As requested I've done the other side of the coin.
The same night, from Bella's point of view.
He thinks he knows.
He thinks I go along with this, every now and then, for his sole benefit.
I don't. I go along with it for me as much as for him.
We have a good life together. He's worked hard to make sure I never regret becoming his and he's masterful in the ways he shows me how grateful he is that I accepted him for who and what he was all those years ago.
But he doesn't know it all. He thinks he knows. He doesn't.
He thinks I can't see the need rising in him. The need for him to stalk and plot. The desire inside him to shake off his mortal persona and just be what he is. He thinks I don't pick up on the telltale signs. But I do. I know him. At his core I know exactly who and what he is.
As I run towards the city and the club he's picked for the game I use the time in my own head to count off those signs.
The steady increase in his agitation. The slow progression of his impatience with tasks and people who never normally frustrate him. His work begins to be tedious and repetitious and he loses the ability to draw satisfaction from it. He becomes exasperated by mundane things that would never normally shake his usually unflappable nature.
But the first – always the first sign – is how he begins to resent the hunt for sustenance.
The monotony of it, the lacklustre taste and the usual satisfaction of whatever herd of animals we've chosen to live near wanes. The almost lazy way he runs toward that prey is always the first sign for me.
When he loses his enjoyment in the ordinary and very necessary hunt, I know then.
I say nothing. I do nothing. I watch, I count off the signs in my head and I wait. He'll come to me. Usually sheepishly.
He thinks I don't see. But I do.
Its then that I hide what I need from him. It's in those moments – when he's disgusted with himself for what he needs – that I hide that I need it too.
I don't need to hide it. I know that. At its heart he'll understand because I understand the same need within him. But hide it I do. For him.
If he knew I needed what he needs too the games will end and that won't do. I need the game too. I crave it. Usually as soon as I spot the signs in him my own brain and body begin to run over the possible scenarios and I begin to hunger for it too.
He thinks he knows. He thinks I do it only for him. He hates having to ask. He thinks I give in to his need grudgingly. He thinks he knows. He doesn't.
It's always the same. He'll come to me, usually in the dead of night, and sheepishly confess that he's feeling 'odd'. He'll give the same explanation that he's given for more than a century and then scuttle out of the room and leave me to 'think on it, please'.
He doesn't know shit.
In my head I've already agreed. I've already planned my outfit. I've marked my approach on a mental map and I've designed my dialogue before the 'please' at the end of his plea is uttered.
But I wait. And he thinks he knows.
A day or so later I'll approach him and 'give in' to his request. And then the game is on.
He'll set a date – no more than a day later once I've agreed – a time and place to meet and then he'll go about his every day business without another mention of it.
I love the anticipation and I know he does too.
I love how we move around each other in the hours after the games been set. We don't touch. We deprive one another of the simple pleasure of being close to ensure that the game is as real as possible, that what he sees as only his need is palpable.
But it's my need too and the preliminary games we play ratchet up my desire for him just as they do the same for him. And he thinks he knows.
I drive his anticipation higher by being more forward verbally. I'm crude. Disgusting really as I taunt him for his need. All the time needing it myself. I drive his desire and his lust higher by dressing provocatively. I don't shower. We don't sweat and we don't slough skin cells but our individual scents bloom with the flush of desire and so I don't wash it away.
In the hours between his request and when he leaves – he always leaves first – I do everything I can to ensure that the scent of my arousal is at its strongest. And it tortures him.
And I love it.
I need it too.
He thinks he knows.
He's chosen well, again. The club is dark, loud and full. Perfect for what he needs. What I need.
I spot him quickly. Easily. He's distinctive as a human, unavoidable because he's vampire like me, unique because he's mine. But more than that he's impressive.
He's impressive and women notice him. It makes my blood boil but I don't worry about losing him anymore. I used to. Way back at the start when I worried I wasn't enough for him I did worry. But not for a long, long time now. He'd never stray. He'd never hurt me intentionally and he knows I'd hunt him to the ends of the earth if the thought even crossed his cavernous mind. Not that it would.
Men notice him too but it isn't the same silent appreciation the women have for him. They hate him on sight because he's flawless. Even dressed as he is in simple jeans, plain white t-shirt and a dark blue button down on top he's flawless.
What some of these men have taken hours to almost perfect he's done without trying. They've slathered on great handfuls of hair product and still not achieved the same messy coif my man is sporting, and hates.
They're wearing the same style of jeans in similar colours and yet on the humans they don't hug and caress waists and thighs like my mans do. The shirts are all the same too and yet on the humans they seem to lack, well, something. It isn't that he's wearing a fabric that's expensive because it probably isn't. It's not that he's built differently – although his musculature under the shirts is impressive – it's that he carries himself differently than the human males do.
I stand to the side of the dance floor, on the standard drink stained carpet, and watch others watching my man.
He thinks I'm watching couples as they pair off, but I'm not. I'm attempting to be stealthy, watching him. He thinks he knows.
Small groups of women are pretending not to have noticed him. They slide him sidelong glances and flutter their lashes at him. But he either doesn't see or if he does he doesn't care. It makes them at first angry and then self conscious. I pity them just the littlest bit because he's mine and I know what they're missing out on.
I know him.
I love him. I always have. From day one. From minute one if I'm pressed to be accurate. He got me. And he's mine.
I cringe when a woman – a girl really – sashays towards where he's standing on the other side of the dance floor from where I am. I can't hear their exchange, if it gets that far which it usually doesn't, because the crush of humans is thick and the music is crap and loud.
But the encounter plays out as it always does. He dismisses her either verbally – which I can't make out from watching his lips move at this distance – or he's wafted a hint of his venom across his lips and she's retreating in fear. They always do. He exudes danger in the mood he's in. He always does.
It's because he feels dangerous within himself. He's convinced he'll 'slip' and take a life if he doesn't play this game with me every now and then. I know he won't. He wouldn't. But he thinks he knows.
I'd step in way before it got to that anyway. Like he's done for me for decades.
But right now, wound tight as he is, the humans are right to be wary of him.
But even humans like a little risk. The rush of a little danger. A game that exposes them perhaps or an encounter that stirs their blood. But one look into my mans eyes, or a quick whiff of the scent that's pouring out of his body and they retreat. Beaten. Outdone.
He isn't just a little risk and the danger he exudes is real and they know it.
Walk on I mutter under my breath triumphantly when the woman goes back to her small giggling group with a shocked expression on her face.
She doesn't know why she's afraid of him, truly afraid, just that she is.
I tilt my unnecessary drink and slosh it over the edge of my glass again to keep up the illusion that I'm consuming it. I see him do the same and can't help but grin.
He's impatient. He wants the game to truly begin.
When I see him set his empty glass on a nearby table I can't help the involuntary shiver that runs through my body. He's had enough waiting. He's making his move and I'm ready. Willing. Able.
He thinks I'm not.
He thinks I tolerate this about him.
He thinks I play along because it makes him happy.
He thinks I am playing a role he's designed for me by mapping out this game.
This is me. As much as this is him, this is me.
I'm a predator too. I'm a hunter too.
I'm younger than him by almost a century but I too feel the need to let my inner feral self see the light of day now and then.
I too hide my true self in a civilized human 'suit' of my own design.
I'm a wife, mother and a teacher. I'm a woman and a daughter, an aunt and a lover and a vampire too.
And now and then I need to shed the other personas and just be the vampire.
Maybe I shouldn't need to.
Maybe I should be content to be just the other things.
Maybe I shouldn't need to hunt like this, despite the fact that my man thinks he's hunting me I'm really hunting him too. At least my brain tells me I am as I stand and watch him make his way towards me very carefully. If I don't move, if I let him come to me, my brain tells me that's my own special way of hunting him. I've drawn my prey to me and to me it's close enough to a hunt.
Unlike my man I don't try too hard to work out the reasons why I feel the way I do. I try to just embrace the need inside me and thank god that he feels it too and I can indulge this side of my nature with him.
He's downwind like a true hunter always is. I can't turn to follow his progress now so I do as he expects and turn my gaze to the dance floor. There are couples and groups of various sizes and familiarity all around and I settle my attention on one in particular.
A pair I know my man will find interesting. Perhaps not interesting for he is forced to hear their thoughts, but at the least he'll find them slightly attractive merely because they are holding my attention.
I smell him before I feel his presence near me and stifle the need to suck in a great gulp of the air that surrounds him. He's feral and I'm giddy from it.
His scent will get stronger and spicier the longer I allow this part of the game to continue. The longer I can draw it out the hotter he'll get, the wetter I'll get, the more pungent his desire will become.
I don't take my eyes off the couple as I feel him come to my back. They don't mean anything to me. I don't know them or know their stories. I don't really care if they hook up or go home alone. But this is a game and I know the rules by now.
"He's going to take her to his home and fuck her until the sun comes up," he growls just near my ear and I shudder just slightly.
I give him a moment to orient himself behind me and wait for him to speak again. He will. He can't help himself. He'll want to tell me what they're thinking. I don't need to know but he will need to tell me.
And then I feel his lips at my shoulder and shiver. This is new. He doesn't go this fast usually.
Tonight he's impatient. He's held off his need for this longer than normal and now that he's voiced that need and we're here, in the throes of the game, he's rushing.
That's ok. He thinks he knows.
"He prefers to have her ride him so he can watch his cock disappear and her breasts sway with each thrust," he says against my skin and I shiver again.
I have to think hard about what he's said. I'm distracted by his pushing the game along so fast. I backtrack in my head and realise he's telling me what the couple are thinking.
I watch the couple as they come to an agreement and then wait while they make their way to the exit. Then I turn and face my man full on.
He is feral.
His eyes are onyx black despite his having hunted on his way here.
His hair is dishevelled from running his hand through it nervously. The silvery sheen of his venom coats his lips, its already turning milky from his desire and the sight and smell of it makes my core ache.
Perhaps three seconds have passed since he last spoke but to us it's a lengthy silence. He's waiting for me to play the part he needs.
"Does she want him?" I ask breathily as he shifts on the balls of his feet. Probably to relieve a little of the pressure that his erection is causing, pressed hard up against the fly of his jeans as it is. I keep my smug grin to myself.
He tells me that the woman does indeed want the man, though his turn of phrase is less than erotic. His hoarse 'he'll do' is rasped out quickly in his haste to get the game moving. It's almost funny and I can't help but lift an eyebrow at his impatience.
Trying to slow things down, or get them back on our usual track, whichever will prolong the game for us both, I turn once again and scan the crowd. I shift slightly backward until I feel his chest to my back and allow the delicious flutter in my stomach to take me over at touching my man for the first time in a full day.
His hands find my hips and it is the most natural movement between us. He's done it thousands of times and yet it always excites me. It's possessive even though it was me who stepped backward, needing to feel him close to me.
I hear and feel him inhale deeply as my hair settles between our bodies and grin once again. Scent is important to our kind. It is the first of our senses to heighten when we're turned and it's essential on the hunt. But between mates it signals intent.
Desire, fear, hunger, anger...all these emotions are easily discernable to our kind through scent alone. Each of us has a distinctive scent and we come to rely on and require the scents of those we love to be near us almost constantly.
He'll be able to smell my desire for him as he slides his nose down the column of my throat and into the hair at the base of my neck. It will have seeped out of my skin and it would be on everything I'm wearing, including through my hair.
I grin again when I hear him swallow thickly.
His venom would be flowing freely, just as mine is. It would be thick on his tongue now. Tingling across his teeth and lips as his desire grows. If I were to taste it it would be stronger than normal. Spicier, richer and it would sting if it were to be laved across my flesh or injected into it through a bite.
I have to press my thighs together at the thought. Bite.
Such a simple word. Such a simple concept. We bite to feed. Everyone does. Human, animal or otherwise, like us. We bite to feed.
But we bite when we fuck too and it's that thought that has me clenching my thighs together for friction.
He'll bite me. He always does. He can't help it. And I want him to. I need him to. I need to feel his venom burst to life inside my mouth and then inside my body as his teeth tear their way through my steel hard skin.
"Another," I hiss, bringing our game back online.
He asks another what but I know he understands. He's back to playing his part and I remind myself to play mine.
I point out a random couple and wait the few seconds it take him to isolate their thoughts. I listen without really hearing what's going on between them. It doesn't matter to me. They are a means to an end for me. For him its part of the game.
He thinks I need it. He thinks I need to hear what other couples are thinking and feeling to be able to give him what he needs from this game. I don't.
He thinks he knows.
I'm impatient now too. His scent has strengthened again, just from listening to the desires in the thoughts of others and he's turned on even more. It's almost too much for me.
I turn in his arms and lick the underside of his jaw unexpectedly. I need to. I need his flavour in my mouth. I need to be able to press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and taste him there. That inherently spicy taste that simply means 'Edward' to my brain.
I nip, just once, lightly, unable to deny myself the pleasure of his flesh in my mouth and I have to close my eyes as he growls deep in the back of his throat.
There is more to his taste tonight. The gentle freshness of whatever part of the forest he glutted his thirst in before coming here, the dryer sheet I washed his shirts with in the laundry room at our home, and rain. The clean, fresh taste of rain. I tell him so and he doesn't hesitate to tell me that I taste of sin.
I shudder at the words.
I'm rushing again. I want this part over. I want him to lead me from here now. He drew out his need for this game because of life's responsibilities and we're both suffering from the need. Its months longer than he'd usually confess this need to me. And I've suffered silently along with him.
But I need this to last and he thinks he knows.
I twist again and demand 'another'.
He chooses a random couple and once again I'm silent as he tells me their story and their intentions. This time it's more interesting and I can't help but murmur how sweet the thoughts of the man are. Until my man tells me about the stocking fetish that is.
My silence this time is amusement. I don't want to ruin the vibe he's building so I stay silent.
Another nip at my shoulder and he's breathing softly into my ear and asking me to leave with him. I keep my silence and let him wonder if I'll cave that easily.
I know he'll beg.
He won't lie and he won't manipulate, but he'll beg if I hold off longer.
He asks again, his desperation evident in the timbre of his voice at my ear and I cave.
I ask if he has a ride away from here and without preamble he asks me to ride him.
I bark out a laugh because I can't not. He doesn't speak this way normally. He's exactly what he appears to be, usually. Clean cut, deeply respectful, a graceful intelligent and highly moral man.
He's slipped into the persona he needs to be tonight and I decide that I will too.
He'll think it's because I'm playing the role he needs me to play.
He thinks he knows.
I pull him to me. "Do you want to watch yourself disappear inside me, or is it more about watching my tits sway?" I ask him, his mouth open and agog.
When he answers that it's both I shiver from head to toe.
He loves to watch.
His demand to 'come now' I take to mean come outside now and have to shake myself from the image of coming on his demand. I can. I have. I want to.
He's lost too. Just stood gaping at me and I know that he's lost sight of his own rules of the game. Again. He's desperate and so his usually unflappable demeanour has slipped.
I take control and take his hand. I lead us out the exit and hesitate only a second before choosing to drag him right instead of left when we hit the pavement. There'll be an alley somewhere. There's always an alley.
He'll have chosen this club because of the alley. He'll have researched it long before he confessed his need to me.
I've chosen correctly and stop at the head of said alley without warning. He runs right into the back of me!
I'm laughing because he's never like this. Never flustered. It's just not him. He's usually so in control.
I see his expression change and know that I shouldn't have laughed. This is serious to him. He needs to feel that he's driving this train. It's a big part of why he needs this.
I flatten the curve from my lips and let the mirth disappear from my eyes. He grabs my hand roughly and he's back. Tugging until I follow him into the filthy alleyway.
The hiss of a leaking gas pipe makes me look about to see what else is in the alley that could become a problem if we get too loud or he gets too destructive. Which he sometimes does.
I haven't even really looked in just one direction when he's on me. His hands pull me by the hips flush up to his groin and then his tongue is in my mouth and I can't help the indelicate moan that escapes my throat.
He sucks it down and echoes it with a moan of his own as I pull him harder to me.
He wastes no time and within half a second I'm shoved unceremoniously up against the brickwork. It creaks and the grout between the two bricks at my shoulders gives just slightly.
If I were human it would've hurt and my flesh would've torn. But I'm not human and my man doesn't care. That's ok, I don't care either.
My man pays no attention to it and forces my legs apart so he can shove his thigh up to meet my aching core.
I grind myself unashamedly onto his leg, humping like a dog in heat. I can't help it. I want him.
He bites my bottom lip and I feel his cock twitch against my thigh as he tastes my venom.
He kicks my legs apart and rips my blouse from my body, using his nails to tear through the tougher fabric seam at the collar. Another kick to my leg and I'm suspended on his leg and at his mercy. Just as he wants me.
But I don't cower.
I'm not afraid.
He loves a strong woman and I'm strong.
I know what's coming next so I'm not surprised when he withdraws from me and we switch places by his design.
With his back to the wall and his feet squared to his own shoulder width he places a firm hand on my shoulder and I sink to my knees.
Taking my shirt wasn't about wanting to see my breasts. Not yet anyway. It's about power. His power over me. He wants me bare, ish. He'd want me totally naked from the waist up if there weren't so many humans passing by the opening to the alleyway. But even in his need to dominate me, to hunt me and take me, he won't expose that much of me. He'd kill if a man saw my naked breasts and we both know it. He's left me in my bra because it's just indecent enough for his needs.
It's indecent enough for my own.
And he thinks he knows.
I free him from his pants in haste. I squeeze his length hard and revel in the rasping, guttural snarl that escapes his lips. He's had to look away and I love that. His control has slipped again and I have it now.
I give it back easily. I'm content with the small pieces of control I get and so I give it back to him because I know he needs it more than I do right then. My turn will come.
I take him into my mouth and cast my eyes down on purpose.
He'll think he's taking back control when he insists I look at him. And he does. With a finger beneath my chin he raises my face until our eyes meet. And then he grins.
Arrogant, selfish and irresistible.
He's fucking perfect.
Forward, back, and then flick my tongue over the bulbous head that's invaded the back of my throat. Forward, back then suck harder. He's quivering, his knees are shaking with the effort not to come down my throat and I know from those small movements that I've got control once again.
I swallow around him. I relax the back of my throat and take all of him in until he's pushing as far back as he can go and then I swallow. The muscles in my throat clamp down on him rhythmically and he loses it so fast he's got to work hard to realise for himself that he's already coming in my mouth.
He tries. He tries hard to wrestle control back, but his brain won't catch up that fast to the workings of his body and I win.
I've made him come almost instantly and I feel so very powerful as the hot, thick streams spurt out of him and into me.
He tries again. He fists my hair and holds my head still as he thrusts into me, but it's a done deal already. This is posturing. He's already coming and there's no need to thrust. But he does it anyway. I grin around him and hum knowing it'll prolong his pleasure and I'm right.
The spurts quicken, his balls drawing up and the thick vein against my tongue begins to spasm anew.
And then he's in control again and I'm startled as he does something he's never done before.
He grabs me under my arms and pulls me up so that I'm full up against his chest again and then he shoves his tongue deep into my mouth. He's tasting himself from me and I almost come at the thought. He's never done that. I thought he'd be disgusted. But he's not. He's feral and his scent hits yet another peak as he turns me until my shoulders are once again against the brickwork.
Within seconds he's slapping at my now exposed right breast and I'm grinding myself onto his hard thigh again. I can feel myself weeping onto the fabric of his jeans and can smell myself as I near my first release.
And then his long, cool fingers are against my clit and I'm crying out into his waiting mouth. The fingers of his free hand are now torturing my other breast and I'm close. Too close and too far and I need more.
If he stops I'll cry. He won't stop. He wouldn't. He couldn't. And I can't.
He divests me of my panties and he's back within two seconds but he's been gone from my flesh for long enough for the fire to need stoking again.
He's expert at it. He sends me headlong into a renewed frenzy of need inside another two seconds by switching hands and smearing my own desirous juices across my other nipple while the fingers of his other hand strive to find my g-spot. He finds it. Oh fuck does he find it.
And then I'm coming.
And coming and coming and coming.
I try to maintain the eye contact he needs but can't. I pant through the mind-blowing sensations that swamp me from head to toe and do my best to return my eyes to his as the last ripples resonate within me.
He's hard again, as I knew he would be, and he lifts me so I can wrap my ankles behind his back. He thinks he's the only one of us that looks down to watch his glorious cock invade me, but he's not.
He thinks he knows.
I watch, teeth digging into my bottom lip, as the flared head of his sex parts my lips and disappears inside my heated body. We both whimper. We both growl. The hissing is now louder than the steam pipe above us.
I'm already staring at him when he looks back up. He doesn't know I've watched too. My minute nod is enough to drive him on and he begins to thrust.
He pushes me until I'm higher up the wall and my nipple is accessible to his lips. His teeth clamp down almost instantly and I doubt he realises he's done it this soon into proceedings. He's usually able to string it out, wring it out, and his bite comes later than it has tonight.
He's waited too long to confess.
I'm coming again and his now milk-white venom is a glossy coating across my breast as he withdraws his teeth and lets me ride it out to the full.
I'm not done when I recognise just how close to his next orgasm he is. The telltale signs are all there for me to interpret.
He's slipped lower, his knees are less steady. His cock has swelled slightly inside me and his eyelids are hooded, his breath a hoarse rasp.
He's begging me to look into his eyes and he doesn't know I need it too.
He's trying to temper his thrusts but he knows full well it's futile. As do I. He's gone past the point of no return and he's going to come no matter what he does to stave it off.
The game isn't complete yet though. I know what he needs.
He needs to declare himself.
He needs to make sure that I know what I am to him.
He needs to possess me not only in body but in mind as well and he needs to know that I am his as much as he is mine.
He winces at the first sting in his legs and I grin.
I know this.
I crane my neck when I feel the muscles in his stomach clench.
I grit my teeth and insist he say it.
"Yours," he hisses as the grit beneath his shoes whines as he digs in for traction.
He looks away, as I knew he would, and hiss and insist that he looks at me now. I demand he say it again and he does. But it's not enough. It's a breathy rasp and not a shout or a yell. It's nowhere near the bellow he needs to let escape and it's got not nearly enough intensity in it for what I need to hear.
"Fucking say it," I bark. He's close. So close. Maybe too close and he's not playing right. I need this. I need it. It's mine, he's mine, and I need it.
And then there it is.
His bellowed confirmation of all that I am.
He screams that he's mine as he comes inside me. He shouts that he's mine as he empties his soul into me. He shrieks and confirms that he's mine and I allow a shallow orgasm to take me over once again.
It's not as strong as the others he's given me but I'm distracted by watching him take his pleasure from his own release. He's beautiful to me all the time, no matter what he's doing. But when he comes inside me...when his brain isn't telling him to be careful, to make sure he seems human...when his brain forgets to continue the charade of our normal lives and lets him be the vampire he is he's at his most beautiful to me.
And then he's slumping against me. Breathing hard though he doesn't need to. I've got my hands in his magnificent copper mop of hair and I'm crooning against his throat that he's mine, that I'm his as his release spends its last inside him.
It's my turn now. I will control what comes next. As I always do. Because he needs me to. Because he knows.
This he knows.
I let him slip from within me and I wipe his seed from between my legs on the panties he's discarded at his feet before I tuck them into his jeans pocket. He'll want them for later.
I kick my ruined blouse further into the blackened alley and do my best to dislodge his outer shirt from his body without his knees giving out. It's happened before.
With his shirt on and the cups of my bra back in place over my breasts I take his hand and smile as he whispers another oath that 'he's mine'. I lead us away from the scene of our perceived sin and out onto the street.
The car is parked in front of the club, where he always parks.
I let him kiss me in thanks though I don't need it.
He thinks he knows.
I tell him he's welcome and let him think he knows.
I let him think I'll just get into the car and we'll drive away. But I know.
I know him.
I know what he needs now that our game is complete because I know him.
He tells me, not asks, he tells me to restore my wedding rings to my hand after he's made sure I can see his thick, gold band is safely and securely back where it belongs on his own hand. I comply with a smile and happily reposition the rings he gave me onto my hand.
There is a spring in his step as he rounds the car once I'm seated inside it.
He kisses me softly on the cheek and squeezes my hand just once before he brings his beloved car roaring to life and we make our way towards our home.
His smug grin tells me he's happy and that he's sure I've enjoyed myself despite his confession to needing this, every now and then.
But I need it too.
I need him like this.
Now and then.
Because I know that he needs to set his true nature free and I do too.
I let him think he knows.
Because I love him.
Because I need him.
Because after one-hundred and thirty-seven years together he actually does know.
He knows me.
I'm a vampire and he's mine.
A/N: Thank you for reading.