Stavanger1 is the beta you would all be bowing in front of. Go bow. Now. *bows*

Lemme know what Outtakes you want.

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Outtake. Feral

Alice Brandon/Spring, 2002.

The rain pelted down on me as I walked down the street back towards our small apartment. My wrist hurt where the brute had held onto it. I told him I wouldn't fight, but the bastard was determined to make me cry out.

I didn't.

Fuck him.

I pulled my jacket closer around me and raised my shoulders to try and keep warm. It didn't work because my jacket was drenched.

I sighed.

Fuck this.

I'm better than this shit.

I needed to find a way the fuck out of here… but as things were, I couldn't. Not without Rose—she was my sister now, my companion. My best friend, and a fierce friend at that. Like little kittens in the rain, we cuddled together under a small roof and tried to pass the storm.

I walked down the street, briskly, ignoring everyone because I was fucking done with my shift, and I was not going to fuck anyone out of pity. Or anyone at all, really. I was done.

My mood was foul. I was sore everywhere. It was late. It was raining. I was hungry.

Shitty day all around.

All I wanted to do was get home, have a warm dinner and curl up under a blanket to watch a movie with Rosie.

I could take a different way home, and probably should have because the alleyways in Old Town were dangerous. Death lurked in corners and crouched down in the shadows, vigilant. Blood run down the sewers like veins, the city herself alive, a breathing, pulsing being, bent on destroying everything and anything within it.

Sin City was alive. And it charged its rent in lives.

I gripped the pepper spray in my hand half-heartedly. I wasn't sure it worked; sometimes, it made them back off, sometimes it only spited them more. Being forced was one thing; being forced by a furious motherfucker was a completely different one altogether. Furious meant stitches, which meant not working, which subsequently meant an angry Laurent. Which brought along more stitches.

Vicious circle.

But he wouldn't break me. He didn't own me. I wasn't his. I wasn't a small, fragile doll for him to play with. I would break away from him one day, and I would kill him.

I seethed under the rain, clenching my fists.

Motherfucker.

I turned around a corner, scowling murderously and tightening my fingers around the pepper spray—and came to a halt abruptly.

It was dark in the alley, but through the clouds the moon shone bright. The silver light reflected off the puddles in the dirty asphalt, off the wet walls as if they were made of mirrors. It broke like prisms in the millions of little tears falling from the sky.

He was crouching down next to a man. The way the limbs were arranged hinted the carelessness of death. I'd seen dead bodies before—but I'd never seen a killer.

His head swiveled slowly towards me, his eyes pinning me where I stood. There was no color in his eyes, only black and white. His blond hair was wet and stuck to his head, almost silver in the moonlight. He rose slowly, his eyes stuck on mine, and the light broke like shards of glass in the blade of the knife in his hand.

He had some kind of inhuman beauty, like he was otherworldly, an Elf, an Angel—a demon. He didn't belong in this filthy city, this filthy world. He blinked and drops of crystalline rain water fell off his impossibly long lashes, running down his pale face like tears.

He turned to face me completely, the knife shifting in his hand as he changed the grip, considering whether he should throw it and kill me. His eyes narrowed slightly, as he judged if I deserved to live or not.

"Don't you dare," I hissed at him, gripping the stupid, useless spray that couldn't help me at all. I wasn't going to die in a wet filthy alley by the hand of stranger only because I stumbled into the wrong place at the worst possible fucking time.

He wasn't going to kill me. I was going to fight this, and I was fucking winning.

This beautiful, inhuman creature wasn't going to break me.

"Don't you fucking dare," I repeated, my voice rising.

He stared at me, contemplative. His head tilted slightly, his eyes appraising. I wondered if, perhaps, he couldn't understand me—maybe his mind didn't work like a human mind.

He didn't move. Neither did I.

The rain kept pouring down on me, drenching me to the bones, icy and harsh.

It dripped down his face, off his chin.

There was some kind of connection, a link, a chain between us. He wouldn't leave, and I couldn't. The pull was intense, as if he had a special kind of gravitational force that called me to his side, closer to his tall, lanky frame. Through the distance I felt like we breathed the same air. He hadn't moved, but his presence enveloped me, drowning out the world, the noise, the cold. The only thing I was aware of was him.

When he moved, I instinctively pressed myself to the wall. In the moonlight his pale eyes glinted, feral and deadly.

Feline.

The Panther.

A spear of terror shot through me. I'd thought, perhaps, he was a myth, an urban legend—no one could be that stealthy, that silent, while killing. But seeing him, watching him move closer to me, like a shadow creeping quietly over the streets, I believed it. He moved as gracefully as rolling water, effortlessly, sinuous with furtive strength.

"Don't kill me," I hissed at him, as if my harsh voice, small with fear and almost religious, would stop him.

But he did stop. His eyes studied me, curious.

It occurred to me that he was young—younger than me. He was boy, barely twenty-two. He could not be older than that. And yet, there were no awkward traces of teenage days in his lanky, elegantly dressed frame. He was all man. All dangerous man.

He shook his head slowly, "I won't hurt you."

His voice took me by surprise. Deep and smooth, velvety, musical. Smoky.

"I saw your face," I whispered stupidly because honestly, was I trying to get myself killed!?

He tilted his head—amused?

"I've seen yours, too." The southern accent rolled off his lips.

I licked my lips, "I won't tell if you don't."

The corner of his mouth hitched up slightly, his lips curving. He nodded and brushed past me, turning down the corner and walking away as if he hadn't left a dead man on the street and me against the wall, paralyzed.

Before I realized what I was doing, I moved after him, reaching for his arm, "Wait!"

I didn't see him turn, but he was suddenly facing me, my wrist in his big hand. I winced as pain shot through my arm. He glanced down, his grip loosening.

"Do you need help?" he asked, flawlessly polite as he shifted his grasp on my hand, examining it for damage. It was swollen and red, and it hurt more with each moment that passed.

"No, I… No," I murmured, watching his fingers test the skin of my wrist.

He released me then, and I instantly missed his touch.

"Let's… get out of the rain?" I asked, blinking. For some bizarre reason, I didn't want him to go. I wanted him to stay with me. I felt the air humming with electricity between us. I wondered if he felt it too. I searched his eyes and thought I found a curious glint in them, as if he were trying to discern me as much as I did with him.

He nodded once, slowly, and turned around, gesturing for me to join him as he walked. He regulated the pace of his long legs to my much shorter ones, like a gentleman. He didn't touch me or glance at me, but I dared inch closer to his towering figure, seeking the safety of his company.

We walked for a while, out of Old Town, down the street and towards a hotel. Of course—he was well dressed and elegant; he would not want a filthy motel.

He asked my name before we went into the lobby. I glanced around with wide eyes, trying to be inconspicuous, as he signed us in. The woman at the reception desk smiled flirtatiously at him, calling him 'Mr. Lasher' and I knew that was a fake name. I felt inadequate in my skirt and boots and drenched jacket, looking like a wet rat in this beautiful place with this otherworldly man. I felt uncomfortable in my skin, awkward, out of place.

If he noticed my discomfort, or the woman's flirting, he showed no sign. With perfect manners he gestured for me walk ahead of him towards the elevator, and followed me inside. He leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, looking idly at the changing numbers. Seemingly absentmindedly, he ran his long fingers through his blond hair, combing it back.

His movements held some kind of delicate sensuality, one I thought unconscious. He moved like a cat, graceful and refined, aware of me at all times, half facing me but not acknowledging my presence. He didn't trust me.

He opened the door and let me in first. The room was warmly lit and like the lobby, decorated in gold and browns, tasteful and calm. The floor was covered in a smooth beige carpet and I thought it was probably heavenly soft.

I stood in the middle of the room, in front of the bed, watching him as he shrugged off his long raincoat and draped it over one of the chairs, sitting down and relaxing his back. Under his coat he wore a grey sweater over a white shirt, the perfect knot of his tie peeking out. He sat calmly, his legs spread comfortably, watching me from under his ridiculously long black lashes.

I took off my jacket slowly, watching if he did anything. He didn't move. I let the wet garment fall to the carpet and quickly crouched down to take off my boots, eager to feel the warm soft carpet under my toes.

I sighed. I had been right—the carpet was velvet soft. I wondered how expensive this hotel was. This was a good room, clearly not one of the cheapest ones. I'd never been somewhere this nice.

I stood again, uneasy, glancing at him.

I cleared my throat, "What would you like to do?" I asked in a murmur.

I felt stupidly shy.

He regarded me carefully, "Whatever you wish. It's all the same to me."

"Then… why are we here?"

"You wanted to come," he answered quietly.

"We could have gone to a café… anywhere with a ceiling," I said, looking around.

"You're tired. Sleep."

I looked at him, incredulous, "You brought me here to sleep?"

"Is there anything else to take from your company?" he asked gently, arching a brow, and I flinched.

"Would you like to have a conversation? What books have you read? What kind of theatre do you like? Do you prefer Shakespeare or Byron?" he tilted his head, regarding me curiously.

I felt a sudden wave of white hot anger and humiliation, and bent to slip on my boots again, glaring at him, because fuck him, no one made me feel less than I was. I grabbed my jacket and straightened and brusquely he was there, inches away from me, and I was so startled I jumped and dropped the jacket. He caught it easily, holding it in his hands.

"Don't be upset," he said smoothly, "there's no shame in the truth. I didn't mean to be diminishing."

"It fucking sounded diminishing," I snarled at him.

He tilted his head, throwing my jacket on the chair with his raincoat, "I apologize. It was my mistake. Stay, rest."

"I don't even know your name."

"Do you usually ask?"

I looked away.

"What is your name?" he asked, and sat back down on the chair, taking off his grey sweater and folding it neatly.

"Alice," I murmured.

He nodded, "You know who I am."

I nodded wordlessly. I didn't want to say it. Saying it would confirm it, and maybe then… maybe he would kill me.

"Say it," he invited, gentle but firm.

I looked at him, frowning, and quietly said, "You're the Panther."

He nodded, loosening his tie to let it rest untied on his chest. He took a packet of cigarettes from his slacks' pocket and searched his other pocket for a lighter, but didn't seem to find one. I automatically strolled forward, offering mine and flicking it on. He leaned forward smoothly, lit it with my flame, and sat back again, his eyes half lidded and dark.

I stood between his legs, but a quick—and most likely not quite stealthy—perusal of his long body demonstrated my suspicion; he wasn't aroused. I experimentally moved my hand closer to his face, but he angled his cheek away. He didn't want to be touched.

I backed away, turned around and walked to the bed, idly, not really knowing what to do. I didn't know what he wanted. Or what I wanted, for that matter.

No, I did know. I wanted him to want me. Because for the first time in years, I wanted a man. I wanted him.

I didn't know what his original intent had been when he brought me here, nor if he even had one to begin with. Perhaps it had been an impulse… except his deliberate, measured steps and his methodical following of both hotel protocol and flawless manners were certainly not hints of impulsive behavior.

"What are we here for then, Alice?" he asked calmly, smoke filtering out from between his parted lips. I'd never seen a man be so effortlessly sensual, so intrinsically sexy. I didn't smoke; I didn't like men that smoked. But the way he held the cigarette or took it to his lips made me want to take a drag from it and share the smoke with him.

I bit my lip, "Well, I certainly have no idea what you're here for, but apparently I'm here to sleep, so that's what I'm going to do."

I thought maybe giving the Panther an attitude was a bad idea. But I had the bitter sensation he was toying with me, and I didn't like it.

I put my right foot up against the edge of the bed and slipped my fingers under the elastic band of my stocking, rolling it down and enjoying the feeling of the bare skin beneath it. I let the stocking fall to the carpet and rubbed on the little red line where the elastic had been. I sighed in contentment and chanced a glance at him.

Though he hadn't moved, the air had shifted. His eyes were on my hands, and when I stopped rubbing my skin they flicked up to my face, dark. They burned with an intensity I wouldn't have given him credit for. In their light blue depths I could see a cat-like glow—fire below ice.

Oh. I guess I had his attention now.

So… did he like to watch? Immediately I started studying him again, seeking to provoke a reaction that would tell me what would please him. I really did want him—badly. He was beautiful and dangerous, cold, intense—so many things at once.

Now, he looked mostly dangerous. Like those of a predator, his eyes followed my hands as I took off my other stocking, moving slower this time, letting him enjoy it as much as I did. His eyes glinted. Smoke filtered from between his lips, lazily.

I turned around, away from him, and unbuttoned my blouse. I let it roll off my shoulders and slip off my arms to the floor, and looked over my shoulder. His blue eyes were narrowed and focused on my back.

I smiled at him and slipped the straps of my bra down my arms playfully. I lowered the zipper at the side of my skirt, letting it pool at my feet. This room was warm, and I was on fire with the thought of him watching me like a lion watched a gazelle on the golden African Savannah.

I twisted my hands to undo the clasp of my bra, and suddenly his presence drowned me. He was right there, inches from my back. I let my arms fall to my side again, waiting. I could hear his breathing—steady and deep, rhythmic, calm.

His big hands grazed my shoulders and trailed down my arms, gently, feather-light pressure from his fingertips against my skin. My skin tingled and burned where they touched. I had never felt so strongly attracted to a man before, and I had never, ever, hoped he felt equally attracted to me.

But this man, this… feral, wild creature, could have any woman he ever wanted. And he didn't need to pay for them, I thought, suddenly disgusted with myself.

I had been with another man merely an hour ago.

His jaw-line grazed my cheek—he was very clean shaven—and I automatically drew my face away, like he had done before. I didn't know what his reasons had been then, but I knew what he was trying to do now, and he couldn't have it. Not from me.

He didn't take well to my denial. His hands grasped my hips and he whirled me around. I yelped. He leaned down, and I tilted my head away, making a sound of complaint.

His scent slammed against me, enveloping me, floating around me and clouding my senses. Rain, wood, smoke, and forests.

"I don't kiss on the—"

His big, long hand cupped my face and he turned it back, and then his lips were on mine. His mouth was wide and his lips full and soft—I tried to remember the last time I had kissed a man on the lips, but couldn't. But, God… if it was this amazing… if any and all men kissed like this, so softly, so gently and still conveying need and desire, then I had been missing out greatly. He was gentle but insistent. He would have what he wanted, but he didn't hurt me. Though his hands were firm on my hips, I could have broken away.

To him, it was either all or nothing. I couldn't give him half of what he wanted.

I tried to make a choice and my body made it for me. My hands came up and my fingers threaded through his silken hair, fisting in it and pulling. He didn't make a sound, but his kiss became deeper, and he brought me closer to his body. I gasped into his mouth—now he was aroused.

He leaned forward, lifting me with his hands as if I weighed nothing at all, and sat me on the edge of the bed, kneeling between my legs and never taking his mouth from mine. I licked his lip and sucked it into my mouth and he sucked my top lip. I tried to slip my mouth into his mouth, but he pulled back. He wanted to kiss me, to be in control. I gripped his tie, twisted it around my fingers and pulled it free from the collar of his shirt, dropping it to the floor by the bed.

He undid my bra and dropped it by the tie. He bent down to kiss the valley between my breasts, something no one had ever done. The gesture struck me, so intimate, so sweet. It was like he really liked me, like he wanted me, not simply the feminine figure of a faceless woman. And I knew it couldn't be, but still—what a beautiful dream.

His hand slipped to the back of my neck and he kissed me again, rougher now. I danced my fingers over the buttons of his shirt, undoing them and pulling it open. I slipped my hands between the fabric and his smooth skin, feeling the old healed lines of scars and the texture of silky skin over steely muscles. He took the shirt off, carelessly.

He was all planes and hard angles. Wiry muscle over long slim bones. He was a beautiful man, a lion-human, unstoppable strength coiled under soft skin. I could feel his muscles move and shift beneath my hands as he moved, and I sunk into the bed as he rose over me, his arms holding his weight protectively above my form.

I kept kissing him as I found the buckle of his belt, and undid it quickly. He shifted, and his thigh that had been resting between my legs, a pleasing weight, came to the other side of my hips as he straddled me. He rose up so I could slip the belt off the loops of his pants, yanking it so harshly I made him almost lose his balance.

He released a breathy laugh, the first sound he had made over his now faster breathing, and I enjoyed it.

He let himself fall forward, bracing his weight on his hands at the sides of my head, and his lips touched my ear, "Eager, Alice?"

"As much as you," I replied, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants and reaching inside. Oh, he was ready. He didn't buck into my hand eagerly, nor did he gasp or groan when my hand wrapped around him. Instead, he kissed me again; the only sign of his escalating desire the rougher movements of his tongue against mine, the touch of his lips, and his breathing.

I could tell that despite his gradual letting go, he was still tightly reigned in. In control. Dominating. I wanted to help him release himself, but I wasn't sure he could, and I wasn't sure that, given the occasion, I would survive it. He was tall; I was small. And I could tell he was big.

But. I was ready for him. I hadn't been ready for a man like I was ready for him. I pushed his pants and boxers down his thighs and he obligingly let me undress him completely. As he moved I caught sight of a long ragged scar across his chest, and a small tattoo on the centre of his pectorals, below his throat. I impulsively leaned up and licked the black ink, and I felt him completely naked against me, skin to skin.

Amazing.

He found my mouth again. I tried to get on top but he refused to let me roll us. When I insisted, he caught my hand and held it over my head, and while he was being dominating, I didn't feel forced. He was not slow, nor gentle—but he didn't hurt me. He knew there was an important difference in our sizes and he was patient.

His hand trailed gently up my naked thigh, ghosted over my naked belly before going down. I gasped, surprised at his attentiveness and at the quick rhythm of his strokes. He stretched me carefully, shaking his head when I insisted he get on with it already.

His movements betrayed his calm façade. He was unnervingly quiet, but his kisses were deep and passionate, making my blood run like quicksilver. I could feel his chest against mine as we both breathed heavily, and his erection was firm and solid against the side of my stomach.

He was blond all over, and he gasped when I toyed with the hair under his navel, before wrapping my small hand around his erection. He was incredibly sensitive, and that startled me. You see a handsome man, and you immediately suppose he's bedded a thousand girls. But I reminded myself he was young.

He'd probably killed more than he'd had sex.

It wasn't that he was inexperienced or clumsy. Not at all, in fact he was without a doubt the best lover I had had in years, but he oscillated between being unnecessarily rough and extremely careful.

I arched and gasped when I started feeling my orgasm coming. He breathed against my mouth, smiling, and sucked in my bottom lip, "Let go. I've got you, Alice."

The waves crashed against me smoothly and softly, not abruptly like they sometimes did. They grew, escalated, one after the other swiping over me like water over sand.

Once they were done, I was left exhilarated and like my veins were on white-hot fire. I reached for him again and felt him rise above me, protectively keeping his weight on his arms. He slid into me in one long stroke, hurting me deliciously and making me moan. I felt more than heard his gasp next to my ear.

We settled into a rhythm of undulating hips, meeting each other halfway, shifting and seeking different angles and making the other gasp, and in my case moan, cry, curse and so on and so forth. His silence didn't bother me anymore; I could feel the furious beating of his heart through the skin of his chest, his harsh breathing filled the room, making an erotic song with the sounds of our skin.

Sweat pooled slightly at the small of his long spine. I scratched my nails down his back, feeling him pick up his pace with the small rough action. He liked it rough, this wild man.

I could only guess at the amount of raw emotion boiling wildly under his smooth, velvet-soft skin. He showed himself calm and composed, but a lot can be learned from a man when he has sex, and I could tell this man, this panther-human, was a creature of deep, passionate feelings kept carefully in check.

I felt a real connection between us, beyond our skin and breaths and quickened hearts. I felt like I had a lover, like I was having sex with an equal, instead of being someone's fuck-toy.

He unraveled towards the end, hiding his face in my neck when he finally came, slamming into me with more force than he probably should have. I felt a maddening amount of pleasure, an intense satisfaction for being able to make him loose his mask, if only for a second. I arched into him in my own peak, and he moved against me again, half spent, to help me reach my second orgasm. It slammed against me brusquely, this one, and I cried out.

Only then, when we were both gasping and trying to get our heart-rates under control, did he roll so I rested on his chest.

He combed my hair back gently, his eyes closed, and I snuggled into the crook of his shoulder and neck and promptly fell asleep.

I woke again, hours later it seemed, alone in bed. I panicked, gathering the sheets to me and sitting up quickly, scrambling to grasp the situation.

"It's alright," his voice came across the room, quiet and velvety, and I turned towards the window.

He was leaning against the wall, already dressed, smoking. I watched him take a long, lazy drag from his cigarette and let the smoke fall from his nostrils, unconsciously sensual. Everything he did was heavily sensual to me.

His tie was gone. I glanced quickly away and saw it there, on the floor, curled like a black silken snake.

Perhaps it was in my mind, but there was something definitely feline to the way he held himself.

"You're leaving," I said, licking my lips.

He nodded, "I must. There's something I have to do."

"Oh…" I looked away, around the room. I blinked when I spotted my clothes neatly folded on the chair where he had sat before. My jacket was gone, though.

"I gave it to the drycleaners," he said, flicking ash into the ashtray in the small table by the window, "So it would be dry and warm for when you're ready to leave."

I nodded wordlessly, feeling his dismissal, and slipped out of bed.

"It's alright," he said again, stopping me thought he hadn't moved from his place by the window, "I paid for the entire night. Stay, sleep. You look like you need it."

"Well thank you," I scowled.

He chuckled, and shook his head, "You are vicious, little Alice."

"But… you're leaving? And you want me to stay?"

He nodded, "Yes. You can leave tomorrow in the afternoon. Room service is included… I believe the girl downstairs meant something else by that, but we might as well take advantage of it."

I giggled like a girl. I sat up, holding the thick sheets and covers to my chest, and reached for the tie. I threw it around my neck and decided to make the knot for him, even though he clearly did it perfectly well on his own.

He didn't complain.

Here's a piece of advice; don't try to do something you don't know how to do, to impress a man. It never ends well. I tried like a hundred different ways, but the knot wouldn't come to life! I made an exasperated sound, glaring murderously at the offending piece of expensive fabric.

"Here." He was suddenly right before me, having moved across the room like a gust of silent wind, he crouched by the bed and took the tie from my clumsy fingers.

"You wrap the thick side around the thin one, like this, and then slip the thick in the middle to form the knot, and you adjust it."

He fixed it expertly to rest at the base of my throat, the smooth silk cool between my small breasts. He lay his big hand flat against it, not in an erotic way; simply there, soothing and calm.

"Keep it," he smiled at me.

"What's your name?" I asked gently.

His smile changed. His eyes darkened, and suddenly he wasn't the young man that had just playfully tied the knot of his tie around me, he wasn't the boy-man I had slept with. He was jaded by centuries of wisdom and stranded in his freedom, alone and isolated by his own lack of ties to anywhere and anyone. Perhaps he had a family somewhere, someone he loved and that loved him back—but he was alone now, and despite his clear tendency to solitude, I could tell he didn't enjoy loneliness.

His eyes looked like a transparent layer of icy glass containing behind them a storm of pain. Complex, thin, fragile glass, keeping him together.

Something horrible had happened to this beautiful creature—something that had broken him. I could see it, the ragged edges of broken crystal of his eyes, gateway to a splintered heart.

" 'I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds'," he murmured, his voice low.

The room, the hotel, the world was still around us. Time stopped clicking soundlessly by. Like a butterfly on amber, we were trapped in this moment with each other. The two of us, and the separate, living, breathing, all-consuming entity of his pain.

Sorrow licked like flames at the corners of his glass-blue eyes.

I touched his cheek gently and kissed his forehead, wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him to me, tightly. As if the vague solace of my small arms could offer any redemption to the ache eating him from inside.

He breathed shakily against my neck, and then pulled himself back together and pulled away from me, grasping my hand as he rose to his feet.

"Jasper," he said clearly, quietly, as the world started living again and his eyes were flat and ice-blue, cold like steel and hard like diamonds. "My name is Jasper."

Jasper.

He released my hand, walked to the chair and slipped on his black raincoat as I hugged my knees, waiting for him to leave me forever before breaking down and crying for him. I wanted to cry for his pain because he couldn't, and for me because I was miserable and I loved him and I couldn't have him, and because he would leave me forever and I would never see him again, lost evermore to the storm of blood and madness that was Sin City.

And this little room, this small interlude in time where we were safe and at peace and found solace in each other was lost, a stolen moment, snatched secretly from under Sin City's nose when she looked away into someone else's demise for the briefest of seconds.

Now she wanted us back, to destroy us separately.

He looked at me again, and Jasper was gone, replaced swiftly by Panther.

"Care for my tie," he said, and grinned unexpectedly, beautiful and wild and unstoppable like a force of nature, "I might want it back."

And he was gone.

I fell back on the bed, snuggling into the covers and enjoying the feeling of the silk of his tie on my skin.

That man, that inhuman creature, that angel-demon from another world. I would see him again, I was sure. I'd been waiting for him for a long time.

The City pulsed around me, but in my little cocoon of warm covers and his scent, with his tie between my breasts and his smell on my skin, I wasn't afraid.

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So the next Outtake, should it be

a) How Edward fell in love with Bella

b) How Jasper took to Bella becoming a stripper

c) The 'favor' Jasper did for Rosalie

Hmm?