Of Condoms and Cobblestones

Rated: M, for some SMUT

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended (as in, I don't own the Twilight Saga). I'm just playing around with S. Meyer's characters; they'll go back on the shelf when I'm done.

A/N: This was my contribution for the Fandom for Sexual Assault. It was a wonderful thing coldplaywhore and aylah50 did, so thank you. And thanks to all who contributed and donated.


It seems like Alice is rubbing my single, lonely life in my face.

No… no, it doesn't seem that way.

She is.

Is it not enough for her that I am home doing voluntary work on a Friday night? Does the fact that I am alone, with no partner, no boyfriend, and no fuck buddy to speak of to turn to for solace, or a roll in the sack cut it for the she-beast?


Instead, that upbeat, overly chipper, annoying woman from 2B texts me:

Hiya sweet pea. Can u get me XL trojans? – A.

Whatever happened to polite conversation? Small talk?

And is she bloody serious?

As a damn heart attack. The next one comes in less than a minute later.

Plz? jazzie's gettin frisky.

Like I care.

I'm ignoring her messages. Alice doesn't understand that the lack of responses means I'm not fucking going. She spams my inbox like there's no tomorrow.

But, if she's as sexually repressed as I think she is, she'll explode.

There really won't be a tomorrow. I can see the headlines – Fireworks Before the Big Finish. Sex addicts, nymphos, horny teenagers, barely sexually active people and nuns will mourn a lost sister. Sympathy will come flooding in. I'll be vilified. My picture will be on the front page of every tabloid and newspaper. Priests and preachers will write sermons about the virtue of generosity. CNN, ABC, NBC, hell, even FOX, will all do a show on the poor girl who lost her life due to a serious case of sexual repression.

Alice is a nice woman – and she's usually smart. Usually. But does she not comprehend that this plan is doomed? How am I going to get the condoms to her? Who's going to pay? And XL? Jasper has been my best friend since high school, and I never once had a single inkling, the tiniest notion to even guess how big he is. I'm fucking scarred for life. Thank you, Alice. I'll never be able to look him in the face again.

Imagine if I were to fall, which can be scientifically proven with a formula, and land. In. His. Lap?

Bellaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. I can't leave. U hav 2 go 4 me – A.

I can hear her whine through the walls. And it isn't because I'm not getting her condoms.

Alice is a mewler.

Last time I checked, condoms were not the only type of contraceptive. And I haven't checked in a while. But I know for a fact Alice is on the Pill. She's come by a couple times when she's run out of her prescription.

I bite; What about the Pill? – B.

i wasnt expecting jazzie back so soon – i let the cycle fall thru

It makes sense – Jasper's a crisis journalist. And with the abundance of revolutions, rebellions and war in the world, he's gone. A lot. Alice is alone all the time. I've heard her cry and moan (yeah, Jasper got something to make the time away less bearable, the sick fucker) through the walls enough times to know.

I love them both. They love them. They love me. And it's not going to be turned into some sort of three-some, because that'd be gross. But Alice would figuratively come after my balls and castrate me, if I don't do this for her. I don't have balls. I can only imagine what she'll do to my under worked vagina.

I'm under the impression – because that's all I have. First experience; zilch – that welcome home sex is second only to make up sex. Distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that shit.

Anything else? – B.

My inbox is flooded with smiley faces and I can hear her cheer. If she and Jasper are as freaky as she says they are, why are they able to applaud and shout?

Why am I listening so intently?

Why is she texting in the first place?

I wonder what people on the third and first floors think about all the happiness in 2B? It's probably a sports game or something. But Mrs. Bagdon is a frisky old woman. She rotates men from her senior centre like it's going out of style.

And if only old Mr. Tchazinoff knew it was about condoms. I bet the ex-KGB officer would die of a heart attack, his last words being, "In old mother Russia, you come to condoms…"

Nothing else, sweet pea. Thnx

I asked because I'm polite. But if Alice had wanted me to stop someplace else and pick up… toys or lube or something, I'd flip. Condoms are going to make me erupt with blushes enough as it is. I think my face is heating up now, and I haven't left my apartment yet.

I'm on my bike (I'm an eco-friendly person – and it's too damn expensive to fill my stupid truck) and making my way to the nearest Walgreen's without much thought or action. I've come up with an infallible game plan. I will begin with looking at something menial; like the books. Or chocolate. Then, I'll move, casually, to X Marks the Spot, the Great Wall of Condoms. I'll detour before, though; take a walk down Shampoo Lane or something. But I'll end up at the checkout line with a box of Trojans XL. I may just buy the most expensive type I'll find.

Or I may just buy the kinkiest type and live vicariously through Alice and Jasper.

I'm that desperate.

And apparently, that weird.

The plan must all begin with being discreet. And invisible. Not drawing attention to myself is tantamount to a successful operation. I don't realize I'm humming the Mission Impossible theme until I'm at the door.

It all goes out the window the second I step into the store.

Because I step into someone.

As per the plan and not attract attention, I take my sunglasses out from shirt and my draw up my hood while I sat on the banana seat, drumming up courage. For ten minutes. I probably look like a hoodlum that plans to rob the cashier or something.

I'm a backwards mother fucker.

His – I hope it's a he. Otherwise it's a female body builder who isn't afraid to hit another girl. His (I'm being optimistic) back is hard. The deep brown, supple leather jacket that covers his marble body doesn't soften the blow.

"Oof" escapes my lips, much to my sheer embarrassment. I'm sure there's an imprint of my cheek at the middle of his back.

I don't want to face him and my mortification, so I run away. My hip knocks the new perfume stand. I don't pay attention to the clinking bottles or the scary look from the cosmetics saleswoman, who looks closer to Chortles, the clown who came to my ninth birthday party and felt up my dad. I ignore the throbbing that radiates from my hip and proceed with the plan, as much as possible. I don't turn around to apologize. I don't go and ask what delectable scent he wears so I can spray it around my apartment.

I pick up a Nora Roberts novel – that woman churns out more decent books a year than any other author – and a Twix bar. I end up walking down the oral hygiene aisle instead of shampoo, but find nothing. Who'd have thought that toothbrush shopping isn't that interesting? Not me.

I do play with some of the electric toothbrushes, though.

Perhaps it isn't so bad.

I'm at the front of the store, looking at the selection of candy and gum again because I don't want to make myself seem so eager. There are two unwritten rules to buying condoms.

One; do not ever just get the condoms. You'll look less stupid with the Trojans and a pack of Dentine than if you had picked up the condoms and checked out. Or in my case, a romance novel, a chocolate bar and 5 gum – the flavour lasts forever.

Two; don't seem so eager to leave. No one wants to know that you and your partner are about to hop in the sack and go at it like bunnies. Even if you are. Patience is a virtue and it will protect your reputation.

I don't ponder what people will think about the book and the condoms together. Actually, I think there is a rule somewhere that states you can't by a romance novel and condoms together. Everyone knows that people who read smut aren't getting any.

I also don't pay any attention to how much of the rules I know (or not know), especially since my under worked, near dusty vagina hasn't gotten condoms since Phil Collins was cool.

Maybe the book is the wrong thing to get.

But why are they selling them at the same place? They're practically a hop, skip and a jump from one to the other. It's like they want people inspired by the love scenes to get it on. And what better way to inspire 'no glove, no love' than to sell the rubbers so close to the books?

I'm falling right into Corporate's (whose corporate, I don't know) scheme.

Until I remember the condoms aren't for my sorry, unlaid ass.

The book is. I almost face palm until I realize I'm in a public place and that would be cheesy and stupid. I do, however, mime face-gum-stand.

Yeah, that's so much better. I blame my job. I'm surrounded by prepubescent, wild, uninhibited youngsters.

I decide enough time has passed before I can check out. With the book – fuck my reputation – the candy and gum and Trojan Fire & Ice condoms in hand, I go to check out. I'm fairly confident that everything is going smoothly. The blunder twenty minutes ago is all but forgotten.

"Hi, there. Did you find everything you were looking for?" The overly peppy (I hate pep) cashier chirped. He flips his hair from over his left eye to the other, checking me out. His shirt has more glitter decal than a Barbie's walk-in closet. I think he's outlined his chipper eyes with eyeliner.

I hate to point out that he's probably playing the same team I am. And he's probably going to see more action than I am.

He rings up my purchases. I'm standing noncommittally, tapping my fingers on the counter and not looking at anything – especially the condoms slipping from his hands into the bag.

After he looks at them and studies them. And me. I swallow my groan.

"That turns out to be $33.28, hon," he says. I feel around my right hip for my bag.

It. Isn't. There.

I'm feeling around for my purse, my wallet, the ugly clutch that I sometimes use – anything. And I come up with nothing.

It's painfully disheartening to realize that the only money I have on me is ten dollars, and it isn't even enough to cover the condoms.

I'm going to murder the chipper woman from 2B. And Jasper, just to be safe.

It's their horny asses' fault that my face has erupted in burning blushes, and I'm struggling with serious mortification.

"Hon, it comes to a total of $33.28," he says again, looking at me askance. His eyes screw up, before widening. "What's up with your face?" he shouts, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

I give him my best 'fuck you' frown, paired with the Bitch Brow. But my goddamn tomato face lessens the blow. He isn't even fazed.

I'm two seconds away from exploding, when the most gorgeous male voice speaks behind me. "I'll cover it, man." It's all liquid dark chocolate, coating and saturating the words, making them sound. Just. Like. Sex.

"What? No! I can't let you do that. I don't even know you." The funny thing is I'm still facing the cashier.

I turn toward Sex Voice.

I see a leather jacket. I know that leather jacket. My face was all up close and personal with the back of it. It stretches over wide shoulders and a slim waist covered in a deep blue shirt. I'm staring at his chest for a while, but I catch a glimpse of acid washed jeans and Doc Martins. Slowly and painfully, I dragged my eyes up his torso to his… face.

Holy Mary of Mother of the Fucks and Angels with Gorgeous as Sin Faces.

Prominent, regal cheekbones framed his eyes along with a proud forehead. Eyes the colour of freshly cut grass, vibrant and vital; eyes that people would kill for fringed with thick lashes I would kill for. There isn't a blemish, a scar, beauty or birth mark on his face. I look at his nose, the slight bump in the bridge the only flaw. And it is extremely fuck hot.

The cashier is coughing, rudely, interrupting my staring.

Staring. Staring. It's more like ogling, tinged with a stalker-mind-camera look. I cover my face with my hands. I feel like my cheeks are going to sizzle.

"That isn't necessary," I say through my fingers.

"Nah, it isn't a problem. Dude, here's my stuff." The Sex Voice/Saving Grace is placing a basket meticulously packed with car magazines, Head and Shoulders shampoo, Irish Springs body wash (that shit smells divine) and Twix bars. He's got like five of those, times two… ten Twix bars.

I glance at him from my peripherals. He doesn't look like he eats those; or at least, they don't affect him.

A couple of the Twix bars shift, and I see a box of Trojans.

He followed the same plan I did.

Why was he successful?

I feel a sunny hope spreading through me that drops away when I realize that condoms are the proverbial ring on the finger. Sex Voice is taken.

And my condoms are also a proverbial taken sign. Sex Voice isn't hitting on me – which makes me so depressed I feel about ready to cry bloody tears – but is a genuinely nice guy.

My heart wants to melt and break all at the same time. I'm torn between two opposite emotions. My heart wilts. Only a little.

And I'm measuring on a scale of historical disasters; the wilting is on a level of somewhere near the Chernobyl explosion. Brief wishful thinking is a total bitch.

But maybe he didn't see the condoms; he can't have been behind me all that long.

"I don't… I don't wa – need the book. It isn't necessary," I mutter to the cashier. He looks at me for a moment, before at Sex Voice.

"Nonsense. You wouldn't have picked it up if you didn't want the book. Or need it." I look back at Sex Voice, hoping I don't spontaneously jizz. He's smirking slightly, with one gorgeous eyebrow raised. His eyes are dancing with amusement, as if challenging me.

"It's okay. I'll survive without it." I cross my arms over my chest, firm in my resolve.

Then he laughs. Buh-bye resolve. "C'mon. If it's a situation of survival, you must get it. Thanks, man," he says to the cashier, who puts the book back in the plastic bag.

I'm suddenly doubly pissed off with myself because I didn't bring any reusable bags with me. I always have a few tucked in my purse. I may just face palm for real.

The bill comes up to over seventy dollars. I cringe, but Sex Voice doesn't even bat a lash at it. He grabs his bags as I do the same, frowning at their unenviromentally friendly crackle. Sex Voice walks ahead, but holds the door open for me; I smile in thanks, slightly dazed by the chivalrous gesture. The last time someone did that was my poetry-club boyfriend, Liam, and only then because he was reading a bunch of Shakespeare's sonnets.

Sex Voice, apart from being a Sex God, male model and a nice guy, is also a gentleman. Or is that considered a nice guy aspect, too? I decide they're different; mostly because I want a modern day Darcy, as cliché as that sounds. But I'm entitled to my fantasies because that's all me and the hoohah have.

I walk into the Sex Voice again, while he stands in the foyer. My face is up close and personal with his back again – and what a lovely back, it is.

"You know, I don't think you'll be needing these." Sex Voice is smiling kindly at me. He brings his empty hand up and slowly takes my sunglasses off. His fingers brush against my nose, because he grabs my glasses along the bridge; it tickles and I don't sneeze which makes me immensely pleased.

"Better." His eyes twinkle. Sex Voice has twinkly eyes. They are so pretty in these fluorescent lights. I'm under the impression that nothing looks pretty in these too white lights. I'm under the wrong impression.

"You're hood, though, that you need." He moves beside me, and I see the shit storm. The sky is a dark and dreary slate grey; depressing and ominous. Rain is falling in furious droves, splashing back up as it hits the pavement, cars and the tiny awning over the door. The sound, while oddly comforting, is mostly reminding me that I'll be soaked before I reach the street.

Damn't. I should've just taken the stupid truck.

"Jesus H!" I mumble through unmoving lips; which is probably why Sex Voice looks at me sideways.

"I took my bike," I explain.

"A motorcycle?" I can't help get the feeling that he likes this.

I cringe at the thought of me on one of those death traps. My police officer father would kill me with his police officer issue. "Nah, my trusty ten speed."

I think his face falls a little bit. "You can't ride your bike in that! You'll get so wet."

Simultaneously, I hope he does and does not see the double entrendre to his words. But him saying I'm wet… well, I wiggle a little on the spot.

"How else am I going to get home? I mean I can take public transit; they let bikes on the buses. Or I could call a cab…" mindlessly, because I clearly don't have one, I drop my bag and feel around my chest with both hands (one isn't good enough, apparently), double checking if my phone is tucked in my bra.

Sex Voice widens his eyes before looking away. I think he shifts on the spot a little bit, but I can't be sure. The absolute mortification that courses through my body is making my vision hazy. I slowly lower my hands that were previously frozen on my boobs.

I cough, looking at my bag on the ugly, super absorbent rug; my book is half out, and my Twix bars are near Sex Voice's feet.

He quickly drops to grab my stuff, tucking everything back in and handing it to me.

"Erm, did you find your cell phone?" he asks, his eyes intently focused on the DO NOT ENTRE sign behind my head.

Sex Voice is smart to realize the self-groping session wasn't actually a self-groping session but a Find the Phone Quest. I don't think he has a serious flaw. At all.

I shake my head, too worried that my voice will crack. It seems like the next perfect thing to happen to me.

"I'll drive you home then."


"I'll take you back. In my car." He points to a shiny SUV in the far corner of the parking lot. "I can even take your bike." He smiles, pleased with the situation.

"I can't do that to you. You've helped me enough." I smile, gratitude and obstinacy at war in my tone.

"No can do -" He stops short.

Sex Voice looks at me intently. "I don't know your name."

I'm silent a moment. Although Sex Voice is an incredibly apt name, I can't keep referring to him like that. "I don't know yours either."

"Edward Cullen," he offers gallantly, grabbing my hand and kissing my knuckles.

"Bella Swan." I blush. No one, not even poetry-club Liam, has ever done something so gentlemanly. Or cheesy.

I mean, he picked me up at a pharmacy.

Stop it. Just stop it. There isn't always a negative in any situation.

Fuck it. Gentlemanly is its own separate criteria in a man, with a rubric and marking scheme.

"Well, Bella Swan, let's go. I insist." He grins and I can't help but do what he says. I don't even know why I ever thought of fighting with him.

"Um, sure. Thank you, Edward."

We leave the foyer just to stand under the awning. "How're we going to do this?" he asks.

"I'll grab my bike and I'll meet you at the car?"

"I don't want you to get wet…"

"An impossible feat." Let him see the double meaning in that.


"Edward. You'll be taking my bag. I'm going to get my bike. I'm going to walk it to your car. You'll load it up because it's too heavy for me. Are we clear?" I raise an eyebrow at him, a soft version of the Bitch Brow.

He says nothing; I take it as a 'yes'. "Annnd go!"

I'm, running into the rain, glancing back for a second to make sure he's following orders. I slip a little bit, so I face my destination: my lemon yellow bike. There are a few rust spots that will no longer grow after this latest bout of Seattle's temperamental weather.

I'm attacking the ancient lock with fervour. I lost the key eons ago, but I learned how to use a hair pin to pop it open. (The hairpin I keep in the lock, I might add.) I can do this in about thirty seconds on an overcast day. But in the rain, with water leaking into my narrowed eyes? I'm pushing the pin in so hard that I'm dimly aware it'll snap. Soon.

"Bella? Let me do that." Edward's chest is amazingly close to my back. Heat rolls off him in waves, warming me and my clothes. I'm concentrated on this feeling, I don't notice that Edward is moving the bike until the pedal clips me in the chest.

"Jesus Christ, Bella! Are you alright?" he drops the bike and turns me over in his arms.

"Bella!" If Edward didn't think I was injured, I'm positive that he would have shaken me. With good reason; I'm slightly catatonic.

His front is getting cozy with mine. We're wet and he's hot and we're close and almost cuddling.

"I'm fine," I gasp, more from the sensation than the pedal-smack in between my boobs.

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking in my eyes, lowering the bottom lids and peeking in there.

"Are you a doctor?"

He turns pink; it's visible through the rain and my nearness. "No… but my dad is?" It comes out a question, but I know it as a statement.

"Okay… as much as I love being in the rain with you," thank you filter; not; "but can we get to the car?"

Edward releases me, instead going for the bike; he's careful to swing it around me.

He jogs to the car carrying my lemon yellow bike; I find this extremely hot. I trail after him, watching his arms. I can only imagine the way Edward's muscles bunch and release under that jacket.

He's tucking the bike into the trunk. "Bella?"

"Mhm," I sigh. I enjoy the way my name falls from his lips immensely. There is an extra Sex Voice tinge to it, I think.

"Wanna come over?"

I angle my head and look at him intently. His eyes seem to be darker. Less like emerald shamrocks and more like a stormy sea. There is blue tossed in his eyes now, a powerful and dark blue. My pulse quickens, a secret tattoo that excites me.

"Bella?" he moves closer, until I'm pulled right into his chest. "Wanna come over? To my place?"

His breath is mingling with mine; I'm shameless in my inhalation. "Sure," I whisper. The rain, pounding into my shoulders and head, no longer bothers me. It's just there, a part of the moment.

"Sure thing," he smiles, before lightly pressing his lips to mine.

He tastes like honey and rain. I raise my head up, nudging his nose a little bit. The kiss, while chaste, ignites something fiery and bold in me. Gently, I push against him, his back to the car, and I switch angles for better access. I trail my tongue out slightly, lapping at his lips ever so softly. He obliges and opens my mouth.

He snaps. Suddenly, my feet are almost a foot in the air and Edward's arms are in a vice around my shoulders. I'm pushing our heads together, so that our teeth clash violently and our tongues are in a furious battle. His tongue swirls around mine, and I trace the insides of his lips, before dragging it along his. My hands are on his chest and I can feel his hard pecs. I moan.

"Bella," he groans, nuzzling my cheek. It's such a stark difference from the passionate kiss that I freeze slightly.

"Edward," I groan. I can feel him. It's a luxurious feeling for my under worked vagina. I grind against him, forcing him back into the car.

"Bella." Edward is breathless. His heart underneath my hand is going at least as fast as my own. He lowers me to the ground. I'm not sure how long I was up, but it's incredibly sexy regardless.

"Bella," he says again, his breath tickling my cold and wet skin. "You bought… condoms."

"I did."

"Are you seeing anyone?" I've always appreciated honesty. But there's a certain finesse that Edward totally misses when he asks. Especially after his tongue was doing a tango with my own.

Especially after.

"A prudent question generally reserved for before the kiss," I huff. "But no, I'm not. You did too, you know."

"And I'm flying solo." Edward looks down at me, smug and satisfied.

"Then why are you picking up condoms?" I asked, confused.

"It's good to be prepared." He nods, punctuating his point.

"You were a Boy Scout, weren't you?" I ask, picturing a ginger kid in an ugly khaki getup. I snort at the image.

"Nope," Edward says. His mouth is extra tantalizing in that moment. "My dad showed me pictures of scabby dicks when I first started…. Erm, you know. It scared the ever living crap out of me."

The rain is going into my eyes; I blink and rub it out. Edward starts laughing.

"C'mon." Edward quickly opens the back seat and grabs a blanket. He tugs me over to the passenger seat, opening the door and laying the blanket down, covering all the leather. I sit down, careful not to jostle the blanket. He moves to the other side and there's a blanket that magically appears in his hand. He puts the blanket down then sits in his seat.

"Are you sure, Bella?" he asks, his eyes intense and stormy.

"Positive." I smile, all sunshine and rainbows; inside, however, I'm a roiling and rumbling mass of lust and want.

I think I just described acid reflux, actually. Holy inner mood killer.

Edward whips out of the parking lot, careful to abuse every speed limit between his home and the drug store.

"Jesus Christ!" I screech. "Do you plan on getting off after you receive a ticket or before the head on collision?"

Christ on a cracker, what in God's holy name happened to my filter.

Edward looks over to me, raising his eyebrows. "I'm an excellent driver."

"Tell that to the grandmother you just gave a heart attack." It's true. This little blue haired woman in a beat up white Beemer had to pull into the oncoming traffic lane because Edward was barrelling down the road.

"I had the right of way."

"No you didn't. I'm surprised – you drive like a geriatric. You cut off a brother in arms – or wheels."


"Yeah, Edward?"

"You're insulting your ride home. And your, well…" He doesn't finish speaking. Instead, his expressive eyebrows do all this wiggling. I know exactly what is going to happen.

My under worked vagina will no longer be under worked. It will be in a blissful coma. Hopefully.


He nods, finally pulling his eyes back to the road. Just in time to swerve around a pothole. My hand that was aimlessly lying on the armrest is flung into his lap. His. Hard. Lap.

He coughs. I notice my errant left hand is still cuddling Edward's thigh. Get back. Get back. You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted. Count on it.

My solemn oath brings my left hand to my own lap.

My hand and my head and about a dozen other places are happy it's a promise I plan to fulfill.

"Yeah, Bella?"

"You're lucky you're my… ride." Gone were the sunshine and rainbows. My smile is instead replaced with the incubus smirk I practiced drunkenly in university.

Maybe I shouldn't be using it, because according to my track record it didn't work so well.

Edward coughs again. I watch with fascination as his Adam's apple moves in his silky throat.

Is that a positive reaction?

I don't have much time to ponder Edward's Throat Movement because he pulls into a small driveway, leading into building much like mine. The curtain of rain outside my window makes it difficult but I can see three floors, with a pretty garden underneath both bay windows.

"You coming?" Edward is staring at me staring at his house.

"Sure thing," I smile. "Wanna race?" Sometimes I don't know why I even open my mouth. I'm smart on a twofold level, because clearly it's perfectly acceptable to challenge a wonderfully fit man to a race in the rain, wherein it is also perfectly likely that I will do something to embarrass myself.

He looks at my face a moment before throwing the door open and bolting for the door. I'm very clearly an idiot because I watch Edward run. Then struggle with my seatbelt, because I'm still watching. Edward's on the porch by the time I open the door.

I'm a special person. Because I run. Maybe I'm thinking I'll look like Pamela Anderson a la Baywatch, but without the massive jugs – I'm not quite sure. And I do a fairly good job of it, until a tricky cobblestone, on a curve in the path, juts up right as my foot is about to leave the ground. And it does, but I'm airborne along with it. I'm flying, my feet flailing and my arms are wind-milling.

I do everything in style, apparently.

And shit like that never happened to Pamela, and I'm more proportional than she is.

Edward, as seemingly perfect as he is, does not swoop in and save me from my fall from grace. Although, I never really had much grace to begin with. I land with my hands somehow in the soil, and my mouth full of grass. Edward laughs.

He has a beautiful laugh.

"Bella…" He's gasping. Maliciously, I think it's more or less a choking sort of sound. It's still very pretty.

Man-pretty, thy name is Edward.

"Up yours, Edward," I give him a full on Bitch Brow; he isn't even fazed. Not even a little bit.

"I can kind of see the glare, but the mud and grass make it so difficult." He's all mock seriousness. Or maybe he's all mock, I can't tell.

I ease myself up slowly, internally checking my body for any serious, activity prohibiting pain.

Actually, I don't think it would be any sort of prohibition – I wouldn't acknowledge the pain until after I've had some… fun. I want some fun. I'm fairly sure I need it.

And besides, how horribly embarrassing would it to be taken to the hospital by the same man that was probably going to have fun with me? Maybe the doctors would prescribe me some fun.

I'm fine. I'm telling myself I'm fine, using the power of positive thinking.

I'm more than fine, though. I'm fucking ecstatic.

He's quieted down now, to small escaping chortles every few seconds. A bright idea – a silver lining to this horridly wet and slimy moment – pops in my head.

I stalk towards Edward, trying to looks seductive – as seductive as possible covered in mud and grass. The continual rain is plastering my hair to my face in a way I know is unattractive. But I'm past the point of really caring, so I continue in my predator stalk.

"Edward," I whisper, my voice breathy and hoarse. Not all of that is put on.

None of it is actually, because the wind has blown the rain right onto his front, sticking his blue shirt very firmly against his chest. It's a sight to behold.

"Yeah, Bella," he replies.

"I've kind of always wanted to do this." I'm inching closer and closer until there's no space between us.

"What?" His mouth is open even after the question. I press my lip to his. Automatically, Edward takes my top lip in between his teeth, nibbling on it softly. I can't help but run my muddy hands all over Edward – his face, his neck, on his jacket. I begin pushing it off, my fingers leaving dirty trails on his t-shirt and bare arms.

I trace his veins with my hands. They're a beautiful web that lightly covers his skin.

Edward's hands are on my hips, angling and lifting them for better friction against his own. I roll them; he groans into my kiss. I can feel it.

His tongue is dancing with my own. It's twirling and gliding and smoothly seducing me. I moan, breaking away and burying my head in his chest.

"We have to stop kissing in the rain. We'll catch our deaths," he mutters, still clutching me to him.

"Old wives tale," I gasp, because Edward has decided to move from grinding to thrusting.

I'm surprised at how much I love thrusting. I was so sure I forgot what it felt like.

Edward's hair is sticking up with mud and water – it's dribbling slowly down his face and onto mine. I find it extremely erotic.

Very carefully, so as not to alert him to my perverse behaviour, I place an open mouthed kiss on his cheek, tasting the water.

And, by golly, is it amazing. He shivers.

"We have to go. Now."

He shrugs his jacket back up – apparently it didn't make it past his wrists – and pulls me behind me.

Edward has trouble unlocking the door. Perhaps it's because his hands are wet and slippery.

Maybe it's because I'm leaning against his right side – it's all frontal-side action.

He grunts in victory as the door swings open.

He's pulling me by both of my arms.

And then Edward is jerking the zipper of my sweater down and tugging it off my arms. He uses it quickly to wipe my hands of the remaining mud. He pays careful attention to each finger. Edward is running his hands up my soaking hoodie and into my hair. "Bella, you're all wet."

"We'll have to do something about that, won't we?" I murmur, slipping my arms around his waist.

"You don't have to tell me twice, dear." He crashes his lips to mine. It's forceful and powerfully hot. I'm backing up, but it isn't really me. Edward is moving me, his body pushing my own to the wall, when his hands leave my hair and grabs my waist, lifting me; my legs wrap around his middle.

I'm slightly higher up than he is, and it is a most wonderful angle. My tongue slides into his mouth and I'm in charge of the kiss now.

Edward tastes so good – more potent than at the car, when rain was present to dilute his taste. It's warm and sweet like honey; comforting and sexy and addicting.

He moves his hips in between mine. "Fuck," I groan. Edward chuckles, and does it again, a long and slow swirl that drives me up the wall (excuse the pun).

He kisses down my jaw and to my ear before biting gently on the lobe. This time, I thrust out to meet him. There's this growl sound from deep inside Edward's chest. He lowers my legs to the ground, and then takes a slow step back.

"We're going to do this here, or my in bed. You have less than a second to make up your mind," he says, his voice husky. In answer, I step up to him and kiss his lips, while my hands slowly undo his button snap jeans.

"Here's fine," I breathe against his lips.

He's pulling the holey undershirt up my body, trailing up my stomach with kisses. When my breasts are uncovered he groans. He begins to hold them delicately, comparing my skin to the satin material of my bra.

"Off," he rasps.

I'm the non confrontational sort, so I follow his orders. As it falls from my wrists, Edward and his mouth are there, kissing and licking slowly at one breast, while he fondles the other with his magic hands. Very carefully, he licks my nipple, and then exhales on the wet flesh; my nipples harden even more under his ministrations. He switches then, doing the same to my other breast.

My hands are hanging uselessly from my sides; I tentatively bring them up to his soft, damp hair, fluffing and pulling the strands through my fingers. It's a gorgeous feeling. I trace his ears lightly and he motherfucking shivers.

"Christ, Bella. You're beautiful." He looks up at me through his thick eyelashes. Tenderly, he kisses me chastely and sweetly on the lips.

"So are you," I murmur against his mouth, my lips brushing his.

Edward makes a slow trail of kisses and nips from my breasts to the waistband of my pants. He looks up again, his eyes intense and inquisitive. He's seeking confirmation.

I run my hands through his silky locks again and tug at the ends. "Edward," I moan softly.

It's all the invitation he needs. He lowers my yoga pants and my panties – Edward takes a moment to enjoy the pretty purple stripes and bows – carefully helping my legs out of that tangle-y business.

I haven't been naked in front of a man for a very long time. The shyness of the moment, the way Edward's eyes look upon me as if I'm a goddess and my under worked vagina's friskiness has me trying to cover up. I can feel my face heat up, the blush spreading down my neck and across my chest. I hunch inward, crossing my arms in front of my breasts. It's absurd, of course, because he's seen them, tasted them, and enjoyed them.

"Bella, don't." he tugs my arms away. I look to my left, at his leather sofa. "Don't. You have the prettiest eyes."

I sigh and look back at him, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth. I'm sure my grin mirrors Edward's.

He begins to trace patterns on my legs; swirls and lines from my ankles, circling my knees so lightly they knock, up my thighs. His mouth becomes involved then, nibbling up from one knee to the next. From my thighs, his hands continue their sensual pattern across my hips and waist and my lower stomach. I shiver at the slight touches, so goddamn erotic.

His mouth is at the juncture of thighs, placing light kisses there. My vagina and I rejoice.

He nudges my knees farther apart. "Bella," he cries softly as he first smells my juices.

Edward starts to stroke my flesh with his magic fingers, coating everything with my arousal. It teases my clit, already swollen, and then back again. It's such a beautiful sight – especially when Edward licks his fingers. Then I moan, loudly.

It seems to spark something within him, because the sweet gestures are gone, replaced with an animalistic side of him. He's lapping at my heat with fervour and every sound he makes reverberates in me. Edward inserts a finger in me. I throw my head back and let out a low, throaty moan.

I think I black out when Edward uses another finger. I'm so close to heaven I wave to St. Peter. What a weird fucking thought to think of during an orgasm. And what's even weirder is that doesn't lessen the pleasure.

My orgasm rocks through me. Edward still has two fingers in me, my muscles clamping hard around him. And his mouth is there, tasting my climax. I call his name numerous times; sometimes as a cry, sometimes as a whisper, but it's always there, on my lips in my pleasure.

My legs are useless, something that resembles gelatine. Edward helps me slide down the wall, so that I'm now sitting across from him, where he leans against the other side of the hallway.

"That was the motherfucking hottest damn thing. Christ, Bella, you're fucking gorgeous." His voice is still husky and dry. He coughs.

I try to crawl over to him, but I end up doing an impersonation of a gimp caterpillar. Edward, ever the gentleman, pulls me to him. I kiss his mouth, shamelessly enjoying myself mixed with his own special taste. I think I lick my lips, or do something equally as sexy, because he lets his head fall back and groans quietly.

"Edward, you're still fully clothed," I point out.

He looks down, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Well, what do ya know." He smiles.

I begin to jerk slowly at his t-shirt. Edward obliges and throws it over his shoulder.

Firstly, Edward is more ripped than I fantasized over. Very defined abs (like eight pack, defined). He's muscular and wiry all over, in that lean body type that is especially mouth watering. He has a very happy trail leading below his pants, the same bronze colour as his hair.

I trace his stomach and happy trail, dragging my fingers up and down slowly. I lick my finger, and very carefully outline one nipple, then the other. A great racking shudder passes through his frame.

I use my mouth this time, first skimming a path with my nose; starting at his neck and trailing down the waistband of his open jeans.

"Bella! Can these come off? Now? Please?" He gasps. His breath comes in heaving bursts, and exhaling in much the same way.

"Sure, why not?" and as soon as the words leave my mouth, Edward is shimmying while lying down, removing his jeans and boxers.

Edward's cock is very pretty for a man's; the man is not lacking in the length, or girth area, that's for sure.

Edward is packing. A. Lot.

I begin with a simple, fairly tight grip, moving my hand from the top first to use his pre-cum as a lubricant. Up and down, up and down, and palm the head; a nice steady rhythm that has Edward wiggling against the wall. I massage his balls a little bit with my other hand.

When I bring my lips to kiss the head Edward thrusts up to meet me. He looks bashful for a moment, before I take him into my mouth. He groans, and I attempt a grin but my mouth is preoccupied.

Truly, I've never been for or against giving oral sex. To choose spit or swallow, I would always swallow, because I'm a tough chick – it's not as though I like the taste, but if you're going to do something, might as well do it right. And the rest… meh. Very distinctly, meh.

I was interested, though, with Edward. I wasn't boy depraved or stupid enough to think his cum would taste any better or worse, but I wanted to give him the same pleasure that I had first received.

I'm a generous lover.

I bobbed lower, taking more of him in me, and used my hand to cover what didn't fit. Admittedly, there was a lot left, my hand twisting and moving up and down in a pattern similar to the one of my tongue and mouth. Edward thrust continually, moaning incoherently. But I'm pretty sure it was my name.

Edward comes in thick spurts soon after I use my tongue and the roof of my mouth to suction the top of his cock.

"You didn't have to… you know," he gestures to my throat, once he regains his breath.

I shrug in response.

"That was awesome," he whispers. "Um, Bella?"

"Yeah, Edward?" I turn my head from its perch on his stomach.

"I, um, don't normally do this," another gesture between the two of us.

Oddly, this thought hasn't really crossed my mind – for which I was grateful. I tend to over think things.

And it's probably how I end up here on the cool hardwood of Edward's hall with our sopping wet clothes spread out around us. I think it's a win-win situation. My hoohah got the coma it's been seeking. And my hands got what was owed them.

A Definite win-win.

"You know what's ironic?" I ask, as the hilarious thought enters my head.


"We met buying condoms, and we didn't use any." Edward barks a laugh and I snort.

"What kind of man would I be if I didn't at least take you out to dinner before we had sex?"

"The kind of man that gets me off in his hallway," I smile.

"You're right." He looks sheepish. "Is it okay?"

"More than okay," I assure him, my smile growing as I think about the moratorium on my vagina has been lifted.

"You're fairly prepared, you know, getting condoms when you aren't a, a man, and b, dating someone," Edward remarks, pulling me up to cradle me.

"Oh they're…" Realization hurtles from deep within the recesses of my mind. Oops.

He's silent a moment. "They are?"

"They're for a friend. She needed them like two hours ago," I whisper as it all sets in.

"We've been gone for about an hour and a half, Bella. Was she… oh."

"She texted me through her foreplay to get them." I'm still whispering, the shock preventing my throat from working properly.

"That's nasty. So… what are you going to do?" Edward asks, absentmindedly stroking my knotted hair.

"Nothing. She'll understand." I'm not going to ruin my time with Edward because of Alice's horny ass. I have my own to worry about. My newly found-again horny ass.

Besides, Alice is one of those people who are so sickly sweet in love everyone around them has to be, too. I'm just falling in line. Basically.

And my excuse is so damn limp, Edward's flaccid dick has more credibility.

"Are you sure?"

"No, but I don't care." I turn to face him, a devilish smile on my face. "So… how about dinner?"


A/N: Silly Bella. But really, it's all Alice and her horny ass's fault (for the good, the bad and… there really isn't an ugly, is there?). Would you like to see this expanded?

Always with much love and thanks to my beta, Duchess Michelle – she corrects my tense mix ups so you get the pretty, clean stuff. Enjoy!

I'm on Twitter, if you want to follow: ordinary_vamp