Chapter 53
Thursday, January 3, 2013 – Day 76
I wake to soft kisses on my cheek, and I smile as I stretch innocently, tilting my head so my neck is more exposed. Warm lips slide down over my jaw and tuck in under the bone, searching for that one certain spot—I cringe and stiffen as goose bumps shoot down my leg, and Edward's deep chuckle reverberates underneath me.
"I love that," he purrs as I giggle and roll toward him, finally opening my eyes to be dazzled by my morning dose of brilliant green. Edward's eyes sparkle with mischief as he watches me—playful and happy, and so much closer to whole.
Things have been going well since Christmas. Applesauce ended up being Edward's turning point back toward solid food, and since then, he's been adding more and more items to his menu. There have been some incidents—eggs in particular didn't work out well—but he's now able to eat plain breads and pasta, and most fruits and vegetables. It'll still take a while before he can have dairy and fats, but the nausea is mostly gone, and he can eat more than just a few bites at a time. As I watch him smiling at me this morning, I think the hollows in his cheeks look like they're filling in, but it's probably still too soon.
"What?" he asks, his brow furrowing.
"Nothing." I raise my finger and stroke the furrow until it disappears. "I was just thinking how much I like waking up this way with you."
He grins, and the twinkle in his eye and the sudden pink in his cheeks make my chest tighten and warm. "I like waking up with you too, but today, we actually have to get moving. You need to go to work this morning."
Oh, shit. That's right, I'm supposed to start going in at ten on days when Edward doesn't have to go for a transfusion. I had been only working afternoons between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but now that he's so much better, we decided I should at least go to a six-hour workday. I frown unhappily, but right away, there's a finger pulling at my lip until I can't help but smile.
"Hey, it's only six hours. And I have stuff to do today. I'm going to go into my studio this morning."
I raise my eyebrows at him, and he gives me his shy, little-boy smile. "That's a great idea, sweetheart! Do you think you'll try to paint today?"
"Yeah, I think I might, if I can get the space set up so I can use it. Since I can't stand for long periods, I'm hoping I can just lower one of my easels and set something up with my office chair and some pillows."
"That sounds like a good plan." Oh, my God, he's going to paint! I whisper a silent prayer that this works for him; he could really use the boost after how sick he's been over the last month. And, oh, just the thought of watching him create! I adore watching him draw—he finally let me when he was in the hospital in December. It was fantastic, but I just know the painting is going to be on a whole different level, and I'm dying to see that part of him.
My thoughts are again interrupted by his lips—warm and soft as they press against mine. "Come on, let's get up. I'm hungry."
I shake my head and chuckle at him. Things are becoming so … normal. He still takes a lengthy afternoon nap, but he's steady on his feet, eating well, and he's not nearly as sore. He still has bad days, but he's had a few that were fantastic, and it's done so much to improve his outlook.
I roll out of bed but let him hobble into the bathroom first—he's still stiff first thing in the morning until his muscles and joints have a chance to loosen. But he can pretty much do for himself at this point; he just needs to take things slowly and rest often. I scurry off to use the hall bathroom so I can get a jump on his breakfast. It's not that often he tells me he's hungry.
We eat and shower, and I dawdle through getting ready for work because ten o'clock really isn't that early, and I don't want to leave him today after our lovely holiday together. He lies on the bed while I pick through the closet, and when I finally turn around with my selections, I nearly drop them as I take in the sight of him.
He's lying on our bed as he so often does, but somehow today it's … different. He's not lying there as if he's sick or sleeping but as though he's casually flopped himself down. He's wearing a short sleeve white t-shirt and jeans, and his arm rests casually over his now-flat belly, coming to rest on the opposite hip. His other arm is cast out to the side and bent at the elbow, resting against his forehead as he lies, head turned, watching me. The hair on his head is still short, but he's growing the stubble out on his chin, and his newly grown arm hair stands out dark against his t-shirt. He looks … hot. Hot like I remember from those first days he smiled at me, and hot like I've imagined as I've waited for the pall of illness to let him go. His gaze is intense and heated, and my eyes widen as I freeze like a deer. Oh, wow.
Slowly, the hint of a smile warms the corners of his mouth, and I am done for. I drop the clothes I'm holding and crawl up from the bottom of the bed until I'm kneeling in the crook of his arm, and I take his face between both my hands and kiss him for all I'm worth. He grunts in surprise, but it quickly turns into a lusty moan as I thrust my tongue into his mouth, shivering with the need that blossoms deep in my belly. I want him so badly—the stronger he gets and the more recovered he looks, it's easy to forget how fragile he still is, how defenseless to infection. But I'm counting the days until Day 100. Twenty-four left to go, and if things keep going the way they are, he'll be cleared to touch me. And boy, do I plan on having him touch me. Intimately and repeatedly, as much as he can stand.
We kiss until we're both panting for breath, and when he finally pulls back from me, his smile is spectacular. "Wow, what brought that on?"
"You," I answer, smirking at him. "Lying here all hot and come hither while I try to get ready for work."
"Hot and come hither, eh? That's a new one. When did I get that look?"
"About five minutes ago, as near as I can figure. And I'm thinking you should patent it—it may set records for how fast it can make me drop what I'm doing and jump you."
He laughs, sweet and deep, and my heart swells to near bursting.
"I'll take that under advisement. But as much as I'd like to explore what else my hot and come hither look can do, right now I really should leave so you can get ready."
"You don't have to leave," I whine.
He cocks a sexy eyebrow at me. "Your clothes are on the floor, and you just tried to suck my tongue down your throat. I need to go."
"Okay, okay." I try to pout, but my lips betray me, and I grin anyway.
"Come kiss me before you leave," he tells me as he slides off the bed, grinning as if he's terribly pleased with himself as he turns and leaves the room.
I dress then head to the bathroom to do my makeup and hair, and I can hear him puttering around the apartment. I wonder what he's up to?
When I finish getting ready, it doesn't take me long to find him, but I pause in the doorway of the studio to witness what's unfolding before me. Edward is standing in front of one of his easels near the window, his back to me. He's lowered it so it's at a height where he can work sitting down, and he's pulled over his office chair from the corner and lined it with a few pillows from our bed. There's a canvas attached to the easel, but it's not one of the ones I got him. As I watch, he goes to the table next to the easel, and I spy the brush roll I got him for Christmas. He slowly unrolls it and begins examining the brushes one by one, holding them up to the light then stroking a finger over them to feel their texture. Watching him like this does strange things to my belly, little twists and flips of love and pride and heat. He's in his element at this moment, and it's something I've never seen. It's beautiful to behold.
He selects two brushes and lays them out, then steps to the side and stands, looking down at something. He caresses it with his fingers. I can't help but gasp when he picks up the palette that brought me to my knees all those months ago when I first truly glimpsed the depth of his creativity and talent. When I realized exactly what this world would be losing when he met his untimely death.
He startles and turns, his eyes widening as he takes me in, and he's across the room in an instant. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost!"
I chuckle-sob as a few tears escape down my cheeks. I have no intention of telling him how close to the truth he is.
"I'm fine," I say, brushing at my face hastily. "I'm just so happy you're able to be back in here, doing what you love."
"Well, that remains to be seen, but I'm going to give it my best shot."
I pull him into my arms and kiss him, thanking God again for the amazing gift I've been given in this sweet and wonderful man. But I need to go and let him do this for himself. "I should go. Good luck today. I hope you're able to work for a while and that it makes you happy."
"Oh, I'm already happy," he tells me, giving my waist a squeeze. "Go. Have a good day, and come back to me as soon as you can. I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you, too," I say, giving him just one more chaste kiss before I finally turn for the door.
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The clock ticked backward today. I swear I saw it when I was in with my two o'clock patient. I was listening, but I just know I saw that little hand move backward instead of forward. Maybe the fact that I spent the day thinking about Edward painting had something to do with it. When four o'clock finally arrives, I hustle out of my office, eager and a little anxious to find out how his day went. He was so excited and hopeful this morning—I hope he was able to do at least a little bit today.
I slip into the apartment quietly, in case Edward is sleeping, but the living room is empty. Putting down my bag and keys, I head down the hall and check our bedroom, but he's not there either. That only leaves one place, I realize, as my stomach does a nervous, excited flip. He's in the studio.
I creep across the hallway, and as I approach the door, I can hear the soft strains of a violin floating out of the room. Warmth and excitement pulse through me, and I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, steadying myself for what I'm about to see. I've dreamed of seeing Edward paint for months now, and I'm finally, finally going to get my wish.
It takes me a minute to get up the courage, then I slowly peek around the doorway. Edward stands in front of his easel, turned almost in profile toward me as he leans down, brush in one hand and palette in the other. He's changed since this morning—he's wearing an old pair of khakis with paint splotches on them and a sleeveless undershirt. My eyes follow a line from his hand, poised over the canvas, up his lean, smoothly muscled arm to the smattering of freckles on the top of his shoulder. He's absolutely stunning. I stare for a moment, watching the muscles ripple on his back as he moves the brush, until my eyes are drawn to his face. His concentration is absolute—his keen eyes focused on the gentle brushstrokes he's making, and I see his tongue poke out between his lips just a little as he pauses.
I startle as he straightens up, but he's still completely absorbed in what he's doing and doesn't notice me as he sits down on the office chair and rolls it closer to his canvas. And finally, my eyes leave the masterpiece that is Edward to take in what he's working on.
The entire canvas is already covered with paint, but it's indistinct and flowing. The top is shaded in blues, but it bleeds to mostly dark green in the middle and then a lighter, vibrant green at the bottom. Edward is concentrating on the bottom right corner, and as I take a step closer, I see that he's painted a small area of water, and he's dotting rocks onto a riverbank. It's as if a camera lens has come into focus over that portion of the painting. I watch, mesmerized, as he finishes the rocks and picks up the smallest paintbrush I've ever seen. He dips it in green paint, and begins to painstakingly add individual blades of grass. It's like watching the hand of God as the picture comes to life before my very eyes—as he comes to life before my very eyes.
I drink him in as he creates, noting the curl of his thumb and index finger around the palette and the nimbleness of his long, thin fingers as they caress the brush and direct his feather-light, precision strokes. Emotion is building deep within me—powerful and intense—making my chest constrict and my stomach clench. He pauses, pulling the brush back and cocking his head to the side, and as he turns a little, I can see the tip of his tongue poised in concentration.
He begins again, and as his brush moves, I hear his warm, velvet voice humming along softly with the music, and my emotion reaches a crescendo along with the violin solo. I cover my mouth with my fist to keep from making any sound, but I'm overwhelmed by … love, pride, and such a vast and uncontainable joy that I can barely keep it in. This is Edward—who he is, what he does—the person he is without cancer. The person he was always meant to be, and who he gets to keep being, now that he's healthy again. The person I am desperately, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with.
I stand there forever, spellbound by his creative energy as he makes the meadow in his painting come alive with lupine and delicate purple blooms. Until, suddenly, the spell is broken as he leans back against the chair, eyes closed and breathing deeply. My sweet, breathtakingly amazing artist isn't fully recovered yet, and he's pushing himself too hard. I cross the room and put my arms around him from behind, startling him a little, but he recovers quickly and leans his cheek against my arm.
"Hello, sweetheart. You've been busy today."
"I have," Edward says, grinning up at me. "It's been fantastic to get back in here and actually work on something."
"And what is it you're working on? This isn't one of the canvases I got you for Christmas."
"No, it's not," he confirms, a mischievous smile on his face. "I have plans for those, but I wanted to start with something more simple and relaxing for my maiden voyage back into painting."
I raise my eyebrows as I glance at what he's working on. This is simple and relaxing? It looks like a freaking masterpiece! "If this is simple and relaxing, I can't wait to see complicated and intense."
"You will," he says, grinning even wider. "But this … I want to take you here someday."
I gasp. "Oh, my God, it's an actual place?"
"Yes," he says, leaning against me again. "It's a few miles south of Cauterets, in the Pyrenees Mountains in the south of France. Someday, I want to take you there. I'm sure I could find it again."
My chest expands with happiness as I realize he can take me there someday. By this time next year, he'll be well enough to travel, and we can go anywhere we want. He can show me all the amazing places he's been, and we can go to the cities he told me he wanted to paint. I lean down and kiss his cheek, smiling against the scruff I feel there. "That would be absolutely fantastic. I would love to go to Europe with you."
He smiles, but his eyes fall closed as he leans into me.
"Are you ready for a break? You've been at this for a while now."
He quirks an eyebrow. "You didn't just get home, did you?"
"No," I admit, blushing deeply. "I've been watching you for a while."
Now it's Edward's turn to blush. "I get so absorbed in what I'm doing that I lose track of everything else. I had no idea you were back there."
"Well, I didn't want to disturb you, so I stayed as still and quiet as possible. But I've been here long enough to know you're getting tired."
He sighs heavily. "You're right. I am. I think I've reached my limit for today. I was in here this morning until Jasper showed up, and then I rested after lunch and came back in about an hour ago."
"That's a long time for your first day."
"Yeah," he says, grinning sheepishly. "Like I said, I lose track of time."
My stomach does a giddy flip as I feel his smile against my cheek. Happiness is radiating off him, even though he's tired. I reach down and take his palette from his hand, holding it reverently, and I can't help the crease that forms in my brow.
"What is it? You had that same look this morning when I was getting my things ready to paint."
Damn, he's perceptive. How the hell does he do that? "I … came in here a few times when I was checking on your place while you were in the hospital. Seeing your work—this room—was … hard when—"
"—when you thought I was going to die," he finishes for me, standing and squeezing my shoulder.
I just nod and glance down at the object in my hand. "This, in particular, was hard to see because to me it embodied all your work—who you were, I mean … are."
He smiles as he takes it from me and walks over to his worktable, laying it on the edge and putting his brush down before returning to enfold me in his arms. "Well, it's still who I am, and I'm not going anywhere," he says, kissing me softly.
My lips move eagerly against his, and the memory of falling on my knees on this floor fades, crowded out by the feel and the taste of the man I love. We kiss for long moments until I pull away, gasping, and Edward sways on his feet as he closes his eyes.
"Come on, let's get you settled in the recliner to rest while I make us some dinner. You've put in your day's work for today."
He just laughs and grins at me as he drapes an arm over my shoulder—for support or out of love, I can't tell, but I honestly don't care. As long as that smile stays on his face, he can do anything he wants.
The days go by in our new routine, and the change in Edward is nothing short of miraculous. He's been pleased with our relationship since he told me he loved me, and his mood and attitude have been improving as he feels better, but it's as if painting again has added a whole new dimension to his personality. He's happy. And I don't mean just a little bit. I mean singing and laughing and smiling like the world is his oyster. There's a light in his eyes that never graced the lonely man I met in the hospital—that flame was extinguished by his cancer—but it's been rekindled by his realization that he truly has been given a second chance. And he's determined not to waste a moment of it.
As the weeks of his confinement wane, Edward is all about plans: where in Europe he wants to take me, cities he wants to paint, restaurants and places that are special to him that he wants me to see. I can't even describe how seeing him like this makes me feel. His good mood is infectious, and I smile and sing and laugh right along with him, reveling in finally meeting the man I saw glimpses of when he was in the hospital. And I fall a little deeper in love every day, if that's even possible.
He's filling out as the days go by, and by the time we're approaching the end of January, he's put on at least ten pounds by my estimation. He's still underweight, but now his hipbones don't stick out quite so much, and it's harder to count his ribs. And best of all, he's noticing the difference and not avoiding the mirror quite so much.
One Saturday, about two weeks after he started painting again, I find myself drawn to his studio. It's eleven in the morning and he's been in there for about an hour, and although I try to leave him alone, I dearly love to watch him work! Although I often find him there when I get home from work, he usually closes up shop as soon as I get here, tired and wanting to spend time with me. So the weekends are really my only chance to practice my peeping Tom skills.
I approach the bedroom door slowly, creeping along and setting each foot down gently so as not to make a sound. Once I make it to the doorway, I stop, leaning against the frame as I stare dreamily at my very favorite sight. Or perhaps, my second favorite. Edward naked edges out Edward painting. And if I ever have the chance to see Edward naked and painting? Oh, good God, I'll combust! I shake my head to clear my lecherous thoughts and focus on what's in front of me.
Edward is sitting before his easel, working on the painting of the meadow in France he started two weeks ago. He's a little frustrated by how slowly he's progressing with it, but after all, it's been months since he's painted, and he can only take an hour or two in here at a time before he tires. All in all, I think he's doing fantastic, and despite his grumbling, I suspect he agrees.
Today, he's working on the smoky white clouds in the center of the painting, and I realize with a start that he's almost finished. The detail of the painting is incredible—from the individual blades of grass in the meadow to every needle on the majestic evergreens to the craggy heights of the cobalt mountains in the background. I want to see this place so badly, but in all honestly, if I stare at the painting hard enough I already feel like I'm there. Edward has captured the essence of what he remembers so thoroughly that I can feel the crispness of the air and see the mist rising to cling to the branches of the fir trees. I could stare at it all day.
"You can come in, you know," Edward says with a smile in his voice, his hand not even pausing as he continues to paint wisps of cloud. I swear his eyes never left the canvas. How the hell does he do that?
I blush and cross the room, coming to stand behind his right shoulder. "It looks amazing. Are you almost finished?"
"Actually, I think I am finished," he says, looking over his shoulder and grinning at me impishly. "I think this one will fetch a pretty decent price. I'm glad you're here. I wanted to talk to you about something."
"A decent price?" I stammer, my eyes widening. He can't be thinking of selling this.
"Yes," he answers, drawing the word out. "That's how artists make their money—we paint things, and then we sell them."
I give him my best exasperated look, but the minute my eyes return to the painting, I'm serious again. "You can't sell this one. And if you insist then I'm going to buy it."
His brow furrows in frustration. "Bella—"
"Don't 'Bella' me," I say petulantly. "I am in love with this painting, and I won't let you sell it."
His smile is brilliant as he stands and put his arms around me. "You're in love with it, huh?"
"Yes. It's the first thing I ever saw you paint, you've been so happy working on it, and it's so beautiful and detailed that I already feel like I'm there, even though you're planning to take me someday," I tell him, pulling out my best puppy dog eyes and my pouty lip, for good measure.
He chuckles then lowers his lips to mine—warm and sweet. When he pulls back he grins at me affectionately. "Okay, we'll keep this one. But you do realize that eventually you're going to have to part with some of my work, right? I need to earn a living too, and there's only so much square footage of walls in this apartment."
"Then we'll get a bigger one," I say stubbornly then dissolve into laughter as his eyes widen. "I know, I know! I'm just teasing you. I promise you can sell your work … just not this one."
"All right, fair enough," he agrees, closing his eyes.
I back him toward the chair until the back of his knees hit the pillows, and he shoots me a hairy eyeball but sits obediently. As he leans back to rest, I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"
"Oh. Right," he says, opening his eyes as his cheeks color.
I stare at him expectantly, and he takes a deep breath before starting in. "I was hoping to start working on one of the canvases you got me for Christmas now that I'm warmed up, but … I wanted to ask your permission to do something different than what you asked of me."
"How so?" I ask, intrigued.
His blush intensifies as he answers. "Well, you had said the first one was for me to paint for myself, as my first work in my new life, but I painted the meadow first because I didn't feel ready to work on what you gave me yet. Now, I am, and I'm planning to start on it, but … I'd like to have you watch me work on that one rather than the one I have in mind for you."
"Why?"
"Well, for my picture, I'd like to paint you, so I'd like you to pose for me, and I have … plans for yours that require me to keep it to myself. I promise it's going to be fantastic, I just … can't let you see it until it's done."
What is he up to? But the smile on his face is so sweet and so hopeful—Mr. Romantic has got some plan up his sleeve, and I best just let him do it his way. "Okay, sure. Wait, you want to paint … me?"
"Um, yes. I've drawn you so many times; I've been itching to capture you with my true talent."
My stomach flips, and it's hard to breathe as I think about Edward painting me. Holy shit. "Of—of course, you can," I stutter, hardly able to get the words out past the lump in my throat.
"And you'll sit for me?" he repeats, his green eyes alight with eagerness.
"Of course. When did you want to start?"
He ducks his head. "Um, today?"
I shake my head and chuckle at his eagerness. "Sure, but I'm hungry now, and I think you need to rest for a while. What about if we start after your nap this afternoon?"
Edward sighs, but he knows the reality. "That's fine."
Getting up on my knees, I shuffle forward until I'm between his legs, my hands resting softly on his cheeks. "Hey, soon you'll be able to do whatever you want. Look how much you can do already."
"I know," he says, leaning forward to kiss me. He moans as my tongue runs along his teeth, and he eagerly opens to me, pulling me closer as his hands slide toward my ass. His kisses are soft but insistent, his tongue exploring and tasting as adrenaline rushes through me, flooding that place deep in my belly with searing heat. I clench my thighs as desire threatens to overwhelm me, and it takes nearly all I have not to jump on to his lap and writhe on top of him. Today is the nineteenth—Day 92. Eight more days. We need to stop this or I'm going to go crazy.
Just as I'm about to pull back, Edward shifts forward on his chair, groaning as he presses his erection to my stomach. He grasps my cheeks between his hands, deepening the kiss and humming his pleasure as he rubs against me. Apparently, I'm the only one with stopping this on my mind. He grinds upward and my mind goes completely blank. Why did I want to stop, exactly? My head is foggy, and all I can think about is how much I want to tear his clothes off and have my way with him.
"Jesus, Bella, I want you so much," Edward whispers breathlessly, groaning as he pleasures himself against me.
Oh, fuck it. He draws in a sharp breath at the loss of contact, but he moans appreciatively as I straddle him on the chair and press myself into him, right where he wants me. He wraps his arms around my shoulders as I start a slow, undulating rhythm, his head lying on my breasts as he pants.
"Aw fuck," he gasps, groaning so deeply in what has to be ecstasy that it sends a shiver rolling down my spine. And suddenly, he's everywhere—his fingers sliding up into my hair, his lips finding and devouring me as he writhes in counterpoint to my rhythm, creating a delicious friction. I move a little to the left and … Oh, God, yes, Edward, right there! I moan as I begin to build toward orgasm, my clit tingling and begging for more, yes, there, now!
Edward's thrusts become erratic, and he turns his head, unable to contain the sounds of his pleasure as he rushes headlong toward his release. He's moaning with each thrust, and fuck, I know he's close—my own body is stretched tight like a bowstring, just waiting for him to tumble over the edge. With a final forceful push, he shouts out his orgasm, and I follow him, throwing my head back as I pulse and shake against him. He collapses back against the chair, and I end up hunched over with my head on his shoulder as we both try to catch our breath.
I smile against him—holy fuck is it going to be incredible when we can do that skin on skin, with nothing holding us back. Edward's still panting, his head resting wearily against my chest. "You still alive down there?"
He chuckles. "Barely. Damn, I wanna do that in our bed with no clothes on."
"Me too," I tell him, nuzzling his neck.
"Eight days."
"You're counting too, huh?"
He lifts his head and gives me his "are you fucking kidding me" look, and I giggle, happiness bubbling in my chest.
"I'm sorry; of course, you are. How could I forget that you're a man and it's all about the sex?"
"Well, it's not all about the sex," he says, kissing his way up my neck. "But I'm really, really looking forward to that part."
I cock my head as he explores my neck, humming appreciatively.
"Tell me you're not looking forward to it," he says, his words vibrating against my skin and rekindling the fire in my belly.
"Mmm … can't," I mumble incoherently, and his warm laugh just adds fuel to the flames.
"Well, I won't be painting in these pants this afternoon," he observes, shifting a little under me. "I'm sticky."
Chuckling, I slide back slowly and stand, holding my hand out to him. "Why don't you run through the shower, and I'll make us some lunch?"
"Okay," he answers, grinning up at me as he takes my hand, and I pull him to his feet. He wobbles a little as he stands, and I slide a shoulder under his arm to steady him. "I'm all right; I'm just tired. I had some rather strenuous exercise this morning."
"Just consider me your personal trainer," I tease as he throws his arm over my shoulder and lets me lead him to the bathroom.
I head to the kitchen and make us both salads, but Edward hasn't appeared yet even though it took me forever to get the vegetables cut. Wiping my hands on a towel, I go back to the bedroom, and I can't help but smile as I gaze down at him. He's obviously freshly showered, but somehow, he didn't make it past the bed, and he's sleeping peacefully, lying on top of the comforter and clutching his pillow. Shit, I really must have worn him out! I fold the comforter over, covering him with what was on my side of the bed, and creep from the room. His salad will keep until he wakes up—I didn't put dressing on it.
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Three hours later, a very groggy Edward joins me in the living room, and after eating his slightly wilted salad, he leads me back to his studio. He's completely awake now, and I can feel his excitement over painting me. While he was sleeping, I changed into the gold sweater he really likes, and once he was awake enough to notice, he approved of my choice rather enthusiastically.
He lets go of my hand, and I stand and watch as he sets up a stool for me to sit on, affixes the canvas to his easel, then goes to his table to select brushes and paint. My stomach does little flips as I watch him choose colors and dot paint onto his palette, his eyes roving over me frequently as he determines what shades he'll need. This is so exciting!
Finally, he finishes and turns his attention to me. "I've thought about this, and with how slow I'm working at the moment, there's no way you're going to be able to sit for me the entire time while I paint your portrait. I'm too tired in the evenings, and if we do it only on the weekend, it's gonna take forever. So, I'm going to position you how I want you and take some digital pictures first, and then you can sit for me today and whenever else you want to when I'm working on it. Is that all right?"
"Sure," I tell him, all of a sudden a bit nervous and shy. I know it's only Edward, but somehow, something changed when he spoke to me just now. He is the master here, and I'm just the girl who knows next to nothing about art but was lucky enough to have him fall for me. I've never really felt a balance of power between us, but whatever it was previously, it just shifted toward Edward in a big way. He's in control here, and he knows what he's doing. And I smile, realizing this is truly the man he is without his cancer.
"What?" Edward says, putting a hand on my waist.
"Nothing. I'm just enjoying watching you work."
His grin lights up the room. "And I'm enjoying working. It's beyond amazing to be back in here, doing what I love."
"And it's beyond amazing to be watching you because you're so much more than the man I fell in love with."
"Is that a good thing?" he asks, looking down nervously.
"Of course, it is!" I tell him, pulling him into my arms. "I loved you before when you weren't whole. The cancer had taken over half your life or more by the time I met you. But now, that part has been replaced by who you really are. You're whole again, and the flashes I saw of your true self aren't flashes anymore, they're you. And I love you more than ever."
His brow is furrowed in thought, but I kiss him before he can ponder it too deeply, telling him in no uncertain terms exactly what I think of who he is. When we break apart, he's breathless, but his smile is spectacular. Message received.
"I love you more than ever, too, Bella," he says, hugging me tightly. He holds me for a moment, and I feel like something more is going on, but as I'm about to ask, he releases me. "Let's get started, shall we?"
He seems fine now, so I allow him to lead me over to the stool and position me where he wants me. He has me sit at a precise angle to the window and asks me to look back over my shoulder as he rearranges strands of my hair, making it look exactly as he wants it. I can't help but blush as he fusses over me—the excitement of what we're doing and the raw sex appeal of watching Edward in charge are combining to make me more than a little flustered.
Finally, he takes a few steps back and looks me over one more time. "Perfect," he says, picking up his camera. I smile at him, but he shakes he head. "No, not a smile. I want something … sexier. Think about eight days from now when I'm finally allowed to touch you."
As if I can think about anything else! But I do as he says and let my eyes rove over him, undressing him and reveling in what's underneath—the freckles smattered on his shoulders and chest, his flat stomach, his large and magnificent—
"Yes, that look right there!" Edward exclaims and snaps a few rapid pictures before I reach a full, mortified blush. He doesn't notice, though; his eyes are on the view screen as he inspects the pictures he's just taken. "These are perfect. Keep that look right there, and I'll start working."
I look down and grin, shaking my head as he gathers his palette and brushes. By the time he sits down, I'm reasonably composed, but that goes right out the window.
"So, what were you thinking about when I took the pictures?"
I swear I've raised the temperature in the room as my face bursts into flames, and Edward's warm, sexy, and contagious laughter bounces around the space. "Oh, God, Bella, that blush. Do you know what it makes me want to do to you?"
Impossibly, I blush even more, unable to contain my smile, and Edward laughs again. "I was that good, was I?"
"You were fantastic," I say, pinning him with my stare. "I hope you can live up to it in real life because my fantasy Edward is pretty amazing."
"That sounds like a challenge, Miss Swan. I think I'm up to it, and I'll certainly have a lot of fun trying," Edward declares with a panty-combusting grin and a wink.
Holy fuck, he's really turning on the charm now, and I breathe deeply, trying to contain the urge to run over there and straddle him again. Oblivious to my discomfort and slightly damp panties, Edward begins to paint, and oh, sweet Jesus, it just got worse! I can see as he moves into that creative space in his mind, and he becomes serious—every fiber of his being focused on what he's doing. It's beyond erotic. His eyes caress me, warming and electrifying everywhere they touch, but he's unaware of the heat because he's focused on his work, and somehow, that makes it even more sexual and intense.
I squirm a little, rubbing my thighs together as I imagine what he's painting, what he's thinking as he works, and oh, God, how am I going to sit here for a few hours when all I want to do is tackle him to the floor and— Stop! You can do this! Yes, it's erotic and it makes you want to jump his bones, but it's also important to him. So set your mind on something else and let the man work! I scold myself, and somehow, I manage to cool the molten desire in my belly enough to remain seated so Edward can paint.
An hour later, he leans back in his chair and smiles at me contentedly. "I think that's enough for the day."
I launch from the stool, and before he knows what's happened, he's on the bed in our room, and I'm poised over him like a lioness over her prey. Edward's really going to sleep well tonight.
A/N: Oh my, I think the temperature just went up in this story! Eight days to go, but I think I should skip those, don't you? Pictures in Shadow Fics this morning, teaser tomorrow, and Chapter 54 will post on Thursday.
Nominations are still being taken for the Twi Fic Fandom Awards, so stop by and nominate your favorite stories, if you haven't done so yet!
Some folks in Shadow Fics started reading it this week, and it occurred to me that I've never mentioned here that I have another novel-length Twilight fic for you to read, if you like my stories. It's complete, and it's called How To Forget. Where do you go if you don't know who you are, and what if you find you don't want to remember? Edward finds himself in Forks under suspicious circumstances, can Bella help him discover who he truly is? Check it out, if you haven't read it yet!
Music for Chapter 54: Love Me Like You Do by Ellie Goulding. The link can be found in the Come Back Tomorrow playlist on YouTube and in Shadow Fics.
