Title: Resisting the Wine
Warnings: Mild sexual content
Summary: Edward can't sleep, let alone dream, which allows plenty of time for his mind (and hands) to wander at night.
Resisting the Wine
If I could dream at all, it would be of you.
He loves watching Bella prepare for sleep.
By this, Edward doesn't mean the nightly (and so very human) bathroom prep: hair brushed, teeth cleaned, whatever else goes on behind those closed doors while the water runs and runs from the sink. He means afterward: the subconscious nesting of her body into the sheets, the curve of her back deepening as she settles more tightly against him, the loosening of her hand's hold on his. She likes to lie on her side (does she even realize this?), one leg usually hitched over the other, knees drawn, bottom out.
Lord help him.
After her eyes close and her breathing slows to a rhythmic whisper in the dark, he follows the plane of her body with his eyes: over the jut of her hip and the rounded shape of her behind under the thin blanket. He knows what's under her over-sized t-shirt (nothing at all) and ratty sweatpants (how can he not; the thin outline of her panties is as discernable to his eye as if the room were bathed in sunlight). He distracts himself from this fact by watching the rise and fall of her chest as she inhales and exhales, her mouth slightly open, her brow creased in some hidden vexation.
He touches her at night. He strokes her arm, the hollow just above her hip, her thigh. Never anywhere he wouldn't dare touch her in daylight. Never anywhere she hasn't felt his touch before. (Enjoying the bouquet while resisting the wine.) He knows she knows-that awareness reigns somewhere buried-by the upward curve of her mouth in a smile, her garbled words, incoherent in sleep, the shift of her body ever closer, despite the shiver it sends through her. Sometimes, when he's forgotten himself, when he's not come prepared with a book to read or a symphony to compose in his mind, he allows his imagination to run rampant. He imagines his hands roaming farther than they d dare in the day light: past the hem of her pants and the rise of her ribs. And the worst-best-worst part is, he knows she'd let him. He knows she'd shift and smile and open herself to his touch even in sleep. She'd be willing, eager, even. Her body would be malleable to his not just as flesh to marble but in all the right, natural, wanted ways.
And so he allows himself to dream a wakeful, wishful, wanting dream. With her at his utter disposal, what would he do next? What would she do? Would she roll on top of him? (She's done it before, in playful moments, in passionate moments; he's stayed very, very still.) Would he push her onto iher/i back, instead? Take her arms (so soft and thin and weak) and pin them above her head with one hand (so easy) and lift her shirt up and off with the other? (She'd want it.)
He has no doubt that she'd want it, which only makes the temptation greater, the proximity more delicious, and the resisting of the wine so much more torturous.
And so, so much more necessary.