Wow! I'm floored by the response that this is getting, thank you guys so much!

I was going to wait to post this, but I wanted to thank you all for reading and alerting, and this is the best thing I cold think of.

Bella

Excuse me while I fall to the floor in paroxysms of laughter. I, Bella Swan, so untouched in nearly three years that my hymen had probably grown back, was being called a hooker.

The irony didn't escape me.

Funny, on the rare occasions I'd imagined myself being insulted by a man, I thought I'd go all slap-happy on his ass. I mean, on his face. But my first instinct was not to slap. It was to howl. To grab my stomach and laugh until it hurt and tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Unable to quit it, I shook my head back and forth, snorting at the very possibility that I could have sex for a living. Hell, I couldn't even have it for recreation!

But looking at the man watching me from a few feet away—the incredibly sexy man who bore no more than a superficial resemblance to a mass murderer—I was beginning to question that. Because oh, wouldn't I like to have it for recreation with the man who'd made me feel so incredibly aroused.

I couldn't recall a single moment in my life when I'd felt so sensual and charged up as I had when I'd fallen into his arms. Those moments had awakened something more. Something that had lain just beneath the surface of my skin, waiting—screaming—to get out. Just the touch of his body against mine had brought every hungry, sexual urge I'd ever experienced raging up until I wasn't sure I was going to be able to remain on my feet.

Too bad my own foolish fears had made me stagger away. Though, I ought to give myself a break. Because in the shadowy light, with my wild imagination, he really had looked a bit like James Kilpatrick. But now, having had a better look at him, I knew he didn't bear much of a resemblance to the man I'd come here to investigate. His hair and eyes were dark—more black than brown—but there the resemblance ended. His face wasn't soft and dreamy, it was all hard angles. Jutting and strong, not curved and gentle. His deep-set eyes were made even more dramatic by the thin scar running from his hairline, down his forehead, to the corner of his right eye.

Most people's scars looked old, hinting of past wounds—childhood traumas long forgotten. Reminders of one moment of recklessness from years ago.

This one looked fresh. Though slim, the line of white, puckered skin was made more dramatic by the newly healed pink flesh around it. That scar, and the one on his chest, both hinted at some kind of story about this stranger. One I was dying to find out.

Even if he did think I was a hooker.

Guess I'd better take care of that right off the bat. "Sorry to break it to you," I finally said, controlling my laughter with one final chuckle, "I'm not a call girl. But, well, thanks for thinking I could be."

He just stared, revealing nothing with that intense gaze and unsmiling expression.

I was babbling, but I couldn't stop. "I mean, I guess you thinking I was a hooker isn't as bad as me thinking you were a serial killer."

The dark eyebrow came down, emphasizing his scar and the fathomless depths of his black eyes. God, the man was utterly mesmerizing. And I was jabbering like a teenager after an overdose of Mountain Dew. "Look, Mr. Denton, I'm Bella Swan. Professor Tyler's assistant?"

His head jerked back. I'd finally gotten some kind of response. "My name isn't Denton," he said, a muscle in his jaw clenching. The words came grudgingly out of his mouth like coins coming from a miser.

Confused, I tilted my head, wriggling my bottom a little more toward the fireplace, since the seat of my jeans finally felt like it was drying out. "I'm sorry, I thought you said you lived here. I assumed you were Aro Denton, the owner of the hotel. Is he here?"

He turned away, crossing his strong arms over his chest. The movement made the white fabric of his shirt hug tight against his broad shoulders and muscular back. "Seaton House is no longer a hotel. It's been out of business since Aro Denton—my uncle—died four months ago."

I couldn't help gasping in surprise. "Died…oh, God, I'm so sorry, I had no idea."

"Thank you," he murmured. "Now, since my uncle is not here, and you're obviously…drying…perhaps you should get on the road again before it gets too late."

Here's your hat, what's your hurry. What a congenial guy he was. "Look, Mr…."

"Cullen."

Mmm. Sounded British. Sounded sexy. Which made sense because the man was six feet two inches of walking yumminess.

"Mr. Cullen, I don't have anywhere else to go."

He didn't move, just stood there watching, as if silently asking what my point was.

"Arrangements were made for me to stay here." Then, feeling pretty pathetic and knowing I'd just shoot myself if I had to drive out in this weather, I added, "I'm very, very sorry about your uncle's death. But really, the weather's horrible, I have driven nine hours to get here, it's nearly ten o'clock on a weeknight. Where do you suggest I go?"

He leaned his shoulder against a richly paneled wall, his arms still crossed over his big chest. His eyes glittered and his lips lifted the tiniest bit at the corners as he said, "You could go back to wherever you came from. If you leave now, you'll be home before dawn."

At first I thought he was kidding. I'd noticed a couple of times since I'd arrived that he seemed to have a caustic, quiet sense of humor, though he did a pretty good job of hiding it behind a surly sneer. But this time he looked deadly serious.

My mouth dropped open. I could not believe how rude the guy was being. Despite feeling sorry that his uncle had died, I was really getting mad.

That didn't, of course, mean I no longer wanted to jump on him and lick him like he was a mountain of cotton candy. He might be rude, but he was still just about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

A loud crash of thunder sounded overhead and I flinched a little. "You can't expect me to go out in that. This is a hotel…."

"Was a hotel. I closed it immediately after inheriting it upon my uncle's death."

"And you live here alone?" I asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. Because, really, who would want to live in a place this enormous—that had once housed a serial killer and the corpses of his victims—all alone?

"Yes." He tilted his head, as if listening for something, then murmured, "You should probably be going. I think the rain has lightened up."

"You've got to be kidding me. This was a hotel as of a few months ago," I argued, not about to let him push me out. "There has to be a place for me to sleep. For God's sake you probably have forty guest rooms."

He shrugged. "I like to spread out."

I looked for a twinkle in those black eyes but didn't see one. Damned if I could read him. And that was like waving a red flag in front of my face.

I couldn't figure this man out. I wanted to figure this man out. Ergo, I had to stay. "You're being unreasonable. You really can't expect me to go back out in that."

Somehow, I knew I was arguing not only for the sake of my job, the research project, but also because I wasn't ready to walk away from the obsidian-eyed stranger whose muscular arms bulged against the fabric of his shirt and whose striking face was only enhanced by his swarthiness and that scar. The one who had, at least a handful of times, checked me out from half-lowered lashes when he thought I wasn't watching.

Not watching? Hell, I hadn't taken my eyes off the black-haired god since we walked into the room.

I liked that he was looking. Because it told me that despite his brusque attitude and coldness, he wasn't entirely unaffected by me. Even if it was simple attraction, he was feeling something . Just like I was.

"A half hour ago you thought I was a serial killer. Now you want to sleep under my roof?"

I waved my hand, unconcerned. "I told you, my imagination was just all worked up." Trying to sound pathetic and tired—which I really was, I supposed—I added, "Probably from exhaustion and fatigue after driving in such horrible conditions for so many hours."

"You can't stay here."

Grabbing my purse off the side table where I'd dropped it, I dug out a folded, damp piece of paper. "I have a reservation. I have a guaranteed room here until October 31." I waved the thing at him like a banner, almost daring him to come close enough to take it.

He did. And suddenly my butt wasn't the only thing getting hot. With every step closer he took, the temperature in the room went up a degree. Or ten. My breath got heavy and I had a hard time forcing it out of my lungs because the air was so thick, and strong with his musky, masculine smell. His presence.

He kept coming closer, until the tips of his feet touched the base of the hearth. I was standing on top of it, which gave me a few inches of height, until we were almost eye-to-eye.

Oh, the face… He should be on the cover of magazines. Or a romance novel. With the scar and the hint of a beard, he would make a perfect pirate. He just needed an earring and a gold tooth. Well, not the gold tooth, I guessed. Pirates in real life might have had them, but pirates in romance novels most certainly did not. I should know. They had become a steady staple in my reading diet over the past few years.

Remember that research thing I mentioned?

"You can't expect me to honor a reservation when this place isn't even in business," he said, yanking the paper out of my hand and giving it a cursory glance. "Besides, this isn't even in your name."

I snatched it back from between his fingers. "It's my professor's name. He made the reservation six months ago when he arranged with your uncle for me to come and do some research on Seaton House."

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "And you got in a car and drove nine hours, without even checking on a reservation made six months ago?"

He had a point. I'd meant to do that, honestly. But with all the stuff I had to do to get ready to leave, including getting my other professors to agree to my time off, arranging for my sister-in-law Rachel to take care of my cat, packing, doing research to prepare for my research…well, I'd just forgotten. "It was all arranged," I mumbled, knowing I didn't sound very persuasive.

"By this professor, and my uncle."

I nodded. Wondering if a little more ammunition would help, I reached for my overnight bag. "I have copies of their correspondence. Professor Tyler and Mr. Denton agreed it would be fine for me to come this semester, after midterms. Your uncle said I could have full access to the house, as well as any records, books and correspondence I could find in the library and storage rooms."

He spared a glance at the letters, flinched, then closed his eyes briefly at the sight of the spidery handwriting on the outside of one of the bulky envelopes I retrieved. It was apparently in his uncle's handwriting, and I suddenly felt very mean. "I'm sorry, I know I'm being incredibly pushy," I said, lowering the letters back into the bag.

"Yes, you are."

Dropping my arms to my sides, I felt my shoulders slump. "I just really don't want to get back in that car and drive off into the storm again." Swallowing, I quietly added, "Please."

I didn't continue, didn't beg or harass him. I simply let him see my weariness and genuine concern about trying to navigate back down this mountain on such a wild night.

He said nothing, just stared into my face. I held the stare, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed as I lost myself in his eyes. They were so piercing…so deep and secretive. Angry. Stormy. Intense.

Why, then, wasn't I afraid of him? But I wasn't. In fact, his angry facade attracted more than it than repelled me.

Because he was incredibly sexy, perhaps. Because of the way his body had felt pressed against mine earlier. Because of the aura of excitement oozing from his every pore. Because of the scars on his body that told a story. Because of the hints of dry wit that had come out of his mouth.

Because he was here in this house alone and quite obviously dealing with something that had left him angry and hurt, and he seemed determined to keep it that way.

Just as determined as I was to stay. At least for tonight.

And after tonight…well, we'd see.

He broke the stare first. "All right," he finally said, his voice low and throaty. "You can stay for one night. But you leave first thing tomorrow morning. Understand?"

***

An hour later, tucking my cold body between the cold sheets in a cold room on the third floor, I was beginning to regret my persistence. Did I mention it was cold?

"It's your own fault," I whispered as I tugged the old, faded bedspread and thin, worn blankets tightly under my chin. I curled up in a ball and rolled to my side, trying to provide my own body heat by bringing my knees to my chest.

Yes, it was my own fault. Not only for insisting I stay here, but also because I hadn't taken my less-than-gracious host up on his grudging offer to go try to fire up what he called an "ancient" generator out back in the garage. I was trying to be an easy unwanted guest—hoping if I wasn't a problem he might reconsider and let me stay tomorrow. So, thinking that if he was fine in the house with no electricity for the night, I would be, too, I'd said thanks but no thanks.

Big mistake. Stick a giant wooden stick between my legs and you'd have a human Popsicle.

"You asked for this," I muttered, trying to distract myself from the shivery twitches of my legs and arms. Not to mention the sight of my own breaths puffing out into the air.

I'd asked for it, and I'd gotten it. I'd been so happy he'd agreed I could stay that I hadn't voiced a single protest when he'd led me up to the shadowy third floor. I'd barely had time to glance at the old paintings gracing the walls—beautiful but disturbing images of this very house and the ragged cliffs surrounding three sides of it.

He'd lit the way with one of his lanterns. Using an ancient-looking iron key, he'd open the door to a room that smelled of must and old age. Without so much as a good-night, Mr. Cullen had set the lantern on the dresser, spun around and stalked out of the room, obviously familiar enough with the house to maneuver his way back in the darkness.

Mr. Cullen. God, I didn't even know his first name. But I didn't care. Deep down part of me prayed he'd get lost in the darkness and accidentally wander back in here during the night, mistaking my room for his. That he'd crawl in bed beside me like a fly landing in a web.

That would make me the spider.

But I didn't care. I was feeling predatory, unable to shut down the heated images in my mind. Frankly, three years and no sex would probably have made me react to a balding, middle-aged circus clown. With a hot and dangerous, strikingly handsome man like Cullen, it was almost more than I could stand.

Despite the cold, my body wanted to kick off the weight of the covers. To writhe around on the bed, twisting my legs, spreading them—anything to ease the ache of want that had become so familiar it was almost part of me now. Though my hair and body had dried, I was still wet, between my thighs, wanting sex. Wanting it badly. Which was why I'd worn a thoroughly inappropriate-for-the-weather slinky nightgown, just on the off chance the man was coming back.

"He's not coming back," I whispered, tempted to get up and put on my sweats and socks. And my coat.

But even the cold couldn't keep my mind off warm, intimate thoughts for too long. Not now that a gruff-talking, black-eyed stranger had brought every sexual urge I possessed out of hiding and started them all doing a kick line deep inside my body.

Somehow, though, I knew it wasn't just desperate sexual hunger keeping me awake. I couldn't stop thinking of my host's dark haunted eyes. He'd been gruff—abrasive, yes—but he was practically wrapped in an aura of wounded sadness, lashing out at the world but only hurting himself.

I knew, deep inside, that he needed warm, gentle hands to heal him. Just as I knew I needed hot, strong hands to heal me .

We were exactly what each other needed. Exactly.

"Oh, God," I whispered, staring up toward the ceiling, lit by a bit of watery moonlight that had finally emerged now that the worst of the storm had passed. "I can't leave here tomorrow."

If I had known where my host's bedroom was, I might have risked pulling some kind of female trick. Racing to him in a sexy nightgown to tell him I saw a mouse or something. Lame, I know. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

Unfortunately, I didn't know where the man was. And in this huge house which, he informed me as he led me upstairs, had forty-two guest rooms, I wasn't likely to stumble over him.

Suddenly hearing a creaking sound in the hallway, I sucked in a breath, convinced he was about to knock on my door and ask me if I wanted him to keep me warm with his big, hot body. I thought the sound—footsteps—paused in front of my doorway, and held my breath for the longest time.

The door never opened. The footsteps never moved away. And I figured my overactive imagination had been running away with me again.

He wasn't coming back. So I had to stay beyond tonight, had to get him tolet me stay…for both our sakes.

I ran over several different scenarios. Calling my professor and having him appeal to the man was probably not going to help. Cullen didn't appear to be the helpful type, like his uncle had been. So he probably wouldn't encourage anyone snooping around in his house, digging up secrets about its past.

Maybe the secrets of the house would be enough, though. Because my host hadn't revealed by so much as the flicker of an eyelid that he had any idea who I was talking about when I'd called him a serial killer. Perhaps he didn't even know about the bloody secrets hidden in these walls.

"So I'll tell him," I muttered. "I'll tell him and he'll be so fascinated he'll let me have the run of the place."

Including his bedroom. Wishful thinking, I know. But I couldn't help it.

Have I mentioned that I'm fricking horny?

It wasn't just how badly I needed to get laid that had me scheming in my bed well into the night. I was sexually attracted to the man like I'd never been to anyone else. And I was fascinated by him. Why was he hiding out here in this drafty old place all alone? Why was he so secretive, so angry?

Then there were the scars.

Oh, you can bet my imagination had been on overdrive about those. Had he been mauled by an animal?

No. Not enough gouges to be claws.

A car accident?

The injuries seemed too precise and limited.

Shot. Or stabbed.

As much as I hated to admit it, I believed that could be the answer. The scar on his face looked thin and wicked, as if a blade had traced a quick route from his hairline to the corner of his eye. And the one on his chest wasn't as long and looked more surgical, as if he'd had to be cut open to have something removed. Like a bullet?

Yeah, yeah, I was going off on tangents. See an appendix scar and imagine a shootout at the OK Corral, that was my m.o.

Only, that wasn't any appendix scar unless the man's appendix had decided to take up residence near his heart. And the darkness in his eyes wasn't from someone who'd had some minor little surgery.

He'd been wounded. Physically and emotionally. I knew it like I knew every word on the menu at my folks' restaurant.

But I didn't know enough, I wanted to know more. Had to know more. Like any good researcher, I was filled with curiosity.

Like any hot-blooded woman, I was filled with desire.

I wasn't leaving here until both had been satisfied.

Hoping the man wouldn't toss me on my ear at dawn before I'd had a chance to wear down his defenses with my vivid serial killer storytelling ability—or my cleavage…hey, I was desperate—I suddenly thought of another stalling tactic. He couldn't very well make me leave if I was incapable of going anywhere.

Hopping out of the bed, I cringed as my bare toes hit the cold, wood floor. I guess people who'd stayed here wanted the whole authentic shebang. Personally, I'd take a thick plush carpet over icy feet on a splintery floor any day.

Grabbing my purse, I dug around until I found my keys. Trying to tiptoe in case my host's room was directly below mine and he was down there in his bed, all hard, muscular, and naked—stop it—I made my way toward the window. It overlooked the front parking lot, where my pretty, perky car sat like a freshly cracked yellow egg sitting in a skillet.

This probably wouldn't work. But it was worth a shot.

The window was the old-fashioned type, thickly paned with warped glass. The paint on the frame was cracking and dingy—fitting in with the aura of abandon that permeated this place. Blowing off some dust, I quickly found the latch and unfastened it. Newer hotels didn't have windows that opened—probably because of the fear of leapers. This one, though, slid up after I applied a good bit of pressure to it.

A strong, frigid gust of moist wind burst into the room, sending the curtains straight back. My hair, too.

Shivering, I leaned out the window, my keychain in my hand, and prayed I wasn't too far away. The nifty little safety system my brothers had installed didn't merely lock and unlock my car remotely. It also had a safety device to prevent theft. The engine could be disabled with the flick of a switch.

So I sent up a silent apology for being so dishonest. I prayed it would work. And I flicked.

Nothing happened. Not a damn thing. I was too far away.

Muttering a couple of really inappropriate words that would make my mother reach for the Ivory soap to wash out my mouth, I fumed a minute, thinking about what to do. This could be a sign from above that I was just not meant to do something so dishonest. Someone up there was telling me so.

Someone down here, however, was saying I just needed to get closer to the car. I guess it was the little fishnet-wearing devil Bella sitting on my shoulder. She had, throughout my life, been able to tie, blindfold and gag any haloed angel who ever tried to take up residence on the other one.

Not thinking about it for a second longer, in case I lost my nerve, I hurried to the door and opened it, cursing the squeak. The outside hallway was dark, so I turned on the portable lantern Edward had left for me, keeping it on the lowest possible setting.

Fortunately, I was just a few steps away from the stairs, and I quickly made my way down the first flight. Pausing on the landing, I peered over the railing to the foyer below, to ensure the coast was clear.

I saw nothing. Just shadows and shapes in the ink-black night, which was almost enough to send me scurrying back to my room. But I resisted the urge. I simply had to make it down the second flight and out the front door, push a button, then race back up here and leap into my bed before I froze to death.

Speaking of freezing, I really should have put my clothes back on before setting out on this midnight jaunt. I was still wearing just my silky white nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline.

Hey, I went to bed hoping Edward would suddenly remember he had to tell me something, remember? Had to be prepared. I just hadn't been prepared to have a maniacal impulse to disable my own car so I could get the chance to stay here for a while.

If I went back upstairs, I might lose my nerve. So I proceeded forward, creeping down one silent step at a time. The door to the office was firmly shut. Only the tiniest hint of a glow was visible beneath it, probably from the last burning embers of the fire. It was after 1:00 a.m., he had to be in bed.

Beneath my bare feet, the marble tiles were like blocks of ice and I hissed with every step. Tiptoeing, I finally reached the door and unlocked it. I said a quick prayer that it wouldn't squeak, then slowly tugged it open.

No squeak. Thank heaven.

"And they say Chicago's cold," I whispered as a gust of damp, frigid air blew in and assaulted me. The Windy City had nothing on this mountain. I needed to perform my act of sabotage and hightail it back upstairs quickly.

Shivering, I stepped right outside the door, whimpering at the frigid wood floor of the verandah. When I quickly pressed the button on the keychain device, a single flash of the headlights on my car told me it had worked. I was just thankful the horn hadn't beeped the way it did whenever the car was remotely locked.

Not that it probably would have mattered. The storm had certainly eased, but low rolls of thunder continued to churn in the sky and silent bolts of lightning appeared here and there to brighten up the night. The rain no longer came down in sheets, it merely sluiced a steady drizzle of icy moisture onto the already soaked ground.

I liked storms. Oh, not driving in them, obviously, but I liked looking at them. Smelling that electric scent of power and feeling the moisture in the air before the first drop of rain fell. When safely under shelter, I often liked to watch lightning dance across the sky in the distance, knowing I was safe and it couldn't reach me. Getting a bit of a thrill by pretending maybe it could.

But it was late, I was freezing and I needed sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day, the make-or-break time when I had to put all my skills to work to get my host allow me to stay. The car trick would buy me some time. The rest was up to me.

Turning to head back inside, I bit back a scream when I saw a door opening farther down the verandah, one room past what I knew was the office. The white curtains hanging on the French door blew wildly in the night, dancing in the wind, creating a strange misty fog of fabric. And through that fog of fabric stepped a dark figure.

I couldn't move. Not one inch. I stayed there just outside the front door, watching the figure emerge about twenty feet away. It wasn't until after he'd disentangled himself from the sheers that I knew for sure it was my host.

He was dressed as he'd been earlier, but his white long-sleeved shirt wasn't buttoned at all and it blew out behind him just as the curtains did. He didn't flinch, didn't make any concession whatsoever to the frigid air. He simply walked to the railing and looked up at the sky.

I'd thought at first that he'd heard me, or seen the flash of headlights, but he never even looked my way. I remained frozen still, not moving for fear I'd attract his attention and have to explain what on earth I was doing out here. In my nightgown. My very sexy, filmy nightgown that was pressed against every inch of my body because of the wind.

Hmm.

Not even really deciding to do it, I cleared my throat. He jerked his head, saw me standing there and just stared. Hopefully the wind and my slinky nightgown were doing nice things for my butt and hips.

He was silent for so long, I began to wonder if he'd been sleepwalking. Finally, unable to take the tension, I came up with a quick explanation for my presence.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my own voice cracking. Clearing my throat I said, "I hope I didn't wake you. I, just…remembered I hadn't locked my car."

"Bella?" he said, coming closer.

The hesitation in his tone told me he was confused, as if he'd thought I was someone else. Who that someone else could be at this hour in this desolate, abandoned place, I had no idea. "Yes. It's me. I am so sorry if I woke you."

He continued moving toward me, his bare feet making no sound on the wet planked floor. Still he made no concession to the weather, his shirt continuing to blow around him, as did his thick hair.

The man looked dangerous. It's-the-middle-of-the-night-and-he's-a-stranger dangerous. But somehow, I didn't care. I made no effort to leave and had no virginal, self-protective instinct to cross my arms over my chest. How could I when the glorious man was staring at me like a seductive wolf at a plate of lamb chops?

Reaching my side, he finally murmured, "You shouldn't be out here."

"Neither should you."

He raked a slow, thorough glance down my body, obviously able to see my breasts almost to the nipples in the low cut gown. The thing fit well, with a supportive bodice that pushed my already more than generous curves up to Penthouse quality heights and I could probably hold up a flagpole with my tight, overflowing cleavage.

I'd often thought how silly men were about women's breasts. More often than not, I'd considered mine a nuisance whose sole purpose was in getting out of speeding tickets or picking up a fellow college student. Those guys always reminded me of ten-year-olds, as they did their usual rub-squeeze-twist-see-what-I-get-to-play-with thing that they all considered foreplay.

Now, however, I was feeling different. Cullen wouldn't be like that, I knew it. He would know exactly how to touch me to elicit only feelings of blissful pleasure and pure eroticism.

I wanted that. I wanted this dark, sultry stranger to stroke me, to run his fingertips down my cleavage, then catch my nipples between his fingers and lightly squeeze them. I shivered, feeling the tips of my breasts get hard and tight against the silk and could think of nothing else but how amazing it would feel if he were to lick me there, sucking hard while dropping a hand between my legs.

"What are you really doing out here?" he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

"I told you."

"You came down here, dressed like that, just so you could do something to your car?"

At last, a question I could answer honestly. "Yes, I swear to you, I did. I didn't intend to stay out here and was heading right back to my warm— To my bed. But then you came out."

"And you decided to…stay?" Not waiting for an answer, he lifted his hand and brushed the back of his fingers on my shoulder. "You're freezing."

Freezing? Oh, no. I felt very, very hot.

I could have made some lame well, you could keep me warm comment, but we were already way beyond that level of silly, light flirtation. Instead, I inched closer to him, using his body to block the wind, smelling the warm, masculine scent arising from his skin. His shirt continued to whip around and now I could see more of the scar just below his collarbone. Not to mention the ripples of muscle and taut, wiry hair.

I couldn't resist. Lifting a hand, I laid it flat on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. And his heat.

He didn't say anything. He merely acted. Without a word of warning, he slid both his hands into my hair, cupping my head and tugging me forward. Any gasp of surprise I might have made was drowned out by my own heart, which thudded like crazy as he lowered his mouth to mine.

Then our lips met. Opened. Tasted. Thunder pounded…or maybe it was just the low roar of pleasure rolling through me.

The rain picked up again and lightning flashed somewhere nearby. I wasn't aware of any of it. I couldn't focus on anything except the warm lips and smooth tongue giving me such pleasure.

I've been kissed. A lot.

This wasn't kissing. It was sex of the mouth.

Groaning, I rose on tiptoe, loving the strong, steady way he cupped my head, fingering my hair as his tongue plunged deep. I savored it, licking and sucking, sharing each breath with him, certain I'd never experienced anything more exciting in my entire life.

And then it was over. He ended the kiss, yanked his hands back and put them on my shoulders. Spinning me around, he literally pushed me through the door, into the house. Muttering, "Go to bed before you freeze," he turned and stalked toward the open door, where the white curtains still whipped furiously in the night wind.

With one final, heated glance in my direction, he disappeared inside.

Is it hot in here, or is it just me?

I know my character descriptions are different than the book - I just wanted to give Bella a more voluptuous build, I think it fits her personality more. As for Edward he's dark and brooding, and I wanted his looks to match.

As always, thanks for reading.