The Practicum

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

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

Acknowledgement: Eternal gratitude to HollettLA, who takes care of my wine allotment while I drink her coffee allocation. Basically, she's the yin to my yang. (Also, I "fixed" this a little bit after she worked her magic, so the mistakes are mine.)

Chapter Seven

Here's the thing about faculty meetings: they have a tendency to turn into alarmingly similar representations of classrooms, with teachers as the unruly students and the principal and vice principal as the ones attempting to placate the masses. As I step into the library Monday afternoon, I sigh; I just know that today's meeting is going to delve into a bitch-fest of epic proportions about the lack of adequate parking in the teachers' lot, as it has during the past two meetings. Not particularly caring about that issue – at least, not enough to get worked up about it – I resign myself to the fact that I'll probably spend the majority of the meeting fighting the desire to roll my eyes. I sort of forget until I cross the threshold that this is my first faculty meeting since really getting to know Edward, and when I spy him sitting toward the back with empty seats on either side of him, I smile. He spots me and returns the sentiment, gesturing toward the chair beside him.

"You're not going to believe what's showing at the movie house this week," he says in lieu of a more traditional greeting as I slide into the vacant seat to his left.

"What?" I ask, noting the fact that Shelly Cope is watching us with a gleeful half-smile from across the room, where she's poised to take the so-called minutes of the weekly faculty meeting. I've long suspected that she doodles in the margins instead, as I can't imagine anyone ever actually requesting to review said "minutes."

"Gone with the Wind," he muses, and I laugh as I pull out a small notepad and a pen.

"No way."

"Way."

"Bummer," I say, flipping to a blank page. "Angela's not a huge fan either."

"Huge fan of what?" the woman in question asks as she takes the seat beside me.

"Gone with the Wind," I reply. "It's showing this week."

She makes a face. "Yeah. Once was enough for me with that one."

Edward's knee is bouncing and his fingers are drumming on his thigh. "I, uh, have another idea, though," he says. "Have you ever been to the Port Orchard Drive-In?"

"I have not," I say, glancing at Angela who is trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"Would you like to?" He glances across me at Angela, who is watching with her poorly-hidden smile and absolutely no shame. "I mean, I realize that the classic movies are you ladies' thing, and I don't want to intrude, but I was wondering if Angela might let me steal you this week, since neither of you is particularly fond of Gone with the Wind. The drive-in is showing Casablanca on Wednesday night."

"She wouldn't mind at all," Angela pipes up before I have a chance to respond, and I bite my lip against a smile. One of the things I love most about my friends is how low-maintenance they are.

I nod to Edward, but before I can give him a verbal yes, the principal calls the meeting to order and prefaces it with a review of upcoming deadlines and the standardized test schedule. "Is there anything from the floor before we get to the first agenda item?" he asks, and I'm somewhat surprised when Edward raises his hand.

"Um, actually, I have a request," he says, rising from his seat. "It's come to my attention that in past years, there has been a decline in student-athletes' grades during the spring semester, particularly among the seniors." There are a few murmurs of acknowledgement from the teachers, and he nods. "Okay. Well, I'd like to be proactive and avoid that before it starts this year. If you would all be agreeable, I'd like to start a mandatory student-athlete study hall one day a week in lieu of practice. After school, the players will head to the library instead of the locker rooms to do homework or study; I've talked with Coach Miller, and she's on board to have the girls' team do the same. The only thing I need, besides your approval, Principal Taylor, is the agreement of the teachers." Edward looks around the room at our fellow educators. "I'd like the student-athletes to be able to request special help in subjects in which they're struggling, and for teachers to volunteer to be on-hand after school to help. We're contractually obligated to be here for after-school planning anyway, so I'm not asking anyone to put in more hours; I just think that the kids might be more proactive about asking for help if they're required to be here after school, regardless."

My mind flits to Coach Clapp, who, instead of aiming to make his kids study harder or be more diligent about turning in assignments, would simply knock on teachers' doors and attempt to guilt or bully them into bumping kids' grades up a few points. As I glance around the room, I can see varying degrees of respect on the teachers' faces; I'm sure that many of them, like me, are remembering Edward's predecessor and his decidedly old-school approach to education. A swell of pride rises up in me as I look back up at Edward, and the teachers around us make assorted noises of agreement. "Thanks," he says easily, gifting them with a smile. "I appreciate the support." I look around again, and it's hard to miss the furtive glances that some of my fellow female educators are tossing Edward's way. Respect combined with something else entirely – something else with which I'm entirely familiar.

I feel my lips twitch as I fight back a smile and gently nudge his shoulder with mine. "Nice job," I whisper as Principal Taylor starts reminding us about the importance of locking the doors to our classrooms when we aren't in them.

Edward beams down at me and nudges me back. "Thanks."

I turn my focus to the front, still hyperaware of the man next to me.

Good-looking as all get out? Check.

Sweet, smart, and funny? Checkity-check-check.

Ethical, motivated, and a genuinely great teacher? Mother-fricking-checkmate.

"You'll be thrilled to hear that I have a turkey sandwich for lunch today," Edward says when I appear at the threshold of his office door on Tuesday for our weekly planning session.

"Hm," I reply, tapping my lip with a finger in consideration. "Does it have mayonnaise on it?"

"Mustard," he replies, an amused half-smile on his lips.

I nod. "I'll consider that progress."

"Terrific," he muses, and I laugh as I find my way to his couch.

"Week three," I say as I attempt to make myself comfortable. A skirt was a bad idea for a day in which I'm sitting in something with the general support of a beanbag chair, but the way Edward glances quickly at my legs before refocusing on his plan book makes it more than worth it.

"Reproductive health and sexually transmitted diseases," he recites as he looks at his book.

"Right," I agree. "The lesson in which the visual aids can singlehandedly turn them off sex for at least a week."

Edward snorts. "Just a week?"

"They're teenagers," I remind him, and he nods.

"Right. Of course. Bunnies in springtime, and all that."

"Exactly."

"Still, nothing like a good photo of raging genital warts to kill the mood."

I laugh as I flip to the appropriate page in the teacher's text and shudder when the photo to which Edward's referring is staring back up at me. "Truer words were never spoken," I agree. Even having helped teach this curriculum for a good few years now, and even as a supposedly mature adult, the photos still make me cringe. "So again, I think it's important to start by pointing out that it's not just vaginal sex that can lead to—" I pause to gesture at the photos in my lap "—this."

Edward nods. "Absolutely."

"We should remind them that you can get sexually transmitted infections from oral sex, and that using protection during that is just as important as using it during intercourse."

Edward's still nodding, the now-familiar tinge of pink sitting high on his cheeks. My mind dances momentarily to his confession over breakfast, and it's a crying shame that this man has never had a blow job. There's an exceptionally whorish part of my brain that momentarily envisions sinking to my knees beneath the desk in his office and rectifying that tragic oversight. It's the same part of my brain that sandwiches erotic fiction between rereads of Harper Lee and Mark Twain, the lusty part that finds bondage fascinating in theory, but wildly intimidating in hypothetical practice. The part that entertains the notion, but would never have the theoretical balls to actually do it – after all, there are few things that will get a teacher fired faster than engaging in sex acts on school property during school hours. I may be horny, but I'm not completely devoid of sense.

"Yeah," he says finally. "And since we're covering pregnancy and contraception next week, maybe we limit this discussion to birth control methods that do prevent STDs and leave ones like the pill for next time."

I nod. "Perfect. So…basically, we'll do the male condom demo and talk about things like dental dams and female condoms."

He mirrors my nod and hesitates for a beat before speaking again. "Okay, another confession: I've never even seen a dental dam or a female condom."

I shrug. "Me either. Outside of the literature for this particular curriculum."

"Do they even have those at pharmacies?" he wonders aloud.

"My guess would be no, but the Clallam County Planned Parenthood clinic is probably a pretty good bet." He nods, and I can't resist the temptation. "You're well-equipped to handle the male condom part of the demonstration, though, I assume." I'm only half-teasing him; in reality, I'm trying to make him blush. Now that I'm not worried about completely alienating him, I can freely admit that I'm sort of getting my rocks off on watching him squirm.

"Very well-equipped," he says, and while the tips of his ears are pink, he's meeting my eye. Before I can stop myself, my eyes drop to his lap before immediately moving to the side, but he doesn't miss it. "Oh, you are so busted."

"Excuse me?" I say, aiming for indignation, though I suspect the flushing of my own face undermines my mock offense considerably. "Busted for what?"

"You know very well what," he murmurs, and I force myself to meet his gaze.

"Now who's fighting dirty?"

He smirks. "I'm learning."

"I'll say."

His smirk widens to a grin and he redirects his focus to the lesson planning. "The, uh, models for the condom demo…are there enough for everyone to have his or her own?"

I nod. "Yeah. One good call Coach Clapp made when he was ordering that stuff: he didn't think it was appropriate to expect them to work in pairs on that particular project."

Edward nods. "Excellent call." He frowns slightly. "Where are they, anyway?"

I match his frown. "You know, I have no idea. I'd assumed they were in his office somewhere." I cast about the small space, which has been growing steadily more organized with each passing day, but I see nothing that looks like a box of phalluses.

"They might be in one of the boxes at the top of the closet," he says more to himself than to me and rises from his chair to open the narrow door in the rear corner of his office. From what I can glimpse around him, the closet is crammed with a filing cabinet with a mini fridge atop it and a collection of boxes teetering on the top shelf. "Any of these look particularly promising?" He asks over his shoulder, and I rise to stand beside him. As I gaze up at the boxes, I recognize the brand name on the side of a smaller one near the top of the stack.

"That one, I think," I say as I point. "Pretty sure that's the company." He nods and drags his desk chair over; once he's retrieved the box and dumped it on the floor, we each return to our seats and he opens the flaps to pull out one of the model "penises."

"Whoa," he says as he considers it, and I pretend not to notice the way his long fingers wrap around it.

"Whoa, what?" I ask.

"Very…" He trails off, apparently searching for the right word; finally, he settles on "clinical."

I nod. "I think they were going for anatomically correct without being sexually explicit."

"Hmm."

"Personally, I think they missed the mark."

"How so?" he asks, still studying the white plastic phallus.

"It looks like a dildo." The moment the word is past my lips, he drops the faux-pecker and pushes himself ever-so-slightly back from the box. I arch a teasing brow as he glances up at me before frowning back down at the box. "Sorry. Reflex."

"Uh-huh."

"That hadn't actually occurred to me."

"Clearly."

"Do they actually look like…?" He pauses to wave a hand in the direction of the box. "That?"

I shrug. "Some do." He seems to be considering this, but his frown appears to be deepening in degrees. "Edward?"

"Yeah."

"You look like you're about to strain something."

He shakes his head. "No, no. I just, uh…" He cups the back of his neck.

"What?" I ask when it becomes clear he's not going to volunteer anything more.

Another head shake; this time, he closes his eyes as his face flames. "Now I have a, uh, mental image of you. With one."

And my cheeks match his. "Oh. Whoops."

"Yeah." He opens his eyes and offers me a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

I shrug. "It's okay. That's, uh, allowed. You know, since we're…" I trail off and he swallows.

"Probably not ideal to imagine it during school hours, though."

A relieved chuckle bubbles up in my throat. "No, probably not."

"You..." He cups the back of his neck. "You have one?"

I smirk. "Edward, any single woman over the age of twenty-five who says she doesn't is either a prude or a liar."

He clears his throat. "Okay. Well, that's good to know." He's back to eyeing the box, and as I lean forward slightly, he meets my eye. "Was that payback?" he asks with an impish smile.

"For what?"

"The dirty fighting."

I grin. "Unintentionally, but I think it worked out rather nicely."

He shakes his head in mock disapproval before blowing out a breath and stretching his arms out in front of him. "Okay. We need to redirect this back to lesson planning before I really do strain something."

"Okay."

"Okay. So we'll talk about the different infections, then cover the protection aspect, and then emphasize the importance of getting tested prior to engaging in any sexual contact, and certainly after having any kind of unprotected encounter."

I nod in agreement. "Sounds good." I shift slightly on the plaid sofa as he pushes the box of models to one side with his foot. "Honestly, Edward, if it weren't required by the state, you wouldn't even need me for these lessons. You're nailing them."

"Thanks," he says, leaning back in his chair and retrieving his sandwich from the lunch sack near his desk calendar. "But I don't think you realize how much you've helped. Really." His smile widens. "And getting to spend a lunch hour a week with a pretty girl is a nice bonus." I attempt to hide my smile by digging my ham and cheese sandwich from my own bag as he continues speaking. "So…when we emphasize the importance of getting tested, we should also point out that communication is once again key…that they shouldn't leave that talk until the heat of the moment."

"Good point," I say, taking a bite of my sandwich.

He nods as he unwraps his lunch, and his knee is bouncing. "So, um. I'm good."

I frown. "I'm sorry?"

He scratches his chin. "In the testing department. I'm, uh, clear. Clean." He cringes slightly, but exhales heavily when he sees comprehension dawn on my face.

"Oh! Oh." I shouldn't give him so much shit about blushing; I'm pretty sure my face is worse than his has ever been. "Right. Okay. Um, well, me too."

He nods quickly and studies his sandwich, as if debating which corner to bite first. "Okay. Cool."

"Okay," I say again, and take another bite of my food.

"Sorry," he says almost instantly. "That was…wildly uncouth. I just…"

I shake my head to stall his self-censure. "No, no, it was, um, actually very relevant. I mean…considering what we talked about at breakfast." His eyes are nearly as heated as his face, and for a not-so-brief moment, I wish I were the kind of girl who would, in fact, get on my knees in his office. I consider my half of a sandwich for a moment before I shift on the crappy sofa. "And, like you said…communication is key, right? I know that being blunt isn't really your style, but just so you know…you can with me. Say whatever." I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say, except that the last thing I want to do is to make him less comfortable than he seems to be getting. "Whatever you're comfortable with," I amend and take a bite of my food.

He seems to be mulling this over for a moment before he puts his sandwich down on his desk and leans forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees. "Bella, I want to be clear about something." He scoots his chair forward slightly, and one of the wheels squeaks. I meet his eye. "I'm not at all uncomfortable with my sexuality, or sexuality in general."

I nod. "Okay."

"I'm…well, uncomfortable isn't the right word, but I guess I'd say I'm sensitive to yours."

I frown. "You lost me."

He blows out a breath and scratches his temple. "I know I implied before that my previous relationship wasn't very, uh…experimental."

There's an understatement. Thankfully, I don't voice this thought, and instead simply say, "You did."

He nods. "Well, I know I also implied that that was a result of Emily's wishes." I nod again. "I should preface this by saying that I'm a phys ed teacher, not a psychiatrist, but…Emily was sexually assaulted as a teenager. As a result, I think, of that incident, control in that aspect of her life was very important to her."

Guilt at my previous assessment of his ex-girlfriend as a frigid prude floods me, and I cringe inwardly. "Wow. Well, that's definitely understandable."

He nods. "I never wanted to…push. At all. Maybe I should have tried to get her to push herself, but…" He trails off and shrugs. "Making sure she felt safe was always of tantamount importance to me. The, uh, sex stuff – that was sort of secondary." He smiles slightly. "That's not to say I was never curious about…more. But…" He trails off again. "Anyway. I just wanted you to know. I wouldn't want my lack of assertiveness to come across as disinterest or insecurity. I'm just…I'm used to the woman setting the pace, and I guess I've deferred to that in the past."
"Oh." Not the wittiest of responses, but seriously: what else do you say to something like that? "That's…well. Very gentlemanly."

He chuckles. "You should tell me now if you have an aversion to chivalry. I'll work on toning it down."

I shake my head, relieved at his lightness. "I don't. Definitely not. It's just…new."

He nods. "As is your…openness." He smiles. "New, but definitely not unwelcome."

"Ditto."

"More firsts," he says cheekily, and I grin.

"Maybe we should start keeping a list."

When we are halfway to Port Orchard on Wednesday afternoon, it begins to rain. Big, fat raindrops splat sporadically against the windshield, and Edward's forehead creases in a concerned frown. "Do they cancel drive-in movies if it's raining?"

"I have no idea. I've never been."

"Me either," he says absently, craning his neck to peer through the windshield at the sky, which is growing darker the farther we drive.

"Hey!" I exclaim, and he turns a surprised face to me. "We're losing our drive-in virginity together!"

He grins. "Hey, nice. We can check that one off the list."

"Weather permitting, of course."

"Yeah," he says, peering at the sky again. "This might be the first time I experience the cancellation of a movie due to inclement weather."

When we arrive at the drive-in movie lot, Edward rolls down his window to greet the ticket-taker at the entrance. "Hey," he says as he angles his body to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. "You guys still open?"

The man nods. "Yeah. Movie will roll as long as there's no lightning and the rain doesn't get too heavy to see through. If it does, we'll give you a voucher to come back."

"Cool," Edward says, accepting the tickets. I sort of love the dorky way he says, "Cool." He hands me the stubs and slides his wallet back into his pocket.

"Tune your FM radio to 97.1," the guy says. "That's where you'll pick up the sound."

"Thanks," Edward says, rolling up his window as we pull through the gate and into the grassy lot fringed by towering evergreens and fronted by an enormous white screen.

Taking his cue from the obvious drive-in movie veterans lined up in improvised rows, Edward parks in reverse so that the tailgate is facing the screen. The raindrops have halted, at least for the time being, and everyone in an SUV or a pickup truck is settled into the flatbed or tailgate awaiting the start of the movie.

"This is really cool," I say, glancing around at our fellow moviegoers.

"Give me one second," Edward says before opening his door and hopping out; I hear the tailgate door open and twist to see him chucking a duffel bag, a First Aid kid, and a roadside emergency kit onto the backseat. "Okay," he says after another moment of rummaging. "Come on."

I slide out of my seat and round the car to see that he's spread a couple of striped towels out on the floor of the tailgate and has a few more rolled up as backrests against the back of the backseat. "Very cozy," I say, accepting the hand he offers to help me climb into the back of his car. Thank God I opted for jeans instead of another dress. My mind dances momentarily to our first kiss, and Edward's initial assessment of my "do-over" plan. As I situate myself, I smirk at him. "Is this all a part of your nefarious plan to dry-hump me in the back of your car?"

As expected, his cheeks flush; now, however, the flush is accompanied by a heat in his eyes that makes me pretty certain I'd let him any-kind-of-hump me in the back of any car he wanted. "I wish I were that forward-thinking," he says, climbing up into the back of his car and settling beside me.

I laugh as I make myself comfortable and reach into my purse to retrieve a bag of gummy bears and a box of Goobers. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking; I should have brought granola," I tease him, and he rolls his eyes. "Are you a chocolate type or a sugary type?" I ask, holding up both treats.

"I'm an equal opportunity kind of guy," he replies. "Though I was recently enlightened as to the health benefits of chocolate."

As I pop the perforated spout on the box of Goobers and tip a few into his hand, I swallow. "Can I be nosy?"

"Of course you can," he says easily, and I peek at him sideways before taking a pause to tip a few Goobers into my hand and set the box down. I pour the candy into my mouth and chew as I muster up the courage. As if sensing my hesitation, Edward's free hand finds mine in the space between us.

"That…thing you've never done? That we talked about at breakfast?"

Blush. "Yeah."

"I know you were never on the…receiving end." I pause to see if he clues in; thankfully, he's sharp enough to follow my rather obvious implication.

"Yeah, no." He shakes his head, his eyes trained on our joined hands. "Not on the giving end, either."

"Wow."

"Have, uh, you? Been on…both sides?"

"Yeah," I say, wondering how it is that having had oral sex with one guy in my entire life can make me feel slutty by comparison. "Just once. Well, I mean…one guy. More than one time." My face matches his.

"Okay," he says, tracing my knuckles with his thumb for a few beats before he looks up and finds my eyes. Before I can dig for any more details on his sexual history or his evidently prudish ex-girlfriend, the radio goes from doo-wop favorites to an announcement welcoming moviegoers to the drive-in, and we turn our focus to the enormous screen, which is counting down to the start of the movie. Now, in addition to feeling like I'm seventeen, I feel like I'm in the 1950s.

As Casablanca begins, far more of my brain is focused on the rhythmic pass of his thumb over mine than on the movie, and I inch myself slightly closer to him until my side is flush with his. He releases my hand and lifts his arm in invitation; as I settle into his side, he drapes his arm over the backrest of the seat and his hand comes to rest on my shoulder.

Just as Sam begins to play "As Time Goes By" onscreen, the intermittent splats of raindrops ping against the open tailgate, and I glance to the side to see the couple in the flatbed of the pickup truck next to us gazing dubiously up at the sky. The occasional drops increase slightly in frequency as we continue to watch the movie, and after about ten minutes I see the neighboring couple start to pack up their stuff. Just as they relocate to the cab of the truck and start their engine, the rain begins to fall in earnest, and while the screen is still very much visible, the air begins to feel damp, and I can see a few drops of water on the toes of Edward's sneakers, which dangle outside the car. Noticing my look, he bends his legs and pulls his sneakers off, dumping them on the backseat and rearranging himself so that he's sitting cross-legged. I stay pressed to his side, and we watch as the onscreen house band begins to play "La Marseillaise."

As the rain continues, Edward finally removes his arm from around me. "Hang on," he says, leaning forward to pull the hatch closed, then clambering over the backseat to flip a switch on the dashboard that makes the single wiper on the back window sporadically clear the gathering drops from the glass. Edward resettles beside me, and I can't deny the small thrill that shoots through me when he doesn't hesitate to return his arm to where it was, and I fit myself back into his side. It feels so…couple-y.

By the time Isla pulls a gun on Rick, the rain is coming down in sheets.

Edward laughs. "Okay, this is ridiculous. I officially can't see the screen anymore."

"Me either," I say, echoing his laugh as I squint around us. "A lot of cars are gone." As I say the words, I realize that while the pickup truck that had once been to our right left long ago, the TrailBlazer that was to our left has also departed, leaving us in a small circle of open space. I look over at Edward, who is squinting at the screen.

"Hey."

"Yeah." He turns to face me, and after a brief moment, his eyes drop to my lips. I curl a hand around the back of his neck in invitation, and he licks his lips as he twists his body toward me. While I realize that kissing Edward is still new and exciting, I can't imagine that I'd ever tire of it. And, considering what his lips are capable of doing to my mouth, I momentarily pity the woman who opted not to let him put them on other parts of her body. His tongue slides against mine, and I think chocolate and Edward might be the best combination I've ever tasted.

Suddenly his hand is on my hip, tugging at me gently, and I take his cue to scoot my body down, abandoning the backrest and reclining entirely. He follows my movements, his mouth still attached to mine as he scoots down and hovers over me. After a few more kisses, he pulls his mouth from mine and presses it to the hinge of my jaw; I can feel his humid breaths puffing against the skin of my neck. He's breathless, and I'm his. "Is this okay?" he whispers, and I want to tell him it's so much more than okay.

"Yes," is all I can get out before he's kissing me again, his hand trailing from my hip up my side and around to the nape of my neck. His mouth slants over mine, and the sounds of our kisses mingle with the low soundtrack of the movie and the dull roar of rain hitting the roof of the car. Just as I've convinced myself that I could kiss Edward for hours on end and never want for anything more, I feel his hand leave my neck and trail back down to my hip for a beat before sliding up my back again. When it slides back to my waist, I reach down and claim it, holding it for a beat before guiding it up to my right breast.

He groans into my mouth as his fingers clutch at me through my blouse, his thumb tracing where my nipple is very nearly evident even through the minimal padding of my bra. I suddenly wish I were the type of woman who wears skimpy-thin undergarments so that I could feel more of his touch. "Bella," he murmurs as he pulls his mouth away, dropping his lips to my throat. "I was right," he mumbles into my skin. "You are driving me crazy."

"Ditto," I tell him, angling my head to give him better access to my neck. "So crazy."

His lips move from my neck to the small "v" of skin above the top button of my blouse, and I'm so focused on his lips that I nearly miss his warm fingers slipping beneath the hem of my shirt and sliding up the skin of my stomach. He reaches the underwire of my bra and hesitates. "Can I…" he mumbles against my sternum, and I nod as I gaze at the gray ceiling of his car.

"Yes," I pant, and when his fingers slide beneath the cup of my bra, I'm incapable of stopping my body from arching up against him. His thumb grazes across my nipple and he moans as he slides his nose and mouth up the side of my neck. Just as he gently pinches and rolls my peaked flesh, his hand disappears, sliding around my body and following the strap of my bra to the middle of my back.

"It's in the front," I say in permission, and his fingers trace the strap back to the front as his mouth covers mine again. To my delight, he doesn't fumble; I feel the tension give way as the clasp between my breasts is freed. His hand is back, moving over my skin, his thumb teasing my pebbled nipple as I gasp into his mouth. Too soon, his fingers disappear, trailing down my stomach only to reappear at the bottom button of my blouse.

"Can I…" he breathes again, and I nod as his lips move back to the hollow beneath my ear. I feel electric as he methodically works his way up, slipping each tiny mother-of-pearl button from its hole. When the line of buttons is undone, he pulls back to gaze down into my face before dropping his eyes and sliding one lapel aside.

His lips are swollen and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are heated as he gazes down at me. "God," he breathes, reaching up once again to run a thumb over my nipple. "You're so perfect," he says softly, pushing the other side of my shirt open to uncover my other breast. "So perfect," he says again, licking his lips. I reach up to cup the back of his neck, but before I can drag his mouth back to mine, he lowers his head and takes my nipple into his mouth.

"Oh, God," I gasp, my eyes falling closed as his tongue toys with me, and just as I'm reaching for the hem of his shirt, I'm yanked from my aroused stupor by the sound of knuckles rapping on the window. My eyes fly open, and through the rivulets of rain sliding down the tinted glass, I can just make out a figure standing beneath a black umbrella.

"Shit," Edward gasps, yanking both sides of my shirt closed over my chest, and a surge of affection joins the steady rush of arousal that is still coursing through me. He lifts himself up and follows my gaze out the window to where the rather indistinct figure makes a "move along" gesture with his or her hand before wandering off. As I gaze around, I realize that ours is the only car left in the lot, that the screen has gone dark, and that the radio is no longer playing anything but static.

I re-clasp my bra as Edward chuckles, running a hand through the hair that, thanks to my hands, looks rather like a bird's nest. As I button my shirt, his fingers ghost a touch over my cheek and he leans down to place a soft, chase kiss to my mouth before pulling back with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Well, nothing will make you feel like a teenager quite like being busted hooking up in the back of a car," he says, and I laugh.

"Truth."

He glances out at the rain once more before inclining his chin toward the front seat. "Do you think you can climb back up? We'll get soaked if we have to get out."

"Yeah," I say, sitting up and scrambling back up to the passenger seat.

Edward follows, and I hear a pained grunt; when I look back, he's semi-straddling the backrest of the bench seat with an anguished look on his face as he tries to get his other leg over it. "Probably harder with long legs," I allow, and he blushes.

"Yeah, um, my legs aren't really the problem," he says, and I grin.

"Good thing you're a gherkin-jerker from way back, then, huh?"

"I was right about you," he grumbles as he wedges himself between the front seats and flops into the driver's seat. "Dirty fighter."

"I told you," I say with an impertinent shrug, delighted when he captures my hand in the space between us as we drive off the lot.

Second base: check.

A/N: Thanks for reading. Thanks also to everyone who voted for "The Practicum" in The Lemonade Stand's "Fic of the Week" poll and to Nic for recommending it. There were some truly great stories included; check them out: tehlemonadestand dot net