Practice stretches into early evening. Long enough for Dad to do something he never does: text. I tell him I'll be home soon. Edward tells the boys they had a good practice and talks about the game on Friday. It's two hours away. Rain sputters as I begin to pack the equipment. Light. Heavy. Pouring. We are soaking. The boys run to the school, stripping their shirts from their backs, hooting, hollering, pushing each other in the newly-forming puddles. I'm stuck dragging equipment, and Emmett has left the water this time.
Take breaths. Try to remain calm. I'll have to bring my truck down from the parking lot. I didn't sign up for this. I leave the packed equipment under the safety of the dug-out's roof. Edward runs into me when I round the corner to exit on the stairs.
"Sorry," he says, our bodies moving away from the collide.
"The equipment is going to get wet." I pant. It's not from exertion. I look around instinctively. No one is left here. No bodies or eyes to spy our interaction. He notices, too. The back of the field leads to trees. The side is an empty lot. Behind us, the school, where the army marched off into the rain.
He takes it a step further and peeks out of the dug-out to the school. I want to look for my sanity, but before I can step around him he's in front of me again. The rain surrounds us, keeps us. I smell his cologne in the close air. Spicy, velvet earth turning inside my head.
Edward's index finger picks up mine. We freeze mid-air as it runs up my forearm, this barely-there touch feels heavy. Smooth as it hits my shoulder and pushes my straying bra-strap back into place under my tank-top. He looks around again. So do I. We satisfy the urge to step closer. His palm touches my neck. Fire thrusts into me. I burn gently. Pure heroine. I lose a breath. Another hand on my waist. His eyes envelope.
"Are you scared?" I ask him.
He nods. "Yes."
"I won't tell if you won't."
"That's not comforting," he says. His grip loosens on my side. His thumb tickles my hip under my shirt. "If we're caught I would never be able to teach again. My wife would divorce me."
I cringe at the mention of consequences. "My dad would kill you."
"And that."
His lips hover so close. I tilt. He towers. I tempt. "Then don't do it."
His palm moves from my neck to my cheek. Fingers skirt the hair away from my forehead, hanging onto the damp from rain and sweat. "I'm trying." He grins, but doesn't. "This is my restraint." His lips touch my forehead, surpassing mine.
"You're not doing a good job," I say into the fresh stubble on his chin. My tongue-tip slides out to touch. I'm unsure, but I'm high on him. It just touches his skin. A moan slips under his breath. I've never done such a thing. It's instinctive. I do it again along his throat, wondering the reaction.
He moans again, shifting closer. "You have to stop, Bella."
But his voice says the exact opposite.
"Why?" I know why.
"What you're doing...that isn't good for either of us." He's panting now over my head.
I lick again. His collarbone is mine for the taking. He hums. I conquer the king. His cheek is against my hair, spiraling toward my face. The rain sounds on. Our lips are parallel, breaths hot. His fingers squeeze my waist. Fire engulfs me, wastes all other things when his lips near mine. He's slow and torturing. I'm fast and satisfying. I push my lips to his because fuck it. Our touch lasts this way for the briefest milli of a millisecond.
It gives me heat then extinguishes all I have. He pants then takes a single step away, shakes his head. "We can't. Not here."
Tense. Shaking. Mouth open. I'm disgusted with myself. I've let myself bloom before him. Unguarded. "You should've thought about that before you touched me." I disperse, allowing the rain to take me, cool me. It masks the few tears on my cheek as he calls after me.
I don't turn back.