I often wondered how much we stagnated, how much of us was simply on loop from life. Did we ever really feel or experience anything new? How many of our thoughts, actions, reactions, emotions, words, expressions were just programmed into us? I knew that my senses had been heightened, my strength increased. I had no immunity to disease and no need for it. I theorized that the venom our vampire bodies produced would kill anything they came in contact with anyway. That was, after all, part of its function. It infiltrated our every cell before death, altering our very cellular programming.
We didn't grow, change, our cells don't regenerate. Therefore our brain cells do not die. Our minds work at least at the capacity they had when we were turned, but the transformation seemed to awaken at least a portion of the brain that did not serve any measurable function in mortal life. Our senses were heightened, strength increased, every ailment or imperfection corrected. And we could learn. So could we feel, could we experience and process new emotions? It seemed so.
Clearly, our bodies were not quite as dead as they seemed. We never sleep; we have no need for it. Therefore, we do not dream. We, or at least I, have a great capacity for curiosity and an endless interest in the pursuit of knowledge. This means that I spend a great deal of time just thinking about things, slipping into long periods of meditative contemplation that vaguely reminds me of the mortal experience of dreaming.
The knowledge that Esme inspired me to seek was multi-faceted, complex, deep. I thought often of God because of her. I had never questioned the existence of some divine force, but I had questioned whether or not I was lost to that force in my state of existence. How could I have been forsaken and be blessed with someone like her?
She got up again, walking back over to the window, gazing out. "We should welcome our new neighbors," she stated. They were strolling down the road again: a young newlywed couple who had moved into a small cottage about a mile away from our house.
"Yes," I agreed.
"Do you think it's been long enough, but not too long?" she asked, sounding worried. I knew she wanted to give them a bit of privacy to settle into their home, but she didn't want them to think us rude or unwelcoming.
"They've been there for a few days. I think it's perfect timing," I answered.
"I think I'll put together a basket for them," Esme said idly. "I'm not sure I remember how to cook, even though it hasn't been that long."
"You didn't forget," I assured her. "You just have no interest in doing it now. It will come back to you, if you can tolerate the smell."
She nodded. I locked my eyes back onto the words on the page when she had been silent for a moment.
"I wonder what it feels like to make love as a vampire," she said. Her voice was distant, her tone thoughtful and inquisitive, the young couple in mind no doubt. I questioned if that meant she was unfilled. "Do vampires make love?" she asked.
She turned her head toward me, curls swinging over her shoulder as she did. We have the ability to be suddenly, wildly, ravenously aroused, I wanted to say to her, imaging her caramel tresses spread out around her head, her lips parted, not with a silent scream of pain beneath me as they had been the night I had turned her, but in pleasure. I never imagined her silent either; I imagined her sighs and soft cries of ecstasy to match mine. Was it something I had learned to imagine though, I questioned.
"The physical ability to have sex remains," I answered her honestly.
She nodded, but her brows furrowed and she frowned slightly, turning her gaze back out the window. She shifted her weight to one foot, her hips tilting, spine curving. It was such a human action. I forgot myself for a moment again as I walked up behind her.
"Does that not answer your question?" I asked. It was a wicked thing to do. I wasn't sure if it was normal, or selfish, or wrong, or all three, but I wanted to know if she wanted me too.
This time when she turned around, her hair brushed across my shoulder, and I realized just how close I was standing to her, but I didn't back up. Her eyes locked on mine, and she leaned back against the window frame.
"I still feel desire," she said, speaking it like a forbidden confession. "No, that's not true," she corrected, her gaze steady on me, "I feel a kind of desire that is far beyond anything I've known before."
I stood looking into her eyes, not knowing how to answer her unless I told her that I felt the same way. It seemed more than simply improper though. I was afraid. I took her hand and led her back to the couch. I thought I was prepared to tell her then, but, as soon as we were seated, she spoke first.
"Kiss me," she requested, her voice low and seductive.
I knew that I didn't want to stop myself completely. I did want her to know that I wanted her. Fully assured that we could have mutual command over the situation, I graciously consented. And just like the night I turned her, my self-control slipped. Suddenly, my arms were fast around her slim body, holding her tightly against me. As our kiss deepened, I leaned toward her. She could have fought me, but she chose to surrender, sinking back down onto the couch. I followed instantly, missing the feel of her even with just inches between us.
The passion escalated much quicker than I anticipated. She reached up and grabbed a handful of my hair, holding my mouth against hers, kissing me hungrily. Instead of protesting like a gentleman, my hand immediately slid around her thigh as she lifted her legs toward my waist. I felt the soft cloth of her dress, the top of her stocking, the clips of the garter that held it in place, the smooth skin above it. At the same time, she slid her free arm around me, her hand at my lower back. She pulled me to her, leaving no doubt about just how aroused we had made the other.
I barely had time to process the rush of feeling her body, so intimately desirous of mine, created in me, even with the swiftness of thought and reaction our kind have. I felt alive for a moment, like my entire body was shaking with want of her. Then, I lost all ability to concentrate. As soon as my body was pressed against hers with nothing more than a few layers of cloth between us, her lips abandoned mine. Her head fell back against the couch. She cried out softly, sounding almost tearful.
I felt like I couldn't hold myself up any longer from weakness on the inside, though my body remained steady. Some gripping sensation raced through me. It was as if a pure opiate had shot through my veins: hot and consuming. The sound from her lips nearly drove me over the edge of control. I wanted to give her a kind of pleasure she had never known. I wanted her desperate for me. I wanted to push her to some place I was so fearful of going—into unadulterated satisfying sensation.
My fantasies overtook me then, of what it would be like to feel her naked body beneath me, her hips rocking up to meet mine, equally as feverous to have me inside of her as I was to be there. It was more than a physical craving though. I wanted to be joined to her completely and in every way possible. I thought about it quite often, about us growing ever closer to one another, about satisfying her in every way.
In my mind, I was everything that she wanted. In my thoughts, I sated her every desire, in ways and more completely than anyone ever had. But, in reality, I knew she had been married, bore a child, and though she had begun to open up to me about the horrors of what her marriage had become, she was an experienced woman who knew what it was to be with a man. And this moment between us, though it crossed the lines of propriety by far, was nothing in comparison to what she had already felt, but it was the most sexually intimate experience I had ever had. I knew I had reached the point where I had to either stop or continue—once the choice was made, there was no taking it back.
She put her hand on my chest over the silent cavity of my heart, her cheek against mine.
"I want you to make love to me, Carlisle," she whispered.
I was surprised that my reaction emerged audibly from my throat, some strange mix of a sigh, moan, and growl. I paused for a moment, allowing the words to fully sink in and savor the sensation it created in my body. Her fingers curled, gripping a handful of my shirt then, and my thoughts drifted to wondering what it would feel like to have her take my clothes off. I closed my eyes briefly, forcing myself to focus.
I didn't know how I should respond, so I kissed her. Our embrace immediately became more passionate as my lips trailed down over her chin and neck, all the way to her collar bones. I daringly opened my mouth and tasted her skin. I heard her make a sound, something akin to a gasp. She tipped her head back, her back arching up off the couch, pressing her breasts against me. I tangled my free hand in her hair to stop myself touching her the way I wanted to. But still, I kissed my way across her collarbones to where her dress was slipping over her shoulder then back up to her open lips.
I whispered her name several times between fervent kisses as her hand slid down my chest and stomach. She responded with soft moans against my mouth. When her fingers slipped under the waistband of my trousers, I helplessly let out a sharp cry of pleasure.
I had my eyes closed tightly. My head actually swam with ecstasy as she touched me. I reached over her shoulder to steady myself against the arm of the couch. My body truly trembled with pleasure. In some way, it was a refreshing reaction. She had reached down with her other hand, tugging at my belt, loosening my clothes to arouse me further. Both of her hands were fully focused on exploring my body, but when I finally opened my eyes, her gaze was locked on my face longingly.
I pulled my hand from her hair, feeling the soft strands coil from my fingers. I ran my hand down her neck, shoulders, over her breast to her stomach, my fingers shaking more the lower they went. When my fingertips slipped past her navel, her eyelids fluttered, lips falling open. I wanted so desperately to touch her everywhere, to memorize the feel of her entire body, to savor every reaction. I knew we should not be doing this, but my inner voice of reason had been reduced to barely a whisper—everything else in me screamed out with a primal need to gratify us both.
My hand ran between us down her inner thigh daringly. I don't know what I expected actually, but a surprising thrill came over me as my fingers slipped under the cloth of her undergarments. She didn't feel cold or warm—we generate no body heat. Therefore, it was not a distraction from feel of her skin. I was not only overwhelmed at how aroused she was already, but by how rapidly her need obviously grew under my careful exploration. I found myself captivated by her reactions, and it became easy to take things farther and farther until one of my fingers entered her.
I couldn't stop myself from moaning aloud.
"Oh, Carlisle!" she cried breathlessly in response, her voice quavering. Her free hand reached up and gripped my upper arm tightly. I felt her body tense and tremble with desire and knew that my own reaction must not have been simply internal.
At the sound of her voice, a sinking feeling overtook me as my passion quickly began to culminate. I released my hold on her, grabbed her wrist and tugged on her hand sharply. I became very nervous suddenly. How could I ever satisfy such a sensual, ardent woman who made me nearly climax with only a few touches?
"I'm sorry," I said, sitting up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't behave that way with you."
She blinked up at me, unmoving. It seemed like an eternal silent moment before she spoke ,and I distracted myself with combing my fingers through my hair to right it. Esme was staring at me intently. She sat up and smoothed down a strand of my hair, her fingertips brushing mine.
"You don't have to apologize," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, I do," I corrected her. "You know that I love you. I want you more than anything," I started. "But…" I found that I could not bring myself to utter the words. What would she think of me? Would she change her mind about how she felt? Would she believe me? Would she find me sympathetic or, worse, feel sorry for me? Would she think me inadequate, laughable, ridiculous?
"But?" she asked.
"I can't do this," I chose over the alternative, standing up and straightening my clothes.
Esme didn't respond. She got up slowly, not even looking at me. I watched her walk across the room slowly to the staircase. I almost said something, but I didn't know what to say. Instead, I just went through the kitchen and out the backdoor, heading deep into the forest.