The Practicum

Rating: M. Because why else do we do this?

Summary: "I should go inside," I say, licking him from my lips. "Otherwise second base might happen in the front seat of your car."

Acknowledgement: HollettLA. Infinitely wise, infinitely hilarious. Thanks, lady. xo

Chapter Six

"Hi," he says, and I know before I look at his face that he's smiling. If I didn't already have a crush of epic proportions on Edward Cullen, the fact that his smile can be heard in his voice would be enough to give me one.

"Hi," I say in return, glancing over my shoulder to see him stepping into the room. Gray slacks, black shirt. Fuck me.

"I had a really good time last night," he says softly, despite the fact that we're the only two people in the room, and I nod as I turn to face him fully.

"Me too."

"I'd like to take you out again."

I lick my lips. "Well, it's Mexican night tonight. You are most definitely still invited."

He beams. "I'd love to, but our game's away tonight. Hoquiam. I don't know what time we'll get back."

I nod. "Okay. Well, if you get back in time, we'll probably be there later than we were last week. Jasper has a date, so we're not meeting until eight."

"Well, maybe I'll see you there, then."

I'm opening my mouth to reply when I'm cut off by Ben Cheney shoving Mike Newton through the classroom doorway and laughing. "Oh, please," I hear him say through his laughter. "You don't have a shot in hell."

"You never know," Mike says as he steadies himself and makes his way to his desk.

"Language, Ben," Edward says as the boys are followed by a few other students.

"Sorry, Coach," Ben mumbles as he finds his seat.

Once the students are in their seats and the bell rings, Edward has completely flipped his switch from the flirty, bashful boy I'm apparently dating to the knowledgeable, commanding teacher I'm working with. As I watch him give the introduction to today's lesson, I can't stop my poorly disciplined mind from wondering which of the two I'll meet if and when our fledgling relationship progresses past the point of goodnight kisses on porches. As he talks and the kids listen, I honestly can't decide which one I'd prefer. Granted, I want a man who knows what he's doing, but at the same time, the idea of watching him redden and stammer while I'm atop him has a certain charm as well. My whorish mind is instantly consumed by that image – me on top of Edward in a tangle of sheets – and it isn't until I hear his voice faintly saying my name that I'm jolted back to the lesson.

"Sorry, what?" I hear snickers from a few of the students, and Edward's face is creased in confusion.

"Gender roles," he says, and I nod quickly.

"Right. Gender roles."

"Would you, uh, like to do the listing today?" he asks, gesturing toward the blackboard, and I nod as I rise, grateful for something concrete to do to keep my mind on topic. "Okay, guys and gals. We're going to start by talking about gender stereotypes. Can anyone give me a definition of stereotype?"

Tori raises her hand and Edward nods. "Like, thinking something that's true of some people is true of all people?"

"Good," Edward says. "Very good. And, more specifically, thinking that an idea about one member of a group is representative of the group as a whole. For instance, a stereotype about teenagers is that they're lazy." At the rumbles of protest and the good-natured complaints, Edward holds up his hands. "I know, I know: true of some, but not all. After all, Mike's commitment to his physical fitness base over the past week has been the antithesis of lazy, wouldn't you say?" The class laughs and Mike shrugs good-naturedly. "Okay. So today we're talking about stereotypes as they pertain to gender. What are some stereotypes about males? You don't need to raise your hands, just call them out; I'm sure Ms. Swan can keep up." I return his grin as I turn to the board, chalk poised; as soon as the students start tossing things out, I start writing.

Stronger. Tougher. Not allowed to cry. In control.

On Edward's command, they move on to the female stereotypes.

Physically weaker. More emotional. More passive. More nurturing.

"Okay," Edward says as he glances at the list. "Now, how about some relationship-specific things that are typically considered masculine, and things that are typically considered feminine?"

I make a new column and wait, chalk at the ready as the kids start calling out responses.

Pulling out chairs. Helping girls into their coats. Opening car doors.

And for the girls.

"Being mysterious. Girls never say what they mean," Mike Newton says.

I glance at Edward, my chalk hovering over the blackboard, and he frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, like, if they're pissed off or something, and you ask them why, they say they're fine, but then they still act pissy. It's like we're supposed to be mind readers."

Alice half-turns in her seat. "Well, sometimes when we do tell you what's wrong, you tell us we're being bitchy. Or unreasonable. Or something. It's like, sometimes even if we're being irrational, we still want you to be sensitive to how we're feeling, even if why we're feeling it doesn't make sense to you."

It strikes me that Alice Brandon might one day make a really good psychiatrist. It also strikes me that we're migrating away from the point of the lesson, but that the discussion that's taking place might have just as much merit. The fact that Edward doesn't redirect the conversation makes me think he agrees with me. "Those are both excellent points, guys. And can you tell me what the key is in resolving both of those issues?"

"Communication?" Ben guesses, and Edward grins.

"Aaaaaand we come full circle." The class chuckles. "Okay. Anything else?"

"We're not, like, expected to say no," Rosalie says. "Ever. If we say no, we're being bitchy. And not just to the sex stuff, but, like, to anything. We're supposed to be agreeable, and we're not supposed to stand up for ourselves."

"And we're supposed to be gentlemen, but if we imply that you can't do something yourself, we're chauvinistic," Emmett replies. "It's like…make up your minds. Do you want us to open your car doors for you, or not?"

At this one, I recall Edward's odd look the night before, when I reached across the driver's seat to open his car door from the inside. I never did figure out what that look meant, and I make a mental note to ask him about it later.

"We want you to acknowledge that we're perfectly capable, but to prove that you're willing to treat us like ladies anyway," Tori pipes up. "It's about you wanting to do it, not about us not being able to do it ourselves."

As Edward and I fade into the background, the thought hits me that teenagers aren't nearly as oblivious as we tend to think they are. I'm also sort of stunned to realize how many issues that crop up in adult relationships start when we're sixteen years old. Who knew?

"Shut up!" Jessica virtually squeals, nearly spitting margarita all over me. Thankfully, she swallows before continuing. "Oh my God, you're going to boink Sex-on-Legs!"

Angela wrinkles her nose. "Jess, I don't think molders of young minds should use words like 'boink'."

"Hump, bang, screw," Jessica huffs, waving a dismissive hand. "Whatever. Point is, I want details."

"Um. No."

"No to the boinking, or no to the details?"

"The details," I reply without thinking, and Jessica and Jasper smirk while Angela gives me a surprised look. "I mean…shit." I shake my head as I lift my own margarita from the table and chew on the neon pink straw. "We're not…boinking."

"Yet," Jessica says smugly, and I roll my eyes.

"We're…dating. We're taking it slow."

"Why?" Jess asks, genuinely baffled. "If I could get Coach McFuckable into my house, I wouldn't let him leave until his legs were wobbly."

"Is that what happens when you get together with Mark?" I redirect, and Jess has the gall to look sheepish. "Ah, see? You can give me shit about Edward, but you don't want to talk about your little…friend."

She shrugs. "There's not much to tell. He's as dumb as a rock, but he's got a dick like a kielbasa."

"Jessica!" Angela very nearly shrieks, and Jess shrugs, though she thankfully tones it down. Jasper, for his part, simply looks amused. Someday I'm going to ask him if penis size is as oft talked about in the gay community as it is in the horny female one.

"Sorry. It's true, though."

"Still," I say. "Probably not something we'd call absolutely necessary information."

"Hm. Noted."

"Is Edward…less uptight when you guys are alone?" Angela asks me, likely remembering Jasper's characterization from before we'd ever hung out with him, and I nod.

"I'll bet," Jess murmurs, and I shoot her a look.

"I get the impression he was raised in a very…disciplined home. I mean, he went to an all-boys' boarding school, and then he went Ivy League. And then he came here and realized almost immediately that people have a tendency to gossip, so he made a conscious effort to avoid getting to know people until he felt more comfortable."

"I'm sure you can think of ways to get him to…relax," Jessica says, waggling her eyebrows as if her words weren't suggestive enough to convey the message, and I roll my eyes.

"Boarding school," Jasper says thoughtfully, and a wicked grin slides over his face. "Too bad my parents weren't of the same mind-set at Edward's. That could have saved me a lot of time and effort. And soul-searching."

"It doesn't sound like it was nearly as debauched as you're probably hoping it was," I say, and Jasper frowns.

"Way to ruin a guy's fantasy, darlin'."

"Ew, Jasper, he started going there as a sixth-grader."

His frown deepens. "Great. Thanks for that."

I shrug. "Sorry." He looks genuinely disturbed, so I sigh and deign to put him out of his misery. "Refocus your imaginings on him as a Princeton soccer player. Aren't locker room shower fantasies high on your list of favorites?"

"That's my girl," he says, salacious grin making a reappearance.

"They're high on mine," Jessica interjects, and I laugh into my drink. A part of me is sort of glad Edward had an away game tonight; I needed to gossip with my girls – a designation that Jasper, bless him, doesn't mind in the slightest, despite his decidedly unfeminine persona as a gay professional. "And," Jess continues, "thanks to Bella, I'm anticipating having some salacious details to fortify those fantasies in the near future."

"Jess," I say on a sigh, even as I'm impressed that despite the thirty-two or so ounces of margarita she's sucked down in forty minutes, she was able to get the words "salacious" and "fortify" out without a hitch.

"Okay, okay, sorry, I'm done. Promise." Jessica offers me a genuine smile devoid of her usual suggestiveness. "Seriously though, you guys would make a really cute couple. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, Jess. Really."

Her earnestness, however, is short-lived. "But I really will be wanting details."

"Buy me enough margaritas and you might just get them."

The way she grins, you'd think I just guaranteed her that she'll win the Powerball. At the thought, I snort into my margarita. Powerball. Evidently, it doesn't take me nearly as many margaritas to make me a pervert as it does to make me loose-lipped. "And you?" I ask Jasper, desperate to redirect the focus of the gossip now that I've gotten it out of my system. "How'd your date go?"

He shrugs. "Okay. He was cute, though not nearly as cute as some people's recent first dates."

"And?" Angela presses, taking a generous sip of her drink.

He shrugs. "I don't know. He's a lawyer."

"Which you knew going in."

"Yes. But what I didn't know going in was that he's a lawyer who's also a triathlete. And while soccer players may have phenomenal bodies, they have nothing on the bodies of IronMen." He smirks. "Pun absolutely intended."

"I'm willing to bet there was at least one part of Mr. Cullen that was pretty iron-like while he was sucking face with the resident bookworm over here," Angela interjects, and almost the moment the words are out of her mouth, her eyes widen.

Jessica, for her part, squeals with glee. "Oh, Ang! It's taken me years, but it's finally happened: I've turned you into an unapologetic girlperv! I'm so proud!" She leans into Angela and pulls her into a one-armed side-hug. "Welcome to the club," she breathes with her eyes closed in an approximation of bliss, and she's so earnest I laugh into my drink, completely ignoring Angela's pervtastic comment.

"I may be drunk," Ang says, considering her nearly-empty margarita trough, and I laugh again.

"You guys should make t-shirts or something," I suggest.

"Done and done," Jessica says with a dramatic sigh.

"Date two?" I ask Jasper, and he shrugs.

"Why not? Now that we can confirm that Mr. Sex-on-Legs is undeniably straight, I might as well. Gay math teacher's gotta eat, right?"

I quirk an expectant eyebrow at Jessica, who snorts. "Yeah, no. That one's too easy, even for me."

The waitress appears, asking if we want to order entrees or if we're sticking with apps and drinks; we all look at each other in consideration. It's almost 9:20, and eating Mexican food that late is asking for trouble. I shrug. "I'm probably good with just the apps if you guys are." Everyone makes murmurs of agreement until Jessica points to her empty margarita glass.

"I wouldn't say no to another round, though, if you guys are in."

Angela, usually our one-and-done girl, shrugs. "Why not? It's Friday."

We always meet on Friday, but I don't voice this very valid point; instead, I silently do math in my head: if it takes an hour and a half to get to Hoquiam and the game was at six, Edward should have gotten back to Forks by about nine. If he went home to shower and decided to come out, he might show up in the near future. If he doesn't, I wouldn't mind going home with a buzz. Even if he does, I still wouldn't mind it. "I'm in."

The waitress nods and disappears; just as she's returning with a tray of frozen concoctions and a beer for Jasper, the man of my musings appears in the doorway to the restaurant. Before I can spare a thought to the fact that my spotting him immediately means I may have been staring at the door in anticipation, I throw my hand in the air to catch his attention. "Edward!"

His eyes find me and he grins, and I feel a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the tequila. His smiles are so easy, and I think I might find them every bit as appealing as his tendency to go red in the face. He weaves his way around the few tables between our booth and the door before he appears beside our table.

"Hi," he says, still smiling, and I can't stop myself from grinning back. "Hey, everyone," he says, eyes scanning over the rest of the table, and I nudge Jasper with my shoulder.

"Scoot." He grumbles good-naturedly as he all but plasters himself against the wall, and I scoot over to make room for Edward on the bench seat that is, admittedly, designed for the comfort of two. He glances at Jasper's hunched shoulders.

"I can, uh, drag up a chair," he offers, but I shake my head.

"We're good. Sit."

He nods and lowers himself, and once he's in the booth, I can feel the length of his thigh pressed to mine, and I lean ever so slightly into him. I was right: he smells like shower-Edward. As the words trip through my brain, I'm treated to an entirely different visual of the man beside me naked and covered in suds, and I feel someone kick my ankle gently. When I look up, Jessica's shooting me a knowing smirk from around her straw. "Slut," she mouths, as Jasper leans around me to spy Edward.

"You guys win?"

"Yep," Edward replies. "3-1."

"Nice," Jasper says with a nod. "Congrats."

"Thanks."

I press my thigh into his slightly, and he glances down at me, a small smile playing on his lips. The waitress appears with his beer, and he curls one hand around it while the other slips beneath the table and settles innocently enough on my kneecap. Though his hand doesn't move, his fingers don't trace patterns on my denim-covered leg, he doesn't do anything more than simply cup my knee, heat tears through me. I listen with only one ear as he fields Jasper's questions about the game, and I glance across the table to where Jess and Angela are both studying me with knowing smiles. I sip my margarita and enjoy Edward's warmth at my side and the easy conversation with my friends. Maybe living in Forks isn't so bad, after all.

"That was fun," he says, engine idling in my driveway. The fact that Edward's arrival saved me from having to call a cab or walk home in the misting rain is yet another reason I'm so glad that he came out tonight.

"Yeah, it was," I reply, hands twisting the strap of my purse. My eyes flick to my front door and back to Edward's face. He licks his lips and my stomach flips.

"I'm, uh, going to walk you to your door, but…" He trails off, his eyes dropping to my mouth. "I want to kiss you again, and I don't really want to do it on your porch."

"Okay," I say, wondering absently what it is about Edward that brings out the seventeen-year-old in me.

"Okay," he says, but makes no move, and I bite my lip. "But I also don't want to kiss you if it would be…taking advantage."

"Okay," I say again, angling myself slightly toward him, and he smirks.

"You know, the body can metabolize one shot of liquor an hour. Something tells me those margaritas have more than a shot of tequila in them, and that your tiny frame is probably feeling pretty good from the effects of two of them right now."

"It is," I agree. "But not so good that you need to worry about taking advantage."

"Are you sure?" he asks, even as he turns his body toward me in a mirror image of my own posture.

"I'm sure," I reply, thankful when he doesn't argue any further.

His lips are on mine and one hand finds its way to my hair, and it's a thoroughly enjoyable replay of our previous kiss until I feel the soft tip of his tongue flick against my lower lip. I open my mouth and he takes my hint, slipping his tongue in and brushing it against mine. I whimper into the kiss, my own hand finding the back of his head as I slide my tongue against his, tasting him and his beer and the peppermint gum he slipped into his mouth as we left the restaurant. He groans as we make out in the front seat of his car, and I curse the gearshift between us as his tongue makes me a wanton pile of tequila-soaked hornball.

When he breaks the kiss, he presses his forehead to mine while we pant in unison in the darkness of his car. "You're really good at first base," I tell him, and he chuckles breathlessly.

"Ditto," he murmurs.

"I should go inside," I say, licking him from my lips. "Otherwise second base might happen in the front seat of your car."

He groans again, and I hear him swallow. "You're going to drive me crazy."

"Soon enough," I tell him as I unfasten my seat belt, his sharp eyes tracking my movements. "Stay put," I add. "I'm good."

He gives me a small nod. "Soon enough you'll drive me crazy, or soon enough we'll get to second base?" He's teasing, the smile as evident in his voice as it is on his face, and I grin as I reach for the door handle.

"Both," I say, pushing it open and throwing the car into harsh illumination. I glace back at him once more and his cheeks are flushed as always, but judging by the look in his eyes, it's got less to do with embarrassment this time. "Good night, Edward."

He smiles softly. "Good night, Bella."

"Running again?" he asks from around his whistle on Saturday morning, and I shrug as I watch his players do jumping jacks.

"I'm pretending to run. But I agreed to that second margarita last night, and if I get too ambitious the morning after, my head will be pounding louder than my feet on the concrete. I'd gratuitously call what I'm doing speed-walking." I don't tell him that I agreed to a second margarita to prolong the evening in hopes that he'd show up, and the fact that it paid off – in more ways than one – makes this morning's twinge of a hangover more than worth it.

He licks his lips. "Do you write?"

The non sequitur throws me. "I'm sorry?"

"That was very poetic. The parallel between your pounding head and pounding feet. I'm just wondering if you're a teacher who actually moonlights as the next Great American Novelist."

"Oh." I'm glad I'm flushed already, because that would do it. "No. I don't. Those who can't do, and all."

"Hm." He considers me for a moment longer before wrapping his lips around the tip of the whistle and giving it a quick blast before spitting it out to dangle against his chest. Now that I'm intimately acquainted with those lips and tongue, and well aware of what they can do, I'm jealous of a tiny piece of black plastic. "Cool down!" he calls to the team and hitches his head toward the mesh bag and the loose soccer balls scattered nearby.

"C'mon. Help me with the ball bag." His eyebrows leap, his cheeks flush, and I grin, pleased beyond belief that I can actually have fun with his unintentional innuendos now.

"Gladly."

He licks his lips again and stares at me for a beat before walking toward the equipment. "So. Can I buy you breakfast this time?"

"Depends. Are you going to have a chick-meal, or a manly meal? Because my delicate female ego doesn't need to watch you eating like a bird while I have maple syrup dripping down my chin."

"Now there's a visual," he says just barely loud enough for me to hear, and I smirk as I hold the mesh bag open.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Coach," I tease as he flicks a ball up with his toe and volleys it toward me. I hold the bag open beneath it and it falls in. "Nice shot."

"Here we go," he says, flicking a second ball up; this one falls in as well.

"Two for two," I say as he steps toward a third ball.

"Yeah, Coach!" one of the boys yells from the sideline where they're all scattered and stretching. Edward smiles as he flicks another ball up and into the bag.

"Three," I say, and he flicks and volleys again.

"Four." And again.

"Five." Three more.

"Six. Seven Eight."

The last ball is a few steps away. As Edward moves toward it, I lower my voice so that he's the only one who can hear me. "Nail this and it's second base tonight," I murmur as he flicks it up, and at my words, he misjudges the volley and it hits the side of the ball bag and drops back to the grass. I smirk at him. "Aw. Too bad."

"Bella Swan, you fight dirty," he mutters, but he's smiling.

I grin. "You have no idea."

"French toast?" Cora asks, and I nod and look expectantly at Edward.

"Two," he says with a small smile at me, and she nods and disappears.

"So, I blew my shot at second base, huh?" he asks, sliding his mug of coffee closer to him and wrapping his hand around it.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance as I sip my ice water. "I don't know. You can probably redeem yourself."

"Hm," he says by way of a reply, sipping his coffee as his eyes stay focused on my face. "You should know that I'm very goal-oriented," he says, lowering his mug back to the table and licking his lips.

"I'm thrilled to hear that," I tell him, and despite his bravado, his cheeks darken slightly. The seeming contradictions of confident coach Edward and blushing boyfriend Edward are spinning in my brain, and I am powerless to tamp down on my curiosity any longer. "So," I say, trying to determine an appropriate place from which to take a shameless swan dive into his personal life. "We're…dating," I begin, surprised suddenly by how nervous I am. Edward must be rubbing off on me. Ha.

"We are," he says, though his eyes flick between my face and the tabletop. "I mean, if that's okay with you. If you're…interested in that."

"I am," I confirm, and he smiles slightly.

"Okay."

"And you're on board with the whole…taking it slow thing."

His short chuckle sounds almost self-deprecating. "Bella, slow is the only speed I've ever taken it."

I turn this over in my mind for a few moments before realizing I have no idea what, exactly, that means. "Me too," I offer finally, because it's true. "I wasn't kidding when I said I didn't do anything in high school." I chew my lip as I consider just how forthcoming I want to be, then decide to go all in. "I mean, I know we were sort of kidding the other night, but this really does feel like the first time all over again, in a sense."

"It does," he agrees. "Maybe it's a side effect of where we spend every day, but I can't deny that you make me feel like I'm a teenager." To hear that I'm affecting him the same way he's affecting me makes me feel validated more than I could have anticipated. I continue to gnaw on my lips, and he notices. "What?" he asks gently, and I shake my head. He smiles slightly, though a concerned frown pulls his brows together slightly. "Bella, what is it?"

"Nothing, I just…when I said 'do-over,' I didn't really think about how true that was. I…most of my firsts were really anticlimactic." This revelation is more candid than I meant to be, but his face softens, and the tender way he's looking at me makes something entirely different quell up in me. I've found him attractive, sexy, intriguing since the beginning; this is the first time I'm seeing something different in those blue-green eyes that has next to nothing to do with the fact that I wouldn't mind seeing him sans pants.

"Well, I think it's time we rectify that, then," he says.

"Yeah?"

He swallows. "My firsts were…well, not exactly anticlimactic, but…" He seems to be struggling for the word, so I wait. "Regimented," he settles on finally, and I have no idea what the hell that means, but I opt to let him guide the conversation for the time being. "And…there weren't many of them. I mean…" He pauses to take a sip of his coffee; when he returns the mug to the table, he rolls his shoulders. "There weren't many firsts, I guess. I mentioned my long-term girlfriend who was my 'first-first'. And she was actually…my only." He seems embarrassed by this admission, and I'm stunned. I'm also wondering how recent this break-up was. As if he's read my mind, he hastens to clarify. "I mean, we broke up a while ago. Almost a year ago, actually. But like I said, I didn't want to get involved in any small-town gossip, so…" He trails off, seeming flustered, so I finally step in.

"Okay. So. Then we're on the same page," I say, and he looks relieved. "I mean, it won't be the same because…well, y'know. It's not like things will be real firsts, but…"

"Well, some things might be," he says, and his cheeks are aflame as he is suddenly steadfastly refusing to look at me.

"Explicate, please."

"I'm just saying. You know. Maybe there are some things…" He trails off awkwardly, and I'm considering getting him a cold compress for his cheeks when the implication of his words hits me with its full weight.

"Oh! Okay, yeah, that's…definitely not on the table," I say, shuddering at the thought. There are some things that are kinky and fun and others that just…no.

"Okay," he says quickly, his face aflame. "Sorry. Sure. I understand."

"Is that…" I trail off; now that the immediate and knee-jerk reaction has passed, I'm sort of stunned. That Edward – salad-only, blushes-at-the-drop-of-a-hat Edward – would be curious about anal sex strikes me as way out of left field. "Is that really something you'd want to…do? I mean…at some point? Not like…now. Or soon. Or maybe…at all. But…" I trail off again. There's no tactful way to say some things, and "You seriously want to stick your dick in my ass?" is a prime example. Added to which, saying it to Edward might tip the ever-precariously balanced scales between an uncomfortable blush and a full-fledged cardiac episode.

He shrugs, and he won't meet my eye. "I just…it was something all the guys I went to school with talked about all the time, but it was something Emily – that was my girlfriend, sorry – never wanted to do. I'm sorry." He's beyond flustered now, shredding his napkin into confetti, and the table is trembling where his knee is bouncing incessantly beneath it.

I frown. "Wow. I never would have pegged boarding school boys as the anal sex types," I say, and before I can make a crack about my inadvertent use of the word "pegged," his eyes fly to mine.

"What?!" he all but yelps, and suddenly I'm wearing my ice water. "Shit," he hisses. "Holy shit. Oh, God." He's yanking napkins from the dispenser and thrusting them at me as I shiver and attempt to blot as much water as possible before it can seep through the thin cotton of my leggings. "I'm so sorry. Jesus." Thankfully, the trajectory of most of the water hit the floor to my left, and as a result my outer left leg is drenched, but at least I don't look like I peed myself.

"It's okay," I say, still blotting my pants.

"I, uh, really wasn't talking about…" He hesitates, his face on fire. "That. I don't want…that. Jesus."

"Then what…" I frown as I attempt to reroute, then frown even deeper as suspicion creeps in. It's not possible. "Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you implying you've never had a blow job?"

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but his blush deepens. Jesus, his girlfriend must have been a real prude; they moved across the country together, for crying out loud. "Yes," he admits, wiping the small pool of water off the table as he avoids my eye.

"How is that possible?"

"She…didn't want to," he says haltingly. "I don't know. We dated for two years before we ever had sex, and then we just…did that. She didn't really want…other stuff. She was very…conservative." His lips twist slightly, as if his word choice is an epic understatement, but I don't press because I'm pretty sure he's about two embarrassing words away from an honest-to-God anxiety attack.

"Okay," I say, feeling beyond guilty for where my mind went. Sometimes I'm a real pervert. "Well." I reach across the table and lace my fingers with his. "That is definitely on the table."

When he looks at me again, his eyes are nearly as fiery as his cheeks, and I suspect we're going to need to round those bases a little faster than I originally thought.

A/N: Thanks for reading. Next time:

"Okay. We need to redirect this back to lesson planning before I really do strain something."