now it wasn't just tousled from my wild and vibrant sex life?" His tone is light but don't try telling that to the responding heat in my groin.
"Oh, Edward… Don't expect me to forget that I was, in fact, the one to introduce you to sex. My condolences, Sir Chastity, the cherry is no longer." And he's blushing beautifully, trying to hide it with those shaking, freckled hands even as it stains the tips of his pointed ears. Adorable ears that I know he likes having nibbled, especially when he's sprawled out on the bed, wound like a spring with his want—
"A good driver's eyes always remain on the road, Jacob."
"My eyes are on the road," I grumble even as I pull into the garage, trying to quell the length that presses uncomfortably against restrictive denim. His laughter is still the pealing of bells, even now, his face slightly sweaty as he waddles into the house.
Later, after we're done settling in, (and by that I mean after I've put away the food and clothes, bustling about looking for movies that Edward wants to watch 'right now' ; muttering to myself about the injustices wreaked upon me by a certain ginger-haired bombshell who lounges on the couch, eating bags of cheeto puffs and watching cartoon network) we sit on opposite ends of the couch, his feet are in my lap and I don't know how I haven't noticed how beautiful they are. Pale and slim, without the freaky prominent tendons that once made me nauseous to even hear the word 'feet' when I was younger—his toes are long, arches high, and as I knead at the calluses on his heels, I notice he has a cluster of freckles on the inside of his right ankle that form a perfect circle.
"I'm sorry," he's mumbling again, his lips and fingers that unmistakable Cheeto Orange. After gesturing me to hand him the can of blackberry fresco that we've been sharing to him; he takes a long draught, adam's apple bobbing delightfully up and down that long throat.
"I've been pretty moody." I roll my eyes at the understatement of the century. I remember while I was tossing him a blanket, he just sat on the couch and bawled, then when I asked what was wrong, he'd punched my shoulder and stormed off onto the deck where he glowered until I went back upstairs, confused and a tad hurt.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that." He reaches down to still the movement of my hands and I hope I haven't hurt those delicate feet. Assurance and acceptance are in his eyes, along with a fair amount of guilt.
"Hormones are a bitch." A tentative smile graces the cupid's bow of his lips as I lean over him, pressing my lips to his jaw, the soft skin behind his pointed ear. I nuzzle his neck and he laughs, a breathy sound as our lips meet.
"I still love you."
This could not be any truer, the evening light turning the room to gold, his eyes almost black due to his swollen pupils,; soft, insistent lips on mine and a tongue that tastes of honey—all belonging to a boy that smells like a meadow, seventeen years old and long-limbed, a blushing mass of hormones that I will protect with every drop of life in my body.
"Jake?" He's stammering now, pulling me down between his thighs though this couch is too narrow. I growl in response and stand, lifting him into my arms gently; like the weight of his eyelashes against my chest (when did my shirt get removed?) like the way he caresses the swell of our child when he's thinking and singing…
Words fail us now, as I lay him on the bed, still gently, removing his clothing with reverence and awe. We cannot get enough of each other, lips and fingers busy as he tugs at my hair, keening and writhing. Minutes pass, he climaxes while whispering sweetly, the imprint of his shaft on my palm. Moment later, my forehead is pressed to his shoulder as impossibly long fingers draw a moan from my very soul.
He's wordless as I get up for a washcloth, cleaning us both off, lingering at the softness of thigh, the shadow his belly casts on his slim waist. I hand him a pair of my old sweatpants, helping him sit up as he puts them on then crawls back under the covers. All this time he doesn't say a word, not until I'm curled up behind him, an arm across his waist, listening to his heart.
"I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I don't regret a thing. Not us and not our child."
His raspy whisper oozes that pleasantly exhausted post-coital glow, but I know he's sincere, like I know his eyes are green and that he's addicted to watching Good Eats on Food Network. Maybe it's just the stress of the day, added to the stress of these past two months, from driving him to his parents' house as he rambled, delirious with fever, to feeding him like I would feed our child, spoonfuls of soup the color of his hair—finally ending with both of us here, in our bed, in our house, the way it should have been from the beginning.
I press my nose to the back of his neck, tears running across the bridge of my nose. A slender hand clutches mine and Edward looks at me over his shoulder.
"It's so good to be home."
