|Temptations of the Unloved
Author: BittenBee PM
Surrendering himself to a rare, exquisite beauty, Edward Masen trades in his bloodlust to dance on the edge of sexual temptation with another lonely soul. 1st Place Winner in the Bridal Style Anonymous One-Shot Contest. AU, Rated M.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Edward & Bella - Words: 5,180 - Reviews: 31 - Favs: 64 - Follows: 21 - Published: 12-16-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5586765
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Bridal Style Anonymous One-Shot Contest
Title: Temptations of the Unloved
Summary: Surrendering himself to a rare, exquisite beauty, Edward Masen trades in his bloodlust to dance on the edge of sexual temptation with another lonely soul.
If you would like to see all the entries for this contest, please visit: www(DOT)fanfiction(DOT)net/u/2122305/Bridal_Style
A/N: Phonograph - a recording and playing sound device invented in 1857. Google it for images and you'll recognize it right away!
I had lot's of fun writing a vampire Edward, this was my first time! Thanks to the wonderful ladies who hosted this contest, and thank you from the bottom of my Bee-heart to Nicnicd for beta'ing this little nugget.
London, England 1901
Staggered sconces, few candles, and a stoked fire cast a golden glow around the shadowed room, emanating soft light. More a necessity rather than preference, as light could change the colors too easily, altering the overall visual relation that objects had to one another. It had to be perfect. The velvet chaise, a rich, sumptuous violet, was set over polished wood floors, accompanied by only one other cushioned chair across from the artist's work station. Heavy black curtains lined the walls over windows that were never parted, simply out of habit.
Across soft rugs with gold and green weaved patterns sat the artist, busying himself with his paints, anxious for his next…visitor to arrive. His thoughts mused over previous conquests, leaving him eager for the next. Humans would always be superstitious with their weak minds and lavish imaginations, but they didn't believe in myth and creatures like they used to. He had more freedom when they were savages, more power because they feared his type. But their progressing civilization drove him into hiding, trapping him behind walls of his own choosing. Solitude and obscurity were his only protection now.
As he finished adding the last of his cobalt pigment to the oil medium, he heard the carriage approach outside. It was late for house calls in general, but not for him. Twice a month, women came, not knowing what Fate had in store for them. They were usually prostitutes looking for extra income, but never left this room, and no one ever came searching for them. He liked to joke with his lonely self and call it a 'killing two birds with one stone' deal.
He listened casually while mashing and kneading the paint to his desired consistency with the palette knife. Other than the usual shuffle of steps and door clicking, he was met with silence. Rousing out of his preparatory ritual, he froze to listen more keenly.
There were definitely two sets of footsteps and two beating hearts, but only one set of thoughts. That was the usual quiet mutterings of Otis. The servant was hired years ago because he was quiet in his head and never interfered.
Something was different this time and instantly he was on guard. Quiet sounds below meant his guest was inside the house and being led down the carpeted hallway. The only clues he could get from Otis's mind were flashes of long, brown hair and fabric. A determined smile and dirty gloved hands clasped together. Shaking his head and confused, he placed the palette knife down.
The butler might as well have been walking by himself. Eyes fixed on the door, the curiosity burned as wariness set in.
Unaware of the difference, Otis knocked and entered, announcing her title in his usual quiet rasp. "A Miss Isabella for you, Sir."
Upon her careful entrance, his nostrils flared subtly, inhaling her natural perfume. The fragrance was unexpectedly potent and went straight to his head. She smelled like a sweet, juicy, peach tree in spring, and she looked soft. The burn in his throat began traveling through out his arteries and vessels to the tips of his fingers, causing his hands to twitch. It was dizzying, almost maddening. Having never been stirred like this, he mentally fumbled, gripping the arms of his chair.
His mind clung to reason, eyes taking in the rest of her appearance.
Isabella's hair was elegantly swept up, exposing the arch of her thin, healthy pale neck. She was very delicately built, appearing graceful in her stillness. The light blue cloak was frayed at the edges but secured over her dress from shoulders to petite feet. Looking back at him were two eyes like warm drops of chocolate truffles under long lashes, paired with a set of full lips.
She didn't look like the usual whores that came to him. Isabella was a rare beauty—not sallow and haggard under painted lips and orange curls like most of them. As his gaze repeatedly roamed her, he remained tense as unfamiliar urges went off inside. He was anxious, and wanted her to sate his curiosity in more ways than one.
This happened in only a matter of seconds as Otis took steps to depart. The sound of the door clicking behind her brought his thoughts back and he stood, perhaps too quickly.
She stared back at him with polite curiosity. Before she entered, she hadn't the faintest idea what would present itself behind the door. Even afterward, her eyes still adjusted to the sight. High ceilings lined with moldings made the estate grand, but the abundance of dark draperies wrapped them in seclusion. The main event was the plum colored velvet chaise in the center, across from a small kindling fire. She was the main event.
"Welcome Isabella." Falling into his routine, he regained composure, trying not to inhale too heavily. It was uncommon that he found himself presented with a delicious, stunning woman and ignored the tingles in his body and little tugs of his hunger. "Have you ever modeled for an artist before?"
"No," she replied simply, clasping her hands more firmly.
Her eyes widened as he neared, finally getting a closer look at him in the flickering firelight, its reflection dancing on one side of his solemn expression. She hadn't expected the hard, smooth angles of his brow and jaw, leading to lips pressed into a line. He brushed his coppery hair off his forehead aimlessly, revealing eyes that were so dark—an indeterminate shade of black and mahogany tones. The messily feathered strands floated back to his brow, making him mysterious once again. What captured her fascination the most was his skin. He was so pale that he seemed to have a faint, subtle glow all around him.
"I am Edward Masen." He couldn't tell if she was uncomfortable or not and shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head. "Forgive me Isabella, but you're unlike my other models."
"And what types of women sit for you?" Her eyes flickered, genuinely wondering if she had chosen a decent establishment. Perhaps the grandeur of the place was a facade for something else... she couldn't be sure, only conscious that she was still in awe.
"You're prettier than the others." Women liked flattery but he wasn't used to speaking freely and halted. In fact, he rarely spoke to any of them. Their thoughts were entertainment enough and he was never interested in what they had to say. But it also meant that he had decades of lacking social skills, easily relying on their thoughts more than his conversational charm.
Her cheeks faintly pinked, the blood beneath the translucent skin drawing attention once more to his hunger. Throughout his century of existence, he'd never met someone silent. And so sweet and mouthwatering. He could almost taste her on his tongue when he breathed her in. The fruity, rich scent of her blood carried to his nose, but aside from the appeal, he was intrigued by her.
Isabella was a modest woman, but the compliment touched her. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, trying to ignore her own loud thudding heart against her ribs. She had always done what she needed to do for survival and this was another step in the road. "Thank you, but I am just a whore. I need..."
He nodded in understanding, but not really understanding. She needed money. All those women did. But how did someone like her end up like this? And he was going to end her miserable journey tonight? He didn't want to care, but she was different; a piece that didn't fit in his puzzle. He grew frustrated again, unable to hear her thoughts in order to work off of them. He was also irritated by his desire for her. His jaw clenched and when he looked at her again, expectantly, her eyes widened slightly, confused by his manner.
Swallowing back the burn, he motioned her to the chaise.
She followed in his direction, the rugs muting her footsteps, and carefully seated herself on the velvet cushions.
Edward already had his back to her, arranging his tools and brushes. He was cautious, not knowing how to read her properly. It was worrisome. But he could hear Otis downstairs thinking of his duties for the morrow which comforted him, knowing he hadn't lost his senses. The only conclusion was that there was something wrong with the girl.
"What position would you like me in?" she asked softly, interrupting his thoughts as the cloak rustled around her, slipping from her shoulders.
He took a calming breath and turned to face her. It was good he didn't need to breathe as he quietly gasped at her sitting there, a vision in a revealing dress of white, billowing silk and matching corset. His muscles surged with life and desire, but he tensed, fighting the unexpected impulses.
Visually lingering on her lips, he imagined how good they would feel on his. Warm and soft, breathing that fruity scent. His fingers curled, thinking that this very instant he could be by her side before her mind would catch up, tangling his fingers in her hair to upturn her face, accessing her neck. The fantasy was almost too much for him.
His rigid form was too still, unnatural. He needed to relax and tend to his work. Glancing at his blank canvas and then back to Isabella, he formulated the composition that would work best. Edward would paint her like Aphrodite. Looking toward her, he finally trusted himself to speak without growling.
"If you could recline..."
Isabella slipped her shoes off and lifted her legs, reclining against the arm of the chaise. She wasn't upright like a traditional Aphrodite, but tilted her head back slightly, exposing her throat and the curve of her swelling breast. Smooth and supple, breathing with sweet life and a heat that permeated around her. Immediately, the exact positioning of Aphrodite fled his concern.
Meeting his gaze, she blushed crimson at his expression. He jerked his focus back to the canvas, having a mind to shatter the brush in his hand to dust. "Let your hair down, please," he instructed quietly, busying himself with lathering his brush in oil.
Her thoughts wouldn't be distracting or entertaining him, but if his eyes kept wandering to the pulse thumping just under the fair skin, he wouldn't get anything accomplished. This was his new hobby, capturing beauty and life he couldn't live. Looking from the outside in, seeing more colors in one sitting than humans did on a daily basis.
Afterward, he would take her for himself.
Edward began to sketch out his under painting in a glazing oil wash of burnt umber, laying out the shades and values in shapes. He worked quick and expertly to the human eye, but really, he was taking his time - glancing back and forth between Isabella and his canvas.
Most prostitutes' mind would wander to their present comfort or discomfort, then vile thoughts of their worst customers in the brothels or on the street, then linger toward him, conjuring up their most vivid fantasies. Edward found it uninteresting, pitiable, or amusing. But the silence and her heart beating started to eat at him with each passing minute.
Again, he wondered what she was thinking, remaining still and watching him under her lashes. With every glance, the atmosphere thickened. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, the cotton all of sudden constricting his throat. Isabella's heartbeat hiccupped as he did so, bringing his attention back to her.
The dim lighting played off her complexion in golds and reflected warmly in the seemingly endless depths of her eyes. Unsure of how much time passed between their fixed gazes, he rose suddenly from his chair to turn on his phonograph. The piano sonata would diffuse the stifling silence. Surely he must be imagining the crackling energy swirling between them like a storm. He reassured himself that it was a reaction from the quiet stillness and not her mind's silence
With his back turned to her, he asked with his customary formality, "Do you need to stretch your limbs?" Humans often grew stiff from remaining stationary for so long.
"Thank you, yes." Her voice stroked his eardrums pleasantly, he almost shivered.
The musical notes twinkled out a soft melody, relaxing him a bit as he returned to his chair. Glancing sideways at Isabella, he watched her rubbing the kinks from her neck, rolling her shoulders, flexing her toes with closed eyes. A hum vibrated in her throat, igniting his dark excitement. Pausing, his attention became utterly absorbed by her. His member twitched, growing in his trousers that eventually he had to shift himself. Though he still had details to paint, he willed himself to behave and stay hungry for awhile longer.
She was lounging in the room with death and didn't even know it.
Opening her eyes midway, she caught Edward staring just before he turned to his work. It was fleeting, but she saw. The way he looked at her - raw, primal desire and interest mixed with his reserved manner - it made her heart jump and quicken, tantalizing her own need.
Distractedly, he doused his bristles into the oil wash and began quick feathered brush strokes, filling in the rest of the empty space on canvas. He was becoming careless with his work and that needed to stop. Then he heard her intake of breath.
"Do you live here by yourself?"
"Otis lives with me." He slowed his brush strokes. How truthful should he be with her? Either he poured his soul out to her and ended her life, or kept her at a distance and allowed her to come back—choices he'd never considered before.
Her lip curled at the corner, seeing through his terse avoidance. "It must be lonely..." she mused, her eyes looking around the room.
"I find the solitude fitting for... someone like me." Edward hoped the vague response would quell her curiosity. Was it obvious to her that he was something more than a lonely artist? Or perhaps she was more observant than the rest. In either case, the situation was dangerous, for her.
"Are you alone, Isabella?" he asked quietly. If she was alone, no one would miss her...
"Do you think I would be here if I wasn't?" Her elegant brow rose, as if it were obvious.
He glanced at her, surprised. She echoed his own thoughts. If he belonged to a coven, he wouldn't be alone in this stuffy mansion. Humans usually had families, he'd forgotten what that was like too. Even now, his mothers beautiful face was a blur in his memory. Maybe she was lost in the world like him? Just doing what one needed to do as the days went by...
Edward shifted back to his work, shaking off the melancholic thoughts. He was starting to overwork his under painting now and dropped the brush into his tin with a small clatter. His patience had paid off, his masterpiece taking form. Every stroke he had put in was every detail he learned about her. He yearned to know more, the prospect of discovery swirling excitement in his gut.
"You can stretch again," he told her, using his rag to clean off the palette knife.
Her garments rustled with movement, her weight squeaking the velvet cushions, and the vibration in her throat set him aflame inside.
Turning to her, he quickly observed how the white silk clung, creased, and hung over her milky curves and limbs. The ivory corset cinched her waist with crisscrossed ribbon, one of the thick straps of twisted satin starting to slip from her shoulder, revealing her neckline and tantalizing cleavage. She was exquisite. He ignored the burn in his throat, wanting to touch and feel her under his cold fingertips. Her skin would taste fruity and fresh, so warm and supple. His frame jerked with a shiver, rippling down his spine and into his hardening member. It quivered with need for her little, tight body, awakening urges he hadn't felt in years.
And in that moment, he loathed every man on earth that could take part in gentle or ravenous pleasure with her so easily without crushing her. But as he thought over his decades of boring contentment and the things he'd seen in this life, he immediately realized the truth. Everyone was a savage through passion. In reality, any man could harm Isabella. He was making excuses for what he was and he'd never done that before. He had his sixth sense - his gift - and everyone without it would never know how special she was. A beautiful anomaly.
He stifled his groan, closing his eyes briefly against the white beauty. But his fantasies of sinking into her heat went rampant in milliseconds. "The oils don't dry for days. I need to mark down more details." Abruptly, he stood, new energy racing underneath his grace. Though his memory was perfect, he desired the act of studying her further. He fixed parchment to a small wood panel and grabbed his graphite, scooting his chair closer to her.
Isabella was startled by his proximity, nervous and determined to remain still for him. "I can come back," she offered with big eyes and a small voice.
Logically, it was unwise for him to have extended connections of any kind with humans, not just for their sake, but for his own security. He couldn't risk open discovery or settle in a place for more than a few years at a time. His marks on the world were his paintings—as if his existence couldn't be any more immortal or everlasting. Two hundred years from now, he would see his own work in a museum.
Could he have her come back again? Luminous brown eyes affected his conscience in unexpected ways. He had denied himself pleasures for too long, condemned by his nagging thirst and dedicated his time to working in solitude. But he wasn't devoid of urges and more possibilities danced in his head. A faint smile spread crookedly on his face as their eyes remained fixed on one another.
Her heartbeat quickened and like magic, he saw the flow of blood blossom in her face and spread down to the tops of her breasts. His nostrils flared to take in her natural fragrance, making him light headed and thirsty, tightening the ache in his groin. With tensed muscles, he began fluid marks on the page. Glancing quick between her and his work, he created a simple portrait to start. Forming the soft angles of her face and curve of her jaw, he then filled in her eyes, trying to capture that indefinable spirit of humanity. Isabella coursed with life and thumping blood, tender as a little lamb.
"Beautiful," he murmured, pressing his graphite on its side to mimic silky waves of dark hair framing a heart shaped face. Grappling with a different kind of burn, he did his best to translate it all from his mind to the page, letting it flow from his fingers. The oxygen was unnecessary, yet he began to breathe heavy with excitement and focus.
Isabella's skin prickled with desire, nipples hardening against her bodice every time his dark eyes glanced to her with increasing intensity. The soft music fell back in her mind, entranced by him. She heard her own breaths turn to quiet panting and shifted her legs slightly, causing his head to snap up.
He froze unnaturally for a moment, his nostrils testing what his senses didn't believe at first. The scent of her arousal floated in the air that only he could distinguish. Recklessly, without thought, the drawing board clattered to the floor and he was instantly perched at her side.
Once her eyes caught up with his movement, her body startled, and her breath caught. She was hot and on edge but so close that he couldn't help himself any longer. Leaning down, he inhaled the fragrance of ripe peaches from her skin, feeling its warmth close to his lips.
She exhaled a trembling breath, wanting to touch him. The turbulent emotions of excitement, fascination, and pure lust churned beneath her delicate form, enhanced by his feral closeness.
Testing himself, the bridge of his nose curiously trailed up her humming throat. Edward could end her now if it weren't for his throbbing erection, pushing at his trousers. The burn receded as the other ache for pleasure took over. "Isabella, I don't know what you are, but my body calls to you."
"But I know what you are," she choked out breathlessly, overwhelmed by the coolness of his skin on her burning flesh. Her little, warm hands tentatively moved up his shirt, feeling the hard definitions of his chest. With discovery and wonder, her gaze followed the button open at his throat, his lips, up to his dark eyes. "You must be an angel..." she guessed sweetly, bringing him closer by the collar.
His rigid form didn't relax but he exhaled, letting her pull him, stunned by these first glimpses into her thoughts. Had she been sitting there for hours thinking he was God's gift? It was laughable. If only she knew the horrible things he'd done in his long life.
Her naïveté encouraged him though, lazy hunger now surging in his veins. His lips pressed to her soft skin, then traveled down to the tops of her milky breasts, eliciting a moan and quickened heart beat from her little body. Her skin vibrated under his dragging lips.
Edward's slender fingers were eager and intimate, slipping to the satin laces of her corset. He knew he had to be inside of her with every tremble and gasp that brought her closer to him. With impatience and little effort, his fingers fastened on the ribbon and tugged. The fibers split down the middle with a loud ripping noise and Isabella gasped sharply with a small cry, the crimson blush washing over her. The scent of her arousal grew potent, making him dizzy with lust.
Her breast heaved under the thin, transparent cloth, revealing aroused, taut nipples. Careful and eager, he cupped one of the soft mounds in his hand, thumb brushing the delicate, rosy peak. She arched up, tilting her head back with a long moan as the wetness trickled between her legs. She tugged him down to her, twisting her fingers into his hair with a soft sigh.
Her extraordinary responses drove him wild and he ignored the thumping pulse at her neck. Without warning, he tore her chemise, letting her breasts spill out. She gasped with a cry of delight, holding him by the shoulders to place frenzied kisses down his neck. Surprised by the warm, wet sensations on his smooth skin, he let her suck and kiss, allowing her softness to mold to him. A purr vibrated from his chest as he bent his head, drawing her breast into his mouth with his lips. She tugged at his hair again, gasping from the coolness of his mouth and tongue.
Edward wanted to nibble and gnaw at those rosy tips but he resisted somehow, not wanting to ravage her, and continued his suckling. She squirmed beneath him, drawing one of her legs up to wrap around his waist, tilting her hips into him. Hissing against her, he was overcome with want and burning need as the heat of her center pressed into his hard, straining erection. He gently rocked back, breathing faster into her skin.
"Don't stop me, Isabella," he groaned to himself, muffled between the soft mounds. He hoped she wouldn't, he couldn't handle that.
"Never," she replied wantonly to his whisper that he hadn't intended for her to hear. Her breathing was choppy and heavy, rising under his cold cheek.
Like skimming his finger through water, he hooked the frayed cotton and silks and drew down, tearing the entire dress cleanly in two. The fabric slipped to the floor, and she was finally presented bare to him. Wild strands and soft curls of hair framed her face and littered her shoulders, contrasting her skin and intensifying her dark eyes. The combination of perfection, her sweet words, and the potent, fruity scent left her incomparable.
Isabella shivered as her wetness seeped, triggering him to shed his clothes with speed she never saw. His cool, hard body settled atop her in a predatory manner, inhaling delicately with low rumbles from his chest as his palm greedily explored her soft, tight curves until she whimpered. He was absorbed by her, craved to hear her breath hitch into echoing moans, knowing that it was he who inflicted such desperate pleasure on her.
"I need you inside me like I've never needed anyone before," she gasped, grinding her hips into him impatiently. She was sweet and wild, surprised by her own eagerness, already lost to him. As she felt the smooth, hard planes of his muscles and skin, not fear, but instinct pushed her forward, tapping into her darkest desires for the most beautiful man she'd ever seen or felt. She was hot, wet, and ready for him.
Again, she echoed his thoughts, aware of this pull and yearning between them, unable to resist. "Then we'll live in this moment. We'll make it count," he answered in a rough whisper, itching to venture lower. His slender, cool fingers slipped toward the heat to dip amongst the slick petals. A desperate moan left her lips as he shuddered with discovery at the hot, silky skin. He hardened further, twitching against her leg as she arched up again, flushed and begging with little whimpers.
As he flicked her sensitive nub amongst the slick folds experimentally, he wasn't prepared for her reaction. He could work faster than humans, and she quickly spiraled over the edge with intense orgasm, thrashing her hips against his hand and crying out. Edward's restraint snapped and he thrust his fingers again into her tight heat, plunging his tongue into her open mouth, watching her eyes roll up in ecstasy.
Her whole body was on fire, shaking beneath him, spasming around his fingers, heart pounding at a speed he'd never heard from a human. He felt the rhythm against his chest as they shared their first kiss. Soft lips molded to smooth ones as they tasted each other with breathy groans, greedy and desperate. Her mouth was so hot in temperature that he could only taste remnants of her sweet fruity scent. The burn swirled in his throat but his erection continued to throb painfully for her.
Their lips broke apart, staring at each other with lusting fascination. Edward removed his fingers, tasting her essence on his tongue. Growling at the delicious flavor, he hitched her legs up around his hips. Edward longed to hear the thoughts in her head just to know, but was grateful that nothing but their looks and breathing closed in on them when they joined. His tip parted her dripping folds and slowly, he pushed himself inch by inch into her searing heat. She automatically gave in, stretching for him. Shocking each other with raw pleasure, he brought her firmly against him until they fit seamlessly.
"Oh Edward..." She moaned helplessly against his neck, placing little kisses on his skin. She was too much for him, enveloped in her wet heat as her tongue licked up his cold skin like a sweet kitten.
Hard and sensitive, he thrust gently at first, shaking from the sensation, concentrating on his task. Groaning unsteadily, he became more determined with every stroke, losing himself to the pleasure and the sound of her moans. Her perfect breasts pressed against his chest as they met breath to breath and thrust for thrust. He pumped into her, never feeling so liberated and shaken before.
The slow pace was torture and he growled, needing more. Lifting her legs to his shoulders, he raised her up, gripping her hips as he sank in and out of her with speed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt him plunge at a deeper angle and dug her nails into the velvet cushion. A snarl grew in his chest as she threw her head back, her mouth falling open with loud whimpers as his masculinity repeatedly awakened her innermost desires.
Waves of hot sensations spiked and ran through his body in blissful tremors, feeling her slick heat contract around him. Crying out once more, her clamping muscles spun him over the edge with a shudder of immense proportions. Burning, sensitive pleasure ripped through him as his growl trailed off into a guttural groan.
The vibrations of her heart beat wildly against his dead one that in the sheer bliss of this moment, he realized he couldn't now do what needed to be done.
Careful not to hurt Isabella, he awkwardly hovered above her as her breathing slowed. As his high receded, every new breath sent his throat burning hotter. Her skin was burning and damp against him, her voice breathless and scratched when she spoke.
"What..." He looked down at her, confused, still feeling warm tingles through out his body, trying to resist his other hungry urges.
"Come back again...?" For once, she looked worried, staring up at him with big, shining eyes. She'd asked him that before, but now there was new meaning to the words.
After every strange impulse of touching and gasping with a cold one, now she was concerned? He pulled out of her, covering her with his shirt, thinking quickly. He concentrated on calming himself, imagining unpleasant smells like the cobblestone gutters and the blood of city rats. Eventually his breathing returned to somewhat normal, his mind regaining clarity as the thirst temporarily dimmed.
Edward had never felt this alive before, selfishly wanting to hold onto that monumental feeling. Looking back to her, he answered quietly. "You can come back, Isabella."