The Practicum

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

Summary: "Well, how about a pretty girl at the dinner table beside you, and we upgrade from euphemism to practice?"

Acknowledgement: So much thanks to HollettLA. You, lady, are sublime. xo

Chapter Eleven

Spring sunlight bathes my small bathroom in a warm yellow glow, and as I lather my hair, I let images from last night replay in my mind.

Edward gazing up at me, semi-reclined on his sofa, shirt and pants undone and hard-on resting against his belly.

Edward smoothing my hair away from my face, his hands tender.

Edward coming apart, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched.

Edward overcome and catching his breath, eyes soft as his chest rises and falls with his quick breaths.

Edward making me come, gentle fingers pressed against my underwear.

Edward asking me to stay over.

Given the time of the month and the fact that I hadn't anticipated the invitation, I was forced to decline. In fact, Mother Nature may have been doing me a favor last night, because as I flash back to the picture he made sprawled on his sofa with his clothing in disarray and his prominent erection resting against his toned stomach, I acknowledge the very real possibility that, if not for my cycle, I may have straddled him right there in his living room and shot our whole "going slow" plan to hell. That said, when I woke up alone in my bed this morning and instantly felt bereft at his absence, I realized immediately how deep in this I am.

Once I'm dried off and am fastening my bra, I hear the muffled thud of a knock at my front door. Throwing on jeans and a top and wrapping my hair in a towel, I hustle down the stairs and pull it open to find Edward standing on my porch with a tray holding two coffee cups and a plastic bag with two Styrofoam takeout containers.

"Hi," I say brightly, ignoring my sudden swell of inexplicable relief at his unexpected appearance.

"Hi," he returns, eyes flicking up to my turban-style headwear.

"I just got out of the shower," I say unnecessarily, and when he flushes, I know immediately that he's picturing me topless. "Behave," I tease as I lift my chin in the direction of the plastic bag. "What's that?"

"French toast," he says. "I was going to bring you bagels, but to my eternal surprise, Forks is sadly lacking in the bagel shop department."

"Forks is sadly lacking in a lot of departments," I tell him, stepping to one side so that he can come in. I lead the way to the kitchen, and he places the coffee and the food on the countertop. "You brought me breakfast," I muse, and I don't know why I'm surprised.

"It seemed the, uh, gentlemanly thing to do," he confesses, his cheeks darkening, and I can see memories of last night flashing behind his eyes. He licks his lips, and when I do the same, his eyes drop immediately to my mouth.

"Busted," I rib him, and immediately his focus returns to my eyes.

"What?"

"Has anyone ever told you that your face is an open book?"

"Yes," he says simply, then smiles. "In fact, I do believe you essentially implied that exact thing the first time we met in my office."

"I did?" I scan my memory as I pull two plates from the cupboard.

"Something along the lines of you calling me out for blushing when you first mentioned the Sex Ed curriculum."

"Ah. Yes. Well, you did."

He nods. "I did."

"But you never blushed in class," I say, retrieving knives and forks from a drawer and two mugs from another cupboard.

"No." He takes the mugs from me and pours the coffee into them from the takeout cups. When he notices I'm studying him, he shrugs. "You caught me off-guard."

"Hm."

"Syrup?" he asks, and I point toward a nearby cupboard as I grab the creamer from the fridge. When I turn, Edward is standing beside my little table for two, and as I stare at him, it occurs to me that he looks just slightly too big for my tiny kitchen, and that he might even be too big for my tiny life, but for perhaps the first time in that tiny life, I think that maybe I understand what all of those romantic poets are writing about.

I'm clutching my lunch sack tightly in my fist when I walk across the gym floor on Tuesday, the clicking of my heels echoing in the cavernous space. When I arrive in his doorway, Edward is sitting on his sofa with a sea of catalogs on the floor in front of him and a deep frown on his face. When he registers my presence, he looks up and grins. "I was hoping you'd still come."

I shrug. "I sort of like our Tuesday lunch dates. Though I admit to being mildly disappointed that we won't be talking about anatomy and procreation today."

"We can talk about procreation anytime you want," he says and flushes even as he waggles his eyebrows.

I smile and lift my chin in the direction of his magazines. "What's that?"

His frown returns. "Just doing some sorting."

"Why the frown?"

"This couch is really uncomfortable."

I laugh outright. "Yeah, it is."

As if he's suddenly remembering, his eyebrows leap. "You've been sitting on it for weeks! Why didn't you say anything?"

"I figured you knew. It is, after all, in your office."

"Yeah. I generally use it more as a shelf than a couch." He shifts his weight. "Jesus, this thing's awful. I'm so sorry."

I shrug. "Don't worry about it." I smirk at him. "Besides, it's probably a good thing. It seems you and I tend to get into trouble when there are comfortable couches in the vicinity."

His face is like a movie screen, and I can see exactly what pictures are flashing through his mind as he stares at me. Finally, he licks his lips. "I don't know if trouble is the word I'd use." He shifts again and gestures toward his desk chair. When I open my mouth to protest, he shakes his head. "I'm trying to be a gentleman way late in the game here."

I settle into his – admittedly comfortable and quite ergonomic – desk chair and set my lunch on his desk, reaching in to withdraw lunch.

"Bella Swan," he gasps, and when my eyes fly to his, he's looking at me in surprise.

"What?"

"Is that…a salad?" He points at my Tupperware, and I roll my eyes. He's looking entirely too smug, and I know just the way to bring him back down.

I arch one eyebrow and pin him with a pointed look. "I suppose you're rubbing off on me in more ways than one."

His mouth opens and closes, and the pink makes an appearance. "Wow."

"Careful, Mr. Cullen," I tease, popping the lid off my salad. "I know what buttons to press."

Despite his mild discomfiture, he meets my eye and doesn't look away. "Oh, believe me, Miss Swan. I know."

We stare at each other beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights of his tiny office until finally I lick my lips and break his gaze, rummaging in my lunch sack for my plastic fork. "What's your next health unit?" I ask, finally locating the utensil.

"Alcohol and drug abuse and addiction," he replies with a small grimace.

"Sounds like fun."

"Oh, yeah. Loads." He glances up at me, wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Believe me when I say it will be dull by comparison: no pretty girl at the desk beside me, and no masturbatory euphemisms to brighten the planning process."

"Well, how about a pretty girl at the dinner table beside you, and we upgrade from euphemism to practice?"

His eyes flash, and he licks his lips. "As…titillating as that suggestion is, I believe I'm indebted to you in that regard. And believe me, as soon as I have the opportunity, I intend to even out the balance."

The lettuce dangling from the plastic tines of my fork is quivering in a pretty close approximation of what the rest of me is doing. I'm racking my brain for a response when Edward's eyes look past me, and I follow his gaze to see Jacob peeking into the office, one large hand gripping the doorframe.

"Hey, Coach. Hi, B—Miss Swan." I give him an awkward wave, and he returns his focus to Edward. "Coach, what time's the bus leaving on Thursday?"

"Three o'clock," Edward replies. "Spread the word."

A quick nod and Jake disappears again; when I glance back at Edward, I frown. "Thursday?"

"Weather's looking nasty for Friday, so their coach bumped the game up a day to attempt to fit it in."

"Oh." I spear a carrot and frown down at it. What a boring lunch.

"You're wishing you could morph that into a slice of greasy pizza right about now, aren't you?" Edward teases, and I nod.

"You know me too well," I admit, and the smile he bestows upon me is suddenly soft.

"I'm learning," he says, and a warmth seeps through me that has nothing to do with arousal.

"I want to marry Atticus Finch," Angela says dreamily as we stand waiting for our drinks at the café after the Wednesday night showing of To Kill a Mockingbird.

"Jimmy Stewart will be crushed," I deadpan as I zip my change purse closed and return my wallet to my bag. "Though I can't say I disagree with you. It's always my favorite book on the syllabus. Every year."

"It was my favorite when I had to read it way back when," Angela agrees with a nod. "But for entirely different reasons."

"I know. Back then I totally identified with Scout."

"Now I want to bang Gregory Peck."

I swivel my head to stare at her, and I can feel the surprise on my face. "Are you sure you're not Jessica?"

She laughs. "No, I'm most decidedly not Jessica. Jessica is enjoying pretty regular orgasms with kielbasa-boy, from the sound of things. I, however, will likely die an old, eccentric, spinster art teacher from the sticks."

"Stop it. You will not."

"I will. I'll have a 'special room' for my papier-mâché projects and ugly blown-glass ornaments everywhere and a cat named Picasso, and I'll smell like moth balls."

"That's ridiculous."

"Easy for you to say," she says, one eyebrow arching behind her glasses. "You and Mr. Cullen have been awfully smiley of late. Shall I take it to mean that things have progressed past the 'excellent kisser' portion of the program?" Evidently, Edward isn't the only one whose face is an open book. "Reeeeeeally," she says off my nonverbal response. "Do tell."

"Seriously," I say. "It's truly alarming how vividly you're channeling Jess right now."

She sighs. "Jessica's being nosy. I'm trying to live vicariously. Moth balls, remember?"

I echo her sigh. "I'm going on the record one more time as saying you're being ridiculous." Off her silence, I roll my eyes. "Yes. Things are…progressing."

"So he's a good kisser. What else is he good at?"

I lick my lips. "He's good with his hands."

Angela opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by the barista's voice. "Chai tea latte and a caramel latte."

"Thanks," I say, grabbing my cup and handing Angela hers.

"His hands," she repeats. "Do go on."

"He's, um—" I blow into the opening in the lid of my cup "—very well-endowed."

Her eyebrows jump again before waggling. "You guys have…" She trails off. Even horny, Angela still tries to be tactful, if only barely.

"We haven't had sex yet. We've just…done other stuff."

"How well-endowed?" she asks, hitting the button on her keyless entry.

"I can't imagine Mark's kielbasa has anything on Edward's…" I trail off, searching for an appropriate euphemism. "Baseball bat." I don't know if that was it, but Angela smirks.

"Excellent." We slide into the car. "Does he have a brother?"

She's kidding, but I instantly feel badly for her. It wasn't too long ago that I was lamenting the complete lack of social life in Forks, and if things work out for Jessica and Mark and for Edward and me, Angela will be the yin to Jasper's very gay yang. "He does, actually, but he lives in Colorado."

"Too bad," she says, giving me a sideways smile. "That said, I've always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains."

I laugh. "I'll do some recon for you."

"Terrific."

I peek at her face in the periodic illumination afforded by the passing streetlights. "You're not really worried about that, though, are you?"

She shrugs, and I can feel the weight of the confession she doesn't make. "It's a bit of a down week," she says. "Let's just say I'm looking forward to margaritas as much as I ever have."

"Ang, I promise I'll never let you wind up a crazy spinster art teacher. And I'd never ever let you name your cat Picasso."

"Thank you," she says, her voice sincere. "And speaking of margaritas, Jess is evidently meeting Mark's parents for dinner on Friday night and wanted to know if we could move it up to Thursday."

"Wow. Meeting the parents?"

"I know."

"Go, Jess." I shrug. "Thursday's fine by me. Jasper in?"

"Yep."

We drive in silence for a while, and I'm finding it harder and harder not to worry about my friend. "Ang—"

"I'm really okay," she cuts me off, turning the defogger on. "I promise. I just…my mother made some comment about grandchildren, and my brother's getting engaged, and my students hate the cubism unit, and then this morning my hot water heater crapped out."

"Wow…a real banner week, huh?"

I'm relieved when she laughs. "Yeah. And I have PMS."

I nod my empathy. "Ugh. Sing it, sister."

She blows her bangs out of her face. "Thank you, though. Really. You're a good friend."

I sip my tea. "I wasn't kidding about the recon on Edward's brother."

She gives me a sideways glance. "Neither was I."

Following Thursday's pep rally, Jasper and I are using our free period to help a few members of the "spirit committee" – in this case, Alice, Rosalie, and Tori – clear the gym of its celebratory debris. I bend to pick up a few ribbons of blue and gold plastic that have come loose from the cheerleaders' pom-poms. Straightening, I see Edward rolling up the flag that bears the image of the school mascot.

"Do you want to keep that?" I ask, pointing at the bed sheet that the committee has spray-painted with "Good Luck, Spartans!" and all of the soccer players' names, as well as something that I imagine was supposed to be a soccer ball but wound up resembling a honeycomb.

"I guess we could hang it from the bleachers tonight," he says as he gazes up at it, and I nod as I place a foot onto the lowest rung of the stepladder. "Whoa there," he says, stilling me with a hand on my forearm. "I don't think so."

"I'm perfectly capable of climbing a ladder, Edward."

"You're wearing heels and a skirt. The first is potential for physical harm, and the second is potential for my inability to focus on the rest of my day, so please. Allow me." I step to one side and he grins, climbing the stepladder and reaching for the top corner of the sheet. Immediately, I realize what he meant: he may not be wearing a skirt, but the view from this angle is fabulous, and the way his dress shirt pulls taut across his shoulders isn't too shabby, either. He descends the ladder and drags it to the other side, climbing it once again and freeing the tape from the other two corners so that the sheet floats to the gym floor. When he's back on solid ground, he picks up the bundle and grins at me. "Help me fold?"

I nod, grabbing a handful of cotton and walking backward, stretching the distance between us as I find the corners of the fabric. The task is oddly domestic despite our surroundings, the context, and the crudely spray-painted letters on the linen, but the small smile on his lips and the spark in his eyes tells me that his mind isn't too far from where mine is. I return the smile, glancing down to bring the two corners together and back up to see him doing the same; I do it again, making the sheet one long bridge of cream-colored cotton between us. Edward walks toward me, doubling the sheet up on itself, and I grab his end and line it up with mine. "So," he says, bending to grab the fold that now drags across the gym floor. "I've been asked to be a dance chaperone." I laugh as he brings the fold up and I grab that as well, making the sheet a much smaller rectangle.

"Of course they ask the new guy, who doesn't yet have the self-preservation instincts to say no." One corner of his mouth lifts as he hands me the final fold, and the sheet becomes a close approximation of a perfect square.

"I'm a sucker," he agrees. "That said, I wouldn't mind some company."

I look up from smoothing the sheet to see him smiling down at me, one eyebrow arched. "Company?"

His smile widens. "Bella Swan, will you go to the dance with me?"

"Aw, man," I say, even as something inside me is doing somersaults.

His other eyebrow meets its partner. "Aw, man?" He shakes his head. "Thank God I went to an all-boys' school; that kind of response would have crushed seventeen-year-old me."

I shake my head. "No, no!"

"That wouldn't have helped." But he's teasing, green eyes dancing.

"I meant, 'Aw, man, now I'm getting suckered into it, too.'" He seems to be debating whether this statement makes him feel better or worse. "I'd love to," I say, and he grins.

"Excellent."

I drop my gaze to smooth the sheet once again before lifting my head to say something appropriately charming, but the words die on my tongue when there's a sudden commotion in the hallway, and a second later three students burst through the propped double doors and into the gym. One of them is in my freshman English class; the other two are sophomores I had last year, who didn't come close to making it to the tenth-grade honors class I'm teaching this year.

"Faggot," one of them sneers, kicking the freshman – James – in the ribs.

"Whoa," Edward almost-hollers as he crosses the space to the doors in three long strides. "What do you think you're doing?"

"This little queer needs to watch himself," the other spits, glaring at James, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are suspiciously bright as he scrambles to his feet.

"And you two need to broaden your vocabularies; those are particularly insulting and entirely unacceptable words."

"Insulting to who?" the first kid challenges. "Nancy-boy here?"

To whom, I silently correct, fleetingly remembering essays with an overabundance of red ink in the margins.

"To me, for one," Jasper speaks up, stepping forward.

Both boys look confused, and James whips his head around in surprise. "What?" the second kid asks, frowning as he gives Jasper a wary look.

"I'm gay," Jasper replies. "So I find those words especially offensive."

"No fucking way," the kid mutters, and there's a squeak from somewhere behind me; I'd bet money it came from Alice. I guess that solves that issue, at least.

"Way," Jasper says with a casual shrug that does little to undermine his tense posture. Even without being able to see their faces, he and Edward make quite the imposing duo, standing shoulder to shoulder. The bullies share a baffled glance, and Edward steps forward.

"Congratulations, gentlemen. You just scored yourself a meeting with Principal Taylor." He gestures toward the gym door. "After you." The duo files out, and Edward nods his thanks to Jasper before glancing back at me for a beat before following them out.

"James, do you need to go to the nurse?" I ask, touching him gently on the shoulder. Standing closer, I can see that the skin around his left eye is red and slightly puffy; something tells me he'll be sporting a shiner in class tomorrow. He shakes his head slightly, and I feel a swell of sympathy for this boy, who has been a bright spot in my freshman English class: brilliant, sensitive, soft-spoken. Sad. Lonely. Victimized, evidently. The only child of a single mother who kicked her abusive husband out when James was in elementary school.

"I'm okay," he says, and Jasper reaches out to touch his shoulder, but the boy recoils. I glance sideways at my friend, expecting something like hurt or affront to be showing in his face, but his expression is open. Understanding.

"You need some ice," Jasper says, gesturing toward his eye. "Otherwise that's gonna swell shut." James nods and turns to make his way to the door. "James?" The boy glances back over his shoulder at Jasper, who offers him a small shrug and a sad half-smile. "It gets better."

I'm not sure if the expression on James's face is sadness or defeat. "Maybe. But I have to survive this part first."

Jasper simply nods. "Yeah."

They consider each other a moment longer before James nods once in return. "Thanks." He turns and leaves the gym, and Jasper meets my eye and lifts both eyebrows, his cheeks puffing out as he blows out a breath. He glances over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze to where the three girls are huddled together, eyes bulging. "Girls, I'm not going to ask you not to tell anyone what you heard today, because I'm not ashamed of who I am. That said, I like to keep my private life private, so if you could respect that, I'd appreciate it." They nod in unison, like perfectly-choreographed marionettes, and Jasper nods once in return before turning back to me. "Okay. If you've got this, I have a trigonometry class to get to."

"I've got this," I assure him, and before he can leave, I grab his bicep. "That was…really great of you, Jasper."

He shrugs. "Wish it would make a difference."

"You never know," I say before lowering my voice. "Those boys probably won't keep their mouths shut, though, even if the girls do."

"I know," he says simply, then leaves the gym.

I turn to the girls, who are still frozen. "So. Are we keeping the streamers?"

Later that night, following a margarita session in which Jasper recounts his unplanned "coming out" episode in the gym for Jess and Angela's benefit and Angela's spirits seem to be boosted by the tequila and the gossip, I return home and collapse into bed with every intention of reading the children's book Edward gave me on our first date. When I wake up to the sensation of my cell phone vibrating where it's sandwiched beneath my ribcage and the mattress, I fish it out from beneath me and answer it without looking at the screen.

"Did I wake you up?" Edward's voice is honey and velvet.

"No," I lie, cracking my eye open to peer at the clock on my nightstand. It's only ten thirty. I'm so lame.

"Liar," he says, laughter clear in his words.

"I'm so lame," I say aloud. "I had one margarita. Clearly, I'm past my prime."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he murmurs, and despite my exhaustion and lingering buzz, warmth spreads through me.

"Did you win?"

"We did. 3-2."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"So you won the regular season?"

"We did."

"We should celebrate."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I can buy you dinner."

He chuckles. "Bella, I appreciate the offer, but there's something about the idea of you footing the bill this early in the game that doesn't quite sit right with me."

"Okay, then, how about I make you dinner?"

"Really?"

"Really. Besides salad, what do you like to eat?"

There's a silence on the other end of the phone line, and after a brief moment of confusion, I remember his words from the other night, his request to return the favor. I want to. God, I want to. When he speaks again, his voice is rough. "I'll eat whatever you make me."

"Are you blushing right now?"

"I'm a lot of things right now." What follows is the most sexually charged over-the-phone silence I've ever experienced, and when he clears his throat, I wish instantly that he were sitting beside me so that I could see the inevitable flush of his cheeks, the telltale darkening of his eyes. "What time do you want me?" he asks finally.

All the time, I want to tell him, but even from the safety of my cocoon of bedclothes, I don't have the gumption. "Six?"

"Perfect." Another pause, then his gravelly voice. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

"That was fantastic," Edward says on an exhale, rubbing his flat stomach and leaning back in his chair. "I'd ask for the recipe, but I'm a disaster in the kitchen."

"It's pretty hard to mess up," I tell him. "Really, you just cook the penne and then toss it with the feta, basil, olive oil, and diced tomatoes."

"Still too much room for error." He smiles. "See, you think my affinity for salad is a question of health-consciousness, but really it's a lack of culinary ability."

I laugh as I reach for his plate, but he stills my movement with a gentle hand around my wrist. "No way. You cooked. I get dishes."

"I have a dishwasher," I protest. "All they need is rinsing."

"Then I get to rinse." He slides my plate from between my elbows. "You sit." I watch as he clears our plates and silverware from the table and crosses to the sink; I gaze unabashedly at the pull of his shirt over the muscles of his shoulders as he shifts, ogle shamelessly when he bends to slide the plates into the lower rack of the dishwasher. When he pushes the dishwasher door closed and turns to face me, drying his hands on my yellow and green dish towel, I consider the picture he makes, long and lean, socked toes curling around the edge of the mat in front of my sink.

"So," he says, bunching the towel into a ball and dropping it on the counter behind him.

"Coffee?" I ask, and his eyebrows jump almost imperceptibly; I suspect that for as long as this lasts, coffee will never cease to be a euphemism. He reaches up a hand to cup his neck and glances over at the Keurig sitting beside my teakettle before returning his eyes to me.

"Do you want coffee?"

I don't know what kind of coffee we're talking about right now, and his expectant gaze is surprisingly enigmatic. I finger the stem of my wineglass. "I'm going to finish this first," I say, and his eyes track the movement of my hand. "But you can help yourself."

His eyes flick to the carousel of single-serve cups before returning to me. "I—" He trails off, shaking his head, and I marvel at the two sides that exist within him: the sexy, confident, quick-witted side and the hesitant, chivalrous, nervous side.

"Edward?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you nervous?"

He blows out a breath, and while I had worried that pointing out his discomfort might make it escalate, it seems to have had the opposite effect: his shoulders drop and he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not very good at…transitions."

"Transitions," I repeat, and he shifts his weight. I trace the base of my glass. "Subsequently, previously, eventually, next, then, before, after."

He frowns. "What?"

"Sequential transition words," I say. "Those are common ones used to signal continuation."

His frown gives way to an affectionate smile. "Word girl," he murmurs, pushing off the counter and crossing the kitchen to stand before me. I turn slightly in my chair to face him. "And which would you choose in this situation?"

"Next," I suggest, gazing up at his face.

He nods. "And what's next?"

"Logic would suggest…dessert."

He licks his lips. "I know you spent the afternoon baking," he says, reaching out a hand and cupping my jaw. "But it seems to me that cookies would go much better with literal coffee than metaphorical coffee."

"What goes with metaphorical coffee?" I ask, tilting my head into his palm.

He doesn't answer verbally, instead opting to grab my hand from the table and pull me up to stand before him. In lieu of words, he kisses me. At first, his mouth is gentle and sweet, but before long the kisses escalate, and I feel his hands grip my hips and lift me to sit on the wooden table. As his tongue slips into my mouth, his hands are sliding up and down the outsides of my thighs, his fingertips slipping just under the hem of my skirt before retreating and sliding down to my knees. Just as I'm debating the implications of wrapping my legs around his waist, his tongue leaves my mouth and he returns to the gentle, closed-mouthed kisses we started with before pulling away entirely.

"So, Bella." He gazes down at me with fire in his eyes, his hands still tracing maddening lines up and down my thighs. "Where do you want this to happen?"

I wonder briefly if he felt the same instant surge of heat when I posed that question to him a week ago, and the knowing smirk curling his lips hints that he probably did. "My bed," I murmur, and his eyes darken in response. "I want to see you in my bed."

He steps back and I slide from the table, weaving my fingers through his and leading him from the kitchen and up the stairs.

Once inside my bedroom, he spins us so that he's backing me toward the bed, his mouth eager against mine. I run my hands beneath his shirt, up the warm skin of his stomach, feeling the subtle dips and swells of his muscles. He mimics my action, sliding his hands up my ribcage and cupping just below my breasts. After a brief hesitation, he returns his hands to my waist and finds the hem of my top, pulling it up and breaking the kiss to drag it over my head. He smiles down at me, dropping the shirt and smoothing my hair down before leaning in and capturing my mouth again. I feel the edge of my bed at the backs of my knees and Edward's gentle hands pushing me gently to sit. As our mouths part, he licks his lips, gazing down at me.

"So." He licks his lips. "How do you want me?"

"In your boxers," I breathe without hesitation, and he wastes no time in pulling his shirt over his head, the neckline further tousling his already-disheveled hair. I scoot back slightly on the bed as he reaches for the top button of his jeans, and the gentle smile he bequeaths upon me is a contradiction to the desperate fire in his eyes. Once the last button in the short line of his fly is undone, he pushes the denim from his hips and it falls to the floor, leaving him only in black and white plaid boxer shorts, a now-familiar bulge tenting the front of them. He steps forward, bringing the fronts of his thighs in contact with the mattress before bending at the waist and pressing a tender kiss to the middle of my chest. Then his mouth moves to one side, kissing the swell of my right breast before moving the other way, doing the same to my left; I wonder idly if he can feel the hammering of my heart with his lips. Warm hands slide between my back and the bed, freeing the clasp of my bra before relocating to the front and dragging it from my body.

"Tell me how you like it," he breathes, swirling his tongue around the tight knot of my nipple. A moan is my answer, and I can feel his smile against the skin of my breast. "Slow and gentle?" he murmurs, kissing a line of fire down my torso as he settles on his knees on the carpeted floor of my bedroom.

"Yes," I gasp, and his hands slide up and beneath my skirt, gripping the waistband of my underwear and sliding them down my legs. He leaves my skirt on, pushing it up and out of the way and leaning in; his tongue traces the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and I feel my back arch. Just as my spine resettles on the mattress, his mouth is on me and I buck up again. My hands are fisting in my quilt, and when I feel cool air on my wet, heated flesh, I glance down the landscape of my body to see his eyes piercing me from between my legs.

"You can touch me," he says, and it doesn't escape my clouded brain that he apparently remembers every word I said to him the other night. I release the bunched cotton from my right hand and relocate it to his head, threading my fingers through his soft hair. He smiles up at me and lowers his head once more, swiping his tongue against the crease of my other thigh before biting me gently on my fleshy inner thigh. "Guide me," he breathes into my skin. "Show me." I fist my hand gently in his hair and he takes my nonverbal cue, returning his mouth to my center, dragging his flat tongue over me.

"Slow," I gasp in reminder, and he finds a torturously slow rhythm, dragging his tongue up for a few strokes before improvising, adding a swirl around my clit each time he reaches the top of my lips. He repeats this motion as I glance down; he must register my shift, because his green eyes slide open and focus on my face as his mouth continues to work. I can see pink flashes of his tongue against my pink flesh, and the intimacy of the moment nearly bowls me over. I want to let my head fall back, but I don't want to take my eyes off his face.

"More," I gasp, and he picks up the pace slightly, his tongue lapping at me and teasing the nub of nerves with every upward stroke. I open my mouth to say it again, but he beats me to it, his tongue moving ever-so-slightly faster, the pressure ever-so-slightly more. Each time I think I'm going to die if he doesn't give me more, he increases the speed of his tongue against my flesh incrementally, just enough to feel like more but not nearly enough to launch me over the edge. I'm writhing and moaning and rocking my hips, spreading my legs as wide as they'll go, feeling like I'm all sensation. My thighs and my spine and the small of my back are tingling, and the soft, wet swipes of his tongue are combining with the warm pants of his breath to keep me teetering on the precipice but never pushing me over it.

Suddenly his mouth is gone and my eyes pop open just as his hands find the waistband of my skirt; he slides it gently off my legs before returning his mouth to me and slipping a finger inside my body. The added sensation of penetration is nearly enough to tip the scales, but after a few slides in and out, I feel his mouth leave me; when I look down, he's gazing up at my face, bright spots of color high on his cheekbones. "Is it okay to…" He licks his lips, and I think I could come without him even touching me. "Can I…put my tongue inside you?"

"Yes," I pant, my hips still bucking even without the assault of his mouth. "God, yes." I feel his fingers slip from my body and his tongue replaces them, his hands coming to rest on my hips and holding me to the bed. "Edward," I gasp, and I feel more than hear him moan, the faint rumble pulsing against my core. The sensation of his tongue curling inside of me is a new one, and the horizon's edge of my release is suddenly hurtling toward me.

"Edward," I pant again, and my fingers tighten in his hair. "I'm—oh, I'm—"

He doesn't relent in his assault, his tongue curling and licking as my breath catches in my chest and my body pulls tight, my back bowing as my shoulders curl off the bed, my hips bucking once, twice before going still as the rest of me quivers and shakes in his hold, his tongue slipping out and sliding against my clit as I tremble and shudder. He licks a few more stripes up my now-sensitive flesh and I loosen my hold on his hair, finding his biceps with my hands. I pull him up and over me, wrapping my arms and legs around him as my body hums, and I press my mouth to his, the faint trace of my own taste lingering on his lips only briefly. He grunts as I shudder beneath him with the aftershocks of my orgasm, and I can feel the hard length of him behind the cotton of his boxers. Releasing his shoulders, I reach down between us, pushing the waistband down and wrapping my hand around his length. "Oh, God," he groans, and the thick need in his voice reawakens my own barely-receding arousal. I slide my palm up and down against him and push his boxers farther down his legs until I can capture them with my feet and slide them the rest of the way off.

"Oh, God," he says again, his erection sliding against my thigh, his fingers brushing gently against my swollen slick core, and I moan.

"Edward," I gasp, and his hand is clutching my hip nearly hard enough to bruise when suddenly his erection is slip-sliding against me, against my wet flesh, dragging against my clit, and I moan as I feel him.

"Shit," he hisses, but his hips don't stop their motion, dragging his hard-on against me and painting himself in the evidence of my arousal. "Can I…" He trails off, canting his hips. "Can I…just…the tip?"

"Oh, God," I moan, wanting so much more than the tip. "Yes."

"Bella, I don't have…"

"Just…pull out," I gasp, clutching his hips. "Pull out before you come. You can come on me."

"Bella," he mutters, and I feel his tip at my entrance. "We shouldn't be doing this," he adds, pushing just the tip inside me and stilling.

"Oh," I whimper, clenching my muscles around his head and he sucks in a breath. "More," I plead, rippling around his tip, and he slides in another inch before his eyes fall closed and he stills again. "More, Edward."

"This…this is so bad," he says as he obeys, sliding deeper, and I buck up against him as he begins to hit depths that haven't been hit in far too long.

"So good," I correct him, and when he bottoms out inside me, we both groan.

"So good," he amends. "Bella," he murmurs, and fooling around is suddenly a home run: I'm having sex with Edward. Unprotected, unplanned, unsafe sex. But fuck me, is it ever good.

I don't realize I've spoken until Edward growls, and I realize that I actually said "fuck me" out loud; judging from the sudden increase in his pace, he likes a little dirty talk, and I can't imagine anyone's ever murmured naughty little nothings in his ear, so I opt to help him check another first off his list. "God, Edward, just like that," I gasp, and I don't even have to try to make my voice breathless as he drives in and out.

I didn't plan it, and it flies in the face of the going-slow plan, but I can't regret anything because the way Edward's sliding in and out of my body is too damn good for my brain to focus on anything else. But it's more: the slide of his thighs against the inside of mine, the slide of his lower belly against mine, the penetrating gaze of his blue-green eyes… these tiny little intimacies that bracket the fact that he's inside of me.

I'm still hypersensitive from the effects of his tongue, and it doesn't take long for me to be cresting once again, whimpering and bucking up against him as a second, only marginally less intense orgasm crashes over me, my body tightening around the solid length of his.

"Oh, oh, God, I have to…" Suddenly he's gone, and as the last licks of my climax shudder through me, I feel him press his rigid length against my sensitive clit as the warm spurts of his release splash against the soft skin of my stomach. "Ohhhhhhh," he moans as he comes, bucking against me, and I watch his face clench and his glassy eyes peer down into mine, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His arms give out and his body slumps down into mine, our wet stomachs sliding against each other with each ragged breath.

"Wow," he pants after a few moments of nothing but harsh breaths, and I squeak out one short, winded half-laugh.

"Yeah."

He props himself back up to peer down into my face, looking adorably stunned and arousingly tousled. "We're terrible examples." He doesn't look at all upset about this fact.

"We are." I'm not too bothered by it, either.

He glances down between us, and when he looks back up, I wish I could tell if he were blushing beneath the flush of arousal. "We also keep making messes."

"We do." I feel like I should be at least mildly dismayed at the gradually cooling substance theoretically gluing us together, but I'm not.

"Do you, um, have a towel?" His top teeth find his bottom lip, and I grin up at him before lifting my head from the bed to kiss his talented mouth.

"I do. I'll get it." He makes a move to roll off me, but I still him with a hand at his hip and he looks at my face expectantly. "A-plus, Mr. Cullen."

He beams. "Yeah?"

"And then some." I kiss him again before sliding from the bed to retrieve a damp washcloth and a hand towel from the bathroom. When I return to my room, I pause in the doorway.

My quilt is made of patchwork fabric in the colors of springtime, blues and purples and greens and yellows that remind me of wildflowers beneath sunshine. Seeing it draped casually over his hips makes it look more feminine than it ever has, and despite the contradiction, if I thought he looked like he belonged in my foyer, it's got nothing on what he looks like in my bed.