He furls me into his arms, leaving no part of his embrace to the imagination. He's inside my lungs, sitting beautifully until I breathe him out. If lust has a smell, it's him. The sweet masculinity, a vile, obscene episode of my fantasies. Those arms are fantastic and strong, holding me so close I feel I would suffocate, but gladly. I allow myself one phrase I shouldn't speak: "I missed you."
I feel his smile in my hair, the unmistakable lift and pull. "Let's take my car," he says beginning to pull away. "Leave yours here."
"Where are we going?"
"Away for a few hours. I brought some food and drinks. I thought we could have a picnic somewhere. That'll give us a chance to talk."
"Talk?"
I'm reigned and flush against him once more. "Well, what did you have in mind?"
"Talk," I say and lift my chin of my own volition so he'll kiss me. He does. Shortly.
His throat makes the noise I love. "I think your definition of talk versus mine is quite different."
"It might be." I kiss him with chaste on his collarbone.
"Come on," he hums, "let's get going."
He opens my door against the great grass. The interior is cool and dark, smells of leather and the cologne which wafts from some part of him. He cranks up and turns back to Quillayute. I strap myself in while he drives down the bumpy path to the smooth concrete where we soar to life away from Forks and the people within it. We're going somewhere unknown, by ourselves. The thought sends chills down my spine, radiating to my toes. I turn my knees toward him and can't help but reach out and grab his arm. He locks his fingers around mine after a final pull on the gear shift, intertwining us together, bringing my hand to his lips. The air from the dash does nothing for the heat radiating from me. The kiss seems a thank you, a promise of more to come.
"I've got something for you." He retracts from my grasp and fools with his phone for a moment, expertly keeping his eyes on the road and whatever he's searching for. "Here," he says, placing the phone back in the cup holder. Bluetooth technology appears on the dash. His fingers wrap around mine again, and he brings my hand to his mouth. Knuckles between the seam of his lips. Lotus Flower begins to seep through the speakers. I'm a fool grinning uncontrollably.
"I love this song," I say.
"I know." His teeth latch onto my knuckle. It doesn't hurt, but creates the ache he intends. I pinch my legs together at the music, the feral momentary glance inside the bloom of his eyes. Edward's beauty is ethereal and timeless, perfect as he guides us through the terrain. I pass out of knowledge and lose myself for that brief second. My hand in his. A cocoon of Yorke's voice against the outline of green and gray while we pass out of existence and into our own world. I know, then, that no one in a thousand years has ever wanted anything as much as I want Edward Cullen.