Author's Chapter Notes:

All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Plagiarism is theft. No copying or reproduction of this work in any language is permitted without the express written authorization of the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. Thank you. June 2010.

Thanks as ever to my remarkable beta, xrxdanixrx, who's also provided awesome banner! Check out her stories- Hate Me, Don't Try To Save Me, Here We Go Again and At Your Own Risk!

Twilighted Beta – Shabbyapple. Thanks for the quick turnarounds.

Thanks to all reading and reviewing. I'm glad you're enjoying these two, and your reviews mean the world.

Let's check in with our Bella, and see about her evening at Edward's, shall we?

BPOV

Chapter 19

I wake up with my heart racing towards a panic attack, while the rain pours down outside my window. The good news is, the hangover headache is gone, replaced by full body shivers and the feeling like the world is spinning out of control around me. This panic attack, thankfully, only lasts a few minutes before I can find the strength to put the swim leg prosthetic on and shower.

I shake my head at the reflection in the mirror, while I get into this make-him-drool outfit, which consists simply of a grey wrap around v-neck sweater and a pair of black vintage jeans that, apparently, make my ass look fantastic, according to Rose.

I am finally able to admit that the fact I'm going to Edward's for dinner tonight, is major. Actually, going to any man's place for dinner would be monumental, but it seems even more so because it's him, and I'm nervous. I don't like being nervous. I've worked for five extremely long years to ensure that I'm never nervous...that I always have the upper hand and am able to confidently maneuver any situation I may find myself in. The truth is, with Edward, I can feel the wall I've built up intentionally to protect myself crumbling, and while that scares me half to death, it's also invigorating.

I've forgotten my umbrella at work again, and so, I have to make a break for the Jeep while the rain pounds down in sheets. Stupid Vancouver weather. My hair is now wet and I can almost hear Alice scolding me while I try to tame it back before taking off to Edward's.

It feels weird to not bring anything with me, so I stop at the flower shop down the street from his place, more than a little amused with myself. I think he'll enjoy this; a little crazy, a little sarcastic, typically Bella.

Along with the replacement purple hyacinths, the shop owner talks me into irises, which he tells me, means hope. Actually, he tells me what nearly every single flower in the place means, but I choose the irises and hope that Edward doesn't think it's completely ridiculous.

By the time I get to his place and park outside, the rain has died down a notch. Still, I sit in the Jeep, parked across from his apartment for a few minutes, taking some much needed cleansing breathes and mentally preparing myself before launching out of the truck with the flowers.

I knock on his door and wait, trying to stay dry by using my bag as a shield over my head. I hear the click of the lock and take a loud breath in when he whips open the door. He looks mad...mad and hot as hell, his eyes dark and ominous. Paint is scattered in his crazed, unruly hair, on his hands, his shirt, everywhere really. Oh fuck, I've interrupted him painting.

His face softens and he lets out a heavy breath. "Bella," he says, like he's surprised to see me or something.

"I'm sorry. It looks like you were working." I realize we didn't really talk about what time dinner would be and that I'm probably here way too early.

"Fuck, is it time already?" he asks, looking frantically at me.

Oh, hold on. Did he actually forget? "Seems you had more interesting things to do today than think about our dinner," I suggest, trying hard to hide the fact that I'm disappointed he doesn't seem to remember.

"No, of course not. I was just painting and time kind of got away from me. Come on in." He opens the door and I brush past him, fighting with the urge that seems to have come over me to push him up against the wall and run my fingers through his hair. So much for pretending this is some casual dinner. I explain the flowers while he stares back at me, first in complete amusement, then in utter disbelief.

"Hope? "What are you hoping for?" he asks, clearly intrigued.

"You," I say honestly, praying that he doesn't think this is totally lame. I mean, bringing a guy flowers is not exactly typical, but then again, I'm not sure much is when it comes to Edward and me.

"They're beautiful. So are you," he says, staring down at me, his eyes wanting and dark. He moves to take them from me and our fingers touch. He feels warm and inviting. I know that it's going to take a Herculean effort to resist him, and I'm not sure I want to anymore.

"Fuck it," he mutters, launching his lips to mine. Holy fuck. This is better than the alcohol induced kiss I remember. He's intoxicating, smelling like paint, his hands desperately lacing through my hair and pulling me to him while his tongue urgently dances with mine. Jesus slow down, Bella!

"Edward," I say, while he rests his forehead on mine, my heart literally jumping against my chest. I'm sure he can feel it as he has his body pressed up firmly against mine.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

Sorry? What? "Sorry for...?" I ask tentatively.

"Practically attacking you when you've only been here for five minutes. I'm emotional when I paint," he explains. Oh, I get it. He didn't really want to kiss me. It's all part of the crazy, deranged painting mode he's in. Ok then. I back away from him, now completely embarrassed. "No! That's not what I meant. I mean, I am emotional when I paint, but that's not why I kissed you. I can hardly fucking control myself around you, Bella."

In what alternate universe can Edward Cullen hardly control himself? I crouch down to get the flowers, hopeful that a distraction will bring us both back to reality. He, of course, tries to get them while he stares down at me...well, he's actually staring down my sweater, and I'm momentarily thankful that Alice made me buy it. It appears it actually is drool worthy.

He seems like he's stunned or something, so I prompt him for a vase. He shakes his head, sauntering to the kitchen, which gives me a chance to watch him and his beautifully toned body. I realize I haven't gaped openly at a man in years, and that's probably why he seems so deliciously perfect right now. I am also painfully aware that I am much more attracted to Edward than I should be. That being with someone this beautiful, after I've been with no one for so long, is probably an extremely bad idea, given his track record...well, what I've seen of it, anyway.

He mutters something about dinner not being ready and I suggest helping him, which of course, he tries to protest. He kind of seems out it, mumbling the fact that I'm here, and for a minute I worry that maybe painting brings out some sort of wild, unbalanced alter ego for him. I've heard about artists immersing themselves so much in their work that they slowly drive themselves into insanity, and so, I ask him if he's all right.

"I'm ok. It's just that today's been...a bit intense, to say the least," he says ominously.

"For me, too," I admit, now nervous again, and pissed off at Rose for telling James about the auction. Like Edward and I need more complications. "I need to talk to you about something, actually." And so, I bite the bullet and explain to him what happened at the coffee shop, and the fact that James is now donating something thanks to Rose and her inability to keep her mouth shut. He doesn't look impressed...actually, he looks like he's about to explode.

"James is intense. He has a bit of a reputation, and I don't want you anywhere near him, Bella," he says through gritted teeth, like he's warning me or something.

"What are you talking about? What reputation?" Oh fuck, maybe the vibe I was getting from James is right.

"I saw him last night with you. I don't know what he was doing there, but he was all over you," he says possessively, looking much like I think I remember he did last night when I thought he was going to loose it completely at my drunken mention of James' name. He's getting all worked up, telling me to not be alone with James, which I wasn't really planning on doing, anyway. He looks beyond worried, while he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, every muscle in his body tensed with impending fury.

I move to him and place my hand on his arm, feeling his muscles flex under my fingers. "Relax, ok? Breath, Edward. Honestly, you're getting yourself all worked up for nothing," I say, trying to calm him down. "Why don't I start on dinner while you get cleaned up?"

"Oh, shit. I'm covered in paint," he says, running his long fingers through his hair and making it worse.

"Yeah, you are." Covered in paint, and still fucking gorgeous.

He suggests wine, which I really could use right now, but I also want to keep my wits about me so I don't do something really stupid. "Edward, this isn't going to be an apply-alcohol-insert-here-quick-fuck kind of a night," I say, trying to stress my point.

"Bella, trust me. When it happens, there won't be anything quick about it." Holy crap. He's so sure of himself. I feel myself turn red. "Come with me. There's something I need to show you," he says, pulling on my arm gently and backing up towards his stairs.

"Where are we going?" I ask nervously. The last time I was upstairs, I was in his studio and he just about bit my head off.

"You'll see," he says. "Come on." I eye him curiously and follow him, the smell of paint becoming more pronounced with each stair we climb. He stops at the open door and casts his eyes down to me. "I've been painting."

"No kidding...I can smell it, I think," I say, smirking at him.

He's unmoved by my attempt at sarcasm. "I don't ever let anyone see my work before it's done," he says seriously.

"I don't need to see it, Edward. I understand. I know I was out of line the last time I was here, but..."

"No, Bella. You do need to see it," he insists as we reach the top of the stairs. I'm not sure why this is such a big deal to him, but apparently it is, and actually, I'm more than a little curious as to why he wants me to see his work.

He pulls me into the massive room, the smell of paint invading me, while he stares down, trying to read my reaction. He drops my hand and walks with purpose to several frames of varying sizes, each covered with white fabric.

He looks at me tentatively, takes a deep breath and then, one by one, whips the fabric off of the canvasses. "This is what you do to me, Bella. I've painted all of these because of you. I hadn't painted anything for months. I had no inspiration. The reasons I used to paint were gone, and then I met you, and now I can't stop. This is my next collection...well, the start of it, anyway."

My heart is in my throat and the room spins. Holy fuck. I'm speechless...not something I can say happens to me often. Normally, when I'm thrown off by something, the sarcastic side of me pours out, and I find some way of masking my feelings, hiding so no one knows what I'm really thinking. This is beyond overwhelming. "Edward." It's all I can say. I don't know how to process this, how someone like Edward would want to gleam his inspiration from someone like me. I stare at him, trying to fathom and understand what he's done and why he's done it. He watches me intently, looking hopeful, fearful, wanting me to say something.

I take a step towards the first painting and tilt my head to the side, wishing I understood art. This is clearly modern, nothing recognizable, but the emotion leaps off the piece to me. It seems tortured, sad, maybe apologetic, and a thought occurs to me. "You painted this the first night we met, didn't you?" I ask, turning to look up at him. He nods his head and the corners of his mouth turn up at me, followed by a smoldering, heated gaze.

Holy crap...his breathing elevates, his chest rising and falling deeply while he watches me. "They're all for you. This is what you do to me. This is all you. Nearly every fucking waking minute of every day since I met you," he says softly.

I stare back at him and feel my eyes grow wide. I slowly move closer to the first painting and look at him for permission. He nods his head, and I float my fingers over the brush strokes, careful not to touch them. My heart is beating through my chest as I try to comprehend this. "This is because of me?" I ask, my voice barely audible while I stare at the painting, unable to move.

"Yes. I hadn't painted in almost ten months. And then, I met you, and now, I can't stop," he says matter-of-factly, like this is normal or something.

"But, that's just...I'm not even...this is crazy, Edward," I tear my eyes away from the painting and watch as he rakes his fingers through his hair, shifting nervously from side to side. I move to the second painting, marveling at the intensity of the colours while he watches me silently.

"This is me, Bella. This is how I feel. It's how you make me feel and I don't even know the real you. I only know what you've shown me, and I know that's not you."

"What if it is? What if that's all I can show you?" I ask, turning to meet his gaze.

"It's not. But you have to let me in, Bella." He closes the distance between us and stares down at me. For a moment, I feel the wall come down while I look up at him wanting, hoping, and praying that Edward can fill the empty void that has been in my life for so long.

"What if I can't? What if I can't let you in?" I whisper.

"Bella, you can. Let me in, please." He brings his hand up and cups my cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his hand, soaking in his warmth, while he softly rubs his thumb along my jaw. And here, in his studio, engulfed in the inspiration he says I caused, I bring my lips to his and kiss him.

It feels so right. He feels so right. I am overwhelmed with a litany of emotions; excitement, yearning, fear, and anticipation pour out of me, and I urgently deepen the kiss. I kiss him with all the intensity I have. The pendulum of emotions that he's caused since he sauntered into my life, spill out of me, and I'm lost in him.

He moans into my mouth, and I respond to him, tentatively running my hands up to his shoulders while he snakes his arm around my waist, bringing me flush with his chest. Good Lord, his chest is hard...much like his erection, which I now feel brushing up against me. I take a gasp in and step back from him, covering my mouth. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," I say. I am simultaneously mortified and turned on. I look up at him and he's staring at me, passionately, intently. And this could be so easy if I just let it happen. But I don't just want to be another one of Edward's conquests.

"Bella, don't say that. Don't be sorry. I'm not," he says, his voice lower as he takes a step towards me.

"I should go." I start for the stairs, but he stops me, placing his hand on my arm and stepping in front of me.

"Don't go," he whispers. "Stay, please."

"I can't, Edward. I won't be someone you just fucked in your studio once."

"How can you even say that? Look at this. Look at what I've done because of you. I don't want you to be someone I just fucked in my studio. You're already so much more than that," he says fervently. He runs his hand up to my cheek and I feel the burn from the trail that his touch leaves behind. How this man can have this affect on me, is astounding.

The studio is silent while we stare at each other, the air electrified while his breathing deepens. He leans towards me, and I slip away from him and back to the paintings. I am in awe of what he says I inspired. I cannot imagine Edward being inspired by me at all. Actually, I can't imagine anyone being inspired by me.

I know nothing of art, and yet, these seem to fascinate me. The colours are so vivid and dramatic. I can see power behind the brush strokes. I try to imagine what Edward would look like while he's painting, his muscles flexing, his eyes dark with intensity. I imagine that there is not quiet, soothing music playing in the background when he paints. It seems to be a raw and emotional experience for him.

I feel my heart race, remembering that he's supposed to be painting me at some point, and I wonder if I'm going to be able to hold it together while he does. I take in the rest of his studio and see that there are more canvasses, waiting it seems, for him to unleash his creativity. "Do you always have so many empty frames?" I ask.

"I always paint a collection of pieces. Nineteen to be exact." He looks burdened while he stares blankly at the canvasses.

"Why nineteen?" I press him. It seems like such a random number.

He lets out a sigh and rakes his fingers through his hair. This is clearly something deeply rooted for him. His expression changes, the mood in the room shifting dramatically. "My Mom died on the nineteenth of June. She never got to see anything I did as a real artist." His voice is barely audible. He looks as though he may pass out. The colour has drained entirely from his face, and as he tears himself away from the blank canvasses and stares down at me, he looks lost.

I am blown away. Edward Cullen has a soft side; a deeply emotional and clearly tortured side. I cannot reconcile these two polar opposite personalities; Edward, a womanizer, who would think about fucking a stranger in a stairwell, and Edward, who deliberately paints in memory of his mother. "I'm so sorry, Edward," I say sincerely, my heart breaking for him.

He blinks and takes a step away from me. "She was always the one telling me I could do anything; pushing me to follow my heart. Carlisle, my Dad, wanted me to go to law school, just like he did. They used to fight about it all the time. And then, she got sick just before I went to university." He stares at me, and I feel my mouth go dry. "She died thinking I was going to law school. She died never knowing that I did this, that I did it for her," he whispers, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

"She knows, Edward," I say, and I can't resist going to him. I know how he feels; the loss of a parent before they could see you grow up completely. Never knowing what they would think about how far you've come, and what you've accomplished, how they've influenced you. I place my hand on his arm and stare up at him as he opens his eyes to me.

"Can I paint you?" he asks, his gaze penetrating and sad, begging me to let him do this.

"Now?" I ask, my voice raising several octaves. My heart accelerates. I look down at what I'm wearing. I don't really know what I had in mind for a portrait, or to be fair, what he had in mind. We never talked about it. Judging from what I've seen of his work, this isn't going to be a traditional sitting in a chair, with me looking pensive, type of portrait. "I'm not sure I'm dressed for it." I look up at him and his expression switches instantly, a devilish smile playing across his face.

"Are you partial to these clothes?" he asks, his eyes now energized.

What does that mean? Does he seriously think I'm going to pose nude for him? "I'm not getting naked, Edward," I say definitively, taking a step back from him.

"I never asked you to." He takes a step towards me. I look up at him skeptically. "It is part of our deal, Bella." Damn Rose, making me ask him to donate something for the auction. He looks decidedly at me. "You can trust me, Bella. In this and all things."

Holy fuck. "Aren't you supposed to be making me some culinary masterpiece for dinner?" I ask, trying to stall the inevitable.

"We'll cook later. Now...I need to paint." His voice is low and authoritative, and I feel a tingle spark in every muscle south of my waist.

"Ok," I can barely hear my own voice. It sounds shaky, and I don't know why I'm so nervous. It's just a painting for God's sake. Why does it feel like so much more?

He smiles cryptically at me and motions to a massive blank canvass that runs from the floor half way to the ceiling. It's bigger than any of the others in the studio. I make my way over and stand, twisting my fingers in front of it. My entire body is trembling, the mood shifting again in the room.

He turns from me and then methodically covers the canvasses that he unveiled to me previously. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and walks to a large desk that is brimming with brushes and paint. I watch in fascination while he mixes colours together on a worn palette. He is completely absorbed in his task. His eyes narrowed, deep in thought, while he clenches a small rounded paint brush between his teeth.

My breathing is elevated while I watch him. The intensity in the room almost overwhelming and he hasn't even started yet. He's almost hypnotic as he looks up from the desk and focuses his eyes on me. He keeps his eyes locked to mine, and switches on an iPod that's housed in a docking station on the corner of the desk.

The studio is flooded immediately with loud, extremely powerful music. An orchestra with what sounds like a hundred instruments. He stalks towards me, his expression concentrated, like he's entered some alternate personality, and for a moment, I'm scared.

He reaches me and slowly slides the brush from his mouth. I swallow loudly and wait for his next instruction. "You have nothing to be afraid of, Bella. I'm very good at what I do," he says commandingly. Holy fuck, he's so sure of himself. In complete and utter control of the room, of himself, of me. I try really hard to come back with one of my usual sarcastic remarks, but right now, my mind is completely blank.

He places the brush and the palette on a small step ladder that sits in front of the canvas, and then brings his hands to my shoulders, moving me gently so my back is flush against the right side of the frame. "Perfect," he says. What's so perfect? What does that mean? "Last chance to back out, Bella. Once I start, I won't be able to stop." I stare back at him while the music swirls around us. Why does that sound so erotic? He's staring at me, an eyebrow raised, waiting. I simply nod my head. He smiles and turns to retrieve the brush and palette from the ladder.

I eye the brush. It seems so small for such a massive frame. It's going to take hours for him to finish, if that's all he's using. He stands directly in front of me, his torso almost touching my body. My breathing hitches. Why is he this close to me? He dips the small brush in a soft yellow dollop of paint and raises it to my face. He lowers his mouth to my ear. "Stay still, Bella," he orders firmly.

He slowly drags the brush from the edge of the frame, across my collarbone. "What? Edward! What the hell are you doing?"

"Painting. Just relax and breathe." His voice sounds soothing, and even though I know I should probably get the hell out of here, I am suddenly fixed to the floor, unable to move. He slowly pulls the brush across the exposed skin of my v-neck sweater, and then down the front of it to my navel. My breathing is shallow as he crouches down in front of me and looks up, his eyes piercing while he coats the brush again, and slowly strokes up from the hem of my jeans all the way to my hip.

He stands up and cocks his head to the side. "Edward, what the..."

"Shhh, Bella. I need to concentrate," he cautions. He repeats the procedure down the pant leg that hides my prosthetic. His strokes are gentler as he moves the brush back up the side of my leg, stopping again at my hip. He rises from his crouched position and switches brushes in his mouth, removing the one he's just used to ruin the vintage jeans Alice made me buy this morning.

The new brush is thicker, and he dips it in a vibrant orange splotch of paint before flattening it against the canvas and then pulling it horizontally across my side, over my breasts. He presses down with force, the brush dipping in between my breasts before cresting and traveling to my side and onto the canvas. His stroke continues across the canvas fervently, his eyes darker while he aggressively finishes the stroke to the end of the frame.

He returns to me, his breathing coming faster. He coats his brush and runs another horizontal stripe across my hip bone and then onto the canvas. As soon as the brush makes contact with it, he's frantically painting, the brush seemingly taking on a life of its own, while the music blares in the background.

I'm mesmerized by him, watching his muscles flex under his shirt. He switches brushes again and proceeds to place powerful vertical strokes of varying shades of green onto the canvas. He sporadically lays splashes of yellow from the brush that's housed between his teeth into the background.

His strokes become more urgent while he interlays rich burgundy, pale blue, muted orange and, finally, black onto the canvas, leaping out from the green shades he has laid down. He pulls the mini step ladder across the hardwood floor and ascends it, reaching to the farthest corner of the frame to intermix the colours so they cascade down to where I'm standing. He is completely absorbed, his ragged breathing, his brush strokes becoming more forceful while he works.

I don't know how much time passes as he continues his frenzied effort. It could be minutes or hours. Time has ceased to have any meaning at this point, while I stand unable to move, totally enthralled by him. All the while, the music keeps up its relentless assault. It all sounds the same to me. Like one long torturous crescendo, fuelling him. Eventually, he climbs down from the ladder and returns to me.

Taking the brush that he first used on me, he dips it in the soft yellow again. He stretches up above my head, his strong arms cocooning me while he carefully circles the brush around me, outlining my entire body. I squeeze my eyes shut, certain he's going to coat my hair and my face, but to my shock, he doesn't. I open my eyes and look up at his perfectly angular jaw, covered with a light layer of stubble. His concentrated stare falters only for a moment, and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly before he continues. The circular strokes radiate out around my body, until he reaches the bottom of the frame.

He takes a step back and drops the brush to the floor, followed by the palette, sending splatters of paint onto the floor. He lets out a heavy breath and runs his hands through his paint splattered hair. He's covered in paint, his arms, his face, all over his hands. I stare at him, totally fascinated.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You can move now," he says, snapping out of his alternate personality mode.

I take a tentative step forward and falter slightly, my bruised leg complaining. I've been in the same position for God knows how long. My muscles are cramped and stiff. He catches me under my elbow, a worried look etched on his face. "I'm sorry. I should have given you a break," he says, looking down at my leg tentatively.

"No, its ok. I think I'm just kind of in shock," I admit, my breathing beginning to return to normal. It's like I've just run 5K or something.

"In shock?" he asks, looking worried.

"I've never seen anyone paint before. It's...intense."

"I've never let anyone see me paint before," he says, smirking down at me.

"You haven't?" I ask. I feel faint, like I'm going to pass out, his intensity completely overwhelming me.

"No. It's extremely personal for me, and I need to be in a certain...frame of mind. I prefer to paint alone." I stare up at him while he studies in the painting. "Well, what do you think?"

I stay with my back to it. "Is it finished? I mean, I don't want to turn around and look if its not."

He narrows his eyes for a moment. "No, wait." I stay, turned away from it, and I hear him scuffling around behind me. He returns to me with a small brush that's been dipped in black paint. "Now, it's finished," he says softly. He turns me by the shoulders and keeps his hands rested there as I look up.

I gasp at what stands before me. It's as if I've been transported into the depths of a foreboding, dark forest with intermittent splashes of colour that creep their way through a matrix of interlocked trees. The canvas seems to be lit from below by the stark contrasting yellow outline of where I stood...almost a glimmer of promise in the otherwise darkened piece. His black initials are boldly displayed in the white space where I stood mere moments ago. It ignites a myriad of feelings in me; loss, sadness, longing, but mostly, hope.

"This is for the auction isn't it?" I ask turning to him.

He smiles and looks pleased with himself, and me. "Yes," he says, gently squeezing my shoulders. I turn back to the painting.

"It's like I'm standing in the middle of a forest or something."

"You are," he says, nodding his head to the white spot where I stood. "You're giving it hope. You're giving me hope."

"Edward, it's amazing," I marvel.

"It's amazing because of you," he whispers.

"You can't auction this off, Edward." I turn to him and look up. "You could make a lot of money off of this. It should be hanging in a gallery or something."

"I promised you I would do a piece for the auction if I got to paint you. I'd say we're even, Bella," he muses, tracing the paint that has started to dry on the arms of my sweater with the black brush.

I take a step back from him. "Are you sure about this?"

"Very," he says.

A new wave of emotion hits me while I return to stare at the painting, at the promise he sees for himself, and quite possibly, for me. I look up at him as he stands beside me, this man, who I completely misunderstood and was ready to walk away from, and everything I thought he was, everything I thought I knew, changes.

Chapter End Notes:

Up next, what's Edward thinking, hmmm?

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