Nightcall

By Miss Winkles

Beta: kitchmill

Rating: M

Banner by Lizzie Paige - link posted in Bio.

For those who have read The Fall, this should sit nicely around chapter 17. For those who haven't, this should hopefully stand on its own.

The night presses in around the car and the weight of it squeezes the air from my lungs. My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel as I try to ignore the claustrophobia that's been creeping in since we hit the outskirts of the city.

Beside me, Jasper's brutally angular face is a puzzle of shadows under the interior light. "Don't do anything stupid, you hear me?" he says firmly.

I don't reply. I've never been able to lie to Jasper and I'm not about to start now.

"I mean it. Go home. Look after your girl. Leave Marcus for another day."

Of course Jasper knows. He knows that I'm itching to storm into Blush and rip Marcus's tongue from his mouth. He's been undercutting Jasper's bottom line, stealing his product, and throwing his weight around like he's motherfucking Scarface. He's nothing but a drug-addicted nobody who wishes he was something else. The best part about Marcus dripped out of his mother and stained the sheets, and the only thing that's kept me sane during the excruciating ten-hour car ride home is the thought of his blood on my knuckles and Bella safe within my reach.

"He's been stealing from you," I say through a clenched jaw.

"I know that. I've suspected it since you mentioned that Bella's seen the girls selling in the club."

"You're not doing anything about it?"

"Marcus is not as smart as he thinks he is, Edward. He likes to think he's hot shit but he's nothing but a cold fart and I know every move that greasy little shit stain makes. He's not going anywhere." Fisting my hands against my thighs, I turn to glare at Jasper in the passenger seat. The air inside the car crackles as he gives one of his trademark, throaty chuckles. "I know. I know you want a shot at him, but this is going to take a little more delicacy. You need to stay cool, my man."

I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on Jasper. For a moment I thought I'd been knocked in the head so hard I was hallucinating. Out of the darkness he loomed above me like some kind of Viking beast with shoulders wide enough to eclipse the sun and an ego even bigger. Italian suits, designer sunglasses, hands that were made to tear men apart—he was half vengeful God half Celtic warrior. His goons had come for my blood as payment for a debt to people you shouldn't be in debt to. But I was young and reckless, fuelled by my own stupidity. Jasper's men left with a set of broken noses and a crushed windpipe, and I left with a job and a debt to pay back.

But for all his imposing stature, Jasper is always calm and measured. He's well-spoken, educated, and he comes from a good home. He's respectful of those who deserve it, and loyal right down to his core. He just happens to be very good at doing very bad things. If Riley is the greyhound, Jasper is the snake; slick and dangerous if cornered—he's the real fucking deal.

He also knows me better than I know myself.

"Why didn't you just take Riley?" I ask, still staring out into the dark. "You could have got to Laurent without me."

"Because I needed someone who would shut the fuck up and do the job. You know I love that kid, but the only time Riley shuts up is when he's got a pair of thighs wrapped around his face." He sighs, stroking a hand down his beard. "I know you're torturing yourself for not being here when they broke in, but Marcus would have found another way to get to Bella. Whatever it is he wants, he's going to do whatever it takes to get it from her. Hell, she's lucky it wasn't worse. We both know he's capable of it."

The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

"You can't let Marcus make the connection between you and Bella," he continues. "He doesn't need another reason to come after her. The moment he knows she's yours—"

"I get it," I snap, and then, a little quieter, "I know."

"So you'll chill? Let me handle things?"

"It's your job, isn't it?" I snap.

Jasper takes a moment to reply. He adjusts his cuffs. He runs his fingers over the four black crosses inked over the backs of his knuckles. When he speaks again his voice is even and deceptively calm. "Don't forget your place, Edward," he rumbles. "I don't pay you to talk shit; I pay you to keep things in line. You're like a brother to me, and Bella seems to mean a great deal to you, but make no mistake, I still pay you to be respectful and to do as I say. Are we clear?"

My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. "Clear."

"Look at me." I turn. "This isn't a request, it's an order. I don't need you up in that club causing trouble. I know how you are, and I know all about that thing you have chained up in there." He taps a thick finger on my sternum "You need to keep it locked up tight for now."

Eyes shut, I drop my head against the seat. My skin feels too small for my bones, itchy. When I close my eyes all I see is Leah's mottled skin as I shovelled the dirt over her decaying body. Jasper takes my silence as assent. The click of the door opening and the scrape of his leather boots on the gravel driveway as he gets out of the car are the only sound in the quiet street, and like fingernails on the chalkboard of my already tightly wound nerves.

When I open my eyes, he leans into the car, an arm braced on the door. "Listen, I know I give you shit about it, but you're a different guy since you met her and the kid. Whatever you've got is a good thing, so don't fuck it up, all right?" He grins. "Otherwise I'll take her out from under you."

"Fuck you," I say, rolling my eyes at his smirk. The car shudders as I press my foot against the accelerator, the engine roaring in neutral. "Get the fuck outta my car."

Jasper laughs, rapping his knuckles on the roof before slamming the door, and then he disappears into the night.

The car gulps down the cold night air as I wind through the tidy suburban streets that Jasper calls home, headlights washing over the quiet roads until they morph into the towering glitter of the city. Fast food, fast money, fast women, this place is a neon paradise for some. But it's designed to do little more than fill you up with whatever vice you need to scratch the itch. It's pretty and shiny, attractive on the outside but rotten on the inside. And as the glamour fades and the real city appears, you begin to see what it takes to survive here, what it really means to survive in a city of sin. Even in the dark, the landscape is bleak—a snapshot of a city teetering on the precipice of its descent into hell, the grimy claws of crime and violence sinking deeper every day. Unlike Jasper, I have no soft spot for this city. No hidden candle for a place with a crime rate that rivals a war-torn country and poverty line to match. The only heart I long for here is the one that beats in the woman I love. It's only for her that I stay.

The ache that's been building in my gut flares, stoked by the deep, bone-crushing reality of knowing I'm in love with someone I don't deserve.

At the next corner, I pull up to the curb in front of a twenty-four-hour liquor store that has bars on the windows and doors. The guy behind the counter doesn't even try to hide the shotgun. The store smells like rising damp and the refrigerators are cool at best, so I forgo the beer for a fifth of whiskey. I rarely drink anymore. The comfort I used to feel at the taste of liquor is gone, replaced instead by the taste of Bella's mouth on mine, the whisper of her voice in my ear, the smell of her skin. I'm addicted to her and I'm not sure what's more dangerous: her or the whiskey. Just the memory of her lips against the shell of my ear makes me feel dizzy and my skin feel tight. There's no drug I've found quite like her but I don't have with me, so liquor is all I've got.

The shop owner smells like pit sweat and halitosis, and he barely looks at me as I slide a bill across the counter to him. "Keep the change."

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I almost drop it rushing to pull it out.

BANG BANG HAS FREE WINGS TIL MIDNIGHT SO IF YOU FEEL LIKE JERKIN THAT STICK OUTTA YOUR ASS I'LL BE THERE IN A HALF HOUR.

I almost throw my phone across the street when I see Riley's name instead of Bella's.

Riley loves two things in this world: pussy and trouble. Lucky for him, running with Jasper means he gets his fill of both, and most nights if he's not whipping a baseball bat into skulls he's at the bottom of a pile of easy women. Tall, short, dark, pale, Puerto Rican, Irish, Korean, redheads, brunettes—he doesn't discriminate, he just flashes that shark smile of his and the panties drop. I do have a theory that Riley has a preference for heavier women—big ass, thick thighs, tits the size of his head and all that. The guy can't weigh more than a buck twenty, but I've seen the way he looks at them; it's straight up drop-to-your-knees reverence and I don't know why he doesn't just fucking own it, because you like what you like, right? Anyway, a penchant for violence and anything with a set of tits aside, he's as loyal as they come, and like I said, the boy loves a little bad behavior and that suits us just fine. Problem is, he's got a mouth on him that's good for two things: eating pussy and talking shit. I'd rather he did more of the former if it meant I heard less of the latter. He buzzes me again and I contemplate turning my phone off, but don't because it's the only way Bella can contact me.

Three times on the way home he messages me. Each is more stupid than the last and I know he's just trying to keep my mind off of Marcus, but Jesus fucking Christ.

Clutching the whiskey in one hand and my backpack in the other, I bust through the front doors of my apartment building and almost run right into Mrs. Eizadi in the process. Mumbling an apology, I skirt past her, cringing as she eyeballs the bottle in my tattooed hand. She scowls at me as she drops a bag of trash into the chute at the bottom of the stairs, gnarled fingers clutching her bathrobe tight as her slippers shush across the foyer toward her apartment door. Bella adores her, and the woman and her husband look after Emmett like he was their own, so instead of ignoring her the way I want to, I give her a polite smile and continue up the stairs. I can't blame her for looking at me like that; I know what I look like. Not the kind of guy you leave a kid with, that's for damn sure. But even though I've barely known Emmett six months, I would burn this whole filthy city to the ground if it meant doing right by him.

I take the stairs two at a time, relieved to be out of her beady-eyed gaze.

I hate this godforsaken building with its water-stained walls and rotten floorboards, and the second-floor hallway that always smells like cat piss on account of the crazy woman in 2D who has twenty of the little beasties all cooped up in there. I hate this place with every inch of my being, but I have never been more thankful to be back here. I stop at Bella's door, pulse pumping in my throat as a wave of anger rushes up my spine. The repairman has done a good job, but the wood around the door is still splintered. I run my fingers over the gouges, shaking my head. Amateurs. Crowbars and brute force where a set of screwdrivers would have sufficed. My jaw works as I picture whichever useless fucks Marcus sent to traipse through Bella's apartment. Clumsy and stupid, they would have turned the place inside out, treading their thick-soled boots all over her life like it was nothing. Stealing presents for a child at the whims of a petulant dickhead.

My vision pulses red as I remember the look on Bella's face when she showed me the Tonka. Bright yellow, all shiny and new—she'd been so excited to give it to Emmett on his birthday. The tremble in her voice when she called me will haunt my sleep for weeks, and even now my fingertips tingle as I think about her alone in that apartment with the wreckage of her life strewn around her.

Inside my apartment, it just gets worse.

I toss my bag onto the table where it slides across the top and falls to the floor. In the bedroom, my bed is made—which is a first in the twelve months I've lived here. Easing myself down onto it, I have to resist the urge to bury my face in the pillow and breathe in the lingering scent Bella's left behind, like that vanilla shampoo she has and Emmett's bubble bath. That lavender scent hits me like a fist in the stomach, and now not only do I miss her, I miss the kid, too. It's only been a week, but I miss his toothy grin and the way he says my name and even the way his hands are always sticky with something.

I groan into my hands.

What the fuck has become of me?

I sink my hands into my hair, trying to keep a leash on the thing that's swelling inside of me but I can feel it climbing up my ribs, creeping closer to taking hold. The lid of the liquor bottle cracks and I take a swig, cough, swig again. It burns, and for a merciful moment it's all I can think about, but then the burn turns into a warmth in the pit of my gut and the taste washes from my mouth and everything is the same.

Closing my eyes, I press the heel of my hand to my sternum, right over the burn in my chest.

Since meeting Bella and Emmett I've entertained ideas I never thought I would. About leaving. About taking her with me and starting fresh somewhere new. Giving her a life she deserves and the future her son needs. I don't have much, but what I've got I've worked damn hard for. The blood will stain my hands for the rest of my life, and who knows, one day all the bad things I've done for bad people may come back to haunt me. But for now, what I've got is enough to walk away from all of this and never look back, and I would spend every cent of it on her if she'd let me. But she won't, and I both hate and love that about her.

After another few gulps of whiskey, I get up.

I unpack my bag. I clean my gun. I put a load of washing on. I make a half-assed attempt at eating something. I shower and tidy my face up and clean the cuts on my knuckles. I pace the living room, taking the four short steps it takes to get from one side to the other again and again, the half-empty bottle in my hand, but in the end, Jasper was right; this thing inside of me won't give up until I've put things right.

I throw a clean shirt on and tuck the Glock from the hall stand into the waistband of my jeans. Its weight feels familiar against my lower back, solid. Marcus doesn't deserve the mercy of a bullet, but he isn't the only thing that goes bump in the night either so I'm not taking any chances.

By the time I land at the bottom of the stairs, black hoodie pulled up over my head, the animal screaming for blood is rattling my ribs like a cage, roaring to be set free, and all of the promises I made Jasper are nothing but dust. The whiskey in my stomach is warm and the skin across my cheeks feels numb as the cold night air rushes beneath my hood. Ahead of me, the night air glows pink as the neon lights of Blush blaze like a beacon in the night sky. The line is long and rowdy, and my shoulders tense as I brush past. I shouldn't be here. This was a mistake. Jasper would rip my insides out through my asshole if he knew I were here.

But now the animal inside is drumming against my ribs, howling. It knows I'm close.

At the door, Big Mike watches me approach. When I lift my head in his direction he nods and unclips the rope, allowing me to slide past. Marcus may not be wise enough to know the things that stalk him in the night, but Big Mike knows. This city has touched him and his, and even men like him—men the size of a freak show grizzly bear—need somewhere to turn when the boys in blue are so far up the devil's ass you can't tell who you're talking to. Men like Big Mike need men like me because everyone has a monster under the bed—even Marcus, and I happen to work for that monster. Mike is silent, affording me a quick nod before turning his back to me as I take the stairs two at a time.

Inside, soul rumbling bass pumps through the bar while on stage a sparrow-sized girl fumbles her way through a dance on clumsy, too-thin legs. She's all elbows and knees and far too much fake tan on pale skin, and even from across the room I can see the calling cards of an addiction.

Blush might like to pretend it's high-end, but it's no less dirty and rotten than anywhere else. It is a den of iniquity run by the devil himself. On first glance, it's colored lights and white silk curtains, glass and mirrors, top-shelf liquor and the kind of girls you can only dream about. The ones you wish would look at you in the street. The ones you see on glossy pages and on TV screens. Blush has them all, and they're all waiting just for you.

You fantasize about a petite Asian with freckles and eyelashes like a porcelain doll? She's yours.

You like busty redheads with a filthy mouth? She's on stage at eleven.

You like a heavy-set blonde who'll let you lick her armpits? She's got the night off, but how about a brunette instead?

It's only when you look a little longer, when you squint into the darkness, that you realise it's all just a facade for the deepest pit of hell.

That petite Asian you like so much is so blown she can barely keep those doll eyes open. The busty redhead is a mother of two and has a piece of shit boyfriend with a gambling habit. She breezes right past me, pretending she didn't see me with my gun pressed to the back of her lover's throat last week, and the wonderland veil slips a little further.

I'm about to turn around and get the fuck out of here when I see Tania—Marcus's piece—flit across the floor, all silver polyester and assumed power. The pistol at the base of my spine is warm against my skin and the thrum of my blood hums in my ears as I watch her disappear through a private door. I tug my hood lower, set my jaw and then…

And then.

And then the lights dip and the beat slows and the entire universe comes grinding to a halt as a long, lean, pale-skinned silhouette I'd know anywhere emerges from the darkness. She steps onto the stage and just like that the roar of the animal inside of me falls quiet as I sink down into the nearest seat. Just as it had the first night I saw her here, the club deep dives into a hush as she struts out. There's a gaudy red wig on her head, scarlet curls tumbling down her back, but even from the back of the room, covered in shadow, I know the shape of her. I know the sway of her hips when she walks, the angle of her shoulders and the shape of her face.

Amidst all of this noise, among a crowd of wanton flesh and wanting eyes, my girl glitters like a beacon.

The song tumbles into a soft, gooey bass line that pulses lazily around her. Every move she makes is perfect, every step precise and graceful. This isn't a girl grinding against a pole, it's art. It's the strength in her arms and thighs, the way she loses herself in the music, and the way she can make the whole world fall away around her. It's the way she turns and looks at the crowd over her shoulder and the whole place fucking melts.

Rosalie, she calls herself.

They think they know her. They think that if they come in week after week with sweaty fistfuls of singles that maybe she'll look at them a little longer, that maybe they'll finally get the dream girl. But I know better. I've seen the soul she keeps under that flimsy outfit, felt the heart that beats beneath her rib cage, and that girl on stage isn't the real thing. The woman on stage is no more than a requirement of Bella's need for privacy. And maybe it's because I know what's underneath that I see so much of her in Rosalie. Her effortless grace and poise, a determination and drive, a real woman hidden under bravado. Unlike the rest of the people in here, I'm not here for Rosalie, I'm here for Bella.

Which is why I get up before she finishes.

She deserves the chance to take her time with me, to reveal herself when she's ready and not a moment before. Anyway, I don't want to see her skin under the lights of a stage, I want to see it in the soft light from her bedside lamp, against her pale blue sheets, beneath my hands, my mouth, and pressed beneath my hips. She deserves better than a room full of eyes and I want so much more. Dizzy drunk on her proximity, I stumble away from the stage and pull back the curtain that separates the main bar from the private rooms. There, a tall blonde with bright pink nails smiles at me as I enter. Her eyes are unhurried as she looks me over, a pink slash of a mouth lifting into a grin. But then I cock my head just enough for my face to catch the light beneath my hood and her expression goes slack. Her green eyes flit around the room, no doubt searching the shadows for what normally follows my appearance. Or should I say the "who" that usually follows my arrival.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses. "I already told that other guy—"

"Relax," I reply. "I'm not here for you."

Her shoulders sag and she presses her plump bottom lip between her teeth. "What do you want?"

Reaching behind me, I pull aside the curtain and gesture to the stage. The beast inside of me screams possessively, stalking the space between my ribcage.

"You want a lap dance?" the girl asks incredulously.

I don't answer. A lap dance is the last of the things I want right now.

Her eyes flicker around the cameras that buzz over my head as she wars with indecision and fear. She knows better than to leave a lamb alone with the lion, and for that, I can't help but feel a little grateful to her. The girls here look after their own. But then she nods, waving me toward the end of the hallway toward the private rooms, her self-preservation winning in the end.

"I gotta send one of the boys in," she says as she ushers me quickly into one of the plush private suites. "It's the rules."

I shrug, easing down onto one of the seats as she skitters off, relieved to be out of my line of sight. She's one of so many faces that I know but can't place. Eyes shut against the torrent of conflicting emotions rolling through me, I try to remember where I've seen her. I also wonder how many asses have occupied this seat. How many men—and women, I guess—have sat right here and waited. Staring at the ceiling, my blood awash with liquor and wanting, I begin to feel stupid, tucked away at the back of the club like some creep with a fistful of cash and a hard-on. And then I remember how I know the girl with the pink lips. She'd tried to blackmail the wrong guy out of a few thousand and found out the hard way that money not only buys you pretty things, but it buys you protection. He'd been some private-schooled thug wannabe from the upper east side with a pretty wife and bad taste in mistresses, and she'd been desperate and stupid. He came to Jasper with a problem and paid handsomely to have it taken care of. She'd been easy enough to dissuade. It turns out that strippers will do just about anything to keep their kneecaps where they are.

I sigh, wishing I felt worse about it.

The longer I wait, the more my conscience begins to sneak in and being here really begins to feel like a bad idea. This isn't some grand gesture, it's weird.

I've almost convinced myself to leave when the click of heels echoes down the hallway, and I sit up, feeling soft beneath the weight of the whiskey and beer. I'm stunned when instead of Bella, a massive blonde-haired bouncer yanks the curtain aside and strides in, eyeballing me hard. He's a full head taller than me, with a brutish forehead and a thick neck.

"Rules," he says with a booming voice as he thrusts a meaty finger at me. "Rule number one, and the most important rule: don't touch her unless you're asked to. If you need to sit on your hands, then do it. Better that than me coming back in here to shove them up your ass. Rule two: your dick stays in your pants. You make her uncomfortable, I make you uncomfortable, got it?"

I nod, unable to stop the smirk. He stops, glaring at me from beneath thick, blonde eyebrows and I straighten. His arms look like tree trunks and I don't feel like having my limbs ripped from my body tonight.

"Rule three," he continues, looking me up and down with narrowed eyes. "Pay for your kink. You got some weird ass sniffing fetish, that's fine with me, just make sure you pay her extra if she asks for it. Whatever you're paying just assume it isn't enough for whatever perverted idea you've got in your head. Rule number four: no, she doesn't want to date you, and no, she won't marry you. Be polite and treat her with respect. Are we clear?"

I nod again and he does the same, satisfied. I like this guy. His name tag says Petey. I make a mental note as he takes a quick glance around the room before ducking back through the curtain. There's a brief rush of whispered words and when Bella steps through the sheer curtain the whole world goes quiet and I realise that maybe the screaming animal in my chest doesn't want Marcus after all—it wants her.

She hesitates, confused, and I want to go to her but I don't because there are cameras.

She's changed into white lace now and she looks like an angel sent to tear apart every shred of decency I have left, however deep it's buried. She's a beam of pure white light to guide me out of the dark and I can't look at her. It's too much.

"What are you doing here, Edward?" she asks.

When her dark eyes finally settle on me and all of the bravado she wears like a mask slips away, I feel every cell in my body straining to pull her into me. My voice feels croaky, disused. "I couldn't wait until tomorrow."

She looks shocked, and instantly I regret turning up like this. I'm sitting here like some loser in the world's worst chick flick expecting her to leap into my arms and put everything right, but I didn't even stop to think about how this must look to her. And so we're both quiet, her standing by the door and me slouched in the seat trying to figure out how to put this right. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I feel all of the weight of the last few days press on me. I shouldn't be here. This is so dangerous. The whiskey rolls in my gut as she steps closer, white silk swishing around her thighs, and I'm trying to play it cool but all I want to do is fall at her feet and press my face to her stomach and fall asleep for a week. She looks around, knowing as well as I do that these rooms are wired, but from the way she chews on the inside of her cheek, I can tell she's as frustrated by the space between us as I am.

I tell her I shouldn't be here, and with the single strand of willpower she's left me I move to leave.

Her hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Sit," she says.

And like a good boy, I do.

She's so close I can see the freckles on her neck and the little dip above her top lip. Her chest expands a little as she takes a deep breath and I do my best to look anywhere but there. "You know—" she takes the beer bottle from where it dangles from my fingers, "—if you wanted a dance, all you had to do was ask."

A better man would tell her no.

A better man would tell her that she's more to him than flesh and desire.

I am not that man.

"I'm asking now."

Her eyes twinkle and something stirs inside of me as she steps even closer, towering over me in her stilettos. "Ask nicely," she whispers, mouth tipping into a seductive smile as she bows a little to meet my eyes.

I'm struck dumb. There isn't a single word in the world to adequately describe how much I want her.

Rapt, I can only watch as she tips the bottle to her lips, eyes on mine as she finishes what's left. Her bottom lip shines wet and my throat goes tight as her tongue peeks out to swipe away the beer left behind. The wig she's wearing tumbles over her shoulder, covering her collar bones, and before I can think better of it I've got a handful of it clenched between my fingers. Her own dark hair spills out from beneath as I tug it off her head, and I have to stifle a groan as it drops over the swell of her breasts. It smells just like her and when she gives a breathy laugh my heart begins to beat so hard I think it's going to explode.

"Since you asked so nicely."

Bella steps away to fiddle with an iPod, her back to me. I tip my head back, taking a shaky breath. This woman will be the death of me. I knew it the first moment I saw her and now that I'm here, teetering dangerously on the edge of sanity, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else but in her thrall.

Something deep pulses through the tiny room and I see the moment that the unsure, timid Bella I met in the hallway of our apartment building all those months ago disappears. Her chin tilts upward ever so slightly and her shoulders set as she stalks toward me.

Heaven help me.

My breath burns in my lungs, held tight as she leans in, warm breath brushing against my ear and sending a ripple of goosebumps up my spine. "I missed you."

I want to laugh. I want to sit her down and tell her every single way I've thought about her in the last forty-eight hours. All the minutes I've spent missing her. All the hours I've spent dealing with the fact that I've fallen so fucking hard for her I can't even remember what life was like before I met her.

"You have no idea."

She pulls back slightly, brown eyes staring right down into the darkest parts of me, and for a moment I feel a spark of hope I'd never thought possible. Hope that the blood beneath my nails and the trappings of a violent life aren't enough to stop her from loving me. That she feels the same way I do for her regardless of the things I do.

She sighs, eyes closing for a moment.

And then she begins to move.

Her delicate hands flutter over the gauzy dress and scrap of underwear she wears. An embarrassingly ragged breath wheezes out of me as she slides her hand up my thighs, thumbs brushing the inseam of my jeans. The right side of her mouth quirks as my muscles clench, and I want to touch her so badly that I contemplate sitting on my hands to stop from doing so. That Petey dude doesn't look like a guy I want to mess with, and I like my hands where they are, thank you very much. But when she reaches for the strap of her dress I chance it, reaching out to stop her. Our fingers brush and the air crackles around us. "Leave it on," I say quietly, hoping I don't sound as weak as I feel.

Her plump bottom lip tucked between her teeth, she nods.

She slides into my lap, and the warmth of her thighs radiates through my jeans where her knees are pressed tight against my hips. Her pulse hammers against the base of her throat as she swallows, skin fluttering like butterfly wings. It makes me smile. The raging fire of my anger is nothing but an ember now, glowing in the pit of my stomach. The animal inside of me is quiet, sated for now by the touch of Bella's skin against mine.

My composure strains as she presses herself against me, ass pressed right into my lap, and I want to be embarrassed about what she feels there, but when her breath shudders just a little I can't find it in me to feel ashamed. Not when she grinds harder back into it, and certainly not when she turns to face me and I see the flush creeping up her cheeks. Her dark eyes are glittering and her perfect heart-shaped mouth falls open a little as her hands slide down over the swell of her breasts and hips, sinking lower, and I swear I feel the earth vibrate around us. I grip the seat beneath me and she gives me a satisfied smile. The beast inside purrs with delight as she lowers her mouth to the corner of mine, but when I turn a little, desperate for her taste, she pulls back.

"You'll have to wait," she says, and just like that she slides off my lap and the final bars of the song disappear into the air between us.

My girl is good and she knows it.

My legs feel like jelly, and to be honest, even if I wanted to stand I'm not sure there's enough blood in my head to keep me upright. "Give me a minute," I hiss, trying to control myself, and even in the dark, I see her cheek lift with a pleased smile. Angel my ass.

In her heels she's closer to my height, but still short enough that I have to duck my head a little. I resist the urge to press myself against her and instead reach between us to take her hand in mine. She turns, so close I can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, and her breath halts with a quiet squeak as I lean in and press my rough cheek to her soft one, inhaling her like the addict I am. "I'll wait up for you."

Her fingers tighten around mine and she nods ever so slightly. When I pull back her dark eyes are soft under heavy lids and her lips are right there and God, I want to kiss her. I release her hand from mine, affording her one last look before I step out into the club and then into the blessedly cold night air. I feel every pore tighten and my blood slows to an almost-normal rhythm as a gust of wind barrels up the street. At the door, Big Mike steps aside, my green in his hand with a strict understanding that I was never here.

It's after two and instead of sleeping like I know I should be, like any normal person would be when they've been awake for almost twenty-four hours, I'm sitting in my living room waiting. The sound of Bella's door makes me jump, and I have to count the seconds off in my head in an attempt to stay calm.

That lasts all of thirty-five seconds.

In her apartment there's no more Rose, only Bella in her ugly wool sweater that reaches past her hips and a pair of jeans ripped at the knees, her hair loose around a face clean of everything that she uses to hide it. At last, after an eternity of waiting, I pull her into my arms and she presses her head to my chest, hands clutching the back of my t-shirt. Finally, that last knot of tension begins to unravel. Even as I close my eyes and try my hardest not to think about who else was in this apartment last night, I can feel the muscles of my body releasing.

"Edward," she says quietly, hands turning my face to hers, and I've never been so afraid of anything in my life because she must see it. Holding her like this I can't hide the way I feel. I tried as hard as I could to keep my distance in the beginning, to be respectful and not want from her what she assumes every man wants from her. But then she went and opened up right in front of me, showing me all the things she keeps hidden, and I knew there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop from falling for her.

But when she pulls my face to hers I see reflected back at me everything that I'm feeling.

I crush my lips against hers and she weaves her fingers into my hair and wraps her legs around my waist and I swear I see the stars.

Bella's hands are everywhere, scorching a trail over my shoulders and across my chest and I want to shred every inch of clothing between us and bury myself in her until this ache in my chest eases. Her thighs are soft and pliant in my hands, and when I squeeze, pulling her harder against me, she bucks and makes a tiny whimpering noise and the tenuous strand of self-control I have frays. My mouth leaves hers, travelling south as she exposes her neck to me, and for some strange reason I want to sink my teeth into the soft spot at the junction of her neck and shoulder. That strange thought gives me pause enough to stop. My forehead on her chest, I suck in a ragged breath. "We have to stop. Otherwise—"

"Stay the night," breathes Bella against my temple. "Stay with me."

The thread holding together my last shreds of decency sing as she pulls me to her roughly.

"Are you sure?"

She answers me with a kiss. "So sure."

Did I say mid-December? Anyway. Hopefully you donated and got to see this early. If not, I hope you enjoyed a little sneak peek into Edward's very emo, lusty inner workings. If you didn't get the compilation, there were some STELLAR one shots. Recommendations below, and links in my profile:

Give Me A Sign by Rochelle Allison: Edward's a doctor at Atlanta's Piedmont Hospital and Bella's the construction worker always holding him up in traffic. But what happens when their paths cross elsewhere? (You guys, it's Ro. What more is there to say?)

Our Own Pretty Ways by iambeagle: A story about a change of heart, taking chances, and finding out just how much you're willing to compromise for the one you love. (I can't even with Meg. I really can't. She's divine, and this story is so, so good.)

No Grey by yellowglue: a tale of knee socks and a new house. cinnamon and cardamom. charcoal and suede. mandalas in his skin and a wick between my lungs. white snow. black sand. my father is an important man and íslenska is love is to me. James Dean, brothers in blood, and shouldn't you be in bed? timorous nerves, hidden weapons, beach pea blossoms, and Come on, Ló. (YOU GUYS SHE'S MAKING IT A MULTI-CHAP I AM BESIDE MYSELF. It's Y-fucking-G and it's beautiful.)

Grow by Lovelybrutal: He's not your typical cannabis supplier. But try telling Bella that. We all need to do a little growing sometimes. Rated R for Rusty, because God am I rusty. Mature situations, including the unstigmatized use of weed. Written in slow, faithful continuation of Yellowglue's 2011 Birthday Wish. (This story left me LITERALLY speechless. AGOG. It's all watermelons and salt and then WHAM she wallops you with the end and you can't blink or breathe and it's fantastic.)

And finally, Little Happy Mess by Honeybeemeadows, which isn't technically a one shot but if you haven't read it you are MISSING OUT ON THE BEST FREAKING FLUFFY DRABBLE-ISH STORY YOU'RE EVER GOING TO READ*

*ever.

Enjoy

Wink out x