REWORKED AND BETAED by my wonderful beta M.

The Bloodthirsty Belles and Sinful Senoritas Challenge

Title: Caught

Penname: Kris Salvador

Pairing: Edward/Bella

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Inspired by characters of the Twilight Saga, obviously not mine.

Summary: A sleepy Edward, a naughty Bella and a bunch of dancing food

To see all the stories that are a part of this contest please visit: www .fanfiction-challenges. blogspot. com


I'm dreaming, I must be. Why else would Alice walk Jasper in on a leash? It's not the leash that weirds me out, it's that they're dressed as food. Alice is a cookie and Jasper is a glass of milk – and they're dancing, bouncing around and...humping. Clearly, I have to stop eating cookies after dinner. I don't like it when my foods hump each other.

Except –

I didn't eat cookies before bed. I'm not even in a bed. I'm on some sort of a couch that is not mine; in a room that is also not mine. My room has white walls with white wallpaper with little pink azaleas on them. This one has wallpaper in blazing, bright red. Shit. I know this room. It's Edward's. The flirty receptionist had put him here after declaring him "el fuego."

I'd been...drinking. At a party. With Edward. It must be Saturday, our last day here at Puebla. We would have gone to Guadalajara, but Jasper had wanted to see some forts or something. A trip to Mexico had sounded so much like an adventure when we were wickedly decadent and wild. It was not staring at the clock for the entire day waiting for the time when the drinking sprees start. The hotel staff had strongly discouraged anyone from venturing from the hotel and into the nearby mountains and no one was allowed outside at night. The nearest beach was three hours away.

We were stuck indoors, with nothing to do except drink ourselves into a stupor.

The entire town was on tenterhooks. A few weeks before we arrived, a group of young vacationers had mysteriously disappeared. Before that, several pretty senoritas and young men, all local, had been declared missing. Some were thought to have gone to the cities to look for work, intent on escaping the drudgery of the small, albeit highly picturesque and quaint, town. Nobody told us beforehand. If we'd known, we wouldn't have come to Puebla at all. I would've liked for us to push towards Acapulco instead of staying after the hotel staff told us about the situation but the others said no. They were enthralled by the mystery, dazzled by the unlikely story behind it as told by the old man who seemed part of the furniture of the hotel we found ourselves in.

The young ones didn't simply disappear, the old man had told us. With the appropriate, spooky voice, of course. They'd been taken by vampires. It was said that every other century, vampires roamed the nearby mountains looking for recruits. Vampires have sporadic wars, you see, the old man said. Every once in a while, they went against each other to battle for supremacy. Sometimes, to defend what was theirs from other vampires.

This town, the old man had said, had been a part of those wars for as long as his family could remember. He even told us a great, great, great, great aunt of his had been "recruited" at the turn of the 16th century. Ay, she was very pretty, he said, so pretty that the vampire Benito, lord of the southern vampires then, took her and made her his own. Benito was a legend and it was said that he inhabited the mountains to this day.

So romantic...and so unlikely. I couldn't remember how many times I rolled my eyes.

To celebrate our last night, Alice and Jasper had opted for a romantic dinner somewhere and Rose and Emmett had "retired" to their room early. Left alone, I'd wanted something to remember the trip by so I jokingly told everyone I was going down to the bar to get myself laid. Edward had offered to come along, to "chaperon" – meaning watch me drink myself silly as half of Puebla's female population flirted with him. As soon as we got to the bar, he'd announced I was an adult and I could do whatthehellever I wanted. His only responsibility was to ensure that I didn't wander outside and get myself eaten by a vampire.

His protection services apparently included dumping me on his couch instead of taking me to my room. What else could you do with a drunken girl who'd declared she wanted to suck your cock?

There's probably something to be studied in that. I can't be forced to try, though, because I'd woken up with my head pounding. There's a bad taste in my mouth so I shuffle to the little bar for something to drink. Juice, beer, gin, whatever. I feel weak and still stupid. Not to mention aching and frustrated. Not because of the dream - that hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, just my immature friends dressed strangely and Emmett trying to catch Rose and humping her against the door of his car. As I become more aware of where I am, the memories of how I ended up here flood into my brain. And fuck, yes, I remember clearly the events of the night before. I'd done something more stupid than the rest of my stunts combined. Last night, it would appear that I'd come unto Edward shamelessly and to my utter humiliation, he'd laughingly but firmly turned me down for the sole reason that I was drunk.

Edward Cullen, who I've been panting after since I was twelve. One would think eight years would dampen my libido for the man, but no, my 20-year old drunk self obviously found him as irresistibly sexy as he was when I was 12, so I'd propositioned him. In front of a dozen or so strangers.

If I hadn't been so drunk, I would've died on the spot when he said thank you, but no. Or was it no, you're drunk? Does that mean no, but yes later when you're not drunk? My head's too fuzzy to remember.

So much for that, anyway. I can always say I was drunk. At least I got myself one kiss. Or did I?

The man in question must still be in his bed so I pad toward his bedroom for a peek. He'd left his door open and...and...oh. That is one fucking pretty visual. I almost don't breathe, in case I disturb the picture in front of me: Edward, lying on his stomach in a queen-size bed, covered only by a red sheet. Red is a good color on him, draped across the small of his back and the curve of his ass, one leg underneath the sheet and the other kicked halfway out. His hair's sweated out all the product he puts in it, disheveled copper curls against the pale, pale skin of his neck. Sometime in the night, he'd kicked his pants off as they're now lying on the floor. Along with his shirt and boxers.

The effect of look at me! is ruined somewhat by the almost little-boy pout on his face as he burrows into the pillow, probably to block out the light pouring from the window. He can't be awake so I walk to the bed and lay my hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

"Hey." I half-expect him to crack his eyes open. He doesn't, just mumbles under his breath and exhales and I don't breathe again. How can the man look so utterly delicious even doing nothing? " um, yeah, thanks for letting me crash. I think I'm gonna go to my room now."

He doesn't move, not even when I push at his shoulder again. His limbs are sleep-heavy, and if he were playing possum, now would be the perfect opportunity to sit up and say boo and I'd jump and shriek and call him an asshole. He knows too well I don't like being surprised. But he just stays motionless, and well...interesting.

A fully-asleep Edward Cullen isn't something you see every day.

The itch to push the boundaries wells up in me. I'd always loved the idea of being a naughty girl, breaking the rules, doing shameless, sinful things my mother would have disapproved of in principle. But mom's not here and Edward's right here, and one has to try a thing at least once, right?


I brush a finger up one arm before I can talk myself out of it. Skim over his long, tapered fingers, past his wrist and forearms, ruffling the hair and dipping into the crook of his elbow. He shivers when I reach his bicep, and fuck...what if he wakes up suddenly? I draw my hand back, ready to be caught but he just mumbles again and stretches out a little more, almost like he's inviting my touch back.

I shuck out of my pants and shirt and carefully, slowly, lie down next to him, cringing as the mattress dips and ripples. Stupid, fucking water beds made for fucking. He stirs for a few moments, and I freeze.

It's wrong, oh so wrong but for some reason, I don't want him to wake up. I don't want him to see me, see the hunger in my eyes and turn me down. Kindly but firmly. I don't think I can handle another embarrassment.

He just lies there, warm and solid and my fingers itch to touch him again. I shouldn't but I risk threading my fingers through his hair, the soft curls wrapping around my fingers. My nails scratch gently against his scalp and he makes this lovely, adorable sound. A low rumble, like a purr.

He's got to be awake now, going by that sound and the way he'd shifted his hips against the mattress. I lean down and say, loud enough for him to hear if he's awake. "Shift over, I want to blow you."

And if he doesn't react to that, he damn well better be asleep.

I get nothing. Several seconds, then minutes pass. Nothing.

I lie completely still next to him, staring at the scar on his back; a long one right over his shoulder blade that I have no idea about. With our families so close, we've known each other's scratches and bruises growing up. But I haven't the slightest idea about this one. The scar is faint but it runs across his back and my hands are still in his hair, brushing against the shorter hairs at the back of his neck where it ends. How did it get there? Why haven't I heard anything about it? There are a lot of things that I don't know about Edward Cullen anymore. Not since he moved out for college, took a job in Seattle and had a string of gorgeous girlfriends.

He mumble-purrs again and shifts, turning a little to his side. I look down and fuck.. I can see the outline of his cock, half-hard, pressed against the sheets.

But he's still asleep so I trace the scar up and down his back very lightly, ghosting over it several times. In the middle of his shoulder blades, the scar widens, the part where his wound was probably deepest. It must have hurt like hell. My thumb presses into the scar almost involuntarily. He jerks lightly, his hips flex, slow and almost imperceptible. He exhales softly, face still relaxed and open. I count to three before spreading my fingers out against his skin, sweeping down and then up again. I lean in and kiss him right at the base of his neck, nipping just lightly.

And that was a mistake.

I can smell him. Male sweat and the remnant of cigarettes, and the musky, unmistakable male scent that I can faintly smell from his red sheets. He'd jerked off, probably before sleeping and messily too. Just a few steps from where I slept. Did he think about me? Did it feel good with me just a shout away? It hits me right in the cunt, and I can't help but groan, pressing my legs together as I pepper his back with soft, light kisses. Inching from his neck to where his shoulders spread out, down his right arm.

If he was purring before, the noises he's making now are even better. Dreamy, soft gasps, egging me on. Before long, the movement of his hips becomes more pronounced as he humps the empty side of the bed. I give a light, questioning scrape of my teeth across his wrist, feel the pulse hammering under my lips, and he arches up beautifully.

I don't dare to bite down, but slowly, carefully suck right at the bend of his elbow. He's so pale, I barely have to touch him before he starts to flush. I leave little red marks down his shoulders and upper back, tasting the sweat on his skin. I work my way down his back, my tongue playing over the little mole on his left side. I fight the urge to sink my teeth into his ass. He'd probably feel it, wake up and then send me home. So I inch the sheet down without tasting the luscious ass, my fingers playing right at the dip between his cheeks. He moans, deep and needy, like a man deprived of touch for so long. I freeze. Jesus, I'd barely even started.

I was trying to work out how to turn him over (there's so much more skin to explore in front, but I can't move him without waking him up) when he suddenly shifts to his back. Excellent. And spreads his legs.


I try looking elsewhere. His pouting lips and hair falling into his eyes. The dusting of chest hair and dark nipples. Player-legs tangled in the sheets. Nicely muscled chest and narrow waist, the dip of his hipbones begging to be tongued and all goes back to the thing between his legs, doesn't it? And I can't really say I'm surprised by what his cock looks like. I'd imagined it long enough.

But his skin, wow. That's definitely something new to add to my dreams. I have never seen a man so bare and naked and spread out in my entire life. Most times when I've had sex with a man (and I haven't had a lot of chances, mind you) it was always with a distressing urge to remain completely clothed.

It was so, so wrong to take advantage of someone sleeping but's going to be so much fun.

If I wanted him awake, I'd go right in for a kiss. Deep and sweet and open-mouthed, the way I haven't kissed anyone since high school; when a kiss can go on for hours and sex was a big scary future thing instead of a certainty.

That's how all this started, after all: a spring party at their house when I was twelve and only starting to become aware of my sexuality. Me and Alice had been inseparable since we were five and well, he was also always there, wasn't he? Positively ancient at the age of eighteen. We had a fight then, me and Alice, and I'd wound up crying at the back of the house as Alice worked her way into a hellish tantrum. I couldn't even remember now what it was all about. Anyway, Edward was suddenly there, holding my hand, talking to me softly, telling me how everything's going to be all right. I'd been so grateful then for the kindness that I'd kissed him. He'd kissed me back, at least in my memory, before gently pulling back. I'd been mortified, then.

Dang. It means that technically, last night wasn't the first time Edward turned me down.

But okay, revenge. The itch to put my mouth all over him intensifies as I watch his chest go up and down as he breathes. I want to make him like whatever I want to do to him, to make him cum spectacularly, even if only to prove something to myself. He doesn't even need to be awake for it. Men orgasm in their dreams all the time, don't they? Besides, waking him up would put a damper to my plans because if he did, he'd tell me to stop. Kindly, of course. He'd laugh at my embarrassment and his and then move on like nothing happened.

I curl up next to him, watching his face carefully for signs of wakefulness. Up close, his jaw is showing the beginnings of stubble. It's lovely, really. Sharpens his jaw, gives him less of a youthful look. He persistently has the look of an accomplished charmer about him. Like those male leads in old movies. A Cary Grant without the pornstache.

It's hardly a shock that I find him so attractive.

I press a light kiss to his temple, experimentally, and he doesn't stir. Slowly and deliberately, I inch closer, slinging a leg over one of his and walking my fingers up his chest. Trace the upper swell of pectoral to where it spreads out into shoulder and bicep, and he shivers, unknowingly pressing his leg right where I need it and ohhhhhhh...that is just fucking delicious.

I should really let him sleep, but Christ, I can't help it. I rub my leg against him again and again, my hips joining in the slow rock. The friction feels so good and I'm slick and wet inside my panties.

I trail my fingers down his chest, brushing over the dip and rise of his ribs, and the slight swell of his stomach. His cock is flushed red, lying in a curve against his thigh. There's fluid pooling on the head of it and I smear my finger with the pre-cum just enough to give me something to work with and stroke him slow and steady.

He's still not awake. He hasn't shouted his protests and scrambled out of the bed, possibly throwing me out of his apartment and his life forever, so I give in to the urge to play a bit more. I drag my nails ever so slightly down his shaft and his hips snap, his mouth opening in a gasp. Two fingers brush over his balls on a downstroke and I get a beautiful choking cry. He thickens in my hand, his muscles begin to tighten up. His cock unfurls, growing longer and harder in front of my eyes and damn if I'm not so, so wet against his side.

More pre-cum leaks from him, dripping into my hand and I lean in to taste it. Taste him. Tongue gently swirling, I lick the salty, tangy cum from the head. Fuck. He tastes so good. He groans but doesn't move. Emboldened, I take a little more of his cock into my mouth. Swirl my tongue around. Suck. Again, deeper this time. I take hold of his shaft with both hands. In and out of my mouth. Like he would've been inside my cunt if he'd just let himself go the night before.

I speed up - hand and mouth- and suddenly, with a moan, his eyes snap open.

Fuck me to fucking hell.

Caught in flagrante delicto. Nothing short of a vampire attack can save me now.

I stop and stare at him, noting how hilarious I must look with his cock inside my mouth, my eyes big and bulging with guilt. How can I ever talk my way out of this?

His eyes flick from my eyes to my mouth and with a harsh, ragged breath, tells me.

"Don't you fucking stop what you're doing."


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