Mwah. Heads up, chapter 7 is EPOV… if anyone wants it lol
chapter six
slow
When I pull into my driveway forty-five minutes later, a sleek black Volvo is parked by the curb.
I'm pretty sure it's Edward, but it's dark out, and the windows are tinted, so I can't see inside.
I stay in my car for a second and decide that Edward's wedding band will indicate how this night goes.
If it's gone, he can have me.
If it's still there, I'll cool it.
Seconds after I get out of my car, I see Edward exiting the Volvo.
"What took you so long?" he asks, walking up my driveway. "I was starting to think you changed your mind."
"I had wine to finish. And the waitress took forever to bring the check." And maybe I was nervous, too, for whatever reason. But as he approaches me now, I play it cool.
He's relaxed in a dark hoodie and fitted gray joggers. Neither article of clothing should look that fucking good on him, but they do.
"Anyway. I'm here now," I say. "Hi."
His eyes dance with delight. "We don't do that."
"What?"
"Greet one another."
I love that he picked up on that, too.
"True, we never say hi or bye. Maybe we knew each other in another life, so our souls weren't meeting for the first time six months ago."
I believe in phenomena like this, but I'm mostly teasing him because what sick, twisted fate would bring us together twice?
"Yeah, I'd fully believe that you were around to torture me in a past life," he says with a small smile. "Can we move this conversation inside?"
My gaze seeks out his left hand, and I see he's still wearing his ring.
"Sure, but I'm not having sex with you tonight," I say because even if I want to, I also want to gain some control back in this situation. "Just want to make that clear."
"Whatever you want, Bella." His impassive expression shifts to something more heated. "Just know if you do want me to… I will."
His voice is low when he says it. Low and deep, and fuck, I feel it in places you shouldn't feel a voice. Like my stomach. Maybe even lower.
"Good to know," I say, pretending I'm unaffected.
He follows me toward the house, and I unlock the door so we can walk inside. I move around the space and turn on some lamps before slipping out of my coat and booties.
Edward makes himself comfortable on my couch—maybe even too relaxed. He slouches low against the plush cushions, his thighs spread wide.
His position looks inviting.
Enticing.
Ignoring him, I plug in my phone.
"Do you want something to drink?" I ask politely.
"What do you have?"
I have to think for a second. "A half a bottle of white wine in the fridge and a red blend in a box."
He breathes out a laugh. "I can't say I've ever had boxed wine before."
"Yeah, well, not all of us have the luxury of living off an architect's salary," I playfully snip back. Now I'm wondering what his wife—estranged wife?—does for a living.
"I wasn't judging," he says thoughtfully, almost kindly. "I'll take a glass of the red."
I nod and disappear into the kitchen, grabbing two mismatched glasses and filling each with boxed wine.
"Which glass do you want?" I ask, offering his choice of a stemmed or stemless glass.
His eyes light up like he's amused. "Stemless."
I hand it over, and our fingers brush. I can feel his eyes on my face, but I don't look at him because I don't trust myself not to pounce.
"So, where were you tonight?" he wonders as I sit on the opposite end of the couch, two cushions away and safer.
"At a wine bar with my friend Kate."
"How was it?"
"Good. What were you doing tonight?" I ask, sipping my wine.
He slightly angles his body toward me and stretches his arm along the back of the couch.
"I made dinner. Drank some scotch."
I raise a brow. "Aren't you hungover from last night?"
"Hair of the dog." He shrugs. "After I ate, I watched this yoga instructor on YouTube who drives me wild."
I laugh, brushing off his remark and fighting the urge to ask about his kids again. I know he said they were a touchy subject, which makes it much more intriguing.
"I can't believe you watched," I muse instead.
"How long have you been doing that?" He looks interested, which only adds to my attraction to him.
"Eight years. I started posting videos on YouTube, mostly as personal feedback for my in-person classes. But then I slowly gained a following, and people requested specific videos, so yeah."
"You instruct at the studio full-time?"
"Occasionally. The other half of the time, I'm creating content for YouTube."
"And you get paid for that?" he asks.
"My, my, aren't you nosy," I joke, but I don't actually care because it's not a secret, and I like that he's curious. "I do make money from advertising and sponsorships. One day, I want a studio in the city, but I also want a place in the mountains where people can get away for retreats. They can hike, meditate, and do yoga. Heal." He watches my face intently. "Anyway. That's the ten-year plan… or more likely, the twenty-year plan because life is expensive."
He drinks his wine, pulling his eyes from mine. "Hm."
"Hm," I mimic. "I'm boring you."
He smirks. "No, you're not."
"Not every conversation can be all heated and sexy, you know? There has to be moments in between where things aren't so loaded."
"Bella, I know," he says softly. "I genuinely like hearing you talk. It reminds me of the way you speak in your videos. It's just you, but it doesn't feel like a one-sided conversation. It feels natural. Comforting. I don't know."
My heart jumps because, whoa.
"Okay, enough about me," I insist. "You gotta give me something about you."
"Like what?"
"Anything about your life."
Draining his wine in one go, he sets the empty glass on the coffee table and then says, "Well, I don't have any ten or twenty-year plans."
"Why not? Don't tell me you achieved everything you want in life?"
"Nah. I just don't think that far ahead anymore." He says it matter-of-factly, but there's an underlying melancholy tone. "Maybe I'll be healing at a mountain yoga retreat in ten or twenty years."
The spark in my chest dims from the sadness that radiates from him. "Do you need healing?" I ask too quietly.
He holds my gaze. One, two, three beats pass. When he laughs, it's sardonic.
"What motherfucker doesn't?" he asks rhetorically.
I laugh but know he's deflecting, so I don't push.
"Are you from Seattle?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"So, your parents live here?"
"Yeah, but they're retired and travel a lot, so sometimes it doesn't feel like it."
"Siblings?"
"Two brothers."
"Did you go to college here?"
"And graduate school, yeah."
"Favorite food?" I try.
"Anything prepared for me."
He's giving me the bare minimum. "You don't enjoy talking, do you?"
He smirks. "I'm answering your questions, aren't I? And sometimes I just don't like talking about myself."
"Okay, fair enough, but… how do you expect people to get to know you?"
He shrugs. "I don't."
"Isn't that lonely?"
I don't think he was expecting me to ask him that because his face falls for a split second before he recovers.
"Being alone isn't always a bad thing," is all he says.
"Would you rather be alone now?" I ask, but I know he doesn't because he wouldn't have shown up at my place if he did.
"No," he says quietly. "I definitely want to be here."
There's that purposeful drop in his voice again, sending a zing to my lower belly.
His arm is still stretched along the back of the couch, and his fingers brush my shoulder.
It's soft.
Sensual.
"You still want to be here even if nothing happens between us?" I challenge, testing him.
His smile is small and taunting. "Define nothing."
"Nothing sexual," I say with raised brows and a pointed look.
"You still want me here even if nothing happens?" he asks in return.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because not everything is about sex for me."
For a moment, he looks offended but recovers nicely. "Would you believe me if I said not everything was about sex for me, too?"
I laugh. "No, not really."
He grins. "Fair enough. It's your turn to answer everything you asked me before."
"I'm from Seattle. My parents are divorced but live here. I'm an only child, and I didn't finish college because I'm a rebel, and it just wasn't for me. I love all pasta. The saucier, the better."
"Mmm, there's a good place near me."
"Where do you live?"
"On Lake Washington."
"Fancy."
"It's okay."
I take another sip of wine, and he doesn't look away from my mouth as I say, "Do you really not remember or know why you asked the bartender to call me last night?"
"I remember… parts of the night, anyway."
"Care to let me in on your thought process? We hadn't spoken in six months, so I was surprised to get that call."
"Exactly. Six months. That magic fucking number," he jokes, earning a soft smile from me.
I'm not letting him off the hook, though.
I wait.
He sighs.
"I went out with the intention of getting drunk and fucking someone, okay?"
His brutal honesty is appreciated but slightly difficult to hear.
"So, okay. You got drunk, but why didn't you just go fuck someone?" I wonder.
"Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
I search his face but it's not a line. He says it so earnestly. More candidly than I think he's ever said anything to me before. He says it like he wishes he could stop thinking about me.
"Why?" I whisper.
He breathes an unamused laugh. "I fucking wish I knew, Bella. I honestly don't remember telling the bartender to call you but it makes sense if you were on my mind. And before that, I was toying with the idea of calling you, but I figured you still had me blocked."
"I unblocked you after that day in the studio…" I trail off, and he licks his lips. I slightly shift the subject because now all I'm thinking about is his mouth between my legs and how much I loved it. "If you have two brothers, why didn't you mention them to the bartender?"
"Emmett's not in Seattle, and I probably didn't want to bother Jasper. It was the middle of the night. He has a family and doesn't need to worry about me."
"Are the three of you pretty clo—"
"Why won't you let me fuck you?" he asks.
It feels abrupt like he's trying to deflect with sex. I wanted to know more about his life, and he shut it down pretty quickly.
His fingers curl around my wrist, and he gently guides me closer.
A soft suggestion: sit on my lap.
I give in, set my wine glass next to his, and then straddle him.
A beat passes where neither of us says or does anything. But my chest pounds from the proximity and our position.
"Is kissing allowed?" he asks.
I nod, and he grabs my face, his eyes searching mine before he leans in.
He's slow to kiss me. His lips ghost my lips. His nose brushes mine. His breath is hot on my mouth, and when his eyes close, I keep mine open, waiting. He makes me ache and anticipate it.
When his lips finally press to mine, it's soft and slow, and my eyes fall closed, too.
I deepen it even though it's risky. I'm desperate for it even though I'm the one setting boundaries.
We kiss for a minute and I can feel him growing under me.
A hard suggestion: let me fuck you.
His mouth continues to explore mine, his tongue brushing, lips devouring.
And then he breaks our kiss to murmur in my ear, "Why won't you let me fuck you, Bella?"
"Because I'm a virgin," I lie, and we both laugh. At least he has a sense of humor. "Because you give off fuckboi vibes. And what if I want it to be more than one time?" I stupidly—vulnerably—ask.
I want to smack myself.
He looks surprised by my comment. "Are you the clingy type?"
Now I want to smack him.
"Are you the clingy type, asks the stalker," I say dryly, giving him a pointed stare.
"Yeah, I've been a little forward. Sorry," he replies, leaning in again.
I pull back before he can capture my mouth in a kiss. "Your wedding band is still on. That's why I'm not having sex with you tonight."
Again, a flash of surprise creases his face. "Habit."
"I understand that," I say. "And I know we've done some other stuff. It was fun."
"Just fun?"
"Mindblowingly sexy," I add, and he smiles. "But I'm a little more cautious than before. So I hope you can understand that."
I sound like I'm all over the fucking place.
Get me off.
Don't get me off.
Fuck me.
Don't fuck me.
He releases a small, accepting laugh. "Okay. Sorry for asking. I can respect that," he says, squeezing my thighs twice, the subject ending. "So, are you kicking me out? Is the night over?"
He honestly looks disappointed when he says it.
I shake my head. "Do you want it to be?"
"No."
"You don't have to go back home at some point tonight?" I ask vaguely.
After a beat of hesitation, he says, "I don't have anyone waiting for me at home if that's what you're asking."
"Well, you're not talking much. And we aren't having sex, so what's there left to do?"
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Sleep."