A/N: Anything you recognise belongs to Stephenie Meyer. Beware, Breaking Dawn spoilers.
Her fingernails scrape across her jeans, and he listens as they catch on every ridge in the denim, taut against her leg. She smells like freesias and sex, and her breath is low, heavy, deafening as she arches off the floor towards him. He grins against her throat, then the front of her shirt, because driving her crazy is the thing that makes eternity worth living.
They're playing a game, the one where they take things slow, try and stay in control for as long as –
He's at an advantage, of course, because he's spent decades practicing, honing, and this is the one area where she has distinctly newborn tendencies. He rucks up her shirt, drags his teeth across her hipbone, and the way her fingers clutch at his hair in response is almost painful. Not that he minds. It's just proof that, like usual, he's winning.
She groans, breath quicker, and he looks up, meets her eye. "Enough?" he says, raising one eyebrow.
He can't bite back his grin then, and he traces her stomach with his fingertips, as gently as he can because he knows what the flickering sensation does to her as it travels over her skin. He waits for her to bite her lip, determined, and then, deliberately, he pops the button on her jeans. Her breath catches, and he tugs on the zip, aware she can feel, hear, every tooth spring open. Slowly, achingly slowly, he inches it down, and the way she moves beneath his fingers, desperate to be touched, comes close to making him give in and rip her clothes off before the second's out.
But he really does hate to lose. He shifts his focus, undoes her shirt, button by torturous button, fixated on each new inch as if he's never seen her before. He can't resist a taste, and as his kisses flutter over her, she hooks her leg around him, pulls him closer. "Too much?" he murmurs.
There's challenge, playful, skipping through her eyes, but her voice is husky and gives her away. He's going to win, again. He smirks into another kiss, this time on her ribs. It's playing dirty. There's this spot, and if he kisses it just so –
Her fingers tighten in his hair, and then suddenly he's the one with his shoulder blades burrowing into the carpet.
She doesn't hesitate – she never does – goes straight for the places she knows make him weakest, tongue flitting over his jaw, down his neck, deft fingers on his shoulders, holding him exactly where she wants. His hands find her hips automatically as she settles, trace patterns, coaxing, and her lips on his collarbone drive him halfway to crazy. He murmurs something into her hair, not even sure what he intends the words to be.
She presses her advantage. Her hands smooth over his chest, down his stomach, making all of his muscles tense in their wake, and then lower, deliciously lower –
"Give in?" she says.
Her lips return to his jaw, press harder, hotter, and between that and –
He swallows, feels her answering smile. She's found the chink in his armour, and she knows it. She pauses – and it's a second but it feels like a decade – and then she traces his neck with her breath. He squirms beneath her, can't help it, fingers urgent on her hips, pleading. She takes his earlobe between her teeth, and his eyelids flutter. "Sure?" she says, the word little more than nothing.
He laughs breathily as he admits it, fingers dancing up her spine, drawing her to him until he can get tangled in her hair. He uses the last of his control to bring her face to his, and then he's lost in her kiss. She smirks against his mouth. He knows that in a second, clothes will be a memory, and technically he's been defeated, but –
That's what he loves about this game. There aren't ever really any losers.
A/N: Reviewers get Edward pinned to the floor, to do with as they wish ;).