Lesson Five — Realism in Fic by SexyLexiCullen
Draw from a personal sexual experience – good, bad, or ugly – and write it out. Bring yourself back to that moment and try to express your own feelings.
(Yeah, I almost skipped this assignment. Writing it last minute and with my twitter babes in mind, I went E/B and light and fluffy—if you can consider it that. As always, all mistakes are mine, and I'm sorry I didn't have time to pre-read this one.)
— Nooner —
Time. There never seems to be enough of it, though the days are long. Measured by careful minutes, a snail's pace sun, another torn off calendar page, there's always a train to catch, a baseball game or a ballet practice to attend, a birthday or holiday to celebrate. Bills stack and then lessen as they're paid. Dishes and laundry accumulate, then washed, only to be dirtied again.
I live by these moments that are like cycles, a rinse and repeat, which I'm doing a horrible job of it at the moment while I wash my hair as quickly as possible. I have thirty minutes to get myself ready for my youngest, Jacob's, sixth birthday party. The decorations are done, the food cooked and placed out, and the 3D, Transformer-shaped cake is iced and perfect. All three kids are ready, too, and the house is spotless, though how long those will remain clean is another matter.
As I scrub my body frantically, I try not to get frustrated by that fact—how it's an endless, repeating routine that's hardly appreciated or noticed. But it doesn't matter. I not only live by these moments but for them, as well. I can't wait to see Jacob's face when he sees the cake I made him, how his smile—always present and warming—will be bigger today, and how all the kids will have a blast with the bouncy castle.
Though, sometimes, I have to say that—I live for these moments—like a mantra, a forceful reminder. But sometimes—most times—I don't think about it all. I don't have the time, and I'm on zooming auto-pilot. I just wish I had more time to sit back and enjoy it all.
Figuring all the soap is washed away, though it probably isn't, I turn the water off and hurriedly wring out my hair. I push the shower curtain aside and reach out for a towel.
Only to jump, my feet slipping on white porcelain before I grab the towel holder, as I see a dark figure standing in the bathroom.
"Jesus, Edward!"
He only smiles, a slow hitching of one corner of his mouth. I know that smile, that wicked gleam in his eyes, what the slow, perusing drop of his gaze means.
Smashing my lips together, I shake my head. "Ohhh no. Not now."
Grabbing the towel, I dry off quickly and step out of the tub, securing the towel around me and wrapping another around my sopping hair. Reaching across the two-sink vanity, I swipe my hand along the mirror to get rid of the fog, seeing Edward's reflection as he continues to stand near the door behind me.
"Get out. Please," I whine. "I can't get ready fast enough with you watching me."
Crossing his arms, he leans back against the door and shakes his head. That damn smile is still on his face.
I growl at him. "Where are the kids?"
"With Alice and Jasper. In the backyard."
I slather on some face lotion. "Oh, and that makes it okay and me want to do it." I shake my head. "Sorry, buddy, not happening."
My sarcasm doesn't faze him one bit; it never has. He merely laughs and stares, taking me in with those Soul Snatcher eyes—the nickname he procured while in the military because his pupils were abnormally large, almost engulfing the iridescent green irises and seeming to swallow you whole with his penetrating, unmoving gaze. Not only did they work on women, but they also made his superiors want to squirm.
Like me. Right now. I can't remember the last time he looked at me like that—and with such heat behind it.
But I shake my head and huff, knowing he won't leave and that time's running out. I pump globs of lotion into my hand and start on my legs, going as quickly as possible without missing a spot while trying to keep the towel from dropping. If it falls, I'm screwed. He'll be over here in a second to take advantage.
Done with the horrible and partial lotion job, I let down my hair, brush through it quickly, and whip it up into a bun. I blow out a harsh breath, annoyed water's dripping down my neck. I eye Edward, hoping he'll leave so I can lotion the rest of me and blow dry my hair without the towel on.
Yet, he hasn't moved, and now I might have to skip curling the ends of my hair. Agitation simmers, and I have to work to calm myself down. This year, I want to get pictures of me with the kids. There are hardly any, and the ones that can be found I look horrid and a tired mess.
I bounce impatiently, pleading, "Come on. I timed it perfectly so I wouldn't have to rush on my makeup."
He strides over to me, and I tense, not in the mood. One arm wraps around my waist and the other across my chest as he hugs me from behind. My shoulders drop, and I sigh. This is his silent way of telling me to take a moment and relax. And it always works. Hunching over, he rests his chin on my shoulder. I meet his gaze in the mirror and soften at the tender look he's giving me.
"You don't need it."
A part of me melts. A smile tugs at my lips as my chest constricts. Then I laugh. "Wow! You really want it, don't you?"
He chuckles, his breath playing across my ear as his mouth teases the shell of it. "I want you, yes."
Squeezing me closer, he bends down and flicks his hips forward once, the hard thickness of him nudging into my backside even through his shorts. My eyelids flutter a little as I drag in a sharp breath through my nose. Then I laugh again and try to push him back, though it's a half-hearted attempt.
"We don't have time."
The hand wrapped around my hip moves, gliding across the top of my thigh, then my lower belly, before it slips beneath the flap of the towel. He cups my bare sex and pulls me harder into him. He nuzzles my neck. "We'll make time."
He says it with such warmth, and I'm breathless. The phrase—one, we used when we moved to opposite coasts for college, when we had our third child, when we realized our marriage was falling apart and any other time after then—always has that effect on me. And … he's sliding a finger between my legs, forward and back, caressing, teasing. I'm wet—we're both aware of it—and I can't blame the shower entirely. But also not wanting to acknowledge aloud that he's winning so easily, I grit my teeth and grip the edge of the sink.
"Fine."
He chuckles again, this time against the nape of my neck as his forehead presses against the back of my head. He licks the beads of water there as he rubs against me from behind with his hips and up with his hand, all in time with each other. My stance widens without thought. I grind against the hard front of him and down into his hand. The tip of a finger dips in before he drags it forward, circling the most tense, inflamed part of me as his nose travels down my neck to the end of my shoulder.
"I don't want just 'fine.'" He circles my clit once more and presses down gently before stroking back and resuming the torturous grazes that are both intoxicating and maddening.
"Okay! Okay." I take in a ragged breath and squeeze my eyes shut. "God."
He adds the heel of his hand and then slips his other hand under the top of the towel, making it open and fall, stuck between us, as his finger strokes slick heat and he traces the edge of a nipple with the other. "Not good enough."
I slap my palms atop the counter. "Yes! Okay? Yes! I want you inside me, filling me. Hard"—I look at the clock—"and fast."
Oh, who am I kidding? It's how I normally like it, even if we're not rushing. I glance up at him in the mirror. I can see his grin as well as feel it on my shoulder. Though his head doesn't move, his eyes flick up and meet my own. They burn black and green—with knowledge, with triumphant and need.
Keeping his gaze trained on mine, he whispers, "You got it, baby."
He eases a finger in, and I almost want to yell that that isn't what I meant and he knows it, but he pumps once, then adds another finger. He watches my face, and I watch his. Our expressions don't change. Our mouths are parted, jaws locked forward, but my eyes are narrowed while that smirk is still on his delectable face.
He adds a third finger, my eyes widening before the lids grow heavy as he stretches me slowly, carefully. Twisting his hand, he curls his fingers inside before drawing them out and driving back in. His thumb flicks up. His pinky slides back toward the forbidden crease.
My head drops forward, and I gasp—I am gasping, grinding and squeezing, with my hands, my whole damn body. His knees bend between mine and widen my legs further apart, making me drop lower. His arm across chest hauls me against him tighter, and his hips tilt up, adding more pressure and friction with every jutting, rotating snap. His thumb circles. His fingers pump faster, harder, and his pinky grazes with each movement.
I mutter a curse. One of my hands goes up to grip his forearm, my other moving to clutch his hip. I can hear, feel, his panting in my ear, mingling and countering with own. I look up into the mirror, wanting a glimpse of his face.
His brows are furrowed in concentration. His bottom lip is trapped between his teeth, but his eyes are taking in my body, what he's doing to me, and I can't help but look. My body is flush, more so than from my hot shower. My breasts, feeling heavy, swell beneath his arm with every heaving breath, and my nipples are taut, darker and rosy.
My gaze drops lower, in slight discomfort and embarrassment at the slight self-voyeurism but also out of curious need. But I can't see because of the counter and the condensing fog. Still, I can well imagine how his hand looks covering me, fingers appearing and then disappearing.
My insides begin to quiver with my legs, though my grip on his fingers, and on his arm and hip, tightens, my breathing speeding up as heat travels down the front of me.
But then he pulls his hand out, my mouth dropping open as I gasp and stare, wide-eyed and surprised, at him in the mirror. My hands fly to counter to steady myself as he backs away a little and fumbles one-handed with his shorts. Before outrage replaces shock, I hear his shorts drop and fling across the tile, along with my towel, and he rips his shirt over his head.
Pulling my hips back with restraining hands, he shoves my feet apart even more with one of his own. Breathing heavy, I watch his face as he focuses where he's sliding the top of his length between my legs, the hair on his muscular thighs teasing the back of my own smooth ones, his fingers rolling my hips as well. He looks hungry, intent, and out of control.
My eyes clench shut as the blunt tip of him eases into me, my body sensitive and swollen, craving this harder, better, smoother part of him.
As always when we start out in this position, the sensation of him beginning to fill me is overwhelming, almost painful, but an ache in the most delicious, satisfying way. And he's none too gentle as he realizes he's positioned at the perfect angle and sheathes hard, forcing my body to rock forward and my hands to press atop the counter with my elbows locked.
He thrusts slow but hard, almost pulling out completely before ramming back into me. My body's shaking, my breasts are bouncing, and the slapping of flesh echo in the bathroom. I bit my lip to stifle my moans, but it's no use. The deep guttural noise resonates in my chest, in my throat, and adds to the cacophony, along with his groans and the indecipherable muttering from his lips.
His speed quickens, and he adds a circling tilt with each thrust. My mouth, open in a silent moan—scream, I don't know—can't seem to drag in enough air as the pressure in my belly condenses and contracts, building. My hands smack against the counter once, twice, because I don't know how much more I can take, and I'm … almost … there.
I arch my back, trying elongate my body yet pull him in deeper as my ass forcefully meets his hips, the tops of his thighs. I move my hand between my legs, rubbing and feeling where we're joined as I open my eyes and glance up. Edward's head is thrown back, his mouth exquisitely slack. The image, the burning in my chest, the quaking, pounding, throbbing sensations are too much. I'm lightheaded and mindless for a moment as I stiffen and just hold on.
As sensation ebbs and my body goes limp, I try to catch my breath. Edward embraces me from behind, his chest covering my back, his hard breaths ruffling my hair.
I reach up and hug his arms. "Did you go?"
His chest rumbles, making my body shake, though I'm still trembling a little.
"Yes. I went a while before you did, but I didn't want to stop."
I laugh, making him shake now as we stay in our weird, upright, spooning fetal position. Feeling lighter than I have in days, I squeeze his arms into me tighter. These are moments I live for.
Then a knock comes at the door, followed by a little voice.
"Mom?" My gaze flies to the door, which is, thankfully, locked. "Have you seen Dad?"
Edward doesn't release me; he merely laughs in silence, our bodies shaking. Realizing he won't speak or let me go, I sigh. "No, honey. Maybe … he's going potty downstairs?"
More shaking, and I elbow him.
"He wasn't down there." Jacob sounds lost and forlorn. It's so unlike him that Edward and I look at each other in the mirror. He withdraws slowly, wincing as he does, and I give a small shudder. He grabs a bunch of tissues, giving half to me; all he receives is a glare.
Holding the tissues between my thighs, I ask, "What's the matter, honey?"
"Optimumus. His arm's stuck, and Uncle J can't fix it. Only Dad."
Edward, already half dressed, grins and beats once on his puffed-out chest. I roll my eyes and grab my towel to dry my hair; there's no time to blow dry it.
"We'l—I'll be down in a second, and we'll find him." I give Edward a pointed glance. "Or he'll find you."
"Okay." Now Jacob sounds petulant.
As we listen to his retreating steps, Edward kisses me for the first time since entering the bathroom. It's quick, no more than a brush of his lips, followed with a nudge of his nose, but it's all I need.
"Don't wear makeup. I like you better without it."
Warm fuzzies bloom in my chest. A tiny smile tugs at my lips. Then I shake my head and scoff. "You already got laid."
"You got laid." He gives me a lascivious grin, and my smack misses him as he ducks back. Turning on his heel, he strolls to the door and opens it, singing "I Just Had Sex."
"Don't you dare tell your family!"
He laughs, and so do I. I already know sex will come up when the kids aren't near, and somehow, Edward will slip a thing or two about nooners. As I finish getting ready, only putting on mascara and lip gloss, my semi-dried hair up in a sloppy bun, I sport my own grin. After dressing and heading downstairs, I'll see our large family, both sides, hugging and laughing as the sun moves across the sky and the star-spangled banner of night unfurls, another day ending, only to begin again. And when I see the pictures developed a week later, I'll think a thought I had when each was taken.
These are the moments I live for.
I'll let you decide what's Soupy-real and what's fiction. *grins and blushes* Though, for once, I can say ... the majority of it is real and actually mine.