A/N: WARNING: There is some extremely crude language, along with scenes in this chapter that could be upsetting/offensive to some because it could be considered dubious consent. I assure you, it's not meant to offend, it's merely a story, and meant to be sexy, rough, fun. There are also some BDSM themes at play here as well. Read at your own discretion . . .
Slick as Ides
Chapter 1: Breaking the Ides
Blip, blip, blip.
I hate yellow.
I hate warnings.
And most of all I hate I have to do this.
My heart pounds as I turn into the gas station. I'm out of my basic necessities, and the panic isn't getting better.
"Uuuhhhhaaaaahhhh," I release a tight, dizzying breath.
My knuckles pop as my grip on the wheel doubles in intensity.
Every time I consider what I'll be doing in a few moments, my vision almost blurs.
My heart is driving its way out of my chest and into my stomach.
Sweat dots my brow.
After passing by two other gas stations too busy for my liking, I pull into the Chevron on the corner of Ficus and Coleman Rd.
I sigh. "This one'll have to do," I tell myself.
My breath catches as I slow the vehicle down and take in my surroundings.
There's a car on each end—two total, and I can use the standard guys' bathroom rules while fueling up my car. I stay in the middle stall with as much empty space between us as possible, and don't look at anything but my task at hand.
My shoulders round and hunch forward as I coast the car to a stop.
Why didn't I get an assistant like my friend, Riot, suggested?
I'm a stubborn moron, that's why!
"Stupid know-it-all," I mutter to myself.
Riot's words echo in my head and put my stomach in such a knot, it feels like there's a Chinese finger-trap inside, and my guts are trying to break free of the death grip hold it has on them. I'm a step away from screaming, and with my heart slamming about inside my chest, things are only getting worse.
I stir in my seat, huff a little at my arrogance in thinking I can handle these things myself.
Anxiety is not a disorder. It's a way of life.
I scan the grocery store gas station once more before opening the door and cautiously stepping out.
The second my hand grips the door, it's shaking. Fingering the outline of my cell phone in my jeans pocket, helps calm me.
My saving grace in a crisis like this one.
I grip the edge of my phone through my pocket once more and square my shoulders. I can do this.
Until a feeling of dread drapes itself across the backs of my shoulders and has the hairs pricking at the edge of my neck.
I blink hard. Suddenly, everything around me feels off—all of it.
The environment puts me on edge even though it's devoid of people.
In the amount of time I've been standing here, the other two cars have left.
My mind goes through everything I could have forgotten—the reason I most likely feel off-center.
Did I leave the doors unlocked at home?
Impossible. The chip inside you does it automatically.
I reach up and grip the back of my neck, swiping my thumb across the spot where the chip's implanted.
I'm forgetting something; I know I am.
You're forgetting your lungs. Breathe!
"Ugh! It's just gas, that's all," I berate myself and smack my thigh with my hand that was fondling my phone like an old lover.
I snort at myself and squeeze the back of my neck.
I'm fine. My chip's in place.
So, why do I get the sense I'm being watched?
I get back in the car for a moment and put my precautions in place. Never know what can happen in an unguarded moment.
I remove my stereo's face. That goes in my backpack, along with the cord. Pretty soon I'll have the stereo to the car rigged to my chip along with the rest of the car.
My twisting gut sets me in motion, and I put on the false, stereo front and then hook in the decoy cord.
I'm quick, and make sure my movements are small so if I really am being watched, nobody will realize what I'm doing.
Should I grab my model in back?
I hesitate, but then talk myself out of it.
It's just gas! This isn't war. Takes five minutes tops if you'd stop hesitating!
My heart pounds in my chest like I'm running a marathon, and my palms start to sweat.
I slip the backpack on in a flash as I step outside into the cool, night air.
Right as I turn around to shut the car door, I'm greeted by a loiterer.
I huff to myself.
Only he doesn't look like any vagrant I've ever seen before. He's too attractive to be a social pariah.
But then, looks can be deceiving. I know this.
I squint. Do I know him? Looks familiar . . .
My mouth goes dry as my eyes roam across his gorgeous face, and his emerald eyes sparkle at me with a hint of mischief.
I remember eyes that looked like that from years ago . . .
He smiles, and my throat constricts.
My mind goes blank, and I want to look away, but I can't.
"Um, excuse me, pretty lady, could you spare some change? My bike just got stolen, and I need to get something to eat," he says, his voice a raspy, hypnotic tenor.
He grins even wider—all whites and perfection.
Do homeless people have a dental plan I'm unaware of? Because his teeth are shinier than mine, and I'm fixated with having a clean oral space.
My eyes narrow at him.
I want to ask him to empty out his pockets so I can see what brand of toothbrush and floss he uses, along with his choice of toothpaste.
If I can get my teeth that dazzling white, maybe people will like me and talk to me because I can finally stop obsessing over my breath being minty-fresh and clean.
That's not why people avoid you . . .
I gulp, and search for words.
Nothing comes to me.
To throw me even further into a state of stupor, he dazzles me by tossing his hair out of the way of his hypnotic eyes. There's a scattering of amber around the pupil that bleeds out into a bright green rim, captivating me and making me forget I'm a mute imbecile, gawking at him.
"I . . . Uh . . ." I mumble and shift about.
He asked me something, didn't he?
He looks like he's three months overdue for a haircut, which makes sense for a homeless person, but on him . . . whoa! He should keep it this way.
He'd make a nice wallpaper for my laptop, even in his stained, torn, faded jeans and rumpled tee shirt.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
I stare down at my shoe. He's too pretty to look at. He's confusing me.
He coughs, and I step back.
I grip my backpack strap tightly, on my shoulder. He makes me nervous.
And fuck no! He's coughing.
I tuck my hands in my pocket, fumbling to find my hand sanitizer, but it's not there.
Oh shit. That's why I came here in the first place. Not because I needed gas, initially. Needed more supplies to kill germs.
This is bad. Get in your car and go!
He clears his throat, and a nasty wave of nausea hits me.
He's diseased! And he's standing less than three feet away.
Goose bumps drive their way through my skin into my bloodstream, making my blood turn to ice.
I cross my arms over my chest.
No, don't leave. Be brave for once. Stand here and catch whatever drool you let loose when you look at his fuck-hot face again. That's the intelligent, responsible thing to do.
Either way, you look like a social reject and you don't have any hand sanitizer to clean up your face after you catch your saliva. Best leave and bleach your face when you get home.
"So, do you? Have a few bucks to spare?" he asks, breaking me out of my trance-like mode.
"Uhm . . . n-no. I don't ever carry cash on m-me," I stammer, self-conscious.
When I dare to look up, his grin spreads like watercolors on a moist paper, taking over his whole facial canvas and officially becoming the most breathtaking thing I've ever seen.
Beauty? Give me a break. You don't know this creep. And where the hell did he come from? One minute you were completely alone, and then he practically materializes out of thin air. And forget about art. It's not a part of you anymore. Run! Now!
My insides clench, and bile threatens to make an appearance.
I rub my arms to give me a moment to think, and get rid of the chills.
It doesn't work. The sound of his breathing makes my heart hammer harder.
"Awww, c'mon. You're telling me you don't even have a few loose quarters in your purse you can spare?" he lilts.
What the fluffy fuck? Is he flirting with me?
No, wait . . .
Is he heckling me?
See! Told ya you look like a fool. Of course he's gonna make you think he's attracted to you so he can get what he wants.
Does it always have to be about money?
My eyes flash down to the asphalt. This is all I'm good for when it comes to men—trying to steal my ideas, take my money or find a way to use me to build their own business and power.
I'm no longer sucked in by his model-worthy body or smile. Who cares that his biceps and forearms flex with the smallest movement? Not me.
Or maybe Formica.
I like that stuff. It's inexpensive, sturdy, and looks nice. Not to mention it's non-porous.
Yes, that's it. I'm Formica, and you, buddy, are not.
You're mud on my shoe with attractive eyes. And I hate mud. It grosses me out. But I do like your eyes . . .
A lump forms in my throat at the thought of squishy, diseased mud.
"I can't talk about this. I have things to do," I say, looking at him briefly, then diverting my eyes away from him.
He lurches forward when I'm about to open the gas tank flap, and I yelp.
His hands are on me!
He touches my arm.
Germs, germs, germs! Oh God, no!
I jump at the contact and scramble away from him.
He's dangerous! He's not afraid to touch you!
I shrink into myself; pull up the hood on my sweatshirt.
Grab the gun out of your backpack. Tell him to back off!
No! That'll require you take your eyes off him, and now you can't even afford to blink. He might try to do something else to you.
"Hey, hey . . . relax. I'm not gonna hurt you," he says, throwing his hands up in surrender right away.
"Don't do that—don't t-t-touch me," I say, my voice shaking so hard I struggle to breathe. My tongue feels heavy, yet slushy. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck, even though it's kind of a brisk night. My diaphragm is spasming uncontrollably.
Instinct kicks in, and I scan his entire body for any identifying marks in case he commits a crime.
Good Lord . . . he's like me. No tattoos; pale, flawless skin and no pock marks, scars or freckles.
Does he stay indoors all the time, too?
Maybe he's afraid to be out?
Yeah, right. And he has no idea how good-looking he is either.
I back away even more, hoping he'll leave on his own, based on how uncomfortable he's making me.
Maybe I could run if he doesn't leave?
But then . . . I have my model in the backseat. It's my prototype, so I can't leave it behind.
Even if I can consider replacing this car, the other piece is more important.
"I'm begging you, lady. You've got this expensive car, and I'm really hungry. You honestly don't have a few bucks you can spare? I'd pump your gas for you in exchange. Those things are covered in germs, and a pretty woman like you doesn't need to dirty her hands up on something as filthy as that," he says, motioning his head toward the pump. Then he has the audacity to reach forward for a handshake.
He swallows hard, and must realize his mistake when I grimace because he abruptly shoves his hand in his pocket and his shoulders hunch up in a sheepish way.
"Too late; you already touched me without my permission," I blurt.
My face heats for a moment when I realize how crazy I sound.
"I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean anything by it," he apologizes.
I duck my head, and realize this is all wrong.
Everything about it is unsafe.
My door is open; he's standing right inside it, next to my seat. How the hell did I let this happen? He almost had me walking in circles around my car with the way he keeps prowling toward me.
There are no keys inside though, since it's all rigged to my chip, but still . . . he could easily slip inside my car and cover the seat with his homeless bacteria.
No, no, no!
His hand reaches out and he leans into the side of my seat, resting his palm there.
I wince and gasp for air.
This has never happened to me before. Nobody has touched this seat but me!
What were you thinking, Bella? You're supposed to be some kind of genius—doesn't look like you're so brilliant now!
I grind my heel into the road. Gas. I need to fill up the tank on my car so I can get out of here.
I can get hand sanitizer ingredients somewhere else.
"Hey, look, I can see I'm making you uptight, and I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't desperate. Please, honey?" he coos.
Okay, now he's overdoing it.
I'm not this dense.
I glare at him.
My knees are still wobbly, and my breath shallow, but I can think through it enough to see he's not what he says he is.
He's a liar.
You have no proof. He seems okay. And he's still really nice to look at.
Doesn't matter how hot he is and how good he smells. My head goes foggy and my eyes glaze over as I take a deep whiff. Wow. That's nice.
No. This is wrong. I need to be more assertive, that's all. He'll leave me alone.
"I said no. I don't have any cash, and I don't have a purse inside my car. I don't carry one!" I say in a rush of adrenaline.
"All right, all right, I gotcha," he says, and departs with a playful wink.
I stand rigid; my feet are roots, burrowed into the asphalt. I can't move.
"What was that?" I mutter to myself, barely blinking, and still a little dazed by his intoxicating scent.
He hops a half wall about ten feet away and heads for the bus stop another five feet ahead of him.
I can't stop staring after him.
Wait. Something's . . . this is worse than before. I can figure this out . . .
He's good-looking, and most definitely smells like somebody who showers and takes personal hygiene seriously . . . Hey! He did not smell like a man, living on the streets.
He was wearing cologne, and his breath was minty fresh. Not to mention, he smelled extremely clean. I know; I'm an expert on being clean.
Was he . . . ?
He is a liar!
No, Ides, he's some crazy person passing through. Stop over-thinking—that's how anxiety builds up, remember?
Those stains on his clothes and holes were fabricated. He's a con artist, probably hired by Hillcourt Corporation.
He knows you've got the prototype in the back of the car.
Just a glimpse of it could be all he is after. Shit! Did he see it?
I cup my hands on the window and peak in back to make sure it's still there.
It is, and I sigh, letting my spine loosen a bit.
What was I thinking? He couldn't have seen through my windows, tinted with resiliency flare shield. He wouldn't have been able to see a dang thing unless he craned his neck around my seat, which he didn't do.
I allow a breath to invade my lungs, and square my shoulders.
Pump gas, and get out of here.
You can get your hand sanitizing ingredients tomorrow.
Drop off the model tomorrow as well. This is too much for you.
A hiss of breath escapes me, and I resemble a leaking balloon.
My fingers fidget for a moment, and then I manage to uproot my heels and move to the gas flap.
In a bundle of nerves, I open it, unscrew the gas cap, and turn to the gas payment machine thingy. I squint.
My head can't even remember the names of everyday things right now. I roll my eyes at myself.
This is ridiculous. Who cares what this machine's called?
I try to calm my trembling fingers as I turn to the gas pump.
My head focuses on a project—a new invention—I've got back home. As soon as I get into my office, I'll be relaxed, and everything'll be fine again.
My eyes clench closed, and I take another tight breath, hoping it will sooth my addled brain.
Next thing I know, my car is rocketing off, and out of the parking lot.
I turn and scream, "You can't do this!"
My legs turn from the heavy poles they were moments ago, to a cheetah's powerful pistons.
I'm running at maximum speed after my car, and as I hop over the same wall the distracting man did, I realize he's gone.
Where did he go?
Is he the culprit behind the wheel?
Son of a bitch! This is unbelievable!
I make a mental checklist of his attributes. His eyes and hair are easy to recall, especially since they were both such odd colors. The rest of his build? Not as easy, and I like precision. I think he's about six foot two or thereabouts, and size eleven shoes, approximate weight one-hundred-eighty.
He's toned, but not bulky; kind of a runner's physique.
Nice hands despite their touching me without my permission. They seemed oddly familiar, too.
And you know exactly what he smells like.
My left eye twitches and my hands ball into fists. I can get my car back. And I can get back at him for daring to take something belonging to me.
My car disappears, like the vapor of a man he is, as it rounds a corner.
There's enough adrenaline in me I can continue to chase after him, and I can even shoot at him, but I kind of like that car.
The other one isn't as nice.
But then I inherited the other.
Fucking, ruddy, monkey balls!
What if he's got it in his hands right now?
I gasp, heaving in great volumes of air, but it doesn't help.
Oh great. He's got me so angry, I'm reverting to old curse words I made up in high school with my electronics riot-wire-nerds.
I yank my backpack off, take a seat on the bus-stop bench, trying to ignore the creepy-crawly, germy feeling, sliding up my spine.
Before the next bus arrives, I grapple with my phone, tuning it into my car's specific frequency and make sure to turn the light down so people won't be frightened when they see me spying on the thief inside my car.
I'll have my car back before the night's over!
The sound of a rumbling bus, approaching, does little to relieve me of the helpless, treacherous heebie-jeebies, skyrocketing through my system. I'm surrounded by microscopic raw germs and sewage traces.
My skin crawls, and I push the thoughts aside of babies sitting on this seat in nothing but soiled diapers, partially toothless people who smoke with stained teeth, and worst of all, people failing to thoroughly wash their hands after using the toilet.
Without any forethought, I'm up and off the bench; my backpack secured as I pace and hover over my phone, still uploading my links.
I type in the final code to get live, video-feed from my false, stereo-face in my car.
"Who's that?" I whisper to myself, completely enveloped in my task.
I barely register the bus heading my way.
I zoom in so I can get a better look at the punk that thought my car was free for the taking.
And then I hear it. The same voice that spoke to me and rattled my insides so thoroughly, is chatting with somebody in my car.
I knew it! I knew he did it!
I pull some earbuds out of my backpack and hook it up to my phone, then slip the ends into my ears.
"I told you I could do it. Pay up," the gorgeous conman says from the passenger's seat of my car.
"I have to admit . . . that was pretty slick," the driver responds.
The driver looks formidable in size. His barrel chest and linebacker shoulders make me think twice about going after my car.
But I have a firearm, and I know how to keep a safe distance so they can't hit me, should they have their own guns.
That's my car; my first car I chose and bought. And similar to the first twenty dollar bill I ever made, which I promptly framed and hung up in my room, this means something to me, and I look at it often.
It's just a car!
But I need that prototype in the backseat.
It's just a million dollar model. No big deal. You made it for fun on a weekend because you were bored. You're gonna give the money to charity anyway.
Yeah, but you promised, and you never break your word. You have to deliver it by tomorrow night.
I slip into a rant with a few choice curse words.
Thankfully there's no one around to hear me.
I cringe at the sound of the bus, squeaking to a stop in front of me.
Without turning my phone off, I slip inside the disgusting bus doors and pay the fee without making eye contact or giving any kind of recognition to the bus driver.
I kind of smirk, thinking about how I have cash on me, enough to pay for bus fare until the end of this century, but didn't give any of it to the man now joy-riding around in my car.
The bus driver seems distracted by the other people on the bus as I tuck my wad of cash away, and I doubt he cares what I do as I fumble with my phone, keeping my nose almost pressed to it.
I find a seat at the front, away from the loud, obnoxious group of teenagers at the back.
I turn up the volume on my phone to hear what the perpetrators in my car are conversing about.
"I know. Now will you admit I'm slick as Ides?" the fake homeless guy says.
"No, Vapor, you conceited bastard, I won't, so quit pestering me. No one's as good as that guy. Face it . . . you'll always be in his shadow," the burly driver says, chuckling.
They're talking about me. And I am not a he.
"Whatever," Vapor says. He waves his friend off. "You're jealous, and you always have been. No one's as slick as I am. I lifted her car out from under her nose; the rich snob! She wouldn't even give me a quarter, and you know she's loaded with a car like this. What a bitch . . ."
"Well, if I remember it correctly, I'm the one that actually drove off with it. You did your thespian part well, but I had to execute the actual heist," his friend brags.
"Shut it. I did all the work. Your part was easy; no thinking required," Vapor says.
I remotely shift the view of the camera that's in the car, so I can stare at Vapor, instead of the intimidating behemoth of a man behind the wheel.
Vapor reaches for my stereo, and I'm laughing now.
"I've gotcha!" I murmur.
He has no idea how caught he is.
Vapor fiddles with the stereo, but nothing happens.
He can't turn it on, but for a moment he's too caught up in his bravado to realize it's not working.
"I'm not called Fingers for nothin'," the driver says.
"You like to think so anyway." Vapor snorts, and then he growls, "What is wrong with this stereo?"
"Did you plug in the iPhone?" Fingers asks.
"Yes, you moron, I'm not as stupid as you. If you'd paid attention, you'd have noticed I put it in as soon as you opened the car door. I had it in place before my ass was in the seat," Vapor huffs, his face contorting in confusion.
I can't stop laughing, and a few people stare at me.
I duck my head and try to be a little more discreet about my voyeuristic activities.
"God, this sucks!" Vapor says, throwing his hands up in the air. "Now we'll have to put in a new stereo system, and I wanted this car changed out and sold tonight."
Fingers laughs and says, "I'll keep it. This has gotta be the most amazing car we've ever lifted."
"We can't keep it, asshole. It's too risky. Stop trying to think before you blow the last of the few brain cells you have left in that head."
I snort a laugh.
From my periphery, I can just make out the bus driver, giving me incredulous looks. He most likely thinks I'm insane, laughing to myself.
Well, I am, and medication doesn't seem to cure it—only hand sanitizer and electronics do .So much for me thinking the driver wouldn't care what I did or even notice me. I shift in my seat, angling away from him a little more.
The bus makes its scheduled path, block after block, and I wait for it to take me to them.
Tracing them is easy. I have Vapor's DNA from the gene capture on my faux stereo face. I know their faces, their code names, and the cord they did not remove from my stereo, has a tracking device inside it, so I know exactly where they're going.
And if that wasn't the best part—he actually plugged his iPhone into my trap.
As they continue to talk about how fabulous they are, my iPhone sucks the information out of his, like juice from a straw. A small side window on my screen rifles through his information: phone contacts, emails, music, videos, photos, and a few browsers he left open online. Seems he's got quite a sizable bank account, and a penchant for BDSM porn. He must not be too horrible a criminal if he's amassed this kind of wealth, but still . . . not as slick as me, and I don't need ropes in my bedroom to feel like I have control of my lover's body.
"Okay, let's see here," I mumble to myself, and bite my lip as I traipse through his personal information.
His name is Edward Cullen.
Psht! What a boring name. No wonder he gave himself a code name.
Wait . . . Those eyes, that name, Edward . . .
You're imagining things. That was a long time ago.
I blink hard and go back to my information in the palm of my hand, ignoring the pit that's settled in my stomach.
Let's see . . . his friend is . . . well, at least Emmett McCarty, aka Fingers, is smart enough to keep his friend's identity secret on his iPhone, which they've now hooked up to my stereo since they probably think Edward's is broken—failing to work with my sound system.
I stifle a giggle. Here, Edward's been razzing his friend about being an idiot, and Edward's phone was the one that gave me all the crucial information I needed.
The bus pulls up and lets me off a block away from where they parked my car.
My skin is crawling again. I've touched filthy things. Maybe I should stop and get some waterless sanitizer after all? It will only take a few minutes.
I glance around, and notice this is a pretty seedy neighborhood, so my legs start pushing me forward—taking me toward them.
"You got it?" I can hear them say in my phone. They're outside my car now, and there are scraping sounds and stiff plastic being maneuvered about.
Shit! No! You like that car, and you don't handle change well. They're about to change your vehicle's exterior. And any minute now, they'll realize where the model is and take it.
Wait a minute. They don't work for . . .
They can't, or they'd have taken it by now. Or at least they would have searched for it.
I burst into a sprint, and ignore my internal battle waging over germs versus wanting to right a wrong and take back what's mine.
I rush down the block while simultaneously watching my phone in horror.
The camera view changes at my command, but it's limited.
They really are outside my car, preparing it for a quick paint job.
Fuckers! I like black.
I really, really like black.
My stride lengthens, and my pace quickens.
If they make it some hideous color like banana-yellow or fire-engine-red, I won't hesitate to shoot their kneecaps off.
They'll deserve it if they do something that idiotic.
Before I arrive at the body shop, barely visible behind a trash-heap of a pawn shop in front of it, I wrangle out my handgun.
I swallow hard, step up to the gate and shove it open.
They're so amateur they don't even have an alarm system in place. I roll my eyes.
The hinges squeak a little from past rain and rust, but they can't possibly hear it. Not with how busy and loud they're being.
I burst through the front door and don't even bother to shout.
A bullet flies out of the gun as I squeeze the trigger, and it hits the hubcap hanging on the wall behind Edward, or should I say, Vapor.
A bit of bile reaches the back of my throat and against all my instincts, I swallow it down and keep a straight face.
His reflexes make him collapse to the floor in a panic.
"That's my car," I snarl.
"What the fuck?" Emmett, or Fat Fingers as I now call him, mutters, as he drops what he's doing.
He was a second away from painting the bumper.
I aim the gun at him next. "What color did you choose?" I ask, baiting him. My hand is steady, though inside I'm shaking.
I'm a computer hacker, an inventor—not this. Not the monster Dad turned into. I want peace; a place where guns aren't necessary.
I'm against criminal activity though.
"Metallic purple," Emmett says, his voice shaking.
I chuckle a little. This brick-wall of a man is afraid of me. Me? I'm tiny and insignificant.
"I don't mind purple, actually, so the choice isn't bad, but black is better. So if you don't mind stepping away from my car," I say, my voice calm. My eye twitches, but I'm far away enough I doubt they can see it.
My gun is still level when I let another bullet rip and whiz past his head into the hanging pegboard covered in tools behind him.
Tools to change my car!
My face scrunches, and my gut clenches over what they were about to take away—one of the few things I enjoy in my drab life.
"You might want to move a little faster. I had an ocular procedure last week so my aim might be a little off," I threaten him.
He skulks away, and I spot Edward, trying to be oh so vapor-like, placing something under the carriage of my car.
"Get that tracer off my car!" I jerk my head toward the spot he was just touching.
Edward stands up and glares at me.
When I glance at the shelf next to me, there's some hand sanitizer there. I take a squirt and pass the gun from hand-to-hand as I freshen up my skin.
"Look, lady . . ." he huffs and rolls his eyes ". . . I don't know who you think you are, but you're not a superhero here." He's even more spectacular to look at when he's seething at me. My heart flutters, and my lips part as my mouth goes wet. "We have a job to do, and you're only slowing us down."
I laugh. "This is a job? Oh, forgive me . . . I thought it was a hobby. Since you're never going to be as slick as Ides," I repeat what they said in the car, smirking.
His eyes go wide, followed by his whole body slouching forward.
"How the hell did you know what we said?" His mouth makes an O shape when I smile hard at him, and it's almost as impressive as the saucer shape of his wide eyes.
"Oh, I know a lot of things . . ." I smile, and then the humiliation really begins when my eidetic memory kicks in. "Edward Cullen, who lives at 2259 Quail Run Rd, Avondale, Arizona." I quirk a brow, mocking him. "That's a pretty expensive neighborhood you live in. I love gated communities, but they're so nineties, wouldn't you agree?"
They simply gape at me silently.
"Must be a hefty mortgage, but then you're not solely responsible, now are you, Edward?" I spit his name as harshly as the bullets I'd let loose from my weapon moments ago.
"How can you know all of this?" Edward asks.
I smile broadly, enough he can probably count most of my white teeth. Not as white as his, but still . . . They're in good shape.
"This is impossible," Emmett adds.
I move toward my car.
"Even now, as I stand here, your fingerprints are downloaded on my phone. Thanks for making sure to touch my car stereo—so brilliant of you." I snicker. "My database I have at home is searching for a police file on you both. When it's done, it'll shoot it back to me, and I'll know even more. You don't mess with this bitch." I take one hand off the gun handle, glance down at my phone for a second, and it comes up empty. "Oh, too bad, you've never served jail time before. I'll have to remedy that for you, but it appears your roommate, sharing the title of the home with you, a Mr. Jasper Whitlock, has served two years for petty theft."
"Well, helllllllloooooo, Jasper," I say, as a picture of Vapor's roommate pops up on my phone. I make a face like he's pretty decent to look at.
A moment later, and I'll know more about who he is, too.
"You know, for a crook with two-point-nine-million dollars in your bank account—that I'd diversify if I was you—I would think you could train your accomplice here to hone his skills. He needs a better poker face, but then you're the one with the 'thespian' skills, aren't you, Edward?"
I circle around the car, and they give a wide berth, moving away from me in the same direction, looking nervous like I'll shoot them if they don't orbit around my vehicle, keeping the appropriate distance from me.
"Move all of this plastic off my car, all of the tape, too," I demand, motioning with the gun for them to move closer to my car before I take my vehicle back.
"Who the hell are you, lady?" Emmett asks, sounding in awe.
"Just call me Shadow, because you never saw me. You never touched my car—I'll need to sanitize and detail now, thanks to you bozos—it's gonna take a good week to complete," I complain. "And you never talked to me."
"Who. The. Hell. Are. You?" Edward grits, his face turning red, his hands on his hips.
"Man, she's gotta be . . ." Emmett trails off.
I smirk. Well, well, well . . . Emmett's smarter than I originally thought, and definitely more so than Edward believes him to be. He knows Ide's work when he sees it.
"Knock it off," Edward says. "Ides is a man." He rolls his eyes at his friend.
I giggle, and shrug.
"Nobody knows if Ides is male or female; no one's ever seen them," Emmett argues, ripping the plastic off.
It sounds like they've had this argument before.
"Careful!" I say, worried he's going to mess up my pristine paint job. I've only driven this car a little more than two dozen times. The mileage is low, along with the normal damage from use.
"Think about it . . ." Emmett goes back to his line of thinking, continuing to clear off my car ". . . only Ides could do all this. No one else has this kind of technology. What she's done is unreal. It has Ide's signature all over it."
My ever-present grin tonight has grown exponentially.
"Stop it!" Edward yells. "This bitch is lying! She's making shit up as she goes!" He grips his head like he's trying to keep it from spinning off. "She's not Ides!"
The last of the plastic drops to the floor, along with the ball of tape Emmett wadded up. When he's finished, he backs away.
"Step away from my car, Son," I tell Edward. "I don't want to run you over—blood is the worst to clean up." I lean over and pump another glob of sanitizer into my hand and liberally spread it back and forth between my hands again. Just the thought of blood.
Fuck . . . So yucky!
He groans and stays stuck in spot.
"Son?" He glares. "I'm sure I'm older than you. You barely look twenty."
"I'm twenty-four, actually," I correct him with a wink, reminding him he did that to me earlier, and it was equally annoying then.
"You have to admit though, she's one of us," Emmett tells him.
"I don't know what she is . . ." Edward shakes his head ". . . other than psychotic. She's some kind of a freak, that's what she is."
"Better a freak than a petty criminal, a panhandler straight from the school of William Shatner's over-acting one-oh-one," I say, my hands visibly shaking now.
And Edward . . . well, his jaw flexes. His teeth look like they're grinding, and it's such a shame since he has such straight, nice, white teeth. A heartbeat later, and a vein throbs at his right temple.
He groans even louder with a frustrated, strangled sound, and I circle them again.
"Get over in front of the hanging tool board, and place both palms flat on it. Don't look back," I bark.
They both drag their feet, with aggravation detailed all over their body language.
It's pretty obvious, they're not really afraid anymore, but they know they've been beaten.
I laugh, watching them get into position.
Edward of course disobeys me with his eyes. His hands are in place, but his head is craning around to see me.
I wrench the tracker off my car he placed on the underside. Edward growls like a dog when I lob it at his head.
His hand snatches it out of the air before it hits him, and he slips it into his pocket.
Good reflexes . . . and very nice hands, even if they did dare to touch me.
My insides clench deliciously, and a wave of heat passes through my thighs.
No, they're ugly! Like his insides. He's a creepy asshole!
Absentmindedly, I rub a smudge off my door handle from one of their fingerprints.
He chokes on a cough and his eyes go wide.
I've just erased some evidence of them having my car in their possession.
I'm not gonna file a police report. Once I have this car back home, they won't be able to do anything.
A moment later, a vision of his extra fine-looking hand on my arm, invades my mind, and instead of my usual reaction of revulsion, my heart flutters.
I mask my sudden ragged breathing, with a fake cough.
He glowers at me.
What? Does he think I'm making fun of his cough?
Stupid, Ides. He's a clown. You have to forget about him and that little interchange. Who cares what he thinks or that he touched you?
I look away, preparing to leave and never see him again.
Right before I step into my car, he calls out to me, "Ides!"
It sounds remarkably close—like he's only a step or two behind me.
And foolish me—I reflexively respond to my name, turning to look at him.
His lips are latched to mine in the blink of an eye. He kisses me with a fierceness that takes my breath away.
A liquid fire courses through my throat and lands straight in my pussy.
I groan; my body screaming at me to grip onto him and never let go.
Shove him off! Germs! Germs! Horrid, fucking germs!
But I . . . I hesitate, and his hands clamp onto my upper arms.
My eyes grow large.
Touch! Not again . . .
I jump back; he does the same in response.
"Bella . . . is that you?" he asks, his brows scrunched together.
My cheek flame in utter mortification—this asshole knows who I am?
He's like kryptonite! He knows too much, making me vulnerable and his intense stare turns my bones to jelly.
I fire off a few rounds close to his right foot as additional warning to stay away. Then I quickly drop into my car and race out of there, breathless and a sweating mess.
"Good going, you idiot, you might as well have told the guy you live two blocks away from him, and you'd love to spend some more time with your lips on his!" I shout at myself, slamming my palms into the steering wheel.
I press down harder on the gas. My lips throb from that fiery kiss.
I can't get home fast enough.
He kisses even better than I could've imagined.
And was that . . . ?
No, he can't be. I don't know that tool back there. I'm imagining things—it's not the same guy.
I make the mistake of looking in my rear-view mirror. Edward's outside. He's staring at me in amazement as I flee.
And the vision of him watching me leave makes me feel . . . off.
I grip the wheel tighter, and breathe in and out; deep, calming breaths.
I really don't like that guy.
Fucking stupid, freaking-out body!
I clamp my thighs closed. They're leaking in the middle for him.
Bastard. Kissing me? Who does that after stealing someone's car and getting caught?
"Mrraaaahhhhh!" I scream and stretch my neck, continuing to drive as fast as I can.
At a stop light, I rip my hoodie off, and chuck it in the backseat.
Within moments, I'm back home, tucked up safe in my car, hidden away in my own, personal, bat cave.
I almost roll off the seat once I have the door open.
I'm too exhausted to scrub my car down.
I head inside; find a way to get a few more drops out of the last of my homemade sanitizer.
My feet shuffle around, heavy and uncooperative as I head to my office.
I plunk down in my seat and stare at my newest ideas I'm working on, but my eyes shift away, and I'm anything but interested in working.
How? How did I wind up caring about what he thought about me?
He thinks I'm repellent.
But he kissed you . . .
I fight off a shiver, and look for my sweater, but for some asinine reason, it's not resting on the back of my chair as usual.
When I pause and think about it . . . I'm not cold. And my sweater's in the dryer. I had to wash it after I sneezed.
I get up, and strip down, all of the sudden feeling grimy and obnoxiously dirty.
I kick off my Doc Martens and yank off my socks. My black jeans fall to the floor, and I have my black tee shirt off a moment later. I fling it on top of my pants.
They all land under the desk, and I realize that for the first time in my life, I'm being messy, and I don't give a fuck.
Why should I? I was almost violated.
I traipse back to my bedroom with my head tipped down.
My body wants to crash on me, and when I'm within falling distance of my mattress, I allow myself to land face first into the fluffy comforter I secretly love with all its purple ruffles and flowery patterns.
"Well, fuck, you don't waste time," a familiar voice lilts.
"Ahhhhhh!" I scream, and before I can jump off the bed, strong arms grip mine behind me, and I'm suddenly cuffed to the top of my black, iron headboard.
"Oh, yeah, I'm gonna have fun with you!" Edward says with a shifty smile.
"Let me go, you nasty fucker, and I won't send you straight to prison for this," I howl.
He nudges my leg with his wrist. "Let's talk some more about that." He rubs his jaw. "Or maybe . . . Just maybe, we should talk about how I outsmarted you, breaking into your impenetrable fortress. Rumor is, not only are you invincible, and no one knows who you are, but you're also supposed to have the most secure home in the US. Not very secure from where I'm standing." He chuckles and paces at my side, brushing up against the side of the bed as he goes.
My eyes follow him, and I gulp, my stupid mouth, watering again.
God, does he have to be so hot and smell this good?
"Black is overrated. You'd look really good in some other colors like blue, or even red. It would bring out the chocolate in your eyes." He leans over, his head disappearing, and when he comes back up, he places a red, silky blindfold on my torso.
I try to angle my head up to see what he's going to do next.
He rests his hand on the bed, an inch away from my leg. I scoot away from him.
"Too close for your liking?" he taunts.
I swallow and keep my eyes opened; focused on him.
"Not much for chatting, huh?" He removes his hand and inches toward my upper body. "Well, maybe if I take away some of your other senses, you'll be more likely to talk to me."
I shake my head the second he picks up the blindfold and brings it toward my eyes.
"No, please, God, no!"
"Yes, please, God, yes," he mocks me, smirking.
He slips it over my eyes, and a moment later, I hear the unmistakable sound of a cap on a bottle being flipped open.
"What is that?" I ask, my head lifting higher, my body perking up.
"I don't want your germs," he says. "It's hand sanitizer, since I'm definitely gonna have to touch you."
A soft, pleading whimper chokes its way out of my chest. "Please don't."
"Have no choice, now do I? You refused to talk to me," he replies.
"I can make your life miserable if you do this. It's not too late for you. You can let me go and leave without a trace. I won't report you," I say, my voice breaking.
"Oh, I know you can. I'm all too aware of what you did to your dad." He chuckles and his hand tickles up my leg.
"Oh, shit!" I murmur, my eyes closing beneath the blindfold.
"You really don't like thieves—and I get that. He was sponging off the top, but that's not my style." His hand glides up my thigh and when he gets to my panties, his fingers rim the bottom edge, and get dangerously close to my moistening pussy. "By the way, I always thought it was really dumb for a cop to do something like that. But not as stupid as you, keeping his handcuffs you used to restrain him when he attacked you." He tsks, and my heart goes cold.
"How can you know all this? I had those records sealed," I cry, pulling at my wrists, the metal biting into my flesh.
"You're not the only one that can hack into records."
"But why would you follow my records?"
His hand settles right above my pubic bone, and the tip of what feels like his thumb, works little circles right above my panty's waistline.
"You really don't remember me, do you?" He exhales like he's disgusted with me.
"What're you talking about?" My head shifts in his direction, and my neck is sore from holding my head up, so I finally rest it back on my pillow.
It can't be him . . . It just can't be! Christ, is it?
My heart pounds at the thought that it could be him.
I squirm, my panties even wetter now. Edward . . . Touch me more. A little lower.
"God, Bella. I looked for you. For years—I was trying to find you. You disappeared when you were fifteen, and this was all the information I could find on you."
"Who. The. Hell. Are. You? And why do you think I should know you?" I grit, my heart pounding.
"Well, fuuuuuck," he groans. He shifts off the bed, the heat of his hand now leaving a cold, icy feeling in place over my undies and my heart drops.
"What the hell is happening?" I yank at my hands again, but once more, am unable to break free.
"Fan-fucking-tastic," he says. "Here, I thought you'd know as soon as I kissed you." His breath is suddenly wafting over my lips, and a flame shoots through my body, making my fingers and toes flex.
Soft lips mold into mine, and hands drive into my hair, fisting at the scalp.
My mouth drops open and his tongue delves inside.
And that's when it hits me. It's impossible—but it is him.
His flavor assaults me.
When he pulls away, I moan, "Edward—I, God . . . It's you! Holy shit!"
"Finally. Thank God," he breathes.
"You were my first kiss," I blurt. And my first huge crush.
He chuckles. "You were mine, too."
"I was?" My voice cracks and goes hoarse.
"Why is that so shocking?"
"Uh, 'cause you're two years older than I am and you're gorgeous. Always have been, but I didn't remember your hair being this color. Did you dye it or something?" My lips press together as I recall a skinny boy, with his voice barely starting to lower and carrot-red hair, kissing me at a party after we'd both been drinking. Then I remember something else disturbing, and I gasp. "You're the reason . . ."
"One of the reasons I'm paranoid about germs. You vomited all of over my feet right after you kissed me."
"First of all," some weight shifts on the bed, making me dip to my right, "you kissed me. And second of all—if I'm the reason you're too scared to face a single virus," I snort at his choice of computer terminology, and he smacks my leg, "then you're to blame for me becoming a hacker, and the reason I started stealing."
"Oh, no . . . You can't blame me for those things."
The weight shifts once more, and his lips tickle at my ear. "Can't I? I first hacked into computers to find you, and I stole information for the exact same reason . . ." His teeth nip at my ear.
I shudder for a moment, but not because of the thought of bacteria, but because I like it. I like it a whole hell of a lot.
"And now that I have you, and know what you changed your name to—"
I gasp louder this time. "Goddammit, I changed it for a reason! You can't let anyone know."
"Who would I tell, Bella Blaaaack?" he drones.
"Fuck, you're doing this on purpose," I whimper, struggling once more to tear my hands free.
My wrists are getting raw.
"Doing what? And how fucked up is that you changed your name to that idiot boy you crushed on forever in school," he says. His fingers start at the hollow of my throat and walk their way down my center, toward my navel.
"Who? Wh-what're you talking about now?" My mind goes blank as one lone finger of his, swirls around my belly button.
"Jacob Black, that snotty kid that always treated you like shit—and you were always going on and on about how cute he was, and how smart he was, and I was always telling you what a dick he was."
Something wet drags up my ribs.
I jerk away from it, from the ticklish, sensation that makes my skin do funny things.
"I don't even remember that—I didn't even remember you, and I kissed you, and I was in lo—" I cut myself off and continue in a different direction. "I just like the color black. That's the only reason I chose that name."
"I like black, too . . . Mmm . . . A lot," he purrs, and then my black bra straps are teased down my shoulders.
"H-how did you get in here?"
"Where? In here?" he asks, and suddenly, he's cupping my groin.
"Jesus!" I yelp, and then whimper with a dying moan as my body begins to levitate off the bed, my back arching like the damned Lucky Charm's rainbow I study on my cereal box, every morning. "P-please. Mooore . . ."
Cool metal slips across my skin between my panties and my heated flesh. I exhale, and he's cut through my panties at my right hip and then at my left, and he snatches the fabric off my body. "The tighter, the better, I always say. I'm good at disappearing in cramped, warm places."
My thighs slam together and another pathetic, wallowing moan rips out of my chest.
"But you know all about tight, cramped, warm places, don't you, Bella?"
"Mmm . . . I . . . I-I d-doooon't know what you m-mean," I stammer.
His fingers wrap around my knees and part them slowly, but so powerfully, there's no way I can stop him. "Oh, don't lie to me. Tell me, or I'll stop."
"Okay, dammit. W-what do you want to know?" My breath catches in my throat as my mind goes blank.
"When you made a move on me so long ago, you and I were in a closet, and you pretended to be scared, until you had me backed up against the corner, where I couldn't escape, and that's when you kissed me. I had nowhere to go, no means of escape, and I knew you did it on purpose."
"That wasn't a question, and I didn't do th—"
"Oh, but you did, you naughty bitch," he coos, and then something warm, wet and stiff, rims my slit, making my legs shake and my heart pound so hard, I can barely hear what he's saying anymore.
"You wanted me to do more than kiss you, even back then, didn't you? You wanted my cock. You still do," he says.
"Yes, I mean n-no, I was a kiiid," I say, my legs shamelessly rolling open, splaying my body to him. My breasts jut forward, equally as obnoxious.
I can't see, so I have no idea if he's grossed out by my pubic hairs. I don't wax or shave down there. Women have it wrong. Those hairs keep things cleaner; more sanitary—keeps the germs away from the vagina. If I take them away, I could get a UTI, or some other hideous infection.
I bite my lip and try desperately to see out the bottom of the blindfold, but there's no way to see past it. It's like a huge, fucking blast shield over my face.
"You're a pervert, that's what you are. I saw some of the porn you had opened on your phone. Naked women tied up—" and hairless, unlike me "—and men ejaculating all over them." I want to say his come would be full of germs, but it's not true. I found out a long time ago there were antibacterial and antifungal properties in semen. I had to know because I wanted to give my ex-boyfriend, Tyler, a blowjob. Unfortunately, he stole one of my biggest ideas yet and took off, never to be found again before I ever got a chance to put my tongue on him down there.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Mmm . . . Yes, such a fucking tease—keeping these handcuffs in your nightstand drawer, right next to your bed, just waiting for me to come and use them on you."
The unmistakable sound of a zipper coming down has my breath caught in my throat and my fingernails digging into my palms. My head jerks toward him again.
"You're on the pill, too. I saw the opened packet in your drawer next to your cuffs." He yanks on my bindings. "Oh, fuck. You need to quit yanking like that." In the next breath, something soft is wrapped around my wrists, shoved in between my now raw flesh and the metal. "If you keep still, you'll be glad you did. You're gonna enjoy this almost as much I will."
I exhale and buck my hips, my legs flailing out.
He smacks my outer thigh, closest to him.
"Snnuuuuuuhhhhhhuhh," he inhales deeply, and my pubic hairs move with his deep inhalation.
"Fuck!" I whisper. He likes my curls. He just fucking inhaled them like they smelled better than cinnamon rolls baking in the oven. "Oh my God . . . More, please, Edward . . ." Please, pretend I'm tasty like cinnamon rolls . . .
Does he like cinnamon rolls? What if he thinks they're disgusting? But that's silly. Nothing smells or tastes better than them.
"Yeah, I love them, too, but no . . . You definitely smell and taste—" liiiiiiick "—better, sweetheart. Though, a little cinnamon might be nice on those nipples."
Oh, God, I said that out loud? My face heats and my pussy spasms.
The next thing I know, my bra has been shredded off me, most likely by the same metal implement that took away my panties.
Is he using a knife to dismantle my wardrobe? Is that safe? Did he clean it properly first? Knives can harbor a lot of germs . . .
"Do you know how fucking long I searched for you—and dreamed about this moment? The moment I could kiss you, and taste you and fucking devour every inch of you?" he growls.
A hot, wet line drags up my leg, and then I realize he's hovering over me, and his damp tip is moistening my body with his pre-come.
"Wouldn't want to leave behind any germs, now would we?" he taunts, and something even wetter than before, retraces the path his tip left behind on my body. His tongue? He lapped at his pre-come—removed it from my body?
Oh fuck, that's insanely hot. I think I say some more gibberish, begging him to touch me more, maybe I ask him to fuck me somewhere in there? I can't think straight, so who the hell knows what I've said.
His fingers caress my inner thighs and something wet works its way from my knee up to the edge of my outer labia.
"Oh, God, yes!" I rasp, sounding like the biggest whore ever. It's his mouth, and I know it because it's now settled on my left nipple. Oh dear Lord, that feels amazing! It flicks, it stabs and sucks, and I can only mewl like a whore that's turned into a cat in heat. "More, oh, fucking hell, that's goooood."
"I know you like it rough. You fisted my shirt and pulled my hair when we were only kids and you were about to ram your tongue down my throat when that closet door opened," he says.
"My leg," I say.
"You're what?" His hands land on my legs and it feels like he's inspecting for wounds while twisting and turning them.
"N-no," I waver in my speech, my tongue heavy and uncooperative and way too wet. "I wrapped my leg around your hip, and you had to push me off when we got caught."
"Oh, fuck, yeah, I forgot about that." He laughs and his warm palms slide up my thighs once more and massage right at the dip of my inner thighs. "Such a naughty bitch—trying to get laid. I probably would've knocked you up right then. God, I bet you left that night all wet and slippery—with that greedy little cunt of yours." Warm hands run all over my body. "Does your tight, pink cunt want me now?"
My stomach tightens each time his hands move lower, toward my pussy. "Yesss," I answer.
The next thing I know, his tongue parts my vulva's lips, and he simultaneously pinches my left nipple.
I'm a groaning, sweating mess, my body rippling off the bed.
"Oh . . . Please . . . God, Edward, I c-cant—"
His mouth stops, and a wisp of cool air blows over my embarrassingly wet labia. "Please, what? Hmm?" I hear his jaw snap shut and his breathing goes harsh. His hand drags off my breast and then clamps down on my thigh, yanking me open even wider. "You wanna know what you do to me? What you've always done to me?"
"Oh Christ!" I whimper as the initial brush of his cock up against my entrance, makes my pussy convulse.
"Say you thought of me, too. That you wanted me every day, and you were going mad not knowing where I was," he grits. His tip slips in and out, maddeningly, unhurriedly, and I am nothing but tendons and muscles, tightly coiled as a shriek wafts out of me. "Tell me something, or I'll stop. And you don't want me to stop, do you?"
"No, Jesus, God, no!" I rasp. "Yes, I thought of you—I t-tried—"
"Then tell me," he insists, his fingers digging into my thighs, and his fucking tease of a cock head, still barely licking at my hole.
"Okay, I did—I looked for you, too, at first, but it was too painful. I threw myself at you—like you said—in that closet. And I knew you didn't like me. I made you vomit—you thought I was that heinous. No boys liked me then, and it's no different now. You tolerated me," I blurt, and then suddenly, my chest caves in. I'm a torrent of tears, and gasping nightmares and fears. "But I want you."
"Shhhh . . . It's okay, Bella." My hands are freed, and I'm flung around his body. He kisses my hair, all over my face as he pulls the mask off, and I see the torment in his eyes as well. "I couldn't ever stop thinking about you. Finally, after searching so long, I convinced myself you were dead, and now to find out—" His neck snaps to the side and he tucks his head under my chin, holding himself to my chest as he rocks back and forth with me molded around him.
I stroke his back and the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry. Oh, God, so sorry . . ."
"Don't be," he says, muffled by my flesh he has gripped tightly up against his face.
I sigh and lean back 'til I'm lying down, taking him with me. There are soft, penitent kisses, rising up my neck, hands massaging into my breasts, and a chanting from him, that sounds similar to, "I found you—you're mine. I found you. God, I finally found you."
I kiss him wherever I can until his lips grow more urgent, and he finds a way to clasp my hands in his, stretch them out on the pillow above my head.
This time, when his mouth descends on mine, I can barely breathe; he overwhelms me.
My legs wrap around his waist, and he runs his length over my slickened clit, causing dirty, wired moans to rip out of me.
"God, that's beautiful," he says, nipping at my ear, his tongue flicking at the bottom.
"I never thought you'd ever want me," I confess. "I do remember you, but you're different . . ."
"You are, too. And my fucking God—you're Ides," he groans and his head tips back, exposing his straining neck to me.
I use the tip of my tongue to trace along his jugular, loving the feel of his hammering pulse on my mouth.
"Gotta have you—feel how hard you make me—how much I die to be with you," he says, and his hips jut forward, burying himself inside me in one swift move.
"Ahhhhhh fuuuuuck!" I grind through my teeth, gripping his hands tight and tilting my head to the side, nuzzling into his muscular forearm.
"Jesus—fucking Ides, it's you—I can't believe it," he says, his hips moving way too slowly.
"Pl-pluuuuheeeez move faster," I say, voice breaking and body trying to bend in half, simply to sink him deeper inside me, and hopefully get him to speed up.
He bites down the column of my neck. "No. I'm gonna savor every fucking moment."
"I need faster—harder . . . Or I'll break," I say, the words sticking to the back of my throat like his cock, stuck at my entrance once more.
His thrusts speed up, but they're shallow, unsatisfying.
"You're gonna kill me—stop fucking teasing," I say, clamping my fingers down so hard on his, I hope it hurts. My eyes blaze at him.
"Look at the way you think you can control this—" he stops altogether, and a shrill, feral sound, tears out of my throat and my eyes slide up in my head, that's now tipped back "—I've heard about Ides and his control issues. But you're just a woman—a fucked woman, stuck under me, and I'm telling you—I was jealous; I wanted to be you. Be the big man every hacker everywhere talks about."
"No one's gonna ever know you did this to me—that we fucked like wild animals," I hiss, and bite the edge of his forearm.
He laughs, and it's dark and unsettling, and fuck—it impossibly turns me on even more.
"I don't care if anyone knows. I'll know. I'll wake up every day and know you burn for me. That you begged for my cock to be stuffed and rammed inside you so you could come all over it because it's all you want. Isn't it?" He inches inside me at an agonizing pace until he can go no further.
"Iiiiiyyyyyahhhhh!" I grunt with my whole insides tightening, my head turned away from him. I can't look at his heartbreakingly gorgeous face. I don't deserve to have him saying he wants me—that he looked for me and sounding like he's dying inside as he buries himself deep. "Fuck! Yes, okay—I want you so bad it aches deep inside me—places I didn't know existed." Tears roll down my cheeks. "Is that what you want to hear? That I've loved you for so long, I had to shove it out of my brain so I wouldn't go crazier than I already am? I never loved whatever kid that was you were talking about. I'm sure I said all that shit to make you jealous!"
"Finally! Jesus—woman, take me to my knees," he snarls. He lets go of one hand, only to put both of my wrists in one of his palms. His hand clamps down over them, keeping them secure. His free hand grips under my chin and he forces me to look at him. "I love you. Every day . . . every hour, and I'll be damned if I don't take what's fucking mine this instant. So, when I say I love you, and my cock's enveloped by your wet cunt, I expect you to come. Do you understand?"
"Oh, gaaaawd," I say in a sandpaper whisper and my pussy clenches down in response.
His eyes—they tell the truth. He really does have a claim on my body and soul, and he's trying to take my heart, too.
"That's better . . ." He keeps hold of my face with a rough grip while he kisses me delicately, and the contrast between the two—God, I fight off an agonized moan. His thick cock, sliding in and out of my very wet hole, has my eyes heavy and my heart pounding, making it even harder to keep from panting out his name—giving him the satisfaction that he does own every bit of me.
"Shit, you feel too good to be real. You're so tight, all for me," he says. He kisses my nose; slides his forehead across mine and wears this look, like all his concentration is on me.
His motions are quick, deep, and oh, so, fucking good, I want more. I do want to come, but I've never done it merely from penetration.
"I know you want me to come on you, but I . . . It's not that simple," I tell him.
"You don't think I know how to make you come? Goddammit, woman, I won't be leaving here tonight until you've creamed my cock hard," he says. Then he lets go of my jaw, his mouth latches onto mine and his tongue invades my mouth and my thoughts center completely on everything he's doing to me—the slight twinge of pain in my wrists from those damned cuffs I'd been wearing. The tingle in my clit as his pubic mound presses into it when he angles his hips really far back before driving into me once more. The way he stares in my eyes, like he really means it—like I'm the whole world to him.
His free hand roams down my body, pinching here and there as he goes, and it isn't until he's high up on my inner thigh, pinching there, and he's back to shallow pumping with his amazing dick, that I about explode into orgasm.
"Fuck, Jesus, God!" I yelp.
"That's a lot of religion for our first time. Wanna try that again. I wanna hear my name somewhere in there," he taunts, and then he pulls out completely, pinches my clit, and I scream.
I drop to the bed, my shoulder blades almost touching each other, and I fight for air.
"Nope—still not getting it right. Call my name, or I won't let you come—and I can tell you're really fucking close. Now, show me how much you want me," he insists.
He pinches again, and this time, he rolls it, and God, I have no idea what I say, but I think his name is there somewhere inside, along with his fingers now inside me, probing and touching spots that make me scream even louder.
"The neighbors can't hear you, Bella. Not loud enough. I need more. I need it all—give me your fucking come—give me your fucking cunt—soak my hand," he says, his teeth scraping across my collar bone.
He's everywhere, and I'm still unable to grab at him with my hands, since he has them tightly secured.
Swwwiiiiip . . . Swwwwiiiiip . . . Swwwwiiiiiip . . .
"Oh, my. God." I writhe and squirm at the sounds of his hand, plunging into a very wet cunt, supplied by me, and it makes me try to get away. I'm restless. I'm frustrated. I want to come—I do, but I don't really know how to do it this way.
"Fuck, I c-c-can't dooo this," I cry out, my hips pulling away from him.
Tyler told me. He said I was a lousy lay, and that I had no idea how to pleasure a man, even when there wasn't much to it. He could get hard easily, but then I never knew what to do to keep him that way. That's why I was trying to figure out how to perform oral on him. And thusly, became obsessed with a fresh, clean as possible, oral cavity. I didn't want to give him my germs. There are certain things I didn't want to share him.
But fuck . . . With Edward? I want to share everything.
And I don't even know why.
Tyler wanted me to participate, but I just couldn't. I'd shut down. I'd get shy. I wasn't good at dirty talking or stroking his ego, or even loving on his tiny dick for that matter.
But here, Edward's controlling it all. He isn't asking me to do anything but respond to what he's doing to me, and I'm almost shutting down.
"Listen to me—you're mine. I control your body. You'll come because I'm telling you to, understand?" He bites between my hip bone and my belly button.
"Y-yessss," I hiss on a breathless exhale.
"And when I say you're mine, you believe it."
I nod, and my lower lip juts out, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes.
"You're so fucking sexy—I can barely keep from coming all over you," he says.
"Really?" I ask, my voice going up an octave.
He slaps my pussy, and a smile explodes out of me.
"Such a dirty bitch. You like it rough—just like me. Next time I'm bringing my ropes," he taunts.
"If you can find a way to breach my security after I tighten it up," I quip, suddenly feeling brave.
"Oh, now that's the kinda nasty talk I need," he says, then he crawls over me, straddles me, and his tip circles my clit.
I close my eyes and breathe hard, soaking up the sensation.
"Tell me what you'll do to try to keep me out, Ides," he purrs.
"I'll . . ." It's hard to concentrate. I lick my lips and blow out. "I'll make sure your fingerprints are scanned in, so my computer grid knows to look for you."
He leans over and licks at my neck. I automatically turn it, and realize he's nibbling where my chip is.
There's an odd buzzing sensation at that spot, and my head is foggy—floating.
"And then . . . ?" he coos.
I take a deep breath and try to clear my head of what he's doing to my clit. "And then I'll make sure I also have video footage of you here in my room, so the computer knows to look for your build, your height . . ." I trail off as he deliberately abrades my skin at the same location in my neck where the chip is—he does it with the stubble on his chin.
"And what else? Tell me more; you've got me so fucking hard for you and your dirty talk," he says, now sucking at my neck and really hitting my clit hard with his dick.
"I . . . Well, I . . . Uhhhhh," I ramble, sucking in a tight gust of air.
His hands shove up into my hair, and angle my head as far away from him as possible. There's a sting at my neck, a jerking sensation, and then he's sucking really hard in that spot. It tingles, it throbs, and there's something sticky swiping over it now.
"You won't get in," I say.
His lips let go with a popping sound.
"You think so, huh?"
And suddenly, he's back inside me, fucking me so hard the bed's creaking.
All I can do is hold onto his arms, and kiss his chest, and cry out for more.
His tongue makes this odd clicking sound, and then he swallows hard.
He chuckles, and right when I'm about to ask him what's so funny, he leans down, his mouth hovering above mine, "You're gonna come now because I can't fucking wait any longer."
He kisses me, deep and rough, and one hand wraps around my waist, pulling my hips up into his, and his other hand reaches down, handling my clit roughly, and right when I think I'll die, he sucks my tongue hard into his mouth, and something sharp and metallic slices the edge of my tongue.
When I chase it with my tongue, he pulls away. "It's mine," he growls. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then he swallows it down.
Fuck! My eyes double in size, they're so wide.
He slams himself inside me, pinches my clit so hard, I can't breathe, yet I manage an incoherent scream. "Edwaaaard, fuuuuuck!"
"Yes, fuck, yes! Oh, Ch-christ, Bellaaaa," he moans and convulses above me. His eyes burn into me with his green, erotic fire.
He squirts inside me, and his thrusts grow sloppy, and a huge mess of both of our fluids, roll down my thighs.
I want to wiggle away, get something to sanitize myself, until he says, "Computer, lock the door."
"Fuck. Me." I freeze.
The doors lock, he laughs low and deep in the back of his throat.
"Not bad for a first time, but I think we can both do better," he says.
"I hate you," I say. My heart rate still thrums heavy and makes my pussy throb while he maintains his position inside me.
"No, you love me. And I'm yours. I have your chip and your heart." He smiles with a lazy, pleased grin.
I look away, my body heating once more from that goddamn look he gives me. "God . . . I'm gonna need a lot of fresh hand sanitizer with you around . . ."
"No fucking doubt."
Thank you to my beta, Sunflower Fanfiction and to my prereaders: readingmama, boo1414, and Anakinsmom. They were all a tremendous help, and some of them had me laughing so hard, I was almost snorting at their feedback!
Also, the word prompt used for this chapter was fresh. I think you'll spot it pretty easily since it's right here at the end.
This will be a multi-chapter fic. I've already written the entire story and will be posting two chapters per week. Thank you to Dirty Cheeky Monkeys for asking me to submit something for their Squeeze My Lemon segment. I'd actually planned this story out a while back and had written out the first chapter (what was the first third of this current chapter), but it seems I needed the added motivation to dust it off and turn it into a fan fic.
Also, one of my fave fan fic stories inspired this one. It's called Ride by Kris Salvador. Look it up. It's amazing and hot, hot, hot!
Next chapter will be up on Monday! Enjoy your weekend.
Thank you for reading . . .