A/N: So, this is a little story (a short story? A novella?) we wrote for the Twilight Girls Next Door 12 Days of Christmas Writing Challenge. It was wicked fun but hard work! We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.

To see the prompts we used for each chapter, as well as the other stories in this challenge, please visit www (dot) twigirlsnextdoor (dot) com/2010/11/12-days-of-christmas-writing-challenge (dot) html

Huge thanks to the inestimable Twanza and Mr. Giraffe for lending us their beta skills!

Merry Christmas!

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight; we just play with it, and spell it British.


Day 1, prompt 2

14th December (Monday)

Rosalie

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the living room window. I should be in bed—it's two a.m., too late for a Monday—but I can't peel my eyes away from the snow that keeps on falling, eerie and silent and beautiful. Our street is already covered in the white stuff, and I know that tomorrow it will be madness to go to work, with treacherous roads and hazardous traffic.

But right now… right now, I just let the steady, otherworldly rhythm of the snowflakes hypnotise me. It's strangely soothing and distracts me from the thoughts that haunt me, the dark and twisted thoughts that kept me awake in the first place.

I'm so engrossed that I don't hear him come in. His arms around my waist shock me, his mouth on my neck gives me shivers—of irritation first, closely followed by a jolt of desire.

"Come to bed, baby."

He half moans, half whispers in my hair, and I feel his erection pressing into my lower back. His hands travel down from my shoulders in one smooth, even movement, pressing just a bit harder on my breasts, then down towards my waist; they dive under my pyjama top, and travel back up again on my bare skin until they reach my breasts again. Normally he would be teasing me, circling around them, knowing how much I love to be touched there, and delaying my gratification just enough to make me beg and press into his hands. But not this time—this time he just goes straight for my nipples, and pinches them hard, roughly. The feeling is intense and delicious and shoots straight to my groin, making it tighten and pulsate and causing me to instinctively arch back against him.

"Edward…" I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but end up groaning his name instead. I try to hang on to my thoughts. "It's late… work in the morning… can't…"

All I get in reply is a further pinch of my nipples, and a bite on my neck—hard enough to make me quiver, not hard enough to leave a mark. I can feel the heat pulsating between my legs, and he's pushing, grinding against me; my hand travels back to his head of its own accord, gripping his hair, forcing him down, forcing him to keep his lips on my neck; he opens his mouth and licks the spot he just bit, and at the same time he plunges one hand into my pants. He doesn't bother to pause and tease me: his fingers – one, two? Oh, God… – are in me, and my knees give way so that only the window in front of me and his arms around me keep me from falling down.

"You were saying, baby?" He's sliding his fingers in and out of me and turning my body to molten wax, to a liquid, incoherent mess.

I whimper and close my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me.

"Come to bed, baby,"

he repeats, his voice husky and musical, while withdrawing his fingers and turning me around. I look at him then, and he's all messy hair and dark, hooded eyes and unshaven roughness. He smells of sleep, and he's warm and inviting and hard and wanting.

His fingers—the fingers that just a minute ago were inside me, igniting and confusing me—trail through mine and he pulls me to our bedroom, then pushes me gently on our bed. He shuffles down his pyjama pants while I do the same. He's beside me in a second, and inside me in what feels like no time at all. I moan, welcoming him, gripping him, opening up so he can go further, deeper, harder. I'm on my back, and he gets on his knees, pulling me up so my legs are around his waist and my body is at an awkward, unstable angle. He knows I love it like this, because I let him take control—something I rarely allow myself outside the bedroom.

Our coming together is strange and unusual like the snow falling outside, like the yellow not-quite-night, like the suspended place between sleep and consciousness of the early morning hours. None of the endearments, soft kisses, and long, agonising thrusts of lovemaking; but none of the grunting, dirty words, and hunger of fucking, either.

It's silent and intense, and I lose myself almost instantly, all rational thought leaving me as I give in to wave after wave of lust, of desire, of sensation. Edward pushes deeper into me, and shuts his eyes, and I clench around him as I grip the bed sheets in my hands. I know his body so well, know that he's close and holding back, waiting for me, and I rotate my hips slightly, changing his angle unexpectedly. The new sensation is enough to push us both over the edge and he comes with a strangled groan, falling into my arms.

He's heavy on me, and I run my hands gently down his back, over his shoulders, through his hair. He'll fall asleep like this, all sticky and spent, if I let him. He loves the cuddles and the sweet words and light touches and the feel of my hands through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. And normally I would force him to get up, clean up, get dressed... But tonight… tonight I can't. I don't have the heart to deny him, to deny myself.

Because later today, when the magic of this snowy night will be gone, and the harsh grey light of the day will make things clear and stark once more, and noise and expectations will inevitably invade our world… today, I will tell him.

It's over.