a/n:
Thank you thank you to pogurl and edwardzuko/rocks. Y'all are awesome.
As ever, if it's copyrighted by someone already then it does not belong to me. Twilight and the Twilight characters belong to Stephanie Meyer and Little, Brown.
May I present to you part three of Snapshots.
Resurfacing
The air hums.
I can feel it, the vibrations of the invisible bits that comprise air, charging the air around us.
When they brought me in for my broken leg, I felt this. At the time I thought it was the shot of whiskey my uncle had given me to take the edge off the pain. I thought it was the embarrassment of having fallen out of a tree at my age, too old to have been in a tree to begin with.
I thought it was anything but the amazingly beautiful doctor in that Columbus hospital. People, even doctors, even stunning doctors with magnetic eyes, did not make the air hum, vibrate, live. So I told myself it was the whiskey.
I know better now.
Alone, neither of us do this, make the air hum. Together, the air around us is ignited.
We are on our parlor floor, a most improper place for what we are doing now, but we are alone and no one is expected to come over—we do not invite humans into our home, as a rule. There is no reason to unnecessarily test my control.
When we first began our passionate kisses, Carlisle suggested we move to the floor to avoid damaging the antique sofa, and he had, with a brilliant smile at my nod of agreement, gently placed a pillow beneath my head for comfort.
I feel ridiculous and silly and risqué and wonderful. This is heaven.
My wool skirt and slip are pushed up almost around my hips as Carlisle licks and nips and caresses with his lips along the inside of my thighs. Carlisle's worship of my legs thrills me, excites me, and makes me a little self-conscious; before, in my human life, sex was just sex. It was an act of procreation at best, and in my former marriage, it was an act of dominance, an act in which I had little or no choice. I was expected to lay there and do as my husband directed. There was no passion.
Not for the first time, I curse the stubbornness with which the less pleasant experiences of my human life linger. The specifics are hazy, but I am positive my husband never caressed and loved my body as Carlisle does. Early on in my relationship with Carlisle, I was wary of intimacy at best. I'm still not always sure how to handle such a physical manifestation of his adoration and love.
I enjoy this, but it makes me nervous all the same.
I wish that the wonderful experiences with Carlisle would wash away the unhappy ordeals that imprinted themselves on my psyche.
I am moving forward, but it is not fast enough for me. Carlisle and I have negotiated the waters of a relationship, we understand each other better. Finally declaring our love was a step forward. Making love, every time we are together, is another step forward. I can recognize it as making love and not as the old act of dominance and power; Carlisle is careful with me, so careful, handling me as though I were made of porcelain and not unbreakable marble.
But I know it's not my body he's worried about damaging.
And so he continues worshiping my body, licking and nipping his way down my inner thigh, to the sensitive skin at the back of my knee—upon which I giggle because it tickles—to a steady and tingling study of my calf and shin and ankle and foot.
He switches to the other leg and leaves a trail of kisses and caresses from my foot to my knee. He skims over my wool skirt and pauses over the juncture of my legs. "You smell divine," he whispers before lifting his head and bringing his intense gaze to bear on me. Golden gaze meets golden gaze.
In Carlisle's face I see my present: our little family of three, the vampire I love as a mate and the vampire I've taken into my heart as both brother and surrogate son.
In Carlisle's face I see my future. I see him helping me to overcome my fears and my anger and to be a better person. I see myself standing by his side, supporting him even as I learn, as I have the education and career I always wanted but was always denied.
He has done so much more with this immortal life, with no guidance other than his conscience. There is so much we can do together.
I wonder if he sees in my face what I see in his, because he quickly, so quickly only a vampire could follow the movement, brings his body up over mine to catch my lips in a fierce kiss.
I match his intensity, and our kiss is searing. I half expect us to combust from the heat and the passion. My husband's tongue teases me, and I latch onto it, sucking gently before I release it and he devours my mouth and lips again. He's pushing my head deep into the pillow under me with the power of our kiss, and I wonder if we will inadvertently damage the floor. We've had to replace our bed once already.
He groans into my mouth when he feels my fingers digging into his back, shredding his shirt and leaving long scratches on his cold marble skin. I quash the vague sense of shame I feel at this small act of violence. Even now, I have the idea that I should just be passive. It was not so long ago that I was terrified of doing anything at all when we made love.
I am certainly responding to him now. His kiss has moved from my mouth to my jaw to my neck and I am arching against him at the same time that I'm pulling him into me with the great strength only one of our kind has. He moans when I peel the tattered remains of his shirt from him and my fingers ghost over his shoulders, up his neck, and sink into his hair, pulling his head back to my hungry lips.
"Esme." My name falls from Carlisle's mouth, and it is clear to me that it is a prayer of thanks to the almighty for His intervention, for allowing us to meet and connect and become part of each other's lives. I hear him say his most profound prayers of thanks in that exact voice.
I smile up at him and I can feel that my whole face is alight. "I love you," I whisper.
"And I you," he returns.
His attention is again on my neck and collarbone. I feel him pause and kiss the pearl necklace I wear. It was his gift to me a month after we first declared our love to one another; I wear it frequently, always smiling at the memory of his eager, loving expression when he presented this gift to me. Now that I am adjusting to this life, I can truly appreciate my Carlisle's incredible generosity of spirit.
"Esme, my love, how dear to you is this blouse?" He's fingering the collar of the cotton, and as far as I can see, he seems worried that he'll destroy it.
I smile shyly at him. "It is not so dear to me, Carlisle. I have others."
My love's face lights up, and I am reminded of the first time I saw Mr. Edison's light bulb. The cotton parts under his hands as though it were no stronger than tissue. Oh, so he was not worried about damaging my blouse. He was planning on it! My undergarments are visible to him now and he grins cheekily at me, then rips those, too, from my body.
"I did rather like those, however," I pout at him.
His lips are already on the smooth hard skin of my chest, his hand massaging my right breast while he kisses the underside of my left, gently sucking on the supple flesh there. "You taste so sweet," he moans against my skin. I can feel that my nipples are high, tight, hard, under his care.
This worship of my body is amazing. With every gentle kiss and caress I feel something in my head, in my heart, shift. My fears are slowly losing ground. My old self, the self of whom I have mostly hazy memories from before my marriage, is resurfacing.
I missed her.
His lips and hands travel down the marble skin of my stomach, and I gasp when he begins to kiss along the waistband of my skirt, teasing the skin there, eliciting a belly-deep moan from me.
I'm embarrassed by this, and it must show in my body language, because Carlisle pauses and smiles at up at me from where he his now resting his chin on my lower stomach. "Don't be embarrassed my mate, my love."
I smile as best I can at him. "I am trying."
He smiles reassuringly at me. "I know." He begins gently kissing along the skin at the edge of the waistband. Once I am again relaxed, he glances up at me again. "And this?" With his fingertip he raises the patterned wool fabric from my skin.
I smile at him. "I would like to keep this intact, my love. Be gentle."
He nods his acceptance and finds the seam to carefully, so carefully, undo the buttons that hold the skirt to me. He begins to slide it and the delicate slip under it down my hips, which I lift up so that he can slide the two articles of clothing down my legs.
I am nearly bare before him, and I know that if I had the blood to do so, it would be rushing to my skin to create a mottled red pattern across my body. I am so exposed and vulnerable right now. I want to run. The old Esme, she who I once was, wants to stay and enjoy and participate.
I listen to her. I stay. I force my body to release the tension it has been holding.
He quickly sheds his belt and slacks and we two are separated only by our thin undergarments. In a burst of gumption, I wink at him—to his obvious delight and great surprise—and then he is bare to me, the cotton small clothes mere scraps on our couch.
Carlisle's smile nearly takes over his face. Rarely do I take such initiative in our lovemaking. He lowers himself so that he can taste the skin of my stomach. Once there, he kisses and nips and sucks at me, working down the last remaining barrier between us. Reaching the edge of the offending cloth, I feel him take advantage of the razor-sharp teeth nature has armed him with, and slice through it with no effort.
There we are. Two creatures naked before each other in body and in soul.
I am content. Happy. In love. Loved. Cherished. Protected.
Complete in myself for the first time in many years, Carlisle complements me so well that we are seamless in our joining, physically and emotionally.
Esme, the girl-woman I was, the part of me that had hidden under the heavy hand of my husband, is once again dreaming of adventure and love.
I'm glad to have her back.
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