Chapter Fourteen - "Reveal"

This chapter was supposed to be completely different, but I'm actually really, really happy with it. It ended up being a very important self-actualizing moment for Bella. (Self actualization: the process of establishing oneself as a whole person, able to develop one's abilities and to understand oneself).

Thank you to lightlacedwithbeauty for taking the time to read through and eeeeep for me. You know I love when you say stuff like: "It's freezing outside and it's like freaking summer in my room. TEXAS' SUMMER HEAT! Like, GAH! **fans self**" ;) I love you to pieces.

Remember, this fic is rated M for a reason.

Enjoy!

I remember clearly the day Rosalie and Edward's "cousin from New York" moved into town. The date was February fourth, and it was smack in the middle of our eighth grade year. We were having one of those perfect south Texas winter days where the sky was bright blue, the air was cool and light, and the still-green grass tickled our toes while leafless trees stretched tall over our heads. The sun sat high in the sky above the tops of the tallest fan palms, and, even though it was winter, its warmth still heated our faces.

Rosalie, Edward, Jasper and I were all sitting on the Cullen's porch, drinking hot chocolate and enjoying the fact that it was actually not too hot to drink such a beverage. We were telling jokes, laughing, talking about who was doing what in school, and which teachers were secretly kissing other teachers in the smelly boys' bathroom near the gym, when our chatter was interrupted by a moving van pulling up two houses down, followed by a small, sleek car.

Rose jumped up, squealed, and ran down the street toward the newcomers. Edward stood and took more measured steps, but his excitement was visible in the set of his shoulders. Jasper and I looked at each other, shrugged, and then craned our necks in interest.

A huge man with muscles upon muscles, covered only by his self-made sleeveless shirt and cut-off sweatpant shorts, hopped down from the truck, and a woman with short, dark hair, fancy, fashionable clothes, mega-high heels, and sunglasses stepped out of the car. Behind her came a boy, shaped much like the man, with curly brown hair and dimples I could see all the way where I sat, and a tiny girl, who was nearly identical to the woman—down to her matching heels—only in miniature form.

It took only seconds for the girl to spot Roaslie and join in the squealing, hugging, and jumping in the middle of the street.

I remember thinking to myself how totally weird these people were. They didn't dress or look like anyone from around here, and, once we were introduced, I wasn't really sure I wanted to get to know them. The boy was boisterous and loud, and the girl seemed way too perky and cared way too much about her appearance. But I didn't have much choice, seeing as the girl was related to two of my closest friends, so Mary Alice Brandon ("Call me Alice") and her new step-brother Emmett McCarty, soon became fixtures in our lives.

It bugged me a little that our Rosalie and Edward's attention was drawn away. Since we were old enough to "hang out," it'd always been the four of us. Now, it seemed, it was the four of them, and then Jasper and I. But that was okay, because Jasper was enough. My one constant. My best friend. Like me, he seemed a bit wary of the two newbies, so, as always, he and I were what we'd always been. We were just Jasper and Bella, and that was okay.

But then I started to notice the way Alice Brandon's eyes would slide our way, how she'd watch Jasper under her lashes across the lunchroom table, and how she'd scoot a little bit closer, day after day. Jasper seemed to have no problem ignoring her, but I did. I couldn't.

I didn't like her. I didn't like the way she "politely" pretended I didn't exist, except when I'd catch her looking at my clothes, with her nose slightly scrunched and her lips pursed, like her short skirts and flouncy tops were so much better than my jeans and t-shirts. I didn't like how, when I'd be talking to Rose, Alice would jump in with some funny little anecdote from New York, like I wasn't just speaking, and steal the attention away. I didn't like how everyone loved her, how they all thought she was so sweet and nice and fun. I didn't like how she was always around, always just . . . there. Constantly. But, most of all, I didn't like how she looked at my best friend; how she was so obvious it made me want to puke.

Never before had I felt what I did about her. It was this sort of . . . burning, deep in my stomach. Sometimes—especially when she'd throw her head back and laugh, making a point to slap Jasper gently on his arm any time he said anything (and ninety-nine percent of the time it wasn't even remotely funny)—it grew so hot I wanted to scream.

I wanted her to go back to New York and stay there. I wanted my little group back. I wanted her eyes to stay in her head and not constantly be on my best friend. I wanted to cut off her hands and shove them down her throat. Perhaps I was a wee bit possessive, but these people were mine first. Mine. She'd already taken two of them. She wasn't getting Jasper too.

It satisfied me to no end that Jasper seemed to have no love for her either. So, I did my best to ignore her, and I also made it a point to make sure he was never left alone with her. We had each other's backs, he and I. His looks of gratitude were all I needed to let me know he was with me all the way.

But then, sometime near the middle of our freshman year, she changed the game on me.

It was a Tuesday, the first time Alice Brandon focused on me, instead of my best friend.

Lunch had just started and I'd just taken my spoils from my backpack. Curling my lip, I perused the contents inside and then dumped them on the table with a groan. A bologna sandwich (I hated bologna), grape Gatorade (ew, that was only for when I was sick), a honey and oat granola bar (Sigh. Why not chocolate chip?), and an apple (Red. My mom knew I only liked green.)

I dropped my hand to the table, making a loud smacking noise. "I think I got Charlie's lunch again." I'd started calling my parents by their first names, because I was just that cool.

Jasper glanced over. "Renee strikes again?"

"Ugh. Why can't she just write our names on it or something?" I pushed the food away and slumped back into my chair.

Jasper studied my lunch and then picked up one of his sandwiches, handing it over. "Here."

I eyed the peanut butter and jelly, my mouth starting to water. "I'm not taking your food. You'll be starving in an hour if you don't eat it all."

"It's fine. I'll just eat that." He gestured to my disgusting sandwich.

"No way. You don't like bologna either."

He shrugged. "I don't mind it."

"Liar."

He raised his brow, and I raised mine back. I knew he didn't like bologna. We'd shared this hatred for as long as I could remember.

"You want it or not, Bella Mia?" He wiggled the sandwich in my face.

I wanted to protest, but my growling stomach made its disagreement known.

Jasper placed the sandwich down in front of me without a word and swiped the gross bologna one away, setting it in front of him.

"Thanks," I mumbled.

He nudged me with his shoulder until I looked over at him. His dimpled half-grin drew one from my lips too.

"If you'd rather have a green apple, I'll trade," a high, sing-songy voice said from my opposite side.

I turned toward it, stunned to see Alice sitting next to me instead of her usual spot across from Jasper. I looked back at him and he raised his brows and shrugged his shoulders. Slowly, I returned my attention to Alice. She was looking up at me, a green apple perched on her palm. Her gray eyes seemed sincere, but still, I hesitated.

"Well?" she said. "Do you wanna?"

I blinked a few times, and then nodded, picking up my red apple and trading it with her green one. "Sure. Thanks."

She smiled then, and it was like the entire room lit up. I didn't miss how her gaze stayed right on me and didn't flick beyond my shoulder to my blond-haired friend, either. This was weird. She never passed up a chance to look at him.

Bouncing a little in her seat, Alice turned back to her food. "No problem. My mom forgets that I prefer red sometimes too."

I had no idea what to say to that. This was the first time Alice had ever sat by me, let alone engaged me in conversation without someone else including me first. So, I said nothing, opting instead to bite into the apple and chalking this up to some weird one-time occurrence, but just as my teeth sank into the juicy flesh, I felt her breath at my ear.

"You know, I heard that you've got a thing for Alec Winters," Alice whispered. "I could help with that."

I choked. Literally.

A hand slapped me on the back. "Whoa, you okay there, Bella Mia?"

I coughed into my hand and nodded my head.

Another hand joined his on my back, rubbing small, delicate, unhelpful circles into my shirt. "Oh! Are you choking? Do you need the Heimlich? Jazzy, do you know how to do it?"

In spite of the piece of apple trying to make its way into my windpipe, I jerked my head in Jasper's direction, taking in the look of pure shock and dislike on his face after hearing his new nickname, and gave him one of my own. He shook his head and turned away, his cheeks redder than I'd ever seen them before.

"I don't need the Heimlich," I gasped, pushing Alice's hand away before turning back to her. "Now, what did you say?"

"Alec Winters," she said, blinking innocently as she pointed across the room. "You like him." She pointed to me. "Alice help." She pointed to herself.

My chest flared in annoyance at how she talked to me like a child, but then my traitor gaze darted to where our resident Junior Varsity kicker sat with the rest of the football players. He was sooooooooo cute, with all that dark hair, and lean body, and dimples . . . He wasn't looking at me, and I was glad, because I was sure my face was beet red. Not. Attractive. I ducked my head and let my hair fall in front of my face.

"Nuh uh," I said to Alice. Why was she talking to me again?

"Why are you always looking at him then, huh?"

"I'm not!" I whisper-shouted.

"Sure you're not." She was smirking, and I was dying, and I wanted to punch her. No one was supposed to know about my little crush on Alec. I didn't do the whole boy thing. That was just not me.

"Alice . . ." I said. "Please, just . . ." I glanced over at Alec again. He was laughing with his friends and the sound of his deep chuckle made my stomach drop and twist and drop again. "Please don't say anything."

Alice scooted in further and beamed wider. "Oh, don't be silly. I'm not going to tell anyone. Like I said, I'm going to help you."

I raised my brows. "Help me?"

She drew her can of soda up to her lips and sucked through the straw she had placed inside. "Mmhmm."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because we're friends. Duh."

I blinked. We weren't friends. I mean, maybe in New York ignoring someone for a whole year might constitute a budding friendship, but that wasn't how we did things down here in Texas. Alice must have gathered my skepticism from the height of my eyebrows.

"Okay," she admitted with a sigh. "Maybe we're not friends, but I don't know why. I'd like to be."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Because it's time."

Time? Time for what?

"So, do you want my help, or what?" she said, before I could ask.

"I don't know. What does your help entail?"

Her smile grew ever bigger. I didn't think I liked that smile.

"It won't be a big deal, Bella. A little Alice magic on . . ." She looked me up and down, her nose scrunching in that way it always did when she studied me, before she blew out a breath from it. "Just trust me." She flipped a piece of my hanging brown hair from my shoulder, and then pinched a fleck of lint from my shoulder. "I'm a miracle worker."

"Who says I need a miracle? That I couldn't get him on my own? If I even wanted to." Why was I talking? Shut up, Bella!

Alice leaned in, her smile widening. "Just give me six months, and I'll have that boy panting at your feet."

I didn't believe a single word and I told her as much.

"Prove me wrong, then," Alice said, her chin tipped up in defiance.

I narrowed my eyes and clenched my fist. I couldn't resist the chance to do just that.

Bringing my hand up, I offered it to her. "Okay, Alice, you're on."

Alice slipped her tiny, warm hand in mine. "Oh, Bella, you and I are going to be the best of friends."

And much to my disbelief, we were.

Alice was so different than I'd perceived her to be. Yeah, our friendship started out as nothing more than her thinking she could perform a miracle on Houston's "Ugly Duck", and my wanting to prove it was impossible. And I honestly hated all the primping, and makeovers, and hairstyle changes, and dresses. But there was just something about Alice. I couldn't pinpoint it then, and I still can't now, but somehow, she managed to work her way into being a permanence in everyone's life. Mine, Rosalie's, Edwards.

Jasper's.

Maybe it was her bubbly personality, maybe it was her perseverance, maybe it was something else entirely. But if Alice wanted it, Alice got it. My friendship included. None of us questioned it, and none of us argued. It was just the way it was. It was almost as if she'd bewitched us all.

And just as she'd promised, six months after that handshake in the lunchroom—almost to the day— Mary Alice Brandon was my best girl friend, and Alec Winters was mine.

And then a year after that, Jasper was hers.

As I lay there on my bed, all of these thoughts and memories closing in on my already crowded brain, I frown and curl in on myself. I don't know why I'm thinking about this now. Why I'm thinking about her, while I'm lying here with Jasper. After he kissed me and touched me so good I can still feel the ghosts of his lips and hands on my mouth and body.

This isn't the time for Alice Brandon. I know that. She's had four years of my time, of being the thing that guided all my thoughts and regrets and actions. The memory of her now just knocks on my guilt and begs to come back in, to consume me, to swallow me whole.

But I don't want her to consume me anymore. I want to let someone else have a turn.

I want this moment to be about me, and about him, and not about her. But changing the way I've thought for so many years is easier said than done.

Arms tighten around me, and I close my eyes to focus on how they feel instead of the storm waging in my mind.

"What're ya thinkin' 'bout so hard over there?" Jasper says, his breath warm against my neck.

I shiver, and the bare skin of my back brushes against his chest, reminding me that I'm still shirtless and so is he. I trail my hands down and find his, lacing our fingers together before I answer.

"High school."

"Why?"

"I don't know," I say, thinking back to the memory of that day and wondering why it's the one my mind focused on. It wasn't a particularly fond memory, as I didn't really even like her then. But there's something about it that's picking at my brain, something telling me I need to see, that I need to notice. I don't though. It looks the same to me as it always did. "Trying to put some things into perspective, I guess."

"You're thinkin' 'bout Alice."

It's not a question, because he knows me better than that.

I clutch his hand tighter and curl it up to my chest. His breath catches a bit, and I know it's because he can feel my nakedness beneath it. His arms strain, as do the muscles in his stomach. I like that they do. I like how he's fighting so hard against his male instincts to feel me even more. No guy has ever done that with me before, made me feel like my words, and thoughts, and feelings were just as—or even more—important than my body.

"Yeah . . ." I say, my voice trailing off.

He sighs. "You shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because you've given her enough of you already."

He's right. I know he is, but I can't seem to shut my brain off. There are too many things, too many questions banging against each other inside. It's honestly starting to give me a headache.

I let out a frustrated huff. "I don't think I want to talk about Alice right now."

"I don't think there's anything I'd rather talk about less, either, to be honest," he says. "But I'm serious, Mia. She doesn't deserve anymore. Believe me."

I frown at the bitterness in his voice. "What do you mean?"

He kisses my shoulder and drawls against my skin, "I thought we weren't talkin' 'bout her anymore?"

"We're not, but you said . . . what did you mean by 'believe me'?"

Jasper sighs. "I just meant that I don't think Alice has always had the purest of intentions when it's come to us. That's all."

I untangle myself from his hold, and scoot away, turning toward him. "What are you—"

Jasper presses his finger to my lips. "No more now, darlin'. All right?"

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. "Okay. You're right. No more Alice today."

"That's my girl," he says, and butterflies explode in my stomach.

I slowly open my lids and, even though he's laying there half-dressed, too-big pajama pants slipped low enough to reveal the sharp angle of his hipbone, the hair leading to his navel, his stomach and chest, and his dogtags hanging from his neck and pooling on the mattress, the only things I see are his eyes. They're so blue, looking at me like they always have. Like they are still seven-years-old, peering at a dirty-faced girl with a frog in her pocket, and not a woman who's made so many wrong decisions she's practically stained black. Full and free and innocent, like she has the power to be his world. Like she already is.

His eyes hurt me.

They hurt me because he's good and real and honest, and I'm not.

They hurt me because he wants just me, and I can't stop thinking about Alice.

They hurt me because he thinks I'm special, and I think I'm broken beyond repair.

They hurt me, and I want them to hurt me more.

Because this pain is good. It's real. It means something. It means I was once worth enough to be looked at that way, that maybe I still can be. It means I'm alive and imperfect and damaged, and he sees me anyway.

Reaching out, I run my fingers along his forearm, up to his hand, tracing the line of his knuckles, until he flips his hand over and I outline his callouses instead. I love his fingers. I love his hands. I love the way he looks at the world like he can fix it, and then he uses those rough hands to do it.

When I lift my gaze, his is still focused on my face, a slight frown pinching his brows, and I know it's because he knows my mind is still circling her. It's not that easy to just shut it off. To tell myself I'm not going to think about it and then I just don't.

I move in closer and the hand I'd been caressing plants itself on the curve of my bare waist, but his eyes don't move from my face.

"You know what astounds me about you?" I ask.

Jasper pulls me up against him and my palms flatten to his chest. His heart thrums beneath them and the chain from his tags tangle with my fingers. "My inability to pronounce Gs at the ends of words?"

I smile. "No. I like the way you talk. You know that."

"Then what?"

I fit my hips with Jasper's and lean into him, until he falls onto his back. I roll with him and stretch out on top, chest to chest, hips to hips, nose to nose, my toes at the middle of his shins. His skin is hot and his body is firm. His breath stops for a moment and he stiffens below me. My hair drapes like a curtain around our faces and it feels like we're in our own little world. I like it. I like being here alone with him.

"That for the last hour, while we've been talking, I've been lying here with no shirt or bra on and you've consistently looked me in the eye and not at my boobs."

Jasper gathers my hair, fingers brushing my neck as he collects every strand and holds them away behind me. Goosebumps race after his touch and spread outward. His other hand ghosts the top of my shoulder, over my shoulder blade, and down my back, not stopping until he reaches the small of it. "I'm no angel, darlin'. I've been wantin' to be lookin' the whole time."

"But you haven't."

"I've been peekin'." He grins, and then his face falls serious once more. His fingers move slowly up my spine. "It's hard not to stare when somethin' so pretty's laid out in front of you. But I respect you enough to try."

He respects me. No one respects me. No one ever has.

"And that's what astounds me. How you can still be polite and gentlemanly when you've got boobs in your face. I don't know any other guys who could do that."

His cheeks grow pink. "Well, I—"

I touch my finger to his lips. "Don't you dare try to excuse it away. I like it. I like that you see things that way, that you see me that way. That you make me feel like I'm special and not like I'm just a body, even when I'm offering it to you." I remove my finger from his mouth. "Most guys paw at me. They make me feel like I'm a piece of meat. Like all I'm good for is one thing. And, honestly, that's how I deserved to be treated."

"No, you—"

"Yes, I did, Jasper. Back then, I did. It's how I wanted it. But now . . ."

"Now?" He lets my hair go and it falls over one of my shoulders.

"Now . . ." I look down into his face, at his eyes that seem to see right inside me, his nose that's just slightly crooked, to his full mouth, the scar on his chin, the small indent in his cheek, and I want to kiss them all. "Now I want this. I want to feel like this."

"And how does this feel?" he asks. His hands are still moving up and down my back, and I love how rough they are on my skin.

"Right," I answer. "This feels right."

Before I have the chance to say anything else, I'm on my back and Jasper's mouth is on mine, hard, insistent, perfect. I bring my hands up to the back of his head and I keep him there against me, sucking his lip between mine, nibbling on it, licking it, and he does the same to me. He holds my face, fingers in my hair, thumbs at my jaw. My body is crushed beneath his and normally this would be an issue for me. Not since the time Jasper and I were together before have I let a man on top of me. I always had to be in charge, always the one controlling what we did, how fast, how hard, how much. Even with Edward.

But now, as Jasper presses me into the mattress, the weight of him doesn't feel like chains, it doesn't feel like he's holding me down or trapping me, it feels good. It feels natural.

I wrestle my legs out from underneath his and raise them up, my inner thighs brushing against him, the soft pile of his pants tickling my skin, until his hips sink down and I can feel all of him hot and hard against me. Heat blazes in my chest and stomach, and I let go of his head and allow my hands to trail the line of his neck, the width of his shoulders, the flare of his back, and the dip at his waist. He feels so different than when I felt him like this before. Then, he was still a boy, just starting to come into manhood, but now every place I touch is all man. There is none of that boy left, except maybe in his eyes and in his dimples when he smiles.

My fingers map every inch of his torso, the curve of his spine, the dips in his lower back just above his ass, the way his muscles flex and move when he does. I touch his shoulders and his biceps, his forearms and hands. I move over his chest and abs and the line of hair that disappears into his pants. The urge to go lower is almost unbearable. I know I shouldn't, that doing that could lead to more and the return of feelings I've fought so hard not to have with him. But I can't deny myself. I want to touch him. I need to.

My fingers trail down, following that hair all the way to the band of his pants. I pause, but only for a second, before I slip my fingers underneath.

Jasper breaks away from our kiss and pulls back just slightly, enough so that my fingers slide out, but I catch the band and hold on. He doesn't say anything and he doesn't move further away, but his eyes lock on mine. They aren't really questioning, but I can see that they're not exactly sure either. I love that he's not asking if I'm ready or if I'm sure. I don't want him to ask. I want him to just let me do it.

So, I don't say anything to him either, I just stare back for a few seconds, and then I reach up and grab the chain around his neck and tug, letting him know that this is what I want and I'm okay. He holds my gaze for several more seconds, and then he leans in again, capturing my mouth. And as he kisses me, I let my hand glide inside.

The whimper that escapes the moment my fingers wrap around him doesn't come from him, but from me. Because I've missed this. The feel of what I can do to a man, of what it's like to let myself give in to the fire in my chest and the need in my belly. I love how he's heavy and hot and hard against my palm, and how his mouth is still on mine but he can barely kiss me anymore. But most of all, I love that it's Jasper, that it's his breath on my tongue, his chest on mine, his desire in my hand, and more than anything, I love that it's me that's about to make him sing.

Jasper's mouth moves from mine to my jaw, to my throat, and he kisses down, down down, until he's biting at my collarbone. My body is shivering and burning, unable to decide which it likes best. One of Jasper's hands is still cupping my neck, but the other has fallen to my hip and he's holding on so tight, so tight, as his own hips start to move, slow at first and then faster, hot skin slipping through my hand like silk. He's so soft, and so hard, and so perfect.

His breath falls over my flesh, sometimes harsh and heavy, other times soft and steady, like a groan or a plea, but it's always warm, always wet, always mine.

"Mia," he says, breathless and strained, his mouth at my ear, wet lips on warm skin, his fingers twitching at my hip. I love the desperation in my name. The way he breathes when he can't breathe. "Can I touch you too, darlin'?"

When I don't answer right away, he shifts up and meets my eyes. His are no longer the blue of a daytime sky but as dark as a storm at midnight.

"Let me touch you too."

The ragged edge to his voice makes me shiver, and I lose all ability to speak, so I nod instead. Jasper rests his forehead on mine, our noses brushing, our mouths barely touching, and his hand moves across my hip to the front of my panties. His fingers trail along the band, causing my body to shake in anticipation. And then he slips inside, and I can't think.

A gasp falls from my lips and my body arches. It's better than I remember. Better than anything I've ever imagined. The hand that was at my neck wraps around my back, holding me up against him as his fingers slide over me, through me, inside me. And I can't. I just can't.

Our foreheads press against each other's, our mouths kissing without kissing, and our breaths a cacophony of "please" and "God" and "yes" and "more." And I'm swept up in it, the feeling of his arm locked around me, his bicep flexed into my back, the sweat on his brow mixing with and slipping against mine, his hardness growing harder in my hand, his fingers working me like a musical instrument: soft and slow, and hard and fast, and long and short.

It's so much, but I still want more. I want more. I want his touch and his kiss and his words and his heartbeat and his breath. I want all of it all over me and inside of me. There's not too much that he could give me, that I could claim from him, or that he could take from me. I'm burning for it, for him, and it's overwhelming, building so hot and so huge and so high that I can't contain it.

"Jasper," I say, dragging out the r because I can't seem to stop it. It sounds stupid, and needy, and greedy, but I don't care, because I'm all of those things. My hand lifts and fists into the hairs on top of his head, and I hold him there. I hold him so tight right there because it feels like if he moves even an inch away I might die.

His mouth is on mine again, and we are all lazy tongues and breath and lips, groans and pleas and our names over and over and over. Fingers grip and tug and dip and thrust, and it feels like diving and swimming and sinking simultaneously. My skin and his slide and mold, and I don't know which belongs to him and which belongs to me.

That familiar building ache starts in my belly and my legs begin to shake. My hand moves down to his shoulder and, if possible, I hold him tighter, stroke him faster. His hips and breath falter, his thighs and back clench, and I know he's there. He's right there, and he's waiting for me to be there with him. I let go of him just long enough to tug his pants down, and then I take him again.

The sound he makes when I wrap my fingers around him is all it takes for that ache to spread like wildfire up into my chest, down to my thighs and toes, and I'm gone. Gone and arching and holding and pulling. And he's stiff and groaning and hot and wet across my stomach.

We are nothing but a gasping tangle of limbs and sweat. Hands, and mouths, and breaths we can't catch. I can't open my eyes; I can't feel my toes. But I can feel him, still hovering above me, still breathing hard and trembling. My heart pounds, and I wait for it.

That feeling. The one that always fills me afterward. The one that makes me run.

I wait, and I wait, and I wait. My hands holding onto him. My heart threatening to explode out of my chest.

I wait.

But it doesn't come.

I don't feel it. My chest is not tightening; it's not filling with panic and shame and guilt. It's content. It's satisfied. And I don't want to go anywhere.

So, I smile. Because I'm still here. I came all over his hand and he came all over my stomach. And I'm still here.

I open my eyes and Jasper's there, looking down on me, all blue skies with no trace of midnight. And I want to do what we just did all over again.

He glances between us and then back up to my eyes, a sheepish expression and a slight flush transforming his face. "I'm afraid I made a bit of a mess."

I laugh and reach for him, pulling him down to kiss him once more. "Me too," I say, a blush of my own heating my cheeks. His answering grin is so bright, so beautiful, I wish I could bottle it up and keep it forever.

Reaching to the side, I grab Emmett's shirt and hand it to Jasper. He raises one brow, and I shrug. "He deserves a ruined shirt for being such an ass."

Jasper laughs then, taking the shirt and wiping off his hand, and then gently cleaning off my stomach. When he's done, he tosses the shirt to the floor and climbs up my body once more, settling carefully over me and reaching up to slip his finger under the hair hanging over my forehead. I watch him as he does it, and I can see so much tenderness and care in his face.

No one else has ever looked at me like that after they've touched me, after I've touched them. Like he still wants me. Like I'm still worth wanting.

"We okay?" he asks, and those words fill me full. Not just because he's asking me basically the same thing he did last time, but because he said we. Are we okay, not just me. We're a we now.

"Yeah," I say. "We're okay."

He kisses my forehead, and my nose, and my eyelids.

And he astounds me again, how he can be so gentle and sincere toward a girl like me. A girl who spent so long throwing herself away to any guy that would have her. Yet, he does. He treats me like I'm unstained, unblemished, un-ruined, like I'm untouched and innocent again.

I'm not, but I want to be. I want to be so much.

"What're you thinkin' 'bout now?" he asks.

I look up at him, really look at him, and take his hand in mine. "I was thinking that I like this. I really like this. How this feels. How you feel. How we feel. How you make me feel." I kiss his knuckles, one at a time. "And I was thinking how much I'd like to keep feeling like this."

I can't get over his eyes. The way he looks up at me from under his lashes. How they're so full and bright and honest.

"I'd like that too," he says.

I reach up and touch his face, a face I've been looking at for so many years and thought I knew by heart. But I'm noticing now that I didn't. There's so much more to this face, to this man, and I've only just scratched the surface. I want to know more. I want to know it all.

"I like you," I say, and then I lower my voice to a whisper. "I more than like you."

He doesn't answer me, but when he leans down and kisses me again, still so soft and light, I know he's telling me that he more than likes me too, without using any words at all.

I'm not thinking about Alice anymore. I'm not thinking about anything but how warm he is and how much I like his eyes.

And it's enough. His gentle eyes, and his hair-moving fingers, and his no-words mouth. It's enough. He's enough.

And I think, maybe, despite everything I am and everything I've done, for him, I am too.

Until next time, XOXO ddpjclaf

Usually I don't put this stuff in an AN, but because the commenter doesn't accept PMs, I'm going to address her concern here:

Shejustwantstodance,

I can certainly appreciate your concern that Bella's friends have made her out to be someone who cannot be trusted to make her decisions and that, after her attack, they treated her even more like that. And you're right, in a way. They (mostly Emmett and Edward) did become very protective of her, and they did step in to stop her from making more bad choices. Because she WAS making bad choices. She was making dangerous choices.

She was going to bars and pool halls alone LOOKING for men to sleep with. She wasn't choosey. She didn't care who it was as long as he struck her fancy and make her pain go away for even a few moments. She was exactly like an addict, and she was not taking her own safety into consideration.

I get the feeling you might have been looking at this more in the way that the boys were thinking "she's a girl so she can't possibly take care of herself" sort of way. Like they were being typical males looking down on a girl. That wasn't the case at all. She was very much endangering herself because she was gaining a reputation and was doing nothing to ensure her own wellbeing.

Her friends had cause and right to be concerned. They basically had an intervention after Riley, because one of the ugly things that can happen when you live the way she was living happened. None of them BLAME her for what Riley did, but they don't want to see her hurt again, so they're clinging a bit too tight.

This was in no way supposed to be read as "blame the victim", nor was it meant to come across as she couldn't take care of herself. I apologize if anyone took it that way. It was never the intent. The only intent was that Bella was really screwed up and people who cared about her intervened before something worse happened. Not because she was "asking for it" or "deserved it" but because she was putting herself in situations where people might easily be able to take from her.

Unfortunately, just like an addict, Bella lost a lot of the trust her friends had in her to keep herself safe, so they're still over-protective. And, honestly, to this point, Bella has just shied back and hid behind her guilt and shame and let them maintain this protectiveness. She's just now trying to break out of it.