A/N Huge thanks to Team Prey - my beta Saritadreaming and my pre-readers Popola, rubylou, and radioactive77. You guys really stepped up to the plate for me on this one. I think about what this chapter would be like without the invaluable feedback of my pre-readers or the editing skills of my beta, and well, I just shudder.

Disclaimer - Twilight characters belong to SM. Lyrics under the chapter belong to The Tea Party. The rest is all just my twisted imagination under Preyward's influence.

Enjoy!

Warning - The following contains material written for adult readers... But you all know that by now...right? ;-)

Just a reminder - last chapter Jake discovered that Bella did not leave the club alone the night Mike Newton disappeared. This chapter continues on from the point where he leaves his shop, angry and upset.


Prey for the Wicked

~ xXx ~

Chapter 11

Pokusa

. . . . . .

I can't feel it.
I can't feel it.
I can't feel…

. . . . . .

The truck hits the road, its heavy metal chassis and the rain slick asphalt muting the satisfying sound of screeching tires that Jake would have liked to hear. The road is deserted. As soon as he completes his turn, he guns it, coaxing lacklustre speed out of a reluctant engine. He hates this truck. He bought it for Bella but when they broke up, she refused to keep it.

"Stubborn. Independent. Prideful." The words spit out of his mouth as he tries to grind the gas pedal into the floor. "Damn it, Bella. God damn it!" He speaks out loud as if she's there, and he doesn't miss the fact that he's used those exact words to describe her a hundred times in the past. Maybe more.

The inanity of yelling into empty space finally settles him. He's still seeing red, but at least he starts breathing without sounding like he just ran a marathon. Easing up on the gas—not like the rust bucket is going to give him the speed he wants anyway—Jake contemplates his next move.

When he left the shop, his intent was to head straight for Bella's and demand answers. He still has a key; he still pays half the damn mortgage, though that's only because Bella has no choice. Her lousy paycheque from Newton's Outfitters wouldn't cover the full cost, and they both agreed during one of their saner conversations after their split that the smart thing in a lousy housing market would be to wait a year or two. Finish the renovations they planned before trying to sell.

Those arguments still taste bitter in his mouth. He wanted to pay half the utilities as well as have her keep the truck. He bought it for her. The pink slip has her name on it. He has another car for Christ's sake. But Bella wouldn't budge on either. She rationalized that he would get his money back from the mortgage payments when they sold the house, so she was willing to make that 'concession,' as she called it. But she still acts like it's going to kill her to take the cheque out of his hands every damn month.

For his part, he feels like the world's biggest ass for leaving her without a vehicle, even if it wasn't his choice. When she first kicked him out, he left the truck at the house, figuring she'd use it once she calmed down. Bella just cancelled the insurance, which was in her name because she insisted on paying it in full herself, and then let it sit there in the driveway, gathering more rust and getting slowly blanketed in bird shit. Finally she called him and threatened to have it towed to a junk yard if he didn't come and pick it up. He was tempted to let her on principle. The only reason he finally caved was because he'd put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into the damn hunk of junk, and at least if he had it she could borrow it whenever she wanted.

Bella never wanted. She still doesn't. Forks is small. She takes a bus to work and to the grocery store when the weather is bad, or she catches rides with Jess, Angela or Ben. The rest of the time she walks, even if it's raining. One day she cut her hand and needed stitches. She walked half an hour in freezing cold sleet to Forks General with a facecloth duct-taped to the wound. She never once called him.

Bella has always been the independent type. From the moment he met her, he realized she took care of herself and everyone close to her, never the other way around. God forbid she ever accept a simple fucking gift of any kind.

Back then, he chose not to make a big stink about it. He put the VW Rabbit he'd restored in the garage under the bullshit pretence of it needing more work, and let her believe they were sharing the truck. It enabled him to spend more time with her, and he was fine with a little white lie if it meant he knew she could get where she needed to go, safe and dry.

Now he minds. Because he's in the truck safe and dry, and she's not. Because the money is nothing to him—he makes three times as much as she does and lives rent free. Because back then, he could make damn sure she had an extra twenty or two in her wallet—she was stubbornly independent, but notoriously forgetful about cash and little slips of paper, receipts, bills, that kind of shit. Probably still is.

Jake scrapes a hand through his hair, cursing as he wonders for the millionth time how she's managing to pay the utilities and keep herself fed off the piddly-ass wage that shyster Mr. Newton Senior pays her. Three months ago, Jake paid Mr. Newton a visit and made damn sure Bella got a raise. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough, but it was better than what she was getting before. Still...

Bella is low maintenance. Unlike a lot of women, she isn't into fashion. She dresses well but doesn't follow trends or need designer labels. She isn't into shoes and avoids high heels like the plague. Her one indulgence is books. They're like crack cocaine to her. Jake doubts she's had a fix in months, other than what she might be able to scrounge at the local used book store. Her only other addiction is expensive coffee she drowns in milk and sugar, and he knows for a fact she isn't buying that anymore because he saw the jar of generic store brand instant shit sitting on her counter just the other day.

He knows the utilities are getting paid because his name is still on the accounts. He can check them online, which he does every month, determined to step in and make up any difference if she doesn't pay the full amount. She always does.

He crunches numbers in his head—again. She makes enough, but just barely, and there's no way she has anything left over. Jake has an image of her walking past the ice cream she likes in the grocery store with her chin held high, heading for the bargain bins where she'll never find the white flaked tuna in water she prefers or the big red strawberries shipped from Mexico.

"Fuck!" he snarls, pounding his fists on the steering wheel. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He knew she wanted to take some classes at the community college. That she didn't talk much about it but she wants to have her own catering business someday. Jake planned to start putting money away to help her as soon as the shop started pulling in a solid profit.

She needs someone to take care of her. She deserves it. When he lived with her, he made damn sure there was ice-cream in the freezer, strawberries in the fridge, and all the expensive-ass coffee she could drown, ruin, and drink. He made sure there was a little cash in her wallet and a roof that didn't leak over her head, even if it meant climbing up the side of the house to repair it in the damn pouring rain.

Now she has no one.

"She didn't leave alone. She was with someone. She was with another guy."

Quil's words from earlier echo in his head, no less painful now than they were then, mocking him. After Jake ran into Jess at the diner last week, then went to Bella's and found her lock broken, he tried to convince himself Jess was wrong about Bella hooking up with someone. Jess mistakenly thought it was Jake who left some hickey on Bella's neck, so she wasn't exactly a reliable source of factual information. Hearing from Quil though that he actually witnessed Bella walking home with some guy, makes it impossible for Jake to keep up the pretence that his instincts after seeing her weren't rock solid.

He curses and makes a sharp right at the light. It takes him away from the temptation of Bella's. He trusts Charlie. He'll have her house being watched, and besides, Jake knows the mood he's currently in is written all over his face. Bella would take one look at him and refuse to listen to a word he'd say, that is if she even let him in the door.

The truth is, he doesn't know what to say anyway, beyond demanding who she was with that night, or fighting with her again over the truck or the bills or...them, being together the way they used to be. And, yeah, none of that would go over well.

"Fuck!"

"She's not yours to look after anymore, Jake."

He drives, seemingly aimless, his head a mess, his chest hurting. He thinks about all the ways he and Bella were right, and then forces himself to think about all the ways they were wrong.

He lights a cigarette and drives out of Forks, heading for the Reservation without any real conscious decision.

Bella has the right to date. He can't stop her, but damn it, some random guy? If Quil didn't know him, he can't be from around here. Jake's jaw grinds. Some outsider then. Is he still here? Forks is a small town. Strangers get talked about, but Jake's head has been buried in work and now this shit with Newton, so he hasn't exactly been on top of the local gossip mill.

His brain churns. Newton disappears, and some other guy appears. Coincidence? Probably, but his brain doesn't let it go. He's never been a big believer in coincidence.

He thinks about that and coincidences in general as he realizes he's driven himself to Leah's and is parked outside, staring at her door.

He doesn't know why he's here when he's been avoiding her calls all day. He does know she deserves better than him showing up in the middle of the night. It doesn't stop him from getting out and walking up to knock on her front door, though.

He has no answers, no plan. Jake just knows he doesn't want to be alone tonight, and he hopes Leah feels the same.

. . . . . .

The storm dies down slowly in increments. The cloud cover thins out, and snatches of the moon bathe Bella's bedroom in intermittent washes of eerily soft silver light. She lies across Edward's chest, her head somehow fitting perfectly in the cool concave between his shoulder and chest. The fingers of his left hand brush lightly back and forth over her hip, occasionally dipping down to where her thigh rests over his. She knows without looking that his other arm is extended upwards, his hand resting on the top of her headboard. She knows because she hears his fingers occasionally tap and rub across the wood. In a foggy aside, she wonders if she left fingernail grooves there. Probably not, but it wouldn't surprise her if she had.

"Hands on the headboard, Isabella..."

She's beyond lethargic and sleepy, and still she feels heat under her skin at the memory of his words, the prickle of over sensitive nerves between her legs.

A low rumble beneath her ear tells her he's laughing softly. A hand taps the headboard, another tickles a path around her hip. He moves too fast for her senses and suddenly she's on her back, staring up at pitch-black eyes, their unnatural ring of red, subtle before, now seems to blaze too close to the colour of blood for comfort. She wonders where the gold went. His ever changing eye color makes her head spin.

"What?" she gasps, unable to control the spike of unease that comes so closely on the heels of all the other feelings he creates in her. It's strange to go from feeling nearly peaceful a minute ago to this. He never gives her long to settle, constantly shocking her with actions and mannerisms that prove he's not human. She thinks he does it on purpose.

Edward smiles with a flash of perfect teeth, small but wicked looking incisors and sensual, mocking lips. He balances his weight effortlessly on an arm he crooks above her head, locking her into him, surrounded on every side. His other hand flips palm up, and he trails the back of his knuckles down the skin on a cheek still warm with the blush her memories evoked.

"I could ask the same," he replies, the tone of his voice a heated contrast to the cool wash of his breath, "but I don't think I need to." He drops his head, and his tongue touches her bottom lip, a cool tingling swipe that has hers reaching out in return to taste the moisture he leaves behind.

Snow and cinnamon and vanilla, and...something else. Something dark, nearly bitter and dangerous... Blood. Her blood.

God, oh, God.

"Every secret your mind keeps, your traitorous little body is so eager to divulge." He tuts teasingly, a simple cluck of his tongue, taunting yet delighted. His hand moves away from her cheek and down her neck, knuckles pausing momentarily on her pulse, his eyes never leaving hers. The pause is brief, and Bella loses her ability to breathe normally when he strokes the hollow of her throat, the skin between her breasts.

"Hm," he murmurs as though in contemplation. His hand flips palm down now, large enough when he splays his fingers outward they brush her suddenly tight nipples, making her gasp. "What does your body tell me now I wonder? Are you ready for me again?"

She isn't. Not remotely. She barely has the energy for these emotions and feelings; anything more and she fears she'll just pass out. And still heat spikes where she is tender and bruised feeling. She wants to say no, but her body wants to say yes. Not even in this is her head in agreement.

"Hm," he repeats, playing with her. "Perhaps not yet. You really are such a fragile thing, and I have been utterly remiss in my care of you."

Edward is gone before she can respond to that, before she can tell him she's not fragile and doesn't need anyone to care for her. The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she'd be releasing them to nothing more than an audience of humid, dark air.

Frustration prickles her nerves, though even that doesn't last. She's too tired and out of her element. He leaves, and she's spinning in his wake. He's back before her, and she's too dazzled to be coherent.

She is plucked from the bed like a tiny child; his arms, cool behind her knees and her back, have no more give than honed marble. He carries her to the small bathroom, and the niggling sound she was only barely aware of seconds ago becomes clear. He's stoppered her big claw-foot tub, and the gurgle of water splashes against the old porcelain surface. She catches the delicate, inviting scent of lavender and realizes he's found her small, ever-dwindling bottle of bath oil. It's expensive, a gift from Jessica for her birthday last year. She wants to be angry that he's used it—it isn't like she can afford more—but it's too late, and she's too weary.

She doesn't complain when he sets her down and holds out his hand, gesturing to the tub in a way that conveys he wants her to step in. Reaching down, she flicks fingers in the water, not surprised to find the temperature perfect.

He smirks at her action, and she wonders again if he's lying about reading her mind. Stepping into the tub on legs that feel as weak as a fawn is tricky, but she refuses his help, avoiding his arm when he reaches out to stabilize her.

A small victory for independence, she thinks. Then her foot slips on the oily bottom, and the only thing that saves her is the arm she tried to refuse. Edward catches her effortlessly and settles her before she can even gasp. She looks at him, expecting more derisive amusement, only to find his expression grim, his mouth set in a hard line as a hiss escapes him. The sound is angry, and she flinches.

"You will be careful, and you will not ever pull away from me like that again, Isabella." The command in his tone is forceful enough it makes her blink. "You could have fallen. You could have been hurt."

Her heart still has the stutter that proves his observations correct, and she's embarrassed by her clumsiness. More than that, though, she feels a flash of irritation at him barking orders. She doesn't know what to do with the feeling. If he was anyone else, she'd laugh it off or tell him off, but she has no footing with him, no way to decipher the ground she walks on.

"I'm fine," she says weakly instead.

Something skates through those dark eyes, and something else flickers over his face. Some emotion she can't ascertain.

"Yes," he answers, frowning slightly. "And I find myself wanting that to be a constant situation, not just a momentary one." He seems confused by that, and his gaze is searching, as if he believes he can find answers if he stares at her hard enough.

Releasing the firm hold he has around her waist, Edward instead takes her arm and gestures to the water. "Sit carefully."

Feeling like a small chastised child and still spinning and lost, Bella does as he says. The water feels heavenly until she shifts her legs and a sharp sting flares between them. A small cry of pain and a wince can't be hidden before the feeling lessens. She closed her eyes at the initial burn, but now she opens them to find him kneeling down on one knee at the side of the tub. She doesn't miss the powerful flex of his thighs as he moves deeper into his leg bend, and for the first time she realizes he's put his pants back on. The material hugs his body like a second skin.

She's taken away from her visual feast by the feel of his cool hand sliding over her thigh to the intimate place she hurts, more of that same frown furrowing his brow as he cups her.

"You're hurting."

She bites her lip and nods before sliding back away from his touch. "I'm fine, though."

He cocks his head, watching her like a hawk, as if searching to see if she's telling the truth. "Such a fragile thing. I must remember to be gentler."

He seems to be talking to himself and not really to her. Bella closes her eyes and lets her head slump back, nudging herself backward to get further away from him, even if the space she gains measures only a few measly inches. She hears another low laugh, but when she opens her eyes, he's gone again, and she is alone. The bathroom lights feel too bright after the softer, comforting dark in the bedroom. She could pretend that all of this is a dream in there, but reality is undeniable when it's so brightly illuminated.

She stares at the open door and wonders if he's gone. Her ears strain, and she tries not to breathe as she listens.

She hopes he's left.

No, that's a lie.

Surrounded by warm water, she trembles as if she's cold.

She can't want him. He's poison and slow death and madness, and yet the thought that he might have left leaves her utterly bereft.

He's a drug, she thinks. Like my own personal brand of heroin. The more I take, the more I want and need.

These thoughts, these wants, they're the slow slippery slope to a medicine cabinet full of antipsychotic drugs, and a bathtub just like this one—one filled with water gone cold and dyed red by the oozing of cuts in the skin of white wrists. She's seen where madness leads, and she wants no part of it.

Panic rises and takes a strangle hold, dragging her back to the year she turned eight. She came home expecting presents and birthday cake and instead found Renee, passed out in a puddle of vomit, barely breathing, an empty bottle of pills beside her. Bella wasn't able to pronounce the name on the bottle to the 911 dispatcher. The paramedics had to pry it from her clenched fingers, before passing her off to a neighbour who smelled like cigarettes and stale, cheap perfume.

Fast forward... Grade eight. Another school, another city, another crappy apartment. The sounds of screaming and arguing as Renee battled drunkenly with the latest man of the month. They never lasted long. Bella buried her head under blankets and pillows and fell asleep to the angry noises, just as she had hundreds of times before. There would be a mess to clean up in the morning, just like most mornings. She'd clean before she went to school, and settle Renee in bed with the clean blankets she had stashed under her bed...

She'd woken to silence so thick it made her feel like she couldn't breathe under the weight, and she knew, even as she flew out of bed and raced through the house, she knew.

She found Renee in the tub, surrounded by red water. That time, she'd meant business...

Scrambling, Bella sits up in the water, leaning forward and hugging her knees. She reassures herself with the present, letting the bright shabbiness of her bathroom ground her.

No. That isn't her. Renee's illness isn't hers. It isn't.

It isn't.

. . . . . .

Edward stares at the contents of Isabella's refrigerator. Decades upon decades of observation and mind reading have made him an unwilling student in human food consumptions. Mortals think about food nearly as much as they think about sex.

He asks himself what Isabella needs at this moment and decides the late hour would mean her body does not need feeding. He hasn't heard her stomach growl. What she needs is rehydration, something sweet, yet nutritious, to restore her bodily fluids and electrolytes.

He finds a carton of orange juice and pours a large glass, taking a moment to survey the small kitchen, making note of the things she keeps in it and the food sources she stocks. The information will be useful in the future when the task of feeding her is solely his.

Returning to the bathroom, he finds Isabella, head resting on her knees, heart rate escalated. He frowns. Such a confusing creature she is. She is still frightened of him, though he has made an effort these last few hours to soothe her. He even engaged in the strange act of cuddling after sex. And rather enjoyed it, surprisingly, though he'd initiated the activity for her benefit.

Crouching by the side of the tub, he runs fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky texture. Her head jerks up, and her eyes fly open as she looks at him through haunted eyes. His frown deepens; he can feel it stretching his skin in unfamiliar ways as he struggles to understand the feeling her vulnerability engages. He doesn't like this look on her. Protective instincts flare, but he's lost. There is no enemy to battle, save whatever is in her head, and he can't access that.

"Drink," he tells her, aware of the gruffness in his voice yet unable to temper it. His emotions confuse him. Emotions confuse him, period.

She takes the glass willingly and drinks, slowly at first, then faster as she becomes aware of her thirst. Edward feels the sensation of pride flare over him as he watches her consume the beverage. He's provided something she needs, and that pleases him immensely for some reason. He watches the flex of her throat muscles as she swallows, and unbidden, darker images come to him.

Isabella, strong and agile, her sumptuous mouth clamped around the throat of a meal meant for a vampire, licking away crimson droplets from her ruby lips, red rimmed eyes watching him with the promise of carnality and satiation of the flesh...

He jerks his thoughts away, wondering what fantasy this is. She is lovely, and he is enjoying her immensely, but that imagined scenario is nothing he could want. She is a temporary entertainment, one he will surely grow bored of...eventually. Besides, what possible draw could she have for him without the pleasure he receives from her warm skin and ambrosial blood?

He mentally shrugs away the thoughts, dismissively ignoring the odd way they linger compellingly at the edges of his mind.

Isabella finishes her drink, and he takes the glass, watching the faint flush of colour the sugar and liquid brings to her pallor. He took little blood from her. Her exhaustion is all about the emotional upheaval of their night and the physical taxing her body underwent during sex. He wasn't easy on her by any means. A small tinge of remorse touches him when he remembers the way she flinched when the water met her private flesh. Her gorgeous little cunt was no doubt abraded and bruised. He won't be able to take her again for several days if he isn't diligent with this aftercare.

He's surprised to find the need engenders no annoyance in him. On the contrary, it pleases him.

There are so many things to think about, to avoid and plan and be careful of. She shouldn't be worth it, and yet, the thought of leaving her, of never having her again, makes him want to roar and tear down walls. Worse is the thought of her uncomfortable or suffering.

Contemplating the future, listening to the outside noises surrounding the house—it won't be long before Chief Swan returns to check on his beloved daughter again—Edward separates his mind and tends to the exquisite creature before him with most of his attention. She attempts to stand, and it's nothing to prevent it. He captures the hands that try to take the washing cloth away from him, and in one grip holds them clasped against her stomach.

"Be still, Isabella," he commands, pleased when she blinks and settles. He cannot help but smile as he washes her slowly, gently, enjoying the feel of her skin, wet and slippery with soap and oil. He washes her small delicate feet and then her legs, careful of the bruises he's put on her hips. He traces them, feeling pride at the marks on her skin which so clearly stake his claim with nothing more than superficial damage to her frail flesh.

His body begins to ache anew for more contact with her.

Standing, he reaches for a towel and lifts her from the tub, setting her on her feet in front of him. The action takes only a split second, and he laughs at her gasp of surprise and the small yelp of shock she emits when the cool of his chest meets the hot, wet skin of her back.

"Mmm, you are deliciously warm, Isabella." Edward dries her carefully, easing the shock with the soft rasp of friction from the towel. A soft kiss to her neck and she subsides against him, her trip-hammer heartbeat vibrating all the way through her spine. He moves the damp towel between her legs, stroking over her with the lightest touch he is capable of. Again, he captures her hands when she would stop him, holding them prisoner behind her back as he molds the fabric to her sex, rocking his cloth-covered palm against her. She shivers with pleasure, telling him without words he's the farthest thing from hurting her.

Isabella whimpers slightly as he moves upwards with the towel, tending to her stomach and arms, her neck and shoulders, and the sharper curves of her collarbones. The rasp of the soft fabric on her breasts makes her breathing change to little pants. He glides it back and forth over rapidly tightening nipples. Soft shell pink turns dark cherry red, tight little points begging to be caressed and sucked.

Releasing her hands now that she's distracted, Edward wraps his fingers around her throat, tight enough she feels the pressure, not tight enough to restrict her breathing or cause pain. It's just enough to demonstrate he is in control—now, always.

He tips her head right and kisses her ear lobe, touching his tongue to the satiny flesh beneath.

"So sweet. You taste like heaven here, all pure and innocent." He allows the towel to fall out of his grasp and trails the tips of his fingers over her right breast. The soft skin on her nipple pebbles even more, and Isabella moans softly for him.

"Does that feel good, my beauty?" he questions in a whisper to her ear. "My hands on you, my fingers all over this lovely breast, this pretty little nipple?" A thumb and forefinger squeeze lightly over the tip, coaxing another moan. She's nearly limp against him, too tired to fully acquiesce, too deliciously stubborn to fully submit. The warm humidity of the steamy room keeps her from becoming chilled, yet goosebumps dot her skin with a delicious new texture to explore.

"Watch, Isabella; watch me touch you," he orders, turning her to face the rectangular full-length mirror that hangs on the door, stroking more firmly over the taut peak that so eagerly responds to him. Her reflection is sublime. The condensation dripping down the mirror's surface seems to decorate her skin with glistening crystals.

A low whimper displays her desire almost as much as her scent which spikes with the visual her reflection provides. She likes the sight of his hands on her nearly as much as he does.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. "See how your body responds, little lamb? See how perfect you are under my touch? It's as if you were made for me."

Edward lets his hand slip lower, leaving her luscious nipple and sliding down her damp skin to the place he knows is aching once more for him. She's far too tender for his cock, but not for his hand.

"Watch," he repeats as he places pressure against her thighs, forcing her to widen her stance, opening her to his gaze and his touch. She makes a small sound of distress when he cups her, and he chuckles lightly. "Ah, so tender. Does it hurt, my beauty? Shall I make it all better?"

Isabella tries to shake her head, tries to deny him, even as her hips flex into the touch that just barely skims back and forth over her exposed sex.

Her eyes close, and Edward orders her to watch again, opening her gently, parting the delicate folds of flesh to reveal the swollen crown of her clitoris. It's beaded tightly against her body, and he uses one finger to tease the tip, making Isabella gasp sweetly.

"Mmm, yes. Right here. Such a pretty clit you have, Isabella. So silky soft and standing at attention for me. Does it throb, little beauty? Do you ache?" he asks, gliding his finger up then down. "Right here?"

She makes a humming sound in the back of her throat, incoherent in pleasure, though he doubts she would have answered him regardless. He can feel her repression in the hard muscles of her tense form and the blush she cannot hide at his words. An innocent, such an innocent…

He circles the bead of her, adding pressure at the sides with each sweep in that direction. The bright lighting hides nothing, but he finds her flawless. He watches her in the mirror and finds her captivated, her eyes wide and the corner of her bottom lip tucked tightly beneath her teeth as she witnesses his fingers gliding so effortlessly over her.

"Look at how exquisite you are here, Isabella. So ripe for me, all flushed and swollen and glistening. Such pretty flesh just begging for me to touch it and fill the emptiness inside of you until you scream for mercy." She tries to turn her head to hide her face in his neck, shocked by the words he uses. He loosens his grip slightly—not enough that she can move, but enough his grip will not harm her in her efforts. Her thigh muscles quiver and her calves clench, toes curling against the bare linoleum of her floor.

"Look," he commands more firmly. "Watch my hand touch you, Isabella. You're too sore for my cock, but you can still take pleasure at my hand." He cups her possessively, pressing the heel of his palm where his fingers were, stroking the entrance to her body lightly. Her hips jerk, pressing her closer, as though to guide his touch inside. Until her flesh rebels and she whimpers, trying to jerk away from him. Chuckling lightly, he holds her immobile, continuing to just caress over her there, dipping the tip of one, then two, fingers inside, knowing the little bites of pain she feels will sharpen the pleasure if she allows it.

Using only one finger, he enters her further. She makes a strangled sound, and he can feel her conflicting desires in the tenseness of her muscles, internal and external. She doesn't know whether to push forward or pull back.

Edward uses his hold on her neck to turn her face towards him, taking her mouth with a groan. "You feel so good, my sweet lamb. So warm and soaked and tight for me," he murmurs against her soft, gasping mouth, flicking his tongue over hers as he flicks his thumb over her clitoris. He strums her quickly while his other finger presses deep to move in quick little pulses rather than friction inducing strokes. She cries out, her delicious breath bathing his mouth. One of her hands clenches his arm, her body twisting decisively now against his touch, seeking more. The other grabs the side of the sink, wet fingers squeaking over the vanity's surface.

Her breathing quickens as Edward moves his hand faster, still keeping the weight of his touch as light as the weight of feathers. Isabella strains against his hand, panting and mewling, utterly caught at his mercy.

"Beautiful," he murmurs with a low growl of approval at the growing slickness over his fingers. Her head falls back against his shoulder as he works her, lost in the drive for her release, unable to keep her attention on the mirror. Edward uses his grip on her throat to force her gaze back on her reflection. Her skin glows with a pink flush, darker over the tops of her breasts, like rose petals skimming the surface of a pool of fresh cream. His hand wrapped around her throat is decadent, flaring his possessiveness to new heights.

"Are you going to come for me, little one?" he asks unnecessarily. She's on the edge, spilling heat and honey, her skin dewed with water beads rich with the scents of salt-sweat and lavender oil.

"Oh, Edward, please, please." She's shaking, weakened muscle tissue straining with the coiling tension that clamps her down around his fingers like a plush-lined vise. Only his bracing strength against her back and his grip on her throat keeps her upright.

"Watch, Isabella," he all but growls. "See how beautiful you are when you come for me. See what I see."

He nuzzles her humid cheek, licking the crease of her neck and shoulder as he adds the smallest amount of pressure and speed to his touch. She's so close, it's only a mere second to send her over, her lovely eyes falling shut at the last minute as her release overwhelms her.

Turning her face back to him, he nicks her bottom lip, sucking the tiny burst of her blood into his mouth—a small punishment for disobeying his orders. The taste is like a jolt of adrenaline careening through his dead system, like an orgasm, only far more satisfying. He sucks lightly as she moans with the last pulses of her climax, resisting the urge to take more before using his tongue to seal the tiny wound closed with a last lingering lick.

"Yes, Isabella, such a good girl," he croons, rocking her through her release as she shudders and convulses against him. Her body begins to relax, and Edward slows his touch, though he does not end it.

"More?" he asks teasingly as she trembles and whimpers, little shocks of pleasure still stabbing her as he frigs her tender clitoris with soft, slow strokes.

Isabella trembles, undecided, and Edward walks a very fine line. Her arousal ignites his, but her weakness calls to the baser side of his instincts. He hasn't been feeding properly. Animal blood is too weak to sustain him, especially with this kind of temptation. The rich taste of that tiny droplet of crimson from her mouth is still flavouring his.

She's so erotic and beautiful in her pleasure, so sensual in her submission to his touch. It occurs to him that somehow—unbelievably, insanely—she trusts him in this. The knowledge softens the edges of his thirst.

Has anyone, living or dead, ever trusted him with such blind faith as this splendid creature does now in this moment?

Edward cannot answer. Though his mind flickers over thousands of memories, both fresh and old, he finds nothing save the emptiness he's always known.

Disengaging his touch, Edward lifts her trembling form up and into his arms, cradling her close. His touch is as tender as his gaze on her.

He wants—no needs—to reward her for her trust.

Back in the bedroom, he leaves the lights off because he knows she finds comfort in the embrace of darkness.

He lays her upon the bed and stares down at her. Her alabaster skin glows against the darker fabric of her bedding; her hair spreads out around her like a flowing veil.

She doesn't attempt to deny him, though she watches his gaze warily, which no doubt has grown as heavy as his cock.

Edward covers her with his body, drags his fingers over her brow and across her eyelids, pressing them shut gently.

"Hush, Isabella," he tells her when she makes a small, lost sound in the back of her throat. "Close your eyes. No pain, only pleasure. Trust me, little lamb. Let me take care of you." Placing a kiss on her throat where he longs to bite, he hovers, dragging in her scent, before finally moving down her body to place his mouth between her cream skinned thighs. He drinks her here instead, sating himself on the heady taste of her femininity, on her soft cries of ecstasy as she comes, quivering against his tongue and lips, knowing his mouth and the healing properties inherent in his vampire makeup will melt away the last of her soreness.

Later, as the dawn begins to tease the horizon with reflections of fast approaching light, Edward covers her exhausted, sleeping form with a light sheet. Her father made his final round of the night in his patrol car an hour ago, nearly an auditory witness to Isabella's very loud final cry of climax. A part of Edward might have found the moment amusing, given the fact the Chief's purpose was to protect Isabella from Mike Newton, a man who no longer walked among the living. Especially in light of the fact that Edward—a far more dangerous being—was taking decadent liberties with his daughter, right under the Chief's less-than-watchful eye. Instead, Edward coaxed lingering whimpers from her in a possessive moment of fierceness at the interruption of his focus, knowing that Chief Swan's human ears couldn't detect those softer sounds, yet deriving a twisted satisfaction from it nevertheless.

Mine, mine, mine…

The little accompanying growl sent vibrations through his Isabella that spurred another soft flutter of climax over her before he relented and let her succumb to sleep.

It was a near thing, and decades of learned self control that kept Edward in that bed with her rather than outside tearing the throat out of a man with proprietary thoughts towards what now belonged solely to Edward. The feral nature alive and well within him wanted to eradicate any other male from her life, regardless of the nature of the relationship between them.

Now, he contemplates those thoughts with more attention. His plans for his house are finally coming together. It won't be long now before it will be a suitable place for Isabella. He understands that for a human, the health of their psyche depends on a social network of familial and friend associations. Edward is willing, for now, to settle here for a short time and allow for her adjustment to the new life he is planning for her, but his patience is not finite. It would be so much easier to eradicate all complications and connections, simply vanish with her, but he must tread carefully for many reasons, not the least of which is Isabella's mental health.

He watches her for a moment longer, drawing peace and resolve from her sleeping innocence. Such an incomparable beauty she is, but keeping her is a complicated, dangerous endeavour indeed.

The idea of that danger grows in his mind as awareness teases the edges of his vampiric senses. There is another of his kind close by.

Edward's lip curls, a snarl twisting his handsome face into something dangerous. Despite this, his touch of farewell on Isabella's cheek is infinitely gentle, an unspoken promise to return gliding from his fingers, branding itself unseen on her skin as he trails his touch down her neck.

He leaves her house reluctantly, swift and invisible on silent feet, ready to confront yet another obstacle. With his features hard and predatorily frightening, Edward almost pities the vampire who thinks their past relationship will protect them from their blunder of daring to get too close to what is his.

Yes, keeping Isabella is a complicated, dangerous endeavour, but Edward is a dangerous being more than equipped for the task.

Woe any wretched soul, living or dead, who dares to get between him and what is his.

. . . . . .


A/N Poor befuddled Bella. She really is so confuzzled. But can you blame her? Multiple earth-shattering orgasms will do that to a girl's mind, and Preyward isn't giving her much time to breathe and get her oxygen levels back up. But hey, he cuddled, and he liked it. He's gotta get some points for that one, surely. *snort*

Okay, in all seriousness, just a few things to address. Obviously the line "He's like a drug, my own personal brand of heroin" is a play on the infamous Twilight line. I don't own it, I just tweaked it.

And yes, I (Preyward) used the c,u,n,t word. I know some of you won't like that, some of you won't care, and others will think it's hot. I'm personally ambivalent unless used in a nasty, derogatory form, but I was careful to make sure Edward doesn't use it that way. Given his background and age, it's a word I think he'd be more likely to use than pussy or whatever. He isn't modern, obviously. I tried to find an alternative, but really, I can't see him thinking honeypot or quim or cunny, and I couldn't find anything else! And did you know I could not find a single word for clit other than bud or nub? Really, are there no other words? And yes, my google search history is...interesting. Lol. Almost as interesting as these ranting A/N's...Someone remind me to erase this later, will you? ;-)

Thanks for reading, lovelies.

Aleea