Disclaimer: I don't own them!

Author's Note: I wrote this story on a whim. Purely smut! I took Bella and Edward, placed them in a situation where some people find themselves. She can't get enough of him, but yet, she doesn't want to believe she needs him. It's happened to me, at least. Enjoy it!

Why is it like this? My body feigns ignorance when I touch, caress. My skin calls to another's hand. Try as I might, I can not please myself.

One would never think your body could betray you. My flesh craves his touch, caresses, kisses, breath. I feel the pull toward him. I place my hand on my breast, move my fingers toward my nipple, pinching. Nothing.

I sigh slightly. I begin to remember him again. How his voice sounded in my ear while he was rubbing me. How his breath felt on my neck as he nibbled his way to my collar bone. How his fingers felt like feathers on my skin. How the fire ignited when he flicked his tongue on my clit.

And yet, my body will not respond. To me, at least.

I am tempted to watch a movie. Just to relax, put him in the back of my mind. However, he has somehow engraved himself on me, in me.

I need release—by myself.

Turning the lights low, I play sensual music, hoping my body will respond. I stand in the middle of the room, slowly undressing. Caressing my skin as he did, I peel off my clothes, one by one. Finally, I stand in the room, naked, and feeling as though this will not work.

Closing my eyes, I picture him in my mind. His unruly bronze hair, his topaz eyes with a hint of gold around the pupils, his mouth. Oh, what his mouth could do. I imagine his hands roaming my body—my hands begin what he started. Slowly, almost painstakingly, I lightly caress my upper body, paying special attention to my breasts.

Almost like him. Not quite. My body is tempted to respond.

I quiver.

I lay in bed, just touching my body, trying to find some response. The mound between my legs lays in waiting. The soft flesh, silky and smooth, feels good to my hand. Spreading my legs, I place a finger near my entrance and tease. I gasp. I trace my fingers over my whole sex, stopping to play with my clit. I gasp again.

This will work.

I look down and notice my nipples are slightly hard. My other hand takes a nipple between fingers and pinches. The feeling is coming back.

My clit is responding. I feel it harden beneath my finger. A slight wetness forms at my entrance. Could it really be?

I press harder, trying to feel him again. He is in my mind, behind my closed eyes. My neck arches back into the pillows and my eyes open. I can feel my orgasm building. Then realization hits my body. He is not there.

The orgasm is lost.

And my body stops responding to my touch.

Aggravated, I rise from the bed and throw on my robe. This has gone on long enough. How many times has he touched me? Could I really count the number?

For so long, it has only been him. He, who makes me wet by just looking at me. He needs not do anything, for my body responds when I see him, yards away.

I wonder if he might call tonight. Maybe while on the phone, I can bring myself to heights only he has the power to do. I've never done that on the phone. Release is something my body only knows by his hands, his body.

I wonder if he feels the same.

Loneliness settles in. I walk out of the room and grab a wine glass and bottle of wine. Opening the bottle, I sniff the wonderful oak scent. And once again, I am reminded of him.

I sip the deep red wine, smoke a cigarette. My body lies in waiting, almost praying to be brought to heights. I discourage the notion of trying once again. How many nights will I end up drinking a bottle of wine and falling into a stupor because of him?

I feel a breath on my neck. Snapping my head around, I see no one. Just the tickle of the wind and it takes my breath away. I need him. Oh, how my body needs him.

I reach for the phone and light another cigarette. This is going to be hard. I've never had to call him for this. He should just be here, doing what he does best.

One ring. Two. Three.

Ah, his voice, "Bella?"

He sounds as though he was expecting my call. A short conversation, straight to the point.

"I need you."

He is silent for a moment. It almost scares me. I feel as though I have made the wrong decision in calling him. Something inside me stirs. I feel awakened by hearing his soft breathing on the other end.

"And why do you need me?"

The audacity of this man. Can he not know that it is him I yearn for; him I desire the most?

I am silent for a few moments, contemplating my answer. I cannot think of anything seductive to say; a loss of words is something that happens to me. The truth, perhaps?

"I feel betrayed."

More silence, almost as if he's waiting for me to say more.

He asks, "By me?"

I smirk into the phone, though he cannot know this. I sigh as well.

"No, by me, my body."

I am silent again, waiting for his rebuttal. Nothing, and more silence. This is almost a game we've never played before. Does he want me to beg for him? Does he need to hear me say that I want him to fuck me and bring me to those heights that my body has decided he has the only claim to?

"And how has your, um, your body done this to you?"

He almost sounds disbelieving. It's incredible. I believe I shall render him speechless.

I begin to breathe into the phone, softly.

"I just opened my robe, and I'm naked underneath."

Why do I say the things I do? Did that even make sense to him? Should I say more? A thought has come across my mind, one that earlier was prominent.

I trace my torso with my fingers while I listen to the silence on other end. My heart is pounding, waiting for his response. He sighs. I listen intently.

"You didn't answer my question."

Of course, I didn't. Why would I answer that question when it is so obvious as to why my body is doing this? I close my eyes, feigning to not have heard his question.

"It's your entire fault, Edward."

And I give a small laugh, almost a giggle. In all our time together, we have never been completely honest. The wine is intoxicating me, as he is doing right now.

"My fault?"

Again, he sounds so oblivious to everything. I begin to ponder this whole conversation. Is it worth running around the bush, when I can just beat it?

"Oh, fine." I make sure I sound exasperated. "Don't you know what you do to me? I used to be able to bring myself to heights, and you ruined it for me! Nothing works anymore—not even those fantasies where you're involved. I can't take this torment! I need you here—now—doing what you do best. Do you understand?"

I smile to myself. Do you think he may have the picture now? He has been making this difficult from the very first word he spoke to me tonight.

I can hear the smile in his voice. I think that may have been what he needed to hear.

"Is that so? Do you really need me that badly? I could make you beg for it. You know I could do things to you—so easily."

My breath hitches. Oh! Just what I needed to hear. He's offering.

"Why are you naked?"

My hand begins to roam my body, thinking of what he has just said. My body decides to wait for his touch—for mine is never good enough.

"I was trying to seduce myself, with you in my mind. And, as you can tell, it obviously hasn't worked. It isn't working now."

The truth, when you never want it to get out, has just been spoken. Should I feel ashamed? I hope not.

"You intoxicate me, like this wine is doing right now. I'm not going to beg, not until you're here, touching me."

Is this going to be a one-sided conversation? We have been sitting on the phone for the past three minutes—neither of us speaking, just breathing, slightly.

Finally, a word—he speaks!

"How long can your body survive without my touch?"

I hear a door open and being locked, keys jingling. Another door opens and I hear an engine start. Could he be coming over? Is he trying to prolong the conversation? Or does he have somewhere else to be? A radio plays in the background. I'm tempted to call this whole thing off—say forget it, I can live without your touch or something along those lines.

Yet, I'm still on the phone, on my third glass of wine, with another cigarette lit. And I anticipate his next words.

"You haven't answered me yet."

Right, forgot about that. I open my eyes. I shall blame my lack of response on the wine.

"I don't think my body can last an hour without your touch. It's bad enough that I am here, telling you all this. All because I can't stand this—this not being able to touch myself and no feeling from it. I'm starting to hate you for this."

He laughs. I can almost envision him smirking to himself—knowing that he has created this monster that eats at me because I cannot be without him.

A few more minutes of silence, in which I hear a turn signal and a horn beeping at someone or something.

"Are you still naked? How much wine have you had?"

I look at the bottle. It's almost gone. I feel as though this is my first glass and I'm sitting down watching a comedy. It's almost funny how he keeps asking inane questions.

"Of course I'm naked! Why would I cover myself up? I was hoping I could do something while I was phone with you, but apparently you're making me think too much."

I'm beginning to become frustrated at this man. He's the problem, not me. I quit paying attention to the background noises and stare at my wall. Maybe I've even quit paying attention to him.

"Hello? Are you still there? I said to open your door for me. Hello?"