A/N: You may want to download the Indiana Jones theme. Just sayin
"Are you ever going to tell me anything more about yourself than your dream of being a composer playing in some coffee bar and writing brilliant undiscovered ballads while looking like a homeless man who actually is sitting on a trust fund the size of Cambodia?" I ask impulsively. Edward looks surprised.
"Did I tell you about how I want to steal all the school's football trophies and melt them down to scrap and then re-sculpt them into the shape of a giant phallus?"
"Then I'm out."
"How about you tell me about one of your favorite fantasies while I get you off?"
Edward's eyebrow cocked heavily. "Is this going to lead to sex? Are you, Mary Alice Brandon, asking me, Edward Anthony Cullen, for sex?"
"No. I was thinking this might lead to me getting you off and then maybe I'll let you return the favor."
Edward was already stripping off his uniform shirt. I smirked and made my way to the bed, planting myself in the dead center on my back.
I stared up at the plaster ceiling as I heard him undress. Then I felt his hands tugging at my yoga pants until he wrangled them off my legs.
His body weight fell onto the bed, making me bounce slightly. His hand curled around my hip and his hair was flopping in his face again.
"Ok, so we're treasure hunters in the middle east, like in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'? I'm Harrison Ford and you're..."
Edward's leg was hitched over my thigh as he took my hand and literally shoved it down his pants.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek as I found him, still soft, but I could practically feel the buzzing of electricity and hormones rushing south.
"Ok, so we're treasure hunters in the middle east, like in 'Raiders of the Lost Arc'? I'm Harrison Ford and you're..." Edward cut himself off and looked intensely thoughtful for a moment, before rolling onto the back and rummaging through the nightstand next to his bed.
And I, because my hand was trapped in a penis-prison, went with him.
I tried to move to give him room, but a flick of his wrist on top of his pants stilled my fingers.
"Rub." He said simply and then went back to rooting through the drawer.
My lips quirked as I obediently began to massage his balls and watch as he pilfered through music magazines, porn magazines featuring "Juggs", guitar picks, pens and pencils, an Ipod, a cell phone charger, the novel we were reading in American Literature, a finger nail clipper, some lube, a couple of key chains, and finally he held up a skinny remote control triumphantly.
"And here. But for God's sake, rub your hands first. That shit is cold."
The bottle of lube was tossed at my chest and I stared at it expectantly.
"Am I allowed to remove my hand?" I asked pointedly.
Edward rolled his eyes and leaned back on an elbow, simultaneously giving me enough room to move my hand from the confines of his once perfectly pressed school pants, while aiming the small remote at his stereo system.
The blue digital lights flickered on and the sound of some indie band filtered through for a couple of seconds before Edward clicked his remote and Fire Arcade began.
Huh. Never would have thought Edward as that type of guy.
The next click brought the recording of last year's orchestra's state competition piece, and the one after that was noise I couldn't discern. It sounded like someone had stuck a burning rag into a soprano throat and told her to perform the aria from Madame Butterfly.
About a dozen clicks later Edward finally set down the remote and got comfortable once more by draping himself all over my body. His face was buried in my chest and his leg was over my hip, and his hands were palming the globes of my ass.
It felt like a body pillow, or possibly a safety blanket.
And then I recognized the music.
Bum de bum BUM! Da duh da!
I should be canonized for not bursting out laughing.
At least he wasn't asking me to put on a gold bikini.
"You can be Marion. And it's the scene where Indy is trying to steal the Nazi plane and there's that monster of a guy in the way and we're trying to save the world from Hitler long before World War II ever happened…"
His voice was just…mesmerizing. It was soft and full of sex; yet I could see the boy peeking out from beneath those lashes that were currently shielding green eyes entranced by music, his own voice, and my nipples, which were now visible since he had yanked down my bra to my waist.
And then I was there. In Cairo, in the 1930's, trapped in a Nazi plane, watching the daring, sexy as hell man in a hat try to best a Goliath of a man (who, interestingly enough, looked a lot like sweaty, shirtless Emmett in my imagination).
The music swelled and Edward's voice broke through my reverie again.
"Harder Alice." It was a guttural whisper, a clear break in his startlingly descriptive narrative.
I was having a hard time getting a good angle with the constraints of the pants and the way he was curled around me.
"Ugh—pants." I poked him the chest with my non-lubed hand as I tightened my grip ever so carefully and felt him tense in response before going boneless again.
The little tremors of power shooting through my own body at seeing him so turn-on by Indiana Jones of all things was making me wet and squirmy, even without the boy parts pressed against me.
I poked again when I received no response.
"Uh, o—kay." Edward muttered, but then, instead of releasing me from his full body-bind, he tightened his limbs around me and shoved his hips forward into my hand.
His breathing was picking up, right in time with a crescendo of brass instruments.
… "He was big, but he wasn't a smart fighter. I knew I was going to win, knew I was going to get you out of that hellish desert, but then I smelt the gas."
I shuddered silently as his lips sucked on my collar bone and my hand tightened unintentionally.
Abruptly Edward rolled.
He took me with him (how could he not? I was imprisoned by well tailored fabric?) on a deep groan that had me toppling onto his lean frame as he laid on his back and raised one hand to clench in the pillows behind him.
"We're not…mother of hell…not at this part yet."
But his hips were moving with my hand and grinding into the bed. He wanted more, but apparently we were no longer following whatever perverse script he had imagined.
Indeed, our increased pace did not match the suddenly low-key wind instruments, but to hell with it anyway.
Edward was getting off on this, I was getting off on this, Steven fucking Spielberg would get off on this if he had ever thought that his nerdy superhero adventurer would be responsible for getting teenagers everywhere laid, and laid well.
My hand let go and I saw his eyes pop open in surprise as I situated myself over him and moved my mouth right next to his ear.
"Then Indy realizes that he and Marion are out of time. The fire's already exploded a couple of tanks and it's heading right to the plane where Marion is trapped."
I licked a long line down and then back up the straining muscles of his neck as his beautiful head is thrown back in defeat taking advantage of his temporary silence to run a hand over his body as I continue the story for him.
My hips roll against his without mercy for his current sensitive state. He bites his lips and I nip at his jaw as his erection bobs against my hips at a deep, hard grind.
The pace is unbearably quick, and I worry when I see his cheeks flush bright red that maybe he can't take it.
Maybe this isn't the fantasy.
But then his hands are all over my ass again, and I smile and continue my experiment with the flavor of his skin.
"Then what?" He rumbles, eyes still shut tightly.
Indy has a heroine to save.
"Indy may not be bigger than the giant, but he's smarter. He can't get to the gun, but it's not important anymore. All he cares about is saving Marion. The rest of the world can go to hell."
The music was peaking again.
Edward's groans of appreciation sound like perfect harmony, even though to anyone else's ears, it would be a cacophony of juxtaposing sounds.
The triumph of Indy.
The triumph of Alice as I continue to bait him closer to the edge.
I shudder and fight back a little mini-orgasm of my own. Apparently having the upper hand does it for me.
"It's a bloody end, b-but he doesn't even notice how red splashes everywhere, on the side of the plane, on the front of his shirt. Marion is…out of time and Indy just barely manages to get her out of the place before the entire place goes up in flames---oh my."
Too late. The story would have to end another day.
I break off the flow of words and feel my body react to the constant auditory and kinesthetic stimulation—not to mention of one Edward Anthony Cullen writing on the bed as he watched me get off.
And somewhere, in the back of my mind, I'm reeling over the fact that I was just dry-humped to orgasm.
He's a minute behind me and we are a sweaty heap of flushed limbs when I finally return to the land of the higher-functioning.
Edward takes a few more minutes, but when his eyes open and I can see more dark pupil than I can green orb, I smile at him and pick up the remote, turning down the theme music until its background noise with our audible gasps for air.
"'s…good." Edward mumbles sleepily and rolls over to his usual spot on the bed, raising his hands to clap twice.
The room is suddenly plunged into darkness, which is just enough for me to stimulate my senses enough to ask.
"Dude, you have the Clapper?"