Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer wuddnta written this.

A/N: Okay, m'lovelies, this was a longass time a'coming (like a year), but needless to say, the storyline's been in my head for almost as long, so I was happy to finally get this out. For all of you newcomers, this is the companion piece (in Edward's POV) to Sin & Incivility, a rather smut-filled novella I wrote last December. I honestly recommend reading that one first, though it's certainly not required. I'd like to think that Edward's story stands on it's own. Like the last one, this one will be seven chapters.

**Be sure to check out the Slash Backslash contest that AG and I are hosting. (See my profile.)

A special thanks to everyone who voted for Sin in the Indies, and extra LOVE goes out to gallantcorkscrews and Angstgoddess for pre-reading, and the brilliant ElleCC for beta'ing this shiz.

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"Same Bed, Different Dreams."

- Chinese Proverb

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The first time Rosalie met him, he was drunk.

She was sooo hot.

"You are Edward Cullen?" She looked disappointed.

"Hale-ooo! I know your name, Rosalie. My mom told me."

"Right. Give me your phone." She took his phone and began pressing buttons. It was mesmerizing. "Call me... not from a frat party." She gave him a tight smile.

He gave his friends the double thumbs up as she walked away.

Instead of laughing, they shook their heads at him. Apparently, he'd fucked that up.

Rosalie forgave him when she met his car. Rosie talked about cars the way that ranchers talked about horses, as if they were alive. As if you could predict the next generation based on the genetic viability of the current stock. As if training could win a race.

Everyone was impressed.

He was, too.

When college ended, he asked her to marry him.

Everyone said he was the luckiest fuck alive.

. . . . .. . . . . ..... . . . . . .. .. .

"What time is it?" he asks in a sleep-garbled voice, eyes blinking in the dark and trying to make out the red lines on the alarm clock.


"Fuck. Twenty minutes," he groans, and then he rolls back over, squishing one of the twenty-odd pillows under his face. Enough pillows to build a second bed.

He is ready to dose off again when hears the repositioning of blankets—the duvet is pulled out from where it was comfortably wedged under his armpit, and then he feels a warm finger touch at the base of his spine, and then the pressure of a whole palm, moving around his waist until it thumbs his hip bone and skids down until it gropes...

Edward tenses with her grip.

Cruel, cruel woman.

The morning stiffness is already there, and the way her soft fingers are brushing up and down—he involuntary jerks beneath her finger pads. A half-yawn, but mostly guttural groan, travels up his throat. One truth has become clear: Edward is not going back to sleep.

Cruel, cruel woman.

"What are you...?" he croaks in the dark.

"Don't be thick," she warns waspishly, but then in a softer voice, she whispers, "This will be the last time we—you know—for—"

She doesn't finish the sentence because he doesn't let her. He leans down through the dark and kisses her, a simple peck.

She lets go of him then, only to grab his shoulder and pull him closer. She's wearing an old t-shirt and nothing else, so it's easy for him to slide his hand under and let his fingers climb along the dip of stomach until he can cup her breast, rubbing circles until her nipples harden. He makes sure to cup and knead before he pinches them, and even more importantly, to bite her neck when he pinches.

If he does it right, she always moans loudly, and now, at this moment, she moans with a gritty roll at the finish of Edward's motion, and her fingernails go for his ass. She yanks him against her, her mouth moving against his neck as her hips rolls against his prick, the tickling curls and persistent pressure egging him on.

He kisses her again and then tries to kiss her deeper, but her lips stay tightly shut. She doesn't like "pre-dawn spit." Disgusting morning breath and all.

But she does dive for his ear. After she bites it, she whispers, "Ready," and then she rolls over.

Gripping her upper thigh, he tries to slide in a finger with his free hand, but he realizes that she's already quite wet at the same time that she shakes her head. "I'm ready," she repeats.

He aligns himself then, and she lowers herself onto her elbows to adjust the angle.

He pushes. Slides in.

The entrance is always the...

The heat. Tight and... Holy fuck. His eyes roll back into his brain and threaten to stay there.

His hips are thrusting. She is bent and breathing out with each thrust, and he can't see her face, but her blond hair is a furious mess, and he wishes she wasn't wearing the goddamn t-shirt because her back feels fucking perfect when he does her this way, but nevertheless he's practically eating her hair, and he stops to push it aside.

But then Rosalie pushes him over. There's the cold wash of air and the bobbing freedom.

She's had enough of that position, so it would seem.

She rolls onto her back, snatches a pillow and puts it under her hips, both legs hiked high in the air. "This way," she says.

He comes up against her, and each knee bends over his shoulders, and a brief bit of fumbling in the dark, but then he's in.

The heat again.

And so deep.

Her back is arched. Her shirt is bunched up so that he has a view of the under-curves of her breasts. They look fucking gorgeous and disproportionately full with the way her body is shivering. His hands seem huge on the sides of her small waist. Her mouth is open. The moonlight is falling in strange lines across her face through the window blinds.

"Harder, fucking. Just. Pound. Hard. Harder. You know," she spits out the words between irregular pauses.

"You feel..." Edward breathes out, trying to say something.

"you feel amazing," she responds through a moan. She lifts her head only to slam it back into the pillow. "Fucking harder!"

He muses internally that it's a good thing he's an athlete. He slams and pounds, and her arms are braced backward, gripping the rungs of the headboard. He worries that he might hurt her. He always fears such possibilities when they're like this. That he might push too deep or press too hard. That she might not tell him to stop.

But he knows that's wrong. Rosalie is not one to hold back. The jerking fury in her hips reminds him of this.

Edward knows he's close when he's more worried about not coming than anything else.

He's trying to focus on her whines. On the buildup of her hissed pants. The clenching of her ass. He tried to focus on her her her. Rosalie. Rosalie. At a certain point, he gives up. The tension and euphoria are too great. He wants to give in—and really, he doesn't have a choice: his dick always wins in these battles.

So give in, he does. With a sputtered groan.

He keeps pounding afterwards though, for as many strokes as he can manage.

It seems to work.

When he pulls out, she's smiling.

She kisses him softly on the lips. "You shower first?" she asks.

He nods.

He walks naked to the bathroom.

. . . . .. . . . . ..... . . . . . .. .. .

He's shoving suitcases into the back of Dad's Mercedes when Emmett's four-wheeler pulls up. His greets him with a bellow of, "Morning!" before hopping out to open the back door and unbuckle and then tug Del out.

After Emmett tosses the diaper bag over one shoulder, clutches a giggling, cooing Del in one arm, and loops his index finger through his coffee mug, he strides up to Edward. "Need help?" he asks jokingly.

Tossing the last bag in the car, Edward smiles widely. "You made it! Now, hand over my niece, you idiot." He holds out his arms.

"Nice to see you, too—and just so you know, she doesn't love you. Only me," Emmett jokes again, making a show of clutching both arms (including the coffee mug) around his daughter, her face buried in his chest.

"Eeeee!!!" Del protests at having her eyes covered, more giggles erupting.

Edward manages to get a grip on her between Emmett's arms, and then he shrugs her out, shaking his head at Emmett while burying a kiss into Del's shiny ringlets.

Their banter comes to a halt when the garage door is thrown open. Rosalie sails down the steps, only to stop when she sees the newcomers. She gives them both a quick wave, but once she sees Del, she can't seem to look away. "Your niece?" she asks. She's asking even though she already knows. Edward's told her about the whole affair, how Emmett suddenly found himself a single father, how he's made the best of it.

"Yeah, this is Del," Edward replies. "And as usual, ignore that cretin just behind me."

"Nice to see you again," she greets Emmett with a smile.

Emmett smiles his huge smile. "Wow, and nice to see you again, Rose. Sorry, I missed the engagement party. Had little people business to attend to in Texas." He gestures at Del by way of explanation. "Although I heard about that red number you wore, and I bet that—"

Edward tries to kick him.

"Hey, watch it with my daughter!"

"Watch it with my fiancée."

"Fair deal." Emmett shrugs playfully, giving an exaggerated wink at Rose.

Rose, however, isn't focused on either Edward or Emmett. She is leaning forward slightly, her attention totally focused on tiny Del. The two of them are both staring, Rosalie with a warm smile, and Del with the shy one that she uses for strangers now. They stare for a moment but then the moment becomes picture perfect, because Del's shyness breaks, and she extends her chubby arms out toward Rosalie.

"May I?" Rosalie asks with excitement, and with a nod, Edward passes the baby to her, and then Rosalie is clutching her close. Del's tiny fingers grab a strand of Rosalie's blond hair. Rose smiles at her. She strokes Del's cheek while telling her how pretty she is.

Rosalie's engagement ring catches the light and sparkles as her fingers move back and forth.

Edward is staring. Not just because of the simple sweetness of the moment, but because he's never seen Rose like this. Rose doesn't do sentimentality. She doesn't do cute. She's what you might call the opposite of a hopeless romantic. But she looks radiant holding Del.

He's leaving. Off to China. The Peace Corps awaits him. Two full years. He'd been nothing but excited before. He's been eager to leave for the past month. Chomping at the bit, practically. Sure, he would miss Rose, his family, and his friends. But now, for the first time—there's a new feeling.

Edward feels like he has something to come back to.

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