Is it irresponsible of me that I've never stated that this story is for the 18+ crowd? Have I been remiss? If you were born in 1993 (the year I graduated high school, btw? I'm just saying) and you're seeking out the M-rated stories – I cluck my tongue in your general direction. And, yeah. So, that's done.
Also – I don't think I've mentioned that I try to respond to every reviewer. Sometimes I get a whack of reviews in my inbox at once and I always worry that I've overlooked someone; so if you don't get a reply from me, I apologize. Every single review is a gift – your love, your questions, your constructive criticism, and your suggestions. Thanks for your patience with the slowed production as well. xo
The usual disclaimer: I own nothing. Stephenie Meyer does, lucky gal.
-o-
Jasper
It's shortly after 6 pm. I'm in my apartment, dashing around nervously, trying to make sure everything is absolutely perfect. Edward is back in Seattle, and very soon, he'll be here.
A lasagna is in the oven, and a Caesar salad is prepared and waiting in the fridge. Wine is breathing. The table is set, and the centerpiece is a familiar, beloved bouquet of purple and white blossoms. The cheesecake I picked up on the way home sits on the counter.
I stand in the living room and survey the scene. Briefly I wonder if I should light a couple of candles; but decide against it, instead using some soft lamps for ambient lighting. Finally I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. Perfect.
Edward should arrive any moment, and my mind wanders back to this morning. Waking up with my cell phone welded to the side of my face, the outline of the keys imprinted into my cheek. Waiting for his text to tell me his flight had landed; calling him to make plans for tonight. I couldn't leave work to meet him at the airport – only my fourth day at work, a bit soon to start taking extra-long lunches – but this is better anyways. I know that once I see him, when we are back in each other's arms, I won't want to let go.
I am so keyed up, so ready to see him, feel him, kiss him, that I feel like I could literally begin to bounce off the walls – the human equivalent of a pinball game. The buzz of the intercom makes me jump, despite the fact that it is an utterly welcome sound. He's here.
I dash to the intercom. "Yes," I say, more as a statement than a question; and the most beautiful, velvet voice answers me.
"Jasper…" he says simply, soft and low.
"Door's open," I reply, pressing the button. And I wait, eyes closed; standing by the door. The seconds tick by, and I wait, and I breathe. I hear the muffled ding of the elevator down the hall outside my apartment door; the elevator door sliding open. My heart is fucking pounding in my ears. And then, a gentle knock on the door. Silently I count…1, 2, 3…and then I grasp the handle and open the door.
And there he is. My beautiful, exquisite boy stands before me. For a moment I can only look, drink in his presence like a sweet wine. And then in one step I hurl myself into his arms, forcing him to take a step back, further into the hall. I drop my head to his shoulder, inhaling his fragrance. Holding him as physically close to me as I possibly can. Never wanting to release him. He grips me tightly too, his head turned inwards so that his face is buried in the side of my neck. We haven't yet said even one word, save the brief intercom exchange. Right now we don't need words.
My heart is pounding, galloping away; and it's not sexual arousal that has my pulse elevated. It's throbbing with the overwhelming emotion at seeing him again. Finally I release him just enough to withdraw my head from his neck, and placing my mouth at the level of his ear, I whisper, "Welcome home."
Without a word, he turns his face to meet mine. Our lips meet, sweet and passionate; not deeply, but that will come later. The kiss holds all my relief, tenderness and emotion; I hope he'll feel how much I've missed him.
Finally he breaks the kiss and whispers, "Shall we go inside before your neighbors start to gossip about the new tenant?"
Of course. I haven't even invited him in yet. Briefly, it occurs to me that my mother, the consummate hostess, would be mortified. I pull out of the embrace, capturing his hand in mine and drawing him in past me through the doorway. As he passes me, I'm seized by a sudden juvenile impulse to stick out my tongue at the peep hole in the door across the hall from mine. I have no idea, of course, whether anyone's watching; but the euphoria I feel at having him back with me makes me giddy and silly. My childish moment over, I close my door and turn to face him.
"Can I take your coat?" I offer, and he shrugs out of his light grey pea jacket. I hang it in the closet as he removes his shoes. And then for another moment we stare each other down. This time he is the one to step forward to me. Rather than pulling me close again, he places his hands on my forearms, gently stroking up and down. Still he says nothing for another moment; seemingly just relishing being in proximity to me. And then one hand comes up to cup my face along the jaw line; his thumb gently stroking my ever-present dimple. "I'm glad to see you, Jasper," he murmurs.
"I missed you, beautiful," I reply softly; and he moves in to once again press his lips to mine. His mouth is soft, moist and warm; it opens and his tongue slides out to stroke my lower lip. I open and take his tongue into my mouth, caressing it with my own, sucking gently. Of the many kisses I've experienced in my lifetime, none has ever been so sweet, so pure; unadulterated tenderness and ardor flow between us.
Too soon, I need to breathe, and I have to break the kiss. I rest my forehead against his, closing my eyes for a long moment; reminding myself that he's really here. I gently stroke his hair and sigh deeply.
Soon he breaks the silence by remarking, "Something smells amazing."
I pull back and smile. "I know you said you only have carbs on Sundays; but maybe you could do Carbs Thursday this week instead. I made lasagna."
"I'll try to adjust," he grins back.
"Good. It'll be ready in twenty minutes or so. Would you like a glass of wine?"
"Sure; red, if you have it," he replies.
"Okay – sit, I'll join you in a second," I gently push him in the direction of the couch. I pour two glasses of red wine. I present one to him, and sit sideways next to him on the couch, tucking one leg underneath me and facing him so I can just look at him. "So, how was Vancouver? I haven't been there since before I left Washington."
"It was fine," he replies, shrugging a bit. "I really didn't see the city this time; just had dinner out last night."
"Really? I had a friend in San Francisco who said the clubs on Davie Street are pretty great," referring to Vancouver's gay village.
"I've been before; a few of them are worth going to," he offers.
"Too busy with work?" I persist.
"Well..." he hesitates, "not that busy. My evenings were pretty well free."
"Okay," I reply slowly. I stare into my wine glass; I'm dubious, but I really have nothing to support my doubts. Still - he stayed at his hotel and went nowhere, despite a lively club scene?
"I didn't go out," he adds, as though reading my thoughts. I meet his eyes and he holds my gaze steadily. He certainly looks secure. "I didn't feel like dancing, and I didn't feel like...company." And then he leans closer; his arm extends across the back of the couch towards me, his hand resting on my shoulder. "Actually, that's not entirely accurate. I really wanted your company."
A lump materializes in my throat, and my eyes swim. This is a really inconvenient time to be a man who cries easily; but there's nothing I can do to stop it – the Jazz Stare is obviously completely inappropriate for this situation. As a couple of tears spill over, I scoot closer, into the shelter under his arm, and lay my head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm tightly around my shoulder and holds me against his side. His other hand strokes my jaw for a few moments and he kisses the top of my head. I hear him inhale, as though he's breathing in my scent. In a moment my suspicion is confirmed as he exhales with a soft, "Mmm." I could stay like this forever; and for long moments, we do. Not speaking - just being together.
Eventually it occurs to me that I should get up and check on the lasagna. I lift my face, press my lips gently against his, and then pull back with a smile. "I should check on dinner."
"If you must," he grins. As I retreat to the kitchen, his words follow me, "Can I help with anything?"
"I've got things covered in here. Wanna put some music on? My iPod is in the stereo dock, if you want to find something you like," I suggest.
I remove the foil from the lasagna, and my stomach growls as the mouth-watering aroma rushes around me. I take the salad and the dressing out of the fridge, toss them and carry the bowl out to the table. Edward is just pressing play on my iPod. "About another ten minutes," I smile at him.
"Just enough time," he replies, and the opening bars of Miles Davis' "It Never Entered My Mind" begin to flow out of the stereo speakers. He walks to the open living room floor and holds out his hand to me, smiling questioningly at me. "Now I feel like dancing."
My eyebrows shoot up as I realize that Edward Cullen is asking me to dance. To one of my favorite songs, no less.
I smile broadly in return, and join him in the middle of the floor. His arms slide around my waist; mine rest on his shoulders and link behind his neck. Wordlessly, we sway gently to the jazz quartet, gazing into each other's eyes. As we dance, it occurs to me that this song, though beautiful, is actually a very sad one. Miles Davis' version doesn't have vocals; but the song's lyrics written by Lorenz Hart mourn the end of a relationship, from the point of view of one who didn't see it coming.
The song ends, but I don't want to stop yet. "My turn to choose a song," I grin, and untangle myself from him briefly. I know the song I want to play for him, to listen to as I hold him to me. The song is "I'll See It Through" by Texas. The lyrics are much more appropriate; in fact, it's possible that they express exactly how I feel when I think of my relationship with Edward. I scroll to the song, and press play, then dash back to his arms. I pull him close to me and he rests his head on my shoulder, his nose nuzzled against my neck.
When you touch me
I feel there's nothing you can do to turn me away
And I know that
In the past you've had bad luck so I should help you stay
"You're very good at this," I murmur into his ear.
"Really? It's my first time," he replies softly.
Oh my god. He's never slow-danced before? My heart wrenches just a bit at the thought. I'm disgusted that no one else in Edward's life has ever bothered to attempt to push the envelope, to challenge him. It's a fucking tragedy that no one has ever recognized what I have glimpsed in just a few short days – the potential for scorching passion and fierce devotion.
You're all I ever wanted
You're all I ever needed - it's you
You're all I've ever wanted
And loving you's the right thing to do
And I'll see it through
I pull him tighter, silently apologizing to him for all the people who've failed him; all the ones who were so easily defeated by his outward difficult veneer. The ones who made him feel as though he was unlovable, contemptible. I know the loss is theirs; but he has missed out on so much as a result.
I'll show you the love in my head
I'll show you the love that we had
I softly kiss his exposed cheek, again and again, until the song fades away.
"So how was your first time?" I ask teasingly, trying to lighten my own mood after my malevolent reflections on the people in his life.
"Oh, Jasper," he takes on a girlish, breathy tone, playing the game along with me, "You're so super-dreamy! It was wonderful!" A head tilt and a lift-your-eyes-to-the-sky gesture accompany the gushy voice. I throw my head back and laugh at his perfect imitation of a starry-eyed teenage girl, and his velvet laughter joins mine.
When the laughter dies down, I continue, "I'm glad you felt like dancing. I hope you also feel like," I clear my throat, "company." I quirk one eyebrow meaningfully as I repeat the word he used earlier.
In response, he pulls my hips a bit closer to his, pressing his semi-erect cock against me. "Mmm, I definitely feel like company," he replies, flashing his crooked grin and exaggerating the last word. "But first - I feel like dinner! I'm starving, and that lasagna smells amazing."
"Oh, damn! The lasagna!" I exclaim, and dash for the kitchen.
"Uh-oh," I hear him say from the living room. "I hope I didn't ruin it."
But the lasagna is done to perfection, and bubbling happily as I remove it from the oven. "Perfect," I smile with satisfaction. I love to cook, and I'm good at it. I feel his hand slide across the small of my back, and he's standing beside me, craning his head around my shoulder, inhaling reverently over the steaming pan.
"My mouth is literally watering," he sighs.
"This needs to sit for a couple of minutes. Shall we start with our salads?" I suggest, and he nods. As he turns to head back to the living room, he spies the wine bottle on the counter and snags it to take to the table.
He has already retrieved our wine glasses from the coffee table and placed them by our settings on the dinner table. I sit and start to plate the Caesar salad as he tops up the wine glasses. Fleetingly, I imagine that this is what it could be like every evening for us. I know I should feel as though it's way too soon to even hope for it; and yet it doesn't seem irrational to dream.
The wine poured, he sits down at his place. I've set the table so that we sit at two sides of the same corner, rather than across from each other.
"Thank you for making dinner," he smiles at me.
"I'm glad you're here to enjoy it with me," I reply, and we both dig in to our salads. The dressing is extra garlicky – the only way to make it. As we eat, we chat a bit about his shoot, the location manager who sounds like an absolute douche, and his favorite photography subjects. Our salads gone, I grab the plates and retreat into the kitchen to plate up a generous helping of lasagna for each of us. Over the lasagna, he asks me about my job.
I hesitate, unsure whether I should bring up the subject of Carlisle being on staff at the hospital; and why Edward didn't tell me. For tonight, I decide against it. I don't want to be the catalyst for any angsty shit tonight. I just want a relaxing dinner with him. And then, I want to fuck his brains out.
So I tell him instead about my hilarious assistant, Kathleen, and her bet with our co-worker Ellen about my "orientation"; and he snickers. I tell him about the steady stream of female employees (and a few men) who came to my office that day to check out my Man Flowers; and he snorts. I tell him about my struggles with the hospital's computer network and the IT employee who told me that he wasn't authorized to adjust my security settings so I could be allowed access to the hospital's financial data; and he roars. I tell him about the comedy of errors that was my Wednesday morning; and he guffaws, tears streaming down his face, begging me to stop when I get to the part about the shampoo bottle.
Finally, after coffee and cheesecake, after the table is cleared and the dishes are done – him washing, me drying – we are sitting on the couch. I am sitting at one end, my legs stretched out across Edward's lap; chatting about music, food, movies. Edward's arm rests along the back of the couch, his hand beside my shoulder; and every once in a while, he reaches up with a finger or two to caress my cheek, or play with a stray curl of my hair.
After a brief, comfortable pause in the conversation, he sigh. "I missed you," he muses. "And I want to thank you...for last night. For humoring me."
I sit up a little straighter and cock one eyebrow at him. "Humoring you?" I repeat.
His eyes drop to his lap. "I'm sorry I freaked out. It was really good of you to stay on the phone with me."
He's apologizing to me for having an anxiety attack? I pull my legs back from on top of his, and I get to my knees beside him, taking his face in my hands; but his eyes don't meet mine. "You don't need to apologize for anything, Edward. I felt horrible that you were in so much distress; I wish I could have been there to help you."
He looks at me now, and almost whispers, "You were."
We gaze into each other's eyes for a long moment, and then I shift up onto one knee and bring the other across his body, so that I am straddling his lap. My hands remain on his face, and his slide up my outer thighs to rest on my hips. He pulls me gently nearer, sliding my ass closer so that it rests over his groin. My hands come up to his tousled bronze locks, and gently pull his head back, exposing the smooth skin on his neck and collarbone.
I lean in and trace the muscle under his skin with my lips, up to under his ear, and down to his collar. Soon I add my tongue, painting a softly glistening line. His breathing gets deeper, and even through our jeans, I can feel his cock hardening beneath me. I switch to the other side of his neck and make little gentle sucking kisses up and down his neck. He moans softly each time he breathes out.
Soon his hands slide up from my hips, under the hem of my sweater. Slowly and carefully, they glide up the bare skin of my back until he reaches my shoulder blades. I release him for a moment, lifting my arms into the air so he can pull it off. As it comes off, his mouth comes forward suddenly, eagerly; and he captures one of my nipples carefully in his teeth. I gasp at the unexpected sensation, then bury my hands again in his hair and lean into the pleasure. His long fingers trace up my back and down my sides, occasionally travelling lower to palm and squeeze my ass.
The foreplay is unhurried, tactile; and incredibly erotic. We make out, touching lips and hands and arms, basking in the sensation. I slip his shirt off of him, and the feeling of my bare chest against his is miraculous.
Finally he puts one arm around my waist, and with the other, he braces against the back of the couch and pushes himself up off the seat. He's several inches shorter than me, and yet he can pick me up and carry me, my legs wrapped around his waist. One of my hands involuntarily travels down to his strong bicep, as though I have to feel it to believe it.
"Where's your bedroom?" he pants into my mouth. I gesture with my head down the small hallway off the foyer, and he carries me down the hall and into my room, still plying my mouth with languid kisses.
In my room, he climbs onto my bed and leans down so that I am lying back, my legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. He unlatches them gently, and sits back on his heels. Wordlessly, he unbuttons my jeans and pulls them down and away, exposing my naked sex as I have no underwear on.
"Mmm," he murmurs, "even more spectacular than I remembered." He quickly steps off the bed to lose his own pants and boxer briefs, and then resumes his place between my open thighs.
"Remember what I said I'd do if I were here?" he whispers huskily. I can only moan in anticipation of what's coming. "I said I'd worship your cock with my mouth." And his head lowers to hover over the head of my cock. And worship it he does. It's certainly a spiritual experience for me, as his warm, talented mouth and his deep throat go to work to tease and torment me. True to his word, he brings me to the edge several times before easing his attentions.
"Condoms?" he rasps. I reach to my night table and open the drawer, grabbing my lube and a strip of condoms. He tears one off the strip, opens it and starts to roll it down...my cock?
"What are you doing?" I manage to croak.
"Have you forgotten already?" he grins wickedly. "I'm going to sit on your cock." He grabs the lube and starts to carefully and slowly lube my gloved cock, which is now so hard that it's actually painful. He then uses his own fingers to prepare himself for me. He sets the lube back on the table and lifts himself up to hover top of me. I feel his asshole resting gently against the head of my cock.
"Wait..." I gasp, though at this point I have no idea how I'm able to form a coherent sentence. "Are you sure?" I've only had him that way once, and obviously I realize what a monumental surrender that was for him. I don't want him to feel as though this is something I will demand from him since we've already done it once.
"Jasper, I want this from you," he whispers, and leans down to place a kiss on my lips. "Please - I want you to fuck me." As those words leave his mouth, he gently pushes the head of my cock past his outer breach. We gasp together at the sensational feeling; and for a moment we are both still, save for the trembling of our limbs as they anticipate our activities. Then slowly, he pushes harder, sliding himself further down around my aching cock. His face is so beautiful above me, painted with a combination of pleasure and discomfort as he adjusts to my substantial size. Once I am fully seated inside him, he relaxes a bit, and again holds his position. He is so tight; I feel as though my mind might explode along with my cock. Finally he begins to slowly rock up and down, seemingly making every nerve in my hyper-sensitive body scream for mercy. He impales himself on my cock over and over, pushing harder and deeper each time he drops his ass down to land on my thighs.
I am desperately trying to hold back my orgasm, but he's so tight, and I've missed him so much; I know that all too soon, my efforts will be in vain. So I whisper, "Play with your cock, beautiful. I want you to come with me." His hands come up to grasp his cock; one wraps around the shaft and slowly pumps; the other, he licks his finger and traces around the sensitive underside of the head. I lift him up marginally onto his knees, and, bringing my knees up, I start to lift my ass off the bed, drilling my screaming cock up into him. Our moans fill the room as we build toward climax. His face tenses, signalling that he's ready to come, and I shout, "Come with me now, beautiful! Cover me in your hot cum!"
Immediately he groans loudly, shouting my name over and over; and incredible spurts of his hot white spunk decorate my chest and neck. I thrust upward, hard, once more; and push into him as hard as I can as my own release rocks me, holding my cock deep inside him. His ass spasms with his climax, milking my cock for every bit of my cum; until we are both completely spent, and he collapses onto my chest, my cock still inside him.
"Uhhh..." he moans, still occasionally twitching around me as his body lets go of the tension. "That was..." He trails off and simply shakes his head, at a loss for words.
"A gift," I supply simply; and he lifts his head briefly to look at me. "And I thank you for it."
"You're welcome," he murmurs sleepily, as his body slows down from its orgasmic high. "You're the only one who'll ever have it." He slides off my chest and I briefly excuse myself to dispose of the condom and use the bathroom. When I return to him, he is already asleep. In my bed, with his pillow pulled close to mine.
I slide between the covers carefully, not wanting to disturb him. He stirs a bit and a pure, sweet smile flashes over his face. I wait for him to settle; and then I lay my head beside his; for long moments I just watch his beautiful face, currently the picture of perfect satisfaction, perfect happiness and perfect rest.
I know I'm slipping under, too; but just before I lose consciousness, I lean to him, placing my lips close to his ear, and I whisper, "I love you, Edward."
-o-
What do you think? I promised you a happy reunion this chapter. The boys had some time to chat and get to know more about each other, rather than putting it into a high-pressure situation. Mmmm. I love.
Crazy, mad breaking news: Over The Top has been nominated for three "The Lion and the Lamb" awards, in the following categories: Best Lemon; Best Side Romance; and Best Work-in-Progress. Thank you a thousand times to those who nominated the story! To see the nominationss (which are open until April 2); and to vote, once the voting opens, please visit the website at http://lionandlambawards(dot)webs(dot)com
As always, please, please review.