the word prompt was "nectar," but i didn't use it because no.
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And let's just pretend they had the whole "I'm on the pill"/"i'm clean"/"i'm not a virgin" conversation during one of those late-night phone calls.
"Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes."
- William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying
The dance is a blur, but she holds on to the pictures that stick like they're part of a scrapbook. Something she can look at later when she wants to remember this night.
The way he looked when he looked at her, and how happy she was beside him.
There's Rosalie, smiling in a bright pink dress with streaks to match, Doc Martens on her feet because she will always be that girl. Her corsage matches Bella's and she imagines the boys sitting on their couch and making them together.
There's Emmett, in a brand new jacket and what she's sure is one of Edward's ties, stepping on Rosalie's feet so much she laughs, until he picks her off the ground and turns her in circles, her legs dangling, his arms so big around her she almost disappears.
There's the pack of girls in the bathroom, applying lipstick and trading gossip, and giving her "mad props" for "landing a stone cold fox."
During the fast songs, they stay in the corner of the gym, and he finds reasons to touch her. A lock of hair behind her ear. Something (nothing) on her dress. His fingers intertwined with hers when he's run out of excuses.
During the slow songs, he leads her to the dance floor. They try to remain chaste, try to keep some space and air between their bodies. But sometimes his hands play with the zipper on the back of her dress, and sometimes she pulls hard on his tie, and it's everything they can do not to run to the car or the football field or the janitor's closet with the broken door Bella remembers hearing about in high school.
Sometimes he whispers in her ear.
"Have I told you how beautiful you look?"
"Is this over soon?"
"Is that douchey looking guy with the walkie-talkie glaring at me?"
"Have I told you how beautiful look?"
And sometimes, she whispers back.
When the lights come on, they grin at each other, mischief and greed all over their faces and he leads her out the double doors while she bids hasty good night's and goodbye's behind him.
It's raining outside and he takes off his jacket and holds it over her head while they run toward his car, but she stretches her arms wide and lets the water cool her skin, temper her blood.
He opens her door and they're laughing because the seatbelt won't let it close and it takes three tries before he's bounding to the other side.
When he climbs in, his hair is wet on his forehead and his shirt is sticking to his chest and she needs to kiss him right now, so she does.
Then a car honks and someone (probably Tyler) yells "Get it, Miss Swan!" and they laugh again.
He kisses her one more time, soft and slow and hungry, and then he says,
"Let's get the fuck out of here."
On the way home, she tells him twice to slow down.
She won't have to say it again.
She thinks she should be nervous. Her hands should be shaking when she unlocks her door with him behind her, his fingers already removing the pins from her hair. Her knees should buckle when he follows her inside and the lock clicks in to place. Her palms should sweat when he takes the keys out of her hand and hangs them on the hook in the hallway.
But she's not and they don't because it's him and it's her and she has been waiting for this since the first time he held her, and probably before that.
So when he kisses her shoulders and says "I'm sorry if I'm going too fast," she turns around and loops his tie around her hand and pulls his lips toward hers and says,
"Take me to my bedroom. Now."
His eyes get dark, darker, darkest, and his smirk is heavy on his face.
"You have to show me where it is."
Then it's all tongues and limbs navigating the staircase backwards and forwards, and they both trip twice and laugh until her back is against her bedroom door and his arms are caging her in and she's trying to turn the knob but he's licking and kissing her neck and oh my god, she didn't know it could feel like this.
When the door wrenches open, she nearly falls back, but he catches her before she tumbles, and then his mouth is on her chest, nipping over her the lace of her dress and she tugs on his hair until they're both moaning each other's names.
He walks them toward the bed, and they kiss while he's pulling down her zipper, but it keeps getting caught so she tries to help and they're giggling and grunting until she finally says,
"Just tear the fucking thing apart."
"But it's pretty," he chides while he rips the lining and lace, and she lies back on the bed so he can pull the dress down her legs.
Then it's just the sound of their breathing, rough and loud in the quiet of her room, and she lifts up on her elbows to look at him.
He's standing in front of her, shirt half open, hair a mess from her hands, holding her dress and staring at her body.
"Fuck, you're beautiful" he says, and she grins like it's a secret and sits up on her knees in front of him.
His hands skim her arms, her sides, her breasts, like he's not sure where to touch her next. She kisses him soft while she unbuttons his shirt and he licks her lip while he unclasps her bra.
They slow each other down, touch for touch, breath for breath. They memorize every curve and plane. Like they might go blind. Like they already are.
And then he's on his knees and between hers, draping her legs over his shoulders and kissing up her thighs.
"You don't have to—"
Then it's stars behind her eyes, honey in her stomach, earthquakes under her skin, and she's screaming his name while she forgets her own.
When he stands up, he takes her with him, moving them both back on to the bed. When he lays her down, he rests on his elbows so his fingers can play with her hair.
He covers her, consumes her, and she only wants him closer.
Her hands find his length and he groans and presses into them.
"You can't do that."
"Don't apologize. I'm just too close."
So she lifts her knees on either side of his waist and guides him home.
When he's inside, they say "Jesus" at the same time and snicker, but then she's moving her hips and he's gasping for air while she holds on to his neck and kisses whatever skin she can find.
He pants "God" and "Fuck" and "Bella" and she matches every stroke until he collapses around her and inside her, with his face in her hair and her legs still wrapped around him.
When he rolls onto his back, she curves her body around his, resting her head on his heartbeat, tangling his legs with her own.
He holds her there.
"Remember when I said you were kind of amazing?" he asks.
"I do," she says, and smiles.
"I want to take back the 'kind of' part."
She chuckles into his chest. He pulls her closer.
She can't tell you who fell asleep first, only that by the time it happened, their skin was cool and their breathing matched, and it was just like it was in her dreams.
A/N: I so hope I came through for all of you (no pun intended. seriously.). Writing sex is no joke...except for the hilarious conversations I had with my thesaurus.
And over 1,000 reviews? You are all amazing. Without the "kind of" part.