A/N: This one kind of needs a warning and this will be the only one I'm giving :) This story will contain frank discussions about sexuality as well as descriptions of both heterosexual and non-heterosexual sex. If you find any of that offensive, it probably isn't for you.
Riding the Fence
I smooth my hand over the soft, supple flesh of her side, around the curve of her breast, the indent of her waist, the flair of her hip. Laying behind her, I kiss across her shoulder blades, the long lines of her neck. I stop to suckle, nip behind her ear, and enjoy the soft moan I'm rewarded with. My hand traces the top of her thigh inwards to the soft space hidden between. I feel the course, curly hairs and the wetness beneath.
This is my favorite place in the world, curled behind the back of a beautiful woman, arching backs, curling limbs, undulating hips, all soft and sweet, smooth and feminine. She tastes divine, like lemons and sweetness, like pure sin. My fingers begin to press in, spreading her open, sliding slickness, swollen, throbbing flesh. Teasing around her clit with my thumb, my middle two fingers find their way inside, feeling her tighten around them, desperate, needy.
"Come for me. Please, come for me," I whisper, begging her lowly; even I can hear the sultry desperation in my own voice.
Her hips begin moving in rhythmic circles, around and around, riding my fingers while my thumb flicks her clit, pressing in, circling, working her higher and higher, tighter and tighter. My legs are tangled with her, my hips thrusting against her thigh, desperate for my own release. My other hand finds its way to her breasts, palming, pulling, peaking her pebbled nipples. Her moans are coming out as one long sound, her hips are moving at break-neck speed, back and forth as I work her into a frenzy.
I feel her go rigid beside me, clamping down on my fingers as her orgasm explodes through her. Her moans are deafening in my ear, but it's the scream of my name that make my heart race.
"Oh god, Bella, Bella, B...B...ella!" she cries my name like a plea, like an offering, like an absolution. My fingers have slowed their rhythm to match the soft, easing thrusts of her hips and as she comes to a rest I'm kissing her shoulders again, smoothing her sweaty, dark hair off her glowing face. She turns her sienna eyes to me, smiling sleepily and snuggling into my arms, which tighten around her protectively.
"You are so fucking beautiful," I say huskily into her ear.
The night goes on like this, we pass out, punch-drunk, only to awaken a little later to resume fucking. By the time the sun is shining strong through the curtains, we've slept enough for things to become awkward. She's gathering her clothes, strewn haphazardly around the room; the sexy dress I peeled off her is hanging on the corner of the desk, her panties found their way to the far side of the bed, and, curiously, one of her heels is in my bathroom sink.
I watch her ass sway as she wiggles back into her dress, shoving her panties into her purse. I smirk at the blush on her cheek- I have no shame in what we've done, but find it fascinating that she's embarrassed. It was fucking, pure unadulterated fucking. There is nothing wrong with that.
I love women, everything about them. Their bodies are absolutely amazing, the soft curves and rounded angles. Their scents are a melody of contradictions: sharp, musky, wild. Their voices, gah, a woman's voice thick with lust is the sexiest sound in the world. I generally try not to define myself by my sexuality. I've been known to ride the baloney pony, I have nothing against boys. But, honestly? If true love exists, I just don't know how mine could have a dick. In general though, I find nothing shameful about being attracted to and worshiping a beautiful body, regardless of gender.
She's finished dressing, and there is no pretense of exchanged phone numbers or promises of future meetings. Hell, I can't even be sure I remember her name. She leaves nothing behind to remind me, except for the smell of her on my skin and the satisfied grin that will be plastered on my face for the rest of the day.
After I hear the click of the front door closing, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching my back, arms high above my head and groan at the delicious aches and kinks in my muscles. I pull my long, curly brown hair back into a pony tail, throw on a tank top and knit pants, then walk out of my room in search of coffee. Instead, I find my roommate, Jasper, sitting on the couch with the Xbox controller in hand and a dazed look on his face.
"Damn, Bella! Where the hell do you find these women? Leah was fuck-hot!"
"Leah! That's her name. Leah. I knew it started with an L," I grin at him cheekily. "You know Alice would have your balls if she heard you right now." I may not like Alice, but I like that she keeps Jasper on a short leash. And I fucking love that she saved his dumb ass when the rest of us couldn't. Drugs are bad, mkay? Just say 'no'.
"At least that's the name you were screaming out when you woke me up at fucking dark-thirty this morning," he rolls his eyes at me in chastisement, completely ignoring my invocation of the Holy Girlfriend's name. "How is it that you can scream the poor girl's name for hours and then not remember it in the morning?"
"Jasper, I don't want to think about how much I had to drink last night. I was damned lucky I remember where I lived, much less what her name was. The fact that I didn't pass the fuck out is purely a testament to my superior sexual prowess." It's true, I may have overindulged last night, but it's not often that a random stranger in the bar turns twenty-one and buys rounds for everyone. I silently thank the god of alcohol consumption that I don't get hangovers. Ever. I know, I know, don't hate, it's not attractive.
"You know if you were a guy, you would get shit for your revolving bedroom door," he says with a raised eyebrow and smirk.
"Yeah, and if I was doing guys, I'd be called a whore," I retort. "Now, if we're done with the shitting-on-Bella portion of our day, I'd like some coffee. Did you make a fresh pot?"
"Sure, sure, B, it's in the kitchen, I made it thirty minutes ago in anticipation of your sunny post-late-night disposition," he turns back to his video game. Shit'll rot your brains out, if you ask me. But, he didn't, so I go in search of caffeine and get ready for work.
I'm a waitress at Applebees. I know, it's original. I even have flair...and I don't mean my sassy personality, ha! Uh, yeah, anyway. I'm sure there's some PC name for what I do, "Food service technician" or "Culinary delivery person". The truth would be "holder of English BA who delivers greasy, overpriced food to glutinous, rude people who think I serve them as a form of charity and don't require payment for my services."
I didn't mean to end up a waitress, but after working my way through college, I actually make more as an experienced waitress, than I would at an entry level position with a publishing house. My degree isn't a total waste, though, I'm working on a novel. But, seriously? Who the fuck isn't? Douches at Starbucks sit at their laptops on Saturdays watching each other write books. Novel writing has taken on the status of spectator sport.
I should have thought my "life plan" out a little bit better. I bet I would have made a kick ass CPA. Except for that whole math thing. Numbers and I are not friends unless I'm calculating the five percent tip the people at table three just left me. Assholes. I smiled at them and everything. Even when the nasty 1000 year old Methuselah "accidentally" grabbed my ass. He squeezed. How the fuck do you accidentally squeeze someone's ass? I hope his arthritis flares up tonight from the strenuous activity.
My manager, Emmett comes up as I'm scowling at the table, picking up the $2.50 in pennies they left me, and wondering why I agreed to cover Jessica's shift. Two hours. I go home in two hours.
"What did that poor table ever do to you?" he asks jovially. Emmett says everything jovially. I think he should be the guy who has to tell you your grandmother didn't make it through surgery, or that you have an inoperable tumor. The news would still suck, but the delivery would soften the blow.
"I'm not even supposed to be here today, Randal," I sigh. It's a deep, resigned, sigh. I can see by the sheepish look on Emmett's face, that my day is not about to get any better.
"Yeah, B. About that. Umm, Newton called in. It would be ok, but we have a huge party coming in tonight, reserved weeks ago. I need you to stay to serve it." Fucker still sounds jovial. I wonder how jovial he'd be with his dick shoved so far up his ass he chokes on it. But, then his wife, our bartender, Rosalie, would come after me. I'm too pretty to die, and as gorgeous as Bartender Barbie is, she's also Knife You in the Fucking Back Barbie. Bitch is scary.
"Fine, but you owe me. I don't even know what I want, but it'll cost you," I threaten, he just smirks and laughs his jovial belly-laugh. Laugh it up, Chuckles, laugh it up.
As he's walking away, he calls back just a little too loudly, "That must have been some mighty fine ass you had last night; you're all mellow and shit. I thought for sure you'd have my balls for making you stay!" The mother at the table next to me, gasps and covers her kid's ears, scowling at me the whole time. Great, another table I won't be paid for. Fucker.
The evening drags on and finally, the party has arrived. There must be thirty of them, which means we'll have five servers. You do the math, eighteen percent mandatory tip divided by five people. If you got "fuck me hard and long", that's the correct answer! I sigh another deep and resigned sigh and put on my winning smile, hoping it doesn't scare the small children.
"Hello, welcome to Applebee's, I'm Bella, I'll be your head server tonight! I'm going to get the drink orders for this part of the table while the other servers go around to the other parts!" The key to a good introduction is volume and excitement. At least that's what the training manual said. Personally, I think I sound like a cheerleader on uppers. I barely make eye contact as I write down the drink orders. Lots of diet cokes, so people will probably be ordering extra cheese on everything. Less sugar equals more calories for artery clogging fat. Makes perfect sense to me.
Eventually, I get to the last person in my section and bump their arm accidentally. There's a mild static shock and I glance up to apologize. Except that suddenly, I can't even remember what I'm supposed to be sorry for.
I am staring into the most strikingly vivid green eyes I've ever seen. If pine needles and apple jolly ranchers had babies, they would be the color of his eyes. My eyes briefly trace the line of his perfectly straight nose, and come to rest on the softest looking pair of lips I've ever seen on a man. The lips curve up into a smirk as I hear, somewhere far in the distance, a throat clear. I realize, much to my embarrassment, I've basically been eye fucking the guy in front of me.
"Oh, um, right. I'm Bella, I'm your server...but I guess we already went through that part, didn't we?" My brain is completely gone. I think I lost it somewhere between his eyes and his lips. Maybe I should go back there and look for it? I wonder if he would be offended if I licked him?
"Erm, yes, well. Drinks! Yes! Drinks! You want them, I'll bring them." Holy fuck, someone bring me the duct tape and a ball gag.
He winks at me, raising an eye brow and continues to smirk, "I'll have a water with lemon, please, Bella." He uses the Italian inflections, making it sound foreign and dirty coming from his sexy fucking mouth. My nipples stand at attention upon hearing him say my name; as if it's a call to arms and they're jumping into formation, ready to cut glass on command. I can almost hear them sigh, "Oh captain, my captain." And his voice, holy shit, his voice is like warm honey, drizzled across my body, just begging him to lick it off. It caresses me, touches me, tickles my ear and sucks my neck.
His eyes flick down to the slight movement underneath my tight, red button up shirt. His grin broadens when he sees the girls are saluting him. Hearing him say my name made my nipples hard- seeing his grin take over his face and make his eyes alight with mirth? Now I'm fucking dripping. I don't know that my pussy has ever been this wet before without being touched. His smile, I'm a goddamn waterfall over his smile. What the fuck is he doing to me?
I escape Smirky McSmirkerson and go get the drinks. I'm half tempted to drink the scotch someone ordered and pretend to spill it, but even though my brain is gone, I still know that Bartender Barbie is scary as shit, and will not hesitate to cut a bitch over pilfered alcohol.
By some miracle, I'm able to deliver the drinks and get the appetizer and food orders from the rest of the table. Finally, I can't avoid him any longer and find myself standing in front of him, willing my eyes to focus on my order pad. I can do this. I'm a professional goddamnit! I will not be reduced to a pile of girl-goo by a pretty boy. But, god, he's so pretty. Mmmm, Pretty Boy.
And then my eyes betray me and decide that it's been too long since they've ogled him. Goddamn traitors.
Somehow when I was focused on his face before, the rest of him escaped my notice. My eyes drift past his perfectly tousled bronze hair, that beautiful face and down to his torso. Oh, fuck me. He's not pretty. He's "fuck me up against a wall in a crowded room" hot. He's "you can have it any way you want it" hot. He's "I don't know if you can actually go blind from orgasms, but let's find out" hot.
His white dress shirt clings to him and hints at the muscles beneath. Is that...is it...holy shit, it is! He has a barbell running through his left nipple, I can just make out the shape pressing against his shirt. The long sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to just below his elbows and his forearms, his mother fucking forearms are making my clit twitch. He has tattoos running up both arms, disappearing under his sleeves. I want to lick them. I've never wanted to lick anything more in my whole life- and that's saying something. I get lost momentarily in day dreams of tracing lines of black ink and color with my tongue. I can almost taste him.
Again with the far away throat clearing. What? What could possibly be so important as to interrupt this...oh, right. My job. I'm supposed to be doing something. Hell if I know what it is. I glance up to see Pretty Boy smirking at me again. Though his eyes seem to be doing their own fair share of wandering. My nipples practically vibrate at the attention, checking to be sure they're still in proper formation should they be called upon for duty.
I shake my head, trying to force myself to focus. I get his order and practically run from the table. I have to clear my head so I can think, before I just go lay down on his lap and start rubbing on him like a damn cat. I'm pretty sure the woman next to him, who I assume is his mother, wouldn't approve. Though I'm about ten seconds from handing her a video camera and asking her to film it.
I manage to make it through the rest of their meal with only minor leering on my part. I imagine that I feel his eyes watching my ass as I move around the table, so I make sure to shake and sway it just a bit, but that could just be wishful thinking on my part. Now that I've managed to avoid looking directly at him for several minutes, I'm starting to feel flustered and embarrassed. I have never been effected by a boy this way. Hell, I've never been effected by a chick like this, either. Seriously, what the fuck is he doing to me?
The other servers begin to clear the table as the party begins to break up. Pretty Boy is still sitting there, every time I walk into the room, his eyes snap away from his dinner companions and try to catch mine. I'm purposefully avoiding him. I need to keep my mind clear. The effect he has on my body, without even touching me, is freaking me the fuck out. I don't go all fan-girl crush on anybody. I don't plan on starting now, either, especially over some random boy. I'm almost free to go home, where I plan on bringing out the biggest vibrator I own and fucking myself into a coma, thinking of his voice and forearms and his lickable as hell lips.
Half an hour later, I'm counting out my tips, getting ready to clock out for the night, and I notice a piece of paper mixed in with the bills. I almost throw it away before I notice my name written on the other side. Opening it, I see a phone number and a name. Edward Cullen.
I know without a doubt that it belongs to Pretty Boy, despite the fact that it could technically be from any of the tables I waited tonight. After a brief debate with myself, I decide to throw it away. I have to- the lack of control I have over myself around him can't be good. Except that apparently my hands have joined my eyes and nipples in mutiny, and I feel the paper slip into my pocket. Goddamn mutineering body parts.
A/N: I would love to know everyone's thoughts on the chapter! Show of hands, how many people were caught off guard by that first scene, lol?
The story will be told in alternating BPOV/EPOV, so next up we'll hear from Edward. I promise not to do that annoying thing where I just retell the same chapter from both perspectives. I plan on updating on Wednesdays :) Thank you, dear reader, so much, for reading!
As always, I less-than-three my Beta, Nitareality, and my pre-reader SammieLynnsMom is also 200 kinds of awesome!
My recommendation for this week is Our Lives Unbound by theladyingrey42 "My mind is trapped in circles, my loneliness pressing in. Unable to speak, I reach for her spark. In her eyes, I find my partner. In her command, I find my freedom. Together, we open our lives to something more. AU/AH, D/s, male sub."
Still don't own anything. ~Kimberly