Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns all.
Rated M for several reasons.
Chapter 16 Crazy
BPOV
We're silent in the car, both of as looking out of the windows at the passing scenery, our only contact where his hand has flattened mine into the leather of the seat between us.
Occasionally I catch the driver looking at us in his mirror and eventually it dawns on me that the probably thinks we're in the throes of a titanic falling out because we're so still and silent.
If only he knew.
The lights of the city give way to darkness and there's nowhere I can look out of the windows without seeing Edward reflected back at me.
I suppose I'd already made a decision of sorts when I agreed to come here, the decision not to make one yet, to see where Edward's taking this. Rose will roll her eyes, hell even I want to roll my eyes but what conversation exactly does she expect me to start with him? We have no history of defining our relationship, we just are, and I don't see a good enough reason to rock that particular boat yet.
...
He doesn't speak as he follows me up the creaky wooden stairs to his apartment but I can feel his eyes on me. See them in the black glass as I make way across the gloom of the apartment to stand in front of one of the windows and he stops on the rag rug, throwing his jacket onto the couch.
I can't read the expression on his composed face like this but then he probably can't read mine either.
Nevertheless despite the cool air of the open space my body starts to heat in anticipation.
"You drive me crazy." The velvet of his voice is almost a caress, despite the gravelly edge. "You always have. I can't read your mind Bella, you have to tell me what you want."
I turn and walk toward him while he watches me like a hawk.
Without saying a word I focus on his bow tie as I undo it, letting the ends hang down onto his chest, transferring my attention to the buttons of his dress shirt. He doesn't speak but I see his silver necklace move as he swallows. I undo all the buttons before I push the shirt aside to frame his chest, placing my splayed hands on his warm pecs and leaning in to press a soft kiss to his sternum. He shivers and I look up at him through my lashes as I push the shirt from his shoulders and down his arms. I haven't removed his cuff links so it hangs from his wrists, the merest suggestion of trapping him in place.
His eyes are dark in his face, almost black.
Now I focus on his belt, unsnapping it and sliding it free from the loops before dropping it to the rug, leaning in to kiss his chest again, swirling my tongue across his skin to taste him this time earning myself another shiver and a quiet moan.
Then I undo the button and slide down the fly of his pants, freeing them from his hips to slip to the floor where he kicks them off with his shoes.
His dark green boxers strain toward me, capturing my attention and I float my palm lightly over them, noting the wetness seeping through the silk, his hiss and the flutter that travels through his abdominal muscles.
When I look up at his face again I suck in an involuntary breath but I'm not done showing him some of the things that have changed about me so I turn and walk back to the window, watching him watching me in the black glass, reaching up to release my hair from its pins, shaking it out and down my back, keeping my eyes on his the whole time. He may have moaned again, he always loved my hair, loved the feel of it when it brushed his skin . . . . and I smile as it swishes against mine.
He's not smiling though, as I continue my little act. Arms snaking back to unzip my dress, one coming forward to hold it in place across my chest, hair shaken out again until I'm certain he hasn't failed to notice that I'm not wearing a bra. Then I let it go, enjoying the whisper of silk and the puff of air as it drops to the floor. My hands fall to my sides and I don't step out of it as his eyes leave mine to rake over my naked body, front and back, lingering on my stockings and suspenders.
Impatiently I wait for his eyes to return to mine, and then I lick my lips.
He crosses the room in three long strides, coming to an abrupt halt right behind me. The light brush of warm skin against my back, damp silk and his breath on my neck all makes me shiver this time.
Desire. Mine and his.
Holding my eyes he yanks his hands roughly free of the shirt, cufflinks bouncing away on the floorboards as his hands come to rest on my shoulders, thumbs kneading me gently.
"Fucking. Crazy." He growls, grip tightening briefly before one hand glides up to curl around my neck, sliding up under my hair and the other reaches round to cup my breast, longer fingers brushing over my nipple slowly and gently. He leans down and traces the tip of his tongue along my skin, following the line of the diamonds, watching my reaction in the window pane.
I shiver and bite my lip.
"Everything about you draws me in." He murmurs, voice huskier now. "Your skin, your scent, the way you react to my touch."
I moan as his fingers tweak me almost painfully.
"I want to take my time, savour you, enjoy you, make love to you, but you drive me absolutely fucking crazy."
And he sweeps me up in his arms, carrying me over to the bed and all but throwing me on it, standing over me with his nostrils flared, visibly struggling for control.
Holy shit! There aren't words, or thoughts, or . . . .
In complete contradiction to what my last addled brain was expecting he leans forward, slowly, and undoes the straps of my 'fuck me' heels. Sliding the shoes from my feet and negligently tossing them somewhere into the darkness, possibly to mate with his cufflinks.
Then he kneels on the bed and runs his hands up my legs, dragging the silk stockings over my skin until he reaches the clasps and begins to set them free, hands reaching under my thighs to unsnap them there.
My eyes are focussed on the bronze mess on the top of his head, my fingers itching to twist into it but as curiously passive as the rest of me.
He glances up, all deep dark eyes, as he begins to roll the stockings down my legs, but only briefly.
Its slow, erotic, torture, especially when he pauses to presses his lips chastely against the emerging skin.
Finally he's done, standing again to free himself from his boxers and toe off his socks. Staring into my eyes the whole time, climbing onto the bed and sinuously making his way up my body, hairs tickling my hyper sensitive skin, wide shoulders looming over me in the dim light. And he covers me, body heat banishing the chill from my skin, lips hovering over mine, fingers twirling languidly in my hair.
"I'm going to kiss you now." He informs me.
And he does. Slow. Lazy. Thorough.
My arms wind around him, fingers clutching his neck and pushing into his hair. His thumbs move to caress the skin of my neck, under my ear. And it's me that deepens the kiss, spills the consuming need into it, sets our tongues duelling, our bodies writhing . . . .
And when we're forced to break away for air he attacks my neck, my collar bones, my breasts, my ribs, my stomach, my hips.
He stops, lavishing strokes of his tongue and nips of his teeth on my hip bones, my pubic bone. Building the tension, the anticipation, until my legs wrap around him of their own accord, pushing him downward.
I feel him first as his low chuckle blows air onto me, but it's enough to send one of my hands into his hair and the other diving into the sheets . . . .
A soft kiss. Hands pushing, lifting, placing my thighs over his shoulders. One reaching back up the bed to tangle and clasp his fingers with mine, the other curling under me to grip my hip . . . .
His tongue, warm, wet, yet sharp against me. Kissing, nipping, flattened or strobing. But so slowly I feel like I've been lying here, trembling all over, clenching his fingers with mine, for a blissfully torturous eternity. Moaning and whimpering, painfully aware of the chilled air tugging at the bumps that have broken free on my skin . . . .
"Edward . . . ." I protest, groan, plead, encourage.
The hand on my hip slides back beneath me, snaking between my legs, one finger sliding inside me, then two. Pumping, curling, matching the increased tempo of his tongue on my clit.
"Jesus." I gasp, writhing. "Fuck. Edward . . . ."
Climbing, peaking, soaring, falling into a sea of superheated exploding stars.
By the time I come back to myself he's crawling and kissing his way slowly up my body, pausing to lavish attention on my gratified breasts, my collar bones, my throat.
And then presses me into the bed and slants his mouth down over mine, hungry and demanding. And you'd think I hadn't already been pleasured to the point of inertia, the way I react . . . . I usually hate the taste of myself, but on him, oh god on him . . . .
He rolls us over easily, propping himself up on the pillows and positioning me across his hips so I can feel him, his hands lightly stroking my thighs, waiting, watching . . . .
I reach forward, using my nails to rake over his chest and down his abs, loving the way his muscles dance and he hisses, involuntarily bucking his hips into me. I grind down and he hisses again, his fingers digging into my skin. So I fight them, successfully rising up and leaning forward to trail my hair over him while my lips search out his, my breasts brushing his chest. His hands leave my legs, tangling into my hair, fastening my mouth to his so he can plunge his tongue inside.
He's such a good kisser that I can easily lose myself in it but his hips rolling purposefully beneath mine remind me, compel me and I pull back, rising up and taking him in my hand. There's no hiss as I stroke up and down him, just a long drawn out groan that sends his eyes rolling back into his head.
"Bella . . . ." He grinds out, from husky to hoarse, head hanging back as he rests on his elbows. "Fucking . . . . torturing . . . . me . . . ."
Us.
I guide him to where we both want him to be and sink down on him slowly my own eyes closing at the almost agonising sensation as I yield to accept him. When our hips are flush I tighten around him instinctively, feeling him jolt inside me in response and when I open my eyes again he's staring into them, like he's been waiting . . . .
I rest my hands on his body as we begin to roll our hips, grinding into each other over and over, slow, sensuous, maddening, deep, surprising. There's something so intense . . . . intimate . . . . about the unbroken eye contact . . . . overwhelming . . . . I'm like a volcano . . . . already clearing its throat to sing when Edward begins to thrust up into me with more urgency, one hand rising to curl around my neck and bring my mouth down to his . . . . the desperate kiss urging me to plant my hands on his shoulders and ride him in earnest . . . . rising and falling together . . . .
We both moan when the kiss breaks but I can't . . . . he can't . . . . molten rock is roiling in my abdomen, spitting fireballs with every increasingly frantic meeting of our hips . . . . the hand that's curled around my neck shifts into my hair, pulling my head back so that I have to look into his eyes . . . . and it's too much . . . . the smell of us, the feel of us, those eyes . . . . the volcano erupts . . . . obliterating everything with a flash of scorching heat . . . . including Edward . . . . who buries himself deep, using his strength to seal us together . . . . spilling inside me . . . . wrapping his arms around me as we shudder and cry out . . . . bringing me down onto his chest . . . . pressing my cheek against his rapidly beating heart . . . . gasping my name . . . .
...
I wake up, warm all over, to a lazy sleep humping.
Bless his horny little self.
Rolling over I ease him away from me, loving the frowny pout that appears on his now stubbly face and the way his heavy arm just finds another way to mash me into the bed. Not that I feel compelled to escape this time. Instead I close my eyes and snuggle into his chest.
...
When I wake again it's to the enticing aroma of wafted coffee . . . .
"Mmm . . . ."
"Less 'mmm' and more sitting up." He laughs. "Wafting equals cooling."
Grumbling I struggle upright, remembering I'm naked when his eyes drop to my breasts.
"Do you mind?" I huff, taking the mug but not covering myself up.
"About as much as you do." He says, getting comfortable beside me with his own mug.
I tug the sheet up with my free hand and he reaches over and tugs it down again, laughing.
I tug it back up, laughing.
He tugs it back down, smirking.
And then suddenly it's not funny as he takes the mug out of my hands and sets it on the nightstand with his . . . .
...
He drives me to the airport in silence.
Not uncomfortable, but not comfortable either.
Just, heavy . . . . and separate . . . .
...
We stand, side by side, at my departure gate.
It's awkward, but maybe that's just me, because I can admit, to myself, that I don't want to leave. Go back. At least not yet.
When my flight is called he gathers me, abruptly, into his arms.
"If I kiss you now it's going to be in all the newspapers tomorrow." He murmurs as he looks down at me, hands rubbing my back.
I don't know what to say, how to answer this unspoken question either, so I close my eyes and offer myself up to the gods, shivering when I feel his breath on my face . . . . and then his lips on mine . . . . and then the quicksand closing over my head . . . .