Whiskey
XxX
They sit up at either end of his bed. Nude and sated, post-sex and snack food, Edward absentmindedly rubs her foot. Occasionally, he finds and eats a stray Red Hot off the sheets.
They share the covers.
"Bella, bo bella, her feet do smella..." he sings into her toes with a smile. She chuckles but pulls her foot back.
"I was singing to that foot. Give it back." He snatches it by the ankle.
"My feet don't 'smella', Edward," she says in a playful huff and sits up straighter, letting the sheet settle around her waist, exposing round and heavy breasts.
Her lack of modesty, long since fucked away, makes his stomach clench and the back of his eyes prick. The wanting settles low in his spine. He stares for lack of air.
"Do you remember when we first met," she asks, watching his finger glide over the lacquer of a red toenail.
"Sure, I do." He sighs. "You always bring it up." He puts her foot down and works his own under the covers, sneaking its way toward her.
"I believe," he says as the sole of his foot finds her in-between, "you called me a dick." He rests his foot at the base of her wet fuzz and applies a well-known pressure.
"You're silly." Without thinking, she guides his foot further into her. She hums.
Both sets of eyes grow big, and after a surprised pause, they laugh. She swats at his leg like she meant to do, but he doesn't move it. And she doesn't tell him to.
"That's because you were arrogant," she says, getting back on topic, and remembering it her way. "You had so many girls throwing themselves at you that night. But you talked to me. I don't know why." She casts the line out, hoping for a tug. It does not come.
Resting her head back, she focuses on the blades of the ceiling fan slowly slicing the edges of stray light.
Her memories of that night flitter.
Edward wishes she would talk about anything else, but he is used to obliging her nostalgia.
"One even asked if I wanted to go to a strip club with her and her friends." He smirks in affected, masculine pride.
"Gross, Edward. A strip club, really?" She looks to the left of him. The scruff on his face is intimate. He hasn't shaved and looks worn in.
She knows it is her doing and undoing all at once.
"You didn't see me leave with them, did you? As I recall, you came up to the bar under the pretense of ordering a drink when you had a waitress at your table all night. Think I didn't notice?" He wiggles his toes, making them slippery.
She holds him still.
"I did." She smiles and luxuriates in the memory. "I thought I was smooth. I know. But the drinks gave me courage and I couldn't look away, and I couldn't…couldn't…" She gasps at the appalling intrusion of tears.
The six-month-old memory, a squeezebox compressing in her chest, vibrates disconcertedly through her body. It startles.
"Hey." He pulls his foot back and sits up on his knees, scooting forward and folding her into an unsure embrace.
"No, don't," he whispers, wishing he wasn't touching her or soothing her. He desperately wants her to stop crying. She is not the sole owner of this moment.
"I'll get us water," he says, and loosens his hold abruptly. Tugging on long pajama bottoms, he edges off the bed.
He doesn't look back to see her chin on her knees, her eyes now a watery calm. "I'm sorry," she whispers. And he hears.
"Don't." He has no more to contribute. "Be back."
After a few minutes of listening to him rummage through cupboards, she accepts a drink of water, a shot of Jameson, and more water to trail the fire in her belly.
A/N:
Thanks for reading. Also, my gratitude goes out to Cesca Marie and WriteOnTime.