A/N: Hello, I'm Autumn Song, or Autumn for short. This is a Bella/Carlisle story set in Paris. There will be a French speaking Carlisle, lemons (lots of them) and drama. This is my first dive into FanFiction and I hope that you enjoy my efforts.

The little review button, at the bottom…please feel free to press it and let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I own nothing remotely related to Twilight, SM owns all. I simply play with her characters.



It was overwhelming; with little to no effort, she had captured my attention. Long shiny hair flowed down her smooth pale back. I watched as she spoke with her friend, smiling and gesturing wildly. Her face was face was so expressive, I could almost picture what she would look like under me, hair fanned over my pillows, red lips parted and breath coming quick…because of me. She was a vision, one unlike anything I have ever seen. I had to know her. After a few minutes with the bar tender, I ordered her a drink and decided to take it over to her myself.

"No, Alice I don't think that is a good idea." She obviously was not American. It didn't matter; she could be a vampire for all I cared.

"Well, I think it's a fantastic beyond brilliant idea, and the fact that it is mine only adds sparkle. Now, come on, when was the last time you have some fun? Can't you break your rule just this one ti-" I cleared my throat softly, not wanting to hear something they didn't want me to listen in on. The one named Alice arched a brow at me, looked down at the drink and smiled knowingly at her friend but said nothing.

"Un aperitif, mademoiselle."

The brown hair beauty looked up at me then at the drink in my hand. Her eyes were sad for a moment, but the sadness vanished just as quickly as it had swooped in on her. I explained that she had captured me from across the room and not buying her a drink and speaking to her was, unacceptable. Her mouth only twitched with amusement. "Thank you for the drink, but I don't date French men. Sorry."

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm not a French man, now is it." Her lips curved into a wicked smile.

Yes, it was a good thing after all.


I heard my phone ringing somewhere, groaning and shoving my face into the mountain of pillows, I tried to ignore the raging headache. The sheets smelled different, like violets and jasmine, it wasn't unpleasant by any means, it was intoxicating but it was wrong. My sheets still had that plastic new smell that needed to be washed out. Letting out a low groan I opened one eye, everything seemed to be all right—nothing sinister—but it was too bright and I wasn't in at my place.

So, we went to hers? Was it closer? Why couldn't I recall anything about the taxi ride? Did we take a taxi? Questions, would I ever escape…questions? What time is it?

One glance at my watch told me it wasn't as late as I had thought. Sitting up I took in the room; bright emerald walls lined with more books than a small library, small brass tables with tiny elephants and other odds and ends were scattered here and there. In the corner by the window there was an easel with tubes and brushes laid out on the sill and a canvas waiting. So she's an artist and a reader by the looks of it. Where is she, anyway? I preened my ear but found only silence, no shower, no footsteps, and no voice. Maybe she left to avoid facing me, her error in judgment. Or perhaps she had to go to school, or work? Shit! That reminded me, I had to get to work, but first I needed my pants.

I found them over by the closet door. I smiled at our obvious hast, my clothes was scattered. Pulling my pants up and I shoved my hand in one of the pockets to shut off my phone. Blasted thing kept going off. My finger grazed something that was not a phone but very soft, wondering what it was I pulled it out and grinned at the sight of the ripped scrap of green lace.

"These are in my way." I whispered to her, running my finger over the soft, damp material. I could smell her aroused sex. Feel her quiver beneath such a simple innocent touch. I wanted more. So many thoughts ran though my head but one thought was constant. What sounds would she make when I finally put my mouth to her? She whimpered as I continued to tease her, "Would you like me to take them off?"

Another little moan. I was having none of that. I needed to hear her, she needed to talk to me, because fuck if it wasn't hot as hell when she had done it before.

"Is that what you want, beautiful," placing a kiss right above her covered clit, my hands tighten on her thighs, spreading them further apart, "for me to peal these pretty panties off you, taste you, touch you?"

"Fuck, yes!" She threw her head back against the wall, fleetingly I was concerned that she had hurt herself but she didn't seem to mind so I shrugged it off.

"'Fuck, yes,' what? What do you want?" I asked, licking a line from one hipbone, across her taut belly, to the second. In the dim lamp light, her wet skin glistened. I bit her hip softly and hummed at her reaction to my teeth. She reached up to thread her finger in my hair, tugging me to where she needed me most, her nails grazing my scalp deviously.

This girl was driving me mad…she had to know what she was doing. There was no way she couldn't know. My cock ached as I palmed myself in search of relief but found none. I couldn't help but stroke myself lightly, it was sweet torture, a poor substitute for what I really needed and what I needed was this damn fabric out of the way before I exploded.

Her first, her first, I kept telling myself.

"What do you need?"

"Now. Please. Touch me." She pleaded.

"All you needed to do was ask, sweet girl."

The lace was no match for my lust or my strength, for a moment I thought she'd be upset about me ruining the expensive garment but I couldn't have been more wrong—if anything it got her hotter.

I slipped one finger in, stroked her walls then added another finger, and the poor girl screamed. Bloody hell, she was hot, soft, wet and oh so very tight, everything young girl were but somehow she seemed like so much more. While she writhed above me I studied her in awe; she was bare and while normally this would not appeal to me on her it made me want to burry my head between her silken thighs run my tongue along her folds, make her come and scream my name until she was utterly spent. My mouth watered and I couldn't simply look, I needed to taste.

I shook the memories away and finished getting dressed before leaving the comfort of her room. Last night I hadn't paid any attention to the apartment, my thoughts had been occupied with much softer things—like the skin on her neck and behind her ears—but now with it before me I felt odd, intrusive as I looked around without her to show me around.

The flat was not as tiny as I had thought it would be, but it wasn't large either. The living room was painted in a deep shade of Jade with the same aged brass accents as her bedroom. A dark brown leather couch with brass studs and two wing backed chairs were angled to create a warm and inviting seating area. Frames and pictures, prints and brass keys hung from the walls but couldn't bring myself to inspect the pictures—she deserved some privacy. Funny, last night you licked every inch of her skin, sucked on her pretty pink nipples and now you want to give her privacy? The place looked effortlessly stylish without being forced—which I could say was a perfect description of my mystery women herself. Perhaps it was a French thing. My body hummed at the thought of her French, mumblings she thought I couldn't understand, moaning under her breath.

"Mon dieu, ses doigts se sentent comme le péché. N'arrêtez pas. "

I suppressed a moan and decided I better get out of here before I had to take matters into my own hands, literally. Just as I was leaving, I noticed a note on the wall by the door. The wall I had taken her against. Curious, I read it and smiled.

Morning, I had to go to school early and I couldn't bring myself to wake you, seeing as you looked so peaceful and sexy—I almost didn't go to class because of you. Help yourself to some coffee and or whatever there is in the fridge. Don't rob me. My father is French Police and he will find you if you do, and trust me it will not be pretty.

She had lovely writing—I suppose I would notice something like that—but she didn't sign and that sadden me more than I expected. How was I supposed to see her again if I didn't know her name? Sure, I knew where she lived but stalking her home in the chance that I might see her was…insane. Would she want to see me again? I hadn't given her my name either. And then there was the quip about her Father. French Police…I didn't like the sounds of that, cops with daughters to protect were dangerous. Why was I thinking about this so damn much? Taking a last look at her world, I decided it was for the best if we ended much the same as we had started—as strangers.

Outside her door, I realized this would be my first walk of shame in many years and the significance of this was not lost on me. What had I been thinking last night? Starting my time in Paris with a bang was not wise, neither was waking up in a bed alone—again. And now I had to figure out how to get home from whatever arrondissement this was. While I didn't regret the sex, I instantly regretted my laissez faire attitude last night.

I was more responsible than this.


Once I got to my apartment, I showered and dressed quickly, ignoring the part of me that was begging to be stroked. I had no time. But the thought of her in the shower with me, wet and naked was almost enough to reconsider.

The trip to Sorbonne had taken little to no time, and the mingling with my new co-workers took even less time. They were nice enough on the surface but they were appraising me openly; conversing faster than I suspected they spoke to their fellow compatriots. It made no difference; I was more than capable of keeping up. When the informal get-to-know-you was over I simply went over to what would be my classroom for the next month or so and put my desk in order, set up the books and wrote my name on the black board. Chuckling to myself, I realized writing my name on the board gave me déjà vu of my stint in grade school. Man second graders were rough. I quickly wiped it off, sat down, and began reading while I waited for the students to arrive. Naturally, my mind wandered.

"Me prennent. Maintenant!" She moaned, her voice low, thick and frustrated.

Of course I knew what she was saying but played the part, kissing her neck while my hands unzipped her death trap of a dress, clawing at the straps anxious to see all of her. Straps, why so many straps? Finally I worked her arms free and was pleasantly rewarded with the sight of her naked chest. Christ! No bra, just rosy hard nipples. I tore my eyes away from her chest and up to her eyes, barely keeping the animal caged as he met the lust in her beautiful brown orbs.

"I can't wait. I want you here, right now." I declared pressing her into the wall, letting her feel just how badly I wanted, needed her. She shuttered, whether because of my breath sweeping over her sensitive skin or because she could feel me pulsing against her, I don't know but I gave it little thought. My shirt was gone in seconds, as were my pants and boxer briefs; gone and thrown somewhere to my right so I could press my naked skin to hers. Her skin was warm against mine and rippled under my touch—she was so responsive. After sliding on a condom I lifted her up and wrapped her legs around my waist, pausing long enough to make sure this was what she really wanted. Her eyes were closed and I couldn't be sure but she seemed conflicted, hesitant.

Could she be having second thoughts?

It wouldn't be the first time.

Nuzzling my nose to my new favorite spot behind her ear I asked if she was all right, fully prepared to stop if she asked it of me. "You have to talk to me sweet girl. Do you want to stop?" She shook her head but said nothing. "What's wrong?"

My cock jerked as she took it into her delicate fingers and brought to her drenched center, teasing herself and my restraint. "I can't wait either."

Slowly she sank down on me, letting me feel every inch of her. My eyes rolled back into my head as my length sank deeper into her velvet grip, filling her until my head brushed her cervix. I let out a deep throaty groan and gripped her thighs tighter—this was too much. Sex had never felt this way, not even…it had felt this way. I was well past the time in my life where sex was this consuming, I knew well enough what a woman's body felt like but this was a completely new experience. I slid out and back into heaven as slowly as possible, aching to savor every minute of this.

My brunette beauty trembled around me each time I moved, her nails digging half moons into my shoulders—she couldn't be close already. Could she? As if answering my unasked question she tightened, gripping me tighter than I thought possible. Apparently she could be this close already. Her lips were moving but I couldn't hear what she was saying, the only sounds I heard were the ones made by our bodies. I snapped out of my blissful stupor as soon as she started coming.

"That's it, baby. Let go." I murmured into her hair as I surrendered to the orgasm she brought me to.

"Bel homme, veuillez ne pas me faire mal."

A throat cleared breaking me out of my reverie while the scent of violets and jasmine still played in the air around me. Damn, the memory had been so potent I could almost smell her, here of all places. The classroom was full, eyes focused on me expectantly, no doubt questioning why their professor had zoned out for whoever knows how long. Clearing my throat, I introduced myself and said a silent prayer, hoping my face or pants didn't belie my stern tone.

"Bienvenue, welcome to Poésie Française: Les Fleurs du Mal. This is a relatively short course, five weeks, two meetings a week with a paper due at the end of each and one final. Other courses are no doubt much longer and require more time but my class will by no means be simple. It is my goal to introduce you all to Baudelaire, his words and the meaning behind them but most of all, his manner of seeing the world around him and in turn the world around you. I think it is only fair that I warn you now, I am quite tough—perhaps tougher than you bargained for in a month long class—and I can speak fluent French as well as you natives. Are there any questions before we begin?"

"You could tell us your name." A girl in a blue blouse called out, her face in her book.

"I'm Professor Cullen. Anything else, Miss…" I asked, willing her to lift her head and look me in the eye. Why the hell was she blushing? I could tell earning the respect of an all French class was going to be a much harder task that I had anticipated.

She looked up quickly, the blush on her ivory skin deepening, "Swan, Professor Cullen. I'm Miss Swan."

I knew those eyes.


A/N: Thank you for reading, if you enjoyed this chapter feel free to let me know. Until next time.


*Un aperitif, mademoiselle

A cocktail, miss.

*Mon dieu, ses doigts se sentent comme le péché. N'arrêtez pas!

My God, his finger feel like sin. Don't Stop!

*Me prennent. Maintenant!

Take me. Now!

*Bel homme, veuillez ne pas me faire mal.

Beautiful man, don't hurt me. (Not physically but emotionally. She worried about her heart.)