A/N: I know I'm updating pretty fast these days, but I'm still more than ten chapters ahead. It might not always be like this, but fingers crossed.
Thanks, as always, to Kimmie45 who got this one back in a day. You're super gorge, doll. And thanks to all those who left a review. Sorry I didn't thank you personally. If I'm going to update within a few days, I might not. I appreciate all your thoughts, though, and I enjoy reading them. You've all been super kind and encouraging.
Anywho...
xoxo
Vertigo
Chapter 12
Bella.
I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to the sight of a half-naked Edward Cullen in my bed, but right now I'd like to handcuff him to the headboard and keep him there permanently.
He's lying on his stomach, his back a mountain of muscles that rises and falls as he breathes. He's snoring softly, and Christ, how can a man be as appealing in sleep as he is awake?
I could bloody eat him.
Tonight was our "D" date. The date we had sex. Not counting the first date—because that was more therapy than anything else—we made it to date number four. I don't usually add timeframes to dating, or put any restrictions or limits on interactions, but tonight for some reason, I started wondering whether my mother would give her approval.
Not to Edward, but to my barely holding out a week.
I plan on waking him up soon for another go at it, because God, I need that hot, heavy body over me again. He really has no idea what the hell he's doing and it's ridiculously adorable. He's clumsy and completely bloody unco, and of course, he apologises during sex as much as he does in every day circumstances. It makes me wonder what else his evil witch of a mother did to him, because he apologises so much it's as if he's been programmed to believe he's constantly at fault.
Which I suspect he has. I might have to kill her.
There's something about him that makes me want to go all maternal and protect him. He's this strapping specimen of a man, but at the same time he's like a little boy. He has this innocence to him.
All things considered he's remarkably well-adjusted, and it seems his grandfather saved him and his brother from being another statistic of the curse of the filthy rich.
He doesn't flinch when I touch him anymore, thank Christ, because he's the sort of man no sane girl could resist groping. He sure was wound tight, but nothing more than a good hand-job can cure. It needed to be done, because that gorgeous man was so seriously backed up I'm sure it could have caused him some kind of erectile dysfunction later in life.
Oppa's already come around to him. Bloody turncoat. He whores himself out the moment Edward walks in the door. Earlier tonight, I found them snuggling on the lounge together and I knew we weren't going to make it to date "5". I know I promised him after date "1" that he could have me, but I feared anything more after that night could possibly harm him. And I did want to see how long I could hold out.
It wasn't long.
I invited him over to cook dinner for him with the sole intention of getting those clothes off him, and he didn't disappoint. He's ridiculously fit, unlike Jake who pumps iron, but like he swims endless hours of laps.
He was more than willing, but Christ, we're going to have to work on his endurance.
. . .
I tip toe down the hall and into the kitchen where Oppa's asleep in his bed. I switch on the kitchen light and he's immediately awake jumping around me. No one ever warned me that Poodles were so hyper.
"Oppa...speak," I command in a whisper, and of course, he immediately obeys, because apart from being hyper, they're also ridiculously smart. I jump up and down revving him into excitement until he's barking repeatedly, and loud enough to wake the sleeping Adonis in my bed.
True enough, thirty seconds later Edward staggers from the room, still clearly half asleep and naked apart from a pair of navy blue Bonds undies. He really does have a thing for Bonds clothes in general, not that I can fault him over this one.
"Christ, sorry, Edward," I immediately apologise. "He probably saw a bloody mozzie or something. He's such a sook."
He mumbles out a throaty-sounding hum, a half drunken grin forms across his face, and God, he looks like a twelve year old who just lost his virginity. "Hey."
"Hey."
"What time is it?"
I glance hastily around knowing I've got the time somewhere—the stove. "12:30."
"Hmmm..." He runs his hand to the back of his head and scratches. "You're not tired?"
"Well, that depends..." I arch a brow giving him the universally understood "fuck me" look.
Being half asleep, his reaction time is slightly delayed, but it isn't long before his drunken grin is replaced by a canny smile and his Bonds knickers start getting a workout.
Only four "sorrys" this time, and he did bang his head on the headboard, but there's something about a guy grabbing his head in pain while he's about to come that's ridiculously adorable.
Or maybe I just find everything about Edward ridiculously adorable.
Like the first time, after he brings himself back down he immediately moves to pull his hot, sweaty body from mine, but this time I don't let him.
"Would you just bloody stay still?"
"I'm sorry, Bella... I don't want to squash you," is his reasoning, and his eyes are so full of concern that it's killing me.
"Christ, Edward, I'm not made of glass." I snake my hands around his neck and encourage him to relax, but it's not easy with this guy.
He pulls himself up on his hands as if he's about to do push ups over me.
"What the hell are you doing now?"
He starts chuckling, it's husky and gruff, and suddenly he plunges his face into my neck. "I don't know—I'm worried about you."
"Are you breaking one of my rules?"
"I'm physically worried about you, I mean," he raises his head and clarifies, and I'm pretty sure there's reference to one of my rules in there somewhere.
"God, why? I'm not dying."
I can see it in his expression, he doesn't like me saying things like that. He only stares at me for a moment, and when he opens his mouth, I'm convinced he's about to articulate it, but what he actually says surprises me.
"Bella...?"
"Yes, Mr. Whiskey Voice?"
"I'm sorry?"
"God...never mind."
He smiles, scoffing it quickly through his nose before his expression turns serious again. "You're protected...right?"
"Of course I am." Christ, how am I going to get out of this one? I can't tell him anything so heavy after our D-day date, but I need to put the poor man's mind at ease. The upside is I get the luxury to be super careless; the downside...well my shrink did allude to the fact that I probably use sex as therapy. The bloody irony; I've become Lauren Mallory.
God...get me out of this hell.
I've noticed Edward does this expression when he clearly wants to pry, but he fears upsetting me, or maybe he's just too much of a gentleman. He gets a crick between his eyes and he looks like his mind is drifting off into space. He's doing that now.
He wants more details and...shit.
"I'm on the pill—it regulates my cycle. I've been on it since I was a kid," I outright lie. It's always the safest route to go because most blokes are clueless when it comes to women's plumbing.
His expression relaxes and he releases his breath letting me know he's as relieved as I am. Just for different reasons.
Since he refuses to relax his weight against me, I put him out of the torture of straining over me and crawl out from under him. He immediately opens an arm for me and I curl against his chest.
"Hey?" I say after a moment of inhaling the combined sex appeal of Aramis and woody sweat.
"Hmm?"
"You'd think you'd be a lot more careful after knocking up Lauren Mallory. What if I was playing Russian Roulette?"
"Yeah...I know. Shit... I'm sorry."
"Christ, Mr. Apology, this is really becoming an epidemic."
He does this husky kind of laugh against my hair. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"
Aside from the apologies, Edward also has a habit of being really random.
"Well, my mother was a model, Darling. It's just a pity I'm so short."
"Could you not joke around just once?"
"Well, what am I supposed to say to something like that? Get all up myself like Rosalie Hale?"
"You talk too much." There's amusement in his voice, but he's tired. The poor man probably isn't used to sex twice in two hours. I have a suspicion that aside from Lauren Mallory, he's probably only been with one other woman.
God, I've got a lot to teach him.
. . .
Edward and I haven't really done our sad stories yet; not that I have any plans to. That's a Misery Street I don't want to go strolling down. Aside from what Edward revealed to me on our first date, he hasn't said anymore. He's asked me a few things about my past, but I've successfully swayed him off the topic. There's nothing that can put a damper on a great sex life—despite all his inexperience it really is great—quicker than the Isabella Swan Saga, and one thing I cannot stand is pity or sympathy. Yeah, my family's dead, but I'm not, and I don't want to be treated any differently than your average person who hasn't been to hell and back at the end of a Linfox truck. I cannot be defined by what happened to me; not anymore.
I don't want to know more about Edward's pain either.
It's not that I don't care; it's that he's the sort of person that will make me care too much. The truth is, I don't want to fall for him, and the more I know about him the more dangerous it will become. At the moment, I'm happy to be in lust with him, and I consider it my duty as a female to get the poor guy up to par in the sack. He's so fumbling and completely clueless that it could take a while. Plus, he's so easy on the eye I don't mind seeing him around my house, and it's good to have a full schedule on the weekend again.
I have to keep busy; I'm not the sort of person who can sit around doing fuck-all. There's nothing worse than an idle mind, it opens the door to stuff I don't want to let in.
I haven't told my shrink about Edward yet. He wouldn't agree, and I don't want a man I'm paying thousands of dollars a year to go all parental and put restrictions on me. He doesn't think I'm emotionally healthy for a relationship just yet. In fact, he actively warns me to avoid them. Apparently, aside from being detrimental to another person, opening myself up to another could send me spiralling toward suicide alley by triggering extreme anxiety and depression.
As if I need someone else for that to happen.
I have to keep myself detached from Edward emotionally. For a while at least, until being in a relationship doesn't essentially scare the crap out of me and push me to the brink.
While I still have really shit days, and certain events trigger those four bloody letters I have come to despise, PTSD, I'm doing a lot better than I was three years ago. My nightmares have dwindled to roughly one a month, and I haven't had a panic attack in ages. The positive is that Edward knows what happened to me without the awkwardness of me having to fill him in—well, he knows most of it anyway. So, I figure if something happens to send me off the deep end when he's around, he at least won't be too shocked. Knowing what he's been through himself, he'll probably be the best person to have around.
Christ, how depressing.
I suppose with me spending every weekend with him, something was bound to happen sooner or later. Try and see the positives in everything, as my shrink would say. So the positive is that at least the biggest freak out I had all year was around him, so the next time it happens he'll be somewhat immune.
I don't like being on highways, and I absolutely do not like the roaring sound that a semi-trailer's engine makes; most especially the sound of its breaks.
Occasionally me and my phobias collide, like my boss' wedding for example, and I always have strategies set in place for those very instances. I sweet-talked the limo driver into letting me sit in the front seat, but we were on the bloody M5 for more than an hour with trucks of all sizes everywhere. I slept the entire way there, by drugging myself with antihistamines thirty minutes beforehand.
I can tolerate it in small bursts without coming apart. I'm on the M1 Freeway for 2 kilometres every day for work as I drive to Milson's Point to catch the ferry. I can usually handle it without any meltdowns. I just don't over think anything and keep my eyes ahead of me.
So when Edward suggested we drive to The Royal Botanic Gardens for lunch four Saturdays later, I didn't think much of it. We'd be on the A1 for a kilometre more. I could handle that.
In hindsight, we should have taken the ferry.
We're approaching the Sydney Harbour Tunnel when it happens; a sudden gridlock that requires Edward to hit the brakes—pretty sharply. I'm propelled forward, the seatbelt catching me and knocking the wind from my lungs, but that's when I hear it. That god-awful sound of a truck's screeching tires behind us.
I squeeze my eyes shut, promptly reaching out to Edward to brace myself. The impact I'm expecting doesn't come, but the panic does. And panic attacks quickly trigger asthma attacks.
I know the calling card of panic immediately. The first thing that happens is all sound is muted only to be replaced by a high pitched ringing. After, I lose all perception of time. Everything seems in slow motion, while the only thing in real time is the sound of my breath rushing in my ears as it gets shallower and shallower.
That's when shit hits the fan.
I try to escape, literally, while Edward's still driving through the Harbour Tunnel at sixty kilometres an hour. With my most primitive instincts pushing me forward, I grab the handle of the car door and attempt to jump out. Edward immediately reaches out and pulls me back in, but there's no place to stop; he has to keep going until we're out of the tunnel.
I turn to him, and while I can't hear what he's saying, he's clearly yelling, with the most intense expression of fear flooding his face.
That's when it all comes crashing back to me. All sound and time, all at once. I can barely breathe, and I'm screaming at Edward to let me out.
He puts his foot down to exit the tunnel quicker, but it only makes me worse. He's driving erratically, with one hand on the wheel while the other is clamped to my shirt keeping me in my seat.
Once we're out of the tunnel, Edward takes a sharp right onto Macquarie Street, and I don't know where he parks, whether it's legal or not, but I'm already out and stumbling to the footpath on my hands and knees before he comes to a complete stop.
I can't breathe, I'm drenched in sweat, and I feel like I'm going to bloody die.
Edward instantly has me in his arms, shoving my inhaler down my throat, while a couple of dozen spectators start milling around.
And then I do what I usually do after a particular nasty episode of asthma; I throw up. It's my body's natural defence mechanism, to expel anything and everything that could be impeding my airways, and it goes all over Edward.
Some perceptive bloody individual has called an ambulance; they arrive minutes later, and quickly haul me in the back. I only shake my head in a feeble protest, but I am so weak and shaky, and barely breathing, that an oxygen mask is shoved over my face and I'm strapped to the gurney.
I glance around hastily for Edward, when I finally find him. He's standing roughly six feet behind the ambulance, his eyes wide as he stares back at me in complete bloody horror, covered in puke.
A/N: Let me know, or you can lurk. I suppose that's okay.
MWAH.
