The onslaught of sensation, like diesel fuel on the cinders of my restraint, about sent me jettisoning through the roof.
A mangled groan escaped through my lips, pressure compounded by the double flow of thought and feeling.
Jazz read my emotional response to Bella's unconscious ardor; I tasted the mental flavor of his assessment, injected directly into my brain like bright red, desirous magma.
The chorus of snickers and chuckles outside my vision did nothing to soothe the dry, aching thirst that had nothing to do with blood.
Bella moaned again, shifting her hips to press them into my thigh, rubbing like a neglected cat.
I had been alive for a decade and had never felt so absolutely tortured like this before.
Every scorched nerve ending in my body was pulled taut like a frayed tightrope, ready to snap at the smallest application of pressure.
My monumental self control was nearing toddler-without-a-nap levels of breakdown.
It wasn't every day I truly felt 17, but Isabella Swan was upending my entire concept of self.
And she was blissfully, sleepily, unaware of how completely she unmanned me.
My only salvation was that the seduction wasn't premeditated.