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Thank you to Sunflower Fanfiction and Mari for everything.
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Stripped Desire – Chapter 16: Design
"I would venture to warn against too great intimacy with artists as it is very seductive and a little dangerous."
Queen Victoria.~
He's looking at me, and nothing has ever felt more intimate.
"You're perfect. You feel perfect," he says, while he pushes inside me.
I want to answer him, tell him he feels perfect to me too, but I can't speak. I can only tighten my hold around his shoulders.
"God, where have you been?" he asks, kissing my neck.
"Edward," I say, taking a deep breath, getting lost in his scent. "I want to—I need—"
His thrusts get faster, and he pushes my leg up, giving me exactly what I was about to ask for.
"I know," he says. "I know."
He moves harder and the air escapes my lungs in a sigh. "Oh."
"There?"
"Yes. Yes."
"I got you," he says, kissing my cheek.
I run my fingers through his hair. "Please."
"I got you," he says again.
It's a promise. Even lost in the move of our bodies and our sticky skin, I believe him.
When I fall, lost in pleasure, he catches me.
I wake up alone in his bed. I sit up quicker than I should've and get dizzy. My body aches with the delicious pain that comes after intense rounds of sex.
I have never felt this way.
Taking a deep breath, I stand up to find my things.
Edward's bedroom is as unexpected as everything else about him. The room is light, decorated in whites and silvers, looking more modern than the rest of the house. There is nothing out of place in here, except for my clothes. They stand out like a black sheep on the white couch where he's placed them.
I go to the adjoining bathroom, and refresh myself before getting dressed.
When I walk back to the bedroom, Edward's standing in the middle, shoulders tense and a frown on his face.
He relaxes when he sees me, but his frown remains.
"I have to go," I say, forcing myself to look at him.
He's wearing black pajama pants and nothing else. The Flaming June tattoo looks bright, like fire that threatens to incinerate him.
And me.
He walks closer to me, shaking his head.
"You don't have to go," he says, cupping my face with both of his hands.
I fight the urge to lean into his touch. I stay still, closing my eyes and biting my lips. Then, I feel him closer still, tangling one of his hands in my hair.
"You don't have," he says in my ear, "to pretend with me."
My breathing gets shallower and my skin starts to sweat under my clothes.
I touch his wrist with the intention of pushing him away. But the contact feels so good.
"You don't have to be in control," he says, tipping my face up, forcing me to look at him. "You can let go."
His lips are on mine before I get a chance to respond. I meet his kiss step by step, without a second thought.
It takes him seconds to have me out of my clothes.
The next time I wake, Edward's arms are wrapped around me. His head rests on my shoulder and his hair tickles my cheek.
Everything is warmth and peace.
Without thinking, I turn my face and kiss his forehead. He doesn't move, so I take the opportunity to get out of bed.
This time, I forgo my clothes and put on his shirt.
I walk to the living room, roaming around the place, touching his things with reverence.
The blankets are gone, but his desk and stool are in the same place I left them.
I go and take a look at the finished product, and gasp with what I see.
The woman on the canvas feels like someone else. Her skin looks as breakable as porcelain. The expression on her face is peaceful, but somehow full of life. The details are amazing and realistic.
I lose myself running my fingers through each painted line of my body.
"Hey," Edward says, walking in with quiet steps.
I look up at him, meeting his bewildered eyes. "Hi."
"I thought you left," he says. He looks at my wandering hand and runs his own through his hair.
I shake my head.
He walks closer to me, and stands behind me. His body heat engulfs me.
"It looks so good," I whisper.
He chuckles. I feel his breath on my neck.
"I was inspired," he says, wrapping his arms around me.
We stand in silence for a while, with me staring at the painting. A weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, making me feel unworthy.
The woman on the canvas looks as someone who's happy, loved, and free. She doesn't look like someone who's living her life inside a box, hiding underneath layers of clothes just to keep the world out.
Before I realize it, I'm gasping for breath and my eyes sting.
Edward turns my body until I face him, searching my eyes.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" he asks with worry on his tone.
"This is not me," I say, stepping out of his arms. He follows me across the living room until he can touch me again.
"Yes, it is," he says, touching my face. "I see you. I see the real you. Strong, determined, scared, human."
I look at his eyes, so vibrant and alive. "Let me make you breakfast, yes?" he says, kissing my forehead before leading me toward the kitchen.
"Okay."
"I don't know anything about you," I say while eating the fruit salad Edward made.
He smiles. "That has been killing you, hasn't it?" I roll my eyes. "Ask me anything," he says. "I'm an open book."
I laugh because that couldn't be farther away from the truth. He's a puzzle to me. Sometimes I think I know exactly who he is and then he proves me wrong.
Edward is the guy who looks at me like I'm something to eat, but touches me with such care it leaves me breathless.
He pushes my buttons until I'm raging and then learns my coffee order and makes me breakfast.
He's passionate, seeming to care too much about some things and not enough about others. It's a weird thing for me to witness, having been around people who are on one end of the extreme.
I consider his words, taking my time before speaking.
"Where are you from?" I ask, when it hits me that I don't know the most basic things about him.
He takes a sip of juice before answering.
"I was born in Seattle, spent my childhood there. Then, I moved to Forks, Washington where I spent my teenage years. I went to Berkley University with a scholarship, but I lost it, so I came to NYU. When I graduated, I went to explore Europe. The twentysomething life crisis is easier with a nice view." He smiles.
"Why did you lose your scholarship?" I ask. I've always considered him to be smart, but I didn't know he had been good enough to earn a scholarship. Now I'm curious about why he lost it.
"I wasn't good with deadlines," he says.
It's not a sore subject, his tone is calm, but the smile is gone from his face and he's not looking at me. We eat in silence for a minute or two before I talk again.
"How old are you?"
"I'm 28."
I nod. He doesn't ask me anything about my life. I don't offer information. We finish eating and he clears the table, denying my help.
I sit on the counter and watch him go around the kitchen, almost blinded by the light that radiates off him.
In his house, after what has happened between us, it feels impossible to try and deny how I feel. I'm attracted to him like a moth to a flame, and it's not about lust.
It goes deeper than that and it scares me. I've been terrified of him since I met him, because I know.
My life has changed completely.
Where do I go from here?
How can I even pretend that I'm not dying for him?
"Hey," Edward says, stepping between my legs and taking my hands in his. "Come back."
I look up at him, then at our hands.
"Edward, I need to go home," I say, getting to my feet.
He steps back, pulling me with him. "I know."
Our joined hands make me feel connected to him. We sigh at the same time, both aware of the complicated aftermath.
"Let me go," I say, making no effort to release him.
He pulls me in for a hug, and speaks to the top of my head. "I don't want to."
His hold tightens and I let him.
Thank you so much for the support. It has been too much.
See you next time.
xo.