The Practicum
Rating: M. Because why else do we do this?
Summary: "So you didn't have a dirty thought when I said 'beef burrito'?" His cheeks match his ears, and I point an accusing finger. "I knew it."
Acknowledgement: As always, thanks to HollettLA, who shares my scars from the horrifying STD visual aids from high school health class. ::shudder::
Chapter Eight
"Morning," I say to Edward when our paths cross in the hallway as we're making our way to the health classroom on Thursday morning. I'm not sure whether it's because I caught him by surprise or not, but when he glances up at me, his eyes dart from my eyes and down to my chest before flying back to my face and – yep – he blushes.
"Morning," he replies, licking his lips as I fall into step beside him.
"I saw that," I say lowly.
"Saw what?" he asks, but his cheeks are still flushed and he's studiously avoiding my gaze.
"The eyes are up here, bud," I tease him, and before he can reply, we have reached the door to the classroom.
"Hey, Coach," Ben greets him as he slips through the door ahead of us, and just before I cross the threshold, Edward leans over my shoulder.
"The eyes are just as beautiful as the other parts," he murmurs, and true to form, my toe catches on the doorsill and I pitch forward. Before I can face-plant on the gleaming white linoleum, however, Edward's hands catch me at the waist and right me.
"Thank you," I mutter over my shoulder, and while I'm actually thanking him for saving me from a rather spectacular wipeout, the small smirk on his face tells me he's taking it as gratitude for his comment.
"You're more than welcome."
I take my regular place beside the desk and note that the large box of models is already sitting on the floor to one side. The kids file in with Emmett, Rosalie, and Alice appearing just ahead of the ringing bell.
"All right, everyone. Seats, please." The few stragglers not yet in their desks obey and sit, and Edward dumps his books on the desk before running a hand through his hair. "Ladies and gentlemen, today we're talking about reproductive health and sexually transmitted infections. I'm going to warn you up front: a part of today's class focuses on how to protect yourselves and your partners and will include a condom demonstration. Let me be clear right from the get-go: if there is anyone who can't handle this like a mature adult, or if there are any inappropriate comments or behavior, the repercussions will be coming from Principal Taylor's office, not from me. We understood?" The class makes various noises of agreement and Edward nods. "Okay then. We'll start with the gruesome stuff. Page one-oh-seven."
The kids dutifully open their texts and flip to the pages, and the expected wave of dismayed comments fills the room.
"Dude, that's disgusting."
"Ewwwww."
"What is that?"
"Gross."
Edward takes his place on the lip of the desk and holds up his hands. "Okay, okay, settle down. I know. It's not exactly the Mona Lisa. It's also not something you want to have to explain to the family doctor, so let's learn how to prevent it, okay?" I follow along as Edward lists the various sexually transmitted infections, their symptoms, and how to get treatment; the kids are relatively silent, though the looks of revulsion on their faces make me hope that they'll take the lesson to heart. Edward discusses the fact that the infections can be transmitted via all types of sexual contact, not just intercourse, and emphasizes the importance of getting tested twice after any type of sexual contact. He transitions into the birth control methods that actually prevent STDs, and once he's covered the admittedly rare female condom and dental dam, he gets to the male condom.
Bending at the waist, Edward hoists the box of model penises onto the teacher's desk and opens the flaps to retrieve a small plastic basket, which he places beside the larger cardboard box. "Guys, I'm going to reiterate this once more. Handle this like adults, please. If you can't, you're at the mercy of Principal Taylor." He pauses to cast a cautionary almost-glare around the room before nodding once. "Okay. By rows, come up and get a model from the box and a condom from the basket. Take them back to your seat and await further instructions. Do not, I repeat do not make any inappropriate gestures with these models, guys. Absolutely none." He nods to Alice, who sits in the first seat of the first row. "Alice, your row can come on up." I rise and stand beside Edward, watching the students as they take models and return to their seats; thankfully, they appear to be taking Edward's thinly-veiled threat seriously. Once each of the students has a model and a condom, Edward drops the box back down to the floor and digs a fake penis out of it before snagging a rubber from the basket on the desk.
"Okay, guys. Here we go." He stands the model on the edge of the teacher's desk and holds up the wrapped condom. "Before you open the condom, check the wrapper just to be sure there are no obvious punctures or tears. If there are, discard it and get another one. Once you're sure it's okay, very carefully tear it at the perforation point." I watch as he does so; I don't think I'd ever noticed before how pretty his fingers are. And long. And pretty and long. "Gently take the condom out and inspect it closely." Edward turns and walks around so that he's now standing behind the teacher's desk so that the kids can all see the model sitting at the front edge of the desk. "Squeeze the tip of the condom to push out any air; this will leave room for the semen after ejaculation. Gently hold the tip of the condom between your thumb and forefinger and line it up and then roll it along the shaft of the erection."
Jesus Christ. His long fingers roll the condom down the fake dick, and I'm thrilled that the kids are distracted by their newly acquired prophylactics and mock peckers, because there's no way the heat licking up and down my body isn't obvious on my face. He holds up the now-sheathed dildo-esque model and looks around the room. "Any questions?"
The class is silent, and Edward nods in approval. "Okay. Now. When the male pulls his penis out of his partner's body, it's important that he holds onto the base of the condom so that it doesn't slip off and permit any of the semen to escape."
If I weren't still so hyper-focused on the image of Edward unrolling a rubber, I'd probably think up a joke about the escape of the killer semen to tell Jessica later, but I don't have the brainpower. "Obviously, you only use a condom once; dispose of it right away and use a new condom for any subsequent sexual interactions." He glances around once more. "All right. You guys go ahead and try it."
The kids dutifully begin unwrapping their experimental condoms, and from a quick sampling, it's pretty clear which ones of them have done this before and which ones have never seen a condom up close before. I'm pleasantly surprised that the number of truly adept members of the class appears to be limited to two.
"Don't forget to pinch the tip, guys," Edward reminds them. "If there's no reservoir at the end of the condom, it's much more likely that it will break when ejaculation occurs." I watch the kids warily, awaiting an inappropriate comment or gesture, but to my surprise, none comes. "Great," Edward says when the mock-cocks are all wrapped up. "Nicely done, guys. So. If and when you become sexually active and you opt to utilize the male condom, you are all confident in your ability to do so, yes?" Various nods and murmurs of affirmation. "Terrific." He glances up at the clock and crosses the room to grab the trash can from beside the door. "I'm going to walk around and collect the condoms; once you've dropped yours in here, you can take your model back up to the box at the front of the room. I'm leaving that basket of condoms on the desk, so if anyone would like to take a couple with him or her, have at it. Otherwise, that basket will be located in the top right-hand drawer of the desk in my office if you ever need one. Also, you can get them from the nurse's office if you are so inclined, or, obviously, from any pharmacy or drug store or Planned Parenthood-type location." Once he's back at the front of the room and all of the models are back in the box, he nods. "Great job today, guys. Thank you for handling that like adults. No homework; see you all tomorrow."
As the kids file out, Edward turns to face me with a small smile on his face and props his small stack of books on his hip. "So. May I walk you to your next class?"
I bite my lip against a grin. "It's a little out of your way," I remind him, and he shrugs.
"I'm a nut for exercise."
I lose the battle with my smile. "Okay, then." We fall into step beside each other as we make our way through the hallways, conversation made all but impossible by the cacophony of slamming lockers, teenagers babbling, and the occasional holler down the hallway. Still, the simple fact of walking beside Edward is a small thrill in and of itself, and when I feel my folder start to slip from beneath my arm, I reflexively clutch it until I realize that Edward is sliding it from my grasp. I let go, and he slips it atop his own pile of books with a smile.
"Did you watch a lot of Happy Days reruns at boarding school?" I ask, though I can't stop the girlish flutter in my stomach.
"Not particularly, no."
"Hmm."
He smiles again and sidesteps a freshman wielding an enormous tuba case. We approach a locker against which one of Edward's soccer players has one of the girls' soccer players pressed, apparently trying to swallow half of her face. "Make him buy you dinner, Lauren," Edward calls, and the girl in question pulls her mouth away from her boyfriend's lips with a sheepish flush.
"Thanks, Coach," Mike grumbles, and Edward laughs as we pass.
"What a bully," I murmur, and he turns his delighted eyes on me.
"Teaching doesn't stop at the classroom door, Ms. Swan," he teases, and I roll my eyes as we reach the door to my classroom. "But I suppose it's key to lead by example."
"Example," I repeat as I draw to a halt and fold my arms across my chest.
"Example," he says again, and the hand not holding our books jingles the keys in the pocket of his slacks. "Can I buy you breakfast Saturday morning? I hear the Forks Diner does a truly terrific French toast."
"I wish," I reply. "I told my dad I'd go over tomorrow and clean a bunch of stuff out of my old room so that he can donate it to charity."
He nods. "Dinner then?" he asks, and I nod. He beams as he holds out my folder. Just as I take it from his hand, I hear Mike from over Edward's shoulder.
"Make him buy you dinner, Ms. Swan," he taunts, and I can feel the flush working its way up my neck.
Edward ignores him altogether, smiling down at me. As Mike walks away laughing, he ducks his head. "Just so you know, I find your blush entirely appealing."
"Well, just so you know…ditto."
That afternoon, when I glance out my classroom window after school, it doesn't escape my notice that Mike appears to be running solo wind sprints.
"Loving each other means taking care of each other's health," Edward says in conclusion to the second part of the birth control lesson on Friday. "Guys, if you love a girl, it's as much your responsibility not to get her pregnant as it is her responsibility not to get pregnant, and it's your responsibility to each other not to get your partner infected with anything." He looks around the room. "Got it?" The kids offer little by way of response, and Edward sighs. "I know, I know, it's Friday." He glances up at the clock on the wall. "Okay, get out of here. Soccer players, just a reminder that the bus is leaving for Rainier right after school. If you're not on it, we're leaving you behind. Spread the word." The students all but trip over each other in their haste to exit the room, and he turns to me with a smile. "I'll miss Mexican tonight," he says, and I nod.
"Mexican will miss you."
"Rainier is way too far away for me to even pretend I might make it in time."
"I'd offer to eat a boring-ass salad in your place, but I've been craving a beef burrito all week." I see him swallow and look away, and the tips of his ears are pink. "Ohhh, you went there, didn't you?"
"Went where?" he asks, but he's still not meeting my eye.
"You know where."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"So you didn't have a dirty thought when I said 'beef burrito'?" His cheeks match his ears, and I point an accusing finger. "I knew it."
He opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly Jasper appears in the doorway and glances between us before a knowing smirk crosses his face. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"
"Not at all," I tell him, my eyes still on Edward.
"Edward, can I steal you for a second? I made the mistake of planning to introduce new theorems to my freshman geometry kids on a Friday, and I need some visual aids that will preclude them from falling asleep on their desks. I figure a couple of dodge balls and cones ought to do it."
"You bet," Edward says, and I roll my eyes at his triumphant half-smile.
"Good luck tonight," I say, and he nods.
"Thanks. Have fun with the burrito." I feel my surprise on my face, but before I can determine if he's teasing me or if that was unintentional, he disappears down the hallway with Jasper.
That night, despite Jessica's best efforts, I manage to keep the details of my make-out session and boob-grope to myself, and am able to limit my margarita intake to one, which means that I'm also able to make it to Charlie's before ten o'clock Saturday morning.
"I come bearing donuts," I say as I step inside his front door, and his moustache twitches as he considers me.
"I hope that's not a not-so-subtle dig at your cop dad, Bells."
"Would I dare?" I ask, depositing the paper sack on the counter.
"Long as there's coffee as well, I'll let it slide."
"Give me some credit, pops," I reply, holding up the cardboard tray with the two enormous cups.
"Atta girl." Despite his pretend protest, he digs a donut out of the bag and steps back to lean against the doorframe of the kitchen. "Bells, you really don't have to do this. That room is fine the way it is."
I roll my eyes as I shrug out of my jacket. "Dad. You could use that room; there's no point in having all of my old junk clogging it up." He shifts his weight slightly as he inspects his food. He doesn't take a bite, and I pause in draping my coat over the back of a kitchen chair. "Dad?"
The moustache twitches again as he takes a sip of his coffee. "I just…in case you ever needed somewhere to go." He's not meeting my eye, and his truncated sentence is only confusing for a minute before a familiar affection wells up in me.
"Aw, Dad."
He shifts his weight again, and I can see that even the implication of me getting emotional is enough to make him uneasy. "It's still your room, Bella. Even if it's not your room."
"Dad." Disregarding his discomfort, I cross the kitchen that has seemed to grow smaller with each passing year and wrap my arms around his neck for a quick hug before pulling back and retrieving my own coffee. "I'll just get rid of a bunch of old crap I don't need – clothes and notebooks and stuff – and we'll make it less a shrine to sixteen-year-old Bella and more of a neutral guest room, okay?"
He seems to accept this idea and nods. "Okay," he agrees gruffly.
"Okay," I repeat and snag a donut. "I got you a paper, too; last night's write-up is in there."
"Okay," he says again. "They win?"
I grin. "Yep. 4-0." I don't realize I'm still beaming until I register the fact that Charlie's studying my face with a small frown on his own. "What?"
He squints at me. "You seem awfully pleased by that fact. That's new."
I shrug. "I just…a lot of my students are on the team this year."
"Uh-huh," he replies, and before his chief of police sixth sense can kick in, I gesture toward the staircase.
"I'll be upstairs." As I ascend to the second floor, I hear the familiar sound of a kitchen chair scraping across the linoleum. Stepping into my childhood bedroom, I take a deep breath. I was only partly kidding when I teased Charlie about the shrine; it really does look like sixteen-year-old me just popped out for the afternoon and will be back any minute. When I left for college I took the bare essentials: favorite clothes, favorite books, a few photos. When I moved back to Forks after graduating, I moved back in with Charlie until he was healthy enough to live alone. Between starting a new job and helping him with his recovery, I spent very little effort on redecorating and instead took solace in the familiarity. When I moved out again, I took what was necessary: the same clothes I'd brought back from Berkeley, the box of books I'd never unpacked, the clothing I'd acquired since starting a job as a teacher. I never moved out the things that I wanted to keep as keepsakes, because I was just across town and if I ever needed them, I knew I could just drop by and get them. As a result, the room has the feel of a time capsule.
I start with the closet, knowing that the garments I opt to keep will be few and far between. In the donation pile go old jeans, old sweaters, a few old skirts and dresses, a pile of shoes. In the small "to keep" pile go a few trip t-shirts from summers I spent traveling with Renee, the Forks Police Department sweatshirt that was embarrassing as a teenager but is now oddly appealing, and a black cardigan sweater with gray elbow patches that I once appreciated for its irony but which is now actually borderline fashionable. Once the closet is devoid of clothing, I move to the dresser: a quick scan reveals absolutely nothing I want to keep, so I dump the entire contents into the donation pile.
The books are harder. I go through the shelves and the give-away pile is pretty meager by the time I'm done sorting novels and have reached the shelf that holds my yearbooks. I smile and slide my senior year tome from its place on the shelf; lowering myself to the bed, I crack it open and immediately feel a wave of nostalgia, despite the fact that I didn't particularly enjoy that time in my life. As I flip the pages, I'm struck anew by how separate I was from it all. I didn't participate in any extracurricular activities, I didn't go to prom, I didn't date boys. I spot the grinning headshot of the beautiful boy I'd had a crush on who never even realized I walked the same Earth as he did. I try to imagine Edward on these pages, a seventeen-year-old boy with a tendency to flush pink, but I can't; Edward exists solely in the now, and I ignore the voice that suggests that if he had, in fact, existed in the then, he likely wouldn't have noticed my existence either.
"How's it going?" I hear from the doorway, and I'm pulled from my reverie to see Charlie standing at the threshold glancing at the mountain of outdated clothes and the leaning tower of books.
"Good," I say. "Trip down memory lane."
He nods and holds up a roll of plastic bags. "Thought these would work for the clothes."
"Perfect."
He holds one open while I dump them in, and when he sees the Forks hoodie atop the much smaller pile, I see one corner of his mouth curl upward beneath his moustache. "Keeping that?" he asks, and I nod, feeling a thin thread of guilt at the memory of how I'd buried it in the depths of my closet with a barely-disguised eye-roll. I recall similar reactions any time I had to ride with my dad in his cruiser, and feel more remorse at my typically teenage insensitivity.
"Yeah. I forgot it was in there." I pick it up and, after a beat, slide it over my head. Despite the fact that I didn't wear it often, the thick cotton is soft, and it still smells faintly of the industrial detergent Charlie always used. "I like it."
He clears his throat as he glances around the room, and I wonder idly if I'm destined to spend my life surrounded by ill-at-ease men. Given recent developments, I can't say that I am entirely disenchanted by the idea. "I meant what I said, Bella," he says as he eyes my now-empty bookshelf. "This is still your room, even if your stuff's gone."
"Thanks, Dad."
He nods once, then glances at my stack of books. "I'll, uh, get you some boxes." With that he's gone, and I glance back down at the cover of my now-closed yearbook as I bury my hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt. For perhaps the first time in six years, I'm actually grateful for the awful twist of fate that forced me to move back to my too-small hometown and to take a job I never imagined myself actually wanting. I hear Charlie lumbering back up the stairs, and I smile to myself. Maybe my love life isn't the only do-over I'm getting.
By the time I'm back at my house and showered and blow-dried, I'm standing in front of my closet debating the merits of my meager wardrobe when I hear a knock on the door. Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I curse; being late is a pet peeve of mine, and playing the make-the-guy-wait pre-date game is something I hate even more. I throw on my fleece bathrobe – quite possibly the least sexy thing I own – and nearly trip down the stairs to crack the door.
"Hi," I say to Edward, who, of course, looks perfect in jeans and a sky blue dress shirt. "I'm really sorry, I got held up at Charlie's. Just give me five minutes, okay?" He nods, and I frown. "Do you, uh, want to wait inside?"
As if he can sense my unease, he shakes his head. "It's actually really nice out. I'll just sit on your porch, if that's okay?"
"Perfect," I say, relieved that he's not getting the full effect of Bathrobe Bella. "Seriously, five minutes."
He grins. "Take your time."
Hell-bent on keeping my word, I dash back upstairs and scramble into jeans and a black sweater. A quick swipe of lip gloss and a hasty mascara application and I'm back on the porch with thirty seconds to spare. "Okay."
As he rises, he reaches into his back pocket and holds something out to me. When I take it, I laugh: a bookmark with a line of sunflowers down the front of it. "You should know that you're sort of sweeping me off my feet here," I tell him, sliding the bookmark into my purse.
"Excellent," he says and makes a sweeping gesture toward his car. "After you."
During the drive to the restaurant, I can't deny that my words, while teasing, were true: Edward Cullen is undoubtedly steamrolling me. I watch him as he drives, one hand on the wheel and the other draped casually against the sill of his door window, and the sinking sun that slides in through that window sets his auburn hair aflame. His sunglasses, despite hiding his bright eyes from view, only add to the sexiness, and it's hard to believe that he's as beautiful from the side as he is head-on. The sudden urge to take his picture hits me, and I dig through my purse to retrieve my phone before realizing that in my haste not to keep him waiting, I've left it behind. I sigh in disappointment, but it's short-lived when he glances over and offers me a smile backlit by golden sunlight.
Despite his tendency to flush and my propensity to put my foot in my mouth, dinner is easy, and fun, and romantic, and by the time we're back on my front porch, I don't want the night to end.
"Do you, um, want to come in? I can make coffee." At his look, clarification falls from my lips in a tumble of words. "Actual coffee. Not, like, coffee-as-a-euphemism-for-sex-coffee," I blurt and immediately wince. Subtle, Bella.
"Coffee sounds perfect," he says, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, then smirks. "As a euphemism or otherwise."
I turn and open my front door, and when he steps in behind me and I spin to close it, I note the expression of surprise on his face. "What?" I ask, shrugging out of my jacket and stepping out of my shoes.
"You leave your door unlocked?"
I chuckle. "You're in the country now, city boy. Everyone leaves his door unlocked. My dad's a cop and even he doesn't lock his doors unless he's going to be gone overnight." He's frowning as he gazes warily at my now-closed door and toes off his sneakers. "Oh," I say, gesturing at his feet. "You don't have to take your shoes off. I just did because mine aren't the most comfortable ones ever. But you don't have to."
"I don't mind," he says simply, standing in my little house in his socked feet and looking like he belongs there. I nod and lead the way to the kitchen. He settles at the tiny two-top breakfast table and arches a brow in the direction of the spray of wildflowers sitting in a vase in the center of it. "I thought you killed flowers."
"I do," I reply on a laugh. "Those things are goners." I pick up the small carousel that holds my collection of single-serve coffee cups. "Welcome to Café Bella. Would you like decaf, dark roast, regular, hot chocolate, English Breakfast tea, or hazelnut?"
"Wow," he says, squinting at the display. "I'll go with dark roast."
"You got it." I turn and switch on the coffee machine and glance over my shoulder to see him studying the corkboard over my table, to which I have tacked an assortment of photos: Charlie and Billy out on the lake; Jess, Angela, and me in Las Vegas; Jasper, Angela, and Jess at last year's homecoming float parade.
"Your friends seem really cool," he says as he studies the photos, and I hit brew before turning to face him.
"They are." I chew my lip for a beat before adding, "They're sort of your friends now, too."
He glances at me before returning his focus to the corkboard. "That'd be nice," he says absently before lifting a finger to point to my "Vegetarian: Native American word for 'Lousy Hunter'" sticker. "This is a good one."
I laugh. "Yeah, I went on a no-meat kick for about half an hour last year. Jacob Black gave me that for Christmas."
Edward nods and gifts me with a small smile. "I'm still getting used to how interconnected small-town living can be," he admits as I hand him his now-full mug. "I forget about all of the…links." He purses his lips briefly. "I, uh, was trying to give dating advice to Ben Cheney the first week of the season, and I suggested he go out with someone nice, like Tori Keller."
"She's his cousin!" I exclaim as I start my own cup brewing, and Edward chuckles as he nods and lifts his mug to his lips.
"I know that now," he agrees, blowing on his steaming coffee. "Last time I ever even remotely try to play matchmaker in Forks."
"Yeah, I'd stay away from that trap. It can turn into The Six Degrees of Inbreeding, if you're not careful."
"No kidding."
"Good thing you're from out of town," I add. "No gray area."
"Good thing," he echoes as my coffee machine spits and hums to signal it's finished.
"Living room?" I ask, and he nods as he picks up his mug and follows me. I opt for the soft light of the small lamp on the end table over the harsh overhead fixture, and we settle into my sofa, which it's worth noting is considerably more comfortable than Edward's office couch.
"Listen, I have a confession to make," I say, cradling my mug in my hands and watching unashamedly as he licks coffee from his lips.
"Okay."
"I was, uh, thinking not-so-nice things about your ex before you told me about her…past."
His lips purse slightly and he nods. "Yeah, well, I guess that's understandable. It was…an unusual situation."
"I think it's really kind, how sensitive you were to her needs. I don't think there are many twenty-year-olds who would be that considerate."
A slight frown, as if he's considering this, then he shrugs. "Honestly, I guess when you care about someone, it's just what you do. And it probably helped that I had nothing to compare it to, so I was content enough to go at the pace she wanted."
I nod, turning this over in my mind. "Well, anyway, I think it's your turn."
"My turn?"
"To set the pace. I'm going to follow your lead."
His throat bobs as he swallows, and even in the soft yellow glow of the lamp on the end table, I can see the pink on the apples of his cheeks. "Okay," he says softly, his eyes dropping from my eyes to my mouth, and it's absurd how physically affected I can feel when he hasn't even touched me.
"Okay," I echo, and he watches my mouth form the word before he leans forward and places his coffee mug on my coffee table atop the coaster bearing a Mark Twain quote.
"Well, in that case." He slides over slightly so that his left side is pressed to my right, and his hand rises to cup my jaw. "I wouldn't mind revisiting first base."
"Anytime," I say, and his hand leaves my face to liberate my full mug from my hand; he places it beside his own, obscuring Emily Dickinson's words this time, before returning his palm to my cheek. He offers me a small smile as he leans in, and when his mouth is on mine, he kisses me soft and slow, lips tugging gently at mine as I feel his warm breath against them. I open my mouth, and after a few shared breaths, his tongue slips against mine; he tastes like coffee and faint traces of the tiramisu we shared after dinner.
We make out in my living room for what could be hours, kisses growing increasingly heated, until I feel his teeth close gently around my lower lip and I groan. Just as he had in the back of his SUV, he grips my hip and tugs gently. Following his direction, I slide down until I'm reclined on the couch, Edward half-hovering over me and half to the side of me, his back flush against the back of the sofa. He continues to kiss me before relinquishing my mouth to move to my cheek, my jaw, the hollow beneath my ear. His lips move down the tendon that runs down the side of my neck, and I can feel soft kisses and gentle suction that makes the rest of my body burn.
"God, Edward," I breathe, and as I shift my hips, I can feel him hard against my thigh. He grunts into my neck and angles his hips away from me.
"Sorry," he mumbles into my skin.
"Don't be," I say, lifting my thigh to press it against him again, and his grunt becomes a groan. He bucks against me ever so slightly, and I smile at the ceiling as his lips continue to tease the skin of my neck. I wrap my arms around his neck as he finds my mouth again, and I'm so focused on the steady slide of his tongue against mine that I don't register his hands at the hem of my shirt until I feel his cool fingertips sliding up the skin of my stomach. My flesh pebbles and my nipples harden in anticipation of his touch, and I sigh into his mouth as his palms slide up and down my ribcage, taunting me as the fly of his jeans presses against my hip bone again.
Then he shifts, and he's in the cradle of my thighs, his hips flush against my own, his denim-covered erection pressing perfectly against my own denim-clad core. He stills momentarily, his satisfying weight bearing me down into the couch cushions, before his tongue swipes along my lower lip and he pulls my lip gently between his teeth at the same moment he pushes his hips into mine. I gasp into his mouth, and he thrusts again, rubbing deliciously right where I'm aching for him.
I want to reach down between us and feel him – feel him – but I don't want to do anything to stop the maddeningly slow roll of his arousal against mine. I meet his hips with my own, and he groans into my mouth, and the sound combined with the swipe of his thumb over my nipple and the press of his hips is nearly enough to undo me.
"Bells?" I don't even have time to register the nickname or the voice before the living room is suddenly awash in bright overhead light.
"Dad?" I say breathlessly, and as if he's been on the receiving end of my dad's stun gun, Edward catapults himself off me and to the opposite end of the sofa, where he runs his hands through his disheveled hair and leans forward to prop his elbows on his knees, ostensibly to hide the tent in his Levi's. I lurch upward, running my hands through my own hair and straightening my sweater. My dad's eyes bounce from me to Edward and back, his mouth twitching slightly.
"Sorry," he says finally, holding up my cell phone. "I found this in your old room and tried to call your landline but you didn't answer, so I figured you were out. I was just gonna leave it on your counter." He glances at Edward again. "Coach."
"Chief Swan," he returns. "Please, call me Edward." Still, he doesn't rise from the couch, and when Charlie's mouth twitches again, I think one or both of us might combust on my sofa.
"All right," Charlie says, and I can see amusement in the eyes I inherited. I glance at Edward; needless to say, his face is aflame. "Well, I'll, uh, leave you two to it." He smirks knowingly at me, and if I'm enjoying recreating my teenage years, it's clear in this moment that Charlie's reveling in the opportunity to bust me for shit I never had the inclination to actually do as a teenager. "Edward, why don't you come on over for dinner with Bella tomorrow? Seems like maybe we should get to know each other a little better." He doesn't wait for Edward's response as he steps back out my front door. "Night, kids," he tosses over his shoulder just before the door clicks shut.
I face Edward, who looks exactly like a kid who just got busted dry-humping his girlfriend by said girlfriend's parents, and I grimace. "Okay, maybe it's time I think about locking my front door."
A/N: Thanks for reading. Coming up (ha) in Chapter 9:
"The imagination…" I lick my lips. "But more often than not, it pales in comparison to the real thing."