A WARNING…

This story is about to get…descriptive, in a way my writing has never been before (at least on here).Somewhere, someone (besides me) has to be saying "It's about #$% time!" to this, and I can only hope they will still be saying that after reading this chapter.

Others, especially any casual readers (with way too much time on their hands?) not linked to this story's characters by the empathy of shared perspective and experience (though precious few of us will have had the opportunity to "experience" what follows, only perhaps the desirefor it), may be disturbed and/or offended.

I can understand this.I am often disturbed by what I read on Fanfiction, (or I used to be; not much time to read any more), especially by Edwards behaving in cold, callous and demeaning ways to Bellas and non-Bellas alike.I can see the psyches of young women testing our culture's message that rich=good and powerful=desirable, and I can attest to how deep and lasting those messages run as I am still incorporating them in my own fantasy life, despite my awareness that the sort of moral choices I really admire lead to poverty, not riches, and to compassionate caring, not power.

HOWEVER, it's lovely, lovely, LOVELY to imagine the impossible combination of both: the ethical yet obscenely wealthy man that is as compassionate as he is powerful and, of course, indescribably handsome.It's animal-self heroin alright, just as SM herself identified via Edward Cullen in Twilight.

And I don't think it's a bad fantasy, as long as it's paired with the awareness that it is not reality.

The dangerous part is how such fantasy feeds the part of our psyches that want; the potentially-healing part is how a make-believe story that straight-on illustrates our deepest insecurities with compassion and portrays our deepest longings as legitimate, if impossible, can comfort the part of our psyches that need.

I am a believer in the power of that comforting to give a pathway out of shame and despair by first validating the pain of unmet needs as the real consequence of our biological wiring and psychological development in bad-fit environments, and then highlighting the potential gifts of our nature to the world around us if only we can figure out how to deliver them (without the help of Edward Cullen).

It is this power that I want to share with you, dear Reader.But I also don't want to harm while trying to help, so know that there are parts of the stories below that may sound to you like sexual violence.I don't see them that way only BECAUSE OF THE CONTEXT OF EDWARD'S LOVE FOR AND DEVOTION TO BELLA, AND HER LONG-TERM HAPPINESS WITH THE SAME.

In real life, as I've said many times before, a person engaging in some of the actions attributed to Edward below or in my other stories would be a billion times(I mean that number, as I think 7 profoundly-dominant individuals existing on the planet who do more good than harm is a reasonable estimation, or maybe a little high) more likely to be a sign of danger and exploitation than the mutual love and satisfaction that my versions of Edward and Bella experience.

So what's a scared, ashamed and very lonely little girl in a deteriorating middle-aged body supposed to do?Struggle every day to make the best choices she can live with for the short time she's on the planet, and try to make the most of whatever gifts she's been given for the betterment of the world around her that will go on, God willing, long after her insignificant story has ended.But all the while she's struggling and trying and failing and trying, she can carry on a secret storyline in her head that gives just enough comfort to get her out of bed in the morning to try, and often spectacularly fail, again.

That's my life, and if it's yours too, then I hope this shared storyline helps.

Be well, dear Reader!

Xo liza

Bella didn't stir in the warm, comforting and surprisingly comfortable confines of Edward's lap—covered by his suit jacket and surrounded by his arms—until the freeway driving across Illinois changed to the stop-and-go traffic of downtown Chicago. Opening her eyes without moving her body, Bella is surprised at the darkness of the night and the lights all around. When they had left Peoria, it had still been light out. Now it was the beginning of a dark and rainy night, the limo's back wiper making a comfortable rhythm competing with the tha-thump of…

As she realizes she is snuggled up against the chest of her protector from the airplane, Bella simultaneously jumps and straightens, knocking the top of her head against Edward's chin and confirming his suspicion that she has awakened. Laughing lightly at the impact, Edward dips down and places a kiss on top of her brown head before pulling her body in more tightly against his in a lap hug, and making Bella squeal softly with the surprise and the wonder of it.

"I'm sorry!" she manages to get out as Edward releases her slightly.

"What was that?" he responds, pulling her to one side a little so he can bend his head down and try to catch sight of her face.

"I'm sorry!" she blurts back, just a little louder, before throwing her hands up to cover her face and starting to cry.

"Whatever for?" Edward offers, not as surprised as he has been earlier in their interactions at her nonsensical assumption of blame, and countering it instinctively with his own assertion, and protection, of her innocence.

The aggression of his response, his tone matter-of-fact with a touch of incredulity, cuts Bella's tears off quickly, and makes her shift to an analytical mode as she haltingly tries to explain, "Um, for…for sitting in your lap?" she offers, biting her lip after she says it as it is both embarrassing to her to highlight her current position (not to mention how much she likes it) and to use such a phrase that sounds as if she's inappropriately feigning childhood (no matter how much she wants to do just that, though not inappropriately, and not feigning at all).

Edward suppresses both laughter at her response for its wonderfully silly innocence and a possessive growl for its wholly unintentional suggestiveness, with the provocation of the statement somehow that much more intense given Bella's painfully obvious lack of understanding of the potentially sexual nature of her positioning.

The moment of silence that results from his self-censoring leads Bella to bite her lip harder and duck her head down, not against Edward's chest this time which she tries to pull away from, pushing with her feet to try to find the floor so as to disentangle herself from the present humiliating situation.

She's immediately pulled in more snugly against the front of Edward's body instead, one of his arms going underneath her legs to scoop them up higher on the limo seat beside them while the other tightens around her body. "Where do you think you're going?" he asks with humor as he adjusts her body to his own satisfaction.

Bella has no immediate response to this other than to pant for a few seconds, feeling as she does torn between the ecstasy of Edward's controlling, protective response to her shame and the terror—growing with every interaction between them—that she has somehow misled him into believing her something or someone she's not.

It's the terror that gets to her voice first, making her get out a breathy "Please," to which Edward can't help but loosen his arms just a little in response. Luckily for them both, however, he doesn't loosen much, beginning to understand as he is how her mind is her own worst enemy, and how all of her reactions are backwards of what one would expect from a reasonable, rational person or even from the egotistically hysterical women he's used to dating.

Still, he can't help but ask. Tightening his hands against her as he asks the painful question, he manages to voice, "Are you afraid of me, Isabella?"

Bella's response is mostly nonverbal, but all the more reassuring to Edward for that as, after a tense moment of stillness as she processes both the question he has asked and the not-quite-as-confident-as-he-usually-sounds tone in which he has asked it—and he braces himself for the abrupt end of his happiness in this mystifying girl's presence, she flings herself the few centimeters available for flinging into his chest and reaches her arms up to hug herself against his shoulder and neck, crying out as she does so, "Of course not!"

Edward's now back on self-assured ground, ground all the firmer and surer for the question he just asked and the passionately unqualified response to it. So he laughs a little as he spreads his hands wide, covering as much Isabella-territory as possible as he lays claim to it all, to all of her.

Bella can't help the happiness that floods her at his reaction to her reaction, and she gives up listening to the terrified voice that is even more confident that there is some humiliating mistake underneath this temporary nirvana and simply soaks up the comfort and safety that appear to go along with this man's miraculous presence, no matter how temporary, in her life.

It isn't long before the limo is pulling into the drive of the Peninsula Hotel and stopping in front of the entryway doors where a white-capped bellboy is standing by, ready for direction. Edward feels an uncustomary surge of anxiety at the looming process of checking-in and getting them to his suite.

Calculating quickly the source of this unpleasant emotion, he realizes it is the fear that the girl in his arms will do something to jeopardize his position of power over her—not because she is afraid of him (she has just proved this not true beyond a shadow of a doubt), but because…he still isn't precisely sure why she would undermine herself, and him, in such a way, but he knows her well enough by now to believe it a very real possibility.

So, ignoring the driver standing by outside the door and the bellboy standing beyond that a few moments longer, Edward leans down and growls.

"Isabella," he bites and purrs simultaneously.

A whimper lets the predator know his prey has heard him.

"You are not to speak or open your eyes until I tell you to." This is also spoken in growl with a subtext of aggressive promise, and understood with a shiver and an attempt to burrow her face even further into his chest.

More gentleness and affection underscore his next comment. "I'm taking you up to our room for the night, and then we'll get you fed and into bed."

Wincing at unintentionally sounding like Dr. Seuss, Edward opens the door to signal his intent then lets the limo driver take over holding the door for him as he exits the vehicle with Isabella in his arms, feeling for all the world like a one-legged, disreputable pirate dragging a treasure chest behind him and holding a cutlass in his teeth, ready to slit the throat of anyone who would dare to even look at his gold.

The first onlooker to be knifed is, of course, the bellboy, the limo driver having already learned his lesson in Peoria and therefore being careful to keep his eyes averted from the girl in the rich man's arms.

The bellboy, on the other hand, has never seen quite such an entrance before, and is a bit of a voyeur, which is the attraction—along with the occasional generous tip—that makes his job serving others in one of the most servile ways possible in the current culture tolerable for him. He also hasn't been on the job long enough to perfect the sideways stare, so he's caught by Edward in full-frontal assessment of the bundle in Edward's arms.

Stopping mid-stride, Edward says coldly to the unmoving clad-in-white figure, "Do you mind?"

Then, when the bellboy indicates by the quick cast-down of his gaze and his movement towards the trunk which the limo driver is now opening that indeed he does mind getting yelled at or otherwise castigated and will avoid anything offensive in the future, Edward strides forward again, first obstacle met and surmounted.

At the door Edward pauses and turns back to the bellboy loading up a wheeled cart with the luggage to give an instruction that has just occurred to him: "Run a hot tub in the master bath before you leave, please." With that Edward moves through the door held open for him, the doorman's eyes averted as always from direct interaction with the rich snobs who can afford to enter his place of employment, but pauses on the threshold and turns back to add, "With bubbles," before moving off to deal with the hotel manager out to greet his newest guest.

The manager, who is just starting what promises to be a very busy double-shift, is a long-time veteran of the high-end hospitality industry, and is used to adjusting himself to the quirks and sometimes-bizarre, almost-always-entitled behaviors of the very rich. But even he does an inner double-take when he approaches Edward Cullen and finds a full-grown, though petite, woman in his arms—not drunk and giggling, or half un-dressed already, but modestly-clothed and sheltering in Mr. Cullen's arms as if she's terrified of the hotel and the people in it.

Skilled enough at managing himself as well as his employees and customers to hide his surprise without hesitation, the manager strides forward to welcome Edward in the lobby, tactfully foregoing the handshake and simply saying, "Good evening, Mr. Cullen, and welcome to the Peninsula. I am the hotel manager, Jess Stanley. How can I assist you?"

Edward welcomes this sign of competence warmly, and nods brusquely but adds warmth to his tone as he responds, "Good evening, Mr. Stanley. I'd like dinner delivered to our rooms, if you would be so kind, and arrangements made for a charter flight out to Boston tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sir, although your travel secretary has already arranged the charter. It will be ready for your departure anytime from 8:30 on tomorrow morning; do you care to name a time now or should I keep the pilot and crew on stand-by for the morning?"

Edward considers this for a moment, pausing in their shared progress across the lobby floor towards the elevators as he thinks about the morning's likely needs and activities. "How long is it to the airfield from here?" he turns to ask the manager.

"At that time of morning, you could probably make it in half-an-hour, although if there's particularly bad traffic, it might be closer to 40 minutes."

Edward thinks a few moments more, once again in progress to the elevator bank, then looks back to the manager to issue his directions as he arrives in front of the elevator doors. "Please specify a 10 a.m. departure time, arrange transport for us from here to leave at 9:15, and send a personal shopper to us by 8 with clothing options for this young woman," and Edward indicates Bella for the first time in the conversation by flicking his eyes briefly downwards to where she is trembling but otherwise unmoving in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut in passionate observance of his instructions, making him grin.

"Any size and style instructions?" Mr. Stanley inquires, already flipping through his mental rolodex of personal shoppers willing and able to operate at such an hour, and hoping—though based on his experiences so far, reasonably confident—that Mr. Cullen will make their efforts worth their while (and his).

"Tell them she's petite, a little over 5 feet and a hundred pounds or so, but I'm not sure about sizes so they'll need to bring along options. As for style, I want something comfortable for the flight home; maybe pants and a top, or a dress—also a fall coat and shoes and underthings to go with. And I'll need a jeweler as well. Do you know the local Tiffany's manager?"

"Yes, sir; I'm not wholly confident I'll be able to contact him before your flight in the morning—"

Edward breaks in with, "Well, please try. I don't have much experience with that store myself or I'd call in my own favors. I need a necklace; a gold choker or collar with something unique in the center; something beautiful."

Mr. Stanley smiles and says, "If you want beautiful and unique, sir, may I recommend trying our local jeweler Sidney Garber instead? I am confident I will be able to contact one of their store managers in time for you, and they excel at both qualities you're looking for."

Edward responds simply, "Thank you." Then stepping on to the elevator being held for him by the porter Mr. Stanley has summoned to escort Mr. Cullen up to his rooms, Edward turns and says, "Dinner in twenty?"

"Of course, Mr. Cullen. Any preferences?"

"Two of whatever the chef recommends tonight, with appropriate wine, of course." Then, a little startled to realize the drink order isn't appropriate for the girl in his arms, he adds as the doors start to close, "And milk, please."

Mr. Stanley catches the end instruction and nods to the closing door saying, "Right away, sir," finishing just as the elevator begins its rise. Then turning on his heels, he sets off to begin the many tasks that will be required to make this powerful and unusually interesting rich man happy. Luckily for Mr. Stanley, he enjoys the challenge, and is skilled and experienced enough to meet it.

XxXxXx

Edward's mood lifts with the elevator, as he is nearly home-free now with the girl in his arms, and his enjoyment of this fact is almost criminal. Indeed, he runs quickly through one more ethical analysis of his taking control of Miss Isabella Swan from Forks, Washington, for he had used the travel time in the limo to inspect the contents of her bag and purse, and set his security staff back in Massachusetts the job of assembling a background dossier on the girl. They had been as efficient as usual, and he already knew she had been living with her police-chief father for the past few years and was receiving financial aid to attend a women's college in the Boston area.

He decides as he steps off the elevator that her father probably deserves a phone call to update him as to his daughter's whereabouts, but not much more than that seeing as he left her vulnerable to predation by…me, Edward reflects with a satisfied, wolfish grin. Or someone worse.

That idea—that Isabella could just as easily have sat next to a predator with no long-term interest in her or her well-being—momentarily enrages him, so that his arms tighten around her and he angrily strides through his suite door now held open by the porter with more speed than the nervous porter was expecting.

Taking a deep breath, Edward calms himself as the porter at the door turns to help the bellboy from before just arrived with their luggage, and gives the simple instruction "All in the master bedroom" in answer to the bellboy's stuttered question as to which luggage was wanted where.

Digging out his wallet and suitable tips for both young men, Edward delivers them to the attendant standing by and asks for a drink to be poured from the wet bar ("A scotch, please, neat"), then makes himself comfortable in an armchair in his temporary living room, the city of Chicago lit up and spread out before him.

He lets his mind wander among the lights for a while, waiting for the hotel staff to finish and excuse themselves, gently stroking down Bella's hair and rounded back all the while.

When they are finally alone, he speaks to her, and though he speaks softly, the words echo in the quiet space. "Well done, sweetheart. You did exactly what I told you to do." Then leaning down and speaking in her ear, he says, "I'm very proud of you."

This makes her start to cry yet again, and Edward reaches for the blanket he had requested before the porter left, comforting her with shushing noises and tucking another layer of warmth around her as he tips her to the side, opening up a space between his chest and hers so he can see her beautiful face, tear-streaked once more.

"Isabella, baby girl, you don't have to cry," Edward gently chides her as he reaches for the warm washcloth also requested and delivered to his current position as down-payment on the warm bath waiting in the master bathroom.

"But-but-but you're being so kind to me!" Bella sobs out in response, making Edward smile and shake his head at both her unique and most naïve definition of "kindness" and also her emotional logic demanding tears in gratitude.

Not responding directly, Edward says, "We need to get you in your bath quickly, baby girl, before dinner arrives."

Bella doesn't respond to this, but keeps crying, so Edward just laughs and scoops her up, blanket and all, walking to the bedroom behind them. Setting her down on the king-sized bed, he steps away just far enough to toe off his Italian loafers and peel off his socks, then starts in on her clothing, shoes and socks first.

When he goes to lift off her shirt, Bella's eyes get wide and she protests by crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Edward ignores this, and just pulls harder, removing the shirt and tossing it to the side while immediately leaning forward to undo Bella's bra.

Leaning out again as he pulls the bra forward and off Bella's caving shoulders, he says sternly, "Hands down, baby girl. Daddy's getting you undressed for your bath and bed."

He surprises even himself with his word choice, although he smiles at the rightness of it when he hears it out loud.

Bella just stares at him, eyes huge, hands frozen in place.

Edward has an inspiration and acts on it. Stepping away again just a little from the edge of the bed, he quickly undoes his tie, leaving it loose around his neck, then unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his shirt sleeves.

Finally, as he steps back to the bed and Bella, he pulls the tie off from around his neck and in one quick pounce, ties Bella's wrists together in front of her body.

Bella is in shock and so doesn't protest, but just stares down at her hands tied fast in front of her as Edward pulls her up to standing with his hands heavy at her hips, then starts in on unfastening her jeans.

There is a heavy silence in the room as Edward slides all her remaining clothing down her body and picks up first one foot, then the other. Completely naked, Bella looks up at him now standing again, the fear and uncertainty writ plainly on her face, and Edward beams back down. "Good girl," he says to her, holding possessively on to one elbow while his other hand traces patterns on her cheek. "Good girl for cooperating with Daddy. Now let's get you into the bath."

And without further delay, he scoops her up the same way he'd carried her before and strides into the steamy bathroom, situating her carefully in the tub and dousing his fine silk tie.

He leaves her hands tied up and her hair down as he proceeds to wash her entire body, gentle and matter-of-fact at the same time. He hesitates nowhere, and somehow, despite her initial embarrassment, Bella feels calmer and calmer as the bath proceeds, and completely relaxed by the end of it.

Edward is ecstatic to witness this progressive relaxation, her trust in him so palpable it's like a cloak around his shoulders. Determined to keep it there forever, he lifts her out and into his towel-draped lap, then dries her as tenderly and thoroughly as he had bathed her.

Once she's dry, he realizes with frustration that he had forgotten to get her nightclothes, but then pulls off his own shirt and uses that instead.

He has to untie her hands to get the shirt sleeves on, and, tossing the ruined tie into the garbage, he warns her playfully, "Now you be a good girl, or Daddy will have to find another tie," making Bella blush beet red.

Scooping her up again, Edward returns her to the bedroom and tucks her in to the enormous bed, stuffing several pillows behind her to prop her up as he hears their meal arriving at the door. "I'll be right back—don't move," he tells her sternly, and heads off to deal with the delivery-person.

Not willing to let anyone else into the suite right now, he takes the dinner cart himself and wheels it to the living area, then heads back to the bedroom and strips out of his suitpants before pulling on loungewear and turning back to a happily-compliant Isabella, warm and comfortable and trusting, for the first time in her life, in the goodness of what will happen next.

Edward sees this trust in her eyes, and is warmed by it, the last of his inner reserve crumbling at the totally unexpected onslaught of Isabella's innocence and need. Shaking his head at how thoroughly he has been taken over by the trusting brunette in his bed, he picks her back up and says, "Time to eat!" as Bella's stomach agrees with a growl.

Laughing, Edward carries Bella to the sofa this time, and stretches out with her, their gourmet meal, and the evening news—though he turns it off quickly when the news turns violent, realizing he wants nothing that ugly going into her beautiful head.

Finishing their meal, shared with one set of utensils managed by Edward's own hands, and wiping her face delicately with the linen napkin, Edward turns her into him, re-tucks the blanket from before around her shoulders, and says, "I've got calls to make now, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and rest."

And he does, and she does, and a peaceful hour passes between them, with Bella willfully not listening to the message Edward leaves on Charlie's home answering machine.

Finally, it's time for bed, and Edward takes her in to the bathroom, letting her attend to her own business while he brushes his teeth and then brushes hers too, and her hair as well.

Leading her by the hand to the bed, Edward stops just shy of it and turns her around to face him. "You are so beautiful," he says, and she blushes, and drops her eyes, but Edward's not allowing that this time. Instead, he lifts her chin with a crooked finger and takes a step forward, placing a foot on either side of her small body.

Bella draws in breath with a little squeak and steps backwards, but runs into the bed.

Edward grins, the enjoyment of her shy discomfort and his ability to provoke it contrasting with his protective warmth and satisfaction in his ability to make her feel safe as well, not to mention his passionate desire underlying it all.

Finally acting on desires he has felt from the moment she fell into the seat next to his, Edward tips Bella's head back and lands his lips on hers, consuming her mouth in a sensual kiss the likes of which Bella has never experienced, nor even imagined, before.

As the kiss, with its exploring and tasting and humming and nipping, goes on, Edward's hands start to move and explore as well.

Bella begins to panic, in addition to a swell of emotion in her belly that is less fear and more…something else, and when she feels one of Edward's large hands slide through a newly-formed gap in the shirt she is wearing and take possessive hold of one of her breasts, she grabs onto both his forearms and attempts to push him away.

Edward feels this, and pauses, lifting his mouth from hers and taking a half-step back though leaving his hand in place most purposefully. "What's wrong, little girl?" he asks half-seriously, and half-teasingly, not surprised when the only answer he gets is a little headshake and a lowered head paired with an attempt to back up.

This time, Edward pushes forward as she moves backwards, and bends to catch her legs as she falls onto the bed, lifting them up and placing them over his shoulders, bent at her knees.

All of a sudden, Bella is completely on display, on her back, easily held there by the hand still on her breast and another now gripping one of her thighs against Edward's own stomach. She stares up at him, shocked, afraid and excited, and absolutely speechless.

He stares down, smiling, not sure what he wants to do next but enjoying the anticipation of all the possibilities more than he's enjoyed anything else in his life, ever.

"Mmmmm, Isabella, what am I going to do with you?" he asks idly as he moves his hand from her breast to her stomach, underneath her shirt, making circles against her skin.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

XxXxXx

The question she asks brings me up short. I stare down at the innocent looking up at me, asking such a loaded question with such calm, such genuine curiosity though with fear licking its edges, it was surreal.

"Of course not," was on the tip of my tongue, but luckily I swallowed it, and thought again. I thought about all the delicious things my body wanted to do to her body. I considered whether any or perhaps most of them might not have a component of what could be considered physical pain, or at least discomfort, for the small body filled with sensitive feelings in front of me. My head started nodding before I realized it, noticing the motion only because I saw the girl's eyes widen as she watched me, and her breathing rate pick up as could be told from the more pronounced movements of her chest.

As my eyes flicked down to said chest, a non-verbal idea materialized, and my hand reached out towards one of her small, perky breasts, which had been de-emphasized entirely by the baggy, cotton-knit short-sleeved shirt she had been wearing earlier in the day. My eyes moved back up to her eyes, which were still getting wider, as my hand made contact with her breast again, cupping it gently for a moment, before sliding my fingers around and down and my thumb around and up, meeting at her nipple and giving it a solid tweak.

She whimpered, then started panting, her mouth dropping open as her body started to shake, her impossibly wide eyes still staring at me, any number of emotions competing in their depths.

My hand going back to my side, I tilted my head as I watched the beauty of her reaction unfolding, asking with feigned innocence, "Like that?"

She had moved from panting almost into hyper-ventilation, and her body was shaking so hard she looked like a booster engine just before transition into outer space, as if the slightest nudge would cause her to break the moorings between her and the earth, or between her and her physical body. So her nod was palsied, but it was there—multiplied, in fact, as she moved her shaking head up and down, confirming for me both the nature of her question and of her need for me. Not to mention, my need for her.

Having received such stunning confirmation of what I had already suspected about Isabella's sexual receptiveness and responsivity, it was my need that next took center stage. Immediately.

She hadn't even stopped her confused nodding, before my hands fell onto her hips like thunder, and I had picked her up by those slight and shaking hips and forcefully turned her around to face the bed, my thumbs running riot over the glory of her adorable ass. Every time they stroked, she whinnied, sounding for all the world like a newborn colt calling to its mother, as I'd had the pleasure of witnessing every spring in the years of my youth.

As the power of the realization that Isabella was calling to me—that she was my colt, and I was, not just her mother, but her everything, including the terrifying threat she wanted protection from—swept down on me, filling my psyche with bliss while my body held firm and even grew firmer, all thoughts of everything but the rightness of my need for the trembling girl held fast in my hands, pinned to the bed by my body, drained away, and I reached up to the collar of my own dress shirt and ripped it cleanly off of her in two.

Isabella let out a shriek as she heard the fabric tear, and, trying to look down at her exposed body while lying pressed into the bed, folded her arms across her chest.

"Isabella," I spoke with more authority and intolerance for disobedience than she had yet heard from me, "put your hands on the bed and leave them there, or I will tie them up."

She mewled like a frightened kitten, though the accompanying little shake of her hips went no small distance in helping me interpret the sound more fully. Yes, the girl was terrified, but she was also incredibly aroused, as many different parts of her body were willing to tell me.

Oh so slowly, Isabella unfolded first one arm, then the other, reaching outward with such excruciating hesitation I thought I would explode—both metaphorically, and literally, in the style of a teenaged boy in the midst of his first sexual adventure. A few deep breaths and I was in command of myself again, and with one hand on the small of her naked back while the other trailed fingers up her spine until they arrived at her neck, massaging there and around her shoulders, drawing out both this prelude to whatever would happen next and my ecstatic-and her anxious—anticipation, I was in command of her as well.

"Please," she breathed out, as the thumb of my hand at her lower back started to wander lower, over hills and into a valley.

"Oh, yes, sweet girl, you don't need to beg," I said, humor in my voice as I stepped into the bed and drew her body closer, then removed my hand from her back completely, the better to acquaint her precious center with my clothed and frustrated cock, and the better to start removing my own clothes.

Whether it was the forwardness of my actions or my words, or probably both together, Isabella finally said the word I had dreaded hearing from her almost from the moment we met. As she breathily intoned "No!" her hands came off the bed to push ineffectually against my hand still at her shoulder, and her feet started scrabbling against the bed as if she was trying to climb up it, and away from me.

"Be still!" I commanded as I squeezed her tightly against me with both hands, one now surrounding her breast and one spread on her stomach, ignoring her own hands feebly pushing against mine and catching her rebel feet between my legs and the bed as I leaned in.

We stayed like that, breathing heavily, each of us silent in our own thoughts. I don't know what she was thinking, although by now I believe I can guess with great accuracy. I have not found it necessary or pleasurable to remove that particular veil of privacy from her, so there it remains, as transparent and insufficient as any veil allowed to remain between us must be.

I can tell you precisely what I was thinking, however. I was hearing the "No," she had uttered, and weighing my rights and responsibilities concerning it. I needed no analysis of the pleasure it would afford me to disregard it; it was already abundantly clear that, whatever finer feelings I had towards Isabella, they did not include following her directions, her wishes, or even her pleas.

Neither did I worry about any legal fall-out from whatever decision I should make. It was obvious to me from the beginning that Isabella bore no direct threat to me; I had no doubt I could abuse her in whatever manner amused me and have no concern that she would try to hold me accountable, or do anything more threatening to my well-being than attempting to run away.

That thought, however, was horrifying: the idea that she might not wish to stay with me. The idea that I would have to trick her, compel her, extort her into staying; a moment's consideration of such a heinous possibility and I was almost overcome with grief.

I pushed back against that emotion, and considered the situation more rationally. I could cave in to the apparent significance of the one small word she had uttered, and leave us with enormous unresolved sexual tension and a huge awkwardness concerning the power dynamics in the relationship. If I was in charge and authoritative in everything except the bedroom, what would that do for her feelings of confidence in me? What would that do for her feelings of safety? I didn't have to ask what it would do for the satisfaction of our sex life, as my outraged member was already filing vigorous complaints on my libido's behalf.

I usually consider myself an eminently rational man, but in considering this, this all-important question of what to do in response to Isabella's small "No" against my extremely large "Yes," I do believe it was intuition that settled the debate…or at least a knowingness, an understanding of both Isabella's nature and my own as well as the fit between them, that was larger than my rational mind, and composed in part of elements I could not consciously ID.

I was able to identify the enormous satisfaction with which I implemented the decision, made by all of me—spirit, mind and definitely body—once I became aware of it. Standing us both up straight, her body still held against mine by her breast and her belly, her legs immobilized between my legs and the bed, her naked torso quivering from both the chill in the air and her fear and anticipation of what would happen next, I squeezed her impossibly more tightly against me, foregoing gentleness for strength.

Then I spoke, leaning down so my words would go straight into her ear, and my breath would coat her face and her hair, and she would know the truth of what I said.

"Isabella," my voice rolled out, like the tide over the waiting shore, and I saw her body quiver; "little girl," I clarified, so there could be no mistaking who I was talking to, "you don't get to tell me 'No.'"

I let that statement hang between us; I relished the sharpness of her intake of breath, and her futile attempts at squirming away from me in response. I waited as she fought with her body; I waited as she gave up physical struggle in a fit of panicked breathing; I waited until she found enough of her voice to start to feebly protest, "But—"

I interrupted her immediately as I leaned in even further, my lips touching her ear as I moved them. "There are no 'Buts,' little girl," I said as my hands started up in motion against all the flesh they could greedily touch, and rub, and pluck, and finger, and the little girl in question threw herself into her last panicked and wholly ineffectual fight against me as I finished speaking. Knowing my body would do the rest of the necessary communicating for a while, I intoned, punctuating the words with nipping kisses against her cheek, the soft flesh of her ear, and finally, her lips, "You. Are. Mine."

As I finished dragging out the last word, which garnered yet another little squeak from the tiny mouse in my hawk-like clutches, I traced along the contours of her lip with my tongue, taking more little nips until I gathered her lips into my own, holding them there before releasing them only to plunge my tongue in her mouth as I kissed her passionately once more, marking her as mine just as definitely as I'd said it. Incoherent gasps soon morphed into panting, and I released her mouth feeling a shared elation.

She seemed to consider us done, as she exhaled loudly and leaned against me, a contented sigh escaping her despite her earlier protests. I smiled at her ignorance, though relished her resting against me, until I could not help but ratchet the gentle rubbing against her breast and belly back into agitated nipple-plucking and plunging fingers below.

She got the message, and I felt, maybe even tasted, the excited fear start to course through her again as I sucked and nibbled everywhere I could reach while my hands grabbed hold of her hips, and she started sobbing—both in relief and despair, my heightened senses assured me.

Not wanting to leave her sobbing, but unwilling to do anything besides proceed down the path I had chosen much further back than our entrance to the hotel room, or even to the limousine, my eyes searched for a means of immediate distraction and found it close nearby, in the shape of the throbbing pulse in Isabella's beautifully bared neck.

As I stared at the twitching spot, my cock now twitching in tandem in a bizarre and agitated duet, I felt calm certainty wash over me, completely unperturbed by the sound and feel of her sobbing. Patting her little belly, I said without thinking, "Daddy will make it better soon, sweetheart," then licked the sweaty skin over her throbbing pulse. Shocked by word and act, her sobs quieted, and there was a poignant moment of stillness, a peacefulness after the violence of my claiming her by word that we both enjoyed for a lingering heartbeat before I unleashed the violence of my further claiming her by body.

I began again by biting her on the sweet spot of her pulse, closing down on the sweat-soaked skin and laving it with my tongue as she gasped at the violation. In her confusion, she actually arched back into me, and, as my teeth remained clamped around her tender skin, coming as close as I wished to drawing blood and letting every animal component of both our natures know she was mine, to do with as I pleased, I took advantage of her momentary shocked stillness to remove my clothing in record time.

As her body sprang into shocked recoil from my heavy groin which she had arched back into, I had already shoved my sleep pants down, my boxers happily going with them. She made no noise but fought like a tiger, her protective instincts, finally, finally, coming to her defense now that it was so clearly too late. It was adorable, really, the way she fought me now when she had followed me like a child in all the prior moments when she might more realistically have prevented this.

The thought of how powerless she was to stop anything I chose to do made me swell most painfully, and I left off the job of removing her own underpants when they were only half-way down her hips. Of course, it didn't hurt that this also gave me more time to enjoy her fight against me stripping her, and her dismay at the realization, finally, of what I intended.

"Please, please, please!" she begged, writhing in my hold, trying to move her hips away from my insistent hands, and only coming flush up against my warm and stone-hard member for her efforts. I grinned to see her eyes go wide as she sensed the bareness of my flesh against hers, and watched as her head twisted backwards to confirm for the first time that I was now as unclothed as she was about to be.

Indeed, with one last shove of a hand and the hook of a foot, I had her panties in a jumbled mess around her ankles, causing the last indignity of her struggle to culminate in a tripping tumble on top of the bed. I laughed lightly at her causing her own prone position, moving quickly of course to catch her there, with one hand splayed against her lower back, my weight alone being sufficient to prevent her from scrambling up as she so urgently tried to do.

After she had worn herself out a bit with struggle, I crouched behind her, dropping down next to her legs as one hand finally removed the underpants from around her ankles while the other hand continued the illusion of weight against her lower back. If she had struggled then, my weight really being on my heels behind her, she could have gotten up, but she was so fatigued and disoriented at this point I doubt she realized the opportunity—and then even if she had, I distracted her from action by taking a quick lick down the sweetly-sweat-filled crack of her backside, then biting one of the round cheeks nearby.

I didn't linger as I'd done at her neck, but just leaned in and bit as I pulled her last ankle free of fabric, throwing the panties away at last as I stood back up and over her before she had time to recover from the shock, and the pain—if the pitiful whimper that issued forth as my teeth gripped her soft flesh was any accurate indication of her feeling.

Part of me was weeping too, the throbbing truly painful as I bit my knuckle in the effort to show some restraint, to wait just long enough to savor the moment for its own joy and for the pleasure of future remembering before unleashing my carnal consumption of the girl splayed out in front of me.

Isabella helped my savoring immensely, as she started to move again, one arm pushing up her body as the other moved to encircle her naked breasts. Outraged, I let my hand fly quickly, slapping hard across the round of her ass. The noise of my flesh on her flesh was like a symphony of angels, and I nearly came at the mere act of spanking her, a tremor moving through my body at the power of my want and the degree of her vulnerability.

I watched with avid interest as a red handprint formed on her creamy skin, and might have been transfixed longer but for a small sob that came from Isabella. Raising my head at the noise, I saw the naughty arm start sneaking around her torso again, and I growled. The feral noise echoed between us, and she grew still, absolutely stock-still, as if she thought she might blend into the bedding and fade away from my sight.

I roared louder, at the joy of her naïve hope combined with the desire to pulverize it, to grind it into nothing with the thrusts of my greedy hips against her slight form and the explosive warmth of the invasion I anticipated but for which I knew she was not quite ready.

But my body demanded movement, so I launched myself over hers, pinning the offending forearm with one hand while the other plunged under her belly, lifting her up and against me until I found temporary solace in the friction afforded as I rutted with abandon, kneeling on top of the bed while I moved her body with my hands. I grunted in time with my surface-level but still satisfying thrusts between her thighs, and with the difficulty of resisting the almost-irresistible urge to bury myself deep inside her instead.

To both my ego's and my body's satisfaction, a melodic scream escaped her, tumbling down across the octaves at full volume. As I listened, admiring the beauty of the girl and her struggle, I gave thanks for the superior construction of luxury hotel rooms, as I believed the scream would bring no one running. I said so.

"No one's coming for you, baby girl," I promised her in a throaty voice I barely recognized as my own, it was so violently lustful. "Just me," I growled, not expecting her to get the pun but enjoying it myself, as I followed through by releasing the arm I had been pinning against the bed so as to provide the mere instant of extra stimulation I needed. I bellowed like a bull moose as I came all over Isabella's bare white back, painting her beautiful skin and mahogany hair with my claiming of her, and my promise of more. For ever.

XxXxXx

The next morning, Bella wakes up before Edward, who is totally passed out with physical—and emotional—satisfaction. She carefully slides out from under his heavy arm, which disturbs his sleep slightly, causing him to say, "Mmm, Isabella," then fall back under as he turns over on his other side, squeezing a pillow to him.

Isabella, who watches this transpire with wide-open eyes and shallow, frightened breathing, for she's terrified of Edward catching sight of her in the honest light of a new day and communicating the disappointment in her that she thinks is inevitable, relaxes slightly as his breathing deepens again and he stays still, tiptoeing backwards towards the bedroom door, her eyes on him until she opens the door with one hand behind her back and slips quickly through it, closing it softly.

She had scooped up her shirt and jeans in a side trip to the bathroom on her way, and now she hurriedly puts these on. She's missing her bra and underpants, but she slips on her zip-up hoodie and figures she'll be decent enough. She grabs up her backpack off the coffee table after checking to make sure her purse is safely inside, then quickly walks to the suite's front door and turns all the bolts, slipping through it as quickly and quietly as she had the bedroom door.

As the door clicks shut behind her, she has a moment of desperate longing for the man she's left inside, and bites her lip tightly as she fights her way to the elevator against the infuriatingly strong impulse to turn around and bang on the door until he lets her back in. "NO," she says to herself firmly, "I cannot draw this out one second longer. It would be excruciating to watch him politely send me on my way this morning. This way is much, much better."

And feeling very proud of herself, if also the extreme anxiety nibbling at the edges of her thoughts about how she will manage getting herself back to the airport and resuming her flight to Boston, she steps onto the elevator and rides it confidently to the lobby, a half-smile on her face.

The smile evaporates along with her confidence as the elevator door opens onto the sumptuous lobby she'd missed seeing the night before, surrounded as she had been at the time by Edward's arms. Now, she's intimidated and frightened at the wealth surrounding her, and feels very, very embarrassed and exposed as she treads shyly forward in her sneakers and rumpled jeans.

Biting her lip again, she cautiously looks towards the reception desk, wondering if she dares ask one of the uniformed employees behind the computers there how to get to the bus station. She doesn't have time to decide before a man in a dark suit steps in front of her, looking down at her surprised face and greeting her, "Good morning, Ms. Cullen. How may I help you?"

Her eyes double in size and the panicked breathing returns as she stands mute, shocked that this man recognizes her and thinks she's somehow linked to the Mr. Cullen she left sleeping in bed. A red blush spreads across her cheeks as she realizes she's about to dispel any idea this man may have that she is worth his time, but she closes her eyes and manages to say, so softly the manager has to lean in to hear her, "That's very kind, thank you. Could you please tell me how to get to the bus station, if it isn't too much trouble?"

Then, glad to have the request out and feeling hopeful, for the man's voice was warm and his eyes seemed kind if also very shrewd, she shyly opens her own eyes again only to see him staring at her, taken aback.

Her blush grows and her head falls as the manager gets a hold of himself, replying, "Of course, I can help you get anywhere you wish to go, Ms. Cullen. Please, come with me to my office and we'll—"

But she shyly interrupts, "I'm so sorry, Sir, but I'm not Ms. Cullen. I'm just Isabella Swan. Mr. Cullen was very kind and helped me last night, when our plane crashed [Isabella's not paying attention to her words, unintentionally dramatizing the landing with the phrase that seems right emotionally], but I need to get back to the airport now and I don't want to trouble him anymore. If it's a bother to give me directions, I understand, and I'll just—"

But now he interrupts her, reaching out rather uncharacteristically and grabbing gentle hold of this scared rabbit of a girl—perhaps an under-age prostitute, he wonders? It wouldn't be the first he's seen of that, sadly—by the upper arm, pulling slightly but firmly towards his office door. "Please, Miss Swan, it's not trouble at all. Come to my office and we'll figure out together the best way to get you there."

So relieved to find such kindness, Bella looks up at him smiling down at her and bursts into tears. The manager pulls her into his side and puts an arm around her shoulders, shepherding her to his office and giving death glares to a couple employees who dared to look their way.

"It's alright, Miss, there's no need to be upset. I'll help you."

Bella manages to get out, "Please, I'm just Bella, and thank you!"

He smiles at her as he unlocks the door and lets go of her as she walks through the doorway, waiting 'til she's in before he goes in behind her, closing the door on his way. "It's my pleasure, Miss Bella," he says.

She blushes again, and stands uncertainly, while he motions her onto a sofa beneath one of the two windows of the corner office. The other window is behind his desk, but he doesn't go back there now, not wanting to intimidate the shaking girl further.

In his head he's running all sorts of calculations, about whether the law needs to get involved and what Mr. Cullen's reaction will be and what the fall-out would be of any such reaction for the hotel and for him, as well as for the girl sitting—perching, really—on the couch in front of him. He decides to bide his time, and pulls a chair forward in front of Bella's hunched form, determined to find out more to inform his next course of action. "So why, if I may ask, are you wanting the bus station, Miss Bella?"

Trembling again, Bella looks up and says, "So I can get back to the airport in Peoria and catch the next flight out to Boston. I hope they won't be too mad if I miss the morning flight?"

Shaking his head reassuringly, the manager says, "No, I don't think they'll be mad, but I admit I'm wondering about Mr. Cullen's reaction when he wakes up and finds you aren't there. I assume he's sleeping yet?"

Bella blushes the reddest she's been yet, and demurely nods her head, studying her hands closely and avoiding saying a word in response. Still unsure what to do next, the manager leans in towards her and asks, his voice just above a whisper, "Did Mr. Cullen hurt you last night, Isabella?"

Shocked, Bella lifts her head and looks directly in the manager's eyes, saying with believable surprise, "No! Of course not!" Then, as the memories of what did happen come back to her, she blushes redder still and ducks her head again, adding rather lamely, "He's very kind. I'm-I'm sure he'll be glad I managed to find my way back without bothering him. I don't think he's planning on going back himself."

The manager knew perfectly well Edward Cullen was not planning on returning to Peoria, because he'd verified the arrangements made at Mr. Cullen's request for a driver out to Chicago's private charter airfield this morning, as well as the reservation of a charter aircraft with pilot and crew for a flight out to Boston. But he wasn't at all sure that Mr. Cullen would appreciate the early-morning disappearance of the shy and scared young woman before him now; when Edward Cullen had arrived the night before, his bearing towards her had been so protective—almost paternal.

Although the paternal appearance had been effectively undercut by the noise complaints he'd had to deal with the night before from the suite underneath Mr. Cullen's penthouse. The report of a woman screaming had led him to the hall outside Mr. Cullen's rooms; from there he had heard for himself the high-pitched, near-hysterical pleas, "Please, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, No!" and had knocked briskly on the door.

And then, when that had been ignored, knocked again, more loudly, with a verbal request too.

The long, lean, sweaty body of one Edward Cullen opened the door a minute or so later, giving the manager what can only be described as a hairy eyeball combined with an eyebrow raised so high it hit his hairline. Used to dealing with pissed-off rich people, the manager had just calmly informed him, "There have been complaints about loud noises coming from your suite, Sir. I'm sorry to trouble you, but do you think you might be able to lower the volume, just a bit?"

Edward Cullen had grinned like the wolf he obviously was, and said back, "Certainly. I apologize for the inconvenience, to you and to…?" and he waited for the manager to indicate who had voiced the complaint.

The manager nodded, said, "The party staying underneath you, Mr. Cullen."

Mr. Cullen nodded back and said, "Perhaps you could add their tab to my own for the night, as a sign of my regret for their inconvenience."

The manager said, "Certainly, sir, I would be glad to do so, and let them know as well."

"Very good. Is that all then?"

And with that the manager was summarily dismissed, turning around with a cursory, "Thank you, Mr. Cullen; I'm sorry to disturb," and hearing a "Not a problem" just before the door closed firmly behind his back.

Sighing at the ethical vagaries of his profession, and devoutly hoping the girl being ravaged inside Mr. Cullen's suite had consented to the ravaging, the manager had ridden the elevator back down, made the requested financial arrangements, and comforted the rich and notoriously cheap old couple staying underneath the suite with the knowledge of Mr. Cullen's conciliatory gesture, which shut them right up.

Now, in the bright light of morning, he was puzzled by the seeming shy innocence of the girl before him, knowing what he thought he did of what she'd done the night before…or maybe, what had been done to her? He decided he had to ask.

"Miss Bella," he said, ever so gently, "did someone…arrange for you to be with Mr. Cullen last night?"

She stared up at him, confusion writ large on her features. "Um…he did?" And as her mind obviously worked overtime to try to understand what was being asked of her, she came to an enlightening if wrong-headed conclusion and said, "Oh! You want me to pay for my share of the room!" And as the girl whitened, obviously at the horrifying thought of what such a payment might run to, she started digging in her backpack for a worn little purse which she dragged out, saying, "I'm so sorry, I didn't think—"

But the manager interrupted her, placing a calm hand on her purse and pushing it back down into the backpack. "No, Miss Bella," he said firmly and kindly, "I'm not asking you for any money. Mr. Cullen has all the expenses covered." Watching the relief spread in the girl's face and shoulders, he added, being as direct as possible, "I'm more concerned about whom he may have paid in order to spend time with you last night."

The girl stared at him, absolutely not understanding, her brows furrowing, her teeth biting her lip, until she finally tentatively offered up, "You mean, the limo company he hired to bring us here?"

Smiling at her, the manager just shook his head once, and was inwardly giving up his investigation and concluding there was nothing for it but to arrange transportation for the girl back to the Peoria airport, though he was not looking forward to further interactions with Edward Cullen if she was leaving without his approval, when there was a sharp knocking on his door paired with a ringing of his desk phone.

He reached behind him to get the phone first, as the knocking repeated itself, more loudly, and more insistent. Picking up the receiver, he just got out "Stanley here" before Edward Cullen's angry voice could be heard outside the door, saying, "Open the door please," with no please ever sounding less like a request and more like a command.

His eyes on the door, Mr. Stanley listened to the voice on the other end telling him that Edward Cullen had come down in great agitation, searching for a girl missing from his suite. "Thank you, Ellen," he responded, finishing with "I'll get it from here," before hanging up the phone and walking over to the door.

Standing in the gap he creates by opening it part-way, Mr. Stanley looks up into the anxious and angrily-flashing eyes of Edward Cullen, eyes that size him up then move over his shoulder to search the room behind him. Lighting on the girl on the sofa, who has frozen like a terrified rabbit with large eyes staring at the man in the doorway, Edward Cullen's demeanor changes in an instant, the tension leaving with a large exhale as his body moves forward without an invitation, taking a step into the office and making Mr. Stanley back up.

"Isabella," he breathes out, and moves assertively by the manager, who sidesteps to avoid being run over. Edward strides towards Bella but stops just short of her, dropping into a crouch and looking up into her now-downcast eyes in her flaming face. "You left me," he said, not accusingly, but with a surprising quiet hurt in his tone.

"I'm sorry!" she bursts out, starting to cry. He sits down on the couch next to her and wraps an arm around her as she caves into him, sobbing. "Shhhh…it's okay, sweetheart; you're all right now. Just—could you tell Daddy please why you left him this morning, without even saying good-bye?"

Pulling away from him a little bit, Bella looks horrified and says, "You want me to say good-bye?"

Laughing, Edward pulls her back into his arms and then all the way onto his lap, saying, "Absolutely not. I won't allow it. But…honey, did I scare you so much? I'm trying to understand why you snuck out on me. I won't ever let it happen again, but I'd like to know why; why you left?"

Bella sniffs, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, sits up a little. "Oh. I just, I thought I should, you know…"

Edward reaches with one hand and grabs hold of the side of her face, his fingers curling around her jaw, and lifts it so her eyes are looking into his. "You thought you should what, Isabella," he asks, only of course it's not asking but commanding.

Her eyes flick down and she says, "Go home," so quietly, he has to think hard about what she's just said, interpreting a whisper.

He says nothing to this, just gently strokes the side of her face and under her jaw with his fingers, his eyes boring down on the top of her bent head. Finally his fingers stop moving and he asks, "Why would you want to do that?"

Her eyes flick back up to his, and she feels a surprisingly angry reaction to his cluelessness. "So it won't hurt so much when you leave me!" she pours out with surprising vehemence.

The manager has taken this in and now feels comfortable allowing Edward Cullen free rein with how he handles this girl-child, seeing every evidence that, whatever the inequalities in power and physical control there may be in the relationship, at least there is true affection and protectiveness by the more powerful party for the vulnerable one. "I'll just step out a moment and let the two of you work things out; let me know if you need anything," he offers to Edward Cullen's back, and gets nothing more than a brief nod in return as Edward's gaze and attention never waver from the girl in his arms.

Isabella however looks up at the manager and says, "Thank you so much, Mr., Mr…" and he smiles and says "Stanley, though you can call me Jess. I'm glad Mr. Cullen is here to help you, Miss Bella; I think you can trust him." He isn't sure why he added that last part, but was glad it felt true, and that Edward Cullen looked at him with appreciation and a "Thank you, Mr. Stanley; I'm grateful you caught her before she left the premises."

Edward's eyes return then to the top of the girl's bent head where it rests against his shoulder as he finishes, "I have some security staff on their way in; would you keep an eye out for them and alert me when they're here, please."

To which Mr. Stanley says, "Certainly, Mr. Cullen," and exits his own office.

XxXxXx

I still hadn't recovered from the sight of an angry Edward Cullen in the doorway. I was terrified he was going to yell at me; for what I wasn't sure, but I was certain about the yelling.

I'm so glad I was wrong about that. I'm wrong about most things with him. I'm so confused; I have no idea what will happen next. I'm almost thinking I will just give up and enjoy the moments I have with him, and stop worrying about how I'm going to survive when he's done with me.

Yes, I think that's what I'm going to do. Nothing else is even possible, not when he's holding me like this. Being in his lap, with his strong arms heavy around me, and his hands moving on my hair and my hip, and his heart beating so reassuringly under me, and his smell—his smell, so masculine, so soothing, so safe…I feel so safe, and there is nothing I would not trade for one more second of this. One more second…and one more… … and one more… … …

XxXxXx

I'd say I couldn't believe it when she fell asleep in my lap again, but it would be a lie. I knew she would; I was even coaxing her to do it. Partly because she clearly has a lot of rest to catch up on, and partly because, while I am certain of my power to keep her in my thrall when we're behind closed doors (and I'm conscious, or some responsible person is—the security staff on their way in are my temporary solution to this morning's disaster), there is a certain danger to having her out in public right now.

Until I've managed to cure her of her disturbingly large inferiority complex, I'm afraid that her tendency to believe herself to be a troublesome burden might be misinterpreted by some feminist types as evidence of an abusive relationship from which she needs to be liberated. And I cannot tolerate that; I cannot even contemplate it. The idea of someone standing between me and her, preventing me from touching, holding, consuming this girl the way I want so badly to do and she wants, in her own desperately needy and vulnerable way, so badly for me to do to her is enraging—which is why I was reduced to pounding on the hotel manager's door this morning when I determined he had my girl in here with him.

Luckily for me, he took it well. And luckily for him, he truly had her best interests at heart and figured out fast I'm not the enemy.

I'm a little curious as to who the real enemy is, although I am also considering the possibility that my girl isn't damaged by bad experiences but was just born the way she is. I don't know how to explain it for sure, because I don't have any reference points for how she is; for who she is. Prior to yesterday, I would have dismissed a character such as hers as untenable, and extremely undesirable. How wrong I would have been!

It has taken her falling into my lap, literally, for me to realize precisely how much satisfaction there is in taking care of someone who won't do it for themselves, not because they're trying to extort you into doing it for them, but because they don't believe themselves worth the trouble or the attention. The hours since I stepped onto the plane yesterday afternoon have passed as the most rewarding and intoxicating moments of my life, and I cannot help but want a lifetime's worth of more.

XxXxXx

Six weeks later…

After a "girls' day" of shopping (closely monitored by the security staff now assigned to Bella) and conversation, Alice brings Bella back home, sending her upstairs to the rooms she shares with Edward so that Alice can confront her brother in his home office with the door closed.

Edward is half-amused at the intensity with which Alice has tried to corner him for a "talk," and half-concerned that there may actually be something wrong with his Bella—though she had seemed well enough to him when he met her at the door earlier, relieved as he always was to have her home safely with him again.

Turning to face a furious Alice, he leans against his desk and raises his eyebrows, a slight gesture of his open hand indicating she should begin so they can get this over with and he can go up and take care of his girl.

EPOV-

I watched Alice fume for a couple more seconds; she was angrier than I've ever seen her before. Frankly, her obvious rage was making me feel far less worried than if she had been merely concerned. I was curious about what could have made her this mad, but the curiosity was giving way to irritation as she bided her time, delaying my return to Bella further.

Finally, just as I was ready to push off my desk to leave both the room and Alice stewing in her own anger, she burst out with, "You had anal sex with her!"

"How is this any of your business, Alice?" I asked calmly, and totally without apology or embarrassment. I had indeed, more than once, and it was beyond-words wonderful... and totally worth repeating. Soon.

Then I thought about how Alice would have come by this information, and I had to ask. "What did she say about it?"

"Ugh! She hated it!"

I laughed. I knew precisely how untrue that statement was. I said so. "No, Alice, she didn't hate it."

"Oh yeah, how do you know, you selfish….conceited…prick!"

"Language, Allie! Let's see; how do I know? Hmmmm…maybe because she climaxed hugely at the end of it? Do you think that's a clue?"

"No, I think she climaxed because you were fingering her, you twat!"

"She told you that?"

"That you're a twat? No, I deduced that for myself, thank you very much."

I ignored her amateur attempts to rile me, and pressed for the answers I wanted. Very much, the more I thought about it. "Did she tell you I fingered her?"

Alice sighed, shoulders slumping, giving up on the outrage she had tried so valiantly to maintain against me, on Isabella's un-outraged behalf. I smiled ingratiatingly at Alice, knowing she was about to cave, knowing she would cave. I put my arm around her. "Come on, Allie, we're on the same side here. Tell me what I need to know."

She pulled away, her outrage apparently not quite used up yet. "Oh, we're on the same side, are we? Are you trying to tell me I'm involved in the sexual exploitation of my little sister?"

"Absolutely!" I said cheerfully. "As long as it is me doing the exploiting, absolutely you're involved. You helped facilitate the environs conducive to initiating said exploitation, remember; and you seemed perfectly okay with it up until now." My tone became serious as my words did too, "Was there something that upset her? Please, Alice, I need to know."

Alice sighed hugely again and flopped down onto my leather sofa, saying like a disappointed Inquisitor having to admit defeat in manufacturing any evidence whatsoever against the accused, "No, she wasn't upset."

"Why was she talking to you about it then?" I was curious; Isabella hasn't seemed the type to brag at all, let alone about sexual conquests.

"She was curious."

"I see." This made more sense. "What exactly was she curious about?"

Alice sighed again, then waved vaguely with her hand. "What you were doing, 'back there,' as she put it."

I snorted, then tried to swallow the guffaw. Alice glared.

I took a deep breath, failing entirely to wipe the greatly-amused grin off my face. I gave up. "Are you telling me she didn't know?"

Alice appeared not to have the energy left to glare. She simply shook her head back and forth, tiredly confirming the depths of Isabella's willful ignorance and constitutional naivete as Alice stared dully at the ground.

I stored this insight into my adorable little girl away for pleasurable examination later, and focused on Alice. "Allie," I said fondly, sinking down onto the seat next to her, "why does that bother you so much?"

"Because she should be upset! She should be angry! She should be pissed as hell at you for fucking her up the ass without so much as a please or thank you!"

"She said I didn't say 'Thank you'?" I hadn't, of course, but I couldn't imagine Isabella complaining about that fact, given the other things I had said to her.

"No, of course she didn't! She doesn't say anything bad about you, no matter what sick and twisted things you do! She thinks you're perfect! She thinks you're God!"

An angry and somewhat equine snort of her own followed her last pronouncement, and her dramatically raised hands fell in angry slaps across her thighs, making me glad she hadn't gotten physical with her anger yet towards me. She may be little, but an outraged Alice is a force to reckon with, especially when trying not to hurt her in return.

But when her eyes finally raised to mine, the look in them was hurt, not angry. "Edward, I've always believed you were a good man. A little selfish sometimes, sure, but no more than one would expect from a man as rich and good-looking as you are. A lot less, actually, and Esme and I have always been proud of you for that. So I was so happy when you found someone really sweet to take care of, because I thought it would be perfect for both of you. But now…"

"Now, what, Allie?" I asked gently, one thumb rubbing down her cheek, tracing the tears that had just started to fall.

"Edward, how can you do what you do to her? She's not, she's not, she's not grown up! She doesn't understand what you're doing. How can that be all right? How can I love her and not try to help her get away from you?"

Ahhh. So that explained the depth of Alice's passion. She truly loves Bella, and when Alice loves, it's an all-or-nothing, all-consuming thing. As my prep school friend Jasper had found out the spring break I brought him home with me sophomore year. Alice was just in junior high then, and hadn't had so much as a puppy crush before Jasper. The fact that they were now married and had been since the summer she graduated from high school was evidence of Alice's tenacity in love, her unbelievable loyalty to those her heart adores.

And here I was, causing her to feel as if she had to choose between two of her heart's favorites. I was being a prick, and a stupid, selfish ass. I said so.

"Allie, I'm sorry, sweetheart. I've been a stupid, selfish ass."

She narrowed her eyes at me as she said, "I don't think it's me you should be apologizing to."

"Yes, it is," I corrected her. "I've taken exceptionally good care of Isabella, and made her very happy, and that's nothing to what's in store for her in the future from me. I owe her no apologies, and it would be devastating to her if I made any."

Alice just stared at me, furrowing her brows, trying to understand. I explained.

"Allie, the person I'm apologizing to is you. I haven't spent enough time, thought hard enough about how this would all look to you. You deserve better than that, as my sister, and as my friend. And as Isabella's sister and friend. I'm sorry I kept you in the dark, not on purpose, but as the result of my not talking with you more about Isabella; about her differences from you, and her needs."

"Her needs?"

"Her needs," I confirmed, nodding.

Allie, though not crying any more, glared up at me then, her hands moving to her hips, as she said, "Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, are you trying to tell me that Bella needed—" Alice paused, and I knew she was getting over her anger with me, because she was having the usual difficult time she would have describing sex acts to her brother, and I was very happy to see her growing tongue-tied, "you to do that to her?" she finally finished, somewhat lamely.

I laughed, and said, "Yes, Allie, she needed me to do that to her, and those too."

"You know what I mean!"

"Yes, and I mean what I say. Isabella is intensely uncomfortable in her own body. She needs to feel like it belongs to me, not to her."

Alice blinked at this statement, shocked.

And with Alice's blink, and Edward's profound (or so I think)—and definitely profoundly dominant—statement, we leave the First-Class crew for the time being.

The following is another story I feel nervous about because of its physical nature, and the overt sexuality that in the rest of my stories is hidden or (very) vaguely implied.There are reasons for that, beyond mere good taste and social mores.There is a danger to an honest exploration of the sexuality of the profoundly dominant and submissive pairing, as, on a surface level, it mimics acts of sexual violence. And there is nothing I want to have to do with or support in sexual violence, except helping to end it, for everyone's sake.

But there is also a danger to ignoring the real and—I do believe—hard-wired desires of people like me (and you?).As Langston Hughes wrote more poetically, there are many bad things that happen when dreams die, or (and this is me, not Hughes), when they are slowly suffocated to death by shame and a sense of being "not-right" in the world.Especially because the desires I am writing about are not remotely for anyone else on the planet to be hurt, or have their rights taken away, but simply for our own selves to be loved, in a way that feelslike love, and safety, and understanding of the absolute vulnerability with which our unguarded natures face the world.

So forgive me the below (and the above) if you feel it needs forgiving, but know that I am not ashamed, at least of this (everything else about me is another story) and at least in theory, and I am most definitely not ashamed of you.

You are a good and lovable person, and I wish you well.

Liza out.

XXXXXX

She felt funny…everywhere, really, but especially…down there. The underpants he'd slid on her without comment that morning were so soft, and so thick. She wiggled her hips a little, puzzling over the feeling, and felt his large hands heavy on her hips at once, stilling them, his thumbs rubbing circles on her…bum. He was touching her bottom!

In a moment of shocked bravery, her eyes flit up the mirror, looking past the deep blue silk skirt that flared to her knees, and the fitted—so fitted—matching bodice that tied around her neck, and the super-soft white cashmere sweater—she'd never even touched cashmere before, but somehow she knew the moment he pulled it on her arms what it must be—to see him looking at her in the mirror.

Her eyes flitted away to the bottom of the mirror again, and the limited view of the fine white silk stockings so cool on her legs and the ballet flats with the big bows matching the bows on each of the two pigtails her thick hair had been brushed and combed into, the ends curling against her shoulders and down the front of the sweater. She looked strange to herself and beautiful to Edward and to both of them, so young.

Bella felt fear in her stomach at the thought that she looked, for the first time in her life, exactly how she felt inside. Including the fear, apparently, because—that man—leaned down and said, in that deep, scratchy, commanding voice he had that shut down her brain and took away her words and just made her melt, "What's bothering you, baby girl? Tell Daddy."

And as he said those last two AMAZING words, his hands spread out and his thumbs moved lower and instead of rubbing circles they just pressed upward against the swell of her flesh as she felt his eyes on her too, staring expectantly, waiting for the answer she couldn't help but give.

It poured out of her without reflection, the way she had spoken to him since he'd led her away the day before. "I look so little!"

She flinched, hearing her own words—what was she talking about? She'd always been short; it had never bothered her much. She liked being one of the smallest kids in school. But she hadn't said short; she'd said this other word, this word that scared her, because—

"That's because you are," his voice rang back right in her ear, full of humor and amusement and something she almost thought was pride though she couldn't imagine why and definitely a sort-of promise though she had no idea of what. And his hands moved, quick as lightning, one sliding up and under the bodice, spreading out against the bare skin of her belly, covering her belly button and pulling her backwards against his other hand, spread out against her lower back. "You're my little girl, and don't ever forget it!"

She sucked in a surprised breath at his words. Surely he couldn't mean it? There's no way something that wonderful could be—

"Stop it."Oh no, now that wonderful man was mad at her. She knew her happiness couldn't possibly last long; it was too impossibly good to be true. What will she do—

"ISABELLA." The serious tone with which he said her name made her shiver, and the iron-clad command made her reluctant eyes dart up again to see his intense green ones staring at her with…oh, thank goodness, not anger. She sighed with relief, feeling her belly push against his hand and his hand press back, one of his fingers slipping under the skirt's waistband and pushing at the top of that frilly underwear that was so confusing and strangely comforting. Why should she like the warmth and constricting thickness of it so much?

She heard him laugh; he seemed to laugh a lot around her. He must be a very funny person. She felt his hand against her belly again and couldn't help but wiggle her hips one more time, checking to see if the underwear still felt as thick as it did before. Maybe it was just caught on her skirt—

What was that noise? It almost sounded like a…growl…

"Isabella, if you wiggle those hips again we are going to miss breakfast with your uncle and you're going to need an elastic-fronted wedding dress."

She didn't understand the last part of what he said, and didn't really want to, but she was happy with the idea of missing breakfast. She didn't understand much of what had happened since yesterday, but she knew she did NOT want to see her uncle in this outfit. So she immediately wiggled her hips, biting her lip and blushing while she did it.

He laughed again, long and deep and rich, and said, "Oh, babygirl," then pulled both his hands away from her body leaving her bereft and empty. But just as the tears and panic started to rise, she felt her hand being taken up by his in that commanding way he had, and she is led out of the master bedroom and into the main living area of Edward Cullen's penthouse suite in the Boston Ritz-Carlton.

She shuts down her thinking and even her listening, all of her consciousness focused on the hand leading her wherever it wants, pushing back gently when it wants her to stand still as they get on the elevator being held for them to carry them down to the first-floor lobby, and then to the restaurant where it all started.

She walks back into the restaurant, but this time not to meet an old family friend for a celebratory brunch on the occasion of her 21st birthday, but being led in, blind, deaf and dumb by the hand of the man who had saved her from her own folly. For after being toasted with a mimosa by her elderly friend, and having seen said friend off in a cab but promising to get home safely by the subway herself, she had turned around and—after one moment of shy hesitation—marched to the hotel bar with the desperate thought that maybe, just maybe, she might meet someone there who would take pity on her and keep her from the overwhelming loneliness and despair she had been feeling for the last few years.

Only she hadn't made it to the bar. As she was crossing the threshold, she had heard a voice—a very masculine voice—clearing his throat nearby. She had jumped at the sound, startled, then looked up to see the body attached to the voice, one of his hands in his pocket as the other reaches out to steady her.

She feels the hand on her arm like a leaden weight, and her heart speeds up with emotions she's unsure of. Is she in trouble? Is she supposed to show him her ID?

She starts to sputter, "I'm 21, really, here, let me—"

But the voice cuts her off. "What are you doing here, little one?"

Her face bursts into flame. She's never been called…that..before. She's never even heard those words before, but she likes them. Very much.

Her face is burning so hot she has to lick her lips to try to cool herself down and she can't remember anything, even her name, when the voice sounds again, deep and rich and now a little stern. "I expect an answer, sweetheart."

She wets herself, just a little, at the sweetheart, and whimpers. Feeling the moisture down there, she panics, and starts to back away, her head swinging both ways searching for a Restroom sign so she can flee and hide in a stall before she humiliates herself any more.

But the hand on her arm tightens, making both the moisture and her panic increase, and when the stranger drops down in a crouch in front of her to say, more warmth and less warning this time, "What's wrong, baby girl?" she bursts out in a tear-filled voice, "Please, I need to go to the bathroom!"

The world goes black for a few moments as she hears what she has announced to the world, and to this baritoned stranger in particular, and she misses the low chuckle as the stranger stands, wraps a hand around her waist and starts half-pulling, half-dragging her to the elevator bank down the hall.

She stumbles after him without thinking, her senses dulled from humiliation, and is unaware of him pressing the up button, re-engaging in reality only after he has led her onto the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

With a jerk of her whole body, she comes to half-way up, her eyes darting around to take in the rapidly ascending elevator empty except for the two suit-clad figures she can see in the reflection given by the highly-polished gold elevator doors, and of course herself, shaking and moist in embarrassing places in the middle.

Her brain can't think what to say, but the voice from before breaks in to her haze with the words, "Hang on, Sweetheart; we're almost there," and that frees her throat to ask shyly back, "Where are we going?"

There's a quiet but definite snort from the suit in the corner—the one not holding on to her arm or her waist—and it's good she doesn't see the death glare given by the owner of those holding hands to the producer of the snort or she would well and truly piss herself.

Instead, she turns towards the voice that is saying, "We're going to my suite, angel. I have some questions I want you to answer."

She's puzzled by this, but a little relieved. "So you're not a policeman?" she asks, not sure what she could have done to be arrested but having been concerned nonetheless by the possibility.

Another light laugh. "No, babygirl, I am not a policeman." Neither the girl nor the non-policeman miss the shudder that runs through her after he says "babygirl," and another bit of moisture leaks out, enough to cause a drip to run down her leg.

"Oh no," she gasps as the drip follows its course then pools in her sock. "Please!"

The doors open just then as the man holding her arm is leaning in to her and saying, "Tell Daddy what's wrong."

The doors are wide open and a butler is stepping forward from the penthouse suite across the hall to hold them open while his employer maneuvers the girl-child he brought up off the elevator when the girl in question bursts out in obedient response to the unthinkably-wonderful command just given with, "Daddy, I wet my pants!"

And then bursts into humiliated, confused, and very, very relieved sobs.

The relief is due to the fact that she has no more announced her horrible faux pas in a hugely-embarrassingly loud voice when she is unceremoniously scooped up in the arms of this mysterious and beyond-wonderful stranger and carried off the elevator and into the most elegant rooms she has ever seen—or would be seeing if her eyes weren't full of tears and her head wasn't pressed—of her own volition, though most warmly welcomed with a hand splayed against it to keep it there—against the stranger's chest.

Her sobs quiet quickly with the reassurance of her position in his arms, but she's still crying loudly enough she doesn't hear the many terse commands given on their march to the bathroom in the master bedroom of the suite, and she only vaguely registers the sound of a shower being turned on.

She wakes up a bit though when the warm spray of the shower hits her, the stranger having paused long enough only to toe off his leather shoes before stepping in to the oversized shower, both of them still fully clothed.

The water soothes her, as does the running commentary the man starts up once they're in place under the spray, his one arm supporting her body while the other still keeps her pulled tightly against his chest. "That's my girl; be a good girl for Daddy. We'll get you all cleaned up and tucked into bed."

Whether it was the mention of "bed" or the blissfully warm water coursing down her body, Bella starts to feel very drowsy, the sobs slowing and her eyes closing as the soothing fingers rub back and forth against her head and forehead and…hip? She's too tired and content to work up any strong feelings about the thumb moving back and forth against a place no one's ever touched before, or not since she was a baby. And probably not then either, as neither her mother nor father were very affectionate people, and once her mother was on her own with her, not affectionate at all.

She's just thinking about how much better this is than being with her mother when she feels one of her shoes being pulled off, then the other, and hears the thunks as they both hit the shower floor, one after the other. It begins to dawn on her that she's going to be soaking wet when she goes home, and that little kernel of concern makes her sit up a little in the stranger's arms.

Or try to, as he immediately clamps down against her side, and bends her backwards a little, outside the spray, staring in her eyes and saying seriously, "No wiggling, baby, it's slippery in here and I don't want to drop you."

She can only blink her eyes at this, though her body does still for the moment, mainly because of the shock of first his endearment and then his command.

He grins at her, and she sees it for the first time, her heart breaking with the beauty of his face and his obvious warm regard. For her. She doesn't understand it, but she's seriously thinking about enjoying it for as long as possible. Before he gets to know her and finds out how bad she is, or so she thinks.

And while she's thinking about his beauty and stunned by his caring—for her!—he sets her quickly down on her feet and pulls off her shirt before she knows what's happened.

He flings it quickly out of the shower and towards the sink, and she stands there stunned a moment while his gaze takes in her perfect figure. His hands on her shoulders, his thumbs moving down and up the very edge of the front of her chest, not quite touching the swells of her breasts but threatening to with every torturously slow pass, he stares her in the eyes and says one word, so reverently, she almost believes it: "Beautiful."

Another moment passes before she shivers, her body having been moved out of the water's course, and he immediately snaps to and pushes her forward into the spray again, coming up close behind and starting to work at the button and zipper of her jeans.

She balks at this, for the first time, her self-protective instincts finally kicking in her stranger notes. He's glad they're there, but not willing to give in to them, so he marches her forward a couple steps, adjusting the spray so it's showering her back and not her face, then grabs her hands in his own and pushes them against the shower glass.

"Hands stay here, baby doll," he commands, speaking in her ear to be heard over the shower and the very loud thumping of her heart.

And they do, for a little while as he slowly removes his then brings his hands back to her hips, resting them there a moment.

But as soon as his thumbs glide around the edge of her pants to meet at the button again, her hands are off the glass and she's wiggling, trying to break around him and to the shower door.

He laughs, and pulls her flush against him, one hand catching under her armpit and pulling her back and the other arm wrapping around her stomach with his hand grabbing firmly to her opposite hip. "I've got you, babygirl," he says cheerfully, half-reassurance and half-promise-threat.

She stills for a few desperate inhales, the warm water calming her again and the vulnerability of her bare belly feeling both exquisitely dangerous and wonderfully alive.

She looks down and sees her sodden bra, her nipples standing out in relief against the fabric, and says with consternation, "I'm all wet!"

He laughs again, such joy, such marvel at her sweetness. "Yes, baby girl, you are. That's the idea of a shower," and he leans in and takes a little nip at her ear.

She squeaks and bucks at the pleasurable sharpness of his bite, and he groans, just a little. "Oh, little one, you are going to be the death of me."

She hears this and is contrite. She certainly doesn't want to cause this strange and wonderful man any problems, let alone hurt him! "I'm sorry," she says with heartfelt apology, her body going still as she looks up towards him, or towards his general direction as she is pressed in against his front too firmly to be able to see his face.

Edward takes advantage of her momentary stillness to whip off her jeans and underpants, opening the jeans' fastenings then sliding them both down and off so fast he has them shoved to the side and is back up her body, arms crossed in front again, before she realizes what's happened.

Strangely, she feels more calm with the clothing off, and relaxes into him more fully as he stands there with her pressed against him. She lets her head drop back against his chest, and tilts her face to receive the warm spray still coming down. "Good girl," he croons down to her, his heart swelling with pride and gratitude for the unwarranted and totally reckless trust the small person in his shower is giving him. "Good girl. Now let's get this off too," and one-handed he flicks open the bra and drags it off both shoulders before tossing it out of the shower to join the shirt.

She smiles, delirious in his praise, so trusting in his intentions. Who knows how long they would have stood there in mutual bliss, but her stomach growls.

Embarrassed, she brings a hand up as if to cover the offending organ, but Edward laughs and pulls her hand away, circling her wrist with the hand still holding her tight against him while his other hand reaches for a washcloth and he chides gently in her ear, "Never hide from me, little one."

Dexterously, he manages to get the body oil provided in the shower onto the washcloth, still one-handed, and get it lathered up. "Now we'll get Daddy's girl all clean," he says, matter-of-factly, and he starts in on her shoulders, making equally matter-of-fact yet gentle circles across the entire expanse of her skin.

She stiffens when he reaches her first breast, and engulfs it with his hand, but he just moves closer, still fully-clothed himself, and kisses the top of her head. He doesn't move his hand off her breast for one long minute, his fingers moving in circles against the washcloth, his thumb grasping firmly against her breast, his lower hand moved to spread against her stomach and pull her so tightly against him she feels the rub of his suitpants no matter how much she tries to arc away.

"Daddy's got you, little one. This is Daddy's body now," he croons, over and over, his hand on circling repeat against her breast.

Finally, finally, her breathing slows down again and her body relaxes, millimeter by millimeter, against him, and when she finally allows her head to fall back against his chest once more, he says, so warmly, so tenderly, she thinks she must be dead in heaven, "Good girl, Isabella. You're my very good girl," and moves his hand off her breast with one last gentle tug on her nipple—accompanied by a whimper and a moan—then a quick switch of the cloth from one hand to another as the process starts all over again with the other breast.

It doesn't take as long for the acclimation to his touching of the second breast, and he leans in to kiss the side of her cheek, just next to but not on her lips, as he bends them both forward and drops the washcloth from the top to the bottom hand. Then, straightening them both up again, he leans backwards and pulls her backwards too, and starts cleaning the area that caused the whole marvelous episode while his other hand returns to alternately push and pull gently on her nipples.

Bella freezes at the first contact against a part of her body no man has ever seen since her father last changed her diaper 20 years before, but the hands in motion all feel so good and the words he is saying all sound so good that she gives up fighting and relaxes into his hands faster than either one of them can believe.

Edward is ecstatic, and finds it very hard to keep from anything more than a gentle nudge of the washcloth into her tender center, but he knows he'll hear the gasp that one nudge elicits from the girl in his arms for the rest of his life in his dreams. He moves on, with great effort, after that, massaging down first one and then the other inner thigh, but as his hand moves lower so does his mouth and upper hand, his lips replacing his fingers on first one, then the other nipple as his hand kneads the belly that can't help but roll a little with the tension building in an unfamiliar place.

When she bursts out, "Daddy!" in a heated vehemence building to something more than he really wants to have her experience on her first day in his care and in his life, he pulls away and drops both hands, letting the washcloth fall before grabbing her hips and carefully spinning her around on the tile floor.

"What, Babygirl?" he responds playfully, leaning in to rub his nose against hers. "Do you feel all clean now?"

Blushing again from head down to her navel, as Edward can see perfectly clearly, Bella shyly nods, no words or even voice left her with all the emotion at play.

"Good girl," Edward says, wiping against an eye where there is moisture gathering that's not from the shower. "Good girl for trusting your Daddy. I'm so proud of you."

Those words ricochet around the stall like cannon shot. Bella's eyes grow wider than Edward will ever see them again. In a hoarse voice, with disbelief dripping from every syllable, she manages to get out, "You are?"

Anger courses through him at the further evidence of her neglect, and he colorfully and most thoroughly curses every one of her relatives, living and dead, for the current state of her psyche even as he promises himself to change it immediately, or as fast as he can.

Swallowing hard the rage that wants to burst forth, knowing it can only hurt the innocent in front of him, Edward manages an almost-lightness in his tone as he reassures with all the warmth he can summon, "I am so proud of you, sweet girl; so proud."

That's it; the sobs return and do not stop quickly this time. They continue even as Edward gathers her up in his arms and turns off the shower; they grow louder as he exits into the bathroom and wraps her in towels, sitting her down on the padded chaise longue while he strips off his own sodden clothing and ties a towel around his waist.

She is sobbing still as he finishes drying first her body, then her hair, and hiccupping with streaming tears as he pulls one of his dress shirts on over her head, scoops her up and carries her into the bedroom.

She's quietly crying as he pulls back the covers, lays her down and tucks her in, his hands resting on the bed on either side of her as he leans in, kissing tears off her cheeks and nose, neck and ears.

Finally, she quiets, and he places a long, slow kiss on her lips, rubbing her nose with his again as he oh-so-slowly pulls away—but not too far, just far enough to look at her looking at him, her eyes focused again now that the tears have stopped.

"Hey, there," he says and smiles.

"Hi," she says back, blushing and dropping her eyes to study what she can see of the comforter just sticking up in the bottom of her field of vision.

"I'm going to go get dressed now," he says, and she says back a very quiet, very shy, "OK."

"You're going to stay in bed while I do that," he instructs, and she hears the command in his voice even though she has stopped understanding his words, so she nods.

He smiles and shakes his head, seeing she has grown too overwhelmed to speak again, and leans in for one more quick kiss on her forehead before walking quickly to the door and summoning in a security staff member waiting outside his room to monitor his girl while he changes.

The man, one of Edward's most-trusted employees and director of his private security staff, takes his place standing inside the bedroom doors.

Edward dries off and dresses, but even as quickly as he moves, he isn't back to the bed before an emotionally-exhausted and still slightly buzzed from her first grown-up drink ever (not counting a few sips of warm beer on a couple of occasions with her cousin Jacob back home) Bella is sound asleep.

Laughing lightly to himself and shaking his head at the utter perfection and blind trust of the girl now happily asleep in his bed, Edward leans down and kisses her forehead, nose and lips before whispering a promise in her ear that he will spend the rest of his life happily keeping.

Then he moves into business mode and sets to work making his girl HIS in all ways possible.

Which is how Isabella, as he insists on calling her, ends up in this impossibly beautiful and upsetting outfit the next morning, having woken up the previous afternoon to be fed and then surrounded by amazingly gorgeous and sophisticated women (Edward's mother, sister and sister-in-law) who doted on her—at least two of them did—and took her down to the spa for an intense and sometimes painful two hour beauty regimen before bringing her back up to try on, or at least have held up against her and analyzed after Edward mercifully cut short the trying on, an unbelievable number of outfits.

She had tried to protest both the spa and the clothing; surely these people were carrying generosity to crying and desperate strangers too far, and how was she ever going to repay them? But the women—Esme, Alice and the frightening Rosalie—were as stubborn about what they wanted from her as Edward was, and apparently what they wanted was for her to have every hair (except those on her head) removed from her body and a ridiculous number of clothes pinned and nipped and tucked for a perfect fit on her very own unglamorous body.

The clothes part was kind of fun, if she didn't think too hard about how much all of it was costing and how much she would owe these new friends of hers.

But the waxing—that was terrifying, especially afterwards, when she realized she was completely…naked down there! She had never felt so young, and so vulnerable, as she did putting on the polka-dot underwear with a little bow in the middle she was given after the waxing specialist was finished. She started to cry, and could only stop when the smallest, most fashionable woman—who was also the one seemingly most interested in her—was so horrified, thinking the waxing had hurt her.

"I'm fine, really!" she had insisted, when the woman (Edward's little sister Alice) said they should take her to a doctor and make sure the waxing specialist was fired.

"Then why are you crying? I know it stings a little, especially the first time you have it done, but it shouldn't still hurt so badly now!"

It was just at that moment when Edward had come in, texted by Rosalie, moving fast, his brows drawn with concern as he scanned the room for his new little girl. Finding her wiping her eyes, sitting gingerly on the edge of a chair with a warm, near-impossibly soft terrycloth robe wrapped around her, he moved twice as fast to her and crouched down to catch her eyes.

Esme grabbed a reluctant Alice by the hand and dragged her out of the room, saying, "We'll be waiting in the hall, Edward, so we can go up together for an early dinner. I think Isabella will feel better after having something to eat."

"Thanks, Mom. Why don't you go ahead and order; we'll be up shortly," Edward responded distractedly, waiting for the door to click shut behind them before turning back to his girl with so much warmth and concern especially for her that Bella has to turn her head and avert her gaze, so afraid she is to let herself think Edward is something real, somebody real and lasting only to find out later she is alone again. That would have to kill her, only she's fairly certain the death would also have to be slow and self-inflicted, and she's afraid of that, so her eyes remain carefully averted until Edward's strong but gentle hand tugs her chin back his direction and captures her eyes and attention again.

"Sweetheart? You haven't told me what is wrong. My heart is hurting, seeing you hurting and not knowing why or how to fix it. Talk to me, little girl. Tell your Daddy what's wrong."

She had promised herself the dignity of silent suffering this time, but of course Edward's earnest and insistent instruction undercuts her as it always will. In no time she's burst out with, "Daddy, I'm naked!"

Inside, he grins at the easy capitulation. Not only had she accepted without question or hesitation, almost at the very moment of their first meeting, his role as her Daddy, but she has no ability to hide or filter things from him. She is absolutely transparent in her emotion, and he loves her all the more for her transparency, spending most of his business life having to ferret out information that selfish, calculating people would rather keep from him.

But her brain is, he is finding, very complex, and her reactions not at all straightforward, so he knows he has some more patient provocation to do before he is absolutely clear about what hurt her and how to fix it. He proceeds with intentional obtuseness, tugging gently at the rounded v-neck collar of the robe, "But darling girl, you're not naked at all. Daddy can barely see your beautiful skin!"

Frustrated by his (not-known-by-her-intentional) misunderstanding, Bella blurts back, "Under the robe, Daddy; under there!"

Trying very hard not to smile as he continues the ruse, savoring the interaction more than he ever has any meal or drink or business triumph, Edward pulls his faux-confused brows together even further and pretends he has misheard. "Underwear? Did they forget to help you on with your panties, little girl? Daddy picked out the sweetest little pair—"

And as he's saying this he's matter-of-factly pulling apart the layers of robe across her lap then loosening the belt, and she's not fighting him, but is looking down with him at the perky little bow and polka dots that appear, just as they both knew they would, as she says with innocent exasperation, "No, Daddy, under there! They took off all my hair!"

Edward looks up into her indignant eyes and allows himself a small smile with his lips, a grin with his eyes. "But my darling angel, you've got as much hair as when I left you. They just trimmed it a little," he reassures, knowing it's not what she's talking about as he reaches up and gives a little tug on the blown-dry and curled ends of the beautiful hair framing her frustrated face.

And then he hits paydirt; has yet another moment he will savor for the rest of his unbelievably happy lifetime. For in her determination to make her Daddy (she hasn't thought about what this word means, but cannot help fully embracing the title and the man who claims it as it speaks directly to the lost, hurting part of herself that has always yearned for someone to love and cherish her) understand what she is explaining to him so unsatisfactorily, her little hand grabs his big one resting on her lap and drags it forward 'til his fingers are resting someplace she never imagined letting anybody touch when she got up that morning, let alone having it washed then waxed, saying as she moves his hand exactly where it most wants to go, "Under here, Daddy!"

As soon as she feels his fingertips against her private place, just the thin cotton of the small briefs between her new nakedness and him, she turns beet red and tries to turn away in humiliation at what she has just done. And said.

But he won't let her, his hands moving fast as striking snakes to grab the tops of her thighs and keep her bottom planted where it was, though he can't keep her head from turning away and the tears from starting.

He continues to hold her down with one hand as the other shoots up to cup her very embarrassed face, pulling it back around until he has her downcast eyes once more looking into his…or almost, this time, as she won't quite meet his gaze.

"Isabella, look at me," he demands, not willing to accept this state of affairs. And he waits until she does, and as her eyes slide oh-so-slowly and –reluctantly over to his own she bursts into tears and he lets go of her leg, elated to be comforting again, undoing the robe's tie then scooping her up and into his lap as he replaces her in the chair.

She turns her head with a relieved sob into his chest and feels once more the bliss of his large, heavy hand resting on her head, pulling her further into the hiding place she loves as her hands come up to fist his shirt on either side. He takes a moment to pull her hands farther up his body, resting them on top of his shoulders on either side of his neck and loving the little twitch of her hips as she responds by drawing as close as she can to him and sighing.

His adjusting hand now slips inside her robe and rubs up and down her back, massaging heavily with the heel of his hand as he soothes with his words. "That's my girl; that's my baby."

For some reason, those words that have been so wonderful before now make her panic. All of a sudden, maybe because she has just spent the last two hours in the company of his real relatives, it occurs to her that he might have real, actual children, and a girlfriend to boot. It doesn't occur to her to be jealous of a hypothetical wife; that's not what she wants to be, although as events turn out she certainly doesn't mind it.

No, it's a mental vision of other, real and lasting little girls who get to call this perfect man "Daddy" forever that makes her pull away, and try to wiggle off his lap and run for the door. Of course, she doesn't get farther than the edge of his knee before he's nearly crushing her in the most wonderful way back against his chest. Holding her there, just short of painfully tight, Edward leans down and whispers, "What just happened, little girl? Tell Daddy what's in your mind right now."

And because he already owns her, body and soul and most definitely heart and mouth, though her stubborn brain will take a while longer to give in and will always be a challenge, albeit a welcome one, she does. Tripping over her words in her sadness and shame and despair, she hiccups out, "You have real little girls that belong to you always and I have to go and be by myself!"

Not having been a more-than-perfunctorily religious man before now, Edward shocks himself with a straight-from-the-heart spontaneous prayer of gratitude, fervently spoken in whispers not understood by the sad brown head sobbing against him again, before catching said brown head between both his capable hands and holding it still, once again making those reluctant eyes find his own as he wills her to understand, to really hear what he is about to say.

"Isabella Swan," he starts in, and her eyes flicker to his with the shock of her own full name and the authority with which he speaks it, making him insert a "Good girl; good girl for looking at me," in warm and honeyed tones before resuming the deep and powerful voice with which he is hoping to cut short her anxiety and her rather willful ignorance of the disposition of the rest of her life given how much has already transpired that day.

"You are my one and only little girl today, tomorrow and forever. We will have daughters, God willing, as many as your precious little body can carry, but they will never be to me what you are."

In spite of herself, Bella is feeling reassured. Her sobs aren't heaving any more, but just a little sigh every few seconds. And now, there is a quiet pause while she thinks about what this man has just said.

"I am?" she asks, hesitant to believe him; quite aware of the danger to her in believing anything so amazingly wonderful, so much like impossible dreams answered, to be true.

He smiles, loving that she can't get by his first sentence yet, relishing the power that she gives him by not being able to do anything else; the power to control her body, her mind, her future, and then not to resent him for it, but to love him more and more completely as she becomes more and more completely his own.

Leaning down to his beautiful future, he reassures with happy certainty, "You are." And hears one completely heartfelt sigh as a rich reward for his effort. Which makes him kiss her sweet lips, and rub her adorable nose with his own, and finally pull her in for a hug which she reciprocates in the best possible way, throwing her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life.

He takes the opportunity to stand up with her, pulling her robe around her and tucking it in like a blanket but not bothering with the tie, knowing it will just be coming off again back in their rooms as he dresses her, after the fashion show and fitting he reluctantly allows, in the long-sleeved eyelet lace nightgown that was one of his first selections earlier that afternoon.

It's actually not the most comfortable sleepwear, the long ridges of eyelet and the ribbons run through making ridges, and the cotton being new and stiff, but it does give a certain feeling, and look, of being wrapped up like a beautiful package that both Bella and Edward appreciate, for opposite and wonderfully complimentary reasons.

Edward ties the ribbon around the gown's very high neckline more tightly than really is necessary, leaving Bella with the distinct feeling of a dog collar around her neck—giving exactly the tingly-in-her-stomach sensation that Edward was aiming for. "Tight enough, baby girl?" he teases as he checks carefully to make sure it isn't too tight. The blush on her cheeks and shy nod confirms for him it is, and he smiles.

Making Alice squeal at the happiness in her brother's expression when she knocks perfunctorily and barges in the room, announcing, "Dinner's ready!" before nearly skipping over in her most cheerful version of an already bouncy gait and looking her new, shy and blushing sister up and down while pronouncing, "She's so beautiful, Edward! And the nightgown's gorgeous; very upper-class English, but a bit Victorian and uncomfortable, wouldn't you say, Bella?"

Bella blushes harder at her new friend's seeming criticism, which is actually an attempt to be her ally and save her from discomfort and Edward's bossy ways, which Alice hasn't yet figured out-and will never completely understand—is exactly what Bella needs.

Edward understands it all, however, and gently corrects Alice. "Isabella is comfortable in whatever I see fit to put her in, Alice. I know that's different from how you and Jasper are, but it works for us, alright?"

And hearing the warning tone in her brother's voice at the end, Alice is quick to agree, being determined to make of Bella the best friend-sister she's always wanted and which Rose refuses to be.

Then, because she's a perfectionist just like her brother and fashion is her area of expertise, she adds, "Well, if you're going to truss her up like this, you should really do it right," and starts pulling out and tightly tying—more tightly than Edward—the not one but four gathering ribbons he had missed.

The ones just below each elbow weren't bad, but just made the lower half of the sleeve nearly skin-tight and made it impossible for Bella to reach her arms out straight. The waist-cinch was tighter, and ratcheted up her self-consciousness as it highlighted not just the circle of her waist but also what was just below it, somehow causing her newly-hair-free area to feel very much on display.

Finally, there was a ribbon band around Bella's breasts, and Alice took a lot of time with this one, debating out loud with her brother in a somehow simultaneously wonderfully infantilizing and horribly humiliating way. "I'm not sure if this one is meant to be under her breasts, or across the top," Alice observed as she tried the first arrangement, and then the latter, her busy hands at work not just pulling the ribbon but also pushing around Bella's breasts.

"Alice!" Bella squeaks in embarrassed protest.

"What, Bella?" her tormentor asks innocently as she pulls the ribbon even more tightly and lifts Bella's breasts up above it. "Goodness, Bella, you have perky breasts!" she exclaims, clearly a compliment in the speaker's mind but making one listener go first deep red, then a disturbing pale white.

The other listener shuts her down. "Alright, Alice, that's enough talk about Bella's breasts, beautiful as they are," Edward says as he moves in and gently but firmly pushes Alice away, taking over the ribbons—and the breasts.

"Here, babygirl, we'll tie it like this," he says, low and deep and leaning in to her as his hands first loosen then tighten the ribbons decisively, his bottom fingers of each hand lifting Bella's breasts to catch the tie right across her nipples. Tying a jaunty bow, then kissing the bow and the center of each breast, Edward steps back and says with satisfaction, "There."

And Bella did look beautiful, if also trussed up indeed-in Alice's apt words-for a prurient display of Victorian bondage garments.

Alice had been watching with approval and pride her brother's surprisingly skillful clothing maneuvers, and claps her hands at the result. "Perfect! Bella, you look gorgeous," she effuses, and darts in to have her turn kissing the blushing would-be-sooner-than-they-all-but-Edward-knew bride.

Then she grabs Bella's hand from under the thick lace cuffs and turns for the door to the living room where dinner is waiting, making off with Edward's girl without any apology at all. "Come on, I'm starving and you must be too!"

Edward watches them go with happy amusement, grateful for the instant affection and interest his sister has already developed for his brand-new girlfriend, and his girlfriend's obvious willingness to trust said sister as she trips along behind, all the earlier breast-adjustment easily forgotten and completely forgiven. "Thank you, God," Edward says once more before following his happiness out the door and to dinner.

The dinner had been a happy one, Edward stretched out on the couch with Bella in his lap, feeding her bites from his plate and sips from a glass of milk ordered by him especially for her. The three ladies kept up a bright and witty conversation, including Bella with glance and comment, but not expecting her to participate, which she and Edward both appreciated.

Finally, her head grows heavy again, and Edward gathers her in his arms then moves to stand. "I'm sorry to cut our night short, Mother, Rosalie, Alice," he says, looking at each one in turn, "But as you can see our girl is tired and I have to have her up early tomorrow."

"Why, Edward? Can't you delay our flight home?" Esme asks, concerned as always for her children's well-being, and Bella is definitely one of her daughters now.

"I already have, Mom; our charter's scheduled for departure at 11 a.m. now if that's alright with you."

"Of course, darling. Perhaps the girls and I will visit a couple shops on our way to the airfield; now that we know our dear Bella better, I'm sure there will be a few more things to pick up." Alice, lagging behind with her eyes still on the prize in Edward's arm, nods wildly at this.

Edward laughs, "Yes, I'm sure there will be. That's a fine idea. Isabella and I will meet you there. Thank you for taking such good care of her this afternoon for me," and he leans in and kisses Esme on the cheek.

Esme beams with the happiness of it; with the happiness of her eldest (and adopted) son. So much sadness he had seen, and so long had she despaired of him finding the person to share his life with, as well as the joy that now seemed like his birthright with darling Isabella in his arms. And Esme, much more used to it than Edward has been, says her own little prayer of thanksgiving.

Somehow managing to shoo Alice out the door after Rosalie's dignified retreat—who at least spares a "Good night, Isabella," for his girl—Edward closes the door behind the three of them and sighs himself. "They're a lot to take in, aren't they sweet girl?"

But his sweet girl is already asleep.

She sleeps through the night, first alone in the giant bed and then pulled tight into Edward's grateful arms. She even sleeps through his getting up, and opening the curtains to let the sun shine in when it is time to start her day.

Finally, he leans down and tickles her grudgingly awake with a giggle, Bella having held on to sleep with great tenacity given the wonder and joy of the dream she was sure she was having.

But she was still dreaming that morning, as Edward led her out of bed and to the bathroom, tending to her needs and getting her dressed as if he really was the father of a no-more-than-two-year-old girl, one who hadn't yet developed the need or desire to do everything—or anything—herself, but who was completely content to step in and out of things and raise her arms and turn around as ordered.

There was a moment, when she stood bare-chested with Edward crouched at her feet, one hand holding on to one of hers to help her balance as he picked up one of her feet and then the other, carefully placing them inside new underwear after the polka-dot ones that had been so on display the day before had come off, that she felt so young and safe and cared for, she actually babbled. It started out a hum, and became a Daddy, then something else, and she didn't know or care but just felt happy, and safe, and loved for the first time ever.

Edward heard it, and loved it, and loved her even more, which he wouldn't have thought possible before it happened.

"That's my girl," he said, approval dripping from every word, as he pulled up the ruffled tap pants he had ordered the day before and that had been delivered bright and early that morning. They were actually training pants, made for larger children and young adults with developmental disabilities but sold also to people like Edward caring for cognitively-advanced young women with an inner child that needed nurturing.

Both the young woman and the child inside Bella felt the significance of this article of clothing as Edward pulled it firmly up and adjusted first the seams around her legs, then the waist band, then individual ruffles across her bottom. Edward loved it, and finished the fitting with a kiss right there, and Bella was too overwhelmed to object or protest or wiggle in any way.

Edward turned away to gather up the pretty little underwire bra with the rosette in the middle that she would wear, the cups being firmly-fashioned with stitched-in boning, but cutting short just under her nipples. Edward had already decided one layer of fabric was as much as he was ever willing to have between his lips and the peaks of her breasts, and the effect of such a sweetly-racy bra paired with such seemingly-innocent panties was just about more than his libido could resist.

Luckily, for he wouldn't have felt very good about taking his sweet girl's inner innocence that quickly or that…emphatically, she was absolutely still, her mind still in an uproar about the warmth and seeming thickness of the underwear she had on.

Finally, after Edward had held her at arms' length for a very long time, mastering his baser impulses before leaning in to kiss both of her exposed breasts and watch them swell and pucker, he turned away with monumental effort and gathered up her tights.

She managed to raise each foot as required of her, and to lean her arms on Edward's back as he told her to, keeping her balance as he carefully rolled the stockings up her legs. He hated pulling the tights over the frills on her underpants, but he had at least found some specialty (and very expensive) tights that had a huge piece cut out of the rear and a smaller piece cut out of the front and down through the middle. He took a while arranging the tights just to his satisfaction, and then he had to adjust the ruffles on the underpants again, so that he had only begun to lean back and admire the effect when Bella's brain finally kicked back into gear and her hands came up to confirm what she was thinking.

Edward watched as she gingerly felt around the tap pants, fingering some of the ruffles, flattening her palm and pushing against the material at her side, and front, and finally against her bottom. Edward swallowed heavily watching her do this, and didn't trust himself to speak or move for quite some time.

Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet and uncertain and a little sad, or maybe afraid. "Daddy, am I wearing diapers?" she asked.

And Edward's heart soared. Back was his control, and his confidence. Standing up behind her, he pivoted her to face the floor length mirror. Grabbing her hands, he pulled them up and behind her, lacing her fingers together behind his neck. "Keep those there, babygirl," he growled, then slowly ran his fingers down both her sides, stopping first to tweak both her nipples and listen to her mewl in response.

When he got to her hips, his hands moved to the front and splayed out, pressing her thighs open wide against his legs as he moved them down as far as he could go, reaching her knees and opening them out too. Once she was well and truly displayed for their combined inspection, he moved one hand back up to hold her left thigh open as his right hand slid down her belly and into the offending pants.

"Daddy!" his girl half-protested, and half-squealed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm exploring my new body, baby girl. I found it wandering around lost, yesterday. And now it's mine. For keeps. No backsies." Punctuating each sentence was a leisurely glide of his middle finger through her private folds. Back and forth. Not pushing in, just moving through. Leisurely. Possessively.

Her hips started moving around madly, trying to eject him from her center. But of course the weight of his large hand kept her from evading him, and the tightness of the panties kept his hand firmly pressed right where he wanted it to be. His other hand moved to cup her from the outside , and all she got for her "Daddy, no!", an instinctual little protest spoken with a little shake of her hips and head, her lip bitten, her heart racing and a moan undercutting the sentiment even as it is spoken, was a knuckle rub even deeper inside.

She was panting now, panting and pulling at the strong arms that had her upper body pinned in a "v." "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" she half-moaned, half-chanted, her hips still trying to escape the invasion by moving side to side but another part of her rising up with the desire to tilt forward.

"That's my good baby girl, hold still for Daddy," he moans, knowing she's not remotely still and loving the fight of it almost as much as he loves knowing he'll win. He bends down and sucks her left nipple into his mouth as his finger extends and her little scream is like the sweetest aria he has ever heard.

Throwing her head back against his shoulder, Bella accidentally makes her traitorous body roll forward, and the finger slides deeper. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…"she pants, rolling her head back and forth and still trying to shift her hips somehow to get his finger out but only feeling it more firmly in.

He hadn't really meant to go this far, but he's unwilling to let her win any power struggle, ever, so he moves his outside hand up to her rounded belly and pushes, gently but inexorably, down, as his finger pushes up.

He feels her maidenhead, or thinks he does, and stops. He's happy she still has one, and is looking forward to a traditional wedding night. Besides, his lone finger, long as it is, isn't really up to the job, at least not the way he wants it done.

She is still now, frozen on her tiptoes, her knees bent from the force of his downward pressure to counteract her failed attempt at upward movement. But still isn't really the right word, because she's trembling, all of her; he can even feel it in her inside flesh, and he hums his approval and his love for her body as he switches to the other breast, suckling the way he hopes his infants will some day.

She starts to move again, and he stills her with a nip, gathering up the tender flesh below her areola and carefully biting down, then laving with his tongue as she starts to cry.

"Why are you crying, baby girl?" he asks as his finger moves for the first time in very long minutes, sweeping around and down then back up again, then down the other side, getting to know that space that will always be his alone, his and his offspring as they move through it, and he hardens at the thought of impregnating this impossibly wonderful girl so much that he is in pain, and he bites his own lip as he throws back his own head and groans.

Knowing he has pushed them both as far as he can, he carefully pulls out his finger, then his hand, smoothing down the outside of her panties with his other hand as he gently helps her stand up straight again.

Still facing the mirror, he orders, "Look at me, Isabella. Look at me in the mirror."

She's quietly sobbing now, relief and pent-up desire and shame and pride and love and fear and who knows what else. She's gone away from him, hiding in her head, and he can't have that, so he threatens. "Look at me, little girl, or I'll be right back in there with two fingers this time."

That does it. She's not sure whether she liked the feeling or not, but she's absolutely certain she doesn't want it again anytime soon. Or at least not right now. Her eyes flit to his near instantly, and he smiles his approval.

"Good, good, sweet girl," he croons approvingly, one hand splayed against her bare stomach, a kiss placed tenderly on her neck. "Now to answer your question," he says as he looks up again at her wide, curious eyes watching him in the mirror.

"These," and his belly-holding hand stretches down to tug on her panties for a moment before moving back up again, "are not diapers."

"But they're so thick, and warm, and, and, smooshy!" Bella bursts out with.

Edward laughs. "I would have said soft, rather than smooshy, but I agree with thick and warm."

"Why?" Bella can't help but ask.

"To keep you private, just for me," Edward answers, looking down at her upturned, trusting eyes with all the warmth he could ever imagine having felt, and then some.

She doesn't say anything to that, but looks up at him, obviously still confused.

Edward raises his hand that was inside the panties and says, "Do you know what I have on my finger?"

Bella shakes her head "No." She doesn't see anything on his finger.

Edward brings his middle finger to her lips and rubs it gently on her lower lip. "Taste my finger, little girl," he commands, and though she doesn't understand how a finger could possibly have a taste, she does.

She makes a small moue of surprise and maybe a little of disgust, but Edward laughs and sticks the finger all the way in his own mouth, sucking it clean. "My little prude," he teases her as he relishes the taste of Bella in his mouth. "You taste sweet, just like I knew you would."

Bella flushes so red she starts to sweat, and looks anywhere but at Edward. "Does that embarrass you, sweet girl?"

She shakes her head "Yes." Of course it does.

"Well, it doesn't embarrass me. It makes me happy. Very happy."

This gets her attention back, as he knew it would. There's not much she wants more than to make this marvelous man happy. He nods at her questioning eyes, back on him. "That's right, babygirl; your body makes Daddy very happy."

"How?" a puzzled little girl asks him. She wasn't aware of having done anything, as she doesn't know what to do.

"Your body knows it belongs to Daddy, so it makes something sweet in that precious place that's mine alone, and it stores it up there, waiting for me."

Still puzzled, Bella looks at him. She makes something?

He nods at her. "I know you don't know you're doing it, Sweetheart, but Daddy can tell it's there. And if I didn't put these nice, thick panties on you, everyone else would know it was there too. And I don't want that, do you?"

Bella shakes her head emphatically "No." That is something she can definitely agree to.

"Good girl. I didn't think so. So I bought these panties for you, to keep all the sweet juices your body makes for me safe, and private, and mine. Does that bother you so?"

Edward works to keep the grin off his face when she slowly nods "No" to his leading question, implicitly accepting the upsetting underwear as a gift for her own good.

"I'm glad, babygirl, because the underpants are staying," he says back cheerfully, taking the opportunity to let her know again just how completely he is in charge now. "But they're just for me to see and enjoy, so let's get the rest of your outfit on, alright?"

And without waiting for the slow nod that comes later, Edward turns back to the bed to the outfit laid out and, in a very business-like manner to keep his own animal self in control and further distract her flustered mind, he dresses her down to the ballet flats on her feet and the sparkly diamond choker drawn tightly around her neck.

He doesn't do more with her hair than gently brush it, however, having arranged for a stylist from the hotel salon to come up that morning and arrange it. A quick text, and the stylist arrives, matching navy bows having already been ordered by Alice.

As Bella is sitting having her hair done, and Edward is standing nearby with one eye on her and one eye on the texts and emails he's scrolling through, a knock comes on the door and one of his security detail steps forward to inform him that it is the delivery from the high-end boutique jewelry store he had ordered from last night.

Pleased it had arrived in time for his breakfast meeting with Bella's uncle, Edward motions the delivery person to be let in and examines his purchase with care. Satisfied, he signs for it, then leaves his staff to tip the man and see him out as he turns to put the purchase on his girl. Gorgeous porcelain tiles with the finest glaze and delicate painted patterns are framed by intricate platinum filigree and diamonds, grouped together on a platinum-link chain with a fastener so difficult to undo the wearer cannot possibly undo it herself. (Edward smiles ruefully as he closes the bracelet's catch, thinking about the absurdity that there could be anyone else like him and anyone else like her anywhere on the planet, but having to admit some gratitude for those with tastes and feelings close enough that they served his desire and her needs so well.)

Bella watches this all without comment, though she did draw in her breath when she first saw the beauty of the bracelet. Now, as he releases the closed catch and holds her fingertips out for examination of its look upon her wrist, she exclaims, "Oh, Daddy, it's so beautiful!"

The stylist looks up, surprised, at the "Daddy," but a quick and meaningful glance from Edward about minding her own business has her head down again with great interest in the complicated bow she's tying.

Bella doesn't notice their exchange, being too busy studying the beauty of the tiles. She looks up at Edward, asking, "What language are the letters, Daddy?"

He smiles down at her, pleased at her naivete that she doesn't see the letters are mere English script, albeit with the letters facing away from her. From his point of view, it's easy to read "Precious," and that's what he intends everyone close enough to see her to understand as well. This is his precious girl, and the world has just been put on notice.

But not the girl herself. She would just be embarrassed to know what the bracelet says, he realizes, so he tells her a story to put her mind at ease. "It's Cyrillic script, darling; you know the Russian alphabet? It's what the nobility used to write to their sweethearts before the Bolsheviks put an end to romantic writing."

"Oh, that's so sad," she says, but her voice is clearly happy for herself in addition to sad for the poor Russian nobility who had their love lives, and lives generally, cut short, so Edward doesn't worry.

"But not too sad to wear it, right darling?" he encourages, and she happily shakes her head "No," mildly frustrating the efforts of the stylist who is finishing up the second bow.

And that is how Bella Swan gets in the peculiar position of being dressed like a grown-up little girl, with what feel like diapers on below no matter what her Daddy calls them, and being led down to breakfast in the poshest hotel in Boston by the hand of one of the richest men in the country who also thinks that she's his little girl. It's all so unbelievable Bella is, for once in her life, almost beyond emotion, and she trips along beside the powerful man leading her wherever he likes with little thought beyond how pretty her skirt looks when it sparkles in the light and how it flares out with every step she takes, the bows on her shoes teasing her with quick appearances then disappearances again beneath her poofy skirt.

She is in her idea of heaven, and her only worry is that the skirt might be too poofy, and might fly up, and show the world the underwear she's wearing. But somehow, thinking of the underwear makes her feel warm and fluttery instead of worried, and she's back to admiring the sparkles of her skirt, and bracelet, and the pretty tips of her shoes, before she's even realized she's forgotten that there could be anything to worry about.

THE END