The Practicum
Rating: M. Because why else do we do this?
Summary: "Bella, I like lacy and silky as much as the next guy, but even before I've seen it, I can't imagine there's anything sexier than you wearing one of my t-shirts."
Acknowledgement: Bottomless gratitude for HollettLA, who backs up her grammar notes with logic like, "Just a feeling. You know, like people with arthritis predicting rain."
Chapter 13
The night is warm, a curling mist hovering just above the asphalt like a blanket as the smell of rain lingers in the air. My feet are mildly uncomfortable from my not-yet-broken-in heels, and my lower back is aching dully from spending over four hours standing in said heels, but all of those little discomforts are eclipsed by the feel of Edward's hand in mine as he guides me toward his car. His keys jingle as he pulls them out of his pocket and hits the keyless entry button before reaching for the handle of the passenger door.
"You know," I say conversationally as he swings the door open and gestures inside with a gallant sweep of his hand. "We never did dry-hump in the backseat of your car."
He falters slightly, hand dropping to his side. "No," he muses. "We didn't."
"I'm not advocating that we do it tonight," I hasten to clarify, but as his eyes dart from the vacant passenger seat to the backseat, I waver. "I mean unless that's, um…something you want to do."
His eyes widen slightly as his Adam's apple bobs behind the thin skin of his throat. "I, uh." He licks his lips and glances around us at the otherwise deserted lot before stepping closer to me. "I'd rather take you home and do…that…in a bed as a precursor to…other things."
I'm somewhat relieved; I'm quite fond of my new dress, and I'm fairly certain that ruching it up around my waist would negate its class, not to mention possibly tear it, given its general lack of wiggle-room. Added to which, I've been rather focused on the idea of getting Edward into bed since his suggestive comment during our slow dance hours earlier, and the foreplay-disguised-as-chaperoning has all but guaranteed that the going-slow portion of the program is well and truly over. I wouldn't trust myself not to co-pilot a repeat of our ill-advised decidedly-more-than-just-the-tip escapade from last night. "I'm very much okay with that," I reply, thrilling when he lowers his lips to mine. His kiss is sweet, chaste, and I'm just about to open my mouth and deepen it when he pulls back.
"Okay, we have a stop to make, and if we start that, we won't get there." I thrill at his implication, and as if he's read the pervy thoughts playing in my mind, he gives me his disapproving teacher look. "In the car, Ms. Swan." Another thrill, and I know instantly that as much as I adore sweet-boyfriend-Edward, I'm going to have to find a way to have sex with stern-teacher-Edward at some point in the near future. As directed, I settle into the passenger seat and watch Edward as he jogs around the car and takes his place behind the wheel. Once we're on the road, he snags my hand and interlaces our fingers, bringing my hand up to his mouth and kissing the back of it.
"Despite the fact that it necessitates a detour on our part, it was really great of you to help Emmett out," I tell him as I let my head fall back against the headrest and I gaze at his profile. I'm glad he's driving so that he's at least partially oblivious to the true degree to which I'm staring. He smiles at the road.
"Yeah, well, I could hardly harp on for a month about the importance of good decision-making and then tell him he's out of luck because I had big plans to get laid myself." I feel my eyes widen at his candor, and almost immediately he's sporting a similar expression as his head snaps in my direction and he opens and closes his mouth a few times. "I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I didn't mean…I mean, that sounded…that…" He shakes his head as if to clear it of the fog of babble. "I…wow, that was…alarmingly rude of me."
I squeeze his fingers between my own. "There's nothing wrong with what you said."
"Yeah, but…I just…'getting laid' is, um." He frowns at the road, and I use my free hand to unbuckle my seat belt and lean over the center console to bring my lips to his ear.
"Accurate," I murmur, letting my breath wash over his skin. "Because, Edward?"
"Yeah?" he croaks, his voice suddenly rough; I can see the muscle at the hinge of his jaw clenching.
"You are getting well and truly laid tonight." His exhale is audible, and I'm feeling inordinately pleased with myself – not to mention a little titillated – as I resettle in my seat. It takes everything in me not to smirk when I see the needle of the speedometer creep past fifty. "You might want to watch your speed," I suggest. "More often than not, there's a cop at the next intersection." He heeds my advice, easing off the gas, and I resume gazing at his profile as he swallows.
"So, uh…" He rolls his neck before glancing in his rearview mirror. "Before we, um…you know. Get home. I just wanted to…I'm really sorry, again, about last night. I…that shouldn't have happened like that."
"Please stop apologizing," I say, reclaiming his hand in the space between us. "I meant what I said this morning; I wanted that, too."
"I know," he says, then shakes his head slightly. "I just…" He shakes his head again.
"Edward, please stop, otherwise you're going to give me a complex about it."
"Okay, no, I don't want that at all," he says quickly. "I just…I didn't know if you were…at all worried. About any potential…consequences. I mean, I have pretty good, uh, control over myself. But I didn't want you to be worried and feel like you couldn't tell me if you were."
"I'm not," I reply instantly, honestly. "I know my body, and I know my cycles, and while I was certainly caught up in the moment, I like to think that if I thought even for a second that there was a possibility of a...consequence…I would have…well, stopped."
He blows out a breath. "Okay," he says softly, and it occurs to me that even though I'm not worried, he might be.
"Edward?"
"Yeah."
"Are you worried?"
He glances over at me before returning his gaze to the road and shrugging. "No. I mean, like I said, I feel like I have a pretty good grasp of things on my end, and I trust you when you say you know your stuff. I just wanted to…check."
"Okay." I squeeze his hand. "Because if you're worried and you want me to take a precautionary measure, I'd be more than willing to do that."
He looks at me again and gives me a soft smile. "No, I don't need you to do that. Not unless it's something you feel like you need to do. But no, you don't need to do it on my account."
"Okay then." I feel a small knot I didn't even realize I was feeling loosen in my chest. Talking to Emmett earlier in the evening had made me wonder, if only for a brief, fleeing moment, what would happen if the laws of biology and statistics conspired to work against us. I know I'm not ovulating, I know he pulled out of me in plenty of time, I know that the odds of me getting pregnant are about as likely as me writing the next Great American Novel, and yet the simple fact of having this conversation with Edward brings comfort in the knowledge that we're on the same page.
"Thanks, though," he says after a moment. "For offering to do that. For…acting like it was a decision we could make together."
I run my thumb over his knuckles. "You're welcome. Thanks for not freaking out about participating in the decision."
He pulls into the driveway and shifts the car to Park before killing the engine. "I know it's generally not advisable to harp on past relationships when you're starting a new one, but can I just say something?"
"Of course."
"I like that I feel like we can talk about stuff. I mean everything, but this stuff in particular. With Emily, it was always…it was like something we could never really outright discuss, and sometimes I would get frustrated because I'd feel like she wasn't being honest with me, or she wasn't telling me what she needed, and sometimes I felt like I couldn't be honest with her about what I needed because I worried that what I needed was in opposition to what she needed." He shakes his head in self-reproach. "I'm rambling. I just want you to know…I'm really glad that we can talk. About stuff. It's…really nice." He's blushing, and I think I love him.
"I think it's really nice, too," I tell him, and he gives me a relieved smile.
"Okay," he says, unfastening his seat belt. "Come in. I'll change and get the, uh…things." The familiar fire darkens his face, and I can't resist.
"Condoms?" I tease, and he nods. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"How is it that you can stand in front of a class of twenty people and talk about condoms and anatomy and actually do a condom demonstration and not blush, but sitting here in the dark with me, the mere mention of the word is enough to make you turn red?"
He fiddles with the keys he has just pulled from the ignition. "Because when I'm talking about them in class, I'm not picturing in rather vivid detail what I'm going to be doing with them."
"Oh." I feel a bloom of my own darken my face as I remember what watching him roll the condom down the mock penis had done to me. "Okay, yeah. That makes sense."
He seems to be delighting in my discomfort. "Come in," he says again. "I won't be long."
I'm counting on the opposite to be true, I think, and slip from the car to follow him up his porch steps and through the front door. We kick off our shoes, and he turns on a small lamp before disappearing down the hallway with an invitation to make myself comfortable. I once again wander around his living room, cataloguing details until I find myself standing in front of his sofa, gazing at the photo of Wrigley Field above his couch. It occurs to me, as I take in the green diamond surrounded by urban landscape, that it's past midnight and I'm in Edward's house. Edward's house, where we have condoms and absolutely no need to get back in his car and drive to my house. I stand staring at the framed photo for another few moments, my indistinct reflection staring back at me from the glass, and I glance back toward the front door, inside which my new heels sit beside his discarded dress shoes. With sudden, vivid clarity, I remember what I felt like seeing him in my bed, and his words from my first visit to his house play over in my mind. I know I said this place was starting to feel like home…it seems even more like that with you standing in my kitchen.
I take a fortifying breath and pad down the hallway in my bare feet, drawing to a halt where his open bedroom door spills a parallelogram of light onto the hall carpet.
"Hi," I say, and he whirls to spot me standing in the doorway. He's holding his tie in one hand and a tie rack hanger in the other. The collar of his dress shirt is unbuttoned, his suit jacket is draped on the bed, and his socked feet peek out from beneath the hems of his slacks.
"Hi," he replies. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," I assure him, stepping into his room, and before I can check myself, glancing around. His comforter is a masculine navy blue and gray stripe, and a dark wood nightstand is on the far side of it with a small reading lamp and an alarm clock. There's a matching dresser with a small flat-screen television on the opposite wall and an accent chair in the far corner with his gray hooded sweatshirt draped over the back. "This is nice."
"Thanks."
I straighten my shoulders as I step toward him; he's paused in his movements, tie dangling from his fingertips as his green eyes track my movements. When he doesn't unfreeze, I take the tie from him and loop it over an open hook before returning the hanger to the rail in his closet and turning to face him. "It just occurred to me…we don't have to go back to my house."
"We don't?"
I shake my head as I toy with one of the buttons on his shirt. "No. Unless you'd prefer it." He mirrors my head-shake, but offers no verbal response. "I can…stay here, instead. If you're willing to spot me a t-shirt to sleep in. Or not sleep in." I arch an eyebrow in suggestion. "In the interest of full disclosure, though, I should tell you that I did have something lacy and silky picked out for tonight."
He swallows. "Bella, I like lacy and silky as much as the next guy, but even before I've seen it, I can't imagine there's anything sexier than you wearing one of my t-shirts."
Marry me, I think but mercifully don't say, and I rise to my toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. He tilts his head slightly to capture my lips, and I feel his hands slide around my hips and to the small of my back, pressing me into him so tightly that the space between us during our dance is a momentarily forgotten memory. Before I can deepen the kiss, however, he pulls back again. "Are you sure? I know girls like to have their…stuff."
I grin up at him, trailing my hands down his torso and reaching between us; he sucks in a breath as my hands come to rest on the bottom button of his shirt, and I arch a teasingly knowing brow at his reaction. He blushes. "I'd rather just have you," I say, slipping the bottom button free and moving up to the next one. "Here." Another button free. "Now."
He swallows and nods as I continue up the line of buttons; when the top one is undone and his once-crisp dress shirt is hanging open, I run my palms up the warm skin covering his well-defined abdominal muscles.
We've done pretty much everything we can do together, and yet something about this night feels momentous, like a mile marker we've been waiting to pass. I'm a jumbled muddle of familiar sensation – desire, arousal, anxiety, need – and yet there's something else something soft and affectionate that has me anticipating wallowing beneath bed sheets in the early morning sunlight tomorrow nearly as much as I'm looking forward to writhing beneath them with him tonight.
He dips his head to capture my mouth, and as our kisses escalate, his hands run up and down my spine and press me into his body so tightly that the space between us during our dance is a forgotten memory. "Okay," he mumbles against my lips as his fingers find the line of tiny buttons trailing down to the top of my ass. "This dress is beautiful, but how the heck do I get you out of it?"
"Fake buttons," I murmur in reply. "It zips."
"Thank God," he replies, and a moment later I feel the bodice of the dress loosen and his hands flatten against the bare skin just above the waistband of my panties. He kisses me once more, soft and slow, before releasing my lips to gaze down at me. As his hands travel up to gently drag the dress from my shoulders and down my body, it's as if I'm hypersensitive to every sensation: the soft, coarse carpet beneath my bare feet, the line of heat his fingers leave in their wake, the smell wafting off his skin, the soft rasp of silk as my dress pools at my feet. Edward's eyes don't leave mine, and when he murmurs "so beautiful" nearly too softly for me to hear it, his focus is on my face and not my lingerie-clad body.
"Ditto," I whisper, lifting a hand to the base of his neck and pulling his mouth to mine; there's no hesitation as he kisses me deeply, backing us up until I feel the edge of his bed at the backs of my knees. I lean back as if to sit, but his hands tighten around my waist.
"Wait," he breathes into my mouth, and warm palms skirt up my spine to find the clasp of my bra. He frees it and drags it from my arms, dropping it to the floor before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of my underwear. He pauses only briefly before sliding them down my thighs until they free-fall to the carpet and reaching around me to drag the comforter to the floor. "Okay," he says in the same, soft voice, and I sit down before scooting backward toward the pillows. He watches me go, standing at the foot of his bed still nearly dressed, his shirt hanging open and his lips kiss-swollen.
"Jesus, Bella," he says as I settle against his pillows.
"What?"
"You look beautiful in my bed." He makes no move to join me, so I hold out a hand. As if I've shaken him from his reverie, he crawls up the bed until he's hovering above me, his hands propping himself up and the rough linen of his trousers scraping the outsides of my bare thighs. He leans in to kiss me once, gently, and the crisp cotton of his shirt lapels brushes against my already-peaked nipples. When I whimper into the kiss, he deepens it, his tongue sliding against mine, his teeth pulling gently at my lower lip. I slide my hands up his straining arms to his shoulders and push his dress shirt off; his lips release mine and he rises to his knees, pulling the garment the rest of the way off and dropping it over the side of the bed. I gaze up at him looming above me, and in this moment I feel more sexually powerful than I ever have – a sensation seemingly at odds with the inequality of my nakedness to his clothes, the fact that I'm lying supine beneath his powerful knees. And yet, despite his positioning, there's still a question in his eyes, a hesitation in the way he gazes down at me.
Still reclined against his pillows, I bite my bottom lip in provocation as I reach up and undo his belt buckle. His eyes dart between my face and my hands, and when I free the button of his slacks and slide the zipper down, the muscles in his lower abdomen clench. Pushing the pants from his hips so that they pool at his knees, I brush the back of my knuckles over the rather obvious bulge at the front of his boxers, and Edward sucks in an audible breath. Completely uninterested in teasing either one of us, I gently pull the elastic waistband away from his skin and drag it down just enough to free his erection and wrap my hand around it.
"Bella," he gasps, thrusting reflexively into my loose grip. I recall his own hand wrapped around mine beneath a blanket of stars and add the twist he favors, and he sucks in another breath before grabbing my wrist in his hand and falling forward again, pinning my hand to the mattress. I drag my free hand across his hip, heading once again for his hard-on, but he finds that wrist too and brings it up to pin it as well. I'm completely trapped, staring up at him, and yet I've never felt so commanding. "I'll come," he murmurs by way of explanation, and the cheekbones that were already pink-tinged with arousal darken. "If you keep touching me like that, I'll come." He leans in to kiss me, but at the last minute, he alters his course and presses soft lips to my temple, my jaw, my neck before sliding down slightly and capturing my nipple in his mouth. He frees one wrist to ghost fingertips down my side to my hip; he finds my softest skin with gentle fingertips, rubbing slow circles as his tongue mimics the pattern around one nipple and then the other. I'm a match to his flame, the smoldering embers of arousal igniting and making me desperate. Desperate for him to fill me, to come with me – desperate to watch him above me, to hear him, see him, feel him.
Pleasure courses hot through me as he continues his gentle touches, and I reach down with my now-free hand to still his movements. "I'll come," I mimic, and his eyes flash as he peers up at me from where he's still teasing my breast with his tongue.
"Good," he mumbles against my flesh, trying to free his hand from my grip.
"I want it with you," I whisper into the semi-darkness, and I feel his bare erection press against my inner thigh. He releases my nipple from his mouth and slides off the side of the bed to free himself from his slacks and boxer shorts; when he half-turns to get a condom from the bedside table, I realize that despite our previous escapades, this is the first time I'm seeing his bare ass. I'm going to have to tell Jasper that the abs have officially been demoted to my second-favorite part of this particular soccer player's body.
Then, he turns back to face me. Third-favorite, I silently correct as I watch him tear the wrapper from the rubber and drop the foil to the nightstand as he rolls it over his length. Well done, Mr. Cullen, I think, a fleeting memory of fake dicks and condom demos floating through my brain as he sheaths himself.
This time I spread my legs so that his thighs are between them, and I feel the base of him pressed against the heart of me. I trace a hand along his jaw and bury it in the hair at the nape of his neck as I pull his mouth to mine; he finds my other hand with his and interlaces our fingers, bringing my hand once again to the mattress beside my head. As I kiss him, I feel his other hand slide between us to line himself up; when I feel him poised at my entrance, he pulls back to peer down at me. "Okay?" he breathes, and despite my frequent assurances that he never has to ask, I smile gently up at him.
"Okay," I confirm, and he interlocks our other hands and presses them to the bed as he pushes inside me. I let my eyes fall closed as each delicious inch sinks into me, and when I feel our hips pressed together, I open them to see him staring at me intently. He slides out torturously slowly, watching my face before pushing back in.
"Edward," I breathe, lifting my hips to meet his thrust, and he grunts softly as he looks down the landscape of our bodies to where I'm arching into him. When heated green eyes find mine again, they dart to our hands before a small crease appears between his brows.
"Is that okay?" he asks, breathless, hips still moving.
"What?" I gasp, my chest heaving.
His eyes dart away from my face as he glances once more at my restrained hands. "Holding you down," he breathes. "Is it okay for me to hold you down?" He looks uncertain even as he drives in and out of me.
"God, yes," I breathe, bucking up into him to punctuate my point, and he moans as he picks up the pace.
I look down the expanse of my body to where he's sliding roughly in and out, taking me, his muscled thighs flexing with each thrust. My wild hips have a mind of their own, meeting each of his plunges, and when I look back up into his beautiful face, he's all flushed skin and heated eyes. His fingers tighten between mine, his palms pressing mine deeper into the sheets as he puts more weight on his hands.
"Oh, God," he gasps, his thrusts sharp enough that the meeting of our skin is audible in the moonlit bedroom.
"Yes," I pant in response, my breasts moving with my body, my flesh accepting and freeing him over and over again, each of his movements driving me higher and higher.
"Bella, I'm—" he starts, but he angles his next thrust slightly and I beat him to the punch.
"Coming," I gasp, my hips lurching upward as my entire body tenses, my orgasm crashing over me as my walls, thighs, fingers tighten around him, trying to draw him closer, deeper.
"Oh," he moans, stilling and matching my tautness as he comes, and I wrap my jellied legs around his waist and force my body to clench around him as he finds his own pleasure inside me.
After a final shudder, he collapses atop me, his clammy chest pressed to mine, wild heartbeats drumming against each other as we pant into each other's necks. "Fuck," I hear him gasp into my skin, and I chuckle as I squeeze his hands again.
"Check," I whisper back, and his answering laugh rumbles against my chest.
We stay pressed together like that, skin cooling by degrees, until the condom necessitates that we disconnect. When he returns from the bathroom, he slides into bed beside me looking mildly uncertain. I'm still lying on my back, but before I can ask what the problem is, he rolls back on top of me, kissing me gently and cupping my shoulders in his warm palms. We share loose-lipped, lazy post-coital kisses as our breathing gradually returns to normal, and I silently delight in every inch of his sated skin pressed to mine. There's something softly intimate about still wanting to be pressed together from head to toe even after the drive to climax is gone.
My nails skirt gently along the line of his spine, and he groans appreciatively as he goes boneless on top of me and buries his face in the pillow beside my head. I can't stop myself from touching him, and the way his hands gently flex around the curves of my shoulders make me think he understands the feeling. The flesh between my legs is slightly tender, and that awareness makes me smirk at the ceiling; I can't remember the last time missionary-position sex left me feeling that way.
As soon as the thought enters my brain, a question follows it.
"Edward?"
"Yeah?"
"Have you…" I search for a modicum of tact, and at my hesitation, he pulls back to meet my eye. "What…positions have you done before?"
The adorable man blushes. "I, uh…well, just one. You know." He glances down our bodies, and I infer with little difficulty that "you know" means "missionary."
"Do you like it?"
He gives me a "duh" look I've never seen on his face before. "Um. Yeah?"
I laugh as I smooth his hair back off his forehead. "Well, I mean, obviously."
He frowns slightly. "Do you…prefer others?"
"No, no, no. Stop." I run my hands through his hair, scratching my nails against his scalp. "Not at all why I said it. I just wanted to tell you…we can do whatever you want. I'm open to anything you want to try."
Mirth-filled green eyes meet mine. "Does that mean you're changing your mind about the anal thing?"
"What?" I very nearly yelp, and he laughs into the skin of my neck.
"Kidding," comes his muffled voice. "I'm just kidding." I feel his lips press against the hollow of my throat, and I plant my hands on his shoulders and forcibly push him off me. He rolls onto his back, a small crease of concern appearing between his brows for the split second between when I push him off and when I climb on top of him.
"You're going to pay for that," I murmur as I lean forward, pressing my bare breasts to his warm chest and my mouth to his throat.
"Oh?" he replies, his attempt at nonchalance belied by the croak in his voice. I feel his hands bracket my hips and I rock subtly against him, drawing a soft moan from his throat and a not-entirely-soft twitch from another part of him entirely. I pull back and still my hips as I stare down at him; he's looking up at me in boyish wonder.
Oh, Edward, I want to say as I gaze back down into his lovely face. You ain't seen nothin' yet.
Something's buzzing, and it's not the blood in my veins, despite the fact that after we collapsed, exhausted, sometime after two in the morning, Edward woke me once more just before dawn with gentle hands on my breasts and a less-than-gentle mouth on my neck.
"Make it stop," the daybreak Casanova murmurs into my tangle of hair, and the sensation of his breath at the top of my spine sends me momentarily back to that most recent interlude.
"Really?" he pants into my hair, sliding his erection between my closed thighs, the tip of him dragging against my wet flesh, his voice thick with arousal and incredulity. "Like this?"
"Like this," I whisper into the darkness, pressing my hips back into his.
I crack one eye to glance toward the nightstand. It occurs to me, probably belatedly, that I'm apparently on the side of the bed he usually sleeps on, and his failure to mention it the night before makes something warm bloom in my chest.
"I, um, think it's yours," I say when I note that his screen is the one that's illuminating.
"What time is it?" he asks, but makes no move to answer the call.
"Nine thirty," I say, and he mumbles something unintelligible as I extricate myself from his arms and snag his phone off the nightstand. I pass it over my shoulder without looking at the screen, and he mumbles something else as he flips it open.
"Hello?" His voice is dopey, sleep-roughened, and it makes me want to bat it out of his hand and roll his body on top of mine. If I had the energy, I'd seriously consider it. "Yeah," he says into the phone as he rolls onto his back, rubbing his free hand over his face. As I watch his profile, I notice the stubble that peppers his jawline and the desire to immediately recommence our cardio workout increases.
"Now?" he asks, and I'm sorely tempted to answer him.
Yes, now.
He sighs in response to whomever has invaded our morning-after bubble. "How many?"
For you? Three. For me? At least five. A personal best, as a matter of fact.
"Okay. I just got up."
I can help you with that.
"Give me ten minutes, okay?"
I guarantee you it won't take me nearly that long.
He flips the phone shut, and I force my endorphin-addled brain to stop with the horny inner monologue. "Everything okay?"
He groans again and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. "The guys want to play pick-up and run a couple of drills, but I have the ball bag in the back of my car," comes his muffled voice. After a beat, he rolls back to his side and gazes at me. "I think this might be the first time that I'm actually disappointed by their commitment to the sport."
I laugh. "Well, I would sympathize, but it would be a lie to imply that I would mind getting a call from a student on a Saturday morning asking me for extra reading."
He sighs. "Leaving this bed to go play coach was definitely not on my agenda for this morning," he says, and the horny part of my brain reengages in full force.
"Oh? What was on your agenda for this morning?"
He scoots his body closer to me and presses a feather-light kiss to my bare shoulder. "The same thing that was on it last night, though with a few slight variations." Before I can respond, he rolls away and slips out of bed.
"You have boxers on!" I exclaim as he rises, my tone accusatory.
"Oh. Uh, yeah. I put them on when I got up to use the bathroom." He glances at me over his shoulder, and I secure the top sheet under my arms, which I cross over my chest. "Sorry," he says, though he doesn't look it. "When I sleep naked, sometimes, uh…things…get squished."
My false indignation is shoved aside by the giggle that bubbles up in my throat, and he grins in return. Suddenly, staring at Edward standing in his boxers, hair a chaotic mess, morning sunlight making his skin glow gold, eyes and smile bright, I realize how insignificant my words to him last night were. I like you a lot, too.
Understate: transitive verb; to represent as less than is the case.
Less. So much less.
"Bella?" When I refocus, Edward is gazing at me intently, and I realize I've missed something.
"What?"
"I asked if you'd like that t-shirt now."
"Oh. Yeah. Thanks."
He turns and bends to open one of the lower drawers in his dresser, and I experience a not-so-fleeting desire to drag him back into bed and push his boxers off his hips and show him how I feel even if I'm too much of a coward to say the words. He straightens and turns, holding up a t-shirt by the shoulders. "This one's actually sort of small, so it will probably fit you better than any of the others." He tosses it to me and I catch it, holding it up as he had and reading the front of it.
"'Soccer players do it for ninety minutes in eleven positions,'" I read, then lower the shirt to arch a brow in his direction. "Ninety minutes?" He matches my brow-arch and I shake my head. Understatement. "I'd say we proved that one patently false. The eleven positions, however…" I pull the shirt on over my head and slip my arms through the sleeves before pulling my hair out from the neckline. "I'm intrigued." I tug the hem of the shirt down to where the sheet is now pooled in my lap. "Well, that's the top half covered. Can I borrow some shorts or something?" The next article to come flying in my direction is a pair of shorts with three white stripes down the legs. "Thanks." Before I can wriggle into them beneath the shield of the sheet, he comes back to the bed, planting one knee on the edge of it and bending forward to press a kiss to my hairline.
"Stay," he murmurs. "I'll only be fifteen minutes. I'll come back and take you to your house to get some real clothes, and then I'll buy you breakfast."
"French toast?" I ask, and he grins.
"Whatever your little heart desires."
I don't tell him the truth that rises unchecked in my throat: that what my little heart desires is more of what it had last night, and I'm not talking about the mind-boggling sex. Well, not just talking about it, anyway. The feel of his bare feet intertwined with mine, his arm banded around my waist in sleep, the way that arm would tighten any time I moved, the soft puffs of his breath against the back of my neck…all of those little things did something to my heart that have made it desire so much more than just the fun stuff. Do I want Mr. Sex-on-Legs? Absolutely. But I want Edward, too.
Once he's thrown on a t-shirt and shorts and disappeared from the room, I hear the sounds of tooth-brushing and face-washing from the bathroom before he calls out another goodbye and the front door slams shut behind him. Sliding into his enormous athletic shorts, I slip from the bed and make my way down his hallway, drawing to a pause outside the only door between his bedroom and the living room. The door is open, so when I step inside I don't feel like I'm snooping. It appears to be an office of sorts, with three floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined up side by side against the back wall and a matching desk beneath the window. There's a closed laptop on it and a printer on a small accent table to one side; in the opposite corner there's a brown leather armchair.
I step up to the first of three tall bookcases and begin perusing his shelves. He might be a jock, but he's certainly a well-read one; the shelves hold various books on coaching youth soccer, books on drills, books on fitness programs, books on coaching and motivation. There are biographies and autobiographies of various athletes: David Beckham. Lance Armstrong. Michael Jordan. Some kind of anthology on the Chicago Bears. A pictorial history of Wrigley Field. A few years' worth of The Best American Sports Writing. The entire first bookcase is crammed with jock-books. The second is a slight deviation: various tomes on health and nutrition, nutrition for athletes, injury prevention and recovery. Anatomy texts that I suspect were a part of his college curriculum. A few books that appear to highlight the links between physical fitness and mental health and well-being. The third bookcase is where I find what I was looking for: Edward's fiction shelves. And while his assertion that his favorite book was On the Road, his shelves are anything but typical. He has a number of classics that regularly appear on my syllabi, though none of the oft-despised Dickens:
The Great Gatsby.
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Huckleberry Finn.
The Sun Also Rises.
From the presence of Jonathan Tropper, David Sedaris, and Chuck Palahniuk, I deduce that he likes dry humor and a sarcastic wit.
From the presence of Mitch Albom, the Dalai Lama, and Randy Pausch, I can see that he likes things that make him think about the bigger picture.
Then, there are the ones that I find surprising, that I can't quite figure out. A number of them seem to feature young protagonists, or at least stories that involve teenage characters, and it makes me think that teachers should have required reading lists, too. The Perks of Being a Wallflower. The entire Harry Potter series. Nineteen Minutes. Something tells me that Edward's ability to relate to his students is something he's carefully cultivated, and the now-familiar respect I have for him wells up in my chest. I pull out the last one – just about the only one on this eclectic shelf that I haven't read – and tuck it under my arm. If I've found someone who's willing to trade books with me, I'm pretty sure I might drop to one knee and propose marriage. Or drop to both knees and propose something else entirely.
I glance around the small space again, bolstered by this unfettered glimpses into Edward's persona. The wooden desk in the corner is organized, a small stack of his favored manila folders sitting on the edge of it and a pair of framed photographs atop the small organizing hutch at the back. As I step closer, I realize that one of them is of Edward with the same man whose photo is on his fridge: his brother, Riley, arm slung around Edward's shoulders. They're both gangly teenagers, limbs too long for their bodies, and I smile at awkward, adolescent Edward for a moment before moving on. The second photo must be his parents, judging from the eyes Edward appears to have inherited from his mother and the nose and jaw line that favor his father's. I straighten and move to leave, but the hem of Edward's too-big t-shirt catches the corner of one of the folders in the stack, and I just manage to catch them before they all go spilling to the floor. As I attempt to straighten them, the handwritten words on the folders' tabs catch my eye.
Seattle.
Tacoma.
Spokane.
Kent.
Lake Washington.
Northshore.
I frown, wondering why Edward would have folders for all of these regions when it hits me: these are some of the larger school districts in the state. My curiosity raging, I lift the cover of the top folder and peek inside; when I see the top sheet of paper, my stomach twists.
Seattle Public Schools Application for Employment. A completed application for employment with all of Edward's information. I let the folder fall closed and straighten the stack once more, unnecessarily. Seattle? I step away from the desk, more carefully this time, and as I reach the threshold of the door, I hear the front door open and close. When I step out of the hallway and into the living room, Edward is standing on the mat inside his door. "Hey," he says, easy grin in place. "Sorry. I can't say no when they want to play pick-up." His eyes flick to the forgotten book tucked beneath my arm; when I realize what he's noticing, I hold it up. "Sorry. I was, uh, looking at your books."
"Uh-oh," he says, but his eyes are alight with humor. "Are you psychoanalyzing me based on what I have on my shelves? I swear, I had the Lance Armstrong book way before I knew he was juicing. And the Harry Potter…" He trails off and shrugs. "Yeah, no valid excuse there. I'm just a dork."
I shake my head and force a smile. "No, I was just curious." I hold up the book. "I haven't read this one."
He nods. "It's really good," he says. "But it's…tough. School violence, the shooter's a victim of bullying you actually sympathize with, the parents are blindsided…it's really good, but it's tough. Maybe especially for teachers."
"Do you mind if I borrow it?"
"Bella, you're welcome to anything in my house." His eyes sweep over me once more. "And I was right last night: seeing you in my clothes might be one of the sexiest things ever." He gives a sudden, sheepish smile, as if embarrassed by his candor. Almost immediately, though, his smile dims. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," I say instantly. "Great." I glance down at the book and take the lie it offers. "I was just thinking about James."
"Oh." He frowns. "Yeah."
I force myself to brighten as I look back up at him. "So…breakfast?"
He nods, smile returning. "Breakfast."
By the time I'm in my own clothes and Cora has guessed our orders for us and disappeared into the kitchen after pouring us coffee, the truth is clamoring to escape me and I can't hold it off any longer. "I have a confession to make," I say, hugging my mug between my palms.
"Okay," he says easily, tapping his fingertips against the side of his own cup.
"When I was in your, um. Office? Library?" I frown.
He shrugs. "Spare room?"
"Okay. Well anyway. I saw the photos on your desk."
He frowns, as if confused that my seeing his family photos might lead to something sinister. "Okay," he says again, only slightly more hesitant.
"When I walked by the desk, my t-shirt caught on a stack of folders and almost knocked them off; I caught them, but I noticed that they were all for, um…school districts."
He nods. "Job applications." He raises his eyebrows in expectation, and I'm momentarily thrown by his utter lack of discomfort.
"Right," I say, suddenly at sea. Where do I go from here?
"Bella?"
"Sorry," I say, shaking my head and gazing down into my coffee. "I was just…curious." I trace the handle of my mug with my thumb. "I didn't realize you were…moving."
"Oh," he says softly, and suddenly his hand is covering mine on the Formica tabletop. "Hey." I look up, feeling stupid for how quickly I got attached, for how poorly concealed my distress is, for even bringing it up in the first place. "Bella, I filled out those applications months ago. Pretty much when I first got here." His thumb is running along my knuckles, and I break the intensity of his gaze to watch it. "I really didn't think Forks was the right fit for me. I'd never lived in such a small town, never been in such a small school, and I didn't really expect to like it." I nod, still watching his hand move against mine. I can't argue with his logic: when I first came back to teach in Forks, I didn't expect to like it, either.
"That's understandable," I say, even though sadness is spreading like an oil spill through my chest, dark and penetrating.
"Bella." He squeezes my hand once, urging me to look up at him, and when I do, his face is a beautiful mix of concern and affection. "As it turns out, I like teaching in Forks. Much more than I thought I would. I like that one of my students will ask me for condoms instead of doing something impulsive – that would never happen in a bigger school. I like that the whole town cares about how the soccer team does. I even like it when people say hi to me in the grocery store, even if it did take a while to get used to." He gives me a small, private smile. "I like that the school is so small that there's only one health teacher, and that you had to sit in on the Sex Ed lectures with me." I share his smile. "And I've said it already, but I'll say it a lot more: I really, really like you. A lot. And I haven't filled out a single application or looked at a single job vacancy listing since The Philadelphia Story."
The spike of hope that spears my chest is ill-advised, but I'm powerless to fight it. "Really?"
His eyes are soft. "Really."
I shake my head. "I don't mean to be…" I trail off, waving a hand in the space between us. I don't know what descriptor I'm seeking. Clingy. Overly attached. Such a girl.
"I like it," he says simply. "If you were thinking about moving away, I'd be…" He pauses, waving a hand between us in an alarmingly spot-on imitation of me, before grinning. We smile stupidly at each other for a beat before his smile dims slightly. "But I want to be clear...I'm not putting pressure on you. Or on us. I like my job independent of what's going on with us. I really do. I like knowing the kids, and knowing the teachers, and knowing the parents of the kids. It's…nice. I didn't really think it would be; I thought it would be too much, too personal, but I like it. So it's not…all on you, I guess." He winces slightly. "I don't know if that came out right."
"It did," I assure him. "It came out perfectly."
He nods, but concern is still evident in his features. "I meant what I said last night," he says softly. "I really like you. I really like…this. I think it could be going somewhere really, really great."
"Me too," I say, relief all but eclipsing the dread that had been unfolding in my chest. "I think so, too. And I meant what I said last night." Off his frown, I offer a saucy smirk. "I like it when you hold me down."
And, of course, he blushes.