23

"I love Rock n' Roll. So put another dime in the jukebox, baby," I sang under my breath as I focused my attention on the paper I was writing for my U.S. History class, or attempting to write, anyway. It needed to be three pages, double spaced, but I needed four sources, and only one of them could be internet sources. It was due the next morning at nine a.m. and I'd only just gotten the last of my sources together. Now, I just needed to write the actual paper.

"It's late."

Biting my lip, I turned to the doorway of the kitchen, finding Carlisle leaning against the doorframe. A pair of thin plaid pajamas hung loosely on his hips, and he wasn't wearing a shirt. His hair was wet and messy, like he'd just gotten out of the shower and used his towel to dry it. He had his arms crossed in front of him and a smirk on his lips. Damn that smirk was going to be the death of me.

"I know," I said, quietly. "You should be in bed."

"We should be in bed," he corrected. "How much more do you have?"

"Um, just getting started actually." I tried to smile, but to be honest, the last few days had been a nightmare. Between my classes, new assignments, past due assignments, the press in my face all the time, numerous phone calls from reporters seeking interviews, and trying to take care of my family, I was exhausted. "And I still need to get the muffins ready for the boys to take to school."

"We could have ordered some from a bakery," Carlisle quipped, pushing off the doorframe and walking over to the table, dropping into the opposite me. "But you said no."

"Homemade muffins are better," I told him, shrugging my shoulders. Their school was hosting a baked sale to raise money for a neighborhood women and children's shelter and I'd volunteered to make three dozen muffins — for each boy. "Besides, Michael specifically asked me to make them for him."

"I know he did, and I love that you're willing to make them for him," Carlisle agreed, "but you aren't superwoman, and you can't do everything."

"Oh, I think I've proven that I can — and will — do everything." I winked at Carlisle, who shifted in his seat, his hand dropping into his lap. "What's the matter, lover? Got a little problem that won't go away?"

"Yes," he said. "I mean, no. Shit, I mean . . . Never mind. It's not a little problem and I'm fine, Isabella. You're the one who has been rubbing her ass against me every morning, begging me to make you come."

I smiled and lifted my hand off the keyboard, wiggling my fingers at him. "I'm perfectly fine, lover. I can take care of myself."

Carlisle's jaw tightened as his eyes shifted from my face to my fingers. "Oh no, you didn't."

"Didn't I?" I challenged, leaning back in my chair and dropping my hands into my lap. "Felt amazing to finally get my release. Just want I needed, too. A nice, long, hard orgasm to release the stress. Haven't felt this relaxed . . . Well, ever."

"You're a fucking tease," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

"You started it," I quipped. "Not my fault if you don't like when I play dirty."

"Oh, baby, I like you dirty," he chuckled and leaned back in his seat. "And on your knees, too."

"Yeah?" I asked, sliding out of my chair and walking around the table, smiling as Carlisle watched my every step.

Placing one leg on either side of him, I sat on his lap, leaning forward so that my boobs were practically in his face. Carlisle gripped my hips tightly, and I moaned. I leaned forward so that my lips were just outside his ear. I could feel his chest heaving, the warmth caressing my already heated flesh.

"You know what I like, lover?"

"I have a few ideas," he said, huskily.

I laughed softly, which made his shiver. "You think you know, but you don't. Not really."

"Then why don't you tell me."

"I could," I said, sliding off his lap and kneeling in front of him. "Or I could show you."

"Sh . . . Show me?" he gulped.

I nodded, placing my hands on his thighs. "I very much want to show you exactly what I like."

"Well, I mean, who am I to stop you?" he said. His tone filled with need and lust.

"You're generous like that, baby." I slid my hands up his thighs to the waistband of his pajama pants, pulling them downward. Carlisle lifted his hips, allowing me to slip them down to his ankles. His cock — long and thick — was already starting to harden as I wrapped my hand around him. "I like the way you feel between my fingers."

"Me, too," he groaned, placing his hand on the table.

"Oh, I know you do." I licked his cock from base to tip before sucking on his tip. "And I like the way your cock feels in my mouth, too. The taste of you on my tongue. It's . . . Damn, baby, it's fucking delicious."

"Yeah?" he whimpered, his fingers curling into fists and I knew he was dying to grab the back of my head.

"Oh, yeah, baby." I licked him again. "But you know what I really, really like?"

I slid him into my mouth, letting him fill my throat before slipping him out and shifting my eyes up to him.

"W . . .what?" he stammered.

Smiling, I scooted backward and stood up. "When you let me do my homework in peace."

"What?" he gasped, reaching for me, but I moved back around to the other side of the table. "Isabella!"

"Sorry, lover, but I've got work to do."

"But . . ." Carlisle huffed and stood up, pulling his pants up in the process. "Fine. You write your fucking paper and make your fucking muffins. See if I care."

"Okay, honey, I love you," I laughed and flopped back into my chair.

Carlisle muttered under his breath and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the shower turn on. Yes, it was mean, and yes, I would pay for my teasing, but the man had started it. It was a game I was more than willing to play.

—TW—

"Isabella," Carlisle said, shaking my shoulder. "Isabella, honey, wake up."

"Five more minutes," I mumbled and rolled to my left, but since I wasn't actually in bed all that happened was that I fell out of my chair and hit the floor with a thump. "Fuck me in the ass."

Carlisle cleared his throat and when I looked up at him, I saw the boys standing a few feet behind him, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open. Instead of wearing their pajamas, they were already dressed for school.

"Shit, I mean . . ." I clamped my lips together as I stood up. "What are you doing up? It's late. You're going to be miserable in the morning."

"Isabella, it's almost seven-thirty in the morning."

"What? No, no, it can't be," I fretted, falling back into my chair and waking my laptop up, but when the screen lit up that my laptop had been updated, I screamed and fell back in my seat. "No, no, no, no!"

"What's wrong?"

"It's gone," I whimpered. "My paper. All my sources, everything that I had written. It's gone."

"You didn't save it?" he asked, yanking my laptop toward him and trying to recover the file.

"I thought so, but . . . I guess not," I cried. "What am I going to do? It's due at nine o'clock! There's no way I can redo it in time."

"Okay, first, you're going to calm down," he said, turning in his chair and grabbing me by the shoulder. "Second, you're going to go take a shower."

"A shower? A shower? I can't take a shower! I have a paper to write!" I wailed.

"No, you don't," he said, calmly. "Look, I know you didn't want to take the extensions they offered, but you're running yourself into the ground, Isabella. Take a shower and then go talk to your professor. I'll take the boys to school and then I will call and see if I have some muffins made and delivered to the school."

"Shit, shit, shit," I exclaimed, slamming my hand on the table as I looked over at Michael. "Michael, I'm sorry. I was going to make them after I finished my paper."

"It's fine," he said, though I could hear the hurt in his voice. "I don't care, anyway."

Sighing, I stood up and walked over to him, kneeling in front of him. I placed my hands on either side of his face. His eyes were filled with tears. "I let you down and I am so, so sorry. I really wanted to make them for you, for those kids. It was important to you and I let you down."

"Nothing I'm not used to," he said, pulling away from me. "They were just muffins. Not like they were going to save those kids."

Michael turned and walked out of the kitchen. Tyler looked from him to me and back to him before following Michael out of the room. Placing my hands on my knees, I tried to keep from screaming, from pulling my hair out, from cursing myself.

"He'll be okay," Carlisle said.

I scoffed and looked over at him. "He was just starting to like me again, and what do I do? I let him down. I don't deserve to be his mother."

"Isabella —"

"Don't," I whimpered. "Don't try to make this better, Carlisle. All I've done is hurt that little boy. I just . . ."

Trailing off, I scrambled to my feet and rushed out of the kitchen, down the hallway to our bedroom, and into the bathroom. Tears saturated my cheeks, but I didn't care. I deserved everything I got, but Michael was innocent, pure, and loving. All he wanted was a mother who would be there for him. A mother who wouldn't leave or disappoint him, and I'd done both.

"Isabella," Carlisle called out, but I couldn't reply. He'd do his best to smooth over the situation, make excuses for me. I was done letting him take care of me. "Isabella, the boys and I are leaving now, but you're meeting me at the office for our first session with Liam, right?"

I opened my mouth to tell him yes, or no, or something, but the words wouldn't leave my lips. Though the door, I heard him sigh and walk away. I wanted to be the wife he deserved, the mother the boys deserved, but I wasn't either of those. I just couldn't give them up again.

—TW—

By the time I arrived on campus, I only had five minutes to get to my class. I walked in just as my professor was taking attendance. Professor Gordon shifted his attention to me and sighed, but didn't say anything as I took my seat on the far side of the classroom. Of course everyone stared at me, the freak whose picture had been splashed all over the papers. I did my best to ignore them, but it was harder today than ever.

Class dragged on and when Professor Gordon dismissed us, I wanted nothing more than to bolt from the classroom. Once everyone was gone, Professor Gordon turned toward me, sighing again.

"Mrs. Cullen," he said, quietly. "Am I right to assume you don't have your paper ready to turn in?"

Biting my lip to keep from openly weeping, I nodded. "I, um, I don't have a good excuse. I don't have a dog to blame it on. I just . . . fell asleep and forgot to save it."

"I see," he said, placing his copy of our textbook in his satchel. "We appear to be at a impasse, don't we?"

"Yes, sir," I said, thickly. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry," he told me, smiling. "I didn't expect you to have it ready today, my dear."

"You didn't?"

Professor Gordon shook his head. "I've been teaching History here for many, many years, and in all my years, I've seen my fair share of students who try to take the easy way out. I've heard every excuse you can think of, including the one about the dog. I've had numerous students tell me how their grandparents passed, their mothers were in the hospital, their little brothers were in horrific car accident. Sometimes, all of these by one student. What I've rarely seen is a student survive a truly horrific trauma and come back to school without needing more time, more support, more understanding. So, no, I did not expect you to have the paper on my desk today."

"I just wanted to everything to . . . I don't know . . . go back to normal. Whatever that is."

Professor Gordon closed his satchel and pulled it onto his shoulder. "Normal is what you make it be, Bella. Take the time you need to heal. Take the time you need to process everything you've been through. Come to class, be on time," he said, giving me a look, "and do your best. That's all I ask."

"I'll try," I whimpered. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, my dear."

Professor Gordon walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm my breathing and stop the tears from falling. I thought I could come back and everything would go back to the way it was, but once again, I was wrong.