A/N: Hello!

I hope you all enjoy this outtake; sorry it's taken me so long to post one. It's Proposal time! Carlisle pops the question...(=

A huge thanks to Nachos4Children for helping me out on this, she's aces. If you aren't already reading Clementines….What are you waiting for? Go! Read it now!

Ok, on to the chapter. Enjoy!

BPOV

The rude light of morning burst through the windows, waking me, illuminating the full range of my artistic inebriation. And, in the very corner of the room, in his worn jeans and benevolent smile, was Carlisle.

"Coffee, love?"

I nodded from my place on the mattress, still a little groggy, and sat upright to take his kind offering. I welcomed the rich French roast and the smell of paint, linseed oil, and him.

He looked around, hands shoved in his pockets, careful not to disturb the setting scenes, examining how well the new studio he fixed up himself (i.e. had one of the many men flitting in and out of our place build and install shelves, while he bought every art supply my heart could desire) took to my passions. Lightly, he commented that this would have never been possible at my flat.

I couldn't agree more - at least, it couldn't have happened so peacefully.

Boxes swallowed our life. Boxes and renovation. But mostly boxes. Carlisle moved out of his flat almost three weeks ago and all his things - packed in haste by Jasper, Emmett, and him - landed unceremoniously at mine. At first, it was cute that he kept everything. His pack rat ways were endearing, but as the boxes mounted, spilling over as he searched for things, becoming scattered around my once orderly and chic flat like a damn cardboard maze, it wasn't so cute anymore.

He had books from grade school, newspapers announcing Liverpool victories from before he was born, and a shitty green guitar that was missing two strings, and the shitty amp - non-functioning amp, might I add - to match. Boxes made their way into the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, my studio, all unpacked; rifled through and bursting at the seams with the abundance of crap he refused to put or throw away. Each morning, there seemed to be more of them as if they multiplied overnight behind my back in an evil plot to engulf every square of breathing room. I was suffocating, but he seemed so happy. So I kept quiet as dusty back issues of literary magazines appeared on the vintage brass table in my bedroom, breaking a jade elephant I got as a gift from Charlie when his box of toiletries was pushed in a corner after daily use. But after what I came home to one afternoon, I couldn't stay quiet anymore.

After a long day spent toiling over our work in progress, arguing with the contractor, and stripping hideous wallpaper, all I wanted was a tranquil night with Carlisle - to eat our Thai food from the containers, curl up on the couch, and watch an old movie. But even from the door, I saw that something was terribly wrong.

His rakish request for a kiss wasn't enough to distract me.

"What did you do, Carlisle?" I rushed to the studio, not giving a shit if he had the bags or not. The sight enraged me, but I tried not to cry. I waited for a plausible explanation, an apology.

"Bella, where's my kiss?" he asked, somewhat alarmed, setting the food down, unaware of the anger rising within me. "What's wrong, babe?"

"Really, Carlisle?" I turned and glared at him. How could he possibly ask me such a stupid question? His brow furrowed at my tone, glasses slipping down his nose.

"Whatever it is, I'll make it better…Come here, I haven't seen you all day."

"Whatever it is?Carlisle, are you blind?" He pointed to his glasses and smiled. "You were in here, moving boxes, shifting things! Look at my painting…it's ruined!" I yelled, stamping my foot.

Before I left for our place that morning, I specifically and explicitly warned him not to go into the studio. Oils take time to set Carlisle. Don't go near it; don't touch anything in this room. He had sworn up and down that he wouldn't. Nevertheless, he had been rummaging for something, giving little thought to the casualty in the corner. My painting was wedged, smeared beyond recognition, between the wall and a box labeled Vinyls.

"Did you just stamp your foot at me? Oh, Bella," he chucked softly before surveying the horrendous damage. "It's not ruined…just smudged a bit. You have time to fix it. Now please, give me a kiss; I've missed those lips today."

"I'm not kissing you, Carlisle William Cullen; can't you see that I'm pissed at you? There's shit everywhere; I'm lucky if I can hack my way through all of this just to get to my paints, and all this "time" you think I have, doesn't exist." I snapped, retreating before he could reach out and fold me into his chest. As luck would have it, I knocked into a box, sending the contents crashing to the floor. I gripped the counter for support as my feet slipped. "What is all of this shit, Carlisle? Marbles? Are you twelve?"

"No, but I was once. Watch it baby, there might be broken glass," he warned, bending to pick up the bits and bobs, trying to steal my dignity.

"Fuck! Carlisle, I can't move without crashing into something or knocking over a damn box. It's a sea of boxes, and I'm drowning!"

"Bella, when don't you crash, bump into, and or knock things over? You're a little klutz, babe." Straightening up, he placed the now full box back on the teetering tower from which it came, and smirked. "Must I remind you of poor Father Dave?"

Feeling my face grow hot, I barely restrained myself from telling him to go fuck himself. I had utterly embarrassed myself at his nephew's wedding when I slipped and knocked into the ancient priest before the ceremony. The wedding started late to give time for the dizziness to "bugger off" and to stem the blood flow from his head wound. Fucking England and its perpetually damp stone! I was mortified and spent most of the reception hiding behind Carlisle, avoiding the question, Are you the young woman who injured Father Dave?

It was The-Day-That-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned, and he knew it.

"Fine! I'm a fucking priest-maiming klutz, but you, Carlisle," I shouted, balling my fists at my sides, "are a hoarder! Who needs newspapers from the forties—you weren't fucking alive! My painting, Carlisle - I told you it was important! It's ruined, and you're standing there fucking smiling. What the hell is wrong with you?" Tears spilled down my cheeks, angry and frustrated; the headache hovering around all day, finally settled in, and Carlisle was making it worse.

"Hoarder is overstating things. Bella, calm down. I know the painting is important," he murmured, his tone patronizing.

"Don't tell me to calm down, Carlisle. Look at this shit…how can you live like this?"

His eyes narrowed, and finally, his face matched the moment. "Most of this crap, Isabella, is yours. And seeing as we're playing Home Make Over, here is the only place I have to keep my things, with you. If not here, then where would you like me to put all my 'shit'?"

The argument escalated from there. We both said things we didn't mean out of anger, stress, or both. Admittedly, we had a lot of this going on; his recent addition to the literary world was gaining attention on a level we hadn't expected. Felix sprung a wedding on us out of left field and asked both Carlisle and I to be in it—Carlisle as his best man, me as one of the groomsmen. Yeah, he thought that was real clever. Our fixer upper was hard work, even with the help we had. Seth wanted a Christmas show, and Demetri was breathing down my neck, anxious to have everything prepared on the off chance that he and Bonbon would too busy with a new baby by that time. Our fuses were short at that point, and I had to admit that I overreacted a tiny bit, but his sans souci attitude was what really got to me. For the first time, I felt as if he wrote my work off as a hobby with a shrug and a flippant remark. Had he shown a semblance of remorse, I would have been fine.

I took a walk to cool off, but guilt immediately began eating away at me—I was more than a little ashamed of the way I refused to give him a simple kiss. Before I could turn back and apologize, Carlisle was there beside me, equally guilty, with an apology. That night, after making up, we went through our belongings, tossed useless things, and made compromises about the newspapers. We kept the sentimental things like the guitar, his father's books, and the marbles.

He was, I was learning, a very sentimental man.

Grinning, taking in his casual stance, hand in his right pocket, I patted the mattress beside me. "You're too far away, Carlisle."

When he sat, I crawled into his lap and laid my head on his shoulder, running my fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He smelled fantastic - clean, and manly. It soaked into everything, the sheets, the air, my clothes…my skin. Softly, I asked if he had been sleeping here; it was very early, and Carlisle wasn't an early bird.

"Every night…in our bedroom. I don't like sleeping away from you." His warm hands slipped under my shirt, covering my back as he pressed his lips to my neck once. "Besides who, if not me, would make sure you ate, got coffee, and had a comfortable place to sleep…I was tempted to steal you away though, just for the night."

"I wouldn't have minded." I thought about the meals that appeared just when I realized I was hungry, the mattress and crisp sheets I woke up on one morning. He was, without a doubt, the most amazing man to walk the planet. "You're such a sweet man, Carlisle…I don't like sleeping away from you either. So, tell me, what's been going on with this place?"

Blushing, he recounted his dive into home renovation sans moi, his hammered thumb, a near incident with the tile cutter, and his aching muscles. He wasn't a handy man, but he tried, and looked so cute doing it. Kneading his shoulders, I apologized for leaving him the brunt of the work.

He assured me he didn't mind at all; he was happy to do it. "Bella...this was a long time coming, I could see it in your eyes. I can hold down the fort while you do your thing."

The past week, the deeply hooked-in fangs of inspiration had eclipsed the love I felt for him - my need for him. Art took over and locked me in the grips of feverish painting. A hunger so ravenous, that it gorged itself until I fell exhausted and covered in paint, to sleep, to dream, only to wake the next day with my muse nibbling at my ear, and awakening artistic lust. It was unnatural, the amount of work I accomplished. Souls, worlds, emotions poured on to countless canvases scattered about the large room like a mad man's study. Like Edward Hyde and Dr. Jekyll, though nowhere near as sinister. Both crazed artist and normal girl were bound together—one laying dormant, while the other assumed control. This happened from time to time; I'd disappear for days at a time, nourishing my body and soul with what it so desperately called out for. More than desire, but a vital purge, a cry to be heard, appeased, and let out. I didn't see the light of day until the images stopped flying and gnawing at my brain.

I knew the high of creation would soon fade; I could already feel my fingers relaxing and draining anxious energy, the hunger siphoning off. But in its place, a new hunger was blooming.

One that only my man could satisfy.

"What would I do without you?"

"Love, let's never find out...ok?"

"Ok...Carlisle," I murmured, leaving small pecks along his neck, "Do you have plans for today?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing. No painting today, Dali?" I shook my head, nibbling on his ear. A shiver ran through his body, forcing a sharp hiss from his lips. "In that case… w—would you like to go s—somewhere with me?"

My lips ventured back down, trailing along his neck. I imagined the places he showed me and the sexual heights he took me to, and I was eager to be taken by him, as many times as he wanted, anywhere he wanted. "You can take me anywhere, Carlisle," I breathed, fingers drifting over his belt to cup his already straining cock.

"Hmmm, naughty girl, that's not what I meant. You artists," he teased, stilling my swiveling hips, "always immediate gratification with your lot. Patience, love."

"I'm horny now. You know painting turns me on, and you're already hard. Please, pretty please with me on top?" I batted my eyes and coyly bit my lip, feeling him harden further.

"Bella," he spoke, his voice deep and low, "wouldn't you rather ride le train fantôme…it's the last day of La Foire du Trone."

My attention snapped from the tempting sight of Carlisle beneath me - cheeks flushed and hair soaked, my technicolor hands intertwined with his clean ones - to a more wholesome image.

Like the scent of cloves in the air brought autumn, La Foire du Trone brought summer to France. As a girl, it wasn't été until I walked the Pelouse de Reuilly, cotton candy in hand.

"Really?" I bounced, excited, "Oh, Carlisle…we had so much fun the last time…the flying swings and cotton candy! Are we really going?" I knew full well that I was acting like a child, but who doesn't like a fun fair?

"I knew that would get your attention. Yes Bella, we are." He swiped a wayward curl away from my face affectionately.

"Can I still ride you later?"

Carlisle laughed loudly and cradled my face between his hands. "I certainly hope so, Bella."

"Zut Alors! I can have both? I'm a lucky girl." Giving him a kiss on the cheek, I hopped off his lap. "I'll be quick—"

One golden brow rose in amusement. "Quick? Have you seen yourself, Love?"

I realized then how I looked - my stained fingers, spattered arms, paint-stiff tank askew and moth eaten, my Pollock-esque jeans wrapped around my hips and legs. Even my feet were painted on.

I was a mess. Cleaning up would not be quick, and I frowned at the thought.

My eyes met Carlisle's, and I realized as I was taking stalk of the damage, his eyes were roving over me. He was appraising, leering even…and I liked it. Standing, towering over me, he leaned in, stray locks falling in his eyes. He winked and hauled me over his shoulder, swatting my ass playfully.

"Someone needs a bath."

xXXx

Hours later, and after much coaxing, Carlisle convinced me to get on La Grande Roue. The sun was setting, the sky looked gorgeous, not at all frightening, and he was pouting, saying please, Bella in the low, husky voice he knew I couldn't resist; so I packed up the courage got in line.

Me and Ferris Wheels were like oil and water, cake and wasabi. Normally, these rides didn't scare me, I loved the rush but one traumatic experience with Seth and Jake in sixth grade and the so-called "benign attraction" struck the fear of God in me.

That was ages ago though, I was an adult now. I could do it, I reassured myself...weakly.

"Bella, I'll hold you the entire time," he whispered in my ear as we inched closer and closer to gate of doom, holding me to his chest as if to reaffirm his words. "I'll keep you safe."

I sighed contently, craning my neck back to kiss his cheek. I knew he would.

This day at the fun fair wasn't much different from our first. We played the carnival games, won stuffed animals - a duck, a monkey, and an elephant - only I kept these for some reason; my bag was nearly bursting. We rode rides, zoomed around bumping each other with bumper cars, humorously taunting each other, despite the funny looks the kids gave us. We soared like birds on the flying swings, laughing as we tried to keep our hand locked together; yelled our lungs off on Le Power Max as it hurled us through the air and copped a feel or two on the ghost train. I teased him with the ever-phallic corn dog, enjoying the strangled groan that fell from his lips, and how he pushed me against the booths and claimed my lips. He got me back for the corn dog fellatio, salaciously licking his fast melting ice cream as we walked through the crowds, his gaze meeting mine with a smirk.

We were different though. No longer new and apprehensive or unsure of our place in the other's heart, Carlisle and I walked hand in hand, headless to any stray looks or snide comments by old men operating the games.

We enjoyed each other.

"God, this makes me feel like I'm in high school again: summer love, cotton candy, a beautiful girl sitting beside me...See, baby, it's not so scary," he spoke into my ear as we began to climb higher.

I peered down at the ground at the tiny specks of people and let out a tiny squeak of terror. His arms tightened around me protectively, reminding me softly not to look down.

"My memories aren't as pleasant. Distract me please, Carlisle…I…I don't love it up here," I pleaded, remembering how violently Jacob rocked the gondola. I had been sure that at any moment I'd fall to my death.

"Shhh, you're safe with me," he cooed, playing with my fingers, holding them up in the fading daylight. "Your hands are so soft…not even the slightest proof of all the paint. Who knew olive oil could be so…versatile."

The tension and fear drained away in his sturdy embrace and tender words. He often had that effect.

"Carlisle…I like this distraction."

"As do I, Bella."

I learned long ago that soap and water did nothing to remove oil paint from my skin. If anything, it made it worse - spreading the mess, and the rough residue lingered, as did the pigment. Carlisle had been slightly confused when I mentioned olive oil, but once I explained, he was only too keen to help me…get clean.

I had never seen him strip down to his boxers as quickly as he did this morning.

Laid out on our newly tiled en suit, Carlisle rid me of my sullied clothes. He drizzled the oil on my skin and sensually smoothed his hands over the flat planes of my stomach, thighs, and arms, kneading, massaging the multicolored flecks, drips, and splatters away. He was riveted, wide eyed, as he worked the oil into my legs and toes, wringing sighs and moans from me, my back arching off the cool tile in ecstasy. Arousal and oil pooled around me. Lathering our hands above my head, his lips latched on to mine as his hips rolled and slid in tandem with mine, his clothed manhood trapped between us. I never knew such pleasure could be drawn from such a mundane task.

"That was much better than how I normally clean the paint off...even with you cock blocking me."

"If I remember correctly, Isabella…I spent a generous amount of time between your legs."

I squirmed, recalling his soft hair grazing my stomach, his velvet tongue twirling and teasing, slipping and sliding. The effect of recounting our morning activities had on me was not missed.

His voice was warm in my ear. "You're squirming, dear...I like it. Tell you what, I'll replace what I ruin, Bella…as long as you promise to model for me."

I agreed, laughing at the vicious cycle: replace, ruin, toss out, and replace. Mon Dieu! I would single handedly boost the economy at this rate.

He cleared his throat, "I must confess that I've watched you this week, at night, while you worked. I tried to sleep, but knowing that you were awake, just a floor above me…slaving away…I couldn't. I hope that doesn't bother you…I was very curious."

"You know what they say about curiosity..."

Surprisingly, it didn't bother me, but…at one point, I abandoned my clothes, needing to feel unencumbered and connected. I blushed hotly, knowing that he had seen my nude painting, but he smiled against my cheek.

"You didn't notice me… so intent on your work, your art - so passionate, so enthralled…but I noticed everything. I've never witnessed you in your natural habitat, in your siren lair; I have always wondered what it would be like. It was so beautiful…wild and quite honestly, it was the most enticing thing I've seen you do to this day. I loved it, but I'm glad you're back."

He ran a hand down my windblown hair, playing with the short strands. When he spoke, his voice held a slightly serious edge.

"I know you've been worried about how I'd react to this…my first taste of how processed you can become, but like I've always told you…I love all of you…hot temper, manic painting, and all. Your art is a part of you, Bella, and I respect that. I wouldn't have it any other way, nor would I ever take it from you, and force you to choose between it and me."

My throat constricted, and I fought against tears. Over the past months, we had worked together to rid ourselves of past fears, insecurities, and heal wounds we had and shared. But this one topic I avoided like the plague. It was a sore spot of mine - something I tended to keep undercover. I pushed away the urge to paint in fear that he'd feel neglected or worse, resent me for ignoring him. Prior to this week, his assurances against my fears meant very little. How could he make promises when he had no frame of reference?

He only knew what came after the work. He knew the organization, arrangements of panels, and the madness of shows. Now, he knew…everything, and he was still the same man I fell in love with…It was a breath of fresh air - that last bit of acceptance.

I whispered my thanks. Just when I thought I couldn't love him more.

We were quiet for while, enjoying the view of the city, of the fair grounds, and the park beyond as night fell. I nibbled at my cotton candy, every so often kissing him with sugary lips, feeding him pieces. Lights began sparkle across Paris as the sun said its final farewell, and the noise from below - the laughs and screams - became muffled, leaving Carlisle and I in our own world. The view really was beautiful, and I was surprised to find that I wasn't scared; in his arms, I felt safe and loved. When we reached the top, Carlisle cleared his throat and shifted so we were face to face.

"We are taking a big step together," he began, his voice shaking ever so slightly, "making a home, integrating our lives, learning how to live with each other…I haven't lived with anyone in…a—ages.

"I wouldn't dream of doing this with anyone but you. I love you so much I can't…I can't think coherently. I act like a fool, and I can only attribute it to how deeply I adore you. Isabella, I don't think you fully u—understand how much I…"

He trailed off, looking around as if in the sky, the right words would offer themselves to him. I fought against laughter and waited patiently.

"I'm not doing this very smoothly; I'm nervous."

Even if he hadn't admitted it, I knew—his cheeks were flushed pink, and his Adams apple was quivering like a leaf, but I couldn't imagine where this sudden bout of nerves came from.

"Carlisle, whatever it is," I squeezed his hand reassuringly, "Just tell me. You don't need to be nervous with me or smooth. Personally, I love when you ramble…it's adorable."

He smiled and took a deep breath before thrusting a hand into his pocket—in his hand lay a tiny black box.

My eyes widened. Mon Dieu! That did not look like an earring box.

Before he opened his mouth, my answer danced on my tongue.

"I want to take another monumental step with you, Isabella.

"I've racked my brain for the most romantic way to do this - the perfect way to do it. Lizzie told me if I messed this up, you would remember it for the rest of our lives, so I had better do it right. Romantic dinners, revisiting Sir Winston's, a weekend away in Provence … every idea I had felt cliché, over the top, and simply unworthy of such an occasion. They weren't us. I was going to wait…but I can't wait, love. I want you to be my wife...now."

"Carlisle..." Tears filled my eyes, the cotton candy slipped from my fingers, forgotten, more than likely landing on someone's coifed hair. He opened the box, but my eyes remained on him.

"I bought it the week after we came back from Mississippi…I've carried it around with me, waiting for the right moment. It's been burning a hole in my pocket since then. I've pictured this ring on your finger for months now. I've dreamt of this…Isabella, my love," Tenderly, his thumb swept away my tears. "almost as many times as I've dreamt of having a child with you."

He paused to compose himself as the gravity of what he was doing overwhelmed him. Hell, it was overwhelming me.

"From the moment I met you, I knew there was something undeniable about you. I had to know you, and once I knew you, I was addicted to you, to the way you laughed with me, listened, and genuinely cared about me. I never expected to find you. You've…you are irreplaceable, vital to my life…and every day I fall deeper in love with you, Isabella. I never imagined that this…was possible for me, but you…bring me such…joy and love and…you...you make me feel whole."

"It's the same for me, Carlisle…there's no one like you," I told him, frantically chewing on my bottom lip.

"We been through so much together, not all pleasant, but I know it made our love stronger, unbreakable. If you marry me, I know…our marriage…will be just as strong. I can't promise that we won't face obstacles, but I can promise to give myself to you, wholly and faithfully. I can promise to fill your life…o—our life, with happiness, laughter, and love; to protect you, hold you…love you."

"Oh, Carlisle."

"If you marry me," he whispered, tears filling his eyes, "I promise to walk through life beside you through everything, as your partner, as your friend…as your lover…t—toujour."

Unable to contain myself any longer, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, cursing the bar across our laps. I knew it would happen at some point - it was inevitable, like wine at a French dinner table - but he had caught me completely off guard. I couldn't believe that he had had the ring for months and pictured this moment countless times… that he couldn't wait any longer.

"Bloody hell, I haven't really asked you, have I?" Carlisle's smile was sheepish, sweet, and shy as he broke our kiss, slightly out of breath, realizing his blunder.

"No, you haven't…but I already have my answer," My right hand played with his hair as I laid my left on his thigh. "Ask me…I want to hear the words."

"Isabella, mon Idylle, will you marry me?"

His reaction to my simple answer was…everything. Even old and grey, I would recall with perfect clarity, how he kissed my lips chastely - once, twice - and slipped the ring on my finger with the dazzling smile of a truly happy man and trembling hand.

"Finally," he breathed, his forehead resting against mine, eyes downcast and intent on the fourth finger, now adorned with his ring. "It's where it belongs, Bella."

"Finally."

Only when the clapping, wolf whistles, and squeals from the crowd became increasingly hard to ignore, did I realize that we were, thankfully, on the ground. And holding up the line.

The man released the bar with a silent Écouter, and I pulled Carlisle away from the Parisians wondering if we were who they thought we were. The French were glutton for scandal and gossip, and suddenly, I wanted to be alone with him.

"Take me home, Carlisle, please," I pleaded.

He couldn't help bringing my hand to his lips before answering me. "Which home, Isabella?"

"Our home, Carlisle."

We walked quickly, cutting through the late night crowd, to where Viggo was parked. Carlisle threw his leg over the bike, casually leaning a forearm on the handles, waiting for me to give him the keys. He learned, after a few lessons with me, that he liked driving my bike, almost as much as I liked riding behind him. I was struck by the Wild One likeness, the innate Marlon Brando cool that emanated from him, that I lingered for a moment, admiring him, his firm thighs holding the heavy bike, his dusty boots firmly planted on the ground, the smile the stretched from ear to ear. He was buoyant, and soon he'd be mine - legally - forever.

Toujour.

Never before had that thought thrilled me, but I wanted nothing more than to be his wife. I placed the keys in his capable hands, and his eyes lit up.

"Drive fast," I told him, mounting the bike. Pinching his hips with my thighs, I kissed his shoulder. "I want to make love to my husband-to-be."

He revved the engine, and the machine roared to life. "Hold on to me, Bella."

As the night and cars blurred, I admired my new jewelry - how the lights glinted off the diamonds and white gold. I had never considered what I wanted my engagement ring to look like, as so many of my sex did, mostly because I never saw myself married, but this one was mine. It spoke my name. It was ornate, antique, Art Deco - a detail I was sure was no accident - and impressive without being ostentatious.

It was perfect.

Before I realized it, we were home, stumbling over the threshold, lips attached. My leg hitched around his, tugging his hair as he peppered my neck with soft, feather-like kisses - poetic French words drifting between us.

"Isabella…I…I can't tell you how happy you've made me tonight. I just…I can't."

He was lost for words, breathing heavily…emotional.

"Probably as happy as you've made me. Come, I want to share something with you, Carlisle."

Taking his hand, I lead him upstairs. He questioned me as we passed our shamble of a bedroom, but followed nonetheless - climbing the stairs, gripping my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

"I want you here, Carlisle," I told him breathlessly, closing the door to my studio, my sanctum of inception. He stood by the table, briefly surveying the dry paintings, before looking back at me.

The open window carried fresh air into the room; the light overhead illuminated the mess, the brushes, studies of bodies, linear charcoal…the fruits of my labor.

My world.

"Here, Bella?"

I nodded. "I want to think about this night every time I come in here." I undressed, removing everything but the ring. It would never leave my finger. "I want to remember the night you asked me to be your wife…the night you put this ring on my finger…whenever I step in here. You are part of me, more than anything…more than this." I gestured to the tools of my trade. "You belong here, Carlisle...we belong together."

As I stalked towards him, he backed up - a coy smile on his face as he pulled off his shirt. The back of his thighs met resistance, but he took no notice, said nothing. He didn't need to.

The gnawing hunger came back, but this time it wasn't oil or acrylics it craved. It was Carlisle. I feasted on him, dragging my teeth across his pectorals, swirling my tongue around his tight copper nipples, and letting my delicate fingers dance over his quivering abs. He groaned, grunted, and pulled at me, desperate to have me. When I unzipped and released his rigid cock, my stokes were firm, slow, and masterful as I winked from between his thighs before taking him in my mouth.

He muttered a breathless curse; his legs shook under the pleasure, but he managed to stay standing as I devoured, licked, and nibbled him. Closing my eyes, I let my tongue slip over his warm flesh. Only when I took one of his balls into my mouth, did his knees gave way, and his ass landed on the table. A different curse left his lips in a tone rare for these moments, and my eyes snapped open. I stopped, withdrew, still gripping his pulsing, wet cock.

"Why is my ass wet, Bella?"

I had a pretty good idea as to why. Peering behind him, I saw the table laden with acrylics and oils in varying shades and hues, and knew I was right.

"You…you sat in…paint." Through a fit of giggles, I managed to speak. "Turn around for me, babe. Aww, your ass…c'est magnifique!"

His derrière was covered in a colorful wash, and I couldn't help but swirl the colors around, drawing half moons with a finger before signing my initials on a firm cheek.

"What a masterpiece!"

"Glad you think so, Bella…where can I clean this off?" He guffawed, turning to face me, his face a mixture of playful annoyance.

I laughed and pushed him back on the acrylics before he could protest, noting that his cock was still, thankfully, magnificently hard. "Clean off…no no no, honey. There will be no cleaning off." Climbing on the table, kneeling in the multi-hued mess, I repositioned him with my clean hand, and lowered myself on him, just enough to keep him breathless.

"We can clean off later." I sank further, painting a rainbow swirl around his nipple, rolling my hips in a way Shakira would be proud of.

He grinned, catching on to what I was playing at and splayed both hands in the paint before laying them on my hips. Drunk on the truest primal sense of creation, I rode him, dipping my hands back in the pigments and running them through his hair, down his back, and over my breasts.

With a growl, Carlisle lifted me down onto the drop cloth, wrapping my legs around his waist and resumed his rhythmic thrusts, feverish caresses. Our bodies were the paintbrushes and our canvas as we rolled around, leaving the imprints of limbs, love, and sex, in the splattered tan fabric - a permanent souvenir of the night.

Our lovemaking was as zealous and forceful as ever, but there was something behind the carnal play - a playfulness that filled every pore of our bodies and every crevice of our hearts.

I came in hot shudders, gripping his biceps - Carlisle following close behind, his teeth scraping across my shoulder. As we recovered on the floor, our hands gently caressed any inch of skin we could find. His pale hair was a lovely shade of green and blue, matching the many smeared hand prints along his flanks and back. I could only imagine what I looked like - a paint spattered mess - but I could care less.

Looking down his technicolor nose, he grinned. "You're going to be my wife."

"Let's do it soon, please...in Provence. I want to be Mrs. Cullen - now."

His voice caught in his throat. "Music to my ears…Mrs. Cullen."

xXXx

The next day over lunch, Alice, Rose, Seth, Demetri, and Bonbon were besides themselves; they had been waiting for this day for a while, having seen the ring months before. While Alice and the boys commented on Carlisle's exquisite taste, Rose simply smiled and welcomed me to the family.

Alice pulled away from the deep discussion of cut and clarity, "So Bella Soon-to-be-Cullen, when do you want to do this? I'm going to plan it right?"

I nodded, smiling indulgently. "Ali, who else could I trust with this? You're my sister."

"She's known about this wedding for months…it's practically planned in 'er 'ead. I bet she even 'as 'er Maid of 'Onor dress."

Giggles drifted around the large table on Seth's roof top terrace, along with the bottle of wine.

"Shut up, Demetri and eat your salad," Alice snapped, cutting him a filthy look. "Oh, Bella, I have so many ideas...I could barely keep quiet all this time. Naturally, you're getting married in Aix, right? Yes. Do I know you, or do I know you? A small wedding, personal, and romantic. I'm thinking an afternoon ceremony, night reception…so it's not so hot, and we don't all melt! Carlisle's suit is to die for - darkish taupe, cream shirt, and a bow tie because I know how much you like them. OH MY GOD, I have the perfect dress on hold with a designer. It's a cream masterpiece - summer lace with a beautiful straight neckline and open back because I know how much Carlisle loves that - cocktail length, very romantic, and soft. You'll look perfect in it, but you'll have to look at it first. Now, colors are tricky, but you like blues and you both look great surrounded by blue so I was thinking we could stay in the family." Alice bounced up and down, upsetting the table and knocking over the flowers.

With the Jedi reflexes, Rose moved the wine glass Alice was seconds from spilling on her white jeans to a safer place. "My God Ali, relax - let the girl catch her breath…He just proposed last night."

"Rose," Seth began, "have you ever seen Alice relaxed?"

"No, never," she and Demetri replied in unison. Alice glared for a moment before texting away on her disco phone, murmuring about invitations and guest lists.

"There's so much to do! I've waited sooo long to tell her. Guys, I've been sooo good. Jasper had to help me."

"Actually," I hedged, spearing a chuck of tuna on my plate, "I love everything you just said, Alice. We want to get married soon. What? Don't look at me like that! I'm not pregnant…We just don't want to wait."

Alice looked at me for a long time, her bright eyes searing into mine before declaring that I was telling the truth. They moved on, trusting our little gypsy fortune teller.

"August - it's perfect…nice weather in Provence and 'alf of the country will be on 'oliday."

I looked around at all their faces, a little worried. "Is August too soon?"

"Please, honey! We can work magic in weeks, and you are already starting with a masterpiece. The Church might be tricky though, I'll call Father Philippe tomorrow and drop your name...and Aro's - see what happens, but summer is wedding season. How do you feel about getting married at your house? You have the room." Seth took out a huge notebook and began making notes, taking suggestions from Alice and Bonbon.

Demetri shook his head, examining the ring once more."It's beautiful. 'e knows 'ow to buy jewelry...a useful trait in a 'usband."

I sipped on my wine as Rose pulled my hand towards her, again.

"I knew once he proposed, you guys wouldn't waste any time. He's been so nervous; you should have seen him when he showed Emmett and me the ring - giddy and nervous at the same time. Men are so cute."

Alice and the boys nodded without taking their eyes off the half-arranged plans. I knew they'd take over for me…this would be a piece of cake. Thank God!

"Ok, Carlisle just emailed me his list of groomsmen and told me to tell you that he loves you. Merde, I can't believe you get to be married to that hunk of man…If I didn't love you Bella, I swear I'd be green with envy."

"Seth," Bonbon laughed, pinching his lime green linen shirt in mock disgust, "you are green."

Rose leaned in conspiratorially as Alice and Seth began discussing flower arrangements, seating, and the guest list, aggressively. "Ten bucks says Alice decks Seth before you and Carlisle say 'I do.'"

A wicked smile spread across my face. "I'll take that bet, Rose."

We both sat back and watched the plans unfold before us while we ate. Out of Alice's large bag of wonder, came a stack of wedding magazines almost as tall as Jackson, which they all began to riffle through like little wedding planning vultures. A pair of peacock blue shoes caught my eye, excitedly I leaned over and plucked the magazine off the pile.

"Ahh, honey! You've made momma proud! Shoes, it's always the shoes!" Alice declared in a perfect southern accent, wiping a fake tear from her eye. "We have our color people."

Rose shook her head at Alice. "This month is going to fly, Bella, before you know it, you'll be Isabella Cullen."

"J'ai hâte de."

A/N:Hope you all enjoyed that. I'm working on a lot of things right now, all Carlisle and Bella, AIP outtakes as well as a new fic and some oneshots. If you haven't read No more waiting, please do. Let me know what you think.

As Always…

XX
Autumn

Translations:

Sans Souci –Careless

Le Train Fantôme—The Ghost Train

Été—Summer

Toujour—Forever

Écouter—Congratulations

Mon Idylle—My Ideal

J'ai hâte de—I can't wait.