Summary: Bella dreams of Jacob after she breaks his heart following the newborn battle.

Rating: MA for lemons. Not suitable for under 18 years.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Stefenie Meyer. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Sunday

She can't stop thinking of the look on his face when she broke his heart. He is the only person in her life who has been consistently good to her, kind to her, and she has brought him little but heartache and pain. She recalls his screams as his bones were re-broken. She knows he would suffer through that physical torture an infinite number of times if only she would take back her words. All she can see is the hope in his eyes as she finally admitted her love for him, and the shade that came over them when she said it wasn't enough. She wishes it could be different, wishes it could be other than it is. Wishes that her heart belonged to her so she could give it to him. She knows it would be safe in his care.

But she gave away her heart long before she realized she could love him, and her heart was never returned to her. When Edward left, he took the broken pieces of her heart with him. Scattered them far from her on his travels. She found Edward just when she was on the cusp of taking back the broken fragments. She was about to pull them back to her. She was going to entrust them to Jacob. They both knew he would have fashioned the shattered pieces into something stronger than they were before. It's what he does. He fixes things. Makes them better. But before she had the chance, she fled halfway round the world, found Edward and brought him home, but she still doesn't know what he's done with her heart. She can't give her heart to Jacob because she doesn't know where it is. She's not even sure the pieces fit together anymore. Edward is back and she thinks he still has them, and he isn't giving them back. She has no choice in the matter. Edward has the pieces of her heart, so she can't give them away to someone else.

It's been days since she broke Jacob's heart. It's been days since she left him lying in his small bed, since she broke his heart to reflect his broken body. She knows Jacob will heal. There is old magic in him. It will take his fractured bones and bruised body and mend it together. But who will mend Jacob's heart? Is there magic in him to repair what she has done to him? Jacob put her back together. Who will put him back together?

She wants to undo what she has done. She feels guilt like she hasn't felt before. In the daylight hours, Edward tells her it's okay. Tells her that he knows she loves Jacob and didn't want to hurt him. Tells her that Jacob was there when he wasn't, and that it's okay that she loves him. She cries out that she loves Edward more. Murmurs that her love for Jacob is nothing compared to her love for him. Claims she has no regrets and wishes only for her eternity with him.

But at night, with cold arms wrapped around her, she dreams of warmth. She dreams that the lips that brush against hers are soft and pliant. Now she knows just how right the other lips taste on her tongue, and she cannot deny them in her dreams.

She is standing outside the closed door of his room. Everything she really wants is on the other side. Everything she really needs. Here, in the darkness of his home, she can admit it to herself. She takes a deep breath to steady herself. She enters, and quietly closes the door behind her.

He is peaceful and still as he sleeps. She had forgotten how young he really is. How innocent he should be. Innocent no longer, forced into a world of monsters and demons, growing into a destiny he does not desire.

She watches his chest slowly rise and fall. His chest is no longer bandaged; his bruises have faded in the days since she left him last. The casts are gone, but she knows he is not yet entirely well. Weak moonlight filters through the window, illuminating his bronze skin. She wants to touch it. Wants to run her fingers along his collarbone, lying exposed before her. Wants to trace a path up his neck, along his pulse. Once she's turned, will his pulse call out to her? Will the blood running through his veins sing to her? They tell her that the wolves are repulsive to them, that the scent repels them. She edges closer to him, close enough to inhale the combination of rainwater and pine needles and earth that is uniquely him. That she could ever find his scent anything other than alluring is preposterous. His scent is comfort. His scent is home. With her luck, he will be her singer, her mortal enemy whose heart she has broken.

She sits on the edge of the bed, causing his thin bedsheet to slide down. The movement exposes his torso to her greedy eyes. Her breath hitches in her chest. He is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. How has she not realized that fact until now? Yes, her marble-skinned Adonis is a work of art. But here in front of her are a broader set of shoulders, a plumper set of lips, a thicker set of long, dark lashes, a more defined set of abdominals. She looks at the arms that carried her to safety, that caught her before she fell, that wrapped around her to pull her out of churning, deadly waters, and that spun her in circles of love and laughter.

One of those arms is still healing from a dozen different fractures. He is made more beautiful because of his vulnerability. His impermanence. He is more beautiful because he can be taken away. Because despite the long life afforded him, someday he will be gone. She has almost lost him already. And now she has driven him away.

She can't stand what she has done to him. So tonight she will make it up to him, if he will have her. She will give in to her true desire. She gently runs her hands along the planes of his stomach. She traces the ridge and valley of each rectus abdominis. Runs her index finger along the edge of his hip, where the external obliques point down to make a V. She traces back up. Serratus anterior. Pectoralis major. Deltoid. By the time she reaches the biceps, his eyes are open and looking right at her.

He doesn't look at all surprised to see her. He knows her better than anyone else. He knows what she really needs. He can hear it in the sudden racing of her pulse. He can see it in the dilation of her pupils. He can hear it in the catching of her breath. He can smell it in the musky scent that floods his room as soon as she sees him looking at her. And now he wants to taste it on his tongue.

He starts by slowly sitting up. He doesn't want to scare her away. Her fingers are still on his injured arm, so he runs the fingers of his other hand up her opposite arm. He traces the opposite path that her fingers just travelled. Fingers, hand, arm, shoulder, breast (oh, so lightly), stomach, hip. He leaves a trail of burning electricity along her skin underneath the t-shirt she wears to sleep. He pulls her closer to him, and tugs until she's seated against his uninjured side. He wraps his arm around her waist to pull her flush against him, and runs his fingers up her flank until they are tangled in her hair, gently cradling the base of her skull in his large hand. She is plaint against him and neither of them has blinked.

He zeroes in on her parted lips. They are warm and soft and pink and still very much alive. He wants so very badly for them to stay that way. His words have not convinced her, but can his body? Is that why she came? He draws her in, dips his head, and barely brushes his bottom lip against hers. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and he breathes her in. She is gone. There is no point in resisting. She melts into him, her tongue reaching out to trace his lips. She could do this for days. This is the way a kiss is supposed to feel. Heat and passion, not cold and restraint. There is need and want and lust. But most of all, there is love.

She relishes his grip in her hair. He is flexing his injured hand gently against her thigh. The cotton beneath his fingers is soft, the flesh beneath even softer. She isn't sure if he has pulled her down or if she has pushed him back, but she finds herself lying on top of him, straddling his left leg through the thin sheet, her chest flush against his and her lips running down along his jaw. She nuzzles her nose along the sensitive skin of his neck and kisses the dip where his neck meets his shoulder. She tastes the salt of his skin and he moans. The sound provokes another rush of arousal in her, and she isn't embarrassed in the least to know that his heightened senses can pick up on every physical sign of her need for him. Because she can tell just how hard he is against her leg.

His fingers release their grip on her hair and her leg to find that the skin of her back is even smoother than he remembers. He has held her before, touched her skin, but never like this. He needs more, and so does she. He traces her vertebrae upward with his good hand under her shirt, while with his injured one he lightly tickles her flank, finding sensitive spots that he memorizes for later. She squirms a little, and he wonders what she'll do if he runs tongue there instead. He reaches a spot that makes her back arch, causing her to pull back from him just a little.

He is a little tentative, stilling his hands against her ribs and staring up at her. It makes her bold. She sits up all the way, the heat of her core easy to feel through his sheet and her thin cotton pajama pants. She looks him straight in the eye, pushes him back to the bed, grips the bottom of her shirt, and pulls it above her head. Her long hair drops down around her, partly shielding her breasts from his gaze. He can't breathe. He can see the underside of each breast, and he can't take his eyes off them. He is frozen until she takes his good hand in her own and gently squeezes, giving him permission. He swallows thickly, and gently brushes her hair over her shoulder and stares.

She expects him to touch her, to pull his hand from her shoulder and trace, caress, cup, and fondle. But he doesn't. He is memorizing the way she looks right now. He is burning the image into his brain. He always wants to remember the exact blush across her chest, the pattern of freckles on her skin, the tightening of her light brown nipples in the cool air. It arouses her beyond belief, and he has barely touched her anywhere. With Edward, she is always in awe. Weak to his strength, submissive to his judgement, undeserving of his attention. But right now, she has never felt so powerful in her life.

When Jacob finally moves, instead of reaching for her breasts, he pulls her up and toward him. She falls forward and locks her arms so as not to smother him with her chest. Although that is probably what he wants, because he reaches for her left nipple not with his fingers but with his tongue. He traces circles along her aureola with the tip, and laves the hardened peak with the flat expanse. It sends a deep ache between her legs and she moans deeply. He draws as much of her breast into his mouth as he is able, and he suckles lightly. Each taste draws a different sound from her throat. He wants to hear them all. He experimentally, lightly, runs his teeth along the nipple, and she tosses her head back and gasps. He feels a corresponding rush of wetness between her legs, and she unconsciously begins to squirm against his leg.

She is climbing higher and higher just from this. She had no idea her breasts were so sensitive. She has touched herself before, has fantasized before, has brought herself to orgasm by her own hand before, but the heat of him is more than she ever imagined. The waves of pleasure washing over her are wonderfully new to her. The seam of her pants is pressing up against her clitoris, and she can't stop herself from rocking against his thigh to cause delicious friction in just the right spot. He reaches his left hand up and brushes his knuckles along her right nipple, elevating her right to the cliff's edge. He can sense just how close she is, knows that she needs just a little push. So he rolls her right nipple between his fingers, oh so gently rolls her left nipple between his teeth, and presses his left thigh up into her core, and she is flying off the edge, crying out in wordless joy.

She collapses on top of him, disoriented and happy. She feels him smiling into her hair. He is smug, surprised, and not just a little satisfied. If he can make her feel this way with half her clothes still on, how good will it be once she's completely naked and he's able to touch her everywhere? She decides to find out. She lifts herself off him and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her pants, gazes at him through her lashes. His smirk disappears, and she pushes the fabric down past her hips. Her pants pool around her ankles and she steps out of them. His eyes are serious and dark as they rake up and down her body. She feels beautiful and wanted. He reaches out his damaged hand and lightly grips her hip, drawing her back to the bed. Before she climbs back onto the bed, she takes hold of the thin sheet still wrapped around his waist and tugs down.

Her breath leaves her in an audible woosh. She shouldn't be surprised that he is naked. He wears little enough clothing out in public; why would he wear anything in his own bed? Despite having nothing to compare him to, she is quite sure that by any standards he is enormous. Enough to make her worried. Is there any way that's going to fit? She realizes she's been staring for a while when she drags her eyes off his cock and back up to his face, finding the smirk has returned. This time it's accompanied with a mischievous glint in his eye. She decides to wipe the smug look off his face, so she kneels on the edge of the bed and draws her fingers up his length.

He sucks in a sharp breath as she grips him by the base with her left hand, leaving her right free to explore. He is hot and hard and silky all at once. She traces along the large vein that runs its length, provoking a large sigh from him. She runs her thumb along the crown's edge, drawing a sharp gasp as she finds a sensitive spot in the center of the crown. She is fascinated by the drop of clear liquid weeping from the tip. She smooths it over the head with her thumb, and he groans. She brings her thumb up to her lips to taste him, and he is salty and tastes better than she'd imagined. At the same time she pumps once, twice, three times with her left hand. She grips him with both fists at once, the right on top of the left, and he is so large that nearly half of him is still exposed to the open air. She experimentally twists her fists while pumping them up and down in sync, drawing a series of deep, breathy moans from deep within his chest. He struggles to keep his eyes open, to watch what she is doing to him, to burn the image of her working his flesh into his memory to fuel his fantasies. If this is a game, she thinks she is winning until he grabs hold of her busy hands, stilling them, and pulls her up toward him.

She thinks he is going to kiss her until he feels him tug her higher, settling her above him, her lovely legs resting on either side of his head, her core right above his face. She reaches for the wall to support herself above her, and is more nervous than she has ever been. For a second she is embarrassed about her own compulsion to shave herself bare, until she sees the hungry look in his eye. It's obvious that he loves the way she looks. He breathes deeply, and this time she really is embarrassed and trembles a bit above him. Before she has a chance to pull away, he leans up to kiss her mound sweetly. He smiles up at her. It's not the bright, sunny grin that she thinks of as the quintessential Jacob smile. This smile is truly sexy. This one is meant for her, and her alone. It centers her. Calms her. Only Jacob could make her feel so comforted at a time like this.

Then his eyes darken and his lids droop. He moves side to side, nuzzling his nose gently along the folds at the top of her inner thighs. He peppers barely-there kisses along her lips in tingling trails. She had never realized just how sensitive her skin is there. When she's touched herself in the past, she never took the time to explore her own body so slow or so thoroughly. She had no idea she could feel this good, and he still hasn't touched her center.

He has her lovely ass gripped in his large, hot hands, and he can't believe his good fortune. He is more turned on than he has ever been, and he knows he has brought her to the same place. She is desperate. Wanting. But not knowing exactly what it is she wants. She is on the verge of begging when finally, finally, he reaches out his tongue to lave the entire length of her slit. The taste is pure sex, and his cock throbs in response. Now he wants more. He teases her with a few more light strokes of his tongue, not quite stroking along the nub, until she is whimpering with need. With a groan, he gives in and presses his tongue firmly against her clit, and she screams.

He licks in frantic circles as she grinds down against his face. She is whimpering continuously, trying to get even closer to him. His hot mouth on her is pure pleasure. He pulls back just a little, and she is alarmed until she feels him move down to plunge his long tongue deep into her. Oh, a different sort of pleasure. He slowly thrusts his tongue and she tosses her head back with a gasp. He can sense the shift in her, that the wonderful sensations he is causing in these dual parts of her sex are separate and distinct. He grins into her body, slides his tongue back up to flick at her clit, and slides one large, thick finger slowly into her. She freezes above him. It's almost too much. It's somehow not enough. He gently fucks her with his hand as he tongues her, slowly picking up speed. He can't believe how tight she is, and can't wait to plunge his dick all the way in. He gazes up at her and thinks to himself that this is his new favorite view. Her head has fallen forward again, and she's biting her bottom lip just like she does when she's nervous. He knows that every time he sees her do that, from now on, he will flash back to this moment.

She needs just a little more, just a little something extra. He slides a second finger in and experimentally turns his fingers, and she bites her lip harder. He twists and pumps simultaneously, and she vibrates with pleasure. Then he curls his fingers. She cries out, arches her back, taut as a bowstring. He is incredibly turned on, and she isn't even touching his cock. He repeats the motion again and again, and when he finally sucks her clit into his pursed, soft lips, that's it. She's gone. She's coming, her legs locked onto his skull in his new favorite embrace. It's almost endless, and her keening pleasure triggers his own release. He pumps up into the open air, spurting all over his own stomach. She finally falls over onto the bed beside him.

He turns his head to look at her curled around his uninjured side. She looks more than satisfied. She looks happy. And she looks... asleep. He chuckles to himself. It's just as well, seeing as he already came as well. Although he's still hard, despite his own orgasm. Maybe it's just being a teenage boy, maybe it's one of the few perks of being a werewolf, maybe it's that the girl lying next to him is Bella, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't even need a minute to recover for another round. But she looks more peaceful than he's seen her in months. More peaceful than he's ever seen her, really. He gazes at her sleeping form for long minutes, calm and content. He wants to hold onto this perfect moment in his hand. It's the last thought he has before he succumbs to warm darkness.

The next morning, Jacob gradually wakes with a small smile on his face. He doesn't want to move. Last night was the best experience of his life. His smile turns into a smirk. Maybe they can finish what they started. They fell asleep too soon, and have some very pleasurable business to attend to. He reaches out his left arm and hits the wall. Oh. The sheets are cool beside him. His smile fades. He doesn't want to open his eyes to confirm what he already knows. Was it really just a dream? Never in his life has a dream been so vivid. No other sex dream has ever come close. He can almost smell her strawberry scent in his nose. He's dreamt of her before, sure, but not with such clarity. Nightmares aren't so vivid. Not even the dreams he had of his mother in the weeks after her death, when he could feel her arms wrapping around him and hear her voice humming low in his ear, felt so real. He opens his eyes, squinting against the weak Washington light, and is greeted by a bare, empty room.