Both hands on my face he pulls me into him. Our kiss is gentle, unsure at first, but rocks into bursts of confidence. Tangling, swaying, we never faulter. He tastes of strawberry balm. The kind he often uses when he thinks no one is looking. It tints his lips slightly pink. His palms on my cheeks arrest so I can never pull away. The ring on his finger is cool against my cheek. When I wrap my arms around him I no longer feel it. Fingers move to my waist, rippling against my clothes. My teeth pull his bottom lip causing him to pant. I love it. Adore it. Crave it. I keep him there, caressing his tongue with mine. He moans again because it's the first for us. We turn and I'm against the board, pinned by his waist. His finger tilts my chin, other hand caresses my side. I pray he doesn't stop. I pray for time to stand still, to absolve and surrender to our embrace. He moans and adjusts, kissing me fresh and sharp until we are no longer touching. I open my eyes and see him stepping away, shocking fingers through his hair and clearing his throat.
I don't ask questions, I simply step to and turn him around again, shoving myself against his frontal, wanting more. He whispers, "Bella." Shoves fingers into my hair and kites us around the front lab table where he often performs labs for us. I'm on display, now, under him.
He tries to pull away, but I rope my hands around his neck. "Please," I whisper.
"You have to get to class. We'll have all afternoon together." His lips are still against mine, and we draw to a close. An agreement that it will pick up where we left off.
"One more." I lean into the lab table, the black counter cool on my elbows as I rest there, waiting, eying, tempting. Eyes through those frames, he pushes them onto his bridge further then approaches. It isn't with the passion I want. It's calm, thoughtful, taking my chin and lifting me to him, touching gentle lips to fervent seduction. He's soft, full, wholesome, sweet. My upper between his, he finishes me off, but I want more. I can barely stand the ache weighing me downward.
"I'll see you during sixth," he says.
My day is bound by fog. At lunch, I look to him and he regards me with bursts of shortness. When well-earned free study comes around, I'm not sure how I will get away from Ms. Kirby, the librarian. My role there has been consistent. I decide to drop off my stuff and busy myself between the shelves until the halls are clear. While she's in the back, I sneak out and knock on Edward's door.
He opens and ushers me in, closing, locking us inside. I want to consume, devour, conquer, but instead he pecks my head and says, "I want to talk first."
What's an affair if we have to talk?