Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)

A/N: So Edward and Rosalie almost kissed… or something. Let's see what's going on in his head.

Chapter 09: A Near-Miss?

Edward's POV

Idling on the sofa where Rosalie left me, I run a shaky hand through my hair, resisting the urge to yank it out from the root. My body is afire with an unrequited sensation, one made more potent by its unfamiliarity.

Behind my weary lids, I see my temptress with perfect clarity.

And the vision sends my unbeating heart into a gallop.

This is not good.

Not in the least.

"It's lovely, Esme." Rosalie lifts the robe from the box. "Thank you for thinking of me."

"Of course," Mrs. Cullen beams as Rosalie holds the soft yellow fabric up to her body.

Her body.

The soft, sensuous body she was preparing to offer me not five minutes ago.

My eyes fly open, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

I am wrong.

Wrong in every possible respect.

And quickly losing the will to be righted.

"You know how these functions go," the doctor's wife says as her daughter follows her to the second floor master suite. "Carlisle charms, I smile, someone does something inappropriate, and we all go home and gossip about it until the next gathering."

"I remember them well."

"I'll bet you do," Mrs. Cullen laughs at her daughter's roll of the eyes.

Dangerous red eyes searing a hole in my soul.

Desire-filled eyes beckoning me toward a blissful shore.

The thought attacks my body, eliciting an involuntary groan.

Calm yourself this instant.

Do you want to be discovered?

"May I help you get ready?" Rosalie asks with sudden interest. "I know my way around a brush and comb."

Esme doesn't notice the falsity in her cheer. "That would be wonderful!"

'What is he doing up there? Does he know what his voice does to me? Do I know? What is happening between us? Did I imagine that just now? Could it be that... no! You said 'not now,' and you don't go back on your word. So focus on Esme and think about, I mean, deal with Edward later.'

I cannot help but smile at her train of thought, engorging on her struggle.

"Will there be cocktails first?" Rosalie opens Esme's chiffon robe, shaking off her thoughts. "You wouldn't want to be overdressed."

"I'm not sure. The late invitation was rather vague."

'I should excuse myself. I should excuse myself, go upstairs, and deal with this...this whatever it is with Edward. Instead I'm hiding down here like a skittish child behind her mother's skirt.'

In spite of my amused curiosity, I pull back from Rosalie's mind and try to reassemble myself.

Doubting I am fit for the task.

As I replay the previous six minutes in my mind, I am stunned by my selfishness.

Rosalie exposes her deepest wounds, and I respond with the need to kiss them.

Rosalie begs my help in taking her revenge, and I find myself begging for something else altogether.

I am a fiend.

A creature wholly unfit to exist.

I deserve such censure and more for my desires.

And yet...

'Edward... please...'

The breathy plea hovers about my face, baptizing me with the aroma of her allure.

And I am powerless to escape it.

I did not imagine her wishes.

She was under no compulsion to act.

A woman wholly in control of herself.

Yet she led me there.

Led me, met me, and left me at the first opportunity.

Is Esme solely to blame or had Rosalie been seeking an out?

The confusion churns in the pit of my stomach, nauseating me.

I should know better than this.

Be better than this.

For even in the darkest crevasse of my soul, I do not believe any good could result from such...

Folly?

Entertainment?

Intimacy?

The last word sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine, sobering me.

I can scarcely abide a twelve-second conversation with my so-called sister.

The prospect of sharing deeper sentiments is entirely reprehensible.

And yet...

My name on her lips.

The longing in her whisper.

I cannot forget.

Nor do I wish to.

And as the memory of her voice burrows deeper into my core, I become physically aware of the most unstable element in this situation.

An element my soul has yet to discover.

The element of lust.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that vampires are unacquainted with restraint.

(Save my unerringly moral maker)

If we bite a human, then we must drain her dry.

If we engage in battle, then we must fight to the death.

And if we dabble in desire, then we must consummate.

Consummate.

From the verb 'to consume.'

If I kiss Rosalie...if our lips meet for the briefest of moments...then I must have her.

Conquer her.

Devour her.

Consume her without apology.

An audacious spark of desire flares within my belly, and I shudder in dual response.

It is a power to be coveted, a thing to be feared.

Laying such a claim to Rosalie can be nothing but risky.

She is not my mate.

Barely my acquaintance.

But should I possess her, I would never let her go.

I would crave her incessantly, bed her indiscriminately.

Own her perpetually.

Exposing not only myself to the perils of dependence, but subjecting her to an eternity of subjugation, of being dominated by something robust and capricious.

And in so doing, even with her consent, I would be no better than a rogue stealing from her body what he does not want from her heart.

Were I to stoop so low, I would be no better than him.

I turn toward the broken window, a new prospect forming.

I do not have to stay here.

I could run away.

I could flee this house and never look back.

I could send the Cullens a telegram from wherever I land.

Madagascar.

New Zealand.

Some place on the other side of the globe, to be sure.

I could say domesticity no longer suits me, that I have been seduced by the lure of adventure.

The seduction part would certainly be true...

The girls are finished now, the result of their cooperation most visible in Mrs. Cullen's sparkling eyes. Regardless of the night's outcome, she has already experienced its highlight.

"You look beautiful, Esme."

"Thank you, dear." She twirls in the mirror, eyeing the sheen on the fabric. "Do you think Carlisle will like it?"

"I think you could wear a grizzly bear carcass and Carlisle would like it."

Their feminine banter continues, and my frozen heart constricts in my chest.

Despite my infallible reasoning, I know my leaving again would cause Esme great pain.

Her husband would fare no better.

And their daughter...

What would she make of my departure?

Would she realize I am leaving to save her?

Would she know I am upholding my private vow to keep her safe?

Would she care I am gone?

I stalk toward the window, alerted to a notable hitch in Rosalie's mental resolve.

'I wonder what he's thinking right now, if he's thinking of me at all. I wonder if I have been further abased in his estimation. Or if he truly despises me now...'

My sense of serenity immediately recedes.

Further abased?

Truly despises?

Has my behavior reduced her to such musings?

"Are you sure you won't come?" The inquiry is all politeness; it would be impossible for a newborn. "There will be a few young ladies your age in attendance."

"Thank you," comes the expected reply, "but I am sure to find sufficient distraction here."

"Indeed." Mrs. Cullen adjusts her shawl. "Perhaps you and Edward can distract each other."

We both flinch at her phrasing, though Rosalie must do so internally.

"The chess set is in Carlisle's study," Esme continues. "And I believe the playing cards are in the top drawer of the bureau in the salon. I do not encourage betting against Edward, but engage him as you wish."

"Thank you," Rosalie manages. "Perhaps we will try our hand at something."

"I hope you will, dear," the doctor's wife replies. "He can be difficult to read at times, but I think you could help each other or provide some temporary comfort at the very least."

Rosalie says nothing, knowing any reply would extend this monologue far beyond what is tolerable. But the double-entendre does not escape her notice, and she nearly gasps at her new mother's suggestion.

Although I am surprised Mrs. Cullen would speak so boldly within my hearing, her well-meant musings are the least of my concerns.

Rosalie thinks I despise her.

That she is demeaned in my eyes.

I concede I have done little more than ignore her since our disastrous first conversation in the field.

And that repudiation may have had some negative effect.

But for her to believe I despise her is unspeakable.

And I cannot possibly leave with such a lie between us.

But how to amend?

If I reveal she is not the bane of my existence, would I not raise her hopes of something more?

If I confess I treat her harshly to protect myself, would she not then compare me to him?

And would I not deserve it?

This cannot be borne.

I must speak with her.

Alone.

As if in answer to my tacit wishes, the doctor's thoughts come into range. He should arrive within a few minutes and whisk away his bride shortly thereafter.

And then, we will talk.

I will talk to Rosalie and put this situation to bed.

A vivid image accompanies my word choice, and I swallow another groan.

Perhaps I should rephrase...

Ah, nothing like some good ol' Edwardian angst, eh?

Thanks for reading! xo