Chapter 15

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The ride back home that night, after my heart-to-heart with Edward, passes by in a hazy blur. My body drives itself mindlessly, while my brain picks apart the delicate task of talking to Ava about her daddy. Despite my body and my mind, my heart flutters on, hope and history giving it an extra beat on occasion.

I learned to deal with hardships at an early age. Life handed me a bundle that I wasn't prepared for and I did the only thing I knew how to do: I faced it head-on and gave it my all.

These days, my hardships look like an older, more mature Edward Cullen, and despite my heart still wearing the battle scars from the last time it opened up and let him in, I'm ready once again to face it head-on and give it my all. Only time will tell what this means—for me, for her, for us—but I know friendship, and eventually, co-parenting, sound like a pretty great start.

The thing about being a mama, though, is that you'd rather die than watch your child suffer. There is literally nothing I won't do to protect my girl. And so I'm torn. Equal parts excited about letting Ava in on the secret she doesn't even know I've been keeping and, conversely, terrified to my very core that he'll hurt her or expose the secrets of her accidental creation that will make her feel unwanted or unloved. Because, admittedly, she was unexpected, but she was never unwanted or unloved. I wanted her from the very first moment, when proof of her existence was simply two pink lines on a little plastic stick.

The first time Edward snuck into my room things were hot and fast. That seems to be the way it works with us. Escalating quickly, our time together is too taboo to do much more than take, take, take. What was previously a small flame flickering between the two of us has ignited into a full-blown fire. I can't get enough of him. Ever. Likewise, he seems to have made it his mission to introduce me to what it feels like to touch and be touched, and to allow my body to soar sky-high. For once, I'm grateful for his past experiences. I hate thinking about how he gathered his knowledge, but my body can't deny its pleasure in the way he knows exactly how to touch and feel and taste me.

I lose my head when we're together like that; sharing kisses and touches, the passing of hands under shirts and inside of pants. His presence makes my head swim. I can't think straight when he's in my bed, under me, over me, using me up. The heavy weight of his body is my drug. The way he holds me tightly with one hand and maps my skin with the other, my addiction. There's the suck-suck-pull of his kisses, and the way he sighs when I scratch my nails through his hair. There's the deep groans that pass through his chest and into mine when he squeezes my hip and grinds his body into mine. It's too much, too intense, too perfect.

My brother teases me about my "crush" on his friend. "Getting fancy for Edward, Birdie?" he mocks, when I'm in the bathroom primping and pruning. My Edward-induced awkwardness makes it perfectly clear how I feel about my brother's best friend, but Edward is as smooth as silk—always confident, never wavering—and it's because of him that Emmett has no clue about us; about how my body rises and peaks for Edward's hands while he's pushing them into and around me behind my closed bedroom door.

Emmett's "entertaining" Jessica in the pool one Saturday evening while our parents clean out the garage, organizing their camping gear and gathering supplies for their upcoming trip. Lauren has stopped coming around, which makes Edward the odd man out as far as Emmett is concerned.

"We're going swimming, Ed," he announced earlier, after Jess had shown up in yet another thinly-strung bikini. "You coming?" My brother grabbed three towels from the basket of folded clothes on top of the dryer and pulled Jess towards the back door.

Edward was sprawled out on our living room couch, his legs thrown wide, the remote control balanced precociously on his flat stomach. A baseball game droned on, and the overhead fan made a click-click-click noise from up above as it tried desperately to push cooler air down to us. I sat opposite Edward with one eye on my book, and one eye on the boy who made my palms sweat and my heart gallop. Edward's eyes didn't leave the television as he tilted his head back and shouted back to my brother, "Nah, I'm good. Go on ahead." Emmett threw the extra towel back into the basket, a waded mess at this point, and shrugged his shoulders. Jessica's high-pitched giggle bounced off the tiled floor as he lead her outside and away from us.

And that's how I ended up with Edward—alone—on a sweaty, summer Saturday night.

After Emmett and Jess have gone we sit in companionable silence for a bit. I can feel his eyes on me from across the living room, and I'm aware of his every breath. I'm aware of his everything.

"We should get ice-cream," he says eventually, still not looking away from the screen.

I hum noncommittally and softly close my book, placing it beside me on the cushion. I'm a complete mess, but it can't be helped in this heat. My bare thighs stick to the leather couch under the hem of my cut-off shorts, and they make a sticky popping sound as I shift my legs. I bask in the feel of Edward's stare as he finally turns his head away from the TV to look at me. Pulling my hair tie off my wrist, I gather my sweaty hair up into a messy knot on the top of my head, watching Edward as his eyes lift to take in the sight of my bare arms stretched high above me.

He raises his eyebrows in silent question. "You wanna?"

Securing my hair with one final twist, I shrug my shoulders and move to stand. "Sure," I say, tugging my shorts down from where they've ridden up. "Do you want me to ask Emmett to drive us?"

Edward grabs the remote and silences the TV, then tosses it down on the couch before standing and raising his arms above his head in a long stretch. My eyes flutter-drop to the band of his boxers and the trail of hair that leads into them. It just might be my favorite spot on his entire body. Relaxing his arms, he digs into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a ring of keys, jingling them lightly. "I've got my mom's car tonight. I'll drive."

I've never ridden in a car with Edward driving. I didn't even know he could drive, but I don't question him as I follow him through the front door and out onto the street where a sleek, silver Volvo sits snuggly against the curb. Edward hits a padded button on one of the keys, and the car gives a little "chirp" as its doors unlock. Climbing in, I look around at the expensive-looking interior while he jogs to the driver's side and lowers himself into his seat. He spins his hat around backward and buckles his seatbelt. The way he looks behind the wheel—his jaw strong and sharp, his long legs wide apart—makes my stomach flutter. How is it that he's here with me?

Edward looks at me and smirks playfully. "All good?" He raises his eyebrows in question.

Suddenly feeling shy to be alone with him in this small space, I smile softly at him. "All good."

Edward drives us to the nearest ice-cream shop, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while the other grips my thigh. He squeezes me gently each time he prepares to stop or turn, and I feel so utterly complete in this bubble with him that it's easy to pretend that this could all be real someday. Edward and Bella. Bella and Edward. Just us; no past, no insecurities, no pesky older brothers. I smile at the thought.

I sit on his lap outside the store while we share a sundae, giggling as he licks sticky, fallen drops off my fingers. It's a useless battle, eating ice-cream in these nighttime temps, but I'm too caught up in the feel of his firm thighs under mine and the pressure of his warm palm on my hip to care. I've never been openly affectionate in public with him...with anyone...before, and I'm surprised by how much I love feeling his hands on me; always touching, rubbing, holding. He's very giving with his affection, and although I like what he does to my body's most secret places, I think maybe I love his light touches best.

We lick the last, sweet drops from the bottom of the plastic cup and Edward pats my butt lightly, telling me to stand. Tossing our trash, we make our way back to his car hand-in-hand. He tugs on my arm just as I'm reaching to open my door and spins me around so that I'm caught between him and the car, my back pressed firmly against the glass, my front pressed firmly against him. Dropping his head, he flips his hat around and pushes my hair back with his nose, running his closed lips up and down the column of my neck softly. His breath is warm, but his lips are ice-cream cold. Edward's hand on my hip pulls me closer, aligning our bodies so that we're pressed together, and my stomach jumps at the feel of his hardness against my belly. He hums quietly, face still buried in the side of my neck. "You smell good."

My eyes are closed, and every bit of focus I have is concentrated on the feel of his lips at my ear and his hips at my hips. My head drops back against the car window, and I wrap my arms around his waist, sticking my hands under the hem of his shirt and scratching my nails lightly over the warm skin I find there.

"Yeah?" My voice is nearly breathless.

"Yeah. Like vanilla." He nips the thin skin under my ear lightly with his teeth, and my hips roll against his in response. I run my hands higher under his shirt and scratch my nails harder against his skin. His warm body makes me crazy, and I could lose my mind at the feels-so-good way his words get lost against my neck. Pulling his hips back slightly, he adjusts his stance so that his legs are spread wider; his long, tall body framing my smaller one. Edward places a few, sweet kisses on the corner of my mouth before pulling back to meet my eyes. His greens flicker back and forth between my browns before he lowers his lips to mine and kisses me breathless. Open mouthed and needy, I pull against his faded t-shirt, missing the weight of his body and wanting him back. When he leans against me this time, we're warm center-to-center, and I inhale a sharp breath at the feel of him, hard and long and hot, pressed exactly where I need him most.

"Fuck," he breathes. Then, "fuck," softly once more. His hand on my hip squeezes me, making me to grind against him. It feels so blessedly good, and all I can think is that I have to have more. More, more, more. I have to get closer. I lift my leg over the side of his so that we're aligned even closer, tighter, harder, and he slides his arm underneath and grips my upper thigh.

"We can't—," he chokes out, breaking his connection with my lips. "Not here."

I'm spun-dizzy and reeling, my eyes heavy lidded and my chest heaving harshly. I stare at him in lust-filled wonderment, my heart painfully tugging at the sight of his beautifully flushed face. He's right, even though my mind was too fuzzy to make sense of it myself, he's right. We can't do this here, in the parking lot of our small town's ice-cream shop.

Laughing in embarrassment, I smooth my hair back into place and adjust the hem of my shorts. Edward kisses my mouth softly once more and reaches around me to open my car door, waiting patiently until I'm seated and strapped in before shutting it and returning to his side. He winces painfully as he folds into his seat, reaching between his legs to adjust the proof of our parking lot antics. A blush rises up my chest and to my cheeks, but for once it's not the result of shame. It's pride. I did that to him.

Edward slings his arm around the back of my seat and looks over his shoulder as he throws the car in reverse, taking us back to my house.

"You're making me lose my mind," he says, glancing over at me quickly. He puts his hand on my thigh again, but unlike the earlier car ride it feels suggestive and not at all innocent. Our parking lot make-out session has left me feeling desperate and unsatisfied, and the weight of his palm on my leg causes me to shift in my seat, searching for friction.

"Me," I laugh, feigning innocence. "What am I doing?"

He shakes his head and smiles a secret smile; one that tells of roaming hands under covers and quick kisses behind closed doors. "Those shorts," he says, running his hand up my thigh and tugging on the loose strings hanging from the bottom of my cutoffs. "They make me crazy."

My breath catches when he pushes his fingers up and under my frayed hem, and I stop breathing altogether when his fingers brush against my cotton panties. He rubs small circles over my wet center with one hand while he navigates the steering wheel with the other. I love the look of concentration on his face—the way his eyebrows come together and how his pink lips pucker—and I lean my head back against my headrest to watch him while he touches me.

"Always so fucking wet," he groans, his voice a needy plea. "That makes me crazy, too." I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead in the lights from the car's dash and how his strong jaw is tight with tension

It's too much...it's all just too much. His hand is on me but he's too far away. I miss his heat and his weight. I miss his lips. "Pull over," I breathe. "Pull over."

Thanks for reading.