Sometimes, the urge to write hits me.



"Edward – "

A month, two weeks and three days. She'd been holed up in Quantico for that long, going through a special training because she'd been drafted to join a detail on the field.

"In a minute."

She's on her last two weeks of training and all she'd needed was one last cram session before her final exams. But he'd been nagging her for days, chaffing at her schedules, so she'd wrangled an overnight pass from her commanding officer. She'd been working hard, anyway, so she tells herself that deserves a break.

"You want anything?"

She'd agreed to meet him at a restaurant for dinner, before going to the hotel he'd been staying since he arrived the day before.

"I don't know..."

It's a Monday and there's not much occurring around town, let alone the restaurant. There's a birthday party on the second floor, but the rest of the place is empty. Even so, the restaurant's tables and chairs are neatly aligned, its staff and crew in a busy buzz, waiting for prospective clients.

"Yes, you do."

"No... I don't."

He'd managed to book the most secluded space on the highest floor of the restaurant; a room generally reserved for couples in the brink of committing. They'd already been served their aperitifs and their waiter waits, a bell-call away, ready to take their next order. The wine is open, its fizz filling two long-stemmed glasses, but they're not really drinking.

"Think, Bella."

"I can't..."

"Can't what?"

"I can't...think."

On one side, the windows of the private room framed a romantic view of the Quantico mountains. The walls are painted in soft brown tones, casting a comfortable darkness around the room. The door, locked for the moment, shields them from the noise outside.



He'd pick her up from the training base in a chauffeured car. Rolls Royces aren't made to be self-driven, or so he'd told her when she teased him that he just wanted to have use of both his hands. True enough, the presence of the driver hadn't stopped him. Lucky for him, she'd worn a short, red dress with a flaring skirt under her military-gray trenchcoat. He'd flown across the world just to see her and the least she can do is give him something to stare at during dinner.

"Pick an order..."


"Just one."

In the privacy of the room they'd been ushered in, she finds herself gripping the table, looking at the glossy menus but not seeing anything.

"I don't... I can't..."

She finds it hard, almost impossible, to focus on the menu when a hand is squeezing her breast under her dress and another is creeping under her underwear. She gives a little gasp as his fingers start probing her pussy, teasing, rubbing. Her skirt had ridden up her waist and she had her legs tangled with his. She presses her back into him, and the chair they're on gives a little squeak.

"Yes, yes, you can."

When his fingers finally plunges into her core, she comes up with an answer.

"Brisket...they have brisket.."

"You sure?"

"Yes," she hisses under her breath.

His breath in her ear, combined with his probing digits, brings her to the edge and pushes her over. He covers her mouth with his hand as she cries out her climax, her body shaking. She notices, belatedly, his cock pulsing against her thigh and ass. She hadn't realized he's stripped enough for their naked flesh to touch. She jerks her hips, creating enough friction to cause him to moan.


She stands on wobbly legs, and he strips down her panties with military efficiency before whirling her around so she can face him. Feet apart, he pulls her right him, impaling her with his cock. He plunges deep, as deep as the chair permits him, and they moan in mutual satisfaction.




He shifts, and presses into her, until he's buried deep, all the way inside.

"Motherfuck...," he grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut as she grips his hips with her thighs. She rocks into him, her heels digging into his ankles as she balances herself on the tips of her shoes. He groans when she starts to move in a familiar rhythmn and it takes everything in him not to cum in one minute.

"You feel so good, baby."

"You, too," she gasps and he shivers at the desperate need in her voice.

"Yeah?" he nips on her lips as she kisses him with a hunger that matches his. Her mouth is as hard, as bruising as his as they attack each other – lips, jaw neck, shoulders, ears.

"Tell me..."

"You...ahhh, shit," she gasps as his mouth latches on a breast and his teeth sink into the fabric.

"Say it," he demands, as a hand pulls on her clothes roughly, his hand covering after his mouth, squeezing and pulling on her tits, as his mouth leave marks all over her skin. "Say how good this feels..."

"S'good...," she fights for breath, as the familiar tide of emotions wash over her. "Oh, God, I missed you."

"Me, too. Fuck, me, too."

"Oh, God...Edward, ahh...ahhh..."

"Yeah, that's it, baby, thats it...Fuck, I love you." He murmurs and croons words of encouragement as she rides him, his hands hard on her hips. His hips roll in sync to hers, aiding her, pushing her to the brink..

"Oh, God..."

The world retreats as he watches her face as her orgasm takes over. Head thrown back, eyes closed, tits thrusted out – she's completely oblivious of her surroundings, conscious only of his cock deep inside her, stretching her walls to its limits. He holds her as as she shivers against him, her nails digging through his shirt.

It takes a while before the spasms stop and she slumps against his shoulder. It takes more before she's able to turn her unfocused eyes on him.

"Told you dinner wasn't a good idea," she murmurs, giving him a slightly loopy smile.

He would've disagreed, if he'd been capable of speech and if the pain in his balls hadn't been killing him.

She gives a surprised yelp when he stands up abruptly – his hands on her ass, his cock buried inside her. The chair crashes to the floor and she laughs, gripping his waist instinctively with her legs. Holding on to his shoulders, she snickers a word into his ear and he shivers at the low promise. A few steps and he pins her to the wall. He starts to move, and she kicks off her shoes and stops laughing. Lovesick muttering are replaced with groans, grunts and motherfuckers as he takes what he wants, demands that she does likewise, and they fall into each other all over again.

It doesn't take much to send him over the edge – a squeeze, a scrape and he's there. He comes – hard, deep and vocal – and she's swept away in a whirl of sensations alongside him.

It's only when he comes out of his trance later that he feels a twinge of guilt. He'd slammed his wife against the wall – messed up her neatly combed hair, bruised her perfectly shaped mouth, all but erased the light make-up she'd painstaking put on for his benefit – all without care to her welfare. But she's smiling the smile that says she doesn't give a shit and she's happy to be there and fuck it all, he's happy that's she's there, too. He can't seem to wipe the stupid smile off his face.

Her eyes sweep the room, noting the evidence of their frenzied union – the fallen chair, the shoes and her underwear, littering the floor. She pits them against the perfectly-set table and pristine décor, the elegant and majestic ambiance, and starts laughing.

"Damn, how'd you find this place?"

He tells her a friend had told him about it and that it had come highly recommended. But he doesn't tell her that he'd booked the entire place for the evening, that the staff had canceled all reservations save for the birthday party downstairs, and that he'd instructed everyone not to disturb them.

"We should've just ordered room service," she says, shaking her head at him, as if to say he should've known better. They could have, he agrees, but he'd been trying to be romantic.

He watches her fix herself, gracefully sliding her hands over her body as she smooths out her hair and her dress. She picks up her discarded panties on the floor, and with a laugh, chucks the fabric at him. He catches it with a hand and puts them in his pocket. They're red and damp and he's going to find a use for them later.

They manage to put on a semblance of propreity and resume their dinner. Brisket and for dessert, chocolate diablo cake for two.

"Did the deal push through?" she asks when coherent enough to remember that he'd flown from Sant'Agata, Bolognese, where he'd been negotiating his way through owning half the production line of Lambhorginis. At least he's not stealing them, anymore. Or so she hopes.

"Don't know," he answers. "Carmen and the guys were still at it when I left."

"Really? You're not done yet? So what?–" she looks at him in genuine surprise.

" – am I doing here?" he cocks an eyebrow at her. "Am I not allowed to visit my wife when I miss her?"

She narrows her eyes at him. They both endure the hardship of separation because of their obligations. Or, at least, she does. God knows what he's doing but she knows him well enough to assume that he wouldn't abandon something as crucial as a company take-over without an overriding reason.

"You're not in trouble, are you?"

He laughs and tells her no. He also tells her that no, nothing's happened to Jasper and Alice either and yes, everything's fine with everything on his end, and in the world in general.

"It's not your birthday..."

"No, it's not," he answers drily. "But you did forget that one, too."

Her eyes widen. "'s not August already, is it?"

"August 2," he tells her and watches as suprise, apology, then guilt flicker across her face. She'd been working hard the past weeks, sometimes too hard. Friends, family and even him, had taken a backseat.

"Don't worry about it," he says, reaching out for her hand and twining her fingers with his. "It doesn't matter."

He doesn't mind that she forgets dates or that he has to chase her around the country for a quickie. What gets to him is the fact that each visit ends too soon for his liking and each time it does, he finds it harder to say goodbye to her. He doesn't have to tell her that he'd spent hours staring at calendars and clocks, trying to figure out ways how two people so diametrically opposed in work and status can be together as much as possible.

"I should've remembered," she sighs, squeezing his fingers in apology.

"Yes, you should have," he agrees, then smiles. "Then you wouldn't have to think of an excuse for an overnight pass other than your husband is horny."

She gives him a laugh,tinged with a little sadness, and tells him that she doubts her commanding officer would've understood. But who knows, she adds, she could've been wrangled a 24-hour pass if she'd told the brute the occasion.

"Doesn't matter," he tells her again, meaning it. He'll take whatever she can give him.

"I'll make it up to you," she promises, her incorruptible sense of fairness kicking in. He shrugs, and says nothing. As far as he's concerned, she'd already more than made up for forgetting. But he's not one to turn down an offer, either, especially if it meant a free rein on her schedule.

"I'll think of something," he says when she lapses into an expectant silence. Tugging on her hand, he pulls her towards him and into his lap. "Forget about it for now."

She curls against him and he takes the chance to breathe in the scent of her hair. Silence settle around them and for a moment, it's almost enough.

He moves after a while, but only to press a gentle, almost chaste, kiss on her lips.

"Another year," he muses, smiling down at her. "Imagine that."

"Yeah," she smiles back and holds him just a bit tighter. "Imagine that."

"Happy anniversary."


Thanks for reading. :)