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Edward's Thirst	By : LadyNarayamaan Category: Twilight Series > Het > Bella/Edward Views: 4139 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Edward's Thirst
- 1
AN – Poll ended. No votes against. (Not many votes to begin with, but hey… lol!)

Dedicated to Gaps of Misery and her support. This one’s for you girl.

As announced on “The Scent” I give to you:

_**Edward’s Thirst**_

What in… who’s name I am doing this?
There isn’t even the liberating darkness that humans can normally use as hiding place, as my eyes can see as well as a human’s in broad daylight…
Why am I doing this?
My hand slides over the right side of the crotch of my jeans, as it is possessed and does not respond to my inner self scolding. I feel my teeth clench on their own accord as I feel my open palm caress, engorging my already alarming erection.
My eyes are nailed to the white ceiling.
I can not believe I am actually doing this.
Hiss.
Dear…
I heave out a rough breath as the sensation brings an alien sort of warmth coursing through my veins. Almost making my dead heart flutter.

My logical self comes to my aid as my hand seems to have acquired a mind of its own.
This is merely… a precautionary measure.

My hand slides upward in same open palm caress. I can feel the pad of my thumb reaching the skin of my navel where my jeans end. My fingertips touch the head of my manhood; this demoniac snake inside my pants that had rarely, or better yet, never caused me much harassment before. Until I met her.

The… fire that burns me is almost as fierce as the flames that scorch my throat and knot my stomach in hunger at the inhale of her scent.

As if I needed even more to want her.
As if I needed even more to have her.

My teeth clench in annoyance as I think of it, but the course of my thoughts inadvertently (or maybe not) streamed to her… lips.

Her collarbones.
Her warm… skin.
She straddling my lap even if only our lips can meet, for the force of my venom would kill her.
Her hands knotted against my hair, as I can… feel her pulsing against me, so aware of the blood flow on each and every vein in her body.

My hand moves only with organ memory: I do not track its motion, as it presses my erection against me.

The involving warmth and the scent, that for the span of a second my mind realises, does not burn my throat as intensely as my need for her ignites my insides.

A different type of need, nevertheless more human in nature, isn’t more righteous. I could not afford loosing control…

But… it is like a dream, isn’t it?

She does dream of me; in my inability to do so, this is the closer my inhumanity allows me.

My fingers have found their way to the button of my jeans and are already taking care of my zipper as my mind continues to find logic and perfectly valid reasons for what I am about to do.

It is as if I am… glutting myself in elks and deer. Precautionary measures to quell the other need that screams as loudly to me. It is for Bella’s sake. I can not afford letting myself forfeit my surrender so easily to something as ordinary as lust…

Wheeze of breath.

Oh, dear… lord. Blasphemy from the mouth of a devil…

The discarding of clothes, or in this case the simple alleviating of its uncommon tightness around my groin area serves as a caress of freedom itself.

Logical, this is the perfect timing to do this. I can not afford being caught, which I would certainly be if I indulged myself in this little deviation when the rest of the family was home.

Hutting today served my purposes well enough. And I could not phantom doing such a thing in a more secluded place such as a forest, like a criminal.

***

The moon watches in curious pregnancy, as her rays fall over the marmoreal body that lies over a dark couch, a statue that breathes as a single hand moves on his lower region.

The soft shifts of his chiselled chest, as it rises in cadenced controlled breaths, unneeded but nevertheless present, is mesmerizing to her eyes.

His eyes stare stubbornly at the ceiling, their molten gold depths stirring with something that would have caused any human, no matter their gender, to prostate themselves at his feet and beg him to do what ever he wanted at the moment. The sheer look of enrapture latent in his eyes was enough to be praised even by the moon herself, witness to so many deviant behaviours, from the lonesome ones to the multiple sets of lips and legs that tangle, independently of their species.

But tonight, they all lost their allure, as the soft gulp, human in all gracious inhumanity of this being, enraptures the goddess of the night herself.

The inward battle is evident on his motions, slow as any human’s would be. His button up shirt has only in use two of them, the rest letting the fabric drape around him, the planes of his chest and beginning of inguinal muscles a feast to ones eyes. The soft scarce thin hair, which precedes what his undergarments still enclose, shine: as does his hair bathed by moonlight.
His lips part, as his fingers curl, and slide inside the border of the fabric, in that mad anticipation feeling, doubled because for him, all this is alien. The soft crease between his eyebrows deepens, as does his hand inside fabric.

Breath is gone for an instant, and the visual is one of a statuesque figure, innocent, when it first encounters the bliss of sexual discovery. Full lips parted, and a painful indecent expression in his face, turning lovable and at the same time desire inducing. For the innocence.

***
Even if I know that breath isn’t required for me to… “survive”, I never imagined it could be robbed of me so strongly, as my hand in my consciousness is not my own.

Bella.

I push, at cost, the idea that this is wrong; it is her hand that encounters me, and my mind, that I never knew to be so proficient in conjuring up visuals and intense lies of sensations, does so with an extraordinary and disconcerting accurateness.

The warmth is there, as is her scent, robbing me, like a stealthy thief in the night, of every single shard of self control I still manage to maintain – yes shards, for my column of self control has shattered as if it is made of glass.

It is her warm trembling hand that encounters the head of my erection, nested between the space where her index and her thumb meet.

It is not the cool breeze that comes from the open window of my bedroom that grazes my face. It is her breath, in all surprise, to feel the impossibly soft yet hard flesh, within her digits grasp.

“Touch me.”

The sound of my own voice surprises me, for I have never listened to it like this.

Shame, the companion of my mind from the first time the thought about doing this grew into a shaky decision.

Shame, that had been running alongside me, hand in hand with my conscious awareness, seems to have been left behind, as lust carries me on its back.

Lust, overpowering me, my senses… and my hand.

“Bella…”

It is cut at a sharp inhale, unnecessary but unavoidable. I feel my hips rise to the hand that is not my own, as I enclose my digits around the hard column of flesh.

Freedom it asks.

Let her move freely, it begs.

Motion, it pleads.

Friction, it commands.

And my mind, usually a repertoire of an immense multitude of subjects, thoughts, theories and worries, voices inside that are mine and others that aren’t, simply ceases.

Overruled by feeling.

***

And it is magnificent.
The way his hand encloses himself, the way his lips move as staggered breaths are forced out of them. His eyes roll slightly up as his eyelids move down to enclose them, and the moon mourns this loss.
But rejoices, as his hand moves, painfully, painfully slow, pulling the marmoreal living sculpture of the manly column that she only saw the trace off behind the soft cotton that enclosed it.

The disarray of his clothes, the shift of his hips, as his hand slides up for his hand to almost hide the glistening head of his erection, and if she had entertained breath, it would have been taken away from her in awe.

How perverse.
How innocent.
How arousing.

What a loss that only she, who has no mouth, sees this.

He shifts again, breath not grazing his lips even once, as his hand slides down the velvety steel hard skin, in a delicious stroke, that brings a fair quota of air inside his lungs, with a most enticing little whimper escaping him right then, for his lungs are already too full to take the extra intake.

His muscles contract, as his hand does the same again, a little bit faster. His hips rise up in need of touch, in organ memory, for even a vampire’s body is a body that was human, and organ memory works with the aid of instinct.

His shifts bring him upwards on the couch, the fabric not able to slide, staying in contact with the couch, lowering his pants, and part of his underwear on his body.

***

It’s… warm.
It begins where the hand encounters me, and ripples through my body like angry waves.
The lack of control scares me.
And then, it doesn’t.
I cannot break her now.
So…

Motion, and I feel it again.

Damned be it, it courses through me like a pulse I barely remember. Touching all my nerve endings with a fiery lick, enticingly promising so much more.

I breathe in and out rapidly, as again my hand moves on me. My muscles contract and my lips part in search of touch. I can barely recognize the whimper that escapes my lips: was that me…?

“Ahhhh!”

It is her. I dive in her. I am deep within her.

What a lying mind.

What a beautiful feeling.

Bella… Bella. Bella!

***

It is faster.
Metaphorical lip is bitten down by the goddess of night.
His other hand, that had been stil,l moves, to pull at the two solitary buttons that still hold his shirt together, robbing view of parts of his naked masterfully chiselled chest.

The buttons pop out, one of them even falling to the floor and rolling on the floor until it finds the edge of the fluffy rug that clothes the floor of his room, its line severed by the force of the pull. And the fabric slides over him, in a mock of a lick, which the moon imitates: sliding her pale tongue of light over the extent of the statuesque top half of his body.

Caressing the rising flesh as his breathing turns more laboured by the second; frantic.

“Bella…”

It is an angel’s cry, as the marmoreal body twitches, moves and brings pleasure to himself.

The moon wants a body so that she could touch him.

***

Bella… Oh Bella.

In a final analysis…
this is the right thing to do…
It feels good enough to…
it can’t…
be bad…
when it feels…
so…
wretchedly good…!

***

His eyes move rapidly under his eyelids.
His hands move in a rhythmic cadence over the erect column. The side of his hand slams against the base of him with enough force to break human bones.

His voice sings in an ode to pleasure.
Moans.
Groans.
Hisses.
A name called out between them.
Parted lips.
Clenched jaw.
Hips that rise to his hand.
Other hand that slides over his stomach, in a greedy lust for touch.
Caressing himself.
Sliding over a nipple.
Snapping to his bronze hair, pulling it back, as his neck snaps back.

More, more, and the shaking of his body seems almost human.

His eyebrows crease… a little more… just a little more in a perfect depiction of enrapture and painfully lascivious pleasure.

Just a little more.

Just…

“Ah… Ahh… Ghnn… Humm…”

Hiss.

“Oh… Ahh… Ghn…”

Groan.

“Bella… Bella…”

And all sounds ceases. Muscles stay still after contracting his back in a little arch. His lips parted without breath.

The pleasure.

The climax.

Still, even if his mind revolves in tortuous pleasure.

And it lasts seconds, yet decades.

He falls, and the motions return to him, as his chest rises cadenced once more, even if there is no need for him to.

Eyes again open, half lidded, as the aftershock of his orgasm still dwells, lingering.

Golden depths.

They close once more.

He needs to get back.

The moon, that never does, caresses his body with her light, and envies the woman that has enraptured the heart of this being.

He needs to get back to her.

He needs her.

His Bella.

His arms itch with the sheer need to hold her.

So he gets up, cleansing the ivory fluid that coats his hand with the shirt he discards, moving from the couch to get another shirt, and jumps from the open window.

Running to her.

Getting to her, before the feeling fades.

In a way, wanting to feel her against him, as the lingering feeling of his pleasure, brought by her in a way, is still in him.

He arrives, sliding through the open window to find her sleeping.

There she is.

He slides beside her, his lips finding her forehead.

She sighs contently. He smiles.

“Edward… Love you…”

He smiles wider.

“So do I love. So do I.”

***
Zee End
***

AN – Feedback is always appreciated. Always.

For the ones that follow “The Scent”, expect a new chapter in a week’s time. (No it is not dead; I just had to finish writing this before my head exploded. u.u)

Waiting to hear from you,

Nary.
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Edward's Thirst