I started writing this one for "Beyond the bedroom contest" but things happened and I couldn't finish this within the time frame. I don't know what this is, because frankly speaking, this is far different from my usual stuff. So, I'm a bit apprehensive but I can't hide it forever in my drive. Like persistent little itch, it keeps sneaking on me.

This is unbetaed, so mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Don't own Twilight, never did, but wish I could. But then don't we all?

Chapter 1

She'd grown up amid the sounds of sex, the smell of it.

The whimpers of deflowered virgins, the grunts of men taking out their frustrations on the bodies they'd paid for, the feigned moans that covered the sighs of boredom—she'd heard it all through paper thin walls and slightly ajar doors.

Despite growing up in a bordello, her mother had managed to keep some part of her naivety and her entire virginity intact. Madame had wanted to push her into the business too, but somehow Renee had always managed to appease the old crone.

Not anymore.

It was three hours since they'd buried her mother below a modest headstone she'd insisted on, and here she sat—painted and transformed—with other girls who'd already spent numerous nights on their backs.

She wanted to go back to the small room she'd occupied with her mother—the room that smelled of cheap makeup and expensive perfume that one of her many patrons had gifted her. But she couldn't even move an inch from her place. Madame sat high up in the gallery, her beady eyes fastened on Renee's daughter.

Renee's daughter.

That was who she'd been, and it had been comforting. Rather than having an identity, she'd been happy when people had known her by her mother's name, but not anymore.

Unlike many people, she had never been ashamed of her mother.

But in this moment, she was ashamed of herself.

The sound of locks turning drew her gaze to the ornate door that was being opened for patrons. Outside, the sky had taken on the dark bluish color of the evening intercepted by slashes of orange and pink.

She knew it was futile to hope that no one would want her.

The dress that she'd been pushed into was a size too small. The dark fabric stretched over her breasts barely covering her nipples. Her face had been dusted with glitter to make the paleness of her skin seem like ivory. Crimson was the color that had been used liberally on her lips. Her eyes had been given the smoky effect by abundant use of kohl and eye-shadow.

She wanted to rub her eyes but she knew the punishment for it, and hence she sat in the pose she'd been made to sit.

The waist of this dress cinched and taking every breath was a task in futility.

She was just a body, and tonight a man was going to use her…

He'd drawn her eye as soon as he'd entered through the fake gold doors.

Unlike others who'd come with a leery look in their eyes and about to salivate mouths, he looked lost and out of place.

What had made him come here?

Was it sorrow?

Anger?

Betrayal?

He was a tall man, much taller than Madame's disreputable aide.

If Roman generals existed in this era, he would have been one. His face was all sharp lines, and aristocratic angles. The almost straight nose was the only thing on his face that wasn't perfect, but even that slight imperfection made his face unforgettable.

Full lips that were too sad to be here and brilliant green eyes—eyes that were staring at her.

He took his time as walked towards her. Controlled, measured strides spoke of an innate discipline and that rigid posture bespoke his discomfort.

She could feel all eyes on her and on him too, and she wondered if he was someone well known. With a face like that—he had to be.

He produced a bill of hundred and she got up like an automaton—devoid of the grace Madame had tried to instill in her with threats of rape and torture.

She knew which room she'd to take him to, and for a moment she wondered if she could make a run for her freedom. But the tap of heels descending the stairs crushed the feeble hope. Madame was coming down, and her ruination was almost upon her…

Her thoughts were turbulent, and the storm in her head became deafening as he closed the door. Madame had escorted them herself to the best private suit this place boasted.

He was someone important.

Madame didn't deign to come down from her throne for any ordinary clerk, drunkard, mobster or drug peddler.

Even though Madame's bordello was one classy establishment, all sorts of clients were permitted inside its premises as long as they could pay, and as long as they didn't step outside the line Madame had drawn.

He cleared his throat. Did he want to say something?

Did he want her to strip?

She raised her head and looked at him but he wasn't looking at her.

There was a weight on his shoulders—a weight that was suffocating him. She could feel it because she carried the same load, the same tiring burden.

He walked towards the bed and sat unceremoniously. Eyes trained on his hands, he examined them as if they weren't his.

'What happened?' she couldn't stop herself from asking.

He looked at her in surprise and uttered, 'life.'

His sorrow was far more palpable than hers. Cream, powder, lotions—they'd covered the smell of her fear. But this man didn't know what to do with his.

She inched towards the bed to where he sat—this lonesome man with grieving green eyes.

'What did you do?'

'Everything…'

It was an instinct that had her encircling her arms around his neck. It was an instinct that made him raise his head to look into her eyes.

'Can you make me forget?' he asked.

She didn't know how, but how could she deny him?

He'd paid for her.

And he was wounded.

Maybe the naivety was there in her touch, maybe it was there on her painted face. The moment she raised her hand to touch his lips, he took her hands in his.

'I don't want seduction.'

'Is this seduction?' she asked honestly. Was touch seduction?

How was she to know?

'You don't know?' His mocking question hurt and she wasn't experienced enough to hide the emotion.

She shook her head, for she feared her voice would waver if she spoke.

'Strip,' he commanded as he released her hands.

The word was nothing less than a hit of the whip.

Shaking hands undid the tie in the front of the dress, and reached back to slip the zipper down. The warm skin protested at being bared. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, her breast tightened from fear, nipples beaded from cold.

'You haven't done this before, have you?' he asked softly.

She took a moment before nodding. Shaking her head would sign her death sentence.

Madame didn't look too kindly on the girls who lost clients.

'Liar,' he chided. 'Come here.'

He beckoned her closer and her legs moved to do his bidding.

He'd paid for her.

He made her sit beside him on the bed in her partially gaping dress that gave a peek at the low cut of flimsy lingerie. His fingers pushed her chin up, and her startled eyes met his.

'Will you tell me your name?'

Her name?

Were whores allowed to have names?

She'd a name before she'd been waxed and painted, before Madame had pushed her into the mold of every woman who called this place a home.

'No.'

'Do you know mine?'

She shook her head.

He laughed. It was a nice sound. It reminded her of nights she'd spent reading about princes, fairy tales, and exotic mysterious places while her mother slept beside her.

'It's Edward. I don't think I've come across anyone who didn't know me.'

'Did you come here because you didn't want anyone to recognize you?'

The light of amusement left his eyes.

'I wanted to escape,' he whispered.

'I can't escape,' she said in return.

His fingers rose to trace her face. The fingers moved over the closed lids of her kohled eyes, the tips smudging the colors. They moved downwards, the dark color staining the bridge of her softly glittering nose.

The fingers settled on her red lips.

The heat of the touch made her want to squirm but she sat still as silence reigned.

His thumb swiped across her lower lip, the pressure almost making her sigh.

When his thumb left her lip, it was smudged with red.

He wiped away the lip color of her top lip with the same thumb all the while his eyes kept staring into hers.

She must look a sight—ruined makeup heralding the state of her virtue.

'My wife left me.' It was a quiet admission, a truth he'd not uttered even to himself prior to this moment.

'Did you love her?'

He must have, she concluded, for what could make a man so sad except for the broken heart.

'I thought I did,' he said monotonously. The bland voice hid the hurt, the apparent sting of the betrayal. His hands pushed away from the straps on her shoulders, fingers tracing the place where the bra strap dug into her skin.

'You didn't ask why she was leaving you?' He undid the clasp of the bra, leaving her bare from the waist up.

'I didn't think I could listen to her excuse after I found her with my brother.'

The gasp escaped from her throat.

He paused in his ministrations. 'Lust trumps love, doesn't it?'

'No,' she denied vehemently. His fingers danced on her collar bone; barely there touches heating her skin and making her shiver at the same time. 'Love isn't fickle enough to be swayed by needs of one's body.'

'Isn't it?' Those fingers grazed one of her nipples and she drew back in response.

He was looking intently at her. Her wide, scared eyes looked back at him; words that had been poised on her lips to escape were forgotten.

'Isn't love in the moans of a woman and in marks of her passion on a man's skin?'

He drew her closer again, this time her hands were captive in one of his.

'Isn't love in the first kiss of a virgin?' he asked as he made her lie on the bed, her feet dangling from the edge.

He moved over her, straddled her, and stretched her arms over her head. 'Isn't love in the eyes of a willing girl?'

His head dipped, and his nose traced the line of her cheek. He smelled of sage and woods—a smell she was sure hadn't come out of any expensive bottle.

'Isn't love in the fervent copulation of new lovers?' His lips moved over her face, never pausing long enough to kiss.

Was this how every man treated a woman?

Then why had she heard only grunts and whimpers?

'Isn't love in every first kiss?' he asked gently before his lips settled on hers.

No, there was no love in kisses shared in these rooms.

His kiss was the dreams she'd never allowed herself to indulge in—the hopeful sagas where happy endings were guaranteed. The slow perusal of her lips was a new experience, one she'd never thought she would have.

His mouth courted hers.

In brief gentle touches, he taught her seduction.

The bite on her lower lip, the way his teeth sank into the soft flesh made her moan.

She'd shuddered at the thought of moaning, once.

His tongue traced the bite—she could imagine that the touch was almost loving—and soothed the abused lip. Her body lost the rigidity of awkwardness and she relaxed in the cage of his body.

His eyes held hers as his tongue slipped in her mouth—a bold brazen act she couldn't shy away from.

He tasted her, and after few moments she grew bold enough to return the favor.

He tasted of freedom, of rebellion she couldn't partake from. His taste lingered on her tongue like hope.

He rolled, taking her on top while he lay beneath her. The sudden movement took her mouth away from him, the absence almost painful.

She was stretched on top of him, her every curve cradled in the hard plane of his physique. Her breasts rubbed against the soft cloth of his shirt and the sensation jolted her.

'So, what brought you here?' he enquired as his hands settled on her back.

He was aroused; she could feel it, stretched as she was on him. Then why was he not tearing her clothes and pushing his cock inside her?

Why was he not using her like every woman beneath this roof was used?

His tap on her spine made her look at him again. Oh, he'd asked a question, hadn't he?

'What brings women to places like these?' she asked in return.

'A bastard man who swears he loves the women before fucking and dumping her,' he answered.

'That,' she said, touching his cheek and feeling the shadow of his beard.

His fingers moved nimbly over every protrusion of her spine bone, his feet rubbing against her calf.

When had he toed his shoes off?

He closed his eyes, his fingers kept moving on her back.

She could do nothing but touch his face, feel the skin, the lips, the eyes, the forehead.

'Aren't you—'

'This is the first time I've been able to close my eyes in five days.'

'Then at least settle properly in the bed,' she reprimanded. 'Half of your body is hanging off from the bed.'

'I like it like that.' His lips curved slightly, his eyes still closed.

She tried to move away. Surely what did he need her for if he was going to sleep? But his hands tightened in the response of her wiggling.

'Stay,' he said.

After that, no words were spoken. The silence wasn't choking, it was rather pleasant.

She laid her head on his chest, her eyes closing on their own volition.

It was nice to fall asleep to the sound of someone's heartbeat…

Reviews, anyone?