Just a little slash drabble arc for naelany, a commission as part of a literary-themed swap gift. xoxoxo
At the first touch of his lips, I am undone. They are softer than their fleshy pout belies, and they make me feel like a winter morning: bitten yet comforting with the strongest possible urge to stay under the covers until spring.
From my face to my neck, my shoulders, my chest, his fingers slide purposefully toward my waist before they snake around my back and pull me closer. He presses against me and I feel all of him.
I want all of him, even more now that I've felt him.
I didn't even mean to stay for the readings. Rose only asked me to "be a body" because she was afraid no one would show up to the book release party. It was her very own publishing house's first release, a collection of erotic short stories by up-and-coming authors. Since I'd been holed up in my studio hammering out my second (and sweet Christ, almost finished on deadline) novel, I figured it couldn't hurt to get out and mingle with humans for a night. If nothing else, I was supporting my baby sister.
When I see him there, sitting in the row where the authors who were sharing excerpts, my throat goes dry. His awry hair, the color of a dirty penny, first attracts my attention. He is familiar, but it is only now that I am struck by him.
When you think of classic literary heroes, in the most romantic sense of the word, it's not about brawn or good looks (necessarily). It's something innate that transcends physicality. He has that. And though he is good-looking, whatever it is I see in his eyes, makes him the most beautiful man alive.
"Look at me," he says.
From within his embrace, I freeze, holding my breath for a moment before opening my eyes. They're cast down, burying my gaze to the infinitesimal space between our bodies once they can glide over his lightly tanned bare skin.
"Jasper, look at me," he insists.
I blink slowly, traveling over the smooth expanse of his chest and settling into the shallow dimple at the heart of his collarbones. Unable to resist, I lean forward and lick. His nails dig in my lower back and he shivers, sucking in a quick breath before sighing in frustration. I hear a whine, too, and I smile to myself, enjoying what little power I have.
"Please, look at me?" He asks again, almost as though I may have misunderstood the request.
I trip over his bobbing Adam's apple, pausing to place an open-mouthed kiss on it, letting our faces brush lightly before allowing myself to really look into those wide green eyes that border on blue. They look sincere, and terrifyingly so.
I don't believe in heroes, though, so I don't even know why I allow myself to daydream about any sort of possibility with this guy. I've seen him before, and I'm pretty damn sure he came to my book signing (though never actually spoke to me), but I'm not sure he recognizes me. Yet, I cannot keep from looking across the aisle at him as I glance around.
Yes, I'm just glancing around. OK, no, that's a lie; I'm staring. But abashedly as opposed to pathetically.
Look away, for fuck's sake — what is wrong with you?
I tear my eyes away, but not timely enough. He catches my gaze first, and I can see his smirk peripherally. Embarrassed, I smile painfully, examining closely the denim fabric of my jeans and the unnatural shyness that has unexpectedly hindered me from acting like a functional adult.
Rose gives a short speech about the collection before finally introducing the first contributing author to read from the book.
"Ladies and Gentleman, Edward Cullen."
Answering without words, I barely breathe as we stumble blindly toward his bed. It's not rushed but languid and deliberate, a symphony of deep kisses and electrifying touches. The act of removing any remaining clothing is reverential and followed by a baptism of the exposed skin with a press of lips.
I begin to lose track of time, minutes stretching into years while decades shrink into seconds. I lose my restraint, and desperation with which I need him in me peaks.
My moan of worship is first, the sound of what I'm feeling reverberating off the exposed brick of his apartment, shattering me when it returns. I fall on my back before he follows, his own howl of rapture much quieter, but visually stunning. As usual, it is in his eyes.
With the last collapse, he smiles drunkenly, his leg snaking around mine as he rests his chin on my shoulder.
The more he speaks, the less I understand. My skin heats up and my heart pounds. My ears fill with the smooth tenor of his voice, and I am silent.
Every syllable calls to me, beckoning my breath and desire with every lilt in his cadence, every musical utterance from his throat. He doesn't linger on me when he looks up from his words, but somehow his eyes are still on me. I feel them wandering my face, my body, my heart.
When he finishes, I exhale, trying to ignore the sweat gathered at the base of my neck. Forced to listen through three more authors' performances, I only hear his voice when they speak, and see his face with my eyes closed.
My lids raise when I feel him in the chair next to me. He waits for me to face him before speaking.
"Get a drink with me, Jasper Hale?" he suggests, anything but casually.
I'm dizzy as I stand before his sink, guzzling down my second glass of water. My legs are unstable and my muscles scream in protest, aching to lie down again.
Standing in the doorway to his bedroom, I watch him contentedly burrowing into a pillow. I turn to leave, walking toward the exit. A warm voice stops me, as if a physical barrier.
"Sleep," he calls from the other room, his words slightly slurred with his promise. "I promise we'll sleep this time. Third time's a charm."
Returning to his bedside, I deny him. "Liar."
He grins, his eyelids droopy.
"OK, maybe not a liar."
"I will never lie to you, Jasper."
I nod, his honesty strong and radiant. He reaches for me, his palm flattening against my stomach and with its warmth, I cave. In the blink of an eye, I am again unclothed. I am again wrapped in Edward.
"Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past," he says, then kissing me hard.
I spin, knowing the words from Into the Wild, but shocked to hear him use them against me. His lips tear away to speak again.
"Whom had he loved, what had he loved, he asked himself in a tumult of emotion, until now?"
Capturing my kiss again, I smile behind his lips, the words of Virginia Woolf rattling around my head. Reluctantly, I let him away once more, captivated and curious what he will say next.
"Life is one fool thing after another whereas love is two fool things after each other."
Savage green watching me, I contemplate his objective as he leans in closer. It is my lips that brush his this time. He sees his victory and beams.
Not only candid and genuine but cheeky, he is, and will not let the moment pass without the last word(s).
"Then love is sin, and let me sinful be."
(pssst! the last one is Sir Philip Sydney. just FYI.)