This is my one and only oneshot for this challenge. A fact I'm quite ashamed of, to be honest.
The Twilight Twenty-Five
thetwilight25[dot]com
Prompt: 19, Tingle
Pen Name: IcelandGirl812
Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward/Bella
Rating: M
Photo prompts can be viewed here: thetwilight25[dot]com/round-5/prompts
19.
There is a crackle in this room.
It slithers across the carpet, floats through the air, slides into pores.
It's undeniable and can't be ignored.
Won't be ignored.
But they try to ignore it, the two people occupying the room.
A desk separates him from her, her from him – a precaution, safeguard against anything of the last time.
Against that lack of control, forgetting of boundaries.
They were too close, last time. Too near, too absorbed and too surrounded with the other.
Things happened that shouldn't have, things were felt that shouldn't have been, wants were acknowledged that shouldn't have existed in the first place.
Because she'd been beside him, leaning over his shoulder, attempting to focus on the black words on white paper before him. But her cheek had brushed his hair, his shoulder had brushed against her chest – their fingers had reached for the same pen and that'd been it.
Just that touch and she'd forgotten, he'd been lost, and ignorance was a thing of the past.
So now they're apart, sturdy, polished mahogany shielding them from each other. Papers are scattered between, adding even more distance.
Or trying to, at least.
Like they're both trying. Pretending.
Pretending they don't feel the spark, the draw, the tension between them – pretending they've never felt relief from it, even as that relief brought more craving.
His voice cool and steady, his hand only the least bit shaky with the fight for control, he asks her about the number difference of two accounts.
She watches his lips, though. Thinks of his mouth.
Remembers.
He's not looking at her, gaze focused down as he shuffles through paper-stacks to find the one he wants.
More words leave his mouth, but all she hears is his voice – that smooth flow that reaches places, silk that floods into every corner and crevice.
A shiver skates down her spine, settles into tension in the small of her back, a clenching of her thigh muscles and goose bumps across her arms.
He says her name, in the way only he manages to be able to do – lips seeming to touch the word as though it were actual, tongue caressing each individual letter – and asks if she's alright.
She nods and stands, not realizing what seeing the full length of her does to him.
"I think I've just been sitting too long."
It's with force that she keeps her arms from winding around herself as she crosses to the windows. They span from floor-to-ceiling in his office, offer a beautiful view of the city and the storm engulfing it.
His steps are unnervingly silent, but his presence is loud when she feels it behind her, almost beside her.
The tug is there, incessant and unwavering.
"I love the city when it rains. The smell and the clarity, the shadows and secrets created by the clouds."
Her words, her confession, are quietly given. Maybe that's why they stir him, move his feet, his body, tear apart the last threads of his careful control.
She's staring straight ahead, admiring her favorite weather for the city, wishing she had more courage.
The fabric of his suit rustles, speaks, gives him away as he raises his arm over her shoulder. His palm lies flat against the cool of the glass, leaving an imprint of warmth and, no doubt, some smudges. It braces his weight as he relinquishes, gives in, leans toward her.
But he's not touching her, not yet.
He needs more, needs something.
"Please."
And though it's one word, a single syllable, whispered out on a quiet breath, it's everything.
It's all and it's only; it's it.
He becomes a whirl of motion, a mass of incoherencies mumbled into her skin as the want swirls, as her hands anchor him.
Clear words and intelligible sentences don't matter to her, not in this moment. What matters is him, what she needs is him.
Needs the feel and push, pull and pressure everywhere she can possibly get it. The rush and stutter, take and have, lips and fingers and shuddering.
Whether it's glass or wood, desk or window, it will be hard.
Hard and fast and chaotic, taking in order to get, feeling nothing but everything.
Later, because later is an inevitability now, there will be words in movements, a clearer voice in the slowness, the savoring.
That's not this, though. This is a thundering, a pounding – a grasping and seizing that isn't gentle and doesn't take its time.
It's like its own entity, barreling through them both and leaving a taste for fire. Fire like his hands, fire like her eyes, burning like their lips.
She is all curves and softness against him, subtle firm and hidden strength. He bends around her, caging and keeping, responding to her arching, her testing.
Things are in their way, obstacles holding them back. Not just in the casual, tailored Italian, or the expensive but understated sheath dress.
But in other ways, other things, things unsaid and things bigger than words or wants.
A stillness settles, only the sound of their mutual breathing crowding the office as each of them weighs the options.
As they both consider.
"How much does it matter?" she wonders, leaving the silence behind.
His fingers tense and tighten, though his body never drifts from hers.
"What's the worth ratio?" She's trying to be logical about it, trying to appeal to his rational side.
He wouldn't even begin to know. Not with her so close, with all of her against him, with her skin only a small shift away from his mouth.
She destroys his ability to reason – with a touch, a look, a word or spark, she crumbles the foundations of his carefully practiced logic.
Slowly, deliberately, almost meticulously, he begins to move again. Competent and graceful fingers find their way to the hem of her dress, sneak underneath.
On any other day, she's worn stockings to cover her. But not now, not this time. There's no artificial silk restraining him from the silk of her legs, no barrier separating her from the sinking warmth of his hands.
He's taller than her – leaner, longer, and it's easy for him to reach, to find, to uncover.
She's not seeing the city now, not noticing the buildings or the rain, the flurry of clouds or flashes of lightning. Instead, she watches his reflection in the glass, watches him as he watches her.
It's not the fast, the urgent as before. But it's not lingering, not hesitating or prolonging.
It's simple want, simple take.
Uncomplicated and complex.