To noctems, for being the greatest fan of my life (queue Edwin McCain), for the research help, and for making me smile when the whole world's bringing me down. To vanilladoubleshot, for being an enthusiastic support, for bringing me laughter, and for helping me live in the 1800s. To windtrails, for the epic writing discussions and serenades, the encouragement, and the fiercest friendship. - You three are the most incredible betas, and world famous friends. I'm so happy to have you along for the ride!
Special thanks to contreplongee, for letting me live in her soul and for her help with this summary; I may just use that first one someday… Thanks also to my dear friend Michelle, who has enriched my life in ways she could never know.
To you who are reading this, thank you! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing and I'm making no profit by writing this story - I'm not even paid in gum. All recognizable characters belong to Stephenie Meyer, its just their manipulations and the world I've set them in, that I claim as mine.
Everything about this was wrong. The feathering of his calloused fingertips and weathered knuckles up her spine and across her ribcage. The tug of her bottom lip between his teeth, his tongue sweeping across the swollen flesh in a tandem, soothing pattern. Her quiet gasps for air, the oxygen leaving her lungs in shallow, wanton breaths against his mouth.
Nothing about this could be more right. The warmth of his chest brushing against the bare skin of her own. The pressure of his hips against her thighs. The tiny beads of sweat she could feel prickling just below her hairline at the nape of her neck.
"Are you ready?" His gentle, lilting voice broke through her thoughts, and with a brush of her palm across the damp skin of his forehead, she thought once more of all she had to lose. And all she stood to gain.
Nodding, she met his gaze, "Yes."