Discliamer: I don't own Twilight or any of the characters.
Chapter 4
The house was a standard Forks home. It was quite small, with a bright white exterior and a compact yet homely interior. Isabella led me through to the lounge area where she motioned to the couch. She perched awkwardly on the opposite end from me, not quite meeting my eye. Her hair still fell past her pale face to her petite shoulders as it had the day we first met, however today it was different. Instead of the casual waves that had naturally framed her face, it was now perfectly strightened and silky smooth, the light making the strands glow as she moved her head. Unless my nose was betraying me (and it never did) then I could smell the hot scent of damaged hair, as if it had just recently been singed by styling tongs. So she was done her hair very recently, most likely for my visit.
As I realised this I also realised that she was now looking directly at me. I quickly cleared my throat and reminded myself that I was here on strictly professinal grounds: I was here to fix her stitches, nothing more.
"How did you manage to tear your stiches then, Miss Swan?" I asked warmly, hoping to brush over the fact that she had just caught me gazing at her in a very non-professinal way.
"Well, I was just zipping up my fleece and I obviously just hadnt noticed that my stitches had got caught in it until I turned to pick up my socks and they ripped. I'm really sorry, I know it was stupid of me!"
"Not at all, accidents happen. If they didn't, you wouldn't have come to see me in the first place! Just a bit accident prone are we Miss Swan?" I grinned at her to make sure she knew it was a joke. I was adamant to relax the tension in the conversation, since the more uncomfortable she felt around me, the more I heard her pulse quickening and her heart thundering.
"Yeah, I do seem to be" she admitted, "You'd think that as the Chief's daughter I'd have learnt to be a bit more careful!" Good, she was making a joke too. Hopefully this meant she would relax a bit more now.
"Well now, how about I look at your stitches and see if I can get them fixed up?"
"Oh, of course." She held out her arm and I took it in a loose grip, not wanting to apply pressure on the wound. When my fingers brushed against her skin I felt her flinch and take a sharp intake of breath. Her arm was smooth and incredibly pale, although still looked almost tanned next to my icy hands. I forced myself to think that her reaction was caused by shock at my cold skin and not the fact I was touching her. Or that she wanted me to touch her. I certainly didn't allow myself to think about the fact that I was touching her, that I liked the feel of her soft arm cradled in my hand, that I wanted to be touching her. And not only her arms, but the delicate features of her beautiful face, her contours of her slim neck, the prominant ridges of her collar bones, the smooth plane of her chest, her full, perfectly rounded...
With every passing second the intimacy of the moment amplified. My mind had become totally consumed by my thoughts and I was no longer working with her stitches, my fingers were instead tracing a slow pattern across her wrist and along the length of her forearm. Isabella let out a small, sensual gasp, almost inaudible yet I heard it. The sound only acted to embolden that part of my brain that was now taking control. As my hand travelled further up her arm to her shoulder, I felt a hand hesitantly caress my face, running along the high ridge of my cheekbones. Our eyes met and continued to hold as she slid across the couch and planted a soft, sweet kiss on my ashen lips.