Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Notes: This story was my first vampire fic, and I am really pleased with the way it turned it. Please keep in mind that any vampires in this are non-canon.

Huge gratitude for my beta, KarenEC, who was amazing as always. Not only did she clean up my mess, she did it in record time AND came up with the title for this. I can't thank her enough.

VeeInWonderland made the lovely banner that was the inspiration for this fic. Without it, this fic would not exist. And she was kind enough to add my story title and penname, and tweak it a bit when I requested it. I can't thank her enough.

Edward sat up in bed, his heart hammering in his chest, his hand clutched to his throat. He felt a sticky wetness coating his fingers. He frowned when they brushed against a strange, raised circular mark there. He struggled out of bed, his head throbbing, and his entire body aching like he'd been on a three-day bender. He'd had a few of those in college. But he couldn't ever remember feeling this sick before. Maybe he was coming down with something. His bedroom was dark, but he could see something glistening wetly on his fingertips in the moonlight as he staggered to the bathroom. As he stumbled in the doorway, everything in his head went white, and a rushing sound filled his ears like the roar of a waterfall. He clutched at the doorframe, his fingertips slipping, unable to find purchase there. He sank to the floor, gasping for air and dropped his head between his knees for a moment.

What the hell was wrong with him? He struggled to remember what he'd done the night before, but he could barely even remember what day of the week it was. On shaky legs, he stood, fumbled for the light, and made it over to the sink. His hands gripped the cool, slippery marble and he kept his head low, trying to keep the dizziness at bay.

When his eyes finally focused on the scene in front of him, he gasped. The sticky wetness coating his hands was red. It was garish in the harsh light of the bathroom, vibrant against the bleached whiteness of his skin. He frowned in confusion. When had he ever been that pale? And why did it look like his hands were coated in blood? Realization came crashing over him all at once, and he lifted his head to stare in the mirror. He looked like something from a horror movie. If it was indeed blood, it was splashed all over his formerly crisp white shirt and across his jaw and cheek. It even coated his lips. He clutched the sink again as the rushing in his head began again. What the fuck had happened?

He lifted his hands to his face and smelled the sharp, coppery tang of blood. He felt queasy and weak as he washed his hands clean, furiously scrubbing at the blood lodged everywhere. It was in his nails and every little crease in his skin. He tried to calm his ragged breathing, but his heart raced in his chest, filling his ears with the sound. Was that normal? Could he usually hear his own heartbeat?

Shakily, he grabbed for the soft white washcloth on the rack beside the sink. He frantically scrubbed at his mouth, desperate to wash the blood from it when a horrifying thought occurred to him. Had he done something? Hurt someone? It seemed impossible. He was a fucking investment banker. He didn't kill people or drink their blood. The thought nauseated him further, and he scrambled over to the toilet and dropped to his knees, heaving dryly. He was grateful when nothing came up. He didn't know what he would have done if something had come up. Something like blood. He retched again and dropped his head on his arm, trying desperately to remember what he'd done the night before. Had he worked late?Stupid question, he always worked late. Later than usual, then? Maybe, but he wasn't sure.

He did vaguely remember it being dark out when he left the office. Dark and rainy. It was March, though, and daylight still ended early. He gently pounded his head against his forearm before realizing it only made the headache and nausea worse. And it didn't help him remember a thing. Fuck, he swore to himself. What had happened to him?

On shaky legs, he stood again and went back to the sink. He stripped out of his clothing, realizing for the first time that his pants were unzipped, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Both his shirt and pants were ripped. His cock ached, too, he realized, like after a really good fuck. Jesus Christ. Blood and sex? He shuddered, feeling like a thousand tiny, cold fingers were creeping up his spine. Why couldn't he remember? He left the bloodied and destroyed clothes on the white marble floor and rinsed the blood-coated washcloth clean. He gently wiped away the blood still on his neck and jaw, and the washcloth dropped from his nerveless fingers when he saw the mark on his neck.

There was a silvery white raised circle on his skin, and when he tilted his head to the side to see it better, he staggered back when he realized it looked like a bite mark. The questions swirled in his head, and he once again tried to put together the pieces from the night before. All of the evidence pointed to the theory that he'd fucked some chick, and then she'd bit him, but was that even possible? He shook his head in disbelief, but it only made the pounding worse.

He slowly made his way through the gleaming white bathroom now marred by the streaks of his blood and discarded clothes. He flipped on the light in the bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest at what he might find there, but it was fairly innocuous compared to what his imagination had conjured up. A messy bed, blood smeared across a white pillow, and a black lace thong on the plush white carpet. He grinned, feeling almost normal for a second. Panties on the floor weren't that uncommon for him, although he never had them in his place. His grin slowly faded. Had he brought the girl back here,he wondered. That's odd. He never brought them home. He preferred to go to a hotel or fuck them at their place.

He lifted the underwear, noticing the expensive label and delicate lace. Well, he hadn't slept with a two-bit hooker, that was for sure. But where had he met her? And who the fuck was she?He temporarily ignored the other questions that lingered in the back of his mind. He'd worry about them later.

He managed to slip into a pair of silky black boxers and went out into the living room, stopping to check the guest bedroom, just to be sure no one was there. But it was empty, as white and pristine as ever. The living room was the same, as was the never-used dining room and kitchen. His front door was locked with the deadbolt in place.

He shook his head in confusion and went into the kitchen. His refrigerator was empty except for a bottle of vodka, a shriveled lime, and a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice. He never cooked and rarely ate at home, but he couldn't live without his morning orange juice. He was as much of a slave to caffeine as anyone else was and drank coffee steadily throughout the day, but he always had to have his glass of juice when he woke up. He gulped juice down greedily, the fridge door still open, the juice trickling down his jaw and onto his neck. He was normally fastidious about drinking out of a glass, but right then, he didn't give a shit. He needed it. He drained the container and wiped at his mouth with a never-before used towel, throwing it on the granite counter. He sagged back against the cabinet, his chest heaving with exertion. The cold juice settled in his stomach, feeling strange there. It had tasted good on the way down, though. He fumbled in the cupboard for something to eat; he finally found an old box of semi-stale crackers and crammed a few in his mouth. They were tasteless and bland, but after a little while, they, and the juice, finally started to do their job. The pounding in his head receded, as did the queasy feeling in his stomach. Now, he was just exhausted.

Leaving a mess in the kitchen, he slowly worked his way back to the bedroom, gripping the wall to try to steady himself. He managed to swipe his phone from the dresser and collapsed onto the clean side of the bed. He tossed the bloodied pillow onto the floor and pulled the covers over himself, so weak he could hardly grip the grey silk of the bedcovers. He fumbled with his phone, finally managing to unlock and check it. No missed calls or texts. Well, that wasn't wildly unusual; other than work, he didn't get a lot of calls. He'd never been very social, and since his parents had died just after he graduated college, he didn't have any family except for a few distant relatives he'd never actually met. He was attractive, successful, and had no emotional connections to anyone.

He blearily wondered if he'd missed a day, but no, it was four a.m. on a Thursday morning. The date was right and everything. He groaned at the thought of having to get up in just a few hours and turned off his phone, checked the alarm, and passed out. He only had one fleeting thought before he succumbed to sleep and it was strange. It was less of a thought than an image: two deep crimson eyes peering at him out of the darkness.

He jerked awake in the morning, startled by the shrill cries of his alarm. He fumbled for it, smacking it hard to turn it off. He clicked on the bedside light like usual before the memories from the night before returned. His hand flew to his neck again, and although his hand came away clean this time, the bite mark just above his collarbone was still there. He'd been so sure he'd dreamed the whole thing. But there was still a bloodied pillow and black thong on the floor. His body ached everywhere, and his cock was still slightly tender. He gently reached down and grasped it through the thin silk of his boxers. Damn, it hurt. He hissed as his thumb swiped over the tip. It felt sore, almost bruised. He peered down at it, moving the fabric aside, but it looked normal, not black and blue like it felt. He was still bewildered by what had happened the evening before to cause his cock to be so painful and leave him covered in blood, but at least he remembered what had happened once he woke up in the early morning hours.

With a stifled groan, he got out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom, feeling like he'd been hit by a freight train. He turned on the shower and dropped his boxers to the ground, not caring about the mess he left in his wake. He was too damned tired to care. The hot water felt wonderful, and he stood in the stinging spray for a long time, letting the water beat down on his shoulders. His muscles slowly relaxed, and eventually, he felt human enough to get out of the shower.

He went through his morning routine like always and dressed in his usual uniform of a dark suit, white shirt, and simple colored tie. Boring, but appropriate for the office. He stared at himself in the full-length mirror for a long time. He looked nearly the same as always. Tall, fit, well dressed. His hair was still a shade of brown that looked red in the sunlight. His eyes were still green. His skin was paler than normal though, and the circles under his eyes were frighteningly black. He craned his neck to the side, but thankfully, with the shirt and tie on, the scar couldn't be seen. Being hassled about that was all he needed at work today. He still had no idea what had happened, but he decided to put the horror of the early morning hours from his mind and focus on work instead.

The police hadn't come pounding on his door, and bite mark and aching cock aside, he didn't seem to be any worse for wear. He left for work; the only variation in his usual routine was taking a cab instead of the subway. He was too exhausted to fight the crowds of hurried commuters he usually battled with every morning. He didn't have the energy for the Manhattan morning rush. He dozed in the cab on the way to work, still exhausted from the previous night. He paid the cabbie when he arrived and stopped at his usual coffee kiosk right near his building. He was ravenous, and he ordered a larger coffee than usual, a bagel and cream cheese, and a bottle of orange juice. It wasn't his usual fresh squeezed, but it was better than nothing. He paid for his food and trudged into the building to take the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor.

Once in his office, he devoured the food and gulped down the orange juice, sipping his hot coffee just a bit slower. The morning was a bit of a haze as he struggled to stay awake and focus on his job. He was usually sharp and focused - he had to be in his line of work - but today, he could barely manage to keep his eyes open. His body still hurt, and he couldn't stop himself from slipping his fingers under his shirt collar and fingering the raised scar absently. He was interrupted from one of his reveries by a raised voice.

"What the fuck is wrong with you today, Cullen?"

He lifted bleary eyes to the person standing in front of his desk. It was his boss, Peter Kerrigan, and he shook his head and tried to look more alert. "I think I might be coming down with a bug or something," he said, rubbing his hands over his face.

Peter gave him a skeptical look. "You don't get sick, Cullen. You're a fucking machine - here every day and working twice as hard as the rest."

Edward chuckled and leaned back in his chair, trying to look like his usual cocky self. "I suppose even machines need a bit of servicing."

Peter laughed loudly. "All right, that I'll believe. Who was the chick that fucked the shit out of you? Looks like she did a number on you. What did you do last night after you got out of here?"

Edward shrugged. "Don't remember. It's not like I bother to get a name. 'Oh, baby' works."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Well, you probably shouldn't chance another encounter with her. I don't like seeing my boys so wiped out. Get some sleep tonight, and give your dick a rest."

Edward laughed it off and nodded, but the words Peter so casually tossed at Edward gave him pause. They lingered in his mind as he dragged himself through the rest of his day, stopping only to inhale a massive quantity of food for lunch and dinner. Would he see her again? And did he want to?

When his key turned in the lock to his apartment, he paused in the entryway, swearing he could smell a whiff of perfume. It certainly wasn't the cleaning lady. She only came on Tuesdays, and she left the apartment smelling like bleach. This was a dark, heavy scent with a coppery tang that reminded him of the blood on his hands. He shuddered and tossed his bag and coat on the couch, foregoing putting them neatly away like he usually did. He went into his bedroom, half-expecting to see a mystery woman sprawled in his bed, but it was exactly as he'd left it that morning. He groaned and sat down heavily in a chair, burying his face in his hands. He couldn't understand what was happening to him. He felt like he'd been taken out of his normal life and dropped into some sort of murder mystery - or horror movie.

He spent the evening trying to watch TV, but he couldn't seem to focus on any show. He wondered if he had watched TV the night before. The frustrating thing was, he could half remember vague pictures of what had happened, but they were slippery and elusive, gone from his mind before he could focus on them. He finally tossed the remote across the room with an irritated huff. He stalked into the kitchen and splashed a healthy amount of vodka into a glass and swallowed it in a large gulp. It burned on the way down, and he chased it with another. And then another. He needed oblivion.

The vodka made him tired, and he stripped out of his clothes, discarding them on the floor, as well. God, he'd never been this much of a slob, why was he starting now, he wondered. But he couldn't bring himself to care. He collapsed into bed and quickly fell asleep.

He awoke in the middle of the night again, his fingers once again seeking out the scar. It was tender to the touch but dry. No fresh blood then, he mused. He could swear he smelled the perfume again, but he dismissed that idea immediately. His heart was hammering in his chest at an alarming rate, and he fell back against the pillows in frustration. His cock was hard and throbbing, and he could swear he felt a tingle on the shaft and on his lips. He licked his lips, and it numbed his tongue, giving it a minty burn.

He was suddenly slammed by the memory of high heels on the sidewalk, the scent of the dark perfume mixing with rain, and a low, husky voice. He shook his head in confusion, trying to piece together what those memories meant. It had to be his mystery woman, but who was she? And why did she leave him bleeding in his bed?

He repeated the cycle of sleeping and waking throughout the night, snippets of memory returning to him. Long pale limbs, naked and writhing. Cool skin and the whisper of silky hair on his stomach. Burning, aching need and the sweet relief of desperation finally quenched.

Half asleep, he stroked his cock to her memory, but fell asleep before he could find completion.

The next time he awoke, his cock was limp and spent, but there was no ejaculation, and he had no memory of cleaning up, or coming, for that matter. He sighed and rolled over, suddenly assaulted by the memory of two narrow thighs straddling his face, his hair being pulled painfully as he devoured her cool wetness. He remembered his lips and tongue tingling after, like he'd dipped them in Novocain. He slept and woke to the scent of her sweet breath against his lips and the piercing, agonizing pleasure of her mouth against his neck. He could almost feel her teeth in his neck, the sucking, drawing sensation of his blood being greedily gulped down.

He sat upright; his heart once again going into overdrive as the memories came rushing back. Who the hell was this woman? he wondered.

In the morning when he awoke for a final time, he felt exhausted, but the weakness of the previous day was gone.

As the days passed, he tried to brush aside the questions that lingered in his mind, and the uneasy, unsettled feelings that plagued him, but they haunted him. He found himself slipping up at work, forgetting important meetings and client calls. Peter gave him a lecture on his sloppy work, barking his disappointment. But no matter how hard Edward tried, he felt as if he was only half-awake, slogging through his day with one foot in the real world and the other somewhere else. It was that feeling of otherness that lingered with him as he walked to the subway that night.

He heard the clicking of heels, felt a cool wind blow by him, and smelled the perfume that still lingered in his apartment. He glanced wildly around, desperate for even a glimpse of the mystery woman, but there was nothing for him to see. Frustrated and angry, he slammed his fist against the rough brick wall of a building, but it did nothing but make his hand ache. With a sigh, he continued home, convinced that he was losing his mind. Maybe he was developing some sort of mental illness. Schizophrenia, maybe? Was that the one that caused hallucinations? He didn't know. All he knew was that he felt like control was slipping from his hands, faster and faster, and he had no idea how to get it back.

That night, he was even more restless than he'd been the night before. He felt like he was constantly bracing himself for something to happen. When he went to bed, he was prepared for the flashes of memory again, and he wasn't disappointed. They were vague, but he found them strangely satisfying.

Edward continued on in much the same way for several weeks. He finally dealt with the bloody clothes and pillowcases, and his cleaning woman didn't comment on the blood on the carpet when he blamed it on a cut on his foot. She merely nodded and cleaned it up for him. He made a mental note to give her an extra-large bonus in her monthly check. The weeks were strange and foggy; he managed to hold it together at work, but the relish he'd once had for his job was gone. All he could think about was his mystery woman. She consumed his thoughts, alternately terrifying and arousing him. He had no idea who she was or what she wanted. All he knew was that he needed her.

One night, he awoke from a memory of her riding his cock until he sobbed with pleasure, and he roared out his frustration into the quiet bedroom. "Who are you?" he cried. "Just show me who you are!"

He was desperate and frantic, and almost didn't notice the whisper of wind that ruffled the curtains of the balcony or the silent figure that was suddenly perched on the edge of his bed. When he finally saw her, he nearly leapt out of his skin. His heart slammed against his chest wall, and the air left his lungs in a terrified gasp.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked. She crept forward, sleek and lithe and graceful.

"You don't remember me?" she asked softly, her voice husky and hurt sounding.

"I don't know." He ran his hand through his hair and tried to take a few deep breaths. "I have these vague recollections of the other night. That was you a few weeks ago, yes?"

She nodded, and he noticed for the first time how small she was. Small and delicate, with striking features. It all combined into something stunning: something eerily beautiful. "That was me. I'm sorry, I lost control."

"I... I don't understand," he stammered. "Who...? What are you?"

"I'm Bella," she said simply.

"How the fuck did you even get in my apartment?" he asked.

She smiled, and it was a sweet but simultaneously wicked grin that sent him reeling. "Which night?"

"That night," he said.

"You brought me back here. You wanted me here."

"Wait, you asked 'which night'? Were you here other nights?"

She nodded, and he shook his head in bewilderment. "How did we meet?"

She sighed wistfully and stroked her fingertips across the bedcovers. "I've been watching you for months. You're so beautiful. I promised myself I'd only look, but I couldn't stay away." Her large eyes met his. "I didn't mean to make contact with you."

"I still don't understand," he said hoarsely.

"I know. I'm just afraid of scaring you," she said, sounding childish and vulnerable.

Edward let his head fall back against the headboard. "Tell me what happened."

"You were walking home from work. I was following you, like always, far enough away that you couldn't spot me. I think it was the rain, it intensified your scent, and I couldn't stop myself. I had to get closer to smell you better." She breathed deeply, and he felt a shiver run down his spine at the naked, hungry yearning he saw on her face. "You're like nothing I've ever run across before. You smell like heaven and hell all rolled into one. You smell like you're mine."

Her hand flew to her mouth as if she'd confessed something dark and sacred. Maybe she had. He could feel a yearning in his body to touch her. He was terrified of her, his brain whirled with strange theories about her, and yet he still wanted her. Still ached for her. His mind might still be foggy on the details of that night, but his muscle memory was strong. He could feel her cool, small body against his, bare and wanting. His cock knew every inch of her narrow walls.

"I still don't understand," he said.

"I know." She looked down regretfully, fingers still toying with the covers. When he raised her eyes to his, he saw a reddish gleam, and more memories came rushing back.

"You're not human, are you?" His brain refused to admit this was even a possibility, but he knew. Deep down in his most primitive consciousness, his body recognized her as something alien and apart.

"No, I'm not." Her voice was a low, soft whisper that made his hair stand up on end. His entire body felt like it was tingling, but he wasn't sure if it was from fear or excitement.

"What are you, then?"

She gave him a disapproving look. "You know what I am."

"You're..." His bravado ran out, and he looked away from her strange crimson eyes. "You're a..."

"Come on, Edward," she coaxed. "You can say it."

"Vampire," he breathed. He was too far gone in the strange spell of having her in front of him to really grasp how impossible it should be. Besides, there was too much evidence before him. It couldn't be denied.

She nodded once, solemnly. "Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes," he admitted, and he saw her face fall in disappointment. "How can I not be? You left me bleeding in my bed."

"I am sorry for that." Her eyes flicked away from him.

"Please, I need to understand what happened that night," he begged.

Instead of answering, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. When the cool, minty touch of her breath brushed across him, he remembered. Everything.


Edward walked home from the subway, returning to his apartment after work. It was a cold, wet night. It had been drizzling when he left work, but it was beginning to come down harder. He shivered and turned up the collar of his expensive wool coat to block the wind. Unfortunately, he'd left his umbrella in his apartment that morning.

The streets were quiet, at least for Manhattan. The people who hurried by were few and far between and too busy to spare him even a glance. He didn't normally care, but it was starting to bother him how alone he was. After his parents' gruesome car accident, he'd shut himself off from the world. An only child, he'd never been particularly social, but after their deaths, he cut himself off from everyone. There were only a few who'd tried to keep in contact, but even they had eventually slipped away once he moved to New York.

He'd liked it here. It was a large city of anonymous people going about their own lives with no thought to the man who lived beside them or brushed by them in the street. He could have made friends, if he'd wanted to, but instead he'd retreated further into himself. His aloofness gave him a certain air of mystery at work, and although he'd gone to a bar or two for drinks with colleagues, he wouldn't say he knew any of them.

He was more than attractive enough to pick up random women in bars, and they satisfied the physical urges he had. He had no emotional urges. That part of him had shut down long ago. He worked, he ate, he slept, he fucked, and that was life.

A cold drop of rain trickled from his hair down his neck and he shivered, and walked faster. They were doing construction on the subway entrance nearest his building, so he'd been forced to walk further than normal. With a huff of irritation, he pressed on, wanting a hot shower and sleep. He heard the clicking of high heels on the sidewalk first. They didn't register in his brain, and he continued on. He felt the brush of a cool breeze against his skin, different from the rain soaked wetness the wind whipped across his body. His steps faltered at the smell of perfume, dark, heavy, sensual. It was a rich, earthy scent, womanly and beguiling. Edward shook his head at his foolish thoughts and pressed on.

He was only a block from his apartment when he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. He saw a swath of long dark hair, white skin, and the swirl of a black coat. He blinked at the sight and turned to face her. She was standing there, staring at him, appearing to be completely unaware of the rain pouring down over her. Underneath her coat, the expanse of skin from the toes of her high black heels to the hem of her jacket that ended at her knees, her legs were bare. It made him pause, and she tilted her head at him.

"Hello," she said softly.

"Hello." He wet his lips and could taste the rain on them. They stared at each other for a long time without speaking. He could finally see her face, and it was breathtaking. Her skin was smooth and white, flawless and almost shimmering in the light from the streetlamps. Her eyes were dark, nearly black in the dim light, and her lips were full and soft looking. He broke first.

"Can I help you with something?"

She shook her head no and took her lip between her gleaming, white teeth. She stepped closer to him until she was just inches away. He realized with some surprise that she was actually quite small, not even coming up to his chin in heels. She'd seemed much taller, exuding a strange air of strength despite her delicate frame. He didn't back up, but he found himself strengthening his stance, fighting the urge to back away despite the alluring way she smelled.

She reached up and touched his cheek, her fingers icy and her touch delicate. She traced a path along his cheekbone and down to his lips. She spread the moisture from the rain across them before dipping her finger inside. It was cool against his tongue and tasted sharp and minty. He stopped breathing as her fingers retreated and her lips moved forward. Two instincts in his body clashed as her lips met his. One was the screaming fear in his brain begging him to turn and run as far away from her as possible. The other begged him to move closer, to draw her tight against his body.

He did neither. Instead, he stood stock still as her cool lips caressed his. Her mouth was minty like her finger and just as cold. There was no warmth as her tongue slid against his. Just cool liquid fire that burned him from the inside out and made him feel like he was flying. He gasped against her mouth and finally reciprocated, taking control of the kiss, although he was dimly aware that she could probably hurt him with no effort at all. He didn't know how he knew that; everything he did was based on pure instinct. He was normally a rational, thoughtful person, and he had no idea where this new version of himself had come from. He only knew that he felt like she meant death to him either way. Touching her meant certain death, but he'd die anyway if he didn't.

Despite the cool touch of her tongue and the icy air, he felt like he was on fire. The need for her grew and grew until he felt like he'd go mad unless he was buried inside of her. He pulled back gasping, the lack of oxygen making his head swim. He opened his mouth to ask her to come up to his apartment, but she silenced him with a finger against his lips. She took his hand, and they walked together to his apartment. They didn't pass a single person on the street or in the lobby. Once in the apartment, she pressed him against the door, kissing him feverishly. His head swam with her scent and the feel of her touching him. He found himself in the bedroom, pushed back on the bed, with no memory of having gotten there. Things became hazy and dream-like, and for a moment, he felt like he might pass out.

Cool hands ripped open his pants and rent the buttons from his shirt, sending them pinging across the room. Still dazed, he felt her wintry lips traverse his chest and stomach, engulfing his cock in her mouth before he even had time to register it. At first, all he felt was a strange tingling sensation, and then it felt like he erupted in flames. It was the prickling, burning sensation of wet skin against freezing metal, but more intense. The feeling was overwhelming, almost more than he could handle. He could hear himself begging desperately, making sounds he'd never heard come from his mouth. Other than a bit of dirty talk if the girl liked it, he was normally fairly quiet, making only the occasional grunt or groan. She wrung sounds from him that shocked him, but he couldn't stop. The way she moved over him left his head spinning. He came until he thought he'd turn inside out, his body barely able to handle the overload of sensation.

When she finally released him, he lay back on the bed, panting and gasping so hard he wondered if he'd ever breathe properly again. He was stupefied as he stared at her while she shed her clothing. Fast, too fast. It was as if he blinked and her clothes were gone. But he was too enraptured by the sight of her to question it. She was as smooth and white as marble, an ancient Greek sculpture brought to life. She was too cool to be Aphrodite - Diana perhaps, the Goddess of the Hunt, fierce and wild and otherworldly. She slithered up his body, her movements graceful and predatory. His chest was still heaving with exertion when she situated one slim thigh on either side of his head.

Worn out from his intense orgasm or not, he was desperate to taste her. He eagerly drew her down on him, and the minute his tongue hit her wetness, he became an animal. Although he noticed that her flesh didn't have the same give that he was used to, he pushed the strange thought aside and concentrated instead on her taste. The cool liquid simultaneously numbed and created tingles along his tongue. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to please her before his tongue was too numb to use, so he wasted no time on preliminaries, swirling his tongue around her firm clit and gently pushing it between her lips. Her body seemed just as responsive to his as he had been to hers. His movements were frenzied, and her painful grip on his hair urged him on. Her arousal coated his lips and tongue, and he greedily drank her down. He could hardly breathe by the time she cried out in pleasure and deftly slid down his body.

Her icy tongue lapped at his face, licking her own arousal from him, and he felt his cock harden painfully. "Do you want me?" she asked throatily.

He realized it was the first real words they had spoken to each other since they were out on the street.

"Yes," he gasped.

The words had barely left his lips when she sank down over him. He shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of cool, rigid walls instead of the warm, yielding give he was used to. All thoughts of her utter unfamiliarity disappeared when she began to move. Her hips moved in a tormenting rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head. The way she moved was maddening, bringing him to the edge of orgasm and back, over and over again. When she finally brought him to completion, he roared and exploded into her, his hands gripping her hips. Her face was a mask of agonized pleasure, and he thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful. When her eyes opened, he felt a shudder of fear run down his spine. She lunged forward, her teeth clamping down on his throat so fast he hardly registered it. He cried out, the pain from the bite shocking his body. The pain blended with the ecstasy still flooding his system, and he cried out and gripped her hair tightly. He could feel the blood being drawn from his body, and he felt his vision go hazy and white.

"Stop," he whispered. "Please stop."

But she didn't stop, and he felt his consciousness begin to fade, the pounding of his heart in his ears the only thing tethering him to his body. With a snarling, wounded groan, she finally lifted her head. The last thing he remembered before he completely slipped into unconsciousness was the sight of her eyes glowing red in the dark room and the taste of his own blood on his lips as she kissed him.


Bella sat back and stared at him. Edward blinked rapidly, trying to re-center himself. The onslaught of memories had been overwhelming.

"What the fuck was that?" he roared.

"I gave you your memories back," she said quietly.

"I gathered as much," he snapped. "But I still don't understand. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because you're mine," her throaty voice grew desperate. "You're mine, and I've tried to fight it. I fought to stay away from you for months and months, but I can't. You belong to me. Your smell, the taste of your blood, don't you understand?"

"I don't understand any of this," he said hoarsely.

Her mood abruptly changed. She slithered forward seductively. "Are you happy, Edward?"

"What?" He blinked in surprise, not understanding the question.

"Are you happy? Do you love your life? Would you miss it, if you couldn't have it anymore?"

He opened his mouth to reply automatically, then paused. "I...I suppose not," he finally said reluctantly.

Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, and she straddled his upper thighs and ran her hands across his chest. "What would you say if I told you I could give you a life you've never even dreamed of? Eternal youth, immortality, everything?" she breathed.

"The catch is I have to drink human blood," he said dryly.

"There are vampires that drink from animals," she said dismissively, "but yes, humans are what I drink. Do you have a problem with that?"

She ran her fingertip seductively across his bottom lip. He swallowed hard, torn between desperation to be inside of her again and curiosity to learn about her. He was still frightened by her, but the fear was dwindling, rapidly being replaced with a need for her that surpassed everything else.

He pulled her against him, devouring her mouth. Now that he understood what she was, he no longer found the differences in her body as disconcerting as he had before. Instead, he found her thrilling, mysterious, intriguing. He knew what she was offering him, and although he had by no means made up his mind about it, he knew he wanted more from her. More of her. Her taste was intoxicating, and he kissed her greedily. His cock was hard under her body, and he felt her shift on him, her hips beginning to move.

She pulled back to look at him, her eyes bright like smoldering coals in her white face. She cupped his cheek in her hands and leaned forward, her dark hair enveloping them both. She trailed wet lips down his jaw and to the spot where she had left the scar. Her tongue traced it, and he groaned. The sensation went directly to his cock like a bolt of lightning.

"Mine," she whispered throatily and bit.


Slender white fingers snapped open the newspaper and quickly perused the headlines. A single article caught his attention.

Manhattan police are still investigating the disappearance of 29-year-old investment banker, Edward Cullen. His cleaning woman found his apartment empty early Tuesday morning. "He was a nice man, very quiet and neat," she said.

Signs of a struggle, along with a small quantity of blood were found at the scene. "I didn't know him at all," a neighbor was quoted as saying. "Sure, I saw him in the elevator, but he never spoke. He wasn't a very friendly guy. He never caused any problems, though."

His coworkers described him as being dedicated to his work and relatively anti-social, except for being a bit of a womanizer. "Yeah, he had women all the time, but no one serious," a source at the company said. "He definitely never had a girlfriend or any close friends that I knew of."

His parents are deceased, and he has no siblings.

Police have no leads at this time.

I'm dying to know, what did you think about my first vamp-fic story?