Chapter Six: Entitled


Isabella and I are making dinner together. Our first in our new home. And it's a special one for that reason, of course, but not only.

We're making my mother's lasagna, one of the things I'd planned for us to have while we were here, before we leave in a couple of days to go somewhere else.

I made an Isabella-worthy list of everything we'd need to survive those special 'here' days, and do so indulgently, and stocked the refrigerator and cabinets with everything on it. And any and everything else I could think of that I know she loves or might possibly want.

I know I will be spoiled in this house, and undoubtedly in and from this kitchen, and that she's dying to blow my mind with how much I will be, but when I suggested our first dinner be one we made together, and one of something that has meaning, she beamed at me as if I'd given her something not only meaningful, but rare, priceless, and perfect. Which is exactly what the look on her face has been every time I've seen it in this kitchen since this morning, and our first 'breakfast'.

She can't look at the her-inspired island we had it on without smiling wistfully, or touching it reverently, and with a beautiful pink glow on her cheeks. Even now, as we stand side by side at it, her face tells me that her mind is back on it, and replaying when and how she was this morning.

I lean down and kiss the top of her head with husbandly pride. "I'm really glad that you like our kitchen so much, this part of it especially."

Her head instantly warms under my lips and she leans into me. "Of course I like it, and of course I knew I would, though I couldn't have known quite how or how much

"I just didn't know I'd like it more with you in it with me doing things, instead of me being in it alone and doing things just for you."

"I knew," I say shamelessly. "Though not that you would so soon, perhaps."

"You know everything," she declares, and looks up at me with pure belief in that untruth in her eyes.

And I know I should correct her, and tell her how much of an untruth it really is, but the words just don't form on my tongue. Because it's full of far more important ones that I want her to hear. "I know that I love you. And that soon… you won't be able to walk into a single room in this house and not know that, and, with every perfectly amazing and amazingly gracious and generous part of you, exactly how much."

"Thank you for our dinner. It was wonderful."

"Why are you thanking me, sweetheart? We made it together."

"For making us the we that could."

"You wanted me to. So, the thanks all belongs to you."

"But you're you… Need I keep going?"

"You definitely need to. But go get your pom poms first."

"Okay. And my little skirt?"

Fuck yes. "Well, they go together, so…"

"So, go upstairs and get them, and only them since there's no shirt that goes with them–I so get why that is now–and then come back down here and worship, cheer, and praise you? Okay, you deserve it."

The fact that I'm standing here imagining her doing exactly all of those things is proof that I don't. And why I won't let her. "Actually, that's not what I want you to do," I call out, and it stops her in her running to do anything I want tracks. See how much I love her?

"Okay, then what do you want me to do?" she asks, coming back to stand right in front of me as if anything I could say would be her honor to hear. And do...

"Come and snuggle with me on our couch."


I laugh at the way she repeats the word back to me–in a You're so full of shit way–and nod, and pull her against me, giving her my best puppy dog eyes. "Please?"

"I'll do anything you want, Edward, you don't have to say please to me."

"So, yes to snuggling with me?" I say, instead of any of the thousand other things that come instantly and despicably to mind.

"Of course yes, if that's what you really want."

"It is."

"Okay." She smiles at me sweetly and kisses me sinfully. "But I want to run upstairs and get more comfortable first if we're snuggling. Meet you on the couch in five minutes?"

Something tells me her 'more comfortable' is going to make me anything but…

But I'll handle it. Because she's entitled to some sweetness from me, no matter what she's dishing out or willing to accept. "Would you like me to meet you there with some dessert? Maybe some ice cream? Or cheesecake? Or some strawberries and whipped cream?"

"No, I'm still too full from dinner. But maybe later I'll decide something sounds too good to resist indulging on."

"You just let me know, beautiful."

"Of course I will," she says, and after an indulgent kiss to my neck, pulls herself from my arms and starts to walk from the kitchen. "Because I'll let youdo anything, too."

My sweet new bride is trying to kill me.

As if the things that have been coming out of her mouth weren't enough to effectively do so, her getting comfortable absolutely is. She just walked into our living room wearing that damn little cheerleader skirt, and with pom poms in hand. "In case you changed your mind," she tells me with a wave of them, and smiles innocently at my narrowed eyes.

"And the shirt?" I ask her, and genuinely smile back, because I could never not when I look at her. And certainly not when she's in my favorite shirt. Again.

"Well, I was a little cold without one…"

And still is with, because her nipples are screaming at me–and making my mouth water–to warm them up even through it.

"And this one of yours is so perfect… for so many reasons…"

So are you, beautiful girl… "I love you, Isabella."

"I know," she surprises me by saying, instead of repeating my words back to me.

And she suddenly looks like she's going to cry as she softly speaks her next. "I could never be anywhere in this house and not know that. Or anywhere at all where you're looking at me. Or ever wear this shirt. Or not wear it… not wear anything..."

I know she wanted to tempt me when she put on that little skirt. Wanted to prove to me with that temptation that she meant every You can have everything and I'll do anything for you word she's said to me…

But by the time the temptation of her was back in front of my eyes where and the way she wanted it to be, the most tempting and irresistible part of her, my favorite part of her, took over. Took over both of us.

Her heart.

The simple act of wearing my favorite shirt, of seeing me smile at the sight of her in it, within the walls of our house, our all about her house, where she's worn special things for me, and worn nothing for me, and worn nothing but me...

"You really do deserve cheers. You deserve everything you could ever want."

"Just for loving you? When it's the easiest, most automatic thing in the world?"

"Yes. And for making me know it so absolutely."

"That's not hard either, sweetheart."

Her teary eyes give me far more credit than I've earned, or could ever, but I don't tell her that, or drop mine from them. And they glisten with much more than the tears pooled in them when I get up from the couch and walk to where she still stands and pull the pom poms from her hands. "I like your hands better when they're not full."

She quirks a brow at me with an adorable and silent Are you sure? and I take full advantage of her playful generosity. "Well, with anything but me."

"Well, of course," she giggles, but I feel every bit of her pre-playful emotion in her hands when I grasp them in my own.

"With all of my heart, Isabella," I tell her, as I pull her towards our couch, "the easiest thing in the world." So that she knows, more than anything else, that loving her, her letting me love her, is the greatest privilege she could ever give me.

"Do you have a favorite room, Edward?"

How on earth can I answer her unanswerable question? Well, I think "I love our bedroom. And our bathroom, though I know not as much as I will…

"And our kitchen, definitely… but honestly, sweetheart, if I had to choose just one, I'd have to say our living room. Because my favorite room in our house will always be whichever one I'm in with you at that moment."

"You know, I already love you as much as humanly possible."

God, do I know that… but "You might. But then again, there may be room for more for me in that illimitable heart of yours, or in any of your other wondrous places, and I'd love more for me, so..."

"Of course you would," she says, and, after a few quiet and, I can see, thoughtful moments, untangles herself from me, where we were lying snuggled, just as I'd wanted, under a blanket on our couch watching Lady and the Tramp, something else I planned that I thought she might love, and for more reasons than one.

"Because I'm despicable?" I tease, as she stands and pulls me into an upright sitting position.

"No, because you're entitled to."

"Entitled to…?" I repeat, because I'm not sure what she means. Though I may be getting an idea about what she's doing, or wants me to do, when she looks around the room and then moves the coffee table far back and away from the couch.


"Like rearranging our furniture?" I ask her. "That you perhaps don't like the original way that I did?"

"You arranged our furniture, and everything else, perfectly, Edward. And I don't want to change anything, or for you to. Least of all your perfect, and wanting to be loved more, self."

"So, the table…?"

"Was merely in the way of you being, so I moved it out of."

I can't say that I have a shred of understanding of anything she just said or did, but the way she's looking at me as she stands in front of me, the purely adoring way that she is, makes me forget what I don't know or understand. Because what I do is more than enough to survive on, in the most indulgent way.

"I do love you as much as humanly possible," she says again, and climbs onto my lap, in her, I have no shortness of understanding of, favorite position. "But I think I understand why you might not know that."

"I was just teasing you, sweetheart. I assure you I absolutely kn–" My knowing is cut off by her sweet and generous mouth, and with a kiss that makes me want to be anything but the first. Especially since she's straddling my lap in that damn little skirt...

But after everything she's come to know of me in the last twenty four hours, I reign in what I want, could never not now that I've had it, with every ounce of willpower that I have in me. Willpower that she nearly obliterates with each and every subsequent kiss from her lips.

They're on my neck now, and her hands that were just a moment ago sweetly holding my face between them, before trailing down her prized and currently being lavished possession, have dropped to the buttons of my shirt. And being that she is so generous and sweet, I don't assume that I know what her plans are, no matter what she's wearing, and don't stop her from carrying them through.

"I really did love our dinner," she whispers between kisses, her fingers still moving efficiently downward, "and love you so much for thinking of it."

"I'm glad, sweetheart," I manage, "and am equally, I, again, assure you, enamored with your just made decision to have dessert."

I feel her smile against my skin, and her 'knowing' press itself against my enamored and getting engorged cock. "And I assure you that I knew that already."

I chuckle my understanding of how she would, after sucking in a painfully enamored breath, and do my best not to move. Well… not to move again, my first movement despicably involuntary, and far too late to stop. Not that she minded it, or has any intentions of scolding me for it, sweetly or otherwise. I know what she likes to know, and feel, and knew what she did long before she'd truly felt anything.

She has my shirt completely unbuttoned now, and open–apparently content for it to merely be, and not off–and is moving her fingertips gently over and down my chest, watching her own movements while I watch her. An appreciative and proud smile forms itself on her lips as she slides herself back a little on her perch on my legs and traces the not-award-worthy-yet-still-appreciation-worthy muscles of my stomach. "I love every part of you," she says, and looks up at me adoringly.

"For which I will give God an extra thank you tonight. Not that He's still listening to anything I say…"

I'm scolded now by her eyes, even if by nothing else, and I expected that, but not her gentle and appreciative touch that stops moving over my skin. Because it stops only to not as it moves to the button of my jeans instead.

"Isabella," I start, but get no other words out after that will-never-be-any-other favorite, nor do I let her feel any non-silent protests. My hands are on her hips, and that's where they stay, until they move because she does. After one more kiss to my lips, and then another to the skin my heart pounds for her beneath, she removes herself from my lap and drops slowly but deliberately down in front of me.

She bites her lip, but only for the most miniscule of seconds, and then smiles up at me with complete and utter devotion.

"Sweetheart," I start again, understanding completely now her intentions, and, though I'm excruciatingly aroused by them, and her, I feel like my playfulness with her a little while ago may be responsible for them, and feel completely like an asshole because of it. "I wasn't trying to make you think or feel that you needed to do something to show me how much you love me. And certainly not that I was entitled to you doing anything."

"But you are," she says far too graciously, her eyes falling again to her own movements, this time that of her pulling down my zipper.

"Sweetheart," I repeat as she wraps her fingers and thumbs around the waist of my jeans, but this time get no other words out because she stops me, and her movements, with some of her own.

"Is it not okay?" she asks me, looking up at me with nothing but pure innocence in both her question and expression, "To do it without you asking me or telling me to?"

Jesus… "Of course it is."

She smiles at this, and starts to pull. "Okay, good, because I didn't want to have already done it wrong before I even started."

Though my mouth means to stop her, after reassuring her, "You could never do it wrong, sweetheart," and my will means to keep my for-her promise to myself, my hips could care less what either means to do, and lift selfishly to help her do what she means to.

This makes her smile again, and reach up again, to the waistband of my boxers this time. And this is when I make my mouth break its selfish silence. "Isabella, despite what my body is so blatantly selfishly telling you, you really don't have to–"

"I want to," she declares with adorable and precious beyond belief boldness.

And "You do?" I ask her, not because I don't believe her, but because hearing her say it is too irresistible to not want again or her to do more of.

She doesn't repeat herself like I wanted her to, only nods her head, but the way she looks at me when she does, the way she looks right up and into my eyes, somehow completely surpasses anything she could have or might have said. Completely.

And I'm rendered speechless for a moment, until she renders me not with her own, unlike mine, anything but selfish question. "Don't you want me to?"

"I do. Despicably so, Isabella."

The smile she gives me now rivals any I've ever seen on her face, and any will I had to deprive myself of being spoiled by her in this way so soon is completely obliterated. I won't stop her. I can't. Because she wants to do it. And likes that I want her to.

"You liked hearing that, right?" she preciously asks instead of declares like she usually does, as she, far more gently than she needs to, frees me, and my answer, from my boxers. "That I want to?"

And though she has that answer in her sweetly torturous hands–yes, both–I don't leave her with only it. "I did. And will always, if I'm ever again granted the gift of hearing it from your sweet and beautiful mouth."

Her eyes, after giving me a silent You will be, fall to her hands, and me in them, the hardest putty there's ever been, and she tilts her head slightly. I know what she's looking at now, what specifically, and I wait patiently for any questions she may adorably ask.

But she asks none, and I'm entranced as she touches the tip of her finger to the pooled liquid on the tip of my cock. And disintegrated when she lifts her finger to her mouth and licks it off. She looks up at me again when she hears the unintelligible sound mine makes, and smiles. "And seeing that?" she asks, clearly and adorably proud.

"If you're not sure, you should do it again," I challenge instead of answer directly.

And she accepts my challenge fearlessly, but in a far better way than it was issued. Because she takes another taste of me, but does so with her eyes upward, and without a trace of shyness about the fact that mine are watching her touching her face, and with her tongue this time, instead of the tip of her finger.

This leaves her doubtless, believe me, and me liquid as her mouth opens and closes around my dripping tip and she sucks every last drop from it, the last–Fuck me–seemingly had too soon.

"Where did it go?" she asks me, knocking me on my ass, though it's already buried deep in the cushions of our couch, that at this moment feels like a royal throne with me its King. "I liked it, and I want more."

And once I can speak again, the most daunting task I've ever accomplished, I tell her greedily and in every way undauntingly "It's there, you just have to find it."

"Find it?"

"Yes. Go on a treasure hunt of sorts for it."

"Is it buried deep?" she asks me now, an understanding glint in her eyes, and a teasing smile on her lips.

She really does want to kill me. "Yes, and if you don't start searching for it soon I may literally die from the mere anticipation of you doing so."

"So shut up and stop asking silly questions?"

"Don't you dare. Ever. I like your questions. And they're not silly, they're adorable and sexy as hell."

Just like the smile that touches her lips now. The suddenly shy one, and nervous, I think.

"I meant what I said, sweetheart, you can't do it wrong."

She bites her lip in silent disagreement, but I see the determination in her eyes, and feel it in her hands that start to move over me. Her touch is tender and sweet, gentle and absolutely loving, and feels beyond incredible in every way, but it's also shaky, and I won't let myself ignore that no matter how good it feels. "And I meant it when I said that you don't have to."

"And you meant it when you said that you wanted me to."

"Yes, I meant that, too. But–"

"So did I. When I said that I wanted to."

"I know you did. And I promise you that that's enough. That you did."

"I still want to, Edward. I'm sorry that I got nervous… I wasn't at first, but…"

"I was nervous, too, Isabella. Last night... about everything."

"But last night was perfect. In every way. More perfect than I ever imagined anything could be."

"I'm glad you think it was, sweetheart."

"I don't think it was, Edward. It was."

"Do you know why?"

"Of course I do. It was perfect because you're you."

"And because you're you, Isabella. And once I thought about that and nothing else, but how much I loved you, nervous… well, I forgot that I ever was. And you still don't have to do anything for me, but–"

"Don't be nervous when I do because I can't do it wrong?"

I reach out and brush her hair back from her face, and then run my thumb over her perfect lips, actions both loving and wanting… "Never. Not with how much you love me."


I wanted to make Edward happy. Want to in every way possible. And when I slid from his lap and down to the floor in front of him I was confident that I could…

Until I got stupidly nervous. Because I had no idea how to do what I was going to do.

I mean, I knew what to do… in a basic and common sense sort of way… but I didn't know any more than that. And then was afraid of how much my lack of knowledge would disappoint him.

Until he told me to stop being. And stop thinking about anything but how much I loved him. Because he's sweet, yes… but not only.

He wanted me to do it, this thing that I'm doing. He wanted to feel my mouth on him. My lips around him and my tongue learning every inch of him. Learning and falling in love with…

Because it is, both, and, no matter what I don't know–don't yet know–it isn't disappointing him at all.

Did I say not at all?

Yeah, well, I meant to. "Jesus, Isabella…"

I'm not sure I've ever seen him look at me with so much awe. He seems almost starstruck… the way I think I must look every time I look at him. And every time he touches me. And the way I surely looked when he kissed and licked and sucked every inch of me last night…

The memory of all of which makes me throb…

But, then, I already was. Because that awe that he's looking at me with, and that I hear in every sound his mouth makes, intelligible or blissfully not–YAY ME!–coupled with the way he tastes… and feels between my lips and against my tongue… and how completely I love him… EVERY INCH OF HIM…

Well, I'm a virtual pulsing volcano about to erupt. Maybe even literally all over our new plush and beautiful rug, that I kind of wish was under–closer under–a different part of me than my knees.

Something that my awe-eyed husband notices, I think. Maybe my wiggleworm squirming gave it away? Because he leans up and reaches down with his right hand–after wrapping his left around himself, I think to sweetly keep it from choking me to death when he moved forward without removing himself from my mouth–and slips it under my little skirt and into my, I know, soaking wet panties.

"Fuck, Isabella…"

"I'm sorry," I remove my mouth from him only to say, "I can't help it."

"Sorry?" he repeats, though his sorry sounded choked when it came out.

And since if anyone's going to choke on something, I think it's supposed to be me and not him… you know, since I was doing what I was doing… "Making you happy makes me happy. Really happy, apparently. Like, cry me a happy river happy, and I–"

My stupid attempt at an explanation is cut off when he yanks my panties down and then me to my feet. And, though he did the second much more gently than the first, I'm still confused about why he did either. Until he grabs both of my hands in his. "Step out and come up here."

I do the first but don't understand what the second means and look at him for help. "I'm sorry, Edward, I don't know what you want me to do."

He drops my left hand from his right, after kissing it tenderly, and reaches between my legs again, soaking his fingers and making me whimper. "Does it hurt?" he asks me. And I'm confused about why he would, with my whimpering and all, until he adds another question to it. "Too much for me to have it?"

"No," I say, and shake my head. "It wants you, and doesn't feel anything but that."

Oh yeah… definitely starstruck…

"Come up here, Isabella," he says again, his tone and the look in his eyes both sending shivers up my spine.

And me into ordered–and guided–by him motion.

I climb onto his lap, with his hands on my hips and his eyes on my lips, to give him what he wants now, even though, just like that other thing I did, I really don't know how to. "I'm not sure what to do…" I tell him honestly, and hope it doesn't annoy him and ruin the moment.

But he only smiles at me. "Just feel me, and do what feels good."

I place one hand on his arm and reach down with my other to touch him, and he moans. The throbbing between my legs returns in full force as I start to move my hand up and down his hard softness. He watches me touch him for a moment, I know this because I can't take my eyes off of his face, and then looks back up at me. His left hand drops from my hip and cups around my ass and squeezes, and his right slips between my legs again. I can hear his fingers move, even over my own heavy and getting heavier breaths, and I'm sure that he can, too. And that he likes it.

"I said I was sorry before… but that's because I didn't really understand… You like that it feels that way? All wet and slippery?"

"Yes I do, Isabella."

"I like that you feel hard and soft at the same time," I tell him, and feel him get even harder in my hand. And then I tell him something else, because I think harder means that he liked that, too. "And I liked feeling it on my tongue, too. And will definitely want to again, if that's okay."

"I'd let you feel how okay it is right now, sweetheart, if your wet and slippery because you did wasn't so fucking irresistible."

He doesn't have to spell that out for me, though I guess he sort of did with his grip on my ass that pulled me closer to him, and closer to his hard and soft. And, after looking down at it, and seeing and feeling him pull his hand away from my wet and slippery because it was in its way, and then pull my hand away with his irresistibly sexy "Right there" instruction the second I feel the hard and soft tip of it against me, I take him slowly and completely inside of me.

Or, at least I thought I had…

Until he shifted beneath me, and gripped me in both of his hands and pulled me down harder, and pushed himself in deeper. Oh god...that feels…

Just like he knew it would, I'm sure. And I don't need to ask him anything now, because he already told me what to do, when he told me to just feel him, and do what feels good. And that's so easy to do… to feel him… and want to feel how good doing that can feel… if I just move…

Without nervousness or worry of doing it wrong, because, even if I do, even if it's possible to, I know that Edward will show me or tell me the right way. With love and honor, and not a shred of annoyance. And with a smile, or something even more beautiful, on his face. Like what I see now, that tells me I'm doing nothing at all wrong and everything right.

His hands seem to back this up, because they release me from their loving and guiding grip, and move to guide something else where he wants it. He lifts his t-shirt up and over my head, and drops it in a soft heap on the cushion beside us. My breath catches in my throat when his thumbs move teasingly over my just-exposed and instantly hardened nipples, because it feels incredible, just like it does when he, at the same time, thrusts upward beneath me.

I take his not so gentle movement as a gentle suggestion and increase my pace, the power and pleasure-filled purpose of it, and am rewarded instantly. Hard and soft at the same time is indeed a heavenly thing. And Edward only further solidifies my newest understanding with his soft caresses, that now aren't at all, as he pinches my nipples anything but gently between his thumbs and fingers. It's my own words that are unintelligible now, and my own hands that guide, as I grip his neck between them and pull, silently begging his mouth to replace his torturous touches. He moans his approval and then grants my unspoken wish with his generous mouth, and I grind mercilessly against him in gratitude. It only makes him suck harder, and pinch harder simultaneously, which makes me grind harder, my back arched and my head back in ecstasy.

I know his plans for our evening were sweet and innocent, and that that was at least in part because of how I derailed his sweet-intended breakfast plans...

But that he doesn't hold back from me how he wants me, how automatically and easily he does, like the way he loves me…

And how much, like his heart before, he couldn't resist me…

Can't and doesn't want to anymore…

Or be sweet…

Because he isn't only. And his hands aren't at all as he grips my hips again. And his hard and soft is only hard as he pounds it upward while pulling me down.

While he tells me how beautiful I am.

And how irresistibly soft.

And sweet.

And tight.

And perfect.

And so much fucking better than anything…

Except for the way he loves me.

That I could never not know.

And that he will never not be entitled to do, or know is everything to me.