So, my lovelies, you thought I'd forgotten you? Of course not. Carlisle won't stop pacing and obsessing and maybe trying to relieve some of that tension...hmmm... Oh, er...where was I? Oh, yes: chapter 3 and happy mother f'ing New Year to each and every one of you.

A very, very special thank you and bewb grab to DazzledIn2008 for her beta work and her loving bullying to get me to post and stop picking at this chapter. OH, and for the love of everything that's holy, go check out her TwiKink Fic story "My Wedding Present," which is only one chapter in and hotter than hell. And her other newby, Beautiful. A little dom/sub fic that is proving to be a little slice of wonderful.

A huge motorboat to TheGreenPuma, who continues to be the inspiration for this fic. It's still all for you, baby, even though your birthday has passed. ALL for you.

Any spelling, gramatical, and otherwise retarded errors are all mine.

Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything except my plot twists, pervy Carlisle's dirty thoughts, and incredibly twat-numbing sexual frustration. Thanks for the jumping off point, Stephanie! You made him Carlisle, I made him tortured and horny.

O.O

Cassolette

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After replaying over and over the scene in which I found Rosalie as her human life ended – the first thing I could think of to deflate my uncomfortable erection – I met up with Rosalie and Edward in the hallway outside the ER. Edward raised his eyebrow in question of my thoughts, being so out of place, considering the events of the afternoon. I quickly searched my mind for the article I'd read that morning in the Seattle Times about a brutal gang rape and murder of a young teenage girl, then thought about how, thankfully, the events we deal with in the Forks ER only ever get as exciting as a simple meeting of a moving car with a parked one.

Edward's eyebrow lowered as he continued the argument he'd been having with Rosalie about what had happened before I'd approached , what everyone had seen, and fought with her about what should happen next. I diffused the situation on autopilot - mediation between these two after decades together had become routine, and my body, now humming along in overdrive, was anxious to either get back to the spark that ignited the fire sneaking around my brain or seclude myself so I could concentrate on the feeling and the reason for its existence.

After agreeing to a family meeting to discuss what to do about the witnesses and Bella's assumptions of the extreme non-normalcy of our family, I excused myself back to my office to finish some paperwork and prepare for the rest of my rounds. Once inside my office, I listened to Edward and Bella's heated remarks, and then to Edward finally leaving with Rosalie. I breathed a sigh of relief when I could finally be alone with my thoughts – my thoughts that began to weave and knot in confusion as I explored the events of the meeting that changed me from a calm, rational being to a man whose veins were pulsing with electric lust.

I tried to separate myself from the feelings so I could focus on the how and the why. As I dissected the chain of events that led to the crazy flashes of animalistic coupling, I focused on the one thing my mind kept coming back to: her scent. Not her blood, specifically, but her scent as a whole. Its femininity was burned into my olfactory memory, and my mind couldn't move on from that memory, like a needle stuck in an infinite loop on a scratched record. Those torturous few moments when I had been surrounded, intoxicated by that smell that lit me up played on repeat over and over and over.

Her smell roused within me a reaction I couldn't even begin to identify. I felt strung-out, wild, needy, and I wanted more. I wanted to bathe myself in it. I wanted to consume it. Quite literally, I wanted to eat it. The sharp pangs of hunger had not graced my being for centuries, but this was not the same as needing something to fill an empty stomach. It was something to fill me completely – my mouth, my eyes, my hands, my need. If I could create a word that could depict the thirst for blood, the hunger for sex, and the lusty feel of an addiction – which I'd never personally experienced – I could almost begin to describe it.

The closest my expansive, ancient mind could come was to pick out of an infinite vocabulary spanning multiple languages was the word cassolette. The direct English translation "perfume box," is so lacking. The essence of the word is much more meaningful. The French thought that the feminine smell – specifically, the essence of fragrance which emanates from between a woman's legs – should have a name: cassolette.

Bella's cassolette lingered like a fog in my mind that I couldn't lift and made me feel like letting loose a lusty growl. I could close my eyes and feel her smell drumming in my veins as if I still had a heartbeat.

For the next few days, I replayed and studied my body's reaction to her upon our first meeting. Although she was completely oblivious to it, my whole being had been affected. Not only could I not get the vivid fantasies to stop playing behind my eyelids every time I blinked, but I literally couldn't shake the feeling she had elicited in me. I felt manic, electrified, and unsatisfied. I felt like a teenager with blue balls after his first hot and heavy makeout session. The only difference is that I was over three hundred years old, and I hadn't even touched her yet.

Yet.

And I kept thinking words like yet.

I had to do something about this, but the only solution my mind would let me chose was the one that couldn't be: having her. In every way. In every sexual way, at least.

As time passed, the passion and confusion I felt did not dissipate, but rather seemed to become more and more of an obsession. This complicated things not only because I had to hide my thoughts from my son, but because, in fact, it turned out she was my son's singer. That, and, it became adamantly clear to me that my son had fallen for her. It took him weeks to figure it out, after coming to me for advice on how to resist her blood's siren call, a long stint in Alaska to brood, and finally, admission that he was taken with her.

Taken became a much too tame word, however, when he admitted to sneaking into her room to watch her sleep. I knew then that this was bigger than I'd ever imagined; my son was in love with his singer. And his singer happened to be the object of my fanatical lust. I envied my son his midnight observations of her sleeping, sure at some point that during the night, her tossing and turning would expose a long, milky-white leg and possibly a waft of that delicious scent to him.

I believed, upon that conclusion, that things couldn't get worse.

And then he brought her home to meet us. In my house. With my wife standing next to me. I somehow was able to focus, albeit seemingly obsessively, over the dinner we cooked for her, or the questions Esme asked her.

Edward started to become confused by my brain's constant ramblings about this medical subject or that when she began to spend more and more time with him around us. He actually voiced his concern that I was too focused on my research and becoming somewhat compulsive about it.

I started to feel like I was leading a double life, a life out of sorts with who I truly was. I felt like a beast around her, not the man I had strived for centuries to become in order to separate myself from my animalistic side.

I began to experiment with these feelings, attempting to find a way to contain them. I tried to scientifically pick apart every aspect of every feeling I had for her when I was alone, to see if I could figure out a way to keep them in check. When that didn't work – it only led to more and more detailed images of how I could let those feelings come to fruition with her – I tried meditation. Meditation, however, only succeeded in letting my mind expand and become more creative with how I could seduce her and then watch her innocence disappear.

I finally tried expelling this inhibited lust while making love to Esme. I thought if maybe I let go, just a little bit… or a little more than a little bit… I could find relief, even if only for a brief moment. And, although it was definitely unexpected, Esme did not object. At all. In fact, I was stunned at her reaction. She let loose a growl that shook her chest and made her whole body clench when I tangled my fingers in her hair as I took her from behind. She squeezed me so tightly I could only gasp and come, so surprised by her reaction that I preempted her own satisfaction… something I never let happen.

But her reaction shocked me even more, as I noticed, coming down from my orgasmic high, that she had reached between her legs to work herself to her peak, slamming back into me as she rode out the waves of pleasure as they overcame her. I panted, not able to catch the breath stolen from me by the shock of her forwardness. Esme rarely took her pleasure into her own hands, and was always tentative to do so if she knew anyone – including me – could hear or guess what she was doing. To do this with me, and so, so aggressively, left me gaping, proud and shocked, and never more in love with my wife.

Unfortunately, it did nothing to relieve the tense, unshakable feelings I tried to quell each day. It was as if I'd taken Viagra, only to come five times and still be painfully hard. Esme didn't even seem to mind my reaction the first time Edward had – by Edward's entirely-too-chaste standards – kissed her for more than just a moment. She paused to say goodbye to Jasper and I in the living room and giggled as he led her away toward his car waiting outside, but her scent lingered in the room and closed in on me like the unwelcome but desperately desired high forced upon a sober addict.

I battled to focus my thoughts elsewhere and to keep my emotions neutral, but the difficulty of that struggle was all-consuming and did nothing to quell the arousal that struck me like a freight train, the aftershocks reverberating throughout my deceitful body.

As I'd just returned home from work, I feigned the need for a shower and excused myself from Jasper's company, raised eyebrows, and shocked, slack jaw to seek out my mate. My mate. My need was so great at that moment that I couldn't even think her name, but rather only that I needed to get off. Now. And I needed my mate to do that.

Fighting against visions of Bella in compromising positions, I climbed the stairs in four long strides and headed toward the master bedroom. I could hear Esme in the shower, my new destination. Esme's showers were somewhat sacred to her – it was the only time she ever truly took for herself. In all other ways, she gave herself to anyone who needed her, even when they didn't realize the need. But once a day, she took fifteen minutes for herself and secluded herself in a long, hot shower. I had never encroached on this ritual of hers, as the few times I'd hinted that I'd like to try, she had actually told me that it was her time to reflect and find serenity in being alone.

Today I didn't care. Her alone time could go fuck itself. I needed her, now, and I was going to have her.

Shaking my head of such intense, aggressive thoughts, I tried to pound back the beast and fake some semblance of control.

Having succeeded at regaining a miniscule amount of myself, I quietly opened the door to the bathroom and hurried toward the outline of feminine beauty twisting and floating behind the translucent glass of the shower door. The scene before me triggered a far-away memory of a Vaudeville burlesque show I'd attended decades before where a woman had danced with large feather fans behind a screen backlit with a bright light. It had been so arousing while at the same time innocent in the fact that I couldn't actually see anything.

That was where the similarities with this moment would change. I had to see her.

Even as she turned at the sound of my quiet approach and my scent and muttered a confused, "Carlisle?" I had the door open and was stepping into the shower behind her. She turned around, her mouth agape in surprise, as she took in the shocking image of me invading her shower time. Wild eyes, clamped jaw, and fully clothed, nonetheless.

I didn't say a word. I pushed the door shut behind me with my foot and used my body to press her back against the tile wall, caging her in with my forearms. Her eyes widened in surprise as she registered my rock-hard arousal pressing into her stomach. I didn't wait for the question; I bent my head and crushed my cold lips to hers, which were warm. I immediately associated warm lips with Bella, and the fog returned to my brain, consuming my senses with the idea of what it would be like to press against and kiss Bella this way.

My last ditch vestiges of effort to push down these crazed desires fell by the wayside as I let loose. I couldn't contain the desperate need to feel warm skin against me and around me, and I allowed my subconscious to take over and let the fantasy become reality, if just for a moment, with my wife.

I had never fantasized about sex with another woman before Bella, and thoughts of another woman had never been the focus of my senses when making love to Esme. But now, I had let the idea take root, and I couldn't stop it. I needed it. I needed the release – emotional and physical.

In the millisecond that my restraint fell away, I very literally claimed her mouth with mine. She gasped, and I used the opportunity to press and stroke and pull my tongue against hers, relieved when her tongue danced with mine just as roughly. A moan vibrated in my chest, and the tips of her breasts, now warm from the shower, pebbled in response. I pulled away from her, my eyes closed, still reveling in the fantasy that this wasn't really Esme, but the human focus of my obsession, and slipped my hands between us, sliding them up her warmed skin to her breasts, lightly rubbing my palms in circles against her nipples. My fingers itched to feel the weighty warmth I dreamed about, and I gave in and squeezed, then rubbed my thumbs back and forth. She threw her head back against the tile, tiny, hairline cracks expanding through the tile behind her head. I lunged forward, so needy to feel the expanse of warm flesh exposed at her neck.

As I licked and sucked at her neck, I rubbed my hands down her side, around and under her ass, and into the crevice between her legs. From behind, I could feel her warm, slick desire, as I stretched my fingers forward. The tips of my fingers danced there, teasing, until one long whimper escaped her. My fingers reluctantly left her soft flesh to pull off my tie, dropping it to the shower floor with a slap as she nipped and sucked at my lips. Making it through the third button of my shirt was torture, even though it barely took a second, but I never got to the fourth, as her desperate fingers, clawing to draw me closer, tore through the material like it was tissue.

My fingers seemed to act of their own accord and took that as their cue to do away with the rest of the clothes between my skin and the warm, female, wet flesh in front of me. I did manage to get my belt off without ripping it, but my pants were not so lucky, as when I leaned down to unzip them, I caught site of a nipple and my tongue couldn't help itself, lapping away like my life depended on it.

As I crouched to push them down, I felt strong fingers in my hair, beseeching me. She had never asked me. Not ever, not once. But now, now she was pleading without pushing, asking without using words. Her panting and her stance gave her desire away, and I wanted it as much as she. I dropped to my knees, quickly placed her foot on my shoulder, parted her, and fucking dove in.

She was sweet and wet and warm here, and I couldn't help my groan as it escaped me. I knew it wasn't her, as the scent was not pummeling my senses into submission, but it was so hot, nonetheless, that I had to stroke myself as I licked and sucked and groaned, just to keep the ache from killing me.

And then she was muttering words not becoming a lady, and if anything, Esme was always a lady. And it was fucking turning me on. I licked longer and with more pressure, flattening out my tongue and pushing a finger of my free hand into her, rapidly pulling out and thrusting it back in, chasing her pleasure and my own.

"Motherfucking shit, Carlisle. Now, now, now. NOW!" she screeched as she tightened around me, the first words clearly decipherable since I'd knelt before her.

I stood up and she reached down and stroked me, quickly, pulling as if pulling me toward the precipice upon which she was balanced. Her warm hand around me gave way to the last of my restraint. I could almost smell her with that warm, tight feeling around me. The thought made me so hard, I felt I would explode.

I roughly grabbed her ass, pushed her against the wall, lined her entrance up with me, and slammed her down on my cock, sending sparks through me. The growl that escaped her, so uncharacteristic a sound for my mate, surprised and egged me on. I began to thrust, bouncing her up and down on me, roughing up the wall of the shower and not giving a goddamn.

"Oh Jesus, Jesus. Please, please, please-" The words escaped on their own, in time with my thrusting rhythm. She grunted with each up and down motion, and as soon as I felt her flutter like a rhythmic vice around me, I finally let go: I let the tension of secrecy and guilt and confusion and fucking repressed lust go. And I roared as I came.

The walls shook.

My breath slowed down, my head buried in my wife's neck. For a moment, I thought myself satiated, surrounded by warm and slick and beautiful… until I realized my subconscious was still searching.

Searching her out.

The fantasy had fizzled out and left me unfulfilled, even as the last quivers of the best orgasm of my long life slid away from me. The itching to consume that smell was still alive and hadn't ceased its nagging of my insides.

I was thoroughly and royally screwed, and not in a good way. Even after the best sex of my life.

O.O

Sooooo...? Did I go there with Esme? Yes. Could the Bellisle fans out there stomach it? I hope so. I'm trying to keep our dear, sweet, tortured Carlisle as canon as I can, as I think the more canon he is in this fic, the hotter it is. Yes, I'm a deranged motherfucker, but I can't help it. It's who I am.

So, tell me: where does poor Carlisle go from here? Well, if you've read The Hummer, you alread know, don't you. Or do you...? We're still a couple of chapters away from where The Hummer starts, methinks. A lot could happen between now and then... I'd love to hear each and every theory. :)

Until next time, my Sweets. And I promise, you WILL love next time. !