Pairing: Edward/Carlisle (of course)
Summary: Once, Edward had what he wanted.
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex (and a rather copious use of parenthesis).
a/n: Although some might feel that Carlisle's past actions border on reprehensible, any and all implied sexual content occurred between two consenting adults. Edward was properly eighteen, and he was no longer a student. Still, my Carlisle does seem to suffer from a complete lack of judgment at times.
Dedicated to Domward's Mistress for leg clinging and a bit of prodding, and to ICMezzo and Beautiful Figment for encouraging the, er, kink. Thank you.
Written on an airplane and finished in Hong Kong with love.
Edward keeps memories stored in the corners of his mind, folded like origami swans. Some are jagged and mirror sharp. Others are worn smooth (like stones in a riverbed).
Lips, kissed blood red (the color of his mother's lipstick) against white gold skin. The jut of a hip bone, the slow curve of a spine. Fingers (pale and slim) tightening, tightening against shoulders. A hand slipping into the slice between his thighs.
His friends think he's crazy.
Please tell us you know what you're doing. A silver ballet flat dangles from the girl's foot, as she bounces her leg up and down anxiously.
Her husband sits beside her, arms folded across his chest. Sorry for the intervention, man. But we do think you've gone round the twist.
Edward drums his fingers on the tabletop and forces himself not to roll his eyes.
You realize how difficult teaching positions are to come by, nowadays?
The rationale is mostly true. Mostly.
The classroom smells just as he remembers. Not entirely pleasant, but a scent connected to memories he does not care to forget. Chalk and books and teenage boy. He takes a deep breath, pressing his palms to the smooth surface of the desk (scrubbed three times to wipe away years of graffiti, grime, and gum).
He can do this.
Images flash across his mind; some never seem to go away (white hot flickering behind his eyelids while he sleeps). Another classroom, furtive looks, a fingertip brushed along his wrist.
He closes his eyes, takes another breath, and heads to the staff meeting.
Edward chooses a seat near the back of the room, noting the man immediately (off to the side, third chair from the right). He's engaged in a no doubt stimulating conversation with a lovely blonde (math department, Edward thinks). He doesn't look up, doesn't notice Edward at all.
But there is still an electric tension in the air. Edward's lungs shouldn't feel this tight; his skin shouldn't feel so hot.
Edward sits, pretends to listen, takes notes when everyone else does, and hardly stares (a twist of lips, a cheek resting on a palm, an elegant shrug of shoulders). Afterward, he flees to his classroom, presses his back against the door, and breathes (just breathes).
Perhaps he doesn't remember. I bet he doesn't even remember.
Alice almost laughs but stops short (she'll choke on the sound before it escapes). He remembers, sweetie. Believe me. He remembers.
Only once does Edward find himself wandering in the science wing after classes. Posters remind him of Newton's Law and Noble Gases; he wishes he had a book (a barrier, a shield). One can get away with anything (even spying) when reading.
But instead, he retreats back to the English department and remembers slender hands, an eager mouth, and blue eyes that could pin him to the wall, rip him open, slice his heart clean out.
It's not an infatuation; it never was. Infatuations burn hot and quick (your palm held over a match flare), but then they're gone. This want has been dulled (perhaps) by weeks and months and years, but it's always there, shimmering just around the edges of his awareness.
While on lunch duty the third week of school, Edward bumps into the man. Literally.
"Carlisle," he exclaims, one hand against the other man's chest. He thinks he can feel the warmth of his skin through the layers of cloth and hopes the stutter of his heart isn't audible across the cafeteria. "I wasn't sure I'd ever run into you."
The man blinks (a fraction of a second, hazy with hope) before stepping back, pursing lovely lips. "It's Dr. Cullen, Mr. Masen. We are teachers, of course."
Edward feels as if a stone has dropped into his stomach, but he manages to shove his hands in his pockets and appear nonchalant. "Naturally." He is surprised his mouth forms the word. Everything tastes of ash.
That night he drinks wine with Alice. Jasper is home with the kids, and Edward knows she wants to talk some sense into him.
Instead they down a bottle and a half of red zin and consider the way Carlisle's brow furrows when he's thinking, the way he leans forward, spine sloping gently, to rest his elbows on his knees.
Sometimes Edward wonders what would have happened if he'd waited. If he hadn't taken that chance, taken what he wanted that night ten years before.
He was no longer a student, of course (a good six hours past, actually). But he was still eighteen, and he was still painfully, irrevocably inexperienced.
Perhaps if he'd waited, things would have turned out differently. Perhaps he could have been what the man wanted.
But he's not sure.
Edward enjoys teaching.
On the weekends he babysits for Alice and Jazz, grades papers in red ink, and does not think about Carlisle.
He's not depressed. Depression comes in waves that saturate and overwhelm. This is something different. A tiny prick; a puncture wound so small you don't notice the loss until it's too late (blood seeping slowly through gauze, staining the white bright red).
Sometimes he goes to bars (but not that bar, never that bar) and sits alone. He does not drink Scotch, but he learns that he can drink three Jamesons (neat) before his head begins to swim. And he knows he still prefers wine.
Men and boys chat him up, and every once in a while he'll let one buy him a drink. It's nice to feel wanted.
But he always goes home alone.
Alice sets him up on a date with a boy named Alec.
It will do you good. And, who knows? It might work out, she says with a soft smile, thumb sliding along the rim of her wine glass. Jasper knows his sister. Evidently it's a lovely family. Used to live in Italy I think.
Edward nods rather absently (his thoughts absolutely not on Carlisle) and agrees to meet the boy for dinner and drinks.
But Alec turns out to be impossibly young (I'm twenty-three he assures at Edward's horrified look. Just started my second term of law school).
Edward nods; perhaps twenty-three is not all that different than twenty-eight.
But couldn't the same be said for eighteen and thirty-two? Edward is not so sure, and something twists deep in his stomach at the thought. He wonders how Carlisle felt staring down at too soft skin, a body all angles and gangly limbs, and legs too coltish to be anything but young.
"What will you have, loves?" The pretty cocktail waitress interrupts his thoughts.
Alec chooses something pink and fruity and no doubt revolting. Edward orders Scotch. His date looks suitably impressed, but that isn't Edward's intention at all. It is only an experiment to see if, maybe, twenty-eight is not so far from forty-two.
When the waitress brings their drinks, he twists his glass between his palms, watches the amber liquid swirl up the sides, and makes small talk with Alec.
The boy's smile is quite lovely, and Edward finds he likes the blush that splashes across his cheeks (after a glass and a half of whatever it is he's drinking).
Alice was right; Alec did live in Italy, and Edward spent two years abroad, so they talk about Tuscany in June and art in Florence and sipping Prosecco in Ana-Capri.
But the color of the boy's hair is all wrong, and his eyes do nothing to the heat of Edward's blood. And, when, at the end of the night, Alec slips a fingertip (still cool from his glass) along Edward's wrist, he feels none of the white hot tension that should vibrate beneath his skin.
So he kisses the boy (twenty-three is far enough from twenty-eight) on the cheek and goes home alone.
And that night he does think of Carlisle.
He remembers his own fingers twined in white gold hair (oh…oh God), a mouth slipping along his throat, and sweat-warmed skin pressed against sweat-warmed skin, as he gasps into his pillow with each shuddering jerk of his hand.
A week later, Alice takes him out to a club. Jasper rolls his eyes and stays home with Peter and Marie. Go right ahead, please. That's not exactly my scene. Besides, the kids and I have a date with The Lion King. Alice kisses her husband and daughter on the cheek (Peter is six and therefore far too old for such displays of affection). Then she immediately drags Edward back to his apartment.
"No. You're absolutely not wearing that tonight" she announces, tossing her bag on the bed. Edward looks down; he considers himself quite respectable in faded jeans and a gray pullover.
Alice rolls her eyes.
Later, he leans against the bar (in a shirt that is a bit too tight but evidently the perfect shade of green to match his eyes), while Alice chats with perhaps the only straight man in the room. That assessment, though, is belied by the wink he flashes Edward as Alice maneuvers her way back toward him, two martinis held high above her head.
Edward narrows his eyes. "You know I don't care for gin."
"But they have these delightful gin-soaked olives," she says in way of explanation, swirling the skewer around in her drink. A silver droplet slides down the side of her glass; she catches it with a painted fingertip.
Edward sighs, takes a rather large gulp of his martini, and tries not to grimace.
Alice props one hip on a barstool (already too-short skirt sliding up to reveal another inch of pale thigh) and proceeds to point out boy after boy after boy.
Edward rejects each one for increasingly ridiculous reasons.
His shoulders are too broad. Those jeans are too tight. Is that a Miller Light he's drinking? God, Alice, he's wearing lip gloss!
She sighs dramatically and throws up her hands in mock defeat.
"Surrendering so early?" he asks with a laugh but hopes, perhaps, her experiment is complete.
"Edward Masen, I know for a fact you're guilty of that particular fashion proclivity."
He shrugs and drains his glass. "That's entirely not the point. And you always say I look rather hot all tarted up." He chooses not to add that he hasn't worn lip gloss in a rather long time.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I need another drink."
Edward folds his arms across his chest and watches as she weaves her way back to the bar.
The next weekend he sits in Alice's den. She tells him not to go, says it's a truly horrible idea. Jazz shakes his head in resignation. Do what you have to do, man. But don't say we didn't warn you.
The pub is disconcertingly familiar (like nothing has changed, though clearly everything has).
He takes a seat at the end of the bar; the rickety stool creaks as he shifts his weight, crosses an ankle over his knee. The pretty bartender takes his order (wine, red) and does not ask for his ID. But, then again, they never did (not even in high school). Edward stares at the bottles lining the glass shelves above the bar: deep greens, cerulean blues, and golden ambers that glint in the dim light of the room.
He's halfway through his third glass of cheap Cabernet when the man appears. Edward ignores the flutter and twist in his stomach, as Carlisle takes the empty seat beside him.
(Memories folded away in the corner of his mind: a brush of a palm, his back against the wall, a press of lips so heated, so intense he nearly lost it right there).
"Mr. Masen, I didn't know you still frequented this fine establishment." Even the voice, velvet rough, smooth like honey, can make his skin heat.
"Nor I, you." The lie slips easily off Edward's tongue.
Carlisle signals to the bartender (Scotch, rocks), and Edward takes a sip of wine, doing his best not to spill when he feels the man's eyes on him.
"One time you called me Edward, you know." His voice hardly slurs the words at all (though he thinks he must be drunk; why else would be saying such things?). "You used my name." He does not look at the other man. "And you liked the way I cried out yours."
Carlisle picks up his glass but does not drink. "That was a long time ago."
"At least you remember."
The man turns to face him then, lovely eyes registering a moment's disbelief, "of course I remember." But his voice is clipped.
"I'd like you to do it again," Edward whispers, cutting him off, enjoying his rather sharp intake of breath. "Call me Edward." He nods (as if to himself). "I like the way you say my name."
Carlisle takes a slow sip of Scotch; Edward watches his mouth, his throat as he swallows.
Finally he says: "I'm not sure that would be wise. It would imply a degree of familiarity, a closeness that is not entirely appropriate for colleagues."
"Maybe," Edward replies softly. "But I still get hard when I look at you. Which is not entirely appropriate for colleagues either."
The man blushes (a lovely pink), and his eyes linger a bit too long on Edward's mouth.
Edward drains the rest of his wine and stands (careful not to sway too much). He brushes one fingertip between the man's shoulder blades as he walks past and to the door.
Three days later, Edward notices the man watching him. He is at a basketball game and surrounded by students, teachers, parents (seated on the bleachers, two rows up from the court).
He's talking to another teacher from the English department, a pretty dark-haired girl (his neighbor across the hall).
Yes. Even the boys like Pride and Prejudice. But they'd never admit it of course.
Edward doesn't buy it, shakes his head and laughs. I'll take Jane Eyre over Austen any day.
She picks purple polish off a fingernail, as lips curve into a sly smile. But Rochester is married, and he's not even beautiful.
That's rather the point, though, isn't it?
He feels it then, a prickle of awareness at the back of his neck.
Edward refuses to look but can't help himself. (A backward glance). The crowd cheers; a basket is scored. But the man's eyes are on him while everyone else watches the players sprint down the floor.
A rush of warmth spirals through his stomach, curls round his hips, snakes up his spine. His breath catches, his shoulders tense, and he looks away (feeling the blush stain his cheeks, spread down his throat and under his collar).
Still, he feels the man watching him.
The next time he sees the man, Edward is (once again) rather drunk. "You were watching me the other day."
Carlisle nods but says nothing.
Edward takes another long drink (whisky this time) and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Are you seeing anyone?"
The man seems slightly taken aback by the forwardness of Edward's question, but he shakes his head. "No."
Edward knows his stomach shouldn't flutter and flip quite the way it does, and he smiles, signaling for another drink. He wants to kiss the man, pull him close, curl his fingers in the folds of his jacket. But he doesn't think he'll get away with it. So instead he watches the man's mouth as he sips at his drink, watches his hands, pale against the golden liquid in his glass.
He wants to tell the man that he still thinks about that night. Himself naked on the edge of the bed (awkward and aroused). Carlisle's hands on his hips, his mouth on his thigh. (Memories, folded like paper swans, stored away in the recesses of his mind).
But he takes a steadying breath, shifts in his seat, and tries not to think about the pulse of desire that flares in his veins and heats his cheeks.
When they leave the bar, Edward stumbles but doesn't trip. He notices the other man's graceful movements and feels schoolboy awkward in comparison.
Carlisle looks at him, though, and Edward feels something rise in his throat; his heart stutters obscenely, and he thinks he must be quite drunk.
Then he finds himself moving forward (two steps in the space of a heartbeat). And, in one quick impulsive motion, he kisses the man.
It's over almost before it's begun.
Edward pulls back with a gasp, jerks his hand to his mouth. Oh God, oh God…
He remembers the chills that slid down his spine as the man's fingers traced lines along his ribcage. He remembers the feeling of Carlisle's tongue in his mouth (his own back bowed, feet pressed into the mattress).
And he wants it desperately. He wants to kiss the man again. He wants to cling to him, take him home, beg him to fuck him right then and there. But all he can do is stand stock still and press his fingers to his lips.
"I can't. We shouldn't." the man says, after a moment that's stretched and stretched. Edward is sure his world is spinning wildly out of control.
"I never should have touched you."
Edward's face is hot, even in the chill of the night air.
"I never should have done, Edward. It was wrong then. It would be wrong now."
"No. I, please…" he reaches a hand out, as his tongue trips over the words.
But Carlisle is shaking his head, recoiling from his touch. "It was wrong to want you."
"Things have changed," Edward tries, hating the desperate sound of his voice. "Everything is different now."
But the man only shakes his head again and turns away. "No Edward. I can't."
He stands there for a long time after Carlisle is gone. The kiss pounds in his mind (white hot and painfully sharp).
On Monday, Edward's students discuss gossip and rumors in The Great Gatsby.
No one knows who Jay Gatsby really is. Edward stands at the front of the room, dog-eared copy of the novel open on his desk. He is, after all, a self-made, self-invented, indeed, self-imagined man.
His students nod and jot down notes.
Edward can't help but remember the rumors that surfaced his own Junior year. Is Edward Masen fucking Dr. Cullen? He wasn't, of course, but the other students had figured out his preferences (well, his preference) before he hardly knew himself.
Every day that week, he eats lunch at his desk and leaves his classroom practically the moment the final bell rings. He knows he wouldn't possibly know what to say, should he see the other man.
But that Friday, he finds himself at the bar once again.
Carlisle is already there; just the sight of him makes Edward's palms sweat and his heart thud, but somehow he manages to sit down beside him and order a drink.
"What we did," Carlisle says suddenly. "What happened between us…" He does not look at Edward but stares down into his glass, expression unreadable. "I feel like I must explain. I had never…" he trails off, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
Edward bites his lip; he can see the flutter of the man's pulse at his throat.
"I had never," he repeats, eyes still fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. "I do not make a habit of bedding my students." He finally spits out the words, as if they are shards of glass on his tongue.
Edward reaches out tentatively; his fingers brush the back of the man's wrist.
"You were a first, an only. I had never. I would never, again."
Edward feels like his heart must be in his throat; he can't help but thrill at the man's words. "In the spirit of confessions," he says after several moments, but Carlisle cuts him off, looking up for the first time.
"Don't say it." He pales a little but recovers admirably, pressing his fingers to his temples before looking at Edward once again. "I already know."
Edward blanches. "Was it that obvious?"
"Not painstakingly so," he answers with a slight smile. "But students talk, and it was clear you had…little experience."
"Well, it's not like I made a habit of bedding my teachers," he emphasizes the man's choice of words with a slight roll of his eyes, a quirk of his lips. But then his expression is serious again. "You were all I ever wanted," Edward fingers the stem of his wine glass. "I knew I wanted you before I'd even come to terms with wanting men at all."
Carlisle says nothing, takes a rather large gulp of Scotch.
"You could have had me at sixteen."
"No. I couldn't have."
This time when they kiss, it is cautious and hesitant, controlled. Edward's fingers twist in the other man's hair; Carlisle's hand finds his hip, but when he pulls away, Edward is breathless and so hard he thinks he might combust.
"I used to watch you," Carlisle whispers, mouth against his neck.
"I know." (Memories, smooth as glass, slip like water over his skin).
Alice eats lunch with Edward. She sits at his desk and picks at her white visitor's badge while Edward pulls Chinese takeout cartons from the plastic bag.
"Do you always eat in your room?" she asks flipping through a stack of papers.
"Usually," he responds, tossing a packet of soy sauce at her.
"Does he ever eat with you?"
Edward does not want to talk about Carlisle. He does not want to admit how excited he gets at just the thought of seeing the man. And he absolutely does not want to acknowledge the way his stomach tightens whenever he thinks about him, or the fact that he can still taste him on his tongue.
That weekend Edward sits at a tiny cocktail table while Carlisle orders drinks at the bar.
Edward drinks wine, which he spills. It drips off his fingers; he wipes a hand on his pant leg. Carlisle sips his Scotch, hiding his smile behind the glass.
And Edward ends up pushed against the wall in the narrow hallway leading to the restroom. His fingers clutch at the man's shoulders. Carlisle's stroke his face. But when the man slips a hand down to press at the bulge between his thighs, Edward comes helplessly, shuddering and gasping (oh God, oh God…) like he's eighteen again.
Carlisle laughs softly, but his expression is kind. And Edward can't help but notice how aroused he is.
He doesn't go home with him that night. Someday (some year) he might be ready for that. But not yet. Not when one look from the man can set him on fire. Not when one touch makes him come undone.
Two weeks later, Carlisle stops by Edward's classroom. They haven't seen each other since that night (another memory branded white hot across Edward's mind). Classes have let out for the day, but a few students linger. Mr. Masen, about the exam next week… And the older man leans against the doorjamb watching him.
Finally, Anna McDermott collects her things and hurries out the door. (Dr. Cullen, she nods, slipping past).
Edward laughs. "You intimidate them."
"Not all the time." Carlisle steps into the room, eyes taking in the multitude of student projects coloring the walls. "You've been busy."
Edward shrugs, says nothing, looks at the man.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up enough to look delectably disheveled. There is ink smeared on the third finger of his right hand. And he's beautiful.
Edward feels his chest tighten (pale fingers against his ribs), and he runs a nervous hand through already untidy hair.
"I'd like you to go to dinner with me."
"Are you drunk?" Edward, himself, is on his third glass of wine and feels quite brilliant.
The man laughs but frowns at his empty glass. "Certainly not. It's what? Half past eight? I'm never drunk at this hour. Far too early for such things."
Edward smiles behind the lip of his glass. "Of course," he says, elbowing him playfully. But Carlisle catches his arm, fingers curling round his bicep. (The blush burns hot against Edward's cheekbones).
"Come home with me."
Later, Edward is certain he stares too long as Carlisle shrugs off his jacket. We did this once, do you remember? And even from across the room, he feels as though the man must certainly exude heat. After all, he thinks his skin might burn should he even brush against him. He considers closing his eyes; just looking at the man as he looks at him is almost more than he can take. But instead he takes a deep breath and curls his fingers into fists. His fingernails bite into his palms.
"Come here." But Edward is rooted to the spot. The older man steps forward instead.
"Is this what you want?" Edward chokes out the words because he has to know for sure.
"I can't pretend that I don't…want you anymore."
Edward's heart thuds in his ears. His mouth is very dry. And suddenly they are standing mere inches from one another. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, and Carlisle kisses him. It's clumsy at first; their teeth knock together. But when the man's tongue slips into his mouth, Edward can't help but moan (surprised he hasn't fallen to pieces yet).
They stumble back awkwardly, and when Carlisle's knees hit the sofa, Edward practically falls into his lap. His heart is pounding so fast he's dizzy (oh, oh God), and he's shaking as he crawls astride him, knees pressed to the man's hips. Carlisle's hands slide down his back, pulling him forward, and Edward is so hard he thinks he sees stars (fiery hot behind his eyes).
"I haven't…" he manages. "Not since…" Complete sentences are beyond him, as he moves helplessly against the other man.
(A memory, silver streaked. Hands clutching at his hips, his knees splayed, fists clenched in white sheets).
The man blinks up at him, eyes wide with lust and something else entirely. "I don't believe you."
Edward shrugs. "I spent the rest of that summer thinking you'd call. Thinking you'd want me again."
Carlisle kisses his forehead; Edward feels warm breath against his cheeks, his eyelashes.
"My friends thought I was crazy." He lifts his chin, exposes his throat to the man's mouth. "Actually, I think they still do. But you're all I've ever wanted."
Carlisle's fingers have started on Edward's buttons; he shivers as they brush over his skin. He arches into the touch, as Carlisle's thighs press perfectly between his legs. "God, Carlisle, I'm already… If you don't, soon, I'm going to…"
The man seems to understand because he urges Edward up onto his knees (palms burning a trail along his thighs) and tugs at his zip. Edward's hands fumble awkwardly on top of his, and he still thinks he might come in a tangle of clothes before his pants are even off. But Carlisle is pushing them down over his hips, and he lifts up to kick them off. Then before he can feel self-conscious that he's naked and hard and sprawled in another man's lap, Carlisle licks his lips and skates a hand down his chest and murmurs "beautiful."
And Edward is sucking at the man's throat, grinding his hips against his stomach, and tugging him down to the floor and on top of him. Something clatters off the end table, falls to the ground, but Edward is too busy undoing the man's belt and his trousers to care. Then his hand is skimming over the flat of Carlisle's stomach, as he parts his legs, makes room for the man between them, yanks at his shirt.
Carlisle moans (Edward could drown in the sounds he makes), and finally (finally) he feels skin on skin.
"Fuck me," he breathes, surprised his mouth can even form the words, and Carlisle's hand slips down between his thighs to fondle his cock.
Edward doesn't care that the rug is rough against his back because suddenly he can't think, and he certainly can't remember anything feeling this good before. The man's palm curls around him, and he thrusts just once into the loop of his fingers. "Oh God, oh God" he gasps. "Slow down, I'll come."
Edward's eyes snap open, as Carlisle's fingers tighten and shift, and he shudders and pulses hot all over the man's hand, all over his own stomach, all over the floor. But before he can begin to feel embarrassed, ashamed, the man brings his hand up to his mouth and sucks a finger between his lips.
Edward thinks he might die. He really might. And Carlisle takes his hand in his (still sticky with Edward's come) and pulls him to his feet, leads him to the bedroom, stretches him out across the bed.
He watches as Carlisle slips out of his shirt; it pools with his pants on the floor, and Edward realizes that he's seeing the man naked for the first time in ten years. The man is looking at him too (blue eyes that can pin him to the wall, slice his heart clean out), and he knows he's still all angles and limbs. But twenty-eight is better than eighteen, and he's grown a bit since then, lost the traces of boyishness that he knows he used to have.
He shudders and breathes; just Carlisle's gaze is making him hard again. "Please fuck me now," he whispers, leaning back against the pillows.
Carlisle rummages in the bedside cabinet, and even the sight of the lubricant in his hand is enough to send shivers down Edward's spine. He rises up on his knees as the man settles beside him (fingers now warm and slick).
"I need you." (Like Shakespeare, like sunshine, like his right arm, like breathing).
"I know." (A kiss against his temple). "Let me get you ready."
Edward parts his legs wider as Carlisle slips a hand between. The first finger slides in easily enough. The man groans as Edward cants his hips (head thrown back, pleasure sharp and bright).
He hisses, and Carlisle rubs a soothing hand across his back. "God, you're tight."
Edward shifts a bit and bites his lip. "It's been a while, it might be…"
But the other man only inhales a shaky breath. And he kisses his chest, his neck, his collarbone.
When Carlisle finally slips a third finger in, Edward worries he might come again before they've even begun. But he moves his hips in one slow circle, exhales, and tugs at the man's hand. "Okay. I'm ready." Then he takes the man's cock (hard and flushed and lovely, lovely) and positions it between his legs. "I haven't. Not since…" he repeats, twining their fingers together.
"I know. You're perfect." The man says, pulling the boy beneath him and pressing inside (slowly, slowly).
And (oh…oh God) it feels so good. Better, even, than he remembers. Edward parts his legs, lifts his hips, forces Carlisle to sink deeper. The man sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, fingers tightening around Edward's.
"No. I want to see you." His thighs are already trembling, stomach muscles clenching (don't come, don't come). But their eyes lock, and Carlisle shudders as Edward clenches around him, feels the other man's heart beating inside him, against him. He curves his spine and cries out loud when Carlisle's hips start to move.
"I can't…oh God…I can't." He flings out an arm (shoulders pressed into the mattress) and lifts his hips to meet the man's thrusts.
"Come for me," the man breathes against his neck, as he reaches between them to brush his fingers against Edward's cock.
"I'm…fuck…I'm going to—"
The man cuts him off with a kiss, as he comes in a hot splash between them. Then, stomach slick with Edward's own come, Carlisle snaps his hips once more and shudders on top of him, pulsing into the tightness of Edward's body.
Afterward, they lie curled together (his head on the man's chest, Carlisle's fingers drawing circles on his hip).
"Do you remember the first time?" Edward's voice is languid, slurred with sleep and sex.
Carlisle tenses, but Edward only nestles his head further into the crook of his arm.
"You wouldn't let me stay the night." He presses a kiss to the man's shoulder. "I was so incredibly happy, and you wouldn't even let me fall asleep."
The man is silent for a long moment; Edward can't even feel him breathing. Then: "I'm sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you."
Edward sighs, stretching (catlike) beside him. "S'okay. Still was the best night of my life." He slides a foot along Carlisle's calf. "Best night till tonight, that is." He yawns, breath warm against the other man's neck. "I'm sleepy. Can I stay this time?"
Carlisle turns his head; impossibly green eyes stare back at his. "Yes. Stay the night." He inhales deeply, presses his mouth to Edward's hair, and tightens his arm around his shoulders. "Stay the weekend. Stay forever."