Read this one slow...like honey.
I love my betas, LouderThanSirens and Momma Bear.
I love my twilighted beta Jajo and her partner in crime RoseArcadia.
I love my girls BelleDean and Stephk0525 for their words and support and for cracking me the eff up.
I love twilight, but it's not mine.
Bella
"So really, though, what do you want to do? The world is our oyster," I say as we get to the top of the stairs.
"I have an idea," he responds, smiling but looking like he has a secret. "Are you hungry?"
"I could eat. Wait, why do you have that look on your face?" I question as we walk into my cabin, happy he wants to cook for me again. He doesn't answer, but heads for the kitchen, opens the fridge and stands in front of it. It's already hot out. He's shirtless, and his skin has a fine sheen of sweat. I move to sit on a stool at the bar, watching him intensely as he takes inventory of my food.
He shuts the fridge door without taking anything out and turns to give me a wicked smile. It's been so long since I've seen it that it quite literally takes my breath away. I'm sure I'm visibly affected, because his smile widens and his tongue peeks out to lick the corner of his mouth.
Goddamn.
I can't speak.
"We're going to try a little experiment. It's going to heighten your senses."
I don't tell him that if my senses get any more heightened that might spontaneously combust.
"First, you need to put this on," he says, pulling a green bandana out of his back pocket and folding it into a strip.
"You're blindfolding me?" I ask, incredulous. "You'd better not do anything mean," I warn as he moves behind me and pulls the bandana over my eyes. I feel him tie it and pull my hair out from under the tie of my bikini top, letting it fan across my bare back, which arches slightly at the contact.
I can feel the heat of his body radiating behind me, and jump a little when his lips are at my ear.
"I'm going to sit you on the counter, okay?" His breath is warm and sweet, and I can smell a little bit of sweat mixed with the clean scent of his skin. He takes my hand and helps me off of the stool, guiding me around the counter with his palm on my lower back, sending shivers down the backs of my legs and making me break out in goose bumps.
"See, it's working already," he says softly, and I can hear that he's smiling. I feel the counter against my back, and his big hands close around my waist, easily lifting me onto the cool marble. I'm wearing shorts, and the smooth counter feels good on the back of my legs. I let out a shaky breath while I listen to him open the fridge again and place things on the counter next to me.
I can hear a knife slicing something, and what sounds like a spoon stirring liquid in a bowl. Minutes pass, and the stirring noise continues.
"Edward," I whine; uncomfortable with my blindness and wanting to watch his hands work.
The noise stops, and his breath is on my neck. "I like to hear you say my name like that."
He can't see me roll my eyes in response, so I mutter "Whatever", which makes him chuckle. More minutes pass, and I do my best to be patient, biting my lip and sliding my hands over the marble.
"Okay, open your mouth," he instructs. I comply, and then there is a piney, citrus, flavor on my tongue.
"Mango?" I chew the fruit carefully and slowly, but juice drips down my chin a little. I reach up to wipe it away, but warm fingers close around my wrist before I can.
"I'd like to do that, if that's okay. And yes, it's mango." His voice is strained, and he places my hand back in my lap. I'm stretched like a rubber band about to snap from the sexual tension.
He doesn't use a towel, but his fingers, to wipe away the mango juice. A few moments pass before he asks me to open my mouth again. This time the flavor is softer and earthier, but still sweet. I detect tiny seeds.
"Strawberry…with something else. Mint?" I ask, licking my lips.
After another moment of silence, he responds in the affirmative. I want to reach out and grab him. I can feel where he is next to me, even though we're not touching. I want to touch. I keep my hands in my lap though, because this is torture, but it's sweet torture.
"Open," he commands, and I obey immediately, my heart stuttering in my chest while I wait, hoping I'll feel his hands on me soon. Instead, something solid hits my tongue, and when I close my mouth, I realize it's the tip of his finger, dipped in something creamy and light. I suck at it until he slides the finger out slowly, resting it on my lower lip, his other fingers splayed across my jaw. We've been here before. I exhale, wondering how close he is to me, and if he's watching himself against my mouth.
When he moves his hand I feel lost, and my fingers contract, wanting to feel him again.
"Whipped cream," I whisper, rubbing my lips together, trying to slow my breathing. I wiggle on the counter, shifting my position.
"Open," he says again, and this time the juice drips down my chin and onto my chest, running down into my cleavage and all the way down to the waistband of my shorts. I don't attempt to wipe it up this time, but chew, swallow and then sit still.
"Can I-"
"Yes," I interrupt, knowing that no matter what he asks, the answer is yes, yes, yes.
The front of my body warms as he gets closer, and I can hear that his breath is labored. When he closes his mouth over the skin just below my collarbone I gasp, gripping the edge of the counter. He places one palm on the middle of my back, pulling me forward slightly. I let my head fall back as he moves between my breasts and I moan softly as the warm wet of his tongue moves up my chest.
"Oh god," I whisper, biting my lip to keep myself from saying anything else.
His other hand lingers at my waist, pulling me towards the edge of the counter as his mouth moves up the side of my neck slowly, toward my ear and then up my jaw line. He kisses the juice off of my chin and then stops, his breath on my lips. He must be an inch away.
We sit this way for a minute, him between my thighs. The only movement in the room is the rising and falling of our chests, and his thumb lightly massaging the space just below my hipbone. I'm still gripping the counter, but when our lips touch one hand flies up to grab the back of his neck and the other moves into the back of his hair. He reaches up and pulls the blindfold off of my eyes. I back up and look at him for second, before crashing back into his lips.
Despite the buildup, our kiss isn't fast. It's deep and solid and firm. It's a kiss with purpose. My legs wrap around his waist and he lifts me off of the counter, supporting my weight and trying to get closer.
When he pulls back, I'm not surprised to see a wet trail down his cheek, because mine are wet too. He ducks his head and kisses his way down my neck, maybe hoping I didn't see the tear.
He doesn't know that all I needed to see was that tear.
We kiss until my lips are sore, and his arms must be sore from holding me, so I lean back and nod towards the counter. He sets me down, but stays in front of me, his hands on either side of me.
My hands are on his chest, his arms, feeling every muscle under the smooth skin. I want more. I want to climb on top of him. I want to take off his clothes and kiss every inch of him, but I know that for now this is what we need.
So instead of asking him questions, instead of polluting the moment with definitions or grand statements, I simply raise my eyebrows and whisper softly.
"Pineapple?"
It's hard to follow up something like Edward feeding me blindfolded, but somehow the day keeps getting better and better. We feed each other more fruit for lunch, staying in our positions at the counter until I realize that I really have to pee.
As I come out of the bathroom he's waiting, leaning against a door frame and grinning at me. When I approach he puts his palm on my stomach, where my skin is still sticky from the pineapple juice.
"Want to swim?" He asks, his eyes watching his hand on my skin. I just smile in response, stretching up to kiss him, before I take off running.
"Race you!" I yell behind me as I fly down the stairs, stripping off my shorts when I hit the beach and tossing them back at him as he runs behind me. He catches me before I can run down the dock, spinning me around in the air and kissing my lips.
We jump together and then swim to our floating dock, where we lay on our stomachs and he trails his fingers up and down my back, telling me about the dinner he has planned. The way the flavors complement each other, the wine, the selection of a good piece of fish. He murmurs in my ear, and every muscle that tightened during our "experiment" starts to relax.
I think about the day, realizing that I almost forgot about Mike.
We've been silent for a while, so I clear my throat before I speak. "What did Mike say to you this morning?"
I turn my face to look at his. His eyes are closed and his face is calm. I trace my fingers over his eyelids. When I pull my hand away he opens his eyes, taking a moment to focus on me.
"He told me to jump in headfirst," he breathes, our faces close. Both of us smile.
We lay for about an hour, before we get thirsty and swim in, stopping halfway to float and find pictures in the clouds.
When we get upstairs, it's late afternoon, and he starts to leave to shower at his cabin, but I grab his hand and he turns back, pulling him with me into my bathroom.
"See? Spacious. Room for two," I say, turning the water on. He's looking down at the floor, hesitating. "Edward. We don't need to do anything you're not comfortable with."
I find it funny that I have to assure him that I won't try to molest him in the shower, given our past, but I understand it at the same time. He's afraid that sex is all I'll see between us, and maybe he's afraid it's all he'll see.
Either way I decide to stop analyzing everything within an inch of its life, and live in the moment, and at this very moment I'm looking at the prospect of seeing Edward naked again.
Facing him, I reach behind me and undo the knot tying my top on and let it drop it to the floor. I slide my bottoms down and toss them aside as well.
The atmosphere isn't sexy, though I'm aroused.
It feels like I'm shedding a skin, revealing a brighter color underneath.
When he drops his shorts, I fight to keep my eyes above his chest, and almost make it, but my horny brain betrays me, and I chance one glance down.
Damn.
My hand flies up to my mouth and I stifle a giggle, my eyes wide.
"Are you seriously laughing at me while I'm naked?" He asks, his mouth hanging open.
"Yes! Apparently on the inside I'm still a twelve year old," I laugh, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the shower.
The water is cool, and I close my eyes, letting it run over my body. When I open them, he's grabbing my bottle of shampoo, watching my face. I hold out my hand and he squeezes some into my palm and then into his own. We wash our hair together; when his is sudsy he makes it into a Mohawk and sings a few bars of a punk rock song to me, his voice echoing around the room. I laugh and sing the next lines while I rinse my hair, shaking my hips to the silent beat.
He hands me a bar of soap and watches while I lather it in my hands and slip it back to him. I take my time washing my body, and so does he. I don't watch when he soaps below the waist, turning around so I won't be tempted. When his arms reach around me, though, I lean back into him, feeling him against my back. We stand pressed together in the spray until our skin is squeaky clean and the water gets too cold.
Stepping out, we towel off and I go to find clothes to wear for the rest of the night. He throws his shorts on and goes back to his cabin to change as well. The second he's out the door, I grab my journal and write furiously about fruit and sensory deprivation and cloud pictures. I have just enough time before he comes back to put on mascara and put product in my hair. I put on a cotton shift dress and sandals, pulling out a hoodie for when it gets cold tonight.
He's got a basket in hand when he comes through the screen door and he's wearing a green t-shirt that makes his eyes glow.
"And now I'm going to cook you dinner, beautiful girl," he says, kissing me when I walk up. He reaches into the basket and pulls out two bottles of wine, opening one right away and pouring two glasses. The first is a Sauvignon Blanc, and I sip it slowly, enjoying watching him move around my kitchen.
He makes salmon, risotto and green beans, the colors on the plate in front of me are vibrant and everything is delicious. We listen to Ella Fitzgerald while we clean the kitchen after dinner, joking about what Jasper and Alice are probably doing at this very moment.
We guess that Alice is still trying to find an acceptable place to pee.
After dinner, he fixes us drinks, though we hardly need them after two bottles of wine, and we move out to the deck so he can smoke and we can watch the moon on the water.
He and I sit quietly for a while, a slight breeze blowing off the lake and crickets chirping along with the music in the cabin. We hold hands, and his thumb rubs slow circles over my knuckles.
When he clears his throat, I get a sense of foreboding.
"Bella?" he asks, his voice a little choked.
"Yeah?" I answer, hoping my tone comes off light.
"I think we need to talk about this." He says this with finality, like there isn't another option. Maybe there isn't.
"Okay?" I respond cautiously, not liking the direction he's going.
"I think I need to explain some things," he says, sounding nervous. "Last summer…"
I snort a little, retracting my hand from his and sitting forward a little bit so I can turn and look at him. "I've dealt with last summer. I spent a year dealing with last summer. I don't know what else there is to say about it." I keep my voice even, but my chest is constricting in on itself.
"I understand," he sighs, leaning forward and rubbing his eyes, "but I don't think we can move forward without having this conversation."
I soften, knowing he's right, and nod for him to go on.
"Ask me anything you want. I promise to be completely honest. Then if it's okay with you, I have a few questions for you."
I can tell this is something he's thought about this at length. I've thought about all the things I would ask him if given the chance. One question in particular had been bothering me, since Rose brought it up. I decide that I won't ask this one first.
I swallow hard. "What really happened with you and Tanya?" I cringe when I say her name.
His leg starts bouncing, and I can see that he's trying to find the right words. "Didn't start with an easy one, did you?" he asks, shaking his head. "Shit. Okay. I'm not sure how much you want to know, but I've known her since I was 16. She was my first, and I was hers," he glances at me sheepishly, gauging my reaction. "She was never my girlfriend, but I suppose she was the closest person to that … until you. I didn't know she was coming. She mentioned it before I left, but I didn't expect her to just show up. That's her style, though."
I want more. "So I get all that, but then...why?" I swallow hard, knowing I'm going to have to say it. "Why did you…fuck her? We were happy. I was happy, at least."
He nods, steeling himself. "I was happy, too. But I didn't know what I was doing. I've never done this before. I guess I got scared. God, that sounds so fucking lame," he laughs at himself, but there's no real humor in it.
I ignore it and press him further. "What about now? Do you, like, hang out with her?"
"No. Things changed. I told her I didn't want to see her anymore, even as a friend. I feel shitty about that, too. Not to defend her, but she was only playing a part that she'd played a thousand times between us. She's incidental. I was the one who should have acted right."
I bristle at his defense of her, even though it's totally true.
Not that I feel bad about hating every fiber of her being or anything.
I knew the first question would be hard, but I struggle to ask the next, thinking it may be even harder for him to answer. "Will you tell me about your dad?" I ask softly.
Rose told me a few things about Edward and Emmett's father, but really I just know that she hasn't met him, even though he lives in Los Angeles, and that he's a tyrant.
His eyes grow distant as he starts talking, and his voice is flat. "I don't really know my father. What I do now is that he's the worst person I've ever known. Up until a few months ago, I didn't care that I was turning into him, but I care now."
It's pretty obvious that he's changed and that he's extremely sensitive about the subject, so I don't push him to explain. My mind is already on my next question, and how bad the answer is going to hurt.
"How many people have you slept with since we were together last?"
The segue is abrupt, and his eyes widen while he catches up to my train of thought.
"Since last summer, probably like…" his hands cover his eyes, and he rocks back and forth slightly. I feel like I'm going to throw up. "…eight. Since Christmas, none."
I exhale slowly and sit still for a second, trying to dispel the nausea, while processing the number eight and wondering if I should be relieved, because it could've been worse.
"It's going to take me a minute to wrap my head around that number, and the fact that you aren't even really sure that it's accurate," I respond truthfully, knowing that I'm going to have to deal with that at some point.
"I promised total honesty. Unfortunately in my case, the truth is really fucking ugly." His agitation is clear. He's flushed and can't stop fidgeting.
"Agreed," I mumble, angry, but I know this is just as hard for him as it is for me, so I decide to turn the tables. "Okay. Go ahead. Ask me anything."
"How many people have you slept with since last summer?" he asks quickly, taking a deep breath once the question is out.
"None."
"Really?" he scoffs, looking relieved, which pisses me the fuck off.
I decide to clarify.
"I went through a bad period, though. September and October are kind of a blur. I was drinking a lot, hanging out at stupid bars and being very … reckless," I answer bitterly. "I was just smart enough not to have sex with any of them."
"How many?" he asks, his jaw clenching and his hands tightening into fists.
"Oh, I don't know … eight?" I joke snidely.
"Fuck. It was because of me, right? Why you were drinking and … oh fuck." He runs his fingers through his hair, looking pained.
Standing up, he walks to the railing and turns around to face me, his voice loud. "Why didn't someone do something? Rose? Jasper? Fucking Emmett didn't say anything. Fuck. How could they just let you …" he fades off, his expression transforming from anger to sadness. I imagine that he's thinking about the girls in bars that he's treated like trash.
"I'm an adult, Edward. Nobody let me do anything. I just wanted to feel something good, and the way I saw you act," I stop, trying to find the right way to say this. "I wanted to understand what was so much better…why it was better than what we had."
He steps forward, dropping to his knees in front of me.
"Nothing is better than this," he says quietly and slowly. "Nothing is better than you."
I nod, holding back tears, and he looks almost frantic, wanting me to understand.
He stands up and picks me up, turning around and sitting back down with me on his lap. We don't talk but I keep one hand on the side of his neck, reassuring him with my touch.
He spends the night again, and I fall asleep wondering what the next day will hold. I wonder if we can move past this. I think we can.
I'm sorry if you were longing for lemons, sweet readers, but it's on the horizon! I like a slow-mo build with heat and tension and bated breath...so there are some great one-shots out there if you need immediate gratification.
HEE! Kidding. Kinda.
Thank you for reading.