July 2011
Twenty-One/Twenty-Four
The day after Rosalie and Emmett left, Esme took her shopping. Isabella was amazed at how quickly the bumps in her relationship with her mother had been smoothed with a few small concessions. She let her mother fuss. Over her breakfast. Over her coffee consumption. "Just half a cup, darling. At most." Over her sleeping habits. "Don't you need a nap? You look exhausted." Over her eating habits. "I think you need more iron, you look very fragile these days." Over her conditioner and her shampoo. Over her moisturizer. "You've always had the loveliest hair, and you take terrible care of it."
The one thing Isabella did find very helpful was Esme's investment in her stretching routine. One of the ways to keep the spasticity in her legs at bay was with assisted stretching. Isabella had completely neglected it as a student. It was one of the reasons why she was using the crutches less and less, and her dependency on the wheelchair was growing.
"She's bullying you," Edward fumed quietly. "You're letting her walk all over you like your ass is grass."
"If she is, I don't care," Isabella had sniffed, glaring. Everything was fine again. Mother and daughter had spent the afternoon together, watching Golden Girl reruns. Being close to her mother was the most comforting thing in the world, and she would do anything to salvage their relationship.
However unhappy Charlie and Esme's marriage may have been, it linked Esme and Isabella. Its dissolution had left IsaIsabella feeling untethered and rootless in every way. There were only bonds of love and habit to Esme, and that felt so fragile. Without the marriage to Charlie to tie them together: what were they to each other?
The divorce, Isabella felt, had left her orphaned.
The bonds that anchored her to her dad felt weak, as much as she loved him. The more she thought about it, the clearer it became that Esme had chosen Isabella, not Charlie. Esme and Charlie had next to nothing in common. Isabella could tell because had next to nothing in common with her dad. She had become the woman who raised her.
She had assumed markers of a social class to which she did not belong. She spoke like Esme. In many ways, she had similar mannerisms and similar taste. She was polite to fault was raised to live in Esme's world – where she did not belong. Victoria Cullen had made that abundantly clear. Now that the marriage was over, she felt like an impostor – like Cinderella, stuck in rags at the palace after midnight.
More to the point, Isabella loved her mom more than anything in the world. Esme had been completely devoted as a mom and raised her daughter in her image. So much about who Isabella was – kind, polite to a fault, an avid reader, a diligent student, and interested in the world around her – felt rooted in her mom. When Isabella was five, and wanted to be a paleontologist, her mom had gone on her first adventures with her – taking her to the Natural Science Museum. Her mom had buried plastic bones for her in the sandbox. Her mom bought her a chia pet shaped like a T-Rex, and bought dinosaur-shaped cookie molds.
When Isabella was six, her mom indulged her flair as a storyteller. The two of them had spent hours in the woods making up stories about clouds and mushroom logs. Her mom had encouraged her to put the stories to paper, and Isabella had learned to type – clumsily because of her cerebral palsy. Her mom had read her all the Roald Dahls and all the Beatrix Potter's, and indulged Isabella writing about animals in frock coats.
When Isabella was eleven, and the bullying started, Esme found every avenue for her daughter to escape into her imagination. Esme took her to art galleries, theaters, and orchestras. As far as Isabella understood, Esme and Elizabeth had spent most of Elizabeth's life quarreling. As mothers, however, they shared that love of taking their children on adventures.
Esme was her mom by choice, by volition, out of love.
For dinner that first day – alone with the Masens and Carlisle – Esme outfitted Isabella. Esme had bought and handpicked the clothes – a white blouse with huge polka dots and a conservative sweetheart necklace. Esme had styled her hair into a half updo, adorning the resulting ponytail with an ivory ribbon that was as big as Isabella's hand.
There was something about how Esme took care of her hair. Isabella's self-confidence had grown enough for her to know that she had especially luscious, beautiful hair. When Esme took care of them, Isabella's locks looked their best.
"I've always fucking loved the ribbons," Edward had admitted naughtily, whispering into her ear in a way that made her shiver. "You should keep it on tonight."
Isabella had fought a giggle. "That's disgusting, Edward."
He'd whispered it in front of literally everybody, and directly in front of his father's line of vision. Isabella caught Carlisle's eye. Mortification turned Isabella into a flaming furnace of embarrassment.
The idea of being alone with the Masens – without other family friends as buffers - terrified her. The Masens were the family that had raised her, but there was nothing linking her to them
As she took her spot at the table, she felt excruciatingly shy and out of place. Rosalie was gone, Emmett was gone, and the next buffers – Richard and his twins – wouldn't be arriving for another five days. Isabella was the only person intruding in on the family. If she and Edward had not been together, Isabella reasoned, she would have probably left. Esme had instilled the kind of impeccable manners that kept Isabella from ever crossing the line into imposing. Those same manners were telling her she was being intrusive and invasive.
"Baby, stop thanking everybody for everything. What is with you?"
Isabella's cheeks warmed. She shot Edward an infinitesimally quick warning glare. Baby was the one new term of endearment. It would give them away. Isabella bit back her shushing and decided he had a point.
She had thanked everybody for everything – Carlisle for letting her stay and for getting everything ready for her, again. Edward Senior, for her brooch, again. Esme for setting up her plate setting, again. Esme for serving her salad. Esme for pouring her mineral water. Looking at nobody in particular, she had thanked an unspecified "you" for having her over for dinner.
"Sorry," she mumbled at Edward. Rather forcefully, she stabbed a watermelon ball and stuck it in her mouth. Esme was serving a three-course dinner, with an entrée of watermelon and feta salad with balsamic glaze. It was exactly the kind of set up that Charlie found irritating after twenty years of marriage.
"You don't have to apologize, sweetheart," Edward said gently. "Just fucking stop. There's no need."
With his fingers, he started playing with Isabella's hair. Reminded of that latest slip, she wiggled away from Edward's touch, even though it made her feel pretty.
Edward got the message for five seconds. Smoothly and even unthinkingly, his long pianist fingers drifted down, caressing a trail of skin from the shell of her ear to the raised bone on her wrist.
They were being so obvious.
Sighing with mild irritation, Isabella lowered her hand and pinched his thigh rather forcefully. Smirking, Edward finally stopped.
Edward's grandfather was giving Isabella a piercing but pleasantly curious stare, like he knew – and Isabella couldn't deal with it. Blushingly, she turned her attention to the chipped corners on her plate and the feta crumble.
Memory was a funny thing. She could not remember her father's mother, Grandma Marie – just the faint memory of loving her very much. Yet every word Victoria Cullen had ever said was seared into her brain with perfect clarity. Edward wasn't meant to spend the rest of his life with someone who can barely walk. You're hard to understand when you talk. If you truly love him, you'll help rid him of this love he thinks he feels.
It was still excruciating to admit she could be that selfish. That she was willing to tie Edward down. To sleep with him while a host in his father's house. It felt cheap. What made her any different from any of the many girls who had slept with Edward for money – other than the fact that she couldn't measure up? How could Edward's family really ever forgive her for tying him down?
"How's school going, sweetheart?"
It took Isabella a second to confirm she was the recipient of the question. The question came from Edward Senior, and it was asked so kindly that Isabella felt a swell of affection. For most of her life, Edward Masen had terrified her. He had never invited or allowed Isabella to adopt him as a grandfather, and it had been confusing before it became painful. If Esme was mom, why was Esme's father not grandpa?
Edward Masen had warmed up to her too late, and it was one of the emotional wounds Isabella just lived with. It made Edward rage.
"Oh, um. Thanks for asking, sir," she squeaked, and Edward groaned his irritation at her gratitude. "It's going fine. I love my school. I think I picked well."
"It's not going fine, it's going great," Edward said with an eye roll. "Can we get swordfish? This watermelon feta salad thing is weird. But anyway. Bella has the fifth-highest GPA in her class. She TAs and she has a job."
"It's not a huge deal," Bella said, offering a bashful smile. "It's a very small graduating class. Three hundred people."
"TAing? Like teaching assistant?" Edward Senior asked, and that he sounded interested warmed Isabella from the inside out. "For what subject, dear?"
As she spoke, Bella felt dorky and masculine. There were only three girls that had stuck with Economics, which was an absurdly male-dominated field."Um. Econometrics," she squeaked in a small voice. "It's just, eh, advanced statistics for economics. It's not… it's not a big deal. I just grade homework and hold a tutorial every Thursday, and nobody ever goes."
"It does sound like a hard subject, darling," Carlisle said encouragingly, switching out the watermelon plates for swordfish. "You should be proud."
Growing more comfortable, Isabella smiled. She loved Carlisle so much. Now that she was grown, she felt closer to Carlisle than she ever had to her father, and that was one of the most poignant facts of her life. If the thing with Edward went to hell in a handcart, then she would lose an important father figure in her life.
"I mean, there's software that calculates everything for you. So you just have to input that in. I think it's more challenging for folks to interpret the results and understand them than to actually…"
She trailed off, smiling sheepishly.
Edward Senior was nodding, seeming invested in her life, and Isabella felt welcomed. The former senator asked her questions about her life – about her other job. "I kept it because I was thankful to the lady that hired me – her name is Tracey – and it's actually kind of relaxing." Tracey did not seem to mind that there were shelves that Isabella could not reach when she had to reshelve or find books. Only Edward knew that intimate tidbit for now.
"And," Edward gloated, over a bite of pistachio frangipane tart. "She was selected to go on the committee to search for the new student body president."
Isabella shook her head fervently. "That's – I mean. It's kind of thankless," she said, sheepish again. "It's just – you know, interviewing old academics over and over again and reporting back to the Board."
Esme, who had been muted for most of the conversation, grimaced. "Mmmh," she mumbled snippily. "I don't love that you spend so much of your time on these things, Isabella. It's exhausting. And I don't understand why you feel the need to work so much. Is your father not sending money? I wouldn't be surprised."
Isabella had never rebelled against her mother as a teenager felt too weak to rebel against her now. Her shoulders slumped, and her mood took a turn, like champagne bubbles flattening. "Um," she said apologetically. "He does send me money, but…I really like both jobs? I think – work experience is good?" With her eyes, she pleaded at her mother to agree. These were questions she was asking, not statements she was making.
"Mmh." Esme pursed her lips and made a noise that, even in agreement, sounded disapproving. "I think there's no rush. You're pursuing a very masculine occupation, with all the math, and it's obvious it's exhausting you. You're looking so very skinny, my love."
Isabella's insecurities - and Edward's nostrils - flared.
"You know what I think is perfect for you, my love?" Esme said, lighting up, speaking not to her daughter, but to her father. "The photography. Isabella's photography professor wrote her a glowing mid-term evaluation."
A terrible liar, Isabella looked pointedly at Edward's hand. Her professor had written her a glowing evaluation, but Esme had only received the most vanilla elements of Isabella's portfolio. Most of the photographs were adult aesthetically and thematically.
"In fact," Esme continued bragging, even as Isabella turned pinker and pinker with genuine, bone-deep dread, "She's having an exhibition."
It centered around a friend Isabella made among her college's custodial staff - LeRoy - who had lost four of his fingers in an accident at a paper mill. The factory had closed, becoming a redbrick graveyard. Bella was certain her mother would have a conniption if she ever saw the material.
"What?" Edward asked, and he was smiling at Isabella like she had cured cancer. Wordlessly and quickly, Isabella touched her fingers to his cheek and shook her head. Not now, she pleaded with her eyes.
"How do you know about that?" Isabella winced. Esme had seen some of the earlier photographs Isabella had taken, in her very first class project: pictures of the barn cat at Norwich, and photographs of leaves turning golden. It was a far cry from the portfolio that her photography professor – Jean Pierre – was encouraging: an exhibition of a closed paper mill, and the community it had left behind.
"I read the newsletter they send to parents every month," Esme shrugged. "From cover to cover."
Isabella, while still not convinced by that explanation, decided to buy it. Esme had been a wonderful mother, especially when Isabella was little, because of her obsessive attention to detail. Everything about Isabella's life had been perfectly taken care of – making Esme, in fact, the cliché of the one mom everybody else loved to hate.
"That's nice, Mom," Bella said weakly.
Her defense did not come from where she expected. "I took Economics as an undergraduate," Edward Senior said, casting Esme a dark glare. "It was very difficult. Enough that I remember it all these years later. Esme, you should be proud that your daughter is so proficient at it that she teaches it to other people."
Esme's mouth fell open, and she glared hatefully at her father.
The ensuing silence was so awkward that Bella felt compelled to fill it with dumb nonsense. "Uncle Carlisle," she squeaked, in a voice so high in pitch that Edward almost cringed. "I found some really cool, ehrm – books. For my catalog project."
Carlisle caught her drift immediately and responded in an equally hysterical pitch.
"Oh. That's great, darling, thank you," Carlisle said, as enthusiastically as if she had done something particularly remarkable. "What did you find?"
Bella started a bubbly monologue, aided by her natural enthusiasm, with hints of polite nodding from the three men. Esme seethed silently. Edward went back to playing with her hair, like a bored child, and Carlisle offered to open up some cooled Bailey's. Filled with wonderment and completely enchanted, Bella chattered about the illustrated Charles Knight Royal Shakespeare edition, published in 1853. Carlisle poured everyone ice-cold Bailey's into crystal coupe glasses.
It was a testament to how she had been raised that she paid attention to that kind of detail.
Elatedly, with time, Isabella came to realize some parts of her relationship with Edward had not changed. They had withstood the test of time and separation. Their old routines fit seamlessly even as they fell in love and became a couple.
To escape both her overbearing mother and everybody's increasing suspicion, Edward and Bella left the house often. Like they had as teenagers, they went to the movies. Bella cried and laughed at that year's summer hits, like the eighth Harry Potter and the second Kung Fu Panda. Bella dipped into her savings and bought them tickets to a live music show in Boston for alternative jazz, and Edward loved it. They ate so much that Isabella worried her stomach was becoming flabbier under his kisses.
They went to the beach three times, because Bella asked, and he was in the mood to give her whatever she asked for. Every time, she kept her legs carefully concealed, even as she wore a bikini top. Edward had kissed the bone graft scar on her hip so reverently that Bella's fear had melted. To hide her legs, which were more he wore a Sarong she stole from Esme. It covered her legs nicely.
Edward eyed her peculiarly, perhaps growing suspicious. He did not say a word, though – aware, just like she was, of the added dimension that would come with asking her to take off clothes.
The only obstacle to spending every waking hour away from the house was Edward himself.
Edward had grown into an exceptionally disciplined adult. It did not surprise Isabella, necessarily. It was a habit as much as it was a genetic due, because Carlisle was also a very disciplined person. Come sun or rain, Edward woke up at 7.00 sharp. If it was sunny, he went for a run, before the heat became too stifling. If it rained, he lifted weights. Every day, he had four egg whites for breakfast. Every day, he studied for at least three hours. Edward timed himself studying: he made checklists of the material he had to cover and went through those checklists diligently. He reviewed old exams. He read the next semester's books in advance.
"It's fucking cutthroat at school," he explained, fiercely.
Bella – and Carlisle – were glowing because Edward started playing piano again. She found his reasoning a little upsetting. "Playing music makes you a better student," he said, explaining his argument with some medicalese about the impact of music on the brain. He exuded sharp competitiveness that Bella – who was comparatively mellow – found almost scary. Edward resumed his piano with fiery discipline, playing choppy renditions of challenging pieces that got gradually smoother.
Isabella understood he was spoiling her, indulging her – just to be together – when she asked for dates.
Isabella was so happy, all the time, that she found she giggled randomly for no particular reason. Edward was acting the same way. At random intervals, she would catch his eye, and they'd both grin stupidly at each other, in a world all their own. They were being so obvious that even Carlisle – whose vacation days were fast running out, as they hit the three-week mark - was looking at Bella strangely.
Now that Esme was back in full force, finding time to be alone with Edward was becoming increasingly difficult. They had made out in his car, in a parking lot overlooking a scenic vista point. When Edward tried to remove her blouse, Isabella became upset. He had stopped immediately, the microsecond that she huffed in indignation. "I don't want you to touch me in your car," she had snapped, unworried that she sounded prudish or prissy.
That very second, he removed his hands like her skin was white hot, paling.
"I'm so sorry," he said immediately, morose. "So sorry. I didn't mean to – "
Annoyed, Bella was worried they were going to regress to square one, where he would only touch her lovingly, asexually, and sparsely. She sat up.
"Shut up, Edward." He did. "I'm not judging people that… do things in cars in parking lots. I just don't want my boobs out in a parking lot. That's it. I didn't think it was disrespectful, or whatever. You can kiss me as much as you want. I love that."
"You love it?"
"Shut up, Edward," she snapped, smirking blushingly. "You know I do."
After dinner that night, Bella went straight to Edward's room. Esme had helped her shower – which was not unwelcome. It made everything easier, but it always came with a price. Esme picked her clothes and styled her hair into a half-updo, with yet another hand-sized ribbon that matched her flowery blouse.
Aware her hair looked ravishing, Bella did – naughtily – keep the ribbon in her hair. She changed, putting on a dark tank top to match her flowy pajama pants. Only using her crutches, she slumped and wobbled over to Edward's room. Without the KAFOs to stabilize her, it was a treacherous game – even if it made getting into bed easier. She knocked once, and Edward opened the door so quickly that Bella almost tripped after it.
He picked her up by the waist, making her squeal. Bella tightened her grip on her crutches. "Fuck, baby," he smirked between closed-lipped kisses. "You kept the ribbon. It's so fucking hot."
Neurotically, Bella shushed him. "Careful," she hissed. The entire declaration was happening practically in the foyer. His grandfather was in the room right across.
Rolling his eyes, Edward walked them backward into his room. Bella dropped the crutches. Edward shoved the door closed, locking it behind them. The noise the crutches and the door made was deafening, and Bella cringed. Her mother was like a bloodhound with supersonic hearing. If that did not alert her, nothing would.
Edward sat, pulling him across her lap. The ceiling fan was cooling the room above them, working overtime.
"I don't know why you're so worried," Edward muttered, pulling her closer. In between words, he sucked on her bottom lip hungrily. "You're so fucking perfect. They're not gonna care that we're together. Hell, they're gonna be thrilled."
"It's a huge deal," Bella countered, losing her grip on reality when he started to stroke the delicate shell of her ear. "And if this goes badly – "
Edward stiffened with anger. "It's not going to go to shit because I won't let it," he swore hotly.
Partially to soothe him, Isabella snuck her hands under his t-shirt. "I know," she whispered against his neck, sucking on the skin near his Adam's apple, making him hiss. As she had just once before, she stroked the skin that stretched taught over his planes of muscle. Under her touch, his muscles relaxed.
Surprising her, Edward took off his shirt with one hand, in a single motion. He fell back, and the two lay on the bed side by side.
Isabella bit her lip to keep her lips from turning into a delighted smirk. Out of fascination, she let her fingers trail over the hard planes of his stomach. Out of love, Isabella kissed his body the way he had kissed hers. She ran her fingers reverently across planes and crevices that ran from the V of his hips to his clavicles.
As she explored, her mouth went dry with want.
There was a fine line surgical scar – white and discreet – that ran along his bottom rib. It was the lone physical souvenir of the accident. Edward had been slammed between the steering wheel and his seat, crushing those two ribs.
Feeling suddenly overcome with protectiveness, she kissed his scar. Lovingly, she kissed a trail from one end of the scar to the other. She kissed it slowly and gently, keeping her eyes on his - warm honey to ice-cold emerald - and that alone was like being sucked into a maelstrom. Her kisses were like a mix between Morse code and an incantation. I love you. I love every bit of you. I don't want you to hurt ever again.
She finished by placing her chin on his sternum, bracing both arms against the mattress.
The look on his face made Isabella feel playful. "Can I try something?" she whispered teasingly. She peeked at him through her doe eyes, as she touched the tip of her tongue to one nipple, controlling the motion.
"Christ, Bella," he hissed.
Isabella kissed his nipples – first feather-light, mimicking his technique. Edward's eyes shut and squeezed with a huff of breath, not unlike a shiver or the sound one made after being punched.
Smiling from cheek to cheek, feeling absurdly happy, Isabella planned her next move. He had done it to her first. It was not her favorite thing in the world. However, she could intuit there was a reason for the move.
Isabella locked her mouth around his entire nipple and sucked. It was the most brazen, sexual thing she had done – more than she had ever imagined.
Underneath her, Edward grunted and arched his back, thrusting his hips against her stomach. His erection pressed up against her. Roughly, hands on her ribs, he pulled her up, dragging her body against his. He tugged on her tank top. Willingly, she helped him take it off.
Their bare skin had touched for the first time – chest to chest – and they both hissed as if burning. It was the most skin-to-skin contact that they had ever experienced, and it was almost overwhelming. Too much. Isabella had stopped breathing. The intensity of feeling his bare skin against her breasts was exactly like her wildest fantasies, and yet so much better.
Edward seemed to understand she needed him to talk like the sound of his voice kept her tethered to reality. She hummed, and he started talking. "I love you." It was throaty and desperate. "I love you more than anything."
"I love you, too. I love you so much."
In the heat of the moment, breasts bare, Isabella tried something new. Awkwardly, she moved. Inching slowly, she bent one leg and then the other. She shifted above him so that she was straddling his hips with her legs bent.
For some excruciating seconds of pleasure, he bucked his hips against her. She was so sensitive already that a jolt of electricity shot up her entire body. There were three layers of clothes between them, and still, it felt so good. She whimpered, with moans that were as embarrassing as her need to grind.
The muscles in her hips – tight and spastic - strained. It was so uncomfortable it was almost painful to hold the position. Every reflex and instinct in her wanted to return to a more comfortable position. The spasticity was rebelling against her, making her ache.
Edward seemed to know it was uncomfortable to the point of pain. He lifted his head, elbows bent, eyes dazed with concern.
"Sweetheart, fuck," he grunted throatily, breathless. "Is this comfortable for you?"
The moment he said it, her body gave out. It was difficult to hold the position because she couldn't keep her back straight. The heels of her hands fell hard on his shoulders so that she was virtually on all fours. The force of the fall was hard enough to make him grunt.
His response was immediate. Agile, Edward sat up completely – and she marveled at his ability to do it even when she was holding onto his shoulders for leverage. He bent his knees so that he created a back seat for her with his thighs. His hands shot up to support her waist. They were chest-to-chest again. "Is that better, love?" His voice was husky with desire and care. Care for her.
"I'm good. I want to be close to you. I want you so much," she whimpered hazily. She felt ready for whatever the hell they were doing – this half-naked rubbing – even if the prospect of going all the way terrified her.
He pressed his forehead against hers, gulping. "Baby, if we keep going – " He squeezed his eyes shut and his mouth clenched, as if in a grimace. He slammed into her again with his hips, and Bella whimpered. "—I'm going to cum."
"I don't want to stop," Bella half-pleaded. It felt so good to rub against him.
Bella pushed back the strain burning her hips and thighs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She rained feathery, light kisses on his neck. Drenched between the thighs, sweating, Isabella whimpered. Possessed by forces beyond her control, she knew instinctively to grind against his erection. When she did, Edward's hips bucked up. Again, and again. Bursts of pleasure shot through her every time his erection hit the spot between her thighs.
It was the most intense, overwhelming thing she had experienced yet. All her love was swirling inside her head, all of her devotion, with every jolt of electric pleasure. She had never imagined grinding could feel so good.
Rosalie had explained the word cum before, but Isabella was not ready for what it felt like. Edward bucked against her, with a single, guttural groan. Roughening, his grip on her hips tightened. His entire face squeezed into a grimace-like frown. She could feel him pulsating. Because of the three layers of clothing between them, she didn't feel the wetness exploding.
Panting, he dropped his forehead to the slender curve of her shoulder.
Out of instinct, Bella knew to hug him and hold him. He reciprocated, running trembling hands up and down her back. In that second, Bella knew. Edward was as affected as she was. They were all but making love, and it was as intense for him as it was for her - even if he had fucked thirteen girls or more.
They were in love, and impossibly, Edward was hers.
"That felt nice," she murmured stupidly, against his neck, feeling like an idiot. She was so dumbstruck with love.
Snorting out a chuckle, Edward smiled against her neck. He kissed the space where her neck met her jaw before kissing her on the mouth. "It was everything," he corrected.
Gently, he caressed her, in the places where her muscles were straining, from her lower back to her hips, to her outer thighs. Her inner thighs felt raw, like the muscles were being tugged beyond their breaking point, like wood being forced to stretch.
"Let me make you feel good," he whispered. "I know this isn't – this isn't a comfortable position for you, angel."
"It's fine," Bella said sweetly. She could push back the discomfort for long enough.
He rubbed her nose against hers. "I need you to be honest with me, Bella," he said pleadingly. "Please, love."
Wordlessly, dumbly, Bella nodded. Honesty terrified her. She was not sure how else they would manage to go all the way– without this kind of strain on her hips. In her head, that was the only path forward.
Edward lifted Bella off him gently, so she was sprawled across the bed.
"I need to change," he grumbled to himself, so low Bella strained to hear, his neck turning scarlet. He walked to the dresser, roughly pulled a drawer open, and took out a clean pair of boxers. Bella watched, mouth dry and jaw open, as he took off his boxers with his back to her. She saw his ass perfectly – all rock hard, perfectly taut ripples of muscle.
She crawled around the bed, letting her head fall slowly onto one of his pillows. The blood rushed to her legs, which had gone numb. Tremors started shooting up both her legs. It was their usual reaction after strain.
Bella hated her body at that moment.
Edward turned, and his expression softened. Tenderly, he stroked the length of her right leg with his hand, bending to kiss her ankle. Bella's heart spun into circles, burst, and exploded. Edward kissing her trembling legs was the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced. At that moment, she fell a little bit more in love.
"I don't want this to hurt you," he repeated, eyes achingly earnest. "We should try this differently next time so that it doesn't put so much strain on you."
"Differently?" she echoed stupidly, befuddled, even as she felt deeply touched.
He kissed the tip of her nose. "Differently," he repeated gently, smiling tenderly.
Looking reticent and even shy, he moved on top of her, bracing his weight on one arm. His hand drifted above her pubic bone. "I'd love to touch you. Is this OK? Can I touch you?"
Broken and stubborn as it could be at times, her body knew what to do instinctively. She bent her knees and spread her legs in invitation, even though the tremors were raging. She was not able to spread them much, but it was enough. It would be enough for Edward's head to fit, let alone his hand.
Grinning and tender, he tugged at the elastic waistband of her flowery, summery pajama pants. He snaked a hand under the small of her back, to help her lift. He kept his eyes on hers.
"No. Not yet."
Crushingly, the idea of being completely naked filled her with dread. Her trepidation had nothing to do with a fear of being touched. It had everything to do with the terror of him seeing and feeling her disability so crudely. Underneath her pants, her bare legs looked crippled. It was as simple as that. In the nude, there was nothing to hide her disabled body. Any method Edward had devised to purposefully look past Isabella's severe handicap – to quote Jane Ashcroft Voltaire – would be rendered useless.
Edward froze, and awkwardness settled between them. Uncharacteristically, his face warmed, and he could not look her in the eye. "Oh, um. Right," he said awkwardly. "Sorry. So sorry."
Blushingly, Bella worked through her embarrassment. Was it ridiculous, that her tits were bare while she was still wearing pajama pants? "I still want you to touch me," she said softly, peeking at him through her eyelashes. Gently, she touched his jaw and lifted her head to kiss him.
The awkwardness faded a little when she guided his hand – long-fingered, wide, beautiful – to her breast. He nested his body between her legs, and it was less uncomfortable. On top of her, he dropped his head to her breast. With his fingers, he stroked a line from her clavicles to her belly button, to her clit.
Bella whimpered, hissed, moaned. Drenched and swollen, her clit responded immediately, even through the layers of fabric, as if to an electrical jolt. On lots of levels, she began to feel relief. When she touched it herself, her clit was so sensitive that direct touch was almost painful. The pants were providing a buffer that she needed.
"Edward," she whimpered, and she started a rhythmic, pant-like moaning that would have been embarrassing just an hour earlier. But that night, they had crossed a barrier, a milestone. He had cum. They had verbalized her limitations. She was about to orgasm, too, and –
They were interrupted.
There was a rhythmic drumming on the door: agitated quick knocks, one after the other. Isabella's heart started fluttering in her chest for an altogether different reason.
Groaning with aggravation, Edward rolled off her. He removed his hand from the damp heat in between her thighs, and his mouth from her nipples.
"Christ."
It was Esme, calling out hysterically. "Edward? Edward? Why is the door locked?" The doorknob started to rattle as Esme pushed down on it to open the door.
"It's locked because I'm a grown man," Edward barked back insolently, and Bella had to agree.
In response to Edward's insolence, Esme slammed a hand against the door, which rattled.
Grumbling, he stood first.
"Where's my shirt?" Bella hissed, leaning up on her bent elbows.
She could not sit back up by the strength of her abdomen alone. With sticky, musky fingers, Edward helped her. He offered his hands and pulled, bringing her to a sitting position. The thin fabric of his boxers did nothing to hide his prominent erection, and with the heat of the moment evaporating, just looking at it made Isabella blush.
"Can't you answer the door?" Isabella half-demanded in a horrified whisper, wrapping her arms around her chest. Free from their spider clip, her tresses fell past her breasts.
Rolling his eyes, Edward glanced down at his pulsating crotch in explanation, then smirked. There was a minuscule, nearly imperceptible liquid splotch on his crotch.
"Put on some pants? Won't it hide it?"
"Cover your tits with your hair," Edward whispered with a smirk. Despite that, it was good advice: Isabella kept her hair hanging forward, past her shoulders. Bella rolled her eyes and glowered mockingly. They both laughed quietly, an awkward giggle and snicker.
Speedily, Edward put on thin pajama pants.
"Have you seen Bella? Is she in there?" Esme demanded in a panic as if Isabella was a newborn removed from her bassinet. "Her chair is in her room, but I can't find her anywhere." Bella felt a spark of sympathy for her mother, understanding the panic perfectly. Her wheelchair was essential to her. She needed it: she wasn't confined to it.
"I'm in here," Bella called. At first, her voice was so husky with arousal that she had to clear her throat. "In here!"
While Esme spoke, Edward fished for Bella's top under the bed. For once in her life, Bella felt no embarrassment whatsoever at Edward's help. It was so much faster.
Esme stopped banging on the door, but her voice grew angry and acid with suspicion. "Oh. What are you doing in there, Isabella? It's past ten." Irked, Bella understood that Esme was implying it was past her bedtime.
"Playing," Bella called out dumbly and loudly, and Edward bit his lip to keep his laughter quiet.
Edward lifted her crutches and offered them: Isabella pushed off the bed to stand. Though she was swimming in a sea of pleasure and love, her legs were trembling. Edward held her waist for a second, then let her wobble towards the door.
"Open the window," she suggested. Sighing, Edward did as he was told. "It's very stuffy in here."
"Sweetheart, it's obvious we've been almost … whatever you wanna call it," Edward said, cockily and lazily. He sat on his desk chair, hiding his legs and his erection underneath it. "She'll just have to deal."
Bella sneered at him, suddenly irked. "Ugh, she – ugh. You're so gross sometimes."
Like a rabid bloodhound, Esme continued to push down on the locked door handle. "I'm coming," Bella called.
The moment she opened the door for her mother counted as the most mortifying in her life. Unfortunately, Edward was right. The room was musky and hot, despite the ceiling fan and the breath of ocean air that rushed in through the window. Bella caught her reflection in the mirror: her hair was messy and mussed. There was a sheen of sweat on her temples, and her lips were swollen with Edward's kisses. It was horrifying that she could still feel the dampness of her crotch.
Esme's mouth parted slightly. Her eyes were beady with suspicion, and as she drank her daughter in, they grew confused.
"What took you so long, Bella?" she demanded grumpily.
Esme took a step into the bedroom and took it all in. Bella's hair, messy and mussed, the ribbon hanging messily from her hair. Edward was shirtless and sweaty. Both their lips, swollen.
Flustered, Esme looked like a robot that could not compute an equation, and Bella felt a swell of endearment compete with her irritation.
"Um, uh. Sorry," she winced. "Sorry, mom."
"We're both adults," Edward sneered at his Aunt, completely sidestepping Bella. "You can't get all KGB if she's out of bed at 10, for God's sake."
Esme sneered virulently, sputtering. "Bella is fragile," she snarled at Edward.
"Mom," Bella said pleadingly in disagreement.
"Bella is an adult," Edward repeated rudely, filled with condescension.
"Come on, darling," Edward added defiantly, standing, without any traces of his erection. "Let's go watch that Rome box set until 3 am."
Esme's nostrils flared. When the Rome series ran originally, Edward had been underage. Esme hated that show. It was all "sex, violence, and gore," she would tut at Edward, half-covering Bella's ears.
"Uh."
"Come on, Bella," Edward repeated forcefully, and Bella, in her lovesick haze, would have followed him into a warzone.
But she could not. "May I, mom?" she asked softly, doe eyes apologetic.
"You know what I think," Esme snarled. In her blue silk robe, she flitted away, like a ghoul into the night.
They did watch the series - well into the early morning of the next day.
Bella asked Edward to carry her downstairs. "I'm too tired to walk," she explained, "and to get in the chair, and all the rest of it."
Edward had always been – would always be – attentive to a fault. Now, however, in the throes of the limerence that came with first love, he was completely devoted. Bella felt so cherished.
Edward kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose. He carried her down the stairs and into the TV room. He set them up with a tower fan, and snacks, and put the DVD inside the player. Before he hit play on the first episode, he spread his legs open, and Bella sat in between his thighs, back to his chest, hair pulled up with a spider clip.
"You didn't need to be so harsh," Bella mumbled.
"She's bullying you into being her sweet little girl again," Edward retorted into her hair. "And I fucking hate it. That's not love, that's blackmail."
"It's hard for her," Bella explained, feeling the poignancy in her bones. "We were so close. That's why she calls me her little pea. 'Cause we were two peas in a pod."
"I know, sweetheart. But for fuck's sake, she can't tell you to go to bed at ten. She just walked in on you almost – you know, making love, or fucking, or whatever you want to call it – and she keeps on acting like you're three."
Bella did not want to go down that line of conversation, so she nitpicked.
"Fucking?" Bella asked, light and playful.
Playful but sly, Edward kissed her cheek. "Making love. Making love because I love you more than anything."
"I love you, too," Bella said, glowing. "So much."
"But," she cautioned, grumpily and even irritated. "Just because we are…Nobody needs to see or hear us or know. Especially not your family. It's private. It's between us."
"Baby, I swear to God, I agree," Edward said, and Bella did not quite believe him. Edward had showered with the door wide open back in the day, at Carlisle's apartment. So many of Isabella's insecurities had to do with how he bragged about his many conquests as a teenage boy. "But this was all Esme's fault, for wanting you in bed at 10 so she can read you Goodnight, Moon."
Bella had no retort, and she even laughed. "Don't be mean."
Edward ignored her, shifting to reach for a tub of vanilla ice cream. "Do you want some? We need to eat it before it melts."
Carlisle became visible under the glow of the television, all but two seconds later, and Bella's panic flared. He had circled around the couch. The position they were in was intimate enough – she was nestled between his thighs, and he was shirtless.
"I came to say goodnight, kids," Carlisle said emotionlessly, and he was looking at them sternly. The expression on his face was carefully schooled, but he couldn't hide the tumult of emotions in his silvery blue eyes. Bella panicked. "Be good, son."
"Night, Dad," Edward said dismissively, but Bella was quiet.
Carlisle knew.