57
- intrusive -
The evening we fly back to Los Angeles, Edward checks out of the hotel for good.
He fills my backseat and trunk with two suitcases and at least ten garment bags filled with suits.
I make room for him in my closet and bathroom, reveling at the simple satisfaction of seeing his things with mine again.
Over the next few days, we ease into living together.
It's strange at first, but not in a bad way. More so in the sense that I've forgotten what it's like to have him around.
I worry it will feel like we're in each other's way.
I worry we've gotten used to being alone so there will be an adjustment period.
I tell Edward all of this and he says it won't be like that because living together for ten years outweighs the one we spent apart.
He's right.
Instead of feeling stilted, we soak up the familiarity of each other while appreciating the newness that's inevitable after so much time spent apart.
I notice new things about him. Like how he takes his coffee without milk now and runs in the neighborhood before he showers for work.
He notices things about me, too. Like how some days, I have to eat saltines first thing in the morning and wash them down with herbal tea to settle my stomach.
"Morning sickness?" he asks one day as we sit at the table before he leaves.
"More like empty stomach sickness," I clarify. "I wake up so hungry sometimes, but making breakfast right away isn't always an option because that takes energy, and sometimes food doesn't sound good. So saltines are a good compromise."
The very next day eggs, toast, and tea are waiting for me on the counter, making my heart swell.
I know I missed him but it's not until I'm around him again every morning and night that I realize just how lonely I was without him.
We indulge in sleepy good-morning kisses.
Innocent goodnight cuddles that last until we doze.
But we don't touch each other the way we want.
We don't give into the buzzing arousal that's present every time we climb into bed together. But there's something satisfying in our restraint. In this soft, soft intimacy we're building.
Maybe it's the underlying knowledge that there's no rush.
We have time.
But we also have needs.
The fourth morning he returns from a run, I teasingly tell him from the comfort and warmth of the bed, "I wouldn't run unless someone was chasing me. Do you like torturing yourself?"
His laugh is deep and comes from his chest.
"I've been sleeping in the same bed as my wife for a week and have demonstrated an amount of self-restraint I didn't know I possessed. So yes, I would say I do enjoy torturing myself."
He's sweaty and red-faced when he says it, which makes me think of other times he's been flushed and exhausted.
When he peels off his shirt in one swift move, I groan and pull the blanket over my head to avoid ogling his hard body.
He rips the blanket off with an amused, grumbly growl.
And then he pulls me into the bathroom so I can shower with him.
As we undress, I try not to overthink it because he doesn't seem to be. And I don't want everything we do to require a check-in.
In the shower, he gets hard from just looking at me. Or maybe it's memories of what we used to do at home—him sitting on the built-in bench as I slid down onto him, steam surrounding us until the water ran cool and we were both coming.
"I didn't think this through," he says, amused and maybe a little embarrassed by his arousal.
I smile, flattered. "You really didn't."
"You're just…" His eyes roam over my heavier chest and my hips that have gone a little wider to hold my entire world. "So fucking sexy. Always."
I press our wet chests together as I kiss him. I can feel how hard he is between us and it sends a spark of desire through me.
He kisses me back, our tongues brushing for a moment before he growls and turns away from me to stick his face under the water.
"Drowning yourself won't help," I tease.
He looks over his shoulder and wipes droplets from his face. "Guess not, no."
"I can leave," I whisper, my fingers grazing his back. "Give you privacy."
When he turns around, his eyes are dark but his voice holds a slight joking lilt.
"Are you giving me permission to jerk off in the shower, Bella?"
I smile a little, my cheeks stinging. "If you need to. Yeah. Or…"
His brows raise. "Or?"
"You can take care of that with me here," I encourage, my voice husky.
He tips his head back under the stream and I stare at his throat when it bobs with a hard, nervous swallow.
"Yeah," he agrees, voice low. "I could."
"Can I watch?"
A beat of hesitation passes. I worry it's too much, too soon. But then he holds my gaze and palms his erection, his mouth going slack.
I look away from his eyes to watch him grip his hard length. To watch the way his wrist rolls in a fluid movement as he lazily strokes himself, his cock slick from the water.
When I meet his eyes again, he's staring at my chest.
He grows harder.
Groans louder.
"Does it feel good?" I ask, boldly bringing a hand up to touch my breast because his focus is still there. I cup it, lightly pinching my nipple.
"Yeah," he murmurs, coaxing me on. "I like that. Your tits… fucking beautiful."
I pinch a little harder, the sensitivity making me warm.
He licks his lips, his eyes slanting closed a little but still open enough to stare at me.
"Fuck," he exhales, pleasure clear on his face. Watching how lost he is to this makes me ache between my legs.
Without a second thought, I snake a hand over my stomach, then lower to rub myself.
"Fucking hell, Bella," he grits out, stroking himself faster. "Yeah. Do that."
We get caught up in our arousal.
This spell.
This haze.
With the water still running, we touch ourselves.
There's no shame. It's hot and heady. Brazen in a way we've never been together. In a way we've never had to before because there's never been restraint. Ever. We've always given in.
"Will you…" he starts to ask, then stops, slowing his hand. "Will you do it for me?"
"It's okay?" I ask, breathless.
"Please," he nearly begs.
I replace his hand with mine, gripping the length of him, and the sound that escapes from his mouth is a tortured, sexy growl.
"Baby, fuck," he groans, his eyes sliding closed as I stroke him, his palm splayed across the tile for support. "Feels so good. So fucking good. Can I…"
"Touch me," I whisper.
His hand goes between my legs, rubbing me before he slips two fingers inside, the heel of his palm rubbing against my clit.
I cry out from the sensation. I'm already too close to the edge because of how hot this is and the frenzy I'd worked up on my own.
I stroke him harder, faster, my hand sliding along his length.
"Fuck, baby… you're gonna make me come," he warns, then grips my neck with his other hand and kisses my mouth.
It's a sloppy, erotic kiss laced with desire and so much love and want and need.
With his lips slack against mine, his breath grows ragged.
Mine hitches when he curls his fingers and rubs me with his thumb for more delicious pressure.
"Tell me you're close," he begs against my mouth.
"Ohhh, Edward," I moan. "I am. I'm close."
"Say it again."
"I'm close."
"No, my name. Say my name. Please."
My movement falters when I catch the vulnerability in his eyes.
Desire wanes because my first instinct is to comfort him. To reassure him I'm only thinking of him, him, him.
And I am.
I have been this entire time.
But then my head unintentionally goes there.
To Mexico.
With Levi.
I know it's only because I'm not supposed to think about it, therefore my brain naturally wants to punish me.
I know it's only because I showered with Levi, too. Not any other reason.
I push the images away, saying nothing, feeling a mixture of embarrassed, worried, and sick about my momentary intrusive thoughts.
I can't tell Edward where my head went because it will only hurt him and he'll take it the wrong way. He won't understand that the memory came and went and held zero weight.
But it doesn't matter that I keep it to myself because my expression must give me away.
Edward searches my face, his eyes darkening. They're accusing, murderous. Hurt.
He knows where my mind went. But he doesn't ask.
Between my legs, his hand doesn't stop.
If anything, he works faster to bring me back to the edge.
"We don't have to—" I start to say, but he shakes his head, and it almost seems like he's trying to push through this insecurity.
"Do you want this?" he asks, his voice hard.
I hesitate. Of course, I want this. But I also want him to be okay.
"Yes," I pant. "I do."
"Me too," he says, and I start to stroke him again.
It's quiet between us but the determination that radiates off of him is loud. It's all I can focus on.
"Say my fucking name, Bella," he demands, curling his fingers, his thumb rubbing more furiously. "Please, baby."
It's too much, too good for me to hold back.
"Ohh, God. Edward," I moan, letting his name fall from my lips without any other thought.
"Again."
"Edward."
"Louder."
"Ed—"
My voice catches and I whimper when heat blooms between my legs. I knew I was close to coming but it still surprises me anyway.
My forehead presses against his bare chest and his name falls from my lips, over and over, breathless and wanton. As my orgasm fades, he grits out a long, guttural fuuuuck and comes in my hand.
We're quiet, the water splashing against the tile.
Lifting my head, I look him in the eyes, trying to decipher his mood.
He kisses me once then turns away to wash himself.
"Are you okay?" I ask, joining him under the stream to rinse off.
The last thing I want is for him to regret anything. And even though we're easing into this, and in the scheme of intimacy what we just did wasn't a big deal, I'm still not sure where his head is at… and I'm afraid he knows where mine went momentarily.
"Are you?" he asks instead, worrying about me and not answering my question.
"Yeah." My fingers graze his lips. "I am."
"Then that's all that matters."
XXX
"You waited six days to tell me this?" Rosalie balks after I relay everything that happened with Allie during dinner.
It's the first chance we've had to catch up since Edward and I returned from Seattle. With her flying to Denver tomorrow to watch Emmett play on New Year's Eve, we wanted to make sure we saw each other so we're grabbing a quick lunch before I do an engagement shoot.
I started by sharing the good stuff—like how amazing Christmas was with Esme and Carlisle, and how Edward and I decided to move in together and buy a house in LA whenever our place in Seattle sells. Rosalie was sincere with her happiness when I told her the last part, squealing and tearing up, which made me a little emotional, too.
Of course, after this morning in the shower, I've been left with a slight sense of uncertainty, even though Edward kissed me goodbye and said he loved me. But I don't tell Rosalie any of that because I know things are going to ebb and flow with Edward and me, and she doesn't need to know every intimate detail.
"I would've said something sooner about Allie but it was Christmas," I reply now with a shrug. "I was trying to give you a break from my drama."
"Your drama is my drama," Rosalie says in solidarity. "Look, I know Allie's your family and she probably isn't a terrible person and just going through something, but… what a cow."
"I mean… aren't I a cow, too?" I ask rhetorically, referencing the TikTok video Rosalie showed me months ago.
"Not anymore. You're a motherfucking buffalo," she says proudly, making me smile. "Has Allie reached out yet? Apologized or anything?"
"No. We haven't talked since she stormed out during dinner. To be honest, I don't expect her to apologize. I'm sure she doesn't think she did anything wrong by airing our shit like that. So."
"Well, good for you for standing up to her, though," she adds, drinking her iced tea. "Has she always been like that? Because I'm not sure how you've been able to put up with that passive aggressiveness for so long."
"In a way, sure. Never that extreme, but what Allie wants, Allie gets. We never really had a reason to not give in to her before," I say. "Everything she said hurt and I was mad, but… now I just feel bad for her."
"Why? There were so many other ways she could've expressed herself but she chose to be ugly and lash out, trying to embarrass you in front of everyone."
I cringe because I don't think the sting of that shame will ever lessen.
"Trust me, I know," I agree. "But Esme called Edward last night and said that Allie's wedding is no longer happening."
"Whoa," is all Rosalie says. "Really?"
"Esme doesn't know the details. Or if she does, she's keeping them to herself. And I know it's not my fault, but…"
"Don't say it."
I pause then blurt, "A teeny tiny part of me feels like it is."
Rosalie scoffs and shakes her head. "Don't put that on yourself. There were probably some underlying issues going on between them. Hasn't she only been divorced for like, not even two years?"
"Yeah, it does feel a bit soon with her and Jasper, but… I don't know. The difference between Allie and me is I'm not going to impose the way she did. Her relationship with Jasper isn't my business."
"There's no way her fiancé would call off the wedding just because of that scene she caused, right? And even if he did, that's not on you. It's directly related to how she acted."
"I guess. This whole thing is a mess because regardless, I'm married to her brother and I'm pregnant with her niece. I'm not going anywhere. I just don't want it to be like this," I stress, then chew on a fry. "Should I reach out to her?"
"Honestly, I think she needs to be the one to reach out first. But if it will make you feel better, then do what you need to do. What would you even say, though?"
"I don't know," I mumble. "Maybe I'll talk with Edward first and see what he thinks we should do."
"That sounds like a good idea," Rosalie agrees. "Did she post anything on socials?"
"Like, hey everyone, the wedding is off? I doubt it."
"No, but maybe she deleted her engagement photos?" Rosalie wonders.
"Maybe."
I open Instagram and search for Allie's name, only to find her profile no longer exists.
"Wait, what? I… I think she deleted her account," I say in shock, typing her name again in case I misspelled something.
"Shut up—seriously? What's her username? I'll search on mine." I rattle off Allie's username and Rosalie cringes. "Her profile is showing up for me."
I blink. "She blocked me?"
Still stunned, I see a notification in my direct messages, and I wonder if Allie had some parting words.
When I open my DM's, my heart stops.
The message isn't from Allie.
It's from Levi.
Levi Brandon to be exact.
I hadn't known his last name until this very moment. But seeing the little thumbnail with his face confirms it's him.
Without fully opening his message, I read what I'm able to see.
Hey. I hope this isn't weird but I'm going to be in LA and
It's weird.
It's really fucking weird.
I set my phone down on the table and slide it toward Rosalie.
"What?" she asks, confused.
"The guy. He… messaged me. On Instagram."
"What guy?"
"The Cabo guy. Levi."
Rosalie's eyebrows shoot up. "I thought y'all didn't exchange any information," she says, but not accusingly.
"We didn't!" I shriek. "But he must have looked me up? I don't know. He knew what I did for a living and that I was in LA. And my profile is public because of my work, so…"
I pick up my phone again and go to my followers, typing in his name. Lo and behold, he appears under the list.
"He follows me? Since when?" I say, mostly to myself, pushing my phone away again as if it's cursed.
"What did he say?" Rosalie urges.
"I didn't open it yet. I don't want him to see that I read the message."
She picks up my phone and I panic.
"Don't open it!" I warn. "This is bad."
"Why? It's not like you're the one who reached out or followed him back."
"Right. I know. But Edward is already having a hard enough time with all of this," I admit, guilt eating at me. "We're easing into intimacy and this morning we…" I pause, keeping our shower private. "I just think his head still goes there. To what I did with Levi."
Rosalie frowns. "Yeah, that sucks. I think the only thing that can help with that is time and staying honest."
"I know. I get why he's stuck on it. I do. But now I'm worried this is going to set us back," I mumble. "He just moved in. That was a really big step for us, you know?"
"Bella, it's fine," Rosalie soothes. "Maybe it will set you back. But it also might not. Don't worry yet, okay?"
With my elbows on the table, I briefly drop my head in my hands before leveling Rosalie with a look.
"I have to tell Edward," I whisper. "Right?"
"Well… let's think about this. What good is telling him this guy reached out?"
"It would show I'm willing to be brutally honest like we promised each other. That I'm not going to keep anything from him."
"Yes, there's that."
"And if our positions were switched, I'd want to know if the woman he slept with reached out to him. Even if it was innocent, if I eventually found out at some point and realized he hadn't told me, it would hurt. Like if it's not a big deal and doesn't mean anything, then tell me. And… Levi reaching out isn't a big deal and doesn't mean anything."
"So, you're gonna tell him," Rosalie says, looking wary.
I worry. "What—you think it's a bad idea?"
"No. Not if you're both trying to be completely honest moving forward. And if it were me, I'd tell Emmett. Again, you did nothing wrong. If he's upset it's because he's still working through all these messy feelings. But you just have to deal. He will, too. But you'll deal together."
I glance down at the phone and groan when I realize the direct message says "Levi is typing…"
"It says he's typing," I tell Rosalie. "What else does this fucker have to say?"
This time I can't see a preview of what he said, only the in-app dialogue that says "3 new messages."
"There's a fine line between desperate and interested," Rosalie jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "I wonder which one he is."
"I don't," I say seriously.
She quirks a brow. "So you're not going to read them?"
I hesitate. "No. What Levi said doesn't matter. I mean, is it flattering he sought me out? Sure. If things were different this could play out a whole other way. But I'm glad things aren't different," I say honestly. "I'm married. I'm pregnant. I'm in love with Edward and I'm happy. My life is finally getting back in order. There's no reason for me to read his message or even reply."
"I can stand behind that," Rosalie says. "But I'd personally die from curiosity."
"Not me," I insist, and I swipe my finger across his messages, deleting them before they're even read.