Written for Kassiah's birthday blog: a short future-take ... xoxo


I smell orange juice. Freshly squeezed, of course. And bacon.

Fuck. I forgot.

Every year, she makes a huge-ass plate of bacon, a bacon shake, and a fuckton of freshly squeezed orange juice. I really love my wife, but holy motherfucking hell she's gonna fry my ass if she finds out I forgot our anniversary.

I feel like a total asshole—I could've sworn it was next week, and knowing I am not the first guy to do this does not make me feel better. We've been fighting all week because I've been working late and she thinks it's funny to ask if I'm cheating on her, which makes me really pissy. She doesn't really think I am, but she knows how mad I get when she insinuates shit like that.

I think that's her way of angling for angry make-up sex. Damn, she's crafty. I so fucking love her.

Keeping my eyes closed, I spin my brain for an idea. Anything. How on earth do I show her I remember everything about us? Okay, except anniversaries, apparently. I'm a dude, okay? No matter how many times Emmett tries to convince people otherwise.

Suddenly, something strikes me like a lightning bolt. I sit up and nearly start clapping like a five-year-old. I get out of bed quietly as I can, running into the closet and pushing all my shirts back as I dig for my favorite. At the very back, I grip the fabric and yank it off the hanger.

Even after seven years, it still has a monster stain from the orange juice she spilled all over me the morning after that night at Denny's. I'd walked up behind her as she was pouring two glasses of freshly-squeezed. I freshly squeezed her ass, and the next thing I knew I was covered in sweet, sticky citrus. I laughed and licked the pulp off my fingers, but she was so embarrassed, she felt the need to distract me by going down right then and there. I came embarrassingly fast. I nearly told her I was really only fifteen and wouldn't call the cops. Alice, however, did actually threaten to call the cops for scarring her, as she'd walked in on us.

I still don't understand why she teased me for saving the shirt. It's not funny to call me "Monica LeWankski." Emmett disagrees, but that prick would. I did wash the fucking thing, but apparently my laundry skills blow. I managed to set the stain just right. She once tried to make that one of my share of household chores, but after seeing my lack of talent in said department, she won't even let me buy the detergent.

Slipping the shirt on, I neglect to button it up (in hopes that it won't stay on very long anyway) and head out to the kitchen. I realize I'm only wearing boxers with it, but a carefully selected ensemble is not the point. Fuck! Ensemble? I've been listening to overhearing Alice on calls with clients way too often.

Bella is humming away as she cooks, as she often does—one of the many things I love about her. Especially given the fact that she does not hum random melodies or Snow White-esque songs. She hums eighties hair-metal. For serious. Currently, I'm being treated to Bellazak version of "Rock You Like a Hurricane," complete with sound effects for musical interludes.

"Mmm! Mmm! Mmmmm! Der-nert! DER-NER-NERT! MMMM mmm mmm mmm MMM-MM-MMMMMMM!"

I manage to smother the laugh that's threatening to unceremoniously and prematurely announce my presence. I'm safe, and continue to watch her nostalgic performance, her hips swaying wildly back and forth to the beat of her own drummer (obviously) as she beats the eggs into submission.

Wait, eggs? That's odd. She never makes eggs with the traditional anniversary breakfast. Are my parents coming over? Did I suffer a massive head injury? Is Emmett here, demanding a smorgasbord?

I decide to forget about it when my eyes land back on her ass, noting the way it curves (i.e., the way it fits perfectly in my hands). I manage to get right up behind her before sliding my hands around her waist, flattening my palms against her stomach. She freezes, and bizarrely, it takes her a minute to reply, but she moves my hands up to her breasts before she does. I'm totally fine with this.

"Holy snozzberries, Edward, you scared the crap outta me," she says finally, settling back into me. "But not literally, obviously, because that's eight shades of nasty."

I chuckle, pressing kisses against the nape of her neck, working up to her ear.

"I am a sweet-talker," she continues, apparently having her own conversation now. "I'm surprised you don't jump me more often, what with all my favorite fart jokes and inappropriately-timed sexual segues."

Without speaking, I spin her around to face me, diving right in for a good-morning kiss. She tastes like freshly-squeezed orange juice. Fuck me, that's good.

I reluctantly release her lips, and she whimpers. "You're such a great kisser, I don't even care that you obviously didn't brush your teeth yet — HEY! Are you wearing the Monica LeWank—"

I totally can't help the lopsided smirk I throw at her, noting her own dazzling grin as she points at me. Her face is heating up in that BellaBlush™ as I lift her by her hips to rest on the end of the counter away from all her preparations. Ducking down, I work her tiny sleep-shorts and panties down her legs as she gasps.

"Omigod, please remind me to clean this counter later," she rambles, panting and white-knuckling the edge (I hope it's in anticipation).

I purposefully ignore her impulse to clean when I'm very obviously preparing to get dirty at the moment. Kneeling and finding myself at the perfect height for returning the favor, as they say, I shift her legs over my shoulders, sliding my fingers (what I hope is) tantalizingly up her outer thighs.

She moans unevenly—a sound I fucking love, by the way. It tells me what I do to her, that she's unraveling ... even if it does somewhat resemble an odd attempt at a Tarzan call.

"Guh ... 'ward ... are you not gonna say anything? I mean, uh ..." Her speech is disjointed, as though she's fighting giving herself over. That kind of worries me, but I continue my seduction plans by placing wet, open-mouthed kisses on each thigh, closer and closer to the ultimate destination.

Another unsteady warble erupts, but this time she laughs at herself. How could I not love this woman? "Dammit, baby," she whines, her tone still tinged with amusement. "I was trying to surprise you this morning. I have news ..."

The way she trailed off at the end stop me cold. She said "surprise" so it couldn't be anything bad, could it? Or maybe she's trying to soften the blow. What the hell could it be? She wouldn't divorce me on our anniversary would she?

"STOP IT." Forcefully, she tips my chin up to look at her. "You're overthinking it, man! You're a doctor, not a mind-reader!"

Involuntarily, I grin like an idiot. She makes me do that, and it's much more than just her horrible Star Trek impressions.

"Now get up here," she directs, pulling at my shoulders. I try to ignore she is totally bottomless, and wearing a skimpy, thin tank top. Impossible. "Continue by looking at my face and not my tits or my cooter."

My eyes instantly snap to her face. "Did you seriously just call—"

"Cooter, Edward," she chastises me. Me. "I've said it before, I'll say it again. Cooter. It's like pussy, but nicer for certain conversations."


"Fine," I sigh, smiling at my wife's brand of humor. "So what do you need to tell me?"

I can't help it, but my stomach is suddenly churning and my mind is racing. Don't make me wait all day, woman, I'm at half mast, you're naked and smelling of delicious citrus nectars and bacon, and I'm not sure if you're gonna tell me something terrifying or incredibly fuckawesome.

"I'm pregnant."

Holy shit, it's both. Terrifying AND fuckawesome. I never thought it possible.

I stare at her, my face hanging blank and shocked. She's half-smiling, half making that "is he pissed or happy?" face. Now, she's starting to wonder if I heard her. ANSWER, JACKASS!

I shake my head to break the mental deadlock. "Are you ... you're ... seriously?"

She raises an eyebrow first, then raises a hand to slap me in the face. No joke.

I blink a few times. "Yeah, thanks. Needed that. Really? I mean ... wow. Really?" A grin that could hardly be described as shit-eating (I mean, come on—who would smile while eating shit?), or any other "really big smile" phrase, plasters itself across my face. It's finally hitting me, and while I'm still a little petrified at the thought of us becoming parents, I'm so amazed, the fear doesn't matter. "There's a baby in here right now."

I bring my hands to her stomach, wondering if that's why she froze when I put my hands there earlier.

She cackles, completely amused. "Yes, Doctor. According to three boxes of pregnancy tests, there definitely should be — I mean, that is typically what pregnancy entails. Did they not teach you this in med school? Was this an accredited institution or did you mail in cereal box tops?"

"Bella," I warn, stemming her comedy tirade.

"I tease because I love," she sighs. "And because you're an easy target. OH, and I made an appointment with the crotch doc next week."

Eying her, I raise an eyebrow as she winks. "Crotch doc?"

"Don't be offended; you're in neuro. You're a brain doc."

I love that my wife refers to my profession so casually. No, really; I do. "And you're a scribbler who'll one day get the Nobel Prize for Literature," I tease, leaning my forehead against hers. "Married to a brain doc. I wonder what our kid will be?"

She smiles widely with anticipation and glee. "A right headcase, it would seem."

A loud laugh peals out of me, and I can't refrain from kissing her over and over. "God, I love you," I tell her in a rush of breath, gathering her in my arms. "This is awesome. Really. Just ... wow."

Nuzzling into her neck, I just take a moment to smell her. Her. Just Bella underneath the hunger-inducing food smells.

"You're totally freaked, aren't you?" She asks, giggling into my ear.

"A lot, yeah," I admit, pulling back to look at her and nodding. "Honestly, though, I'm more in awe than anything. And happy. Definitely happy."

She beams, bouncing a little bit.

"OOH!" she squeals, then snickers. "I totally forgot I'm ridin' bareback on the counter, here."

"There was a reason for that," I remind her, leaning in closer to kiss her lips gently. "A really good reason."

Her hands move to hold my face, her thumbs gently grazing my lips. I dart the tip of my tongue out and lick.

"Tease," she accuses quietly.

Kissing her again, I remind her, "I'm not a tease if I intend to follow up."

Her deep brown eyes sparkle as she drops her hands to my shoulders. "Then by all means, Dr. Cullen, get to work."

With one last kiss, I descend slowly, trailing my hands down her sides and over her hips, reclaiming my previous position. I slip my arms under her legs, cupping my hands around her hips to hold her in place (she likes to wiggle).

Turning my head to one side, I return to my initial warm up along the insides of her thighs. Wiggling her ass (see? I told you), she also emits a low whine, and I know she's impatient. "Edwarrrrd ... celebratory Ohhhhhh!"

I nearly lose my composure and start cracking up, but somehow manage to maintain and work my way inward at my own, maddeningly slow pace. Gripping her ass, I move forward, pressing my tongue flat against her. I lick and pulse, suck and nibble ever so lightly. Maybe it's just the orange juice I tasted when I kissed her, but I swear she tastes a little sweeter on these lips than I'm used to. She lets out a guttural moan and starts mumbling incoherently, though I do think I heard something about "best tongue" and "husband." I'll draw my own conclusions there.

I work for a little while, and as usual, she squirms against me, but grips my hair like she's riding a bronco. I know that to be a really good sign, so I begin to hum as I swirl, kiss, suck. The vibrations kick up the speed of bringing her to the brink, and though her legs are acting as earmuffs, I'm pretty sure I hear "ONE MORE! ONE! MORE TIME! FOR THE WIN!"

I'm not going to pretend I understand that exactly, but Bella sometimes spouts pure crazy when she orgasms. It's a huge plus for me. I like to say she's speaking in tongues because sex with me is a religious experience. Well, she laughs.

Her feet lock behind me and I know she's chewing on her lips because her sounds are even more obscured. Retrieving one hand from her hips, I slip two fingers inside her and she bucks.


Twisting my fingers to find that spot, I double my efforts, pulsing the tip of my tongue on the love button (I didn't name it that; she did. I swear!). She breaks, her thighs clenching around my ears as her entire body tenses and relaxes in shuddering waves. I can only hear pieces of her verbal rant.

"Son of BITCHCRACKING ... mothercrapping ... holy fuckballs ... so hungry ..."

I continue working her as she rides it out, coming down slowly. Her hands release my hair—which I'm sure looks even more ridiculous than my normal bedhead— and lightly sweep over my cheeks. She's still panting, but I push up off my knees and kiss my way up her torso until I'm face to face with her.

"Goddamn, Edward," she nearly wheezes. "You are too fucking good at that."

Kissing along her neck and jaw, I smile—a little smug, if I'm being honest. "Happy anniversary, baby," I whisper in her ear.

She freezes. "Oh, shit," she groans. "I thought it was next week?"