AN: Ok so the Indie Fic Pimp chose this story as their WIP of the week - there's an amazing review up on their site, and a banner by jaimearkin that is now up on my profile page. If you follow me on twitter, you would have seen my fangirl freak out and overzealous retweeting because needless to say, I was thrilled.
On with the show.
After our successful foray into physical intimacy, Edward and I seem to exist in a thick cloud of happiness. We're all giggles and playfulness and teasing, and I revel in it. Victory hangs in the air around us, both of us a little smug. Well, I'm a little smug.
Edward had declined my offer to return the favour, citing that it wasn't a big deal then excusing himself to the bathroom for a conspicuously long time. He emerged looking significantly more relaxed and I eyed him suspiciously, positive of what he'd been doing in there. He'd rolled his eyes and tossed me back down onto the bed, kissing and tickling and covering my body with his. We'd very nearly started back up on our prior activities when a phonecall from Esme intervened.
As much as I was a bit disappointed, I let it go. Now that we can do this stuff, we have all the time in the world. I'm unable to keep the smile off my face as another piece of normality clicks back into place.
Edward cooks dinner for us, and despite a couple of close calls and muttered curse words, puts together a pretty decent meal. He likes steak his burned beyond recognition, or by his description, well done.
"How can you eat that?" I scoff as I look at the charred meat on his plate. He glares at me for a moment then looks down at my appropriately cooked steak.
"As if you can talk, your's is so raw it's likely to moo at you at some point."
"Medium rare is widely accepted as the best way to serve meat, I'll have you know." My voice is snotty.
"Widely accepted by who - those who are yet to tame fire?"
I snort dismissively because I can't think of a clever comeback.
"Whatever."
He just laughs at me. I scowl and pick up our plates, darting into the kitchen to ditch them in the sink and grab the bowl of fruit I'd cut for our dessert. When I return to the deck, Edward pulls me down into his lap. Here we have the freedom to be together without having to hide from anyone and both of us relish it.
We kiss and eat and kiss some more and I throw fruit at him and then kiss the juice off his pouting face. It's ridiculous and cliched and so fantastic I feel like I'm going to explode. We watch shitty movies about 70s rock bands because they're his favorite and then we start getting ready for bed.
Getting ready involves bringing sheets and pillows outside and laying them across a large daybed that lives on the patio. According to Edward, there's no better place to be, despite what looks like a phenomenal master bedroom. The sound of the ocean and the low light cast by the moon quickly lull us both to sleep and when I wake the next morning, wrapped in his arms and unbelievably well rested, I concede that he's right. When he suggests our activity for the day, I mentally take back everything I've ever said about him being intelligent.. or sane.
"Come on, Bella. Stop being such a wimp."
"Oh, sorry," I scoff, "I didn't realise that being concerned for the wellbeing of one's limbs makes you a wimp."
He rolls his eyes.
"It's surfing, Bella. We're not traversing ice caves or digging up landmines, for fuck's sakes. Now let's work on standing up."
I'm lying on the beach on a surfboard, because according to Edward, pretending to paddle while face down on the sand is going to prove invaluable once I'm in the water.
"Ok," he continues, unaware or at least unphased by my lack of enthusiasm, "so you're going to pull yourself up without resting on your knees. One leg then the other, but quickly, ok?"
"You know," I muse, still on my stomach and looking at him skeptically, "they say those that can't do, teach."
He laughs arrogantly.
"Surfing is but one of the many, many things I do well, babe." He winks at me, a lecherous expression on his face and I jump at the possible distraction.
"Wanna show me?" I ask coquettishly and roll onto my side, giving him a view of my bikini-covered chest. His eyes flicker down unwittingly and when they return to my face, I lick my lips in a blatant come-on.
"Bella," he warns, his voice low and a little husky, exactly how I like it.
"Yes?" My voice is dripping with suggestion.
"Not going to happen."
I scowl as I roll back onto my stomach and attempt to stand up on the board.
Half an hour later, I've got sand absolutely everywhere and what feels like a gallon of water coming out of my mouth and nose everytime I take a breath. Alright, that's a slight overstatement, but in my state, it feels accurate.
"I hate you," I cough out as I splutter and bang on my chest, my eyes watering at the burn of the salt in my throat. He's laughing as he rubs my back from his seat beside me.
"I'm sorry," he chuckles. "This usually happens the first time. It's all downhill from here."
I turn, giving him a filthy look as I punch him in the chest.
"You knew this would happen?" I cry, then cough violently. My scowl deepens when I see him fighting back a smirk.
"That's it, you're sleeping on the front porch tonight!" With one more punch to his chest I grab my towel and storm back into the house, locking the bathroom door behind me when I go for a shower.
"Bella," I hear him say through the door, his voice coaxing. I ignore it. I hear the doorknob rattle as he unsuccessfully tries to enter and smile as vindictive satisfaction settles in my stomach. I take a long leisurely shower, getting the sand and salt off my skin and when I return downstairs to see him sitting on the couch, looking penitent, I decide to let go of my admittedly somewhat childish tantrum.
"Are you hungry?"
"Are you angry?" he responds, looking sad on purpose. I roll my eyes at his blatant attempt to suck up to me.
"Nah, I'm over it." I walk halfway to the kitchen and then turn, pointing an acusing finger at him. "But if you ever try that kind of crap with me again, you'll be in serious trouble."
He nods solemnly and then follows me into the kitchen, pulling himself up onto the counter as he watches me potter around putting lunch together. We spend the afternoon hanging out and watching movies because I'm in no mood for anymore outdoor activities.
Charlie calls in the evening. We'd never been the most loquatious pair, and while we'd been texting nearly every day since I'd moved in with the Cullens, this felt different. He tells me that when Edward and I get back into town he's going to come over because apparently we need to talk. That makes me feel a little bit sick, and I hold onto Edward's hand for the entirety of the conversation, using him as an amulet to ward off my panic.
Charlie tells me not to stress, that it's no big deal, but I don't believe him for a second. When I relay the conversation back to Edward, his face takes on a portion of the nerves I'd been feeling throughout the call, and I know he's trying to hide the full extent of it from me. We resolve to head home tomorrow so as not to put off the conversation any longer than we have to. I'm disappointed but know that the anticipation would have put a downer on our time anyway.
I can feel tension hanging thick in the air as Edward and I clean up after dinner. He brushes past me at every opportunity, making contact with fingertips, his hips, shoulders, anything. I relish it, feeling unusually needy in the face of the huge unknown we're facing.
I'm wiping down the bench when he comes up behind me, placing his large hands on either side of my body. I drop the cloth I'd been using and turn in his arms, and I see it - the fear and desperation that makes me ache as if it's my own pain. It's only a fraction of what I saw the night after the Emmett incident, but it's there, and it almost kills me.
"Hi," I breathe, not entirely sure why, but desperate to do something, even something as insignificant as the one word. He doesn't respond, he just looks at me for a moment, tracing the lines of my face with his deep green eyes. I hold his gaze when it finally meets mine, waiting for him. Just as I needed him to be patient with me the night before, he needs it now.
He lifts a hand, grazes my cheekbone with his fingertips, my lower lip with his thumb, then cups my jaw. Slowly, so very slowly, he leans in, brushing his lips over mine with a featherlight touch. Once, twice, three times. He pulls back and looks at me once more, and I see the wall he's been holding up in an attempt to protect me shatter before my eyes.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him back to me, kissing him forcefully because I need this as much as he does. One of my hands knots into the hair at his nape, tilting his head so my tongue can pass his lips unhindered. He groans and presses me roughly against the bench. I know it should hurt a little but nothing transcends the bubble I've become so addicted to, particularly when he effortlessly lifts me onto the counter. My legs wrap around his waist and his lips trail my throat, his hips shifting against mine in the most delicious way.
Then, there's movement. He starts walking, with me entirely wrapped around him, and drops me down on the daybed we'd been sleeping on at night. He removes his shirt and crawls up the bed, covering my body entirely with his and making my eyelids flutter a little. There's just enough light for me to see the new muscle in his arms flex as he pulls his body towards me and I wrap my fingers around them greedily, holding him to me as our mouths meet again.
He covers me completely.
Everywhere at once.
So much.
Too much.
"Stop!" I cry, turning my head away from his mouth in a desperate attempt to suck in some oxygen. He's on top of me, and my lungs can't seem to inflate themselves.
"Bella?" he questions, but I can't look at his face right now. I need space.
"Get off me!"
A second later, the weight of his body is gone, but air still isn't getting in.
"Bella, what's wrong? Please, just tell me what's wrong!"
His voice is frantic.
"I can't breathe!" I almost scream, clutching at my chest.
"Bella, you have to calm down. Baby please, you need to just calm down." His voice is pleading and low and right in my ear but I won't open my eyes to look at him. His fingertips wrap gently around my wrist and I start to calm myself.
Breathe in, breathe out.
In then out.
In.
Out.
Finally, finally, my lungs are able to pull in and push out the blessed air again. Eventually I open my eyes and sit up on my elbows, adrenalin coursing strong. I can hear my heart beating in my ears, taunting me with evidence of my failure.
Edward is sitting beside me, his long fingers wrapped around my wrist and his face a combination of guilt, terror and confusion.
"What the fuck just happened?" he murmured, looking me up and down as if there's some visible explanation.
"I... I should have known. I got carried away, took it too quickly. I knew better than this."
I'm rambling, so angry at myself that I can't stop the words from spewing forth.
"But last time... last time was ok," he notes, rubbing salt in the wounds.
"Yeah, because last time we took our time, I did what Garrett suggested and it was fine! But this time we rushed it and it was all too much again and I -"
"Hold the fuck up," he says lowly, his voice too even to be good. "Who the fuck is Garrett and why were you talking to him about our sex life?"
"... His name is Garrett Reynolds."
Recognition lights his face, then anger sours it almost instantaneously.
"So you're telling me you spoke to Dr Douchebag," he sneers the name, "about our fucking private interactions? When the fuck did this come up in conversation?"
I pause for what feels like an eternity, in the vain hope that I can somehow talk my way out of this situation. His hurt, angry eyes stay locked on my face, waiting for an explanation.
"... During one of my sessions."
I wait for the deluge, for his characteristic rage to come flying out at me. I want it, because I deserve it. What he gives me is so much worse than anger.
He stands and walks inside without a single word, leaving me on the daybed panting, terrified, and completely alone.
AN: You asked for it, ladies.
EPOV next.