Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.
I know I sound like a broken record, but love and thanks to arfalcon.
~October~
Gold.
Leaves, floating down, abandoning branches before their vibrant colors fade.
Nature's bedding, blanketing us from above, cushioning us underneath.
Isabella and I are lying in the grass, enjoying as much of the outdoors as we can before the weather turns cold. We make a game of guessing the shape of each cloud as it sweeps above us.
We laugh over each other's imaginings until the clouds break up, leaving us with nothing but blue sky. I close my eyes and bask in the perfect simplicity of this afternoon.
The warmth of the early October sun and the caress of the breeze soon work their magic on Isabella; it's not long before she drifts into slumber.
I watch the steady rise and fall of her chest. It reminds me of the first time I saw her like this: the night I told her what I was. The night she put her trust in me and let me hold her while she slept.
That night I relished the feel of her warm body next to mine. Listened to her quiet breaths. Never before had stillness been so satisfying.
When dawn eventually broke, it was bright and hopeful. The rising sun had colored the room in a wash of gold. I'd committed the scene to memory, capturing its perfection on canvas later that very day.
The sun's rays crept across the room and made their way up the bed to Isabella's face. The brightness caused her to stir and after a few minutes, she opened her eyes. She blinked a few times before turning to find me staring at her.
"You stayed," she said.
I pulled her tight against me.
"You let me."
A gust of wind rushes through. Maple, birch, and elm leaves scatter, along with my thoughts.
She told me she didn't care what I was, but I can't deny her behavior has changed. It's subtle, but when I touch her, when I kiss her, she seems to be holding back from her prior affections.
Is she afraid? Having second thoughts? I suspect a bit of both, but I don't question her; she is still here with me, after all. The only time she completely relaxes is at night, when she lets me hold her as she falls asleep in my arms.
I understand how she must feel. I need to give her time to come to terms with the enormity of my revelation.
Time is something I have plenty of.
Another burst of wind swirls around us, stronger this time.
Isabella awakes with a start. She sits up and rubs her eyes.
"How long was I asleep?" she asks.
"Not long," I say, reaching up and running my fingers through her hair, pulling out leaves and bits of twigs.
She twists around and flops down on my chest, her chin resting on her clasped hands, studying me.
"I had a dream," she says.
"Will you tell me about it?"
She thinks a few moments before closing her eyes. "I was walking through the woods, looking for you. I heard a sound behind a thicket of brush and when I pushed it aside, there you were, crouched on the ground. You turned around and your mouth was covered with blood. You stood up and walked toward me. I started to back away, but you grabbed me and pulled me into your arms. You kissed me. When you drew back, I reached up and ran my fingers over my mouth, smearing the blood across my lips. You asked me how I liked it." She opens her eyes and holds my gaze. "I woke up before I could answer."
I'm equally horrified and excited. Horrified that Isabella conjured up such a nightmare.
Excited at the thought of her mouth covered in blood—and enjoying it.
"What does it taste like?"
She asks with genuine curiosity. I don't want to keep any more secrets, so I tell her.
"Surely you've cut your finger before? And sucked the blood off to stop the bleeding?"
"I have, but I… didn't know if it would taste the same to…" Her voice trails off.
"To someone like me?"
She nods.
"It does—although there's much more to it. All blood has a distinctive metallic taste. But my kind can detect the subtle differences human beings cannot. Every living creature has its own smell, its own taste. I can taste their sweets, their sours, their salts…every flavor you can imagine. From the scent they give off, I know what they will taste like before their skin is even broken."
I pause to gauge her reaction. Her face shows no distress, so I continue.
"Animal blood is acrid. Gamey even, similar to the taste of their flesh. It takes getting used to. The flavor isn't as pronounced—or as palatable as human blood."
Isabella sits up and folds her hands in her lap.
"What do I smell like?"
I knew this question was bound to be broached. How do I tell the woman I love that her blood is the greatest temptation of all?
"Isabella, I—"
"I want to know."
Closing my eyes, I inhale the air. Her fragrance is ingrained in my senses, but I still delight in breathing her in. As I do, I tell her.
"You smell like honey left outside on a warm, sunny day: sweet and thick. A touch of Lily of the Valley. Earthy, woodland moss tempers your sweetness."
I open my eyes and sit up, moving close to her.
"And something else I can't put my finger on." I stroke her cheek, my gaze roaming over her lovely face. "It's just…you. It's Isabella. And I struggle with my desire for your blood every minute of every day."
She draws in a breath. "How do you manage to be around me?"
"Nothing worth having is without effort. I endure it because you've brought light to my existence."
I slide my hands up her arms. "Warmth."
I press her hand to my chest. "Love."
She winds her arms around my neck.
"Everything," I whisper.
Isabella sighs against me and when I kiss her, I feel her doubts melt away.
My Isabella has come back to me.
Autumn's palette is fading. Flowers die off. Days become shorter. Chilly nights create a carpet of frost, hardening the ground.
Winter is approaching.
The cold and snow are no hindrance to me, but with Isabella here, I have to think ahead. We'll need to go into town and purchase the provisions she'll require over the long months ahead.
On the day of our planned trip, Isabella is feeling indisposed, so I decide to go by myself. I don't like leaving her by herself, but she assures me she'll be fine.
I can't help but worry, though—I know what dangers can lurk in the woods.
Once in town, I conclude my business in town in a hasty manner. After loading the cart, I head home, anxious to get back to Isabella.
I bring the horse to a stop in the clearing in front of my house. Jumping to the ground, I prepare to unload the provisions when I'm assaulted by a delicious scent.
Isabella.
My curiosity piqued by the intensity of her aroma, I desert the task at hand.
Walking around to the back of the house, it hits me: she's bathing.
I can hear the water. Smell her nakedness.
I should turn away right now, be the gentleman I sometimes struggle to be when I'm around her.
But like Eve in the Garden, I'm tempted.
I approach the window silently and peer in, mesmerized.
She's facing away from me, her body exposed from the waist up. Her hair is piled on top of her head and she's humming softly. She brings the sponge to her shoulder and squeezes, the water running in rivulets down the expanse of her back.
She lifts the sponge to her opposite shoulder, the motion twisting her back into a sensual curve. I get the sudden urge to paint her this way; I wonder if she would allow me. My body heats up at the thought and I shift my stance in response.
Isabella pauses and turns her head to the side, looking out the window. She catches my eye just as I step to the side. I press myself against the wall and wait for her to scream.
But she doesn't.
Compelled to look again, I slowly slip back to the window.
I've been caught—and she doesn't seem to care.
Isabella has turned to the side, her upper body in profile. As if on cue, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, bringing the sponge to her neck. She drags it past her collarbone and over her breast, down her stomach until it disappears into the water.
Reining in the perversion to continue watching her, I back away into the coolness of the woods. With thoughts of Isabella wet and gasping underneath me, I reach inside my trousers and stroke myself to climax, ashamed of my actions, but powerless to stop.
Disgusted and remorseful, I make my way back to the house.
She's in the kitchen, standing near the fire, tending to a pot of water.
I walk straight to her and put my hands on her hips, holding her in place, too shamed to face her.
"I'm sorry," I say.
Silence.
"Are you angry with me?"
She shakes her head.
"I couldn't tear my eyes away, Isabella. I knew it was wrong, but God help me, you're so beautiful. Can you forgive me?"
She sighs. "I'm equally guilty. Once I knew you were there, I… I wanted you to look at me."
My hands encircle her waist and I press my face into her neck. Her hair is still slightly damp from her bath, her skin warm and soft; she smells like violets.
"Please let me paint you," I murmur against the soft down at the nape of her neck. "From behind. Your naked back." I gather her hair in a bunch and hold it at the top of her head. "Your hair up." I kiss her behind her ear and she shivers.
"Please, Isabella," I beg.
She turns around to face me. Her body is hot from the fire, but the heat of her gaze penetrates me more.
"Yes," she breathes.
I pace the room, waiting for Isabella to enter. The candles I've lit are more for her benefit than mine; I'm hoping their ambiance will set her at ease. My fingers are eager to hold a brush, my mind racing ahead to how I envision her. I've filled countless canvases over the last seventy years, but never have I looked forward to creating one as much as this.
The door clicks open and Isabella walks into the parlor, a long white robe covering her. I walk over to her and take her hand, leading her to a low bench I've placed in the middle of the room. She sits and picks up the shawl that's folded on the end of the seat. She looks up at me, waiting for my instructions.
"I'll turn my back and you may remove your robe. Drape the shawl across your shoulders so it flows down your back. When you're ready, I'll position you and then we'll begin."
She nods her head. I walk back to my canvas, close my eyes and wait.
The crackle of the fire, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the wooden bench—my anticipation magnifies everything tenfold.
"I'm ready," she says quietly.
When I turn back to her, the scene is everything I'd imagined it to be. My breath catches in my throat.
The candles illuminate the room in a soft golden hue. Isabella's bare back glows with a lustrous sheen. The hair piled on top of her head flickers and blazes like copper sparks.
The shawl drapes down her back, but not nearly enough. I need to see more. Approaching her quietly, I touch her shoulders.
"Stand up," I say softly and she complies. "I need to adjust your shawl. I would like to see your entire back, if I may." She nods, so I take hold of the edge.
Slowly, I drag the fabric down the middle of her back. My fingers glide down her spine, uncovering more and more of her body. As the shawl lowers, so do I.
On my knees, I press my thumbs into the dimples on her lower back.
The shawl slips off Isabella's right shoulder. Still, I want to see more.
I pull until her backside is partially exposed. My fingers linger against her and her skin erupts in gooseflesh.
"Are you cold?" I ask, still on my knees, wanting to sink my teeth into her voluptuous bottom.
"No," she whispers.
With regret, I rise up and instruct her to sit on the bench. I make final adjustments to both the shawl and Isabella's pose. When I'm satisfied, I step back and admire my muse.
She's perfect.
Her slender fingers are resting delicately atop her shoulders. There's a slight glimpse of her breast behind her right arm. I see the fullness of her hips. The cleft of her backside.
God…the curve of her back.
"Are you comfortable?" I ask, my voice husky with longing.
"I am."
"I'll work quickly, Isabella," I say tenderly.
Because I long to touch you again.
As I paint, I imagine it's my fingers and not the charcoal sweeping along the lines of her back. I imagine it's my mouth on the slope of her breast and not the brush. And as I dab the rag onto the contours of her backside, I imagine how it would feel to press my erection against her supple flesh.
My hand is trembling and I pause to calm myself before continuing.
The clock on the mantle ticks away the minutes as I complete her portrait. The last stroke ends with a flourish and the painting is complete. I don't usually date my art, but it seems important that I do it this time.
A turning point.
I step back to appraise. My eyes dart between subject and canvas.
My work pales in comparison to the real Isabella.
Alive and warm, sitting in front of me.
I put down my brush and palette. Wipe my hands on my rag.
"Are you finished?" she asks, a tinge of excitement in her voice.
"Yes." I walk to her, yet I'm not ready for this moment to end.
Isabella lowers her arms and proceeds to gather up the shawl. When she hears me behind her, she starts to turn.
"Stop," I command.
"Edward, what—"
"Don't move yet…stay just as you are."
I place my hands on her bare shoulders and drop again to my knees. My fingers slide down her back, stopping when they reach the edge of the shawl gathered around her waist. I toy with the edge of the fabric, slipping my fingers under to stroke her skin. Isabella's breathes speed up and when I press a kiss to the center of her glorious back, she gasps.
"You're exquisite, Isabella. Your skin, your smell…" I pause to lick between her shoulder blades. "…your taste."
Lifting her arms above her head, I kiss my way across her shoulder blade. I pull back and brush the backs of my fingers against the side of her breast. I let go of her arms but she keeps them raised and I slip my hands around her waist, resting them over the bunched up garment on her lap. Isabella parts her legs slightly and I groan at the thought of what she might allow me to do.
I rest my forehead against her back, panting like a dog.
"Isabella, please…I want to touch you…as a husband touches his wife. Please let me touch you."
She sucks in a breath. "Oh, Edward…yes…"
Over thin layers of fabric, I press down gently with my fingers, seeking heat. Isabella drops her arms and places her hand on top of mine, guiding me. Our hands move together slowly, rubbing up and down the juncture of her thighs. Her hips move in response, and she suddenly pushes my hand firmly down until I can feel the most intimate part of her. My fingers pick up her rhythm as I learn which touches make her writhe, while my other arm reaches up to caress her breast.
She's breathing hard and I get caught up in her ecstasy. I twist my head around to kiss and nuzzle her breast. Tongue her nipple. Isabella arches up and with a quiet moan, shudders with pleasure.
Suddenly I'm fighting the urge to push her forward and fuck her like an animal.
I sink my teeth into her shoulder, but not enough to break skin. Venom flows from my mouth, dripping down her chest, her back; I suppress the bittersweet agony of it not mingling with her blood.
Isabella collapses against me, spent. I kiss her neck softly, keeping my lips pressed against her carotid artery until it slows to a steady cadence.
We sit quietly for a few minutes. My immediate lust for her subsides, but my love for her is even greater than I thought possible. I want her to be mine, if she'll have me.
Forever…if she'll let me.
I gently ease her into a sitting position and turn her around to face me. Her hair has come undone from the pins, her face is flushed and there are tears in her eyes. I've never seen her more beautiful.
I cover her up with the shawl and take her hands in mine. Once again, I find myself on my knees in front of her.
"Marry me, Isabella."
A/N: I just found out Twelve Months has been nominated for a Sunflower Award, Best Romance Story! Thank you very much to the person who nominated it!
Thanks so much for reading!