I do not own Twilight.
A little on the long side, but you all deserve it.
"Where did your parents go?" Edward asks, watching his finger as it draws a line down my exposed shoulder.
I've showered after the beach and changed into my neutral tank top and shorts, though I know—and hope—they won't remain on my body for long.
"Seattle," I say.
He hums and leans in to press his lips to my skin. I can smell the minty shampoo he used from my bathroom. I had offered to shower together, but he had refused, saying he wouldn't be able to go as slowly as he needs to tonight if we did, even though we've already seen each other naked multiple times.
But now his lips are trailing up my shoulder, along my throat and my heart pounds like a too tight drum. A fire burns through my body, illuminating off of each point of skin his lips touch.
"What for?" he asks softly, and I barely register the question because I can hardly think straight.
"Hmm?"
He laughs quietly against my throat and then I feel his tongue teasing the skin beneath my ear. He drops the subject, for which I'm grateful. I don't want to talk about my mom and stepdad right now.
His fingers play with the hem of my tank top and I pull away just long enough to pull it over my head because I really want to feel his skin against mine, and he's already shirtless.
His hands rest on my waist and he's stroking the skin there, his hands warm and dry and I'm sure mine are the complete opposite. He pulls back and looks at me and then ducks his head to press his lips to the center of my collarbone.
"Slow," he reminds me, warns me, when his eyes meet mine again. They're darker than I've ever seen them; hazy, almost. Hooded.
"How slow?" I practically whine, and he's smiling down at me, but doesn't answer.
My breathing hitches when he tugs at my shorts and slips them down my legs, his eyes darting from my breasts, to the area between my legs that aches for him, back to my eyes and I really shouldn't be nervous or self-conscious or whatever I'm feeling because he's touched me in all these places. Touched and kissed and licked and sucked, but I suddenly feel like I'm exposed for the first time.
He must notice, because he's kissing up my chest between my breasts before reaching my chin, then my mouth.
"Slow," he repeats against my lips, and this time I'm grateful for the word and its meaning.
He kisses me until I'm out of breath, until my body is lifting off the bed for more. But he doesn't give me more until I'm practically crying with need.
His fingers are like hot velvet as they run over my body, down my shoulders, down my waist, across my stomach, tickling and feathering as they go. I melt beneath his fingers; he melts away the nerves with each passing touch.
His hands pass over my breasts, his fingers strumming against the straining buds and I press my chest further into him. He gets the message and his fingers are switched out for his mouth, his tongue, his teeth as they gently glide and mark.
As he kisses further down my body towards an area that has been the main focus each time he slips into my room late at night, I let out a small sigh because, despite the burning, despite the near-painful need, I'm content.
Just to be with him, in any way, is contentment.
His tongue moves over my swollen, hot, wet flesh and, like every time he has done this, it feels new and exciting and so unbelievably good that I have a hard time keeping myself quiet. I have a hard time keeping my hips from moving against his face and, like always, he has to wrap his arms around my thighs to hold me still.
Just as I'm panting his name, twisting my fingers in my sheets, in his hair, against my pillows, he pulls away, leaving me squirming and writhing and gasping for his mouth again, for his tongue again.
But he has a different focus now, and I know he's not going to get me off with his mouth this time as he pulls up, pressing his lips to mine. I kiss him back like he is my lifeline.
At some point, he's lost his shorts and he's sliding himself along me, wetting himself, heating himself in every point of my body he can reach without being inside of me. He pulls back from my mouth and looks down at me, his bright emerald eyes holding everything we're both too distracted to say.
Despite the hypnotic movements of his hips, he asks, "Are you sure?" and I reach up, grabbing his hair and pulling his mouth back to mine as an answer. It's not enough, so I flex my own hips against his.
I can see, in the furrow of his brow and the line of concentration that forms between his eyes, that he is trying his hardest not to let his own need take over as he lifts himself above me. Using his knees, he spreads mine a little more and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, letting go of his hair in case the pain is too much. I don't want to hurt him.
He tips my hips up just an inch, and then he's sliding inside of me.
He's fast with the movement, filling me immediately and I think it must be what is best because the pinching, staggering pain my mother warned me about is not entirely there. Instead, it's an ache deep inside, a fullness that my body doesn't know how to handle, and so reacts by arching away from the bed, trying to move as far from the feeling of being unnaturally full as possible.
But I know it's Edward, and I know this is okay, so I let myself adjust and when my back falls slowly to the bed, the expression on his face is everything to me.
He's attentive and alert, but quiet and mindful as he lets my body relax. I can see the strain in the muscles of his arms to stay still and the look of distress in his eyes that maybe he's not been gentle enough, slow enough.
For him, I manage a smile and then it's not just for him when I feel his body relax around me.
"I'm okay," I tell him and he nods, his jaw clenched, eyes wild.
The ache flairs when he moves for the first time and I wince and he stops immediately, though I can see—and feel—how hard that is for him to do, and I repeat, "I'm okay," when the ache dulls.
The feeling turns into something else as he moves again, and then again, and then again, and I know he's holding back, trying to go as slowly as possible for me, but the 'something else' has turned into a growing need from deep within me and soon I'm beckoning him on with my sounds, the fluttering of my eyelids, the arching of my back.
He moves a little faster, a little harder with each moan that tumbles from my mouth, until the sounds turn into breathy mentions of his name and there's an urgency to his movements, a desperation to his panting groans that I think are my new favorite sounds.
I want to watch him, but I can't. My eyes refuse to stay open as he moves inside of me, around me, above me and I can hardly even kiss him back when his mouth finds mine. It seems the same for him, too, and we give up, just being in each other's space, his face buried against my shoulder, my fingers and arms wrapped around his neck, in his hair, moving over the expanse of his hard back.
His hand drifts between us and he's touching me in that spot that he knows can get me off, and he's moving his finger in a way that he knows will get me off and I'm a moaning, panting mess as I press my lips to his shoulder.
I'm shocked when I pulse around him, lifting for more and thankfully finding it, because Alice told me this doesn't usually happen like this. But, I think to myself, Edward can make anything happen.
I know when he's going to come, because I've seen this look on his face before, but I've never really appreciated it as I am doing right now. I watch him fall apart above me, dropping himself to me as though he's drained every particle of energy from his body.
I feel full in a different way now and I kiss over every inch of his broad shoulder that I can reach until he comes to, meeting my lips with his, marking me as his own.
"I love you," I whisper and pull him closer to me. My heart swells with the knowledge of what we've just done; of the ways in which we can be close now and I want to do it again, though maybe not right away.
"You okay?" he asks after he pulls himself out of me and I nod, a content smile spreading over my face.
"More than okay," I say. I close my eyes and bask in the feeling of his body surrounding mine.
He moves us so he's behind me, pulling me into his arms, his chest hard and hot and pounding with a slowing rhythm against my back. He pulls a sheet over us and tangles one of his legs in between mine.
I feel his lips pressing against my ear sometime later while I'm drifting in and out of semi-consciousness. It's not a resurrection, but an admiration.
"This isn't it for us, you know," he whispers and the statement is so vague, but I think I know exactly what he is saying, what he means.
Everything, I think.
We are everything.