Am I going to regret this lol
chapter four
you
I unblock Edward's number the day after our encounter in the hot yoga studio.
But I don't contact him.
He doesn't reach out, either. Although, that's likely because he's under the impression he's still blocked.
I kind of like that he's a man of his word while also feeling oddly bummed he hasn't tried to contact me or come back to the studio. The only two times we were in each other's presence, we had such intense interactions and they left an impression on me.
I use the memory of Edward going down on me to get myself off for the next three months.
I'm not proud, but I also think about him the one time I have sex with Mediocre Michael.
It helps. It's what gets the job done.
For a while, anyway.
I go back and forth on whether or not I'd give in if Edward suggested again that we have sex.
I decide that I would.
I was so judgmental of his open marriage situation, though—so insistent that nothing would happen between us—that I can't be the one to reach out first.
Out of pride.
Out of stubbornness.
Another month passes.
I don't forget about him, but I let the fantasy fade.
Two more months go by, and I go on more casual, mediocre dates.
Nothing comes close to the intensity I felt with Edward's mouth on me, so I guess I don't completely forget about him.
And then, one February night at two in the morning, I get a call from him.
"Hello?" I groggily ask.
But the voice on the other end isn't his.
"Hi, uh… this is Marcus. I'm a bartender at Revolver in Wallingford. We have an Edward here who needs a ride home and is asking for you."
I'm so fucking confused and sit up in bed.
"I think you have the wrong person," I grumble into the phone.
"You're the only Bella in his contact list."
"Is there someone else with him who can help?"
"Nah, sorry, he's alone."
"What about Uber?" I ask, slowly waking up more. "Or call someone else?"
"Yeah, I dunno, he's really drunk and isn't making much sense. He just kept saying your name, so we called."
"Okay, uh… you're closed, right?" I ask, getting out of bed. "I can be there in ten or fifteen. Can you let him wait for me inside?"
"Yeah, sure thing. We still have to close up, so no worries."
"Thank you," I say, then quickly hang up.
I don't have the chance to overthink what the fuck is going on before I throw on leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, Uggs, and head to the bar.
The roads are deserted at this hour, and getting there takes me less time than I thought. I illegally park in front of the bar and turn my hazards on before rushing into Revolver.
Edward's sitting on a stool and slumped over the bar.
I spot a guy stacking chairs, and he waves at me. He's the only other person in here.
"Bella?" he asks me, then points at himself. "Marcus."
"Thanks for calling," I say because it feels polite. Not because I am thankful.
I warily approach Edward.
He's not in a button-down and slacks like he was the only other two times I've seen him. Tonight, he's wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He looks nothing like the man I've seen before, honestly. He's not oozing confidence or charm. He's wasted and a hot fucking mess.
"Hey, uh…" I awkwardly shake him a little. "Edward?"
He grumbles and lifts his head, and even though he opens his eyes, it's like he's not seeing me.
But then my slurred name falls from his lips.
"I can help you get him into the car if you parked close," Marcus kindly offers.
"I'd appreciate that, thanks. I'm right out front." I turn my focus back to Edward. "Hey, we're leaving. Can you get yourself to the car?"
I don't get a coherent reply, so Marcus walks over and helps bring Edward to his feet.
"Easy does it, man," he says to Edward.
"I'm good. I got it," Edward slurs, stumble-walking through the bar with occasional assistance from Marcus.
When we get outside, I open the car door, and Edward ungracefully eases into the passenger seat. I lean over to buckle him in, and the proximity gives me a good whiff of alcohol and the faintest scent of tobacco.
"Shit, wait. He had a phone and coat," Marcus tells me. "Let me go grab them."
I shut the car door and linger on the sidewalk for a minute until Marcus returns, handing me a wool coat and an iPhone.
I regard him. "Thanks so much."
"Yeah, no problem," he says before heading back inside.
When I climb into my driver's seat, Edward's asleep.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know where the fuck Edward lives.
I don't know why he even told them to call me.
"Edward," I say his name loudly, tossing his coat into the backseat. "Hey, I don't know where you live and need to take you home."
With no response, I look at his phone and immediately see a picture of two kids—a boy and a girl. They're young, maybe five or so, but I'm bad at judging things like that. They look like Edward, with the same bronzed hair and green eyes. After a second, I realize they're likely twins.
Seeing them makes me feel guilty for what I let Edward do to me in the yoga studio.
He doesn't just have a wife… he has a family.
He's a fucking dad.
Maybe my guilt is unfounded because Edward admitted his wife is okay with their open marriage. And he sure as shit didn't seem to feel guilty.
But I still decide nothing more will happen between us.
His phone has a passcode, and as much as I'm tempted to use his face to unlock it, I won't know who to call anyway. I could go through his call log and text messages, but that feels like an unnecessary invasion of privacy.
Taking him home is less appealing now that I know he has kids. I don't want them to see him like this, and I'd hate to meet his wife. I prefer to avoid any unnecessary drama.
So, I start driving us back to my place.
When I pull into my driveway, I kill the engine.
"Edward?" I try again, gently shaking him.
All I get is more deep breathing.
I doubt I'll be able to get him inside my house.
Instead of leaving him out here like he deserves, I drape his coat over him for warmth, recline my seat, and try to sleep.
XXX
Morning light streams through the windshield, waking me.
I half expected Edward to be gone, but he's still asleep, slumped over and resting his head on the cold window.
I look at my phone and see it's almost eight-thirty. I nosily look at Edward's phone, too, but there are zero missed calls or texts on the screen.
Sitting up, I shake him. I'm not gentle about it. I'm fucking cold, my neck hurts from the angle I slept, and I'm annoyed.
"Edward," I say loudly. "Wake up."
He stirs.
Yawns.
And when he opens his eyes and registers where he is, he at least has the decency to look embarrassed, even if he seems a little confused.
"Bella?" he asks, voice hoarse. "What happened?"
"Good question. Maybe you can explain that to me inside my place, where it's warmer?"
I drop his phone in his lap and don't give him any other option before I leave my car and walk toward the front door. He's slow to follow, but he does.
"Do you want water and coffee?" I ask, walking into the kitchen.
He scrubs a hand over his face. "Uh. Yeah. Thanks. Can I use your bathroom?"
"Down the hall, first door on the left."
He disappears, and I take advantage of the minute alone to collect myself.
Edward is here.
I thought I'd never see him again. And I was okay with that. I am okay with that. I don't even know him. But there's still a nervous energy coursing through me. The feeling is both exciting and unwelcome at the same time.
When he's back in the kitchen minutes later, he looks more put together than before. His hair is a bit more tamed, and he smells like Listerine.
"Did you use my mouthwash?" I accuse.
"Yeah." He grabs the water I left for him on the counter and chugs it in one go. "Don't worry, I didn't put my mouth on the bottle."
"I'm not worried," I say. "Your mouth has been in more promiscuous places than my Listerine bottle."
He breathes out a soft laugh. "Right. Yeah."
Part of me hates I didn't get a bigger reaction from him. Part of me wanted him to, you know, acknowledge or talk about what happened that day in the hot yoga studio.
He doesn't bite, though.
"Do you just do whatever you want?" I ask in the same accusing tone as seconds ago.
"Sometimes."
"And say what you want," I add.
He thinks about this. "No."
"I'm not sure I believe you. You were more than open with me the first time we met."
Maybe it's mean to approach him like this when he's hungover, but I don't care.
"That was a rare moment of vulnerability," he says earnestly, then ruins it with, "Are you not flattered?"
I hate to admit I was a little flattered. To hear that I was the only woman he'd ever given his card or number to. To know that he tracked me down for weeks because he just had to have a taste.
I shake my head.
This isn't normal.
Maybe he has a personality disorder.
Maybe I'm too fucking curious about him.
"What's with the camera set up in there?" he asks out of nowhere, curious about me, too.
He must have seen my dining room turned home studio on his way to the bathroom.
He sits on the barstool. I stay where I am, with my lower back pressed against the counter. His eyes never leave my face, and I feel pinned under his gaze.
"I film a yoga series for YouTube. Funnily enough, this month is about letting go of things that don't serve you."
The spark in his eyes brightens a bit. "I see."
"You still haven't Googled me?"
"No. I was going cold turkey. You asked me to leave you alone, and—"
"I never asked you to leave me alone," I clarify, drinking my coffee.
"I said I would, and you didn't object. So I figured that's what you wanted."
I don't give him any indication of what I want, and instead, I ask, "Why did you tell the bartender to call me last night?"
"I don't know. I drank a lot and don't remember much," he says. "Thank you, by the way. For picking me up." He sounds and looks more sincere than I've seen. "You didn't have to, and I appreciate it."
"You're welcome. But why didn't you call your wife?"
"Because she left me."
I wasn't expecting that. Or to hear how neutral he sounds about it. But his lack of reaction is probably a front. He must have been upset enough to get obliterated last night.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I say, and I mean it.
"I know one way you can make me feel better."
I regard him.
"You're joking," I say flatly.
"I'd never joke about sex with you," he says, his voice warm and low. "Did you think about me over the last six months?"
I squeeze the mug in my hand and swallow thickly. "No."
"Huh." He looks irritated, and I fight a smile. "Are you seeing anyone?"
"Why did your wife leave you?" I ask instead of answering him like he wants.
For the briefest second, his face is open, and I think he'll tell me. But then he closes himself off.
"I don't want to get into it," he tells me quietly. "Not yet. Not now."
"So, my life is up for conversation, but yours isn't?"
He avoids the question. "All I want to know is if you thought about me."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know if I affected you."
I set my mug down. "Why? Is this a game to you?"
"Says the woman who blocked my number and told me to find her," he quips.
"Hey," I counter, "that was fun."
"I'm genuinely curious if you thought about me as much as I've thought about you over the last six months," he says, straightforward and honest. "I need to know if this is one-sided. If I'm fucking crazy. Because if so, I can walk away."
"Yes, okay?" I say impatiently. "Yes, you're crazy. But yes, I thought about you way more than I should've. Happy?"
He licks his lips. "When you were with other men?"
I hate him right now. I hate that he can coax truths out of me. "Yes."
"What about when you were alone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Do it again."
My eyes widen. "What?"
"Right now. I want to see you touch yourself."
I shake my head in confusion. "What is going on? I picked you up in the middle of the night because you were wasted. Your wife supposedly left you. And now you're coming onto me? Telling me to touch myself," I list off.
It's unreal.
It's not normal.
It's… kind of turning me on a little bit in a confusing way.
He shrugs. "Basically, yeah."
"Do you always get what you want?"
"No. I wanted to fuck you six months ago, and you wouldn't let me," he says seriously.
Heat burns between my legs, and I try to shift the power dynamic because I like it when he doesn't get his way. And I think he might like it, too.
"You," I say, the lone word hanging in the air.
With his eyes locked on me, he gets up from the stool and slowly moves closer. "You want me to get you off again?"
"No," I clarify, staring up at him, heart racing. "I want to watch you touch yourself."
He swallows, hesitating.
"What?" I challenge. "It's okay for you to tell me what to do, but I can't? I bet you're already hard." I boldly slide a hand between us and palm his semi-hard cock through his jeans. "I knew it."
He grunts. "Do it again." I squeeze gently, and he thrusts against my touch. "Fuuuck, Bella."
"I'm waiting," I tell him, crossing my arms, enjoying being in charge.
He doesn't miss a beat, unzipping his jeans and pulling out his hard cock.
"Wow," I muse, watching him stroke himself in earnest until he's fully stiff. "Does that feel good?"
"Yeah," he exhales, licking his lips.
His eyes close, and his head tips back. When his Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow, it takes everything for me not to suck on it.
"How often did you think about me?" I ask.
"Too much. Every day." I can feel his eyes on me now, but I watch his forearm flex and his wrist roll sinuously as he grips himself. "I haven't touched anyone since the night I met you."
"Liar," I whisper, meeting his eyes.
"I fucking swear," he growls.
Even your wife? I want to ask, but I leave her out of this.
Instead, I say, "Prove it."
"I'm about to come. How's that for proving it?"
I can't help it; I laugh.
"Can I?" I ask and take over, stroking him.
"Goddamn," he murmurs, slack-jawed.
"You think that's good?" I taunt.
"Yeah, I fuckin' do."
He grabs my face with both hands and kisses me.
It doesn't feel like a first kiss. It's not tentative or slow; it's hungry and demanding, but his mouth tastes good, and his lips are insistent.
He murmurs my name, then groans into my mouth, and I nearly whimper because hearing and seeing how turned on he is so sexy.
I pull him over to the kitchen table, then sit down so I'm at eye level with his perfect cock.
"You want this?" I ask, my lips grazing the tip and kissing it.
He watches in deadly awe. "Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"Yeah, please suck my cock, Bella."
And then I take him into my mouth, making him groan too loud for too long.
I suck and lick and stroke, making him babble and say so many incoherent things under his breath.
His fingers tangle in my hair, and his hips thrust forward like he can't get enough.
"Shit, just like that," he pants. "So fucking good."
He doesn't last long, but it's kinda hot. Like he can't help himself with me. A minute later, he's warning me he's going to come, and then he does.
"Shit," he exhales when he's done, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping them.
I move to spit in the sink before rinsing my mouth.
"I want to see you again," he says out of nowhere, his eyes glazed and gone.
"Of course you do. You just got a blowjob in my kitchen."
He chuckles, keeping his eyes fixed on me. "Be real for a second."
"I'm always real," I toss back, crossing my arms, but he makes me nervous.
"What am I supposed to do about this now?"
"About what?"
"You."
That lone word and the look in his eyes make my cheeks flame.
There's undeniably something between us. I'm just not sure what it is or how it will end.
"I figured you'd walk away, like last time," I whisper.
"Is that what you want?" he asks quietly.
I shrug. "I go back and forth on how I feel about all of this. So I'm not sure."
"Okay, well." He shifts closer and brushes my bottom lip with his thumb. It's too tender for everything that's happened between us. "When you figure it out… call me."
The end? lol
No, but every chapter so far could be the end. Like Bella, I keep going back and forth on the fate of this fic.
Thanks for all the support so far. It really does mean a lot to have so many kind, loyal readers along for the ride.