BOOKWORMS

A/N: This piece was purchased during the Fandom Gives Back campaign by one of my most loyal readers, Marijee. She has kindly waited for me to write it with a great deal of patience and restraint, so I thank her for that. I also give her my sincerest thanks for supporting a cause that is very near and dear to my heart.

Author's PSA: Because this is fiction, neither Edward nor Bella has any STDs, nor do they require birth control. Fiction is magical fantasy like that!

Things I Own: Four copies of the book Pride and Prejudice; three copies of the play Romeo and Juliet; and one boxed set of Twilight.

Things I Don't Own: Anything from Stephenie Meyer's Twilight world—it is all hers. I merely dream about Edward.

As always, my love and earnest affection go out to my beta, NaughtySparkle, for being all-around sweet, adorable, and giving 110%. She even took time to read this after her very, very feverish son fell asleep last night. Above and beyond the call of duty, certainly. Thanks also to Wisdomous, who is such a good egg about pre-reading my stuff. Jolly Rancher martini cheers to you both!

The Bibliotheque bookstore has been my Saturday morning destination ever since I relocated to Seattle from my hometown of Forks, Washington. It is exactly two blocks from the front door of my loft and is a main contributing factor in my deciding to purchase it. It has been a safe haven in the midst of my busy world for months now. My Saturday morning ritual includes a brisk walk to the coffee shop for my tall-double-one-pump-vanilla-soy-latte on my way to the bookstore. I sit in the same comfortable chair every week. My favorite coffee, in my favorite chair, with a brand new book—the perfect recipe for respite. Once I settle down in my chair, the rest of the world melts away and I can escape for a few wonderful hours.

During the week, I'm a freelance technical writer, working from home. It's about as unsexy a career as there is, with perhaps the exception of an accountant. It's what I'm good at doing, and it pays the bills, so it's what I do. I have dreams of someday writing a good piece of original fiction, because reading and writing are my true passions.

Needless to say, I don't get out much. I'm a quiet, reserved, yet independent person, and this life that I've built for myself makes me happy. My Dad worries about me all the time; he's a traditional sort of man, a police chief, who thinks I need to be in a relationship in order to be secure. I keep trying to explain to him that I have more in common with him than his brown eyes and brown hair—he's been alone since my Mom left him when I was a young girl. I emphasize how important it is to be comfortable in your own skin, to be self-sufficient, but I don't think he buys it. He doesn't have the most contemporary viewpoint on human needs and relationships, clearly.

My Saturday morning excursion to the coffee shop and bookstore is my way of getting out into the world after being cooped up in my loft all week. I could always sit at home and read, but there is something about the process of being in a book store, selecting a new book, and cracking it open that needs to be a public, shared experience. Sure, I could easily order my books from Amazon, but that would spoil thrill for me. My weekly book is a treat I give to myself, something I look forward to all week. It's what I live for. One particular Saturday, however, everything changed.

It began as a series of stolen glances, moments where our eyes would meet, and we would quickly avert our gaze, embarrassed at having been caught. Each time that occurred, I felt my face flush a deep, crimson red. You know when you have the feeling that someone is watching you? I get that feeling constantly when he is present; it almost distracts me enough to spoil my respite. Let me take that further: Had it not been his green eyes locking in on me, it most certainly would have been a spoiler. Curiously, his gaze seems to have a completely opposite effect on me than expected, distracting me in a most unusual, but almost erotic, way.

I always notice his presence immediately; he is so perfect, to ignore his beauty would be classified as a cardinal sin. His book selection is as interesting as it is eclectic. He is there, every Saturday, without fail. He arrives about 20 minutes after me, carrying his cup of coffee from the same shop next door.

I can't help but watch the door for his arrival every week. I have on my reading glasses, so it's hard for me to be subtle as I dip my book lower and look out over the top of my glasses every time the door opens. As discretely as possible, I watch him walk to his chair, knowing his routine by heart. He places his coffee and phone on the table adjacent to him. He takes off his gently worn black leather jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. He turns his phone off, or perhaps he's just putting it on vibrate, and slips it into his back pocket. That's one of my favorite aspects of his routine, because I get to watch his hand sliding over his ass cheek. As with the rest of him, his ass is sublime. I couldn't possibly look away from that display of human perfection. Again, to do so would be a cardinal sin. Thus, I am literally compelled to ogle him. Once the phone is in his pocket, he grabs his coffee and begins to browse. I'm always intrigued as to which section he will go to. He typically varies between music, art, and classic literature. I've never seen him peruse anything remotely fluffy or easy. I imagine his intellect is intense, like the rest of him. He appears to be quiet, self-motivated, precise, and neat. In between taking books off the shelf and reading the dust jackets, he slowly sips from his coffee. I watch closely as he brings the cup to his beautiful, pouty lips. Every now and then, I see his tongue snake out and lick the remains of coffee away from the corners of his mouth. I'm downright embarrassed to admit how much that tongue affects me; if I weren't in the middle of a very public venue, I would likely catch myself in a moan every time.

Once he has selected several books, typically portraying a theme, he makes his way back to his chair, and settles in for a long read. He usually crosses his legs, with his ankle resting on his knee. Otherwise, he parts his legs and slouches in his seat. This always causes me to focus on his junk, and knowing that I'm ogling his goods makes me blush. Does that ever stop me from being lascivious? Hell, no. Eyeing The Pretty's junk is the fucking highlight of my week.

Yes, I have a nickname for the beautiful man who reads across from me every Saturday morning. The Pretty. It makes prefect sense, and describes him to a tee.

While The Pretty reads, he runs his hands through his hair absentmindedly. As a result, he always ends up looking freshly fucked. Never before have I seen someone with hair so disheveled, yet so equally sexy. Only on him could messy hair be considered fuckhot. As if the hair isn't enough, he has these amazing hands with incredibly long, thin fingers. Between watching his fingers on the cover of the book while the other hand is in his hair, the scene is nearly X-rated. Sometimes, he stops to rub his forehead or play with his lips. I'm not above taking a secret videotape of his display and selling it off as porn. Yes, it is that fucking hot. It's a wonder I get any reading done at all with the show he puts on, and he doesn't even have a fucking clue what he does to me.

This is when the cat and mouse routine usually begins. I pretend that my leering at him is unintentional, that I just happen to accidentally glance in his general direction, but we both know that excuse is a crock of bullshit. Our furtive glances eventually turn into outright stares, where we actually dare to look one another in the eyes. My gaze always says, "I'm so hungry for you." I'm convinced that his gaze tells me, "Why would someone like you look at someone like me with the expectation of something more?"

Over a period of months, our back and forth routine evolves. Slowly, surely, I begin to read his expressive eyes. His beautiful, thick, bushy brows furrow, rise, and fall. I watch him roll his eyes when something annoying occurs. Raise an eyebrow when a pretentious prick lectures his friend on Dadaism. Smiles are won. While he is perfectly beautiful when sitting still, doing nothing, there is nothing better than his smile. It is warm and inviting. It seems happy. It lights up his entire face. I'll do nearly anything to see it.

Gradually, as our routine evolves, our contact begins to broaden. I mean, we share the same Saturday morning routine; we must have some other things in common. What does it matter that he is fuckhot gorgeous and I am Ms. Mousy Brown? We can still be acquaintances, right? Perhaps, one day, even friends? With that in mind, one Saturday, I ask the barista who makes my weekly drink about The Pretty. I figure that if he comes in weekly, and I describe his beauty, they will surely know what his drink is.

"Um, so there's this really hot guy who comes in here every Saturday morning, just like me, about 20 minutes after I do. He's incredibly gorgeous, messy, dark hair with reddish streaks, green eyes, strong jaw line, tall and thin…"

"Oh! You mean Fuckhot Latteman!"

"That sounds like a name that fits him perfectly. Okay, well…see, we both hang out at Bibliotheque every Saturday, and I thought I would buy his coffee drink for him today. Do you know what he usually orders?"

"Yeah, he gets the same thing as you."

I'm so surprised; it takes a beat or two for me to recover. "He orders a tall-double-one-pump-vanilla-soy-latte? Really?"

"Uh, yeah, if I remember correctly, he asked what you were drinking, and ordered the same thing."

"Wait, me? Fuckhot Latteman wondered what I drink?"

"Hang on a sec—don't you know each other? He used to sit in here reading every Saturday morning, but for the past couple of months, he just orders it to go, so he can 'meet his friend' at the bookstore. I just assumed he meant you."

I'm fairly certain the world just stopped rotating on its axis. Either that, or I'm suddenly in a parallel dimension where nothing makes sense and The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman asks questions about my habits.

"You know what? Why don't you make me two of my usuals, but wait for about 15 minutes before you make them. That way, his will still be hot when he gets here."

"Honey, he's always hot when he gets here."

I snort out loud at that. "Yeah, that too."

I take a seat at a small table that has a vantage point of the entryway. My hands are shaking in anticipation of his arrival. I'm nervous as hell. I'm taking one of the biggest risks of my life, putting myself out there to meet The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman. Just what the hell was I thinking?!

You can do this, Bella Swan. You will do this.

I glance at my watch. Two minutes.

I sigh, recognizing that this will be the longest 15-minute period of my entire life. I fidget with my fingers, shift around in my chair a few times, tap my foot nervously on the ground.

I glance at my watch. Four minutes.

Fuck me, I cannot wait. It is utter agony! Come on, brain, think of something clever to say to him. That thought makes me snort out loud—the words "Bella Swan" and "say something clever" are never in the same sentence when it involves speaking to members of the opposite sex. I'm witty as hell in my brain; somehow, it just never translates to my mouth.

I glance at my watch. Ten minutes.

Fuck! I have five minutes to think of something to say! How will I explain ordering his drink for him without coming off as: A) Overly presumptuous, and/or B) Stalker Girl? I walk up to the drink delivery area and grab a straw. I start to tap it on the counter as I wait for our coffee. After a few minutes of tapping, the barista comes over and grabs the straw, stopping it right before it can make another tap noise.

"Please, I know you're nervous, but your fidgeting is extremely distracting, okay?"

I give the poor, abused man a weak smile and nod my head. The front door chimes, and I see him. My reaction is practically cataclysmic. I'm positive that the large pink elephant in the room accidentally stepped on my chest, because I cannot breathe, and my heart feels like it is pounding out of my chest. My hands start shaking. I try taking deep breaths to help myself get centered, but my breath keeps hitching, so I end up taking lots of small, shallow breaths. That's otherwise known as hyperventilating. He hasn't even made eye contact with me yet, and I'm hyperventilating. This is not good.

The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman walks up to the counter to order, and I see the barista point over at me. When his eyes meet mine, his expression is confused, but he suddenly breaks into a smile. Then, he does the unthinkable. He starts walking. As in, towards me. As in, fuck, I need to think of an excuse for why I ordered coffee for him.

He walks up closely enough to be in my personal space, which I will gladly share with him. I have no silly, arbitrary boundaries when it comes to Pretty Fuckhot Latteman. He's close enough that I can smell him, and his clean, citrusy scent washes over me. He still has that one-of-a-kind smile on his face, and it makes me weak in the knees. Well, it is either that, or my hyperventilating. Or, perhaps, both. For some strange reason, the combination of his proximity to me, that amazing smile, and his scent gives me the resolve I need to move forward.

I hold out my hand to him and begin my speech. "Hello, there, Mr. Bookworm. My name is Bella Swan, and since we've shared the same Saturday routine for a while now, I was boldly presumptuous enough to order your coffee this morning and invite you to walk over to Bibliotheque with me."

Thank god he decides to go with my lead. He shakes my hand heartily, grinning, not letting go after the unspoken, socially acceptable, requisite number of shakes.

"I was actually thinking of doing the same thing, but never had the balls to do it. Thank you, for that. Shall we go, Ms. Bella Bookworm?" He gestures to me to lead the way, only then dropping my hand.

I feel embarrassed he didn't introduce himself, like perhaps he doesn't want me to know his name, lest I become a crazy bookstore stalker girl. I'm embarrassed, but not enough to stop me from asking. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name?" I say as politely as possible.

"Oh, jesus. Sorry about that. My name is Edward, Edward Cullen."

"Cullen? Is that an Irish name?"

He smiles at my recognition. "Why yes, it is. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. It's a lovely name. I was just curious."

"Is Bella short for anything?"

I grimace. "Yes, I'm really Isabella. But I've always been called just Bella."

"Well, just Bella, it totally suits you," he answers, with another smashing grin. I'm no longer hyperventilating, but my knees are definitely still weak. I'm pleasantly surprised at how easy it is to talk to Edward.

We arrive at our chairs, and slip into our regular routine, only this week, we trade a lot more smiles back and forth to each other. I stay at the bookstore longer than I usually do; I smile to myself when I admit it's because I'm hoping to leave at the same time as he does. I want to hear his slightly baritone voice one more time. I glance at my watch, noticing that it is after 3:00. Shit! I totally forgot about going to meet Alice and Rose for drinks tonight. Sadly, I have to leave Edward The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman Bookworm Cullen. My heart sinks a little with that realization. I remind myself that there is a consolation: With everything I learned about him today, I've happily discovered that my original interpretation of the way Edward looks at me is dead wrong; this morning, everything changed. Come next Saturday, I know my whole routine will be the same, yet vastly different.

*********

As I awaken this morning, I look out my window to discover a gray, drizzly dawn, and my mood is instantly set, despite the fact that I'm looking forward to seeing Edward. I suddenly feel as gray and drizzly as the weather. I dress in my favorite, warm, comfy clothes, adding a sexy underlayer as insurance, and pop in my music before heading out into the rain. When I arrive at my coffee shop, my lovely routine is switched up yet again—there is a new barista making drinks, and he makes the egregious error of using whole milk instead of soy in my latte. Before he can remake it, he needs to finish the three other drinks he started in the interim. This will cause me to be at least twenty minutes later than usual in arriving at the bookstore. I'm listening to my music at full volume, trying to drown out the feelings of frustration and gloom that threaten to leak out from every pore. The resolve I gained from last week's encounter has completely left my body; I might as well be back at square one. FUCK!

Please, please, please, just let me fucking get to my chair so I can pretend to read my book and ogle Edward The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman Bookworm Cullen.

When I get to the bookstore, SOMEONE TOOK MY FUCKING CHAIR. My. Chair. MINE. And fuck me if it isn't some gorgeous strawberry blonde bombshell who probably never finished a book in her entire life, unless you count Go, Dog, Go. She certainly didn't read it by herself; it was always read to her as a bedtime story. If you memorize a story and can recite it verbatim, it still doesn't prove that you can read. Bitch.

Where the hell is all this ire coming from? I wonder to myself. I'm quiet and reserved. I've never thought such mean things about someone else before. Just what the fuck is going on here?

Before I even have time to ponder any additional insults for Ms. Strawberry Blondie, she stands up and walks directly over to Edward's general vicinity, pretending to look over the selection of books in that area.

I don't believe for one second that you are interested in the Hardware/Plumbing/Do-It-Yourself book section, Missy.

I watch her bend over to grab a book from the lowest shelf, her perfectly aerobicized ass sticking out inches away from his face. I feel like I have to throw up, so I run out the door. The only trouble is, in my infinite rush to escape, someone runs directly into me, spilling my coffee all over my front side. The fucker who ran into me merely shrugs it off like I'm an idiot and continues on his merry way.

CAN THIS DAY GET ANY FUCKING WORSE?!

The answer to that question I pose to myself is, yes, yes it can get worse. In another 1.5 seconds. I'm standing a few feet from the Bibliotheque's doorway, exasperated, coffee dripping from my hair, rain drenching the rest of me, when I get slammed from behind by someone carrying hot coffee. Lovely. Well, at least my outfit is now complete, and my backside has coffee stains to match my front. I don't even think to edit my reaction.

"Goddamn fuck me!" I scream out in frustration.

I'm brought back to consciousness by the smoothest, most musical voice I've ever heard. Having heard it once before, I know that it is him.

"God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to run into you!" it rings out.

I quickly turn around to confirm my assumption, gazing into the face that goes with the voice. Jesus Nightmare Christ. Really? This really had to happen today, of all days? I probably look and smell like a wet dog, covered in coffee, hair dripping. I see the sexiest smirk bloom on his face, and it makes my knees turn to jelly. I look into his green eyes, and I'm lost. I cannot possibly string together a coherent sentence when those eyes are looking at me. I struggle with conversation under typical circumstances; how am I supposed to talk to him? Especially knowing that she was clearly after him, too. I cannot possibly compete with someone as beautiful as that.

I notice he has coffee all over the front of his sweater, too. His charcoal gray, v-neck sweater, with a sprig of chest hair peeking out the top. Suddenly, the voodoo curse that had frozen my tongue is lifted, and replaced by the ability to say any and every embarrassing thing I've ever thought about Edward The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman Bookworm Cullen.

"Oh, wow, you spilled coffee all over that gorgeous chest of yours…uh, sorry, I mean, that gorgeous sweater of yours. I'm all wet, too. I mean, I'm literally soaking wet…would you like to go to my loft to dry off?"

Blush. I quickly put my hand to my mouth in embarrassment.

He's grinning at me when he speaks. "I've never seen someone blush as much as you do, Bella."

"Yeah, well, welcome to my world. I'm lucky enough to be gifted with shyness AND I embarrass easily. Sorry for the word vomit."

"I thought it was really cute and kinda hot, actually. Is your loft nearby?"

Wha? Wait, did he just use the word 'hot'? He asked where my loft is?

"Huh. No one's ever accused my word vomit of being hot before. It's two blocks from here."

"Your word vomit?"

"No, my loft."

I giggle at the ridiculous comedy of affairs my life has been since I awoke. In fact, I start laughing so hard, I'm squeaking. Then, I'm snorting. Finally, I just let it go, and I bend over because I'm laughing so hard. My eyes are even tearing up. I can only imagine what I look like: Wet, soggy, dripping with coffee, and laughing maniacally.

Suddenly, I remember that Edward is there, and I worry that perhaps my somewhat insane reaction may have scared him off. Looking at his face, I see he is trying admirably to hold back his laughter, and I instantly know everything will be fine.

"Mr. Bookworm, please, by all means, just let the laughter go. I've heard you can damage brain cells by holding it in like that. Seriously, it's good. It is totally funny."

Edward covers his mouth and starts out mild.

"Come on, Bookworm, you can do better than that! I know you can!" I poke him in the ribs to spur him along.

He instantly dodges my fingers. He's ticklish! I start to wiggle my fingers in his face, looking for a spot I can tickle, while he is doing his best to avoid them at all costs.

"They may be Vienna sausages, but these fingers can do wicked business."

"NO! Stop! Seriously, don't!" He says, in between big, hearty guffaws.

"Oh my god! You sound like a little girl!"

He turns and looks me straight in the eyes, then grasps my hands, raising them above my head. "Oh, you really shouldn't have said that, Bella Swan. I suggest you lead the way to your loft so we can continue this battle in a safer, less wet environment."

"You'll be sorry what you asked for, Bookworm! Just saying!!" I taunt, as I turn and start running towards my place. Edward tries nipping at my sides with those damn long 'n' lean beauties. I'm screaming and laughing, and I'm sure my neighbors will want to call 911 to have me taken away when I get home.

We arrive at the front door of my building and I reach into my pocket to grab my keys. Edward is behind me, and I quickly turn to catch him mid-reach for an epic tickle. I point my finger into his chest. "DON'T. EVEN. THINK. ABOUT. IT! Especially if you want me to clean that sweater of yours!" He just gives me this huge smirk, and I know he's going to be trouble.

I open the door and we climb the steps to my loft. I force him to stand next to me so there is no chance of funny business this time. He's holding in his giggles, and his entire body shakes. I give him the stink eye as a warning. It doesn't help. Once the door is unlocked, I push him through as if he is my prisoner, and I am holding him at gunpoint. I shut the door firmly behind me, and lock it out of habit. He raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Are you really sure you want to lock me in your loft, Bella?"

I feel that elephant crushing my chest return, but this time he's only doing a little dance. I can still breathe. I think.

"Okay, so I'm completely soaked with coffee, and you're partially soaked with coffee. If this were an average Saturday, and let's admit it, we are so far away from that right now it isn't funny, we would both be pleasantly sipping coffee and reading books right now. So, let me make a proposal. Let's get out my espresso machine to get some coffee going. You may peruse my bookshelves to find something that appeals to you, I will put all of our clothes in the wash, and I will take a quick shower so that I no longer smell like a wet dog soaked in coffee. Then, we can just hang out here until our clothes are dry, or you can go back to the bookstore."

"But only my sweater got wet."

"Pretty Fuckhot Latteman, I didn't mean you had to strip, for god's sake! Don't worry, you're safe with me, and I promise not to prance around naked in front of you. We can be as chaste as you like."

"What did you just call me?"

"Edward?"

"Yes? I mean, NO—that's not what you called me."

Yes, I am probably chartreuse at this very moment. Fuck me!

"Do I have to repeat it?"

"Yes, you absolutely have to repeat it. I don't even know what that was supposed to mean."

I heave a big sigh. I might as well do it right, get this behemoth out for public airing. "PRETTY. FUCKHOT. LATTEMAN."

"Right, now what the hell does that signify?"

"Well, it started out as 'The Pretty,' because that's what I called you in my head when I saw you at Bibliotheque. Then, when I asked the barista what you drink, she called you 'Fuckhot Latteman.' That fit really well, too. So, I guess I've been calling you 'The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman' in my head for the past week. Sorry about that."

Edward looks at me, confused, and slowly shakes his head back and forth.

I have no idea what he is thinking, and that only intensifies my blush. "What? Is it really bad? Do you want to leave?"

"Leave?" Edward looks positively offended by my suggestion. "Bella, the only reason I started going to the bookstore is because I followed you there from the coffee shop. Months ago. I saw you walk through the doors, and you were the most naturally beautiful woman I'd ever seen; I wanted to know you, so badly. It's not my thing to chase after a woman, or even stalk her, for that matter, but I just needed to know about you. Your expression is always kind and open. You're very approachable, even if you are reserved. See, you think that you're the one who wanted me, but I'm actually the one who wanted you. First."

Now I'm the one looking confused and shaking my head back and forth. The world doesn't quite make sense to me anymore. I decide I'm definitely in that parallel dimension where nothing makes sense, and the world has definitely stopped rotating on its axis.

Unsure of what, exactly, to say at a moment like this, I revert to my original suggested plan. "Right. So, we got all that messy stuff out of the way, but we're still soaking wet with coffee. I propose that I shower, we wash the clothes, and then we can have coffee and books. Sound good?"

Rather than responding, Edward swiftly removes his sweater, then his t-shirt, in quick succession. I'm standing face to face with Edward The Pretty Fuckhot Latteman Bookworm Cullen, and he's half naked. There is no way I will be able to get my brain to focus on the task at hand. His chest—it is right in front of me—and it's naked. And perfect. I want to run my hands all over it. Apparently, I have been silent for a socially inappropriate length of time, because Edward clears his throat and breaks the silence with a polite, "Bella?"

I quickly stuff my sexual fantasies back where they belong and return to reality. "Sorry. Yes, laundry. Shower. Books." I take his hand and bring him over to my bookshelves. "Please, help yourself, read whatever you like. It won't take me long to shower, then we can pop our clothes in the dryer. Do you need a blanket or anything to cover up?"

He gives me a beautiful, teasing smile. "Why? Does my being half naked bother you?"

I swallow hard. "No, I just don't want you to be cold. You are my guest, after all."

"I'm fine, Bella. Go shower. I'll be right here."

Focus, Bella, focus. I scramble into my room and grab some clothes, then dash into the bathroom. It's a little embarrassing to have to shower while he is here, but there is no other option. I'm muttering to myself about this entire day as I take off my wet sweater and walk over to the laundry room. I start up the wash cycle, adding my clothes, so that it has time to soak while I'm in the shower. I'm still processing shit in my head when I hear a cough come from behind me. I scream and turn around, trying to cover myself up with my arms.

"Ohmyfuckinggod, I totally forgot you were here! I'm so used to being here alone, I went right into automatic pilot!"

Edward is looking at me like I'm something to eat, and he is a starving man. "Bella."

I glance down and realize that I actually put on semi-cool lingerie this morning as part of my self psych-up routine. Sapphire blue lacy boyshorts and a matching bra. Since lingerie typically scares me, this is about as racy as I get; I've never felt like my body is worthy enough to dress up in lingerie, and it's always so freaking uncomfortable. Rose and Alice talked me into this set, and it is actually presentable and relatively easy to wear. Trust the girls to find something foolproof enough that it works for me.

Edward's words break up my thoughts. "Since we're having no problem being open and honest with each other, I'm going to tell you what's on my mind, giving you ample time to respond. I'm only going to say this once, so if you disagree, I will walk out your door and I'll never bother you again. Bella Swan, I've wanted you for months. I wanted to know you so badly, I followed you from a coffee shop to a bookstore. Now that I see you in front of me, nearly naked, I'm having a difficult time restraining myself. All I want to do is put you on top of that washing machine and fuck the living daylights out of you until you can't remember your name. I want you to wake up in the morning and be reminded of fucking me when it hurts to get out of bed. Even more, I want to be there in the morning to witness it. I've never, never been drawn to another person the way I am to you. I've watched you and I know—I fucking know—you're just right for me. Will you give me a chance to prove it to you? Please?"

I respond the only way possible when someone as beautiful as Edward Cullen is standing in front of you, offering to bang you into the next century: I jump him. Right there, in front of the washing machine, I fucking wrap my arms around his neck, I wrap my legs around his waist, and I plant my mouth squarely on top of his. Once again, weird voodoo magic is clearly responsible, because I've never acted this aggressively in my life.

Edward wraps his hands over my ass and moves me to the washing machine. From that more stable surface, I proceed to lecture Mr. Cullen, by way of my body, the ins and outs of Bella Swan. I am a woman possessed, because I'm doing things that never even occurred to me before. I am making noises that, frankly, I'm not sure are human. I am contorting my body in ways it has never moved before. I'm slightly worried about overwhelming Edward, except for the fact that he meets me move for move.

His mouth over mine is the most erotic experience I've ever had. His tongue moves in amazing ways, and he coaxes out the most exquisite sensations. Every other sexual experience of mine was laid to waste the minute Edward Cullen touches my skin. He is an artist, and I am willingly his blank canvas. Somehow, someway, I was designed to be the essential ingredient required for him to create magic. I'm on fire, and Edward is trying to put out fire with gasoline. We are both passionately consumed by the resulting flames.

Somewhere along the way, I lose my remaining scraps of clothing. Edward is still clad in his jeans, and that is a genuine problem that I need to rectify at once. I run my hand over his groin, taking in all of his hard length.

"You are doing the entire world a great disservice by keeping this monster hidden inside your jeans. I need to see you, Edward. Please."

He looks at me with dark eyes and strips off his jeans in record time. He stands before me, naked and erect, and I drink him in. His cock is so perfect; I decide on the spot that it is the unit standard against which all other cocks should be judged. It's long and thick; his girth is mouthwatering. No fucking joke I won't be able to walk tomorrow! Penises vary so much in size, shape, length, or thickness. Some of them, at their hardest, only achieve half-mast. Some veer off to one side or another. Edward's cock stands perfectly proud and straight.

"It's so beautiful. Your cock is just as pretty as the rest of you, Edward. I want you to fuck me so badly."

"Do you have any idea how hard you make me?" He grabs my hand and places it around his dick, keeping his hand on top of mine. Together, we stroke his shaft up and down, and his hips start to flex as we move together.

"Probably just as wet as you make me." I take his other hand, sliding one of his fingers over my drenched slit.

"Fuck, Bella! Your gorgeous pussy puts my cock to shame."

"That's fucking nonsense. Enough small talk. I need you to fuck me, Edward. Now.

Hard

stroke

and fast

stroke

and repeatedly."

stroke

He takes direction very well, because he rubs the head of his cock over my slit, then wastes no time sliding right into me. Effortlessly, as if this cock and this pussy were created to fit together like lock and key. Of all the peens in the world, I have the luck of finding the one that is just right for me.

Without warning, he suddenly thrusts into me, moving his hands to my hips. I let out a surprised gasp, because I'm absolutely unprepared for the feeling of Edward moving inside me. Neither one of us speaks. Our foreheads are touching; we're looking directly into each other's eyes, panting into one another's mouths. Our fucking is raw and feral. Every time his cock hits a new place inside me, I belt out another satisfied groan. We're thrusting together so hard, the washing machine starts thumping on the floor in time with us.

I move my hands to Edward's ass, increasing the power of his thrusts, while he continues to hold me steady with his hands on my hips. It proves to be a deadly combination—it's like maximizing our thrust potential. It allows him to get as deep as he possibly can in me, and it's fucking dynamite. Meaning, when we both release, my loft is clearly going to explode as a result. I wonder if this isn't how spontaneous human combustion occurs.

I've never been so singularly focused during sex before. Usually, my mind wanders off, getting unfocused. If this were Mike Newton fucking me, for example, I'd be worried about the damage the washing machine is doing to the floor while we're pounding away on top of it. Actually, that's a horrible example, because Mike would never fuck me on a washing machine; it was strictly Missionary position, in bed, for him. Gross. Thinking of Mike and Edward at the same time is so wrong.

As Edward is fucking me, the contrast between my past partners and him, and the complete change in me, couldn't be sharper. The only shift in my focus now varies between looking Edward straight in the eyes, or looking downward to watch his cock moving in and out of me. Our foreheads never separate. It's like we have this hungry, instinctual need to connect via as much surface area as possible.

In my previous couplings, I never came through penetration alone. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was preoccupied with other things while I was having sex. To be honest, I never realized that sex could be so…amazing. I finally understand why everyone seems so obsessed with it. When done properly, it can be phenomenal. When done properly with the person destined to be your soul mate, it is all together life altering. With Edward fucking me, his gaze as focused and intense as his thrusts, my pussy has never felt so alive. Every time I look down and see him inside of me, I feel another tightening twinge in my abdomen. Our panting is totally in time with his thrusts. I know what's coming, hell, I can feel it building, and I sense I'm going to damage my loft floor a lot more than the washing machine ever will.

Suddenly, an enormous, tantric wave sweeps over my body. My head is thrown back, I arch right into Edward's hips, and some kind of animalistic scream escapes from my throat. My hips thrust with each pulsing wave of my orgasm, and Edward keeps up his pace the entire time. Rather than feeling over-sensitized, the movement of his cock inside me intensifies and draws out my climax. The waves keep coming and coming. He stops thrusting for a second, and I feel his cock twitch from deep within me. Once his own wave pattern starts, he delivers a deep thrust with every pulse of his cock. He says nothing, but continues to look me directly in the eye and grunts in pleasure at the end.

As our breathing slows and settles post-coitus, Edward starts to deliver tiny kisses all over my face. There is no set pattern, just random kisses where he thinks I need them. I pull my face away from his enough to look at his expression, and fuck me, if he isn't more beautiful than ever before.

"I'm not really sure where that came from, but I believe I just had a near-death experience. I went straight into that light, and boy, did it deliver!" I place his face between my palms, stroking his cheeks with my thumbs. "Don't worry, though—that orgasm brought me right back to where I needed to be," I smile at him.

"I have no words for what I just experienced. No words. I'm not a religious man by any means, but that totally has me believing there is a god. There is simply no other explanation for a feeling that intense and wonderful."

"I know exactly what you mean! Edward, that penis of yours is…well, it's like a magic wand. It's fucking incredible."

I'm surprised to see Edward blush. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you," I say to him softly. "I've never felt anything that close to perfect in my life. Is it bad for me to admit that I'd spend the rest of my days trying to recreate that feeling? I'm pretty sure no one will ever make me feel that way again except for you."

I turn my face away from his eyes, so he can't see my embarrassment in admitting how much I'm attached to him. He pulls my face back to his gaze before he speaks.

"Bella, I could never hope to feel that way with anyone else. I don't want to even think of touching anyone else, ever again. I can't…" his voice cracks with emotion.

I gently put my finger over his lips. "Shh. It's all right. I know exactly what you mean, how you feel. See?" I put his hand over my heart, so he can feel how fast it is beating. "You do this to me. You're the only one who's ever done this to me. To even think of another man touching me like that feels…poisonous. It will only be you, Edward."

To demonstrate what I mean, I kiss him gently, feeling his soft, warm lips drink in mine. Our lips part, and he nibbles on my bottom lip. His tongue slowly makes its way into my mouth, caressing mine. This kiss says everything our minds cannot communicate. It is a language that only the two of us understand. It took on an instant meaning the second Edward's body met mine.

"See, it's right there. Our connection. You were there for me, before I ever even spoke to you. In a way, it's like I've been with you from the moment I first saw you walk through the doors," I try to explain, to put into words exactly what I'm feeling.

"I know, I know. That's it. That's everything," he whispers in my ear, followed by a delicate kiss to my earlobe.

"How is this possible, Edward? How can we know?"

"In the end, does it matter? The fact is, we know. We will always know. For me, that's enough."

"Yes, for me, too. That's enough."

With every possible body part touching one another, we talk via our kisses, reverently respecting our connection. We understand inherently its importance, its significance. This isn't something you throw away. We both know, somehow, this is permanent and unchanging.

Silently, I slide myself off of the washing machine and take Edward's hand into mine. I lead him to the shower, where we wordlessly, lovingly, wash each other's bodies, touching, caressing, joining together until the water runs cold. Afterwards, we quietly dry one another off, we brew our coffee, linking our hands, and choose our books. In my bedroom, towels are shed, our bodies comingle, drinking in each other's essence. We read, make love, drink coffee, make love, spoon, have some sex, and spend the remainder of the weekend in bed, blissfully happy in each other's company, knowing we've finally, truly found each other. It might have begun as a series of stolen glances, but its unending conclusion is two souls fused together in a way that only we can truly understand.

To those of you who dare to peer over your books, to exchange furtive glances at that special someone, just remember: True love is out there. It's just waiting to find you.