A/N: Some asked: Bella is 18, Edward is 19 or 20 - ish (because he failed a school year once. Yes, I've had 20 year olds in my high school senior class. Well, older, actually. It was wild. Lots of troubled kids with hard lives). So, they're older than your average teens. I never pictured them younger in these chaps.

Discretion: Adults only, please.

..::.. Chapter 15 - Pink ..::..

Young - High school, continued...

Sunday morning. I'm trying to find an excuse to stay home. I'm hiding in my bed, under my quilt. I hear Mom clacking around in her shoes; Sunday's best. The smell of bacon in the air. Warm coffee. Her yelling for me to wake up.

I'm ignoring her, she knows it, but I'm not going to Mass.

I turn my head at the sound of Dad tapping a few knuckles on my bedroom door.

"Bella, we're gonna be late."

I take a deep breath, or I'll yell at him. Anger riles up. I hear him walk away.

I push the quilt down from over my face and find that window far across from mine. He's in there. In his house. In his room. I know it. He fucks around all week and Saturday, he's out all night doing … everything, but on Sundays he starts new. He sleeps in. He rests. He makes amends with his mother and Alice. He takes out the trash, fixes his car, fills up the tank, runs errands for his mom. Her caressing love follows the sharp line of his jaw with her hand; wonder in her eyes.

He's a loving son. He's human again.

I've watched it before.

On days when no one is in the house, and I'm alone, I see him being a son his mother would be proud of. On these days, it's my only chance to be quiet in something soft and warm; a big sweater over an old T-shirt. All I need is coffee the way I like it. I guess I'm human again on days like these, too.

Soon enough, I hear Mom's annoyed voice from the door announcing her disappointment in me for not going to Mass today.

No. I'm going nowhere. I need me time. To think. To figure out a plan to communicate with him that the kiss was a mistake.

But that beer, warmed by his hands, his lips on that bottleneck is all I can think of. I got a mouthful to taste.

I sneak out of bed and find that sweater. Bare feet on Sundays feels like heaven, like freedom, like you're in your most raw state, being reborn again. I sigh at that porcelain clink over and over again, as I mix the cream and sugar in. Clarity in a cup.

I get my muscles ready to veg on the couch or my bed, whichever I feel like attacking. This time, I think I want to be in the living room to watch that movie again. I leave the kitchen and enter the cold hallway.

The door is nudged.

I look at that.

I reach the living room and, yes, I saw it; the knob turned. I straddle the threshold of the warm living room and the cold hallway. Desolate. No sounds. The creak under my foot puts me at ease. It was just me.

I take a step further, and there it is again. The knob definitely turned, but this time the lock is loose, and the knob turns fully.

The door swings open. I'm frozen in place.

I don't yelp, or cry out, or let the cup slip through my fingers like I would've on any given day. I'm a brand new human on a Sunday who's been secretly waiting for this moment. I woke this morning knowing something would change me today.

I stare into Edward's eyes. They're dark; lids puffy with sleep. His t-shirt is inside out, a ghosted print over his chest. He twirls a knife in his hand, and it disappears into his pocket.

His jeans were pulled on hastily over chucks, no socks, the cuffs folded unceremoniously. No time to waste for what he needed to do.

Barge in.

He gives the door a push, and it slams shut behind him. Blindly, he turns the lock, attaches the bolt, and ties a knot in my belly all at the same time.

He gets close. A few steps and I can smell the soap on his skin, his warmth. His hair is still damp.

He tugs at the mug in my hands and takes it away. He looks down at it. He brings it to his lips, drinks, then brings it to mine.

"Take a sip," he says, like it's the last time I ever will.

I do, from his hands. I sip up the heat and it trickles down my throat.

He takes it away when I'm done. He disappears through the kitchen, and I hear the liquid going down the drain, porcelain against a sink. He appears in front of me and grabs my hand.

There's no hurry it seems. He takes every step deliberately. He does remember the inside of this house after all; up the stairs, down the hall away from my parents' room, the door to the right. He pushes it open and pulls me inside.

I'm suddenly looking around, panic taking me, the mess of clothes scattered. I always clean up the night before the week begins as a fresh start. He's caught me in my most true phase: The scattered Bella.

He doesn't seem to even look anywhere else but my bed.

He pulls my sweater down my arms. When he gets to the hem of my dress, I stop him. He looks at me.

Green eyes are clear as morning, well aware. Crisp, mint hues, capture my wide stare. I try to keep my panting to a minimum.

I look at him, I really look at him. He decided this long ago. He's bullheaded and clear-headed, and he knows what he wants.

I let go of his hands. He goes on with this mystery as he pulls on the dress. My hair trickles down over my shoulders to my bare chest. He looks at that. His hand comes up to twirl a few locks around his fingers. He sighs. His eyelids flutter a little.

He grabs my neck. He pulls. He catches my lips.

It's adamant at first, and then it isn't. I'm pulling on his hair, and he pulls on mine. And soon enough I melt against him. We fall over the bed.

His hand stretches out my waistband, and his fingers push into me. I never would've fathomed how it would feel with his hand. He finds every string in my heart and pulls.

I let my head fall back and cry out when it crashes down on me. It's intense, alien, and terrifying. Tears spill down my temples. I've never surrendered so entirely to a feeling. It lingers for eternity. All he does is watch me shatter.

He stands, and I'm too weak to move or care enough to panic from my exposed state. I watch him through droopy eyelids as he pulls off his t-shirt.

"Show me, I want to see you," he says looking down at me. I don't know what he means. I'm still catching my breath, but I seek out his eyes and what they're hooked to below.

I press my knees together even more. Heat rises up my neck. I go to sit up or crawl away to the edge of the bed, but he grabs my ankle, then my hip. He pulls until I'm free from my plain, white underwear.

My instinct is to curl up. I'm mortified.

"I've seen you in here," he says. "Practically every night. I imagined it as pink as your mouth."

I close my eyes. I'm … speechless. I could never say what I've seen through his window. I look at him from under my lashes where I sit, wanting to crawl under the sheets and hide.

I'm naked. Edward in my room watching.

"Did you feel me? Did you ever think of me?" he asks.

He kills me.

I'm panting. Sweat trickles down my neck.

"I … uh … Edward ..." I fumble. This is me now, fumbling. I'm one of those girls I saw in his bedroom. Just the thought tenses me up. Oh, God …

"I'm one of those girls," I say out loud.

He narrows his eyes for a moment, unsure of what I mean. Lost in thought, he looks out my window. His face changes when he gets it. He looks at me. He shakes his head.

"Not even close. You're the pretty girl with the dark hair and the right hook when we were kids. Who lives across the yard and keeps quiet, reads until she falls asleep—still does. You're good, too good, but there's this something. 'Don't mess with Bella …'" He shakes his head. "I fucking love that, the fire. No one sees it, but I do. I know you. I've always wanted you," he says.

I stare.

We dwell in this silence.

What does he mean? He's never considered me, never seemed to have thought twice about me. Not after our first kiss. Not passing by in the school hallways. I think back. I try to see it.

This anger curls inside me. Has it been a game, or pity? The unfortunate; me. Him watching like a hawk, like some hero if I needed help? That's all he did.

No. He doesn't know what I want, what I've held out for—my breath, my hope. Deep inside I hoped for him to talk to me, at the least. I've waited too long for him. All of this, now? And I'm sure as hell not a charity case or Charlie's poor girl who needs looking after, if that's what he thinks. He doesn't know what I'm capable of.

With every angry breath I take, I slowly let my guard down … and slowly let my knees part. This feeling comes over me I can't explain. I lift my chin up high and find purchase on my elbows behind me. One right foot toward his left thigh, one left foot toward his right. I part my legs just like he asked.

"Then show me," I dare him.

He looks, and his chest fills up with a single breath.

"Bella," he whispers. His eyes flutter again.

"Take them off," I demand about his pants.

He shakes his head, takes me in with a look of wonder. "You're crazy," he says.

I sit up and reach for the bed sheets to cover up. It's all a joke to him, always has been.

"You don't know me. You don't know shit about me," I say.

He reaches for his fly and lets the teeth of his zipper hastily cut the silence. He toes off his shoes and stands there naked in front of my bed.

And I was right all this time; grown like his father, rock solid all over—above and below. I sigh. His abs ripple with every breath that comes out of his flared nostrils.

He digs into a pocket and throws the small squared packet. It lands on my stomach.

"Don't you dare move," he says, pulling at the sheets.

I grab the packet, and it's not like I haven't tried this with Ben. The difference now is, every stitch of my clothing is off, I won't stop this, I want this, and my heart is hammering in my chest.

He climbs over the bed, and I know what this looks like from behind him, far away through a window. It's just another perspective, but he's never been this present or determined. He kneels between me, on his knees, while I put my hands on him to sheath him with the rubber, he thumbs the pink he so curiously wondered about. One finger, two; he pushes, curls them inside me and watches. I drop everything twice to grip his arm and writhe, my head in the skies.

He doesn't let me pull my hands away when I manage to finish with him. "Touch me," he says. I claw at his hips and up his chest. Nails digging in. Fingers trembling over his skin.

"Don't play with me," I say, looking up at him. I mean it, in every way.

He presses himself over me. His tongue languidly passes over a nipple. He hangs on until I'm weak and his cheeks hollow out. A bruise is left in his wake.

"First mark," he says. He looks into my eyes. "You're mine now."

I'm a panting mess.

"Wrap your legs around me," I hear him say, but far away. I crack my eyes open long enough from my stupor to look at him. "Do it," he says with a kiss. He bends his knees and leans his hands on either side of my head.

I feel him there, where I'm dripping. He moves. This is real, not a moment of wonder watching every drop of sweat from a glass he's holding in the kitchen. I'm under him. Bones and flesh all over me, feeling his wet lips chasing after every shiver and tremble in my chest.

He waits. My legs fail me once, twice, with the lack of strength. I try again and wrap them around his waist.

Then there's fire. He pushes through every inch. I'm all teeth clamping down on my lip, then his shoulder. Silent screams. He bucks in and out until he goes in sharp.

I cry out.

He hooks my leg that slipped off over his elbow and then he slowly pushes into me. He watches what I do. His hips move until I find my way back to surface and open up my eyes. Soon enough I'm reciprocating beneath him.

He rushes in hard. "Now I fucking know you," he says. He watches me lose my breath and find it again.

He takes my lips, he licks. He thumbs away sweat from my temples.

Then I'm meeting him, I'm giving into this frenzy that builds, an upward spiral.

This feels like too much. I grab onto his shoulders, his chest, anything to brace myself. We find this rhythm, and I don't even know myself. I'm this being, taken over. Body and soul, grasping but losing every last bit of this tame inside me, the one I've had a hold of for years.

I wrap myself around him, his long torso, his shapely back, his ass. I hold on and bite his neck. I'm never letting him go.

"Fuck," he murmurs by my ear when I'm just too loud with every stroke. I can't hold back. It feels beyond what I thought it would. He grips my hair, and we're mad, we're wild. Like we knew this would happen one day. And what he said just now, is exactly what we do every single time we find ourselves alone, any chance we get.

To hell with moral doubt and past hookups: Ben, Edward's harem of mean girls who've met his bed … we're sick, shameless, and relentless.

Bree watches me closely at lunch during the week but never comes out with it. Not even when he's staring from his spot like he does every day and everyone is suspecting. Well, she is.

I say nothing.

I bury it in the abyss of my secrets, but feel all of him on the surface, every waking moment.

I stand. I can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," I say. But what I do is leave the building. I hop over a bush at the side of the building and through that open fence behind the boilers. Soon enough, I feel him following behind me.

My muscles hum. And right against the brick wall, he pushes into me after I frantically pull at my jeans. My cheek presses into the coarse bricks. I moan and pant. He covers my mouth with a hand to keep me quiet, but my mind screams. It says, 'consume me, chew me up, and swallow.' His other hand circling, inducing the most delicious feeling of relief between my legs. All morning I held it in.

Because last night—when it was my turn to take out the trash, and Mom was by the sink doing the dishes and watching that show she loves so much every weekday—was only enough to get me through the night. How he waited on his porch knowing I'd step out. And how cold the siding of my house felt against my back as he pounded into me, holding up my legs in the middle of the garden. My sweater stuffed through my lips, my nightdress lopsided, bunched under my chin. No underwear. Not after my shower after school … I just knew.

The soles of my dirty feet over the kitchen floor after, were the only visible proof anything happened. The tremble of my knees subtle, and just for me to notice—like the ache between my legs.

I knew I needed more. So much more.

I nearly jumped in place when Mom spoke up from the fridge, telling me something that has been killing me all day.

Now I hug the wall, trying to breathe, and it comes to me again. I turn into his arms and bury myself under his chin.

He waits. He knows it's something. I guess he does know me. He pulls up my jeans around my waist for me and waits for that tragic something, while his hands wander. He presses his lips here and there.

"I won't be in town this weekend. I'll be in Chicago with Mom."

He doesn't respond.

"You hear me?" I try again.

"Clearly. So, what's the problem?"

I sigh. It's a big, huge problem. I hang on to his collar and look at him with all the dread I can muster.

He smirks. "You'll miss me?" he asks amused. I roll my eyes and pull away. I find my legs and make the trek back to lunch.

He catches my arm and kisses me hard.

"I have to help Senior anyway. There are some … complications. I know where to find you," he says when I furrow my brows. He's never talked about … that. He's never talked about his father. Well, I've never talked to Edward period. We haven't really been doing much of that at all.

He goes ahead of me, and when he's far away from my lunch table, I see him have his lunch and lick his fingers, too.

"Why are you grinning? I don't think I've ever seen you grinning. Is this bitch grinning?" Bree asks the girls and points. "Did you take a big shit? Took you long enough to get back," she says. She has skeptical eyes. Everyone's aim my way, too, even Alice's.

I will never tell them there's a guy in this room who enjoys his lunch with a hint of me mixed in.

Then the weekend comes and goes … excruciatingly slow and with much difficulty. My mind ran through every single touch between us, repeatedly. But Dad's face is ashen when we see him. Mom asks and asks. He quietly tells her from the kitchen while I watch from the hallway.

There are no grinning faces. No places to hide and kiss. The entire town is in mourning, or shocked. Everyone witnessed the body of Edward Cullen Senior being dragged down Main Street, cut up and dead, tied to a car.

I watch Mom cover her mouth with a hand. Her feelings are mine. I jog upstairs to my room. I stare out the window to their house, to his room.

All the lights are out.

. .

. .