I do not own Twilight.

M for sexual situations and language.

NuttyGinger is doing a fabulous beta job with this. She is a grammar queen, keeping my version control issues under check and stopping my characters from sprouting shiz that makes no sense. I have a tendency to keep changing things, so any grammar issues are mine and mine only.

Planetblue is my pre-reader. This talented lady really has an eye for detail, her comments make me giggle and her advice is awesome! She's the creator of the one and only Manchu, so there is some emailing of 'tache pics too of course.


I didn't plan this to be my next story, I just got a bit side-tracked, so this is the outcome.

This story is inspired by an article posted on facebook: 'The Problem With One-Night Stands in Locked-Down Boston'. It'd be a really good idea to read it (see my profile).

I have taken a couple of creative liberties.

1. This will be set in London, not Boston. 2. This will NOT be based on the after-math of the Boston bombings. I didn't feel that I could do something like that justice at this point and this is, well, my attempt at something fun.*head-desk*

This story will be smutty (take that as a warning!) and a tad crazy, so don't take it too seriously. It's short – 6-8 chapters at the most.

This is in no way meant to disrespect or down-play the tragic events in Boston.

I'll shut up now.


One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London

Chapter One

I won't claim to be the master of one-night stand etiquette, or anything. My former 'brothario' reputation still precedes me, but I've become more refined since those good old days at boarding school.

Or refined some rules, at least.

Because when these 'situations' do occur, there is no straying from the rules.

The commandments.

The no-enter-zone.

The-whatever-shit-will-keep-her-from-pulling-a-bun ny-boiler-on-your-cushy-bachelor-ass.

Number One: You shall do your utmost best to make a soundless, confrontation-free dash for the exit before she wakes up from last night's endeavours; bad sex, or the most overwhelming, orgasm-packed, trip-you-the-fuck-out ride, pull your pants on and just leave, capisce?

Trust me on this, it's that important.

Number Two: Fuck her in one night as many times as you want, but it shall not extend beyond two nights, max. Hey, a guy's got to acquiesce sometimes, especially when she's that eager to give it up all over again. Doing her a third time … it's gonna get messy.

Number Three: This is the most important of them all, because you don't even want to start this shit: You shall make sure that she is relatively sane before you take old one eye to the optometrist.

Pretty simple.


But I have a confession.

Rule three may have been callously disregarded somewhere between numerous pints of Guinness and a much too fond relationship with the tequila shots.




Yes, that's her name.

She's looking at me, breathing, entranced.

The only thing I see are the dark-golden flecks around her pupils, highlighted from the hazy glow of the lamp on her cluttered bed-side table. Her eyes are dazed and misty from the alcohol, but the colours are vivid, bright.

I'm shirtless, leaning into her body and she's spread out below me on the bed, wearing only cotton panties. Stunning.

Our skin is hot. Static shocks of heat zinging from her chest to mine.

The world is spin, spinning and my hands are … cold.

"Bella …"

Her fanned dark-chocolate hair is a beautiful contrast to the crumpled white duvet, and I want to feel her.

I want to fuck her. Yes.

My mouth drops to her neck, her chest.

I suck the soft of her tits and she punctuates the air with her noises. Her nipples are pebble-hard and now sloppy wet from my mouth, and I'm mumbling into her skin.

"Bella. Bella? Bella!"

"What?!" she snaps, her hands tugging at tufts of my hair, not too thrilled at my interruption.

I open my mouth but not before she catches me off-guard by growling. Literally. An annoyed "Grrr!" escaping her bruised lips.

I snort.

I shouldn't be surprised. Not after everything else I've heard from her angry, pouty mouth tonight.

And tonight has been full of surprises.

One night in a pub that's too out of my way, then a run-in with a girl with who sent my flee-for-the-hills radar into the red zone.

Yet here I am, in her bed, sacred 'man-laws' about to go kaput.

I'm fucked.

Or about to be.

She bites my cheek impatiently. "What do you want, posh-boy?"

I wave the tub of Ben and Jerry's she gave me earlier in her face. My fingers are ice-chilled from being wrapped around it for too long.

"This. I'm still holding this."

Of course I am…

Ice-cream— it's her fantasy or some shit, and fuck, why did I drink so much?

She shivers and whimpers when I press the coldness of the tub against her belly. Tiny beads of condensation, trail down the sides, on to her stomach. "Where do you want it, baby?"

"Do you … uh … say that to everyone you f-fuck?"

I chuckle giddily to myself; I don't think we're talking about the ice-cream anymore.

"Do you always talk about other, err, conquests when you're shagging someone?

"It's ice-cream. I'm naked," she snarks breathlessly. "Obviously good schooling doesn't teach you everything."

I throw her a crooked, intoxicated smirk, my eyes travelling down her sexy-as-hell curves.

No sweetheart, it doesn't.

I'm still trying to figure out the absurd chain of decisions that led me here. In the cluttered room of this angry-drunk, paranoid, too perceptive, and very likely insane, girl.


Logic be damned– I'm smashed – I don't know what I'm thinking.

She arches, pressing her damp breasts against my shoulder and breathes in my ear. "Surprise me, toff-y."

"Don't call me a toff." I tell her tits.

"Toff-fuhhh-ckkk," she hisses when I tilt the tub and finger out a dollop of ice-cream on to her left nipple. There you go.

It melts and spreads liquid gold over her pale skin.

I watch, spellbound.

She gasps. "Oh shit, so cold, so, so cold."

Feel my pain, sweetheart.

I grin, she cries, so I wrap my mouth around her breast, tasting and licking every last bit vanilla flavoured sweetness right off of it. I'm not a huge ice-cream fan, but suddenly the appeal has rocketed to the heavens.

Never did I think it could taste like this…

Vanilla ice-cream for the win.

Bella moans, wrapping her legs tighter around my waist. I brush my hard dick in my jeans against her centre, once, twice, trying to relieve some of the ache. It doesn't help. We've been experimenting with some weird kind of verbal-foreplay-thing all evening, I need more than this.

"Oh… God, yes. Yes!" she wails with abandon as I drop more ice-cream onto her. She really is into this shit. Kinky like … yeah.

She's warm, cold and so, so soft.

I'm licking her skin clean with my tongue, following the trail from between her breasts, to her belly button. I move further down, loving the way she wriggles against me, almost resisting – but wanting more.

She wants more.

She's begging shamelessly, pulling at my hair. When my knees touch the cream carpet, her legs slide slightly off the edge of the bed, either side of my head.

"I wasn't asking because I didn't know what to do with ice-cream." I peer up at her.

"No shit," she huffs all red and bothered from my ministrations. "I love you eating it off me."


"Yeah," she says huskily.

I play with her underwear and look up from her sticky stomach.

"I want…" She breathes in and out, squirming like a fish out of water.

I smirk.

"Tell me." I slip her underwear off her legs, taking in the stunning, too wet, sight before me. Beautiful. "Tell me what you want me to do with the ice-cream, Bella."

She kind of clenches her thighs at my teasing, and my dick throbs in agony.

"I want you to eat … um, eat it, eat me, eat it from my puss—oh God!"

She cries loudly as I drive my mouth into her. She's pulling and kicking, and somewhere behind me, something topples from the bed-side table, smashing into a million pieces on the floor.

I don't care, and she doesn't care.

Because she tastes vivid, glorious. The only thing that matters is my lips on her writhing body and the ice-cream in my freezing hand, which I spread all over her drenched centre.

Then I press my tongue against her again, probing, tickling. A shrill shriek permeates the air, her legs slam tight around my head, and vanilla and Bella is every-fucking-where.

I can get used to this.

I've done things – a lot of naughty, sexy things, but this has to be – wow.

Maybe it's the ice-cream.

Maybe it's the drink.

Maybe it's her.

I thrust my tongue into her pulsating nub and she howls from somewhere up there.

Yes. She likes that.

So I do it again.

And again.

Then again because I'm that good.

"Oh shit- I'm gonna – I'mgonna… oh!"

Suddenly she jerks and clenches too hard. Ow.

I struggle; she's going to fucking suffocate me.


I put my hands on her legs and pull them apart before I'm completely delirious from lack of oxygen.

I move back up her body, she's shuddering and trembling all over, cursing and quoting weird, convoluted sentences that can only come out of her silly mouth.

It's a strange type of aphrodisiac.

"You like that?" I grin dazedly down at her, proud of myself. I should get awards for this shit.

She nods mutely, still shaky, and hell, I haven't even started with her yet.

Hey, here's a thought.

Maybe it's all just me.

Earlier that evening

"You have to be kidding me!"

Her face is aghast as she screws her irritated golden-flecked eyes at my friend Emmett and her friend Rosalie, who are leaning into one another on the other side of the pub.

They both flirt outrageously next to the jukebox as Mick Jagger sings about sympathy for the devil – Emmett's hand is now firmly attached to Rosalie's ass.

My boy is in guaranteed a happy-step to heaven. His game is straight in at bulls-eye tonight – gotta give it to the jerk.

My eyes flick back to the fidget beside me.

This girl is not happy.

Her name is Ellie. Or Belinda, maybe.

"What's the problem?" I ask, curious at the source of her intense irritation.

Her striking hazel eyes snap toward me, and she climbs up onto her stool, giving me a view of her pale stomach beneath her Betty Boop t-shirt, then starts to shake her leg vigorously.

She's a fidgeter, alright.

Fiddle, squirm, run hand through dishevelled, bedroom hair.


Shit, looking at her is making me all tense. And I never get nervous about anything.

"Rosalie was meant to be my ride home an hour ago," she moans, taking a swig from the bottle of Bud.

Her eyes dart back to her blonde friend, who is definitely more my type, but Emmett had claimed that ass at "hello" and I'm in no mood to get all territorial over pussy. He's currently staring at her tits and sometimes, sluggishly into her eyes.

Bloody lightweight. With all that muscle, you'd never guess it.

"She's not going anywhere soon." Unless it's with Emmett. "I can take you home," I try.

I can take her any which way she likes.

Hey, why the hell not?

I guess she's nice-looking in a 'je m'en fous' way, and I don't even have the beer goggles on yet. The tongue stud helps. A lot.

"Nice, try buddy." She grunts, giving me side-eye.

My pint pauses half way to my mouth.

Really now?

Not expected - but shit, any form of insolence is a plus in my book. The game is getting too easy.

I tilt my head toward her and pretend to look hurt. "I was only trying to be polite." Then I drain my Guinness.

She opens her mouth and then closes it, her body relaxing a little.

Vulnerability and disinterest will work every damned time.

Like I said, easy.

"I'm just a little …" She lowers her voice and leans toward me. "All this shit on the news about Don the Savage escaping from maximum security. Nowhere feels safe, you know?"

"I see."

So that's what the buzzed nerves are about?

"How could they let him escape?"

"Well, it's not like they let it happen on purpose," I smirk.

"He's lethal, dangerous, and he's on the run in London! I live a street away from the murder hotspot, you know, where they found his third and fourth victims? He could be anywhere. God, he could be in here, in this very pub, just lurking like some serial killer lurker."

I look at her. Huh? "I doubt that."

"He's been in prison for five months years, he'd want a drink."

"Actually, you're right," I muse. "He escaped maximum security prison, got shot in the leg and has the national security hot on his trail – surely he would want to have a victory drink in his local east-end pub."

"Did anyone tell you you're a condescending asshole?"

I raise an eyebrow, because yeah, I am.

Since we're getting to know each other, I guess it's better to get it out there sooner rather than later.

"No, wait." I conspiratorially lean toward her. "Maybe he's really here to scan the crowd for his next victim. That'd make a real celebration. Rubbing it in the face of the system that couldn't really pin him down before it got too late. Maybe he'll drag her to the street next to yours and –"

Her spine straightens and panic seizes her features. "Don't please. No, don't. I don't want to hear it!"

"But what if –"

"I'm not listening. La, la, la!" She sticks her fingers in her ear and simultaneously mouths "asshole" at me.

I laugh.

This is ridiculous.

I move around in my stool so, my legs face her. I take a try at sombre even though the look on her face is priceless.

"I'm sure they'll find him soon enough. I write for the Telegraph and had an interview with the lead officer this morning. They know what they're doing."

"The Telegraph!" She narrows her eyes at me. "Of course you do."

More disdainful glaring.

I pause. You'd think I'd told her I was the serial killer side-kick, rooting for his clean escape.

"You've clearly made a distinct opinion of me."

She has no problem enlightening me either.

"I figured a magic circle suit, banker boy or trust-fund-brat looking for an easy lay, but instead you're a conservative journalist whose writing about our modern day Jack the Ripper. Daddy can't be too happy."

I open my mouth and then close it again. More spot on than I'd like to admit.

Suddenly I'm curious about the uncombed, dressed-down-chick.

What is her issue?

Why is she so ragey?

And why is she dragging my father into this?

"Are you always this judgemental?" I ask because she just called me out.

It's been a long time since anyone has called Edward Cullen out, just like that.

"This is nothing. I'm worse when I'm on my period."

"Thanks for the detail."


She's looking at me curiously now.

Her eyes travel from my white Hugo Boss suit-shirt, black skinny tie and jeans – because that's the most formal I'll ever go for a meeting – and further down.

She's clearly checking me out in admiration. It happens often.

"Nice loafers by the way." Then she fucking snorts.

"The girl with holes in her t-shirt is going to teach me about style?"

"You're in East London, Made-In-Chelsea. And it's vintage, not that you'd ever heard of it, preppy."

"Ah, is that we're calling it nowadays?"

"Yes. Vin-tage," she says like it's a special word. "Also, this…" she points emphatically at herself, "is a girl who took the bus to work, shops at Primark and wears socks with her shoes. Ever heard of 'em?"

I chuckle. God she's such a bitch. I love it.

I want to nail her even more now.

In fact, I insist on it.

"And this —" I point to myself and throw her a cocky smirk. "Is what being showered looks like —"

She kicks me. Hard.

"The fuck –"

"You deserved that."

I rub at my shin. "Jesus, lady!"

I'm bruised.

And I'm turned on. Fuck, why am I so turned on?

"Hmph," she says angrily.

Yeah, I'm going to fuck that cross look right off her face.

She taps her fingers on the bar and gets instantly distracted when she spots Rosalie and Emmett in mouth-lock.

"Shit. Rosalie! What? Stop that!" she screams across the pub.

A few innocent dwellers look our way. They probably thought this was going to be an ordinary, quiet night out with the lads … poor sods.

Throwing her hands up in dismay, she slides off her stool with a solemn cock-block look on her face and my bro-code jumps into action. Of course, it does. This is what we do.

I tug at the back of her t-shirt.

She falls back in between my legs, her back hitting my chest and lower back rubbing my dick.

"What are you doing?!" she cries.

"What are you doing?"

She turns around in between my legs. "She doesn't even know him."

"What you've never been kissed on a night out before?" I chuckle. There are four, symmetrical freckles on her nose. "I can change that."

"Shut up. She's –"

"She's what?" I challenge.

"She's my friend, I want her to be safe. It's a crazy time."

"He's my friend, I can vouch for him. He's not a serial killer."

"And who exactly are you?"

I roll my eyes and dangle my arm off the bar. "Someone who wants to buy you another drink."

"Why?" she asks suspiciously, still in between my legs.

I shrug lazily. "I don't know. I guess I like your company."

Liar. Liar pants on fucking fire.

Tell her she has nice tits and a fine ass, and I wouldn't mind sticking my dick in between either.

I don't of course.

I'm much too much of a gentleman.

"Fine." She shoots me a warning look."Just so you know, I don't do one night stands. I won't fuck you tonight, so don't even try."

Nodding the bartender over, I shift on my seat so she moves with me.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."


So game on. Cocky Londonward or Crazy Bella?

Slang definitions:

Toff: Often used a derogatory term. Normally to describe a member of the wealthy/ upper classes.

Made in Chelsea: A popular reality TV show based on residents of the wealthy Chelsea district of London.

Je m'en fous':loosely translated from French as 'I don't give a fuck'.

Twitter: Blueissoul

There is another author who will be doing her own take on the article. Keep an eye out for a TBA story by LayAtHomeMom.