Title: Strawberry Tops

Author: ErottDarken

Pairing: Esme/Bella
Ratings/Warnings: M for sex, and femslash

POV: Bella Swan

Thank you to my beta, Rosanne Adamo


Edward's parents were a perfect couple.

I could tell just from looking at them, the way they stood so close to each other, the way Carlisle kept his hand on Esme's waist wherever they went. It made me angry that they appeared to be so happy together. At first I didn't understand why.

The thought of them fucking disturbed me, or rather upset me. Not because they were Edward's parents, but because of my undisclosed jealousy over their relationship.

I can still remember the first time I saw Esme, thinking she looked more like something out of a fairytale than real life. I'd always found her attractive, even from the very beginning. She wasn't Edward's real mother, but yet I almost thought that he resembled her, in little ways. Their hair colour was similar, and the striking quality about their features, uncanny.

Edward was perfect in every way a girl could ask for, but there was something about his mother that I just wanted to solve. She was a mystery to me, and I wanted to know her better.

She started talking to me one day when everyone else was away. I was feeling sick and she took me into the house while the rest of them were at school, and her husband at work. She offered to make me soup, and I refused, but she insisted, so I gave in.

It didn't taste quite right, but I forgave her because she wasn't used to cooking, and I'm sure she had better things to do than watch Giada De Laurentiis whip up a good consommé on the Food Network.

I spent half my meal discreetly shaking salt over the broth in my bowl, and the aftermath of it was spent clutching a queasy stomach beneath the covers.

She took me up to her bed, let me lay down while she took my temperature. She'd dug through all of Carlisle's doctor shit for ten minutes to find a thermometer.

"99.2," she announced, shaking her head as she slipped the thermometer from under my tongue. "Where has my son been taking you out to dinner?"

I almost choked. Thankfully not at his house.

I didn't have the heart to tell Esme that her homemade soup just didn't cut it for my digestive system.

She was giving me this look, like I was about to fade away, like I was a lost porcelain doll laying on her pillow, and she just wanted to reach out and touch me.

Go ahead, I thought. Please . . . Go ahead.

She tilted her head to the side and studied my face. I felt her fingers touch my hair, tuck it behind my ear. Her cool touch felt nice on my feverish forehead. I didn't want her to stop once she started, and she didn't seem to want to stop either.

I assumed it was her caring nature that drove her to do it. But she leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. I smiled with my eyes closed, so I didn't know if she'd seen it . . . Or if she had smiled back.

But then I felt her kissing me again, harder, closer to my mouth. Her lips were cold, a lot fuller than Edward's, with a feminine feel to them. I liked the way she felt on my skin.

I said her name, in a very unappealing voice. She stroked my cheek.

"Bella, my sweet."

I shivered, not because of her touch, but because of what she had called me.

It sounded like some sick old fashioned nickname that Carlisle might have used for her in the thirties. I didn't want her to recycle old names. I wanted my own.

She started to call me "button" whenever I came over the house. I didn't understand that nickname either. It sounded like something better used for an infant . . . or Alice.

Then Esme started calling me "sugarbelle." It wasn't too bad, I thought. It was something of a reference to my real name, and it was sort of cute when she used it. It grew on me after a week or so, and I found myself texting her in the middle of the day, just to see her type it in a message.

She asked me to come over to the house, so I did. I took forever because the rain and my truck and steep, hilly roads didn't equal punctuality for me.

Esme was waiting for me in the doorway when I got there. She had a sweet, warm smile on her face, the one I had grown to look forward to whenever I came to the Cullens' house. She wore a knee-length dark purple-gray skirt, and a cream cotton pull-over. She wasn't wearing shoes. She looked so effortlessly beautiful, like a new mother who still hadn't lost her glow.

I guess Esme was frozen in that point of her life. It certainly showed.

She leaned toward me when I came up to the door, and kissed my forehead. She dragged me inside and lifted my soaking wet hood to reveal my soaking wet hair. I felt a mild streak of embarrassment as she studied my face. I must have looked like hell compared to her, and I didn't enjoy being judged.

But her precious laughter rang in my ears, "Oh, Bella baby, we need to get you into a hot bath before you catch another cold!"

I fucking loved how fucking motherly she was all the time.

She practically carried me up the stairs and insisted that I use the bath in her bathroom. Even though I'm sure Alice's might have been more luxurious.

I didn't want to use Alice's bath, anyway.

Esme turned the water on the hottest temperature and stirred in the bubble bath with her hand like a graceful white spoon. It smelled like strawberries. I wondered if she knew that was my favourite scent.

She smiled at me before she padded over towards the door. "There's towels on the bed."

She didn't close the door.

I didn't bother to go and close it. I liked not having too much distance between us. It felt nice, safer.

I took off my clothes like a speed-demon and tossed them over the hamper. I dipped my legs first into the hot water and moaned as I let the rest of my body sink underneath.

The last time I'd taken a bath, I must have been 4 years old. Renee would have been snapping photos of me while I chewed on a rubber duck and started crying once I got soap in my eye.

I smirked at the thought. This was so much different.

Esme wasn't just a mother. I could never think of her in the same way as Renee. I could never see Esme filling that small of a role. I didn't want her to. She was too special for that.

Twenty-five minutes later, I stepped out of the tub. I shivered on my way into the bedroom, and buried myself inside the warm towels she'd left for me on the edge of the mattress. I wanted to snoop around in her bedroom, but I thought better since she could hear every move I made from downstairs.

Even I could hear her in the kitchen. The clanging gave her away.

I curiously descended the stairs, following the potent scent of burnt sugar and cake batter. Sure enough I found her, with her elbows covered in flour, a flustered but happy look on her face as she struggled to make me dessert.

"I told you I didn't want anything to eat," I groaned affectionately.

"I figured you couldn't say no to strawberry cupcakes," she said, with a brilliant grin.

I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but as appetizng as that sounded, I doubted she could do the recipe justice.

I just stood there, sullen, dripping bathwater on the kitchen tile as I clutched my towel around my chest.

And she just stood there, half-smiling, her hands carrying a roll of wax paper and a paper plate sagging with freshly cut strawberry tops.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry . . . So I sort of did both.

She rushed to my side, asking me what was the matter, but all I could do was shake my head. Her hands spread lovingly around my bare shoulders, chilling me to the bone, but I didn't care. I let her embrace me, she smelled like sugar and strawberries . . . better than the bubble bath.

I wanted to know what her kisses tasted like.

She would let me discover that, and so much more. I knew from the way she stared at me, that something was starting between us. We couldn't ignore it anymore.

I let her carry me up the stairs this time. I didn't fight and I didn't feel embarrassed. It was so right.

She was strong, but her body was delicate. It was fascinating how all of them were like that. Her arms let me fall softly to her bed, on the downy white covers. I closed my eyes as she combed my damp hair away from my face. She'd taken her sweater off, some time since we'd entered the room. Underneath she wore a soft white tank top, and I could see the smooth outline of her bra beneath.

I could tell she had perfect breasts. In fact, I was almost jealous.

"Sugarbelle," she whispered, fingering my lower lip with her thumb. A tear fell from my eye. "You know how much I love you."

"I know."

"I want to show you how much I care about you, baby."

"I care for you, too," I moaned. "So much."

"Then just say the word, sweetheart. I'm here for you, however you need me." She ran her hand over my belly and her eyes flicked to my face.

"I need you . . . Now."

She looked excited, and it made me feel amazing. I didn't realize how much power I could have over her, a mature and experienced woman. I was just a girl, still. Edward made me feel like a little girl, the way he was so overbearing. Esme was just as protective, but in a way that made me feel loved rather than controlled.

I needed this.

I watched as she pulled the buttons from her shirt slowly, teasing me. She unclipped her bra with one hand, revealing her full figured bosom. I was right; she was perfect.

Her nipples were like . . . well, like strawberry tops, without the little green leaves to cover them up. They were soft and pink and sweet. She took my head in her hands and guided me to her breasts, letting me touch her skin with my lips. I grew addicted to the taste of them, suckling her like her newborn baby must have done. I think that was why she liked it so much. I tried not to think of how many times she'd begged her husband to do this to her.

She made deep, throaty moans when I swirled my hot tongue over her cold flesh, and it made me feel wicked, like I had some sort of magical power over her, in a way I'd never felt with Edward. Edward was obsessed with me for the scent of my blood, not my feminine wiles. He just didn't know what he was missing.

Esme appreciated every touch, every caress I gave. Even though we said no words, I felt like she was being completely open with me. Her eyes gave me a glimpse to her secrets, so unlike Edward, who always held back.

I felt an intense emotional connection with the woman who was supposed to be my mother figure. She could still serve me as a mother, and I as her daughter. But we didn't have to limit ourselves to remain only in those roles.

I pulled her closer to me, my hands wrapping around her hard, smooth arms. Her silky hair tumbled around her heart-shaped face as she smiled at me, her brilliant, sultry smile.

Her lips felt incredible on mine, then slowly descending over my throat where she covered me with loving bites. I imagined erotically that she was sucking my blood when she kissed me. But my trust in her was entirely complete. She wouldn't hurt me; couldn't hurt me. She was Esme, and Esme never hurt a flea.

I opened my legs for her when she took my towel away, and I felt myself burning at the core under her stare. Her once gold eyes became black as pitch when she felt how wet I was with need. Her own skirt came off in a flash, tossed over the side of the bed. She took my hand in hers and pressed it to her own dripping sex. "See what you do to me, Bella?"

I arched my back off the bed with a groan, begging her to give me what I needed.

I felt her hands around my hips, and I mirrored the action with hers. She was so smooth, so perfectly curved. Her body was hairless and flawless, perfect in every way, like a doll but so much more beautiful than that.

Her hands traveled down my thighs, sliding between my legs where her experienced fingers touched me repeatedly, making me gasp with pleasure.

She made me come, with two fingers buried inside of me, and the soft part of her hand rubbing against my clit. My thighs shuddered violently as I rode out my orgasm, crying out for her. She curled her fingers inside of me while I opened and closed, closed and opened around her. It was exquisite.

When my energy had returned, I asked to do the same for her. She let herself fall on the bed beside me, her hair fanning out on the pillow like a goddess in a painting. Her legs fell apart, revealing the perfect pink centre of her sex.

She was only slightly warmer there than the rest of her icy body, but the heat from my fingers made her tremble. I realized then how I could give her something her husband could not, how I had a power that no vampire could offer a lover in bed. I had heat and I could use it.

I had never made another woman come before; hell, I hardly dared to do it to myself. But when Esme came, harder than I had, I was sure that I wanted it to do it for the rest of my life. She was a sight to behold, writhing on the covers in her beautiful, perfect body, all splayed out for me alone. She stared up at me adoringly, like I was the only thing in her world. God, I felt so fucking loved. I knew now why they said Esme's "gift" was passionate love. She wasn't afraid to show it.

She was not anything different than I had expected in bed, surprisingly enough. I had speculated about all of them, how they would be as lovers. Esme never fooled me; she wore no masks in real life. She was just as sweet, just as generous, just as secretly minxy as she appeared to be every other day. She loved me thoroughly, but she let me love her back as well. She was not shy, but she had this coy look about her whenever our eyes locked.

Despite her strength, she was so gentle with me.

The gentle touch, she had learned from her husband.

Carlisle must have been a good lover, because Esme was a good lover. Whether by intention or not, he had been her teacher for a good 80 years before we met. I was convinced that he was the only man besides her human husband that Esme had ever known in bed. The man who'd left her pregnant was a beast, but Carlisle ended up her saviour. I was pretty sure a woman always held a certain amount of respect for the man who had given her her first real orgasm.

I knew these kinds of things because she told them to me.

She seemed like she was lonely, but I couldn't understand why. She had a family, and a spouse, a loving one at that. But she still wanted something more than that, I think. And hell, I wanted to give it to her.

So I spent most of my "sick" days grinding my pussy against her cold little hand. I watched the suspicious looks on my classmates' faces when I came in tardy to trigonometry. I was wasting away because I couldn't eat Esme's cooking, but I felt more fulfilled and satisfied than I had in my entire life. She loved the shit out of me- like I supposed she did everyone else -and she never tired of showing me just how much.

I didn't see it as wrong. I saw it as Esme allowing me to have what her son refused to give me.

I guess Edward was okay with it.

I wondered if Carlisle knew.


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