Thanks Leanne Golightly and Isabel Southwell for being my betas. You wonderful women!

Disclaimer. I own nothing but my twisted mind.

From Rampant Rabbit to Holy Habit

Bella's POV

As I open my eyes, it takes a moment to focus on a broad, flat, muscular back. I know that back. Jacob Black. My "fall back." My best friend with benefits.

Last night is a drunken haze—I remember dancing, there was always dancing, and shots—they were a given, too. And men—lots of them. The presence of Jacob, however, means that none of them were attractive enough to take home. I stretch out, feeling that post orgasmic ache from my fingertips to the tips of my toes, and a little groan escapes me. Jacob stirs at the sound, and that's my cue to get to the shower. Quick.

You see, I have this rule: I only sleep with Jacob if we have both been drinking. That way, I can blame it on the drink. Okay 'sleep' is pushing it — not a lot of sleeping ever takes place. Jacob has been in love with me from the age of twelve. I know it, he knows I know it, but I pretend not to , so that he has to pretend he doesn't know that I know. It's complicated, but hell, the sex is worth it. If he tells me that he loves me—well, then it stops, neither of us want it to stop. So he says nothing and it's win win.

I reach for the huge white bath towel that's on the chair next to my bed, hoping we haven't used it to 'clean up' last night, and I make my way to the bathroom.

The hot water eases my hangover, washing away the sweat, and the scent of Jacob which still clings to my skin.

He will leave while I'm in the shower, because that's how we do this. He gets fabulous sex, and I get a great body to take home if there is nothing better on offer. The only rule is that we act as though nothing has happened the next morning. It's mean, but hell, I have never heard him complain.

Today is Sunday , and that means church. I'm a catholic girl, even if I'm not a good one. So every Sunday I attend church and confess to poor Father Aro, who at ninety-two, turns green at the sight of me, never knowing what I will confess this week. I do my Hail Mary's and all is forgiven; my slate is wiped clean ready to get dirty again.

After my shower, I rifle through my wardrobe looking for a suitable church outfit. The problem with wanting to look as hot as hell all the time, is, it leaves little choice when you're trying to look demure. I settle for a button-up flowered dress; it shows a little too much cleavage and is a smidgen too short, but a pair of pumps and a flower in my hair makes it more sweet than sexy.

I grab an apple for breakfast, and then I'm out the door. I walk to church—grabbing a cab in beautiful weather like this just doesn't make sense to me. The sun feels great on my bare arms, and I trail my hand along iron railings running alongside the sidewalk as I walk along. I muse over the phone call from my father that had been the catalyst of last night's drunken escapades.

"You're twenty-seven, Isabella, time to stop messing around and settle down already. I want some grandbabies."

I could hear his words so clearly in my head he may as well have been standing next to me. Thankfully, he was back in Forks. I loved my father, but since I'd moved away at eighteen , he didn't know, or understand me. Settling down was something I never intended to do. I had watched my friends fall in love, get married, and have babies-then it was either divorce or someone had an affair.

There was a time when I had been a hopeless romantic, wanting desperately to fall in love, but it never happened and I had realised that romance was hopeless. These days I was a hardened cynic. Sex, drinking and dancing—they were the things I loved, and in that order.

Then my musing came to an abrupt end, as the church loomed in front of me huge and imposing. Entering the doors with a deep breath, I let the guilt begin

Edwards POV.

She walks through the church doors and takes my breath away. She looks angelic, a beautiful angel standing there in the church doorway, with sun glistening on her skin.

She heads towards a booth and I know I have to speak to her. I am compelled by a force stronger than my own will. I sit opposite, my view obscured, but it doesn't matter. When she opens her mouth to speak, her voice is like chiming bells.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"Tell me, my child," I reply.