Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would make them do much dirtier things than Stephenie Meyer would.

This started as a one-shot entry in ninapolitan's tease contest, but then I ran with it, thanks to those all the darlings who encouraged me.

Two days before Twilight, and neither can sleep; both crave a taste of lemon.

1:00am, and the suburbs of Phoenix were still scorching hot, with that shimmering mirage that floats off the surface of everything in the distance, and I was determined to soak it in, one last night before I left for good. Mom and Phil sensibly went to bed hours ago; the house was silent. I tiptoed through the dark rooms, carrying my tumbler full of iced tea and my battered old laptop to the back patio. I set both down on the umbrella table, next to my little pet cactus. A dry wind ruffled my hair and wandered off, listless and bored, looking for more interesting prey to tease with its breeze. The heat settled back in, joining the night noises of distant traffic. I felt exposed, raw, and in a dangerous mood, but I had no outlet for the frustration that raked under my skin.

Perhaps that was part of why I was leaving tomorrow; not just to spend the last two years of high school with my father, but for the fresh start it might let me have. I needed more than this solitary chaste existence I had boxed myself into; I was tired of being the shy one, without friends to laugh with, my days filled with watching but never participating.

At night, I ached for touch, for hands on my skin that were rougher than my own, and a mouth against mine. I wanted to experience more than I even knew how to dream about.

Dreams. They had gotten more explicit lately, even painfully so. Sometimes, like tonight, I knew they were coming, and avoided sleep altogether. How could my subconscious pull me into such crazed images of flesh and skin and thirst? These pathetic lips had never even been kissed; how could I want what I'd never had so badly?

I traced the drops of moisture that slid down the glass, but only sipped. Renee always mixed the tea too sweet and too strong, and I could not swallow the huge gulps that I wanted, until the ice melted enough to dilute it. I caught the cool drops on my fingertips and touched my neck, and let the water run down into my cleavage.

I wanted to be someone else, someone bold: someone who didn't reek of inexperience and need, someone who could look at a boy without blushing, or who relished attention and didn't run from the spotlight. I wanted to be graceful and flirty, not stumbling and shy; somebody who could speak sexy words aloud, rather than hide her longings in awkward written phrases.

Sighing, I crossed my sticky legs lotus style, and flipped open the laptop.

2:00 am, and rain splashed down on Forks, beating a soothing white noise against my window. It only muffled the noise of the party raging downstairs, but every little bit helped. I was exhausted, slightly drunk, and wide awake. I was always like this when we had a good rehearsal; like an athletic workout, one was left tired and exhilarated. Emmett and Rose would drink after, Jasper and Alice would get high. I did either, or both, but usually preferred a more intimate release. Breaking Dawn's jam sessions were legendary events at school, and while our audience came for the music, they always stayed for the party afterward.

Tonight, however, I just needed to hide for a few minutes. My ill-chosen flesh of the month was hunting me down like a vulture on roadkill, and I hadn't yet figured out a way to extract my dick from her jaws without getting my eyes gouged out.

A phrase from a song tugged at my skull; I wanted to get the lyric written down before it was washed away with the tequila. I fired up my laptop and queued up the blog site queued up the blog site I liked, a no-frills networking site with good music streaming capabilities; I used the site to store rough drafts with the setting set on private, rather than saving them on my hard-drive, since I lost an entire album to Tanya's temper tantrum when she'd broken it off with me in June.

The homepage scrolled in, and I poured another shot as it was loading, bumping the mouse in the process to the "this random user has your taste in music" prompt. I don't usually look at other people's stuff, and don't invite them to look at mine, but the page belonging to Ordinary_Girl wasn't filled with fluffy bunny cartoons or anything else ridiculous, just the flags stating that she was, in fact, female, and 17 years old. There was one entry, titled "Lemonade". I clicked.

This desert heat draws sweat from my skin,
to pool between my breasts
Like condensation on cool ripe fruit,
The moist stain on my shirt a secret mention to another warming
Your lips to me and lick the hot circumference of my flesh
Squeeze the desperate juice
And kiss me after, that I may taste my lemon on your tongue.

I grinned in the dark, and toasted the screen with the shot. Ordinary_Girl wrote kinky poetry, and I liked it. On a whim, I typed a reply, letting the liquor talk though me.

Acrylic fingernails drummed my door, and a familiar whine called my name; the door opened without my response, and Jessica slithered in. I sighed, not surprised that she had found me, and closed the screen.

"Edward, aren't you going to join the fun? It's the last weekend before school starts! Junior year! I'm so excited!"

I didn't speak to her, I didn't need to. I just looked at her, and waited; I honestly didn't care if she stayed or left. I won either way. After fidgeting for a few seconds, she peeled off her shirt and walked over to me, straddled my lap and rubbed her tits on my chest. They weren't bad; still a little too firm, but the sliver scars under each had faded. Her skin was cool and soft, pampered with powder. I mouthed her rubbery nipples until they stood tall, and she made a few nice noises. I wondered briefly what kind of touch would make her sweat, and tried to imagine her skin slick and salty.

"Edward, aren't you going to kiss me first?"

Her whine was a buzz-kill on its own, even without the artificial flavored lip gloss, but I kissed her anyway, because she was unbuttoning my jeans, and it was the least I could do. I had to help her so she wouldn't damage the manicure.

She slid to her knees, and I leaned back in the chair, letting her get to work. What Jessica didn't have in skills she made up for with sheer determination, and she sucked my cock with the enthusiasm and gusto of a toilet plunger. I closed my eyes and toyed with her hair, until it became too much. My balls were beginning to tighten, but I was worried that she was going to leave me with blood blisters; I pulled her up, and reversed our positions.

Hands on her thighs, I pushed her open, and licked her wet spot with a flat tongue. She smelled like baby powder and tasted like artificial flowers, and I was afraid I was going to lose my erection because I suddenly felt like I was fucking a plastic doll; there was no girl smell, no sweat, no passion.

I wanted to taste lemons.

I turned, with a longing glance at my laptop, and was inspired by the bottle sitting next to it. I grabbed Jessica's right hand and pulled it to her crotch.

"Edward, aren't you going to…"

I put my finger to her lips to silence her.

I grabbed the bottle of tequila and swigged a mouthful without swallowing. She was making little quick circles with her finger tips in an interesting manner. You can learn a lot about a girl by watching her finger herself; if she likes a light touch with a single finger high up, if she likes to shove three fingers deep… Jessica was having difficulty because her new nails were getting in the way. I swallowed my laughter and almost choked on the liquor.

I leaned over and kissed her mouth, dribbling a little between her lips. The alcohol dissolved the lip gloss, and I was able to kiss her, tongue and mouth and teeth, pulling away when the suction once again became frightening. I took another swig and applied the same treatment lower, washing away the taste of feminine hygiene products until she smelled human again, and worked my tongue into her folds while she squirmed. I slid two fingers in, and pumped in time to the bass overload from the speakers downstairs, and pulled away to look at her face. Her eyes were clamped shut, and for a second, she could have been beautiful. I love the expression on a girl's face as she gets close to climax; no cosmetics could ever imitate that glow; all girls, even Jessica, become goddesses in that moment. I leaned in, worshipping the skin of her perfect plastic boobs until she came.

She whimpered, one tight mewling convulsion, and then was finished. I wondered what it would take to really make her scream, to have her whole body flush red, and her hips jerk uncontrollably. I stood, still holding the neck of the bottle in my fist, and let her latch onto my cock with her lips again. Her mouth was making nice wet noises, and her jaws must have been getting tired, because the suction eased off to something with an easy rhythm that would get me there quickly, a pleasant tug and release. I was getting close, and she pulled back, and started her usual fake moan.

"Come on my tits, baby, I love it when you come on my tits."

I rolled my eyes, took another swig of the Mexican whiskey and grabbed my cock with the other fist. I had no problem with her not wanting to swallow, but the pretend porn star routine was irritating. I tuned her out, trying to find an image that would trigger a release. I was frustrated, and the words of the sexy poem filled my head; I understood what lonely skin meant.

Squeeze the desperate juice, indeed.

A few quick strokes and I shot on Jessica's chest, but it didn't bring relief. I got her a towel and helped her clean up, gave her a kiss and patted her ass out the door.

"Coming down later?" she giggled at me.

I shrugged, and watched her dash down the hall, probably to give her little clique a report of the seven minutes of activity. I wondered if she realized that I'd never even spoken aloud.

The sheets were cool, pristine and smooth, and didn't satisfy, either. After tossing on the bed for a few minutes, I gave up on sleep, got up and stood in the bay window that walled my room on two sides. My skin and my gut were still aching for something, unable to come to terms with the rain, the brief encounter with Jessica, or the party downstairs. I wanted heat. I wanted passion, something more than these alcohol fogged doldrums and monotonous sex routines. I was still semi-erect, frustration warring with exhaustion.

I flipped open my laptop and began to type.

A beep from the computer woke me, and I fought to control my panting. A variant of the usual dream, hands in my hair and breath on my skin; the same faceless stranger, but the whispered words were new. I had dozed off on one of the lounge chairs on the patio; the plastic canvas cushions left woven welts on my skin. Had the battery run down? I refreshed the screen. A message alert popped up. I followed the link.

Your words wet my mouth, delightful and tart. –Debussy_88

I felt my face flush, even though I was alone. I don't usually write such pulpy stuff; I'd just wanted to get the words out of my system; but no one had ever commented on my writing before. I clicked on the account name. The profile was listed as male, 17 years old. There was one posting from last night, untitled.

Shock my skin with truth and nails
And honest participation
Tell me what you feel
Shove my soul with teeth and hands
Spark me with anticipation
Give me something real
Suck my breath with fire and flesh
Brand me with your satisfaction
Show me how to feel
Show me I can feel

Kind of a disjointed phrasing, I thought. It would go well to music, though, a heavy grind, rough lyric guitar and frustrated vocals, Chris Cornell style. I closed the laptop, and went inside. I could catch a few hours of sleep before I had to finish packing.

Sleep didn't come. I twisted in the sheets, wanting friction on my skin, hands and nails and teeth and lips, and most of all, the melody to the anonymous words. Finally I gave up, and jerked my sweaty shirt off over my head. I closed my eyes, feeling the fingertip of a nameless stranger, circling a nipple until it stood up tight, and then swelled, puffy and tender. Hand sliding to cup my breasts, squeezing, short blunt nails lightly scraping over skin to shiver all the way down my thighs.

Shock my skin.


I was wet through the thin cotton of my pajamas, and pressed hard with the heel of my hand. I bucked my hips and tried not to moan.

My phone alarm sounded.

I took a deep breath, shoving the need back down into its hiding place, and tapped the little screen to silence it. I stretched and headed for the shower.

I washed my hair, and the sweat off my skin, and shaved my legs. The heat and steam filled the room until I felt drugged and heavy, and the ache began again. The hot water cascaded across my torso, pressure pulsing at my breasts and stomach. I inhaled big gulps of the wet air, and realized I was almost panting.

Suck my breath with fire and flesh.


My hands palmed down to the flesh I'd just washed, seeking a release that would ward off the embarrassing throbbing in my lower belly, at least for a little while, and worked into the folds with stiffened fingers.

Then the water pressure dropped to nil and the shower dribbled a pathetic cold trickle on my toes. I whimpered, and pulled my hands away. Mom never checked to see if I was bathing before she turned on her own. At least my hair was rinsed this time.

I got dressed, packed the few things I'd left out, and opened up the laptop. I followed the links to the poem he'd written and typed a quick reply, and then closed it up and packed it into my carry-on.

Time to catch a plane.

Will anyone actually read this?