Title VISIONS IN BLUE
Rated M
Pairing EDWARD AND BELLA
Word count 11,001
Picture prompt # 10
Author Kitties1
Summary EDWARD MASEN IS LONELY AND LOST. AFTER RETURNING HOME TO WORK IN LONDON, WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED THAT ONE EARLY MORNING TELEPHONE CALL WOULD HAVE CHANGED HIS LIFE FOR ALL ETERNITY…
Disclaimer I DON’T OWN TWILIGHT, SM DOES, I DO HOWEVER OWN A CARD BOARD CUT OUT OF MY PRECIOUS ROB AND SEVERAL SOILED PANTY LINERS AFTER WRITING THIS!
THANKS TO FERALNESS IS-ME, EMMA DEWINTERS, MANDY SPOONYBARGER AND MICH ORSON BRAWL FOR FIDDLING.
VISIONS IN BLUE
“Hello?” I say, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, as I stretch and roll onto my back.
My iPhone is clasped in my sweaty hand, and I start to blink rapidly in the weak early morning light, trying to focus on the dancing digital figures from my clock, before me.
“Yes, this is Edward Masen. Who is this?” I ask, sharply, before I yawn loudly, and I roughly rub my palm across my cotton covered, early morning hard-on.
A sharp, staccato voice informs me exactly who is calling, in no-uncertain terms.
Shit.
I sit bolt upright in bed, at the response, quickly removing my fingers from my suddenly leaking cock.
“Um, yes. Good morning, Miss Swan. Sorry. Yes. Yes. Yes. Um. Of course. Yes. Um. No, I wasn’t going to atte…” I start, before she interrupts me.
Fucking hell!
She really is the most infuriating, bloody, stroppy, bossy woman!
“Er, right. If you insist, I guess… okay,” I carry on, before she interrupts me again, my calm tone belying the inner fury that is building.
“Yes. Okay then,” I say, sighing deeply, when I can eventually speak.
“Well, um, yes, I suppose I would be happy to accompany you to the party. Right. Okay. 7.00 pm. Er. No. No. I hadn’t ticked the box to attend. Sorry. No. Oh, right. Okay. Yes, I know Lauderdale House.” I say, “Um, what…?” I begin, before she speaks over me once more.
Fine.
I sit, attentively and silently, as there is really no point in even trying to speak when she is in full flow.
Listening to the barked out instructions, I nod to no one in particular and make the occasional affirmative grunt.
Participation in this particular conversation is not required. In fact, it is rarely a requirement to comment in any conversation with the illustrious and orally eloquent Miss Isabella Swan.
My cock twitches at the mere thought of “oral” and “Miss Swan” in the same sentence, but I ignore it.
I’m not attracted to her in any way, shape or form.
She is not my type.
My cock twitches again.
She is completely out of my league.
“Would you like me to collect you from your home, Miss Swan, or shall I meet you there?” I eventually ask; ever the Gentleman, even though I have no idea where she lives.
Her final orders are barked out to me, in little more than a hissed whisper now, but in an icy cold tone; I am to meet her at the entrance of the house, at 7.00 pm, precisely. Then, with no further ado, not even a goodbye, the line disconnects with a click.
Right.
Bitch.
I have my instructions, and it is a given that I will follow them - to the letter - and without question.
She is, after all, my boss, and I’m new to the UK branch of the company.
From what I’ve seen, the lovely Miss Isabella Marie Swan is very obviously used to always getting her own way.
My boss’s boss requires me to accompany her to the company Halloween party tomorrow evening.
Sigh.
I hate fucking parties.
Fancy dress is mandatory and she has told me that I have to attend the aforementioned fucking party, dressed as a vampire.
Terrific.
Personally, I would prefer to go dressed as Spiderman. I’ve always had a thing about those red tights and the rubbery mask.
Couldn’t she have asked me before?
Talk about leaving things to the very last minute.
It’s Friday 30 October.
Tomorrow is Halloween and I have to work all day today, on some bloody offshore, and very complex, personal, accounts,which, no doubt, I will finish horribly late - again.
I have two meetings pencilled in for today - at least two others will be squeezed in - and, as usual, and I have absolutely no idea how to follow her instructions.
Fuck it!
When in the name of fuck do I have time to find a fucking vampire costume?
What do sodding vampires wear anyway?
Huh.
And whilst I’m asking stupid, lame questions, why the hell has she decreed that I have to be her date to this crappy ‘do’ anyway?
Why on earth would a firm host a Halloween party?
Christmas parties I can understand, at a push, I can never justify the expense personally, but Halloween?
What a waste of a company’s finite resources.
Shit.
On a positive note, I guess, for the first time since I returned to London, I have plans for a Saturday evening that don’t include a porn movie and a pot of Vaseline.
I had bought a ticket for, what promises to be, a cracking rugby match at Twickenham tomorrow - England against the Barbarians - and then a piss-up in the pub with Tyler afterwards.
Well I guess that’s cancelled now.
Fuck it all.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to socialise with the people that I work with.
My job is important to me, but I like to do what is expected of me, go for a pint and then go home – alone.
I have absolutely no intention of becoming close friends with any of these people, I have nothing in common with any of them. Now I’m being forced out of my comfort zone and to stand, in a very public arena, no less, on a date - with my boss.
Shit.
Okay, so Miss Swan is good looking and clever.
She has a sharp business brain and is very elegant, composed and sophisticated, and she dresses professionally, but from what I have seen so far, she is a total bitch. She’s never actually talked TO me; she only ever talks AT me, and at everyone else too, for that matter.
Once, or twice, I’ve caught her looking at me with those oddly alluring aqua marine eyes of hers, fringed with long, thick, jet-black lashes. My heart skipped a beat, while a shiver ran along my spine.
And not always a shiver of arousal either.
Her two business partners, Rosalie McCarty, and Alice Cullen-Whitlock, are no better.
Sitting in a meeting with the three of them is always an unpleasant and deeply uncomfortable experience; something I dread to be honest. The entire atmosphere, and temperature, of a meeting room drops when any of them attend.
They never look at you, any of them; they seem to look right though you. It is as if you are invisible. They emit an air of total disinterest in everyone - and everything - around them.
They look as if they have stepped off of a Parisian runway; they are all beautiful, of course, but they are also as cold and impersonal as perfectly carved alabaster - something that they all resemble.
My immediate boss is Jasper Whitlock, Rosalie’s brother and Alice’s husband.
He is a very attentive boss, almost too attentive to be honest, and he checks over every detail of my work thoroughly.
Daily.
He schedules a brief meeting with me every afternoon.
Sigh.
I’m not used to being overseen like this.
When I worked for their company in New York, I was in charge of my own accounts; with only the head of my department to answer to.
For some inordinate reason, Mr Whitlock has repeatedly questioned me - in the most minute detail - regarding both my working and private life; something that I am not comfortable in discussing, but he refuses to desist in his probing discussions.
He seems terribly interested in the fact that I am both an orphan and single.
Sigh.
Ms Swan asked me, during our latest last face to face meeting, a week ago to be in charge of their personal accounts.
The three partners seem to spend an inordinate amount of money on clothing. From what I have seen, they never appear to wear the same item twice. It is something that I have noticed, even as someone who is totally disinterested in fashion. They are perfectly turned out and immaculately groomed at all times.
But I guess that they have to be - in their line of work.
I have been both shocked - and horrified - by the inordinate amount of money that they spend on shoes alone.
Sigh.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and drag my fingers through my wild hair in a feeble attempt to control it.
After making a pot of coffee, I have a quick shower, shave and brush my teeth, before I dress in a white shirt, black suit and a blue striped tie.
Checking my appearance, I grimace as I light a cigarette.
Smoking and the odd drink are my only vices these days, well, along with the porn and a very calloused right hand. I quickly rub a little cologne onto my face to disguise the lingering, nicotine smell.
One more quick look and I sigh again.
My hair is an odd coppery bronze colour. It’s unique, I’ve been told, but it’s totally impossible right now - it needs cutting.
Shit.
I look a mess.
Women seem to find me reasonably attractive, but I never manage to maintain a relationship of any description, sadly enough.
I am stiff and starchy and - as my last girlfriend said so eloquently - anally retentive. I would disagree with that judgement, - of course - I just like things to be done in the right way, that’s all.
What’s so wrong with that?
Lacing up my black, highly polished shoes, I try to wrap my head around the fact that I will be seen, by the entire company, escorting ‘the boss’ to the firm’s party.
Shit.
How will this be perceived?
I know exactly how it will look.
It will look as if I am shagging my boss to further my career.
I’ve been working as an accountant in McCarty, Swan and Cullen-Whitlock ‘s London branch, for less than a month and have never had a face to face conversation with Miss Swan that hasn’t ended with her either looking totally pissed off with me, or smirking when I cock up and say or do the wrong thing in front of her.
She grinned like a Cheshire cat on Friday evening when, after a long, boringly, protracted meeting - just the two of us - I had spilt coffee all over the crotch of my charcoal grey – Gucci - suit.
Moving with seemingly inhuman speed across the office, she had begun to dab me down with a white linen napkin, when, much to my mortification and embarrassment, my traitorous body had responded to her ministrations and I had an erection.
I wanted to die.
She, on the other hand had licked her lips and smiled at me, flashing her dazzlingly white teeth, before handing the material to me. Then she turned and walked out of the door without another word or a backward glance.
Shit.
She really isn’t an easy boss, and the thought of spending an entire evening in her company fills me with dread.
Great.
Why would she need me to take her?
Surely, there must be a long line of men queuing up to be her guest?
Strangely enough though, I have never seen her talking to anyone in a friendly way, or even go out to lunch with friends. From what I have gleaned - via office gossip - she is single and has no social life to speak of.
It is very strange.
Even the various office Lotharios, of whom there are many, aren’t interested in her. Instead they spend their time chasing and groping the young office girls I fear.
I quickly send a text message to my best friend, Demitri, asking him to ask his girlfriend, Tanya, for some advice as to what I should wear, before I walk to the bus stop.
Girls always know about this type of shit.
The journey from my small, top floor flat, in Spitalfields, East London, to Oxford Circus, takes ages.
London seems to be totally gridlocked this morning and I sit, tapping away on my phone, working on my projections for this morning’s meeting, yet again with Jasper.
My phone pings, and I see that it is a message from Tanya.
Her suggestion is completely risible.
“Dress like fucking Lord Byron. Shit. It isn’t bloody rocket science, Edward! Buy some cheap plastic fangs from a toyshop, and email Angel’s in Shaftesbury Avenue for the outfit. They have everything you would need in there. Tana.”
What the hell does that mean?
Lord Byron?
Wasn’t he some limp wristed poet from hundreds of years ago?
Terrific.
Well that is a fucking great help, I still have no idea what to wear.
I have no idea what Lord Byron would have dressed like.
Sigh.
I type his name into Google.
Oh fucking hell!
Kill me now!
Great.
He was a fucking fop.
Breeches and a full, white shirt with overly long sleeves and even more exaggerated cuffs.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
He was more camp than a row of pink tents, and I will have to wander around, in front of the entire firm - in ruffles.
Sigh.
“Why can’t I just go dressed as Count Dracula? Can’t I just use a black bin liner as a cape and wear jeans and a t-shirt?” I respond to her.
She answers instantly, “Duh! Edward! Every other fucker at the party will be dressed like that Dracula! Look different!”
Right.
Too obvious I guess.
After typing - Fancy Dress - into the same search engine, I find ‘Angels’ as she suggested, in Shaftesbury Avenue.
I email them, with a detailed description of what I’m looking for and - my sizes - then concentrate on my work on the small screen of my iPhone.
The pavements of Oxford Street are thronging with workers and it is horribly crowded already.
The building, where I work, is a large, sprawling space off of Regent’s Street. I have a small office of my own - in a quiet, distant corner - on the fourth floor, with stunning views over the West End.
After grabbing a coffee, I plonk down at the desk, put my glasses on, empty the paperwork that I had been working on the previous evening, from my briefcase, and open up a spread-sheet. I continue crunching numbers for the first of this morning’s two meetings - with Mrs Cullen-Hale.
This will be the first time that I have had a one-on-one meeting with her on my own.
Our company mainly deals with the accounts of various fields of the fashion world, and the entrance hall shows photographs of the three partners - looking stunningly beautiful - taken by Mario Testino.
Miss Swan is the only partner who I have spent any time with on my own, but as the photographs in the foyer show to all and sundry, all three are stunningly beautiful in their own right; if very different.
Out of my league.
If I was interested, you understand.
Which I’m not.
The single life suits me and my obsessive ways.
And if I continue to tell myself this, I might just end up believing it…
I haven’t had a girlfriend in ages, or to be honest, even a simple, uncomplicated fuck.
Having returned from working in New York for two years, five weeks ago, I feel that my life is stuck in limbo, at the moment.
I am no longer the cool, young, free and single guy. I am rapidly becoming the bloke that everyone tries to set up on blind dates. I’m not even invited to dinner parties anymore; other than to make up numbers when there is a spare female.
Sigh.
How did it come to this?
When I went abroad with Jane, my then girlfriend, I had such huge plans for our future.
We would both work our arses off and move rapidly up the company ladder, save as much as possible and finally return to the UK, marry and start a family.
Sadly, I never imparted any of these plans to her, and now, two years later, Jane is pregnant and living with my ex-boss, Mike Newton, and I have returned to a very different feeling London, single, and living in a box-size rented flat; I’m floundering.
If I’m totally honest, I’m lonely.
Desperately lonely.
I have no family to speak of - an aunt and a couple of cousins - so my sparse group of friends are very important to me. However, sadly, even they have started to disappear; wandering off to settle down, pair off and procreate.
This has left me feeling isolated and bitter.
There has to be more to life than work and laundry.
Surely?
A message pings in my inbox, and I see that Angels, indeed, have exactly what I’m looking for.
Well done Tanya.
She will be fucking impossible now.
Typing my credit card details into their on-line order form, I arrange for the outfit to be delivered to my office this afternoon.
Hiring this costume is surprisingly expensive, and I twitch as I finish the order. I only want it for one evening - I don’t want to buy the fucking thing for posterity.
Shit.
The accountant in me makes me err on the side of being mean at times, but I smile to myself, when I realise that the cost of this acquisition can be ‘written off’ as a work expense and is thus tax deductible.
The morning’s meeting flies by in a blur of numbers - my forte - and Mrs Cullen-Whitlock is nicer when it is just the two of us, than when the three of them are en-masse.
She really is very lovely to look at, and far less intimidating than her partners. At one point, she reaches across the table to point to a column of figures and our fingers touch - briefly. Her hand is freezing cold, and shocked by her icy touch, I pull my arm back - as if electrocuted. I find myself blushing slightly under her intense, aqua marine stare, as she laughs gently at my response.
Fuck.
She must be related to Ms Swan, their eyes are exactly the same, unusual shade.
If it were appropriate to buy one’s boss a Christmas gift in this company, a pair of woollen gloves might just be in order!
My next meeting with Jasper passes quickly and smoothly and he seems more than a little bit interested in whether I am attending the party.
Sigh.
Two more short meetings, regarding both new and old accounts, both with Jasper Whitlock, are squeezed in and before I know it; it’s lunchtime.
Pulling on my heavy, black, wool coat and a cashmere scarf, to ward off the chill in the air, I head towards to Hamley’s toyshop to try to find some fucking fangs to complete my outfit.
After fighting my way through the gaggle of tourists and noisy, dribbling, over-excited children, I stand, breathless, in front of the vast display of Halloween tat.
I can’t find what I’m looking for, so I stride to the counter and ask for help.
The assistant looks at me oddly when I ask if they have teeth suitable for a vampire, and I blanch slightly when she hands me a pair of hinged, double layer, small, pointy and very sharp plastic teeth.
Yuk.
I pay for them, and quickly grab a sandwich and a bottle of water, before I head back to my cupboard sized office and continue working.
Getting lost in my work, as usual, a knock on my door drags me out of my numbered stupor.
Chelsea, the receptionist, hands me a thick, white envelope - with my name written on it in an elegant script, as well as a large cream box, that is quite heavy.
“Thank you, Chelsea,” I say, dismissively.
She is glamorous, in a slightly tarty - and very obvious - type of way, and always smells of a sickly, cloying, and very over used, perfume.
Ignoring her, I go to open the envelope.
“Are you going to the fancy dress party tomorrow night, Mr Masen?” she asks, sweetly, hovering in the doorway.
Turning to look at her, I frown a little bit, “What?” I ask, confused.
“I asked if you were going to the party tomorrow evening, Mr Masen, and if so, what are you wearing and are you taking a date with you?” she quizzes.
What the fuck!
Frowning again, I push my glasses back up my nose.
“I am going to the party, Chelsea,” I answer, ignoring the rest of her question.
“Well?” she demands. “Do you have a date?”
I look at her.
Shit.
She is flushed and sweating, and her pupils are dilated.
“I will be attending alone, Chelsea,” I lie, stupidly, “I don’t believe in mixing my private and working lives,” I finish, waving my hand towards the door.
Why I lied, I don’t know.
It is foolish; she will be there and will see me with Miss Swan, so I have just made myself look like a complete arse.
I drop back down in my seat, and open the envelope.
…………………………………………………………………
“Edward
I trust that you have obtained suitable clothing for tomorrow evening. I will be most disappointed if you do not dress as I have requested you to.
I look forward to seeing you at 7.00 pm, promptly, at the main entrance.
Please don’t disappointment me.
Isabella”
.........................................................................................
“Isabella?” I say, out loud. Edward?”
Since when did I call her that?
Since when did she call me Edward?
Hell.
I don’t even usually call her ‘Miss Swan’. She frightens the crap out of me most of the time, to be honest, and I have never heard her call me anything. Not even ‘Hoi, you’.
Feeling a bit nervous, I re-read her note, before I fold it and put it inside my coat pocket.
Isabella.
Shit.
She is attractive, that much is true, but there is something slightly unnerving - dangerous even - about the lovely Miss Swan, I just can’t quite put my finger on it…
I really need to get a grip.
She is a small, pretty woman - how the hell can she be dangerous?
I look down at the large box.
Shit.
What have I done?
I have agreed to go to a party with my boss, dressed like a gay pantomime character, and I’m going to make a complete and utter fool of myself in front of dozens of work colleagues and their guests.
Sigh.
A feeling of dread trickles down my spine and pools in my stomach, and after stomping into the small kitchenette, I make myself a large mug of black coffee and return to my comfort blanket of numbers.
Before I know it, it’s time to pack up for the day and return home to my cluttered, little flat.
I haven’t even started unpacking properly yet. I started work a few days after I returned home to London. Only some of my clothes and a few accountancy books – a little light reading you understand.
Shit, I am so fucking predictable.
Opening a can of baked beans, I eat them cold, straight from the tin whilst watching a detective programme - that I had, pathetically, become hooked when living in New York - as I fiddle with my latest spread sheet.
At 11 pm, I have a quick shower and go to bed.
And there, in a nutshell, is the exciting life of Edward Anthony Masen.
Sigh.
Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep…
……………………………………………………………………..
Saturday morning dawns bright and clear.
A beautifully crisp late Autumn morning, and after wandering around the market for a couple of hours, carefully selecting my food for the upcoming week, I stroll home, dodging the hordes of ghoulish tours which gather on the corner of my road.
My flat in Fournier Street, is bright and sunny; thanks to the enormous windows. My small space would have been the garrett where a lace-loom have been situated in the past.
This particular part of London has an old, blood-soaked and fascinating history.
This is the realm of Jack the Ripper.
One of his victims died around the corner from where I sleep every night, in the same street, another died a horrible, bloody death, adjacent to the market where I had just shopped.
Today it is fashionable, trendy and bloody expensive.
Then it was dark, dirty, deprived and the haunt of the poorest of the poor and the lowest of the low, where people paid a penny to rent a tiny space of floor to sleep hanging over a line of rope to stop them falling on the floor; hence the good night wish, “sleep tight.”
Abject poverty at its very worst.
I eat a quick lunch and do some laundry before I decide, at last, to open the scary box that has been sitting in the corner staring at me since last night.
Holy fuck.
The shirt looks like a dress, it is so enormous, and the trousers, if you can call them those, are black, very small and have a pull up panel that does up with buttons.
Shit.
They are NOT going to keep anything under control tonight!
The boots are black, with a brown cuff, and come to just below the knee.
Bloody hell.
I have to travel across London looking like a fucking idiot!
I am going to kill Tanya for this!
Opening a can of Guinness, I lay in the bath, reading a book for an hour, before I wash my hair and shave.
Cleaning and flossing my teeth, I towel dry my hair and attempt to tame it.
I fail.
Pulling on some tight boxer shorts, I then tug on a pair of knee-length rugby socks to stop the boots from chaffing.
The shirt makes me look like Wee Willy Winky, all I fucking well need is the candle and hat and I’m all set.
Sigh.
I yank on the tight breeches, which, thankfully, don’t fit too snugly around the crotch, but are like a second skin across my arse.
All I can say is thank fuck for all my years of playing rugby which means that I actually have well defined and firm cheeks!
Tucking the shirt in and tug on the boots, I look in the mirror. I have to admit, it doesn’t look too bad once it is on, after all. At the same time, I am fucking thankful that it is dark outside, or I might freak out the tourists!
Slinging the heavy, black, woven cloak around my shoulders and tie it, I call a cab.
The only problem with this outfit is, there are no frigging pockets for personal belongings, but there is a small pouch attached to the inside of the cloak. I shove my wallet, phone and keys in there along with a packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter.
The doorbell rings and I make my way down the four flights of stairs, scaring the shit out of old Mrs Ord, who lives on the first floor, as I pass her.
“Oh!” she gasps out, waving her hand at me, mock smacking my arm, “EDWARD! You bad boy! You scared me!” She chuckles, and I grin at her over my left shoulder, “What on earth are you up to?” she asks.
“Fancy dress work party,” I yell, looking back over my shoulder, as I run, two steps at a time, down to the ground floor.
She is the only neighbour who really knows that I exist. She is very sweet and occasionally brings me a casserole or shepherds’ pie.
She worries about me being alone.
Sigh.
The taxi driver gives me more than a passing disparaging glance as I hop into the back of the slightly battered old Mercedes.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Um - Lauderdale House, Highgate Please,” I say, as I adjust my cloak on the seat.
“You ain’t one of them Vampire ‘unters, are you mate?” he asks, a thick, cockney accent amongst a Turkish one, “You ain’t going to the cemetery are ya?”
I shake my head and chuckle, “No, I’m going to a Halloween party in the house!” I say, settling back.
We chat amicably for the entire journey from East to North London, he is a nice guy and it turns out that I had even visited the village his family are from in Turkey several summers before. He then regales me with tales of Sean Manchester, the Highgate and Hampstead vampire hunter.
I chuckle as the story unfolds; the entire history of vampires is rubbish, of course.
As the car climbs the steep, darkness that is Highgate Hill, nerves suddenly hit my abdomen and I shiver.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
It is a simple work party.
I don’t have to stay for the entire evening; I can show my face, have a couple of drinks and leave.
My subconscious begins prickling and I have a nagging doubt developing at the base of my brain that this isn’t exactly how this evening will pan out, but I dismiss it as shyness.
Sigh.
I pay Mehmet, the driver, and clamber out of the cab, standing in front of the large, sprawling cream painted house, on the slippery York Stone pavement.
The temperature is dropping rapidly and I shiver in the weak light coming from the Georgian style lamps that cast a dim glow.
I should have worn a vest.
Shit.
With slightly shaking hands I jam the ugly, ludicrous, plastic teeth, into my mouth.
They are uncomfortable and as my nerves crank higher, I rummage inside my cloak; I need a cigarette to calm myself down.
Popping one between my plastic teeth, I bite right through it, snapping it in two, before I can flick my lighter.
“Fuck it!” I mutter, before I shove another cigarette in my mouth, and destroy it to.
A cold hand reaches out and gently touches my arm, making me jump and I shriek into the night like a bloody, hysterical, teenage, girl.
Turning around, I suddenly come face to face with Miss Swan.
Holy fuck!
I take a step backwards in shock.
“Why don’t you take your teeth out, Edward, if you want to have a cigarette before we go inside?” she says, smiling, “It looks like you are having a tough time with them in,” she giggles.
She looks breath-taking and I am stunned to silence, as my eyes rake her from head to toe.
“Edward? Edward, are you alright? Sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she says, reaching out to touch my cloak.
I pull back suddenly.
All the hairs on the back on my neck stand on end as if I’m in danger.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m behaving like a pussy!
“Edward?” she says again, looking at me as if I have gone mad, stepping back a little, “Are you okay?, she asks, “Um, is it okay for me to call you Edward?” she asks, frowning.
Shit.
“Sorry!” I gasp out, “Sorry, you gave me a fright, that’s all!” I say, my voice a little higher than usual, “And yes of course you can call me Edward. I work for you. You are my boss, I guess you can call me anything you like,” I say, smiling, nervously.
She looks me up and down and grins, “I’m not your boss tonight, Edward,” she says, calmly.
“Tonight, I’m your date; can you treat me like that, please? Can you call me Bella, and at least try to enjoy yourself and pretend that you want this as much as I do?” she asks gently, reaching out towards me again.
“Bella?” I say, scowling, “You want me to call you Bella?” I ask, confusion clouding my brain.
“Yes!” she says, giggling, “That’s what my friends and family call me, silly! You can’t call me ‘Miss Swan’ when we are on a date, Edward, can you?” she says, smiling again.
I gasp loudly.
She has the most beautiful, dazzlingly radiant smile that I have ever seen and I stop dead in my tracks.
“Friends and family?” I say, quietly, sounding confused.
Her face falls, “Um, yes… my friends and family call me Bella,” she says, “Outside of work, I do have friends and family you know, Edward, I just need to maintain a professional image in the office,” she says, her voice wobbling a little bit.
“Way to go Edward!” I hiss internally, “Way to embarrass and humiliate the boss in one fell swoop,” sigh.
“Sorry, Miss Sw… um, ‘Bella’, sorry,” I say. “I don’t ‘date’ anymore, so this is all strange to me!” I stammer, “I’m really nervous, so I tend to speak first and then think!” I explain.
She smiles at me again, and looks at me, “You look great by the way, Edward. No glasses tonight? I like it when you wear your glasses…” she says, her eyes roaming my face - as she clutches part of my cloak tightly, “very Lord Byron,” she says, grinning.
“Yes, that was the intention. But the taxi driver seemed to think that I looked like the Vampire hunter who used to roam the cemetery in the 1980’s!” I say, laughing.
Bella’s face falls slightly and she seems to shiver.
“Are you alright?” I ask. “Are you cold? Do you want my cloak?” I say, looking at her properly for the first time.
Holy fuck.
She looks amazing.
She is so tiny and fragile in the moonlight - well tiny compared to my 6’2” frame, anyway.
Her hair is down for a change. It is usually plaited or piled on top of her head, showing off her long, swan-like neck.
Quite an appropriate analogy actually.
I want to touch her long, dark brown, wavy locks, that spill all the way down her back, far passed her waist, in silky, corkscrew curls.
My cock stirs inside the tight confinement of my boxer shorts and my fingers twitch.
“Not fucking now!” I hiss to myself. “Not when I am wearing bloody breeches!”
Oh no.
Her skin is so white that she almost glows in the darkness, and her lips are blood red.
She has dark eye make-up on that make her vibrant eyes look like the foam on the sea, in the inky darkness.
For the first time I consciously notice that she has the most wonderful body. She is wearing a beautiful, blue dress. It is skin tight, and dark blue, with a fluffy sort of skirt. I don’t know much about women’s clothing - but she looks fucking amazing.
I have never seen anything or anyone quite so exquisite.
My cock is now rock hard inside my tight boxer shorts and I bite the inside of my cheek, to the point of drawing blood, as I attempt to control myself.
Shit.
She looks wonderful.
Inhaling deeply, her pupils dilating as she looks at my crotch.
Shit.
A vision in blue.
“You look beautiful,” I say in barely a whisper, staring at the top of her bodice; where her milky white breasts are pushed up enticingly high, before I can stop myself.
Her nipples harden before my gaze, and I lick my lips.
Oh hell.
“Come on, Edward,” she says, gently, quirking an eyebrow, having caught me looking at her tits, “let’s go inside before you catch your death of cold! And stop biting your cheek, you will make yourself bleed, and I don’t think that that would be such a good idea. Not tonight, anyway,” she sniggers, pulling me towards the entrance of the house by the edge of my cloak.
How the hell does she know that I am biting myself?
“Oh, do you have a phobia to blood like I do?” I ask, looking at her.
“Something like that…” she mumbles.
Right.
“You have a phobia to blood?” she says, giggling as I nod.
Okay…
I jerk to a stop as we reach the threshold of the building.
Having attended many exhibitions and musical recitals with Jane before we left to live in the States, I’m used to Lauderdale House being cold and stark in its daytime incarnation.
Music plays gently and it’s a haunting song with a heartbeat like rhythm, throbbing in time with my pulse.
Tonight it would appear that the entire building has been completely transformed and I am, as is usual in Ms Swan’s presence, stunned to silence.
Candles burn everywhere, producing a warm, golden glow, and displays of highly scented, red flowers, decorate every available surface.
A roaring fire blazes in the hearth, and the cavernous space looks warm and inviting.
Strangely though, it doesn’t feel it.
My fight or flight instinct is still pulling and prickling at my subconscious, telling me that I am in danger.
What the fuck is wrong with me tonight? I have an erection at the mere sight of my boss in a pretty dress, and I feel scared at the same time; fighting my instincts to run?
I really need to get out more!
A liveried man takes my cloak, then, hearing a sharp intake of breath, I turn around and frown as I look at Miss Swan.
Her eyes have widened, and are jet black, as they rake over my form. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she licks her lips slowly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her, alarmed, “Are you having an asthma attack?” I say as her breaths come in rasping gasps, shocked at the change in her demeanour.
Shaking her head slightly, she closes her eyes before opening them and stares intently at me; once more transformed to her previous, calm persona.
“I’m fine, Edward,” she says, smiling, “I was just a little taken aback, that’s all. You look wonderful in period dress. I knew you would… I knew I had chosen well… ” she says quietly.
“What?” I ask, turning to look at her again, “What do you mean, chosen?” I ask more confused than ever.
“Oh. Right. Um. What I meant was, that you look so good in Georgian dress, and that it’s a shame we don’t still wear clothes like that today,” she says, laughing once more.
I have no idea what the hell she is talking about. I have reached the grand old age of twenty-eight and still have no fucking idea how the female psyche works.
Sigh.
“Come on,” she says, suddenly grabbing my large hand with her tiny, surprisingly firm, and icy cold one. She drags me forcibly into the large room which has been turned into fantasy land for this evening.
Heavy, blood red, velvet drapes hang at the enormous windows.
Another huge fire burns brightly, and the room smells beautiful, a mixture of fire and...
Something.
Small, circular tables fill one end of the room, covered in crisp white linen, white china, crystal glassware and sparkling silver cutlery.
The entire room has a medieval air and it is quite magical.
The far end of the room has been just as elaborately decorated, and laid out for dancing, with a sprung wooden floor and a DJ area.
Gentle classical music now plays and the room is already thronging with garishly garbed guests, one or two I recognise, but the vast majority I do not.
The fancy dress code decree has been reasonably, adhered to, and I clasp Bella’s hand more tightly as she leads me across the room to a small group of people, huddled in a corner beside the ornately carved chimneybreast.
She turns to smile at me broadly as she walks at a brisk pace towards the group.
Our entrance hasn’t gone unnoticed, and the hum of voices stops immediately, as my work colleagues recognise me - hand in hand with my boss.
Fuck it.
I sigh deeply.
I am going to have a lot of explaining to do come Monday morning.
Chelsea looks at me as if she wants to beat me to death with one of her murderously high stilettoes.
Great.
That will be comfortable come Monday morning.
As we approach, Rosalie McCarty and Alice Cullen-Whitlock, turn to look at us. They are both dressed similarly to Bella, only Rosalie’s dress is very short and a different blue; Alice’s is longer and even tighter, and again, another shade of blue.
Bloody hell.
Three visions in blue.
Shit.
They look at us, open mouthed, as we approach.
Leaning in to whisper towards Jasper Whitlock, they both look at us again, and Alice takes his hand, looking delighted.
“Good evening, Edward,” she says, her voice high and excited as she looks at me, smiling now. She holds her other hand out to Bella, clasping her fingers firmly as we reach them.
“Good evening Mrs Cullen-Whitlock,” I say quietly.
“Edward,” Rosalie barks, making me start a little, “we are here to have fun and games together, so please, please call us by our given names; for tonight, at least,” she says, smiling sweetly.
Standing behind her is a bulky and muscular, tall burly man, with black curly hair, bright smiling eyes, and dimples.
He holds his hand out to me, “Emmett McCarty, Edward, nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” he says, grinning, before he looks at Bella, and then back at me.
He’s heard a lot about me?
A member of his wife’s staff?
Someone whom he has never met before?
They’ve been discussing one of their accountants outside of work?
Why?
What the fuck?
I take his large hand and jerk a little at the stone-cold temperature of his skin.
Bella frowns at Emmett before a bell rings alerting us all to the fact that dinner is to be served. We take our places at the same table, closest to the fire.
We eat a delicious four course meal, washed down with liberal amounts of alcohol.
The meal is a blur of delicious courses of soup, prawns, fish and rare, bloody meat, accompanied by vegetables of every type.
I don’t see any of my table guests eating much, but then, the food is so delicious, I am far too engrossed in my own plate. I haven’t been eating properly and I devour the meal ravenously.
The decadent meal, along with the alcohol and the heat from the fire, makes me feel mellow and slightly drowsy.
It seems that every time I take a mouthful of wine, my glass is refilled, though I never see it being done.
By the time pudding is served, I am more than a little bit pissed and begin to slur my words embarrassingly.
Just as I am about take the first taste of my delicious looking Eton Mess, a cool hand begins to stroke along my leg, slowly, and firmly from my knee towards my upper thigh.
I freeze mid-mouthful.
Fuck it.
My cock leaps to attention as the cold fingers creep ever higher.
I turn to the side and see Miss Swan looking to the other side of her, talking to Rosalie’s husband, while her hand grips my thigh.
Shit.
Wriggling slightly in my seat, trying to dislodge her hand as subtly as possible, I continue eating, while attempting to act normal.
I’m drunk and I’m pretty sure that if I am, she must be too.
She is so much smaller than I am, and, if my glass has been permanently topped up, then so has hers.
Her tiny fingers reach my crotch and begin stroking lightly, making me shudder.
Leaping to my feet, I shove my chair backwards, and excuse myself, before dashing to the lavatory - holding both of my hands over my erection as I do so.
I pee like a racehorse in the urinal, before I lock myself in a cubicle and sit down on the toilet, catching my breath.
Sitting for a few minutes, I decide I need to leave, before this evening gets out of hand forcing me to resign from my job.
If I sneak away now, I can blame it on the fact that I am drunk and that I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.
Yes.
That will work.
Standing again, I splash my flushed face and wash my hands, before I head towards the main entrance.
Just as I retrieve my cloak, a hand grasps my sleeve.
“Going somewhere, are we, Edward?” Bella asks, frowning.
I nod.
“I’m drunk, Miss Swan,” I explain, staggering slightly, “I feel a little unwell. I need to go home,” I say, pulling the slightly scratchy wool around my shoulders.
“Can I ask you to do something for me first, please, Edward?” Bella asks, quietly, sounding inexplicably sad.
I turn to look at her.
Her eyes are wide and beseeching, “Please, walk with me, just for a little while. I want to talk to you,” she says, “No, I need to talk to you, Edward,” she finishes quietly.
Opening my mouth to refuse her, she touches my hand for the first time, and the chill of her skin makes me shudder once more.
“Please, Edward,” she finishes, staring intently into my eyes.
Nodding, the icy feeling of fear begins to trickle into my stomach once again.
Rather than walking back through the house, she instead leads me out of the main door, and around the side before we walk across a lawn, and down some steep stone steps.
The large, dark, park stretches out before us and we walk side by side, though not touching now.
As we walk briskly down the hilly paths, towards the small lakes below us, I notice that my breath clouds before my mouth and nasal passages.
Sparkling, crispy frost makes the entire area have a twilight like air; neither dark nor light. Shapes appear and disappear before me, making me jump, confusing me so that I don’t know what is and isn’t real.
“Aren’t you cold, Bella?” I ask, my voice shaking slightly, suddenly aware that she is wearing nothing but her flimsy dress and high heels.
She chuckles. “No, Edward, I don’t feel the cold,” she says. “Are you?”
“Yes,” I say lamely, “I am.”
“Can I help to warm you up in anyway, Edward?” she asks quietly, “I want to help you …” she whispers.
Fuck it.
Why not?
I’m not forcing her; she wants to and so do I.
So why not?
I haven’t had sex for so very long, and I want her.
“Yes,” I whisper back to her.
Before I know what is happening, I am pressed against a tree; Bella yanks my head downwards so that she can reach my mouth, and begins kissing me passionately.
I groan and wrap my arms around her.
She is freezing cold but feels wonderfully soft and pliable in my arms, as I open my mouth to her probing tongue.
She tastes delicious.
Unlike anything I have ever tasted before and I moan against her as her hand snakes lower and begins stroking my rock hard cock through my breeches.
“Oh. Oh God…” I groan before I wrap her hair in my hands, dragging our faces closer.
She pulls back and stares at me intently, “Do you want me, Edward?” she asks.
“Yes!” I gasp out, trying to pull her back to me.
“Do you really want me? Forever?” she asks, uncertainly.
“Forever?” I question.
She nods.
“Well, right now, I will take tonight and see what tomorrow brings,” I say, finally running my fingers through her curls.
“No. Tell me that you want me forever, Edward,” she says, cupping my balls gently, the coldness of her touch makes me quiver and shake.
Right now, I will say anything just so that she will let me kiss her again, “If that’s what you want, Bella,” I say, “then yes, let’s try for more than tonight,” I whisper, pulling her close to me again.
She moves back a little bit, stroking my arm. “Follow me, Edward,” she says, seriously. “I can’t risk any members of staff seeing us like this,” she says frowning. “Let’s go through there,” as she points before her.
Walking away from me so fast that I struggle to keep up with her, she pushes the park gate open.
Shit.
Before me is the imposing, roofed, entrance to the old Highgate Cemetery.
Hearing a sound behind me, I turn, but there’s nothing there. I squint into the semi-darkness.
Fuck it, I wish I had brought my glasses with me.
As I look in front of me again, Bella has gone, and the wrought iron gates are wide open.
Shit.
I shiver as the bone-numbing cold begins to bite more deeply into my flesh.
“Bella?” I call, looking around. “Bella? Where are you?” I yell, louder now.
“In here, Edward!” she says, excitedly, “In here, please! I’ve always wanted to make love in a graveyard! I’m in here!” she says, loudly.
I peer around the gate and catch a glimpse of pale cloth as it disappears around a wide yew tree.
Shit.
She is a tiny scrap of a thing! She can’t be running around in a graveyard in the dark on her own.
“Fuck it, Bella!” I hiss, as I hear something moving behind me again, and the gate slam shut.
I start to run after her, deeper into the crowded, over-grown cemetery, as the footsteps of whatever is following me, get louder and faster too.
“Bella!” I yell, terror washing over me. I scream loudly as a hand grabs my arm.
“Hell, man! What the fuck is wrong with you?” a booming voice asks, turning.
I see Emmett McCarty and Jasper Whitlock.
“What’s wrong with me?” I yell. “What’s fucking wrong with me?” I shout, “You two almost gave me a heart attack!” I bellow, as I yank my arm away and stomp ahead of me, “Well, what are you fucking waiting for?” I shout, “Bella is in here on her own. Fuck only knows what trouble she can get into in here!” I finish.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about Bells,” Jasper laughs. “Be more worried about whatever she comes across first, they should be the ones that worry!” he says laughing louder.
“What?” I say, turning around, “What do you mean?”
They ignore me and start leading the way, chatting amongst themselves, quietly.
As we walk to the end of path, we come to a large stone entrance, “This is the Egyptian Avenue, Edward,” Jasper explains, pushing the heavy door open; it leads up to a large, circular structure.
I stand with my mouth gaping open, looking around me. “This is the Circle of Lebanon, Edward, these are the Victorian catacombs. We like it here…” Emmett says.
I turn to look at them, and there, behind them, lying on top of a tomb – naked - is Bella.
My cock springs to life at the sight before me.
Fucking hell.
Her skin glows in the cold moonlight. Laying completely still, her hair spilling over the edges of the stone, she looks as if she has been carved from the finest Italian marble.
Small, firm, pert breasts, capped with deep pink, hard nipples call to me, and without a second thought, my feet begin to move, of their own volition, pulling me towards her.
She is so still that it doesn’t even look as if she’s breathing.
“Edward…” she sighs as her fingers begin to stroke and pull at her tits.
Oh, fuck…
She is touching herself in front of me, calling out my name. My cock starts dripping with pre-cum as arousal takes over and my brain disconnects as my cock takes over control of all my conscious thoughts.
“Oh God…” I whimper, as my hand drops to my crotch and I stroke my balls firmly.
“Come to me, Edward,” she whispers, “Touch me, I need you to touch me, please…” she implores, as her fingers move lower.
Now standing next to her, I reach my hand out, my fingers twitching as I do so, and I jerk as I touch her ice-cold skin properly for first time.
“Bella…” I mumble out, as my warm hand strokes her smooth, cold face, “I want you…” I say, pathetically.
She gasps and smiles a dazzling smile at my words.
Grabbing my wrist tightly, to the point of pain, she growls. Then before I know what’s happening, my cloak is ripped from around my shoulders, and I am on my back, on the frozen slab, and Bella is straddling my hips, grinding against me.
Her mouth crashes painfully onto mine, and she tugs and pulls at my clothing. She rips my shirt down the middle with one, quick, sharp movement, before her fingers begin unbuttoning my breeches.
“Fuck!” I gasp out as she nibbles and licks her way down my body, “Bella! We aren’t alone! And I’m going to have to pay for that shirt!” I say, as my traitorous cock twitches against Bella’s fingers.
“No one is watching us, Edward,” she whispers.
I push myself up, on my elbows, and look around, checking.
She’s right; there is no one in sight. Jasper and Emmett have left us alone.
She suddenly yanks my trousers down, leaving them around my mid-calves, then, grabbing my boxer shorts by the elastic, she tears them off of me.
“Fuck! Bella!” I yell out.
Ignoring me, she trails one slender digit along the long, thick, length of my cock, before she looks up at me, smiling, “Oh, Mr Masen, I really did chose well,” she murmurs before languidly licking around the head, suckling and swallowing the pooled pre-cum.
I shudder and groan, falling backwards onto the white marble once again, as her mouth takes more and more of me into her mouth until she swallows the head down the back of her throat.
“Fuuuuucccckkkk….” I groan out, twisting my fingers into her hair, and holding her head close to me, as she sucks her cheeks in and hums, causing vibrations to run along my over excited cock.
Pulling away from me, she climbs astride my thighs once more, and begins kissing my mouth again, before she raises herself up above me, pressing her breasts against my face.
Sucking her hard nipple for the first time is so erotic that I almost cum without her touching me.
Her skin is as cold and silky, like the finest marble, as my hot, wet mouth moves against her.
“Oh, Edward,” she whispers, sitting upright again, “make love to me.” She slithers her way up my body, until she is sitting on my face.
Oh God.
Grabbing her hips with both of my hands, I lick, suck and nuzzle against her cool, wet pussy, and moan at her delicious taste.
“Oh Bella…” I mutter, making her quiver above me.
She presses more firmly against my face.
“Edward,” she gasps out as my tongue pushes inside of her, “tell me that you want to stay with me forever!”
I nod, as I fuck her orally, before I suck her clit firmly between my lips. Building up a rhythm, I push two fingers inside of her, stroking repeatedly, until she cums; flooding my mouth with her cold, sweet, nectar, and she screams loudly into the silent night.
She moves down my body, lying on top of me, her skin feels colder than ever against my sweaty, gasping chest.
“Oh, Bella…” I murmur, wrapping my arms around her slight frame.
Rolling us, she hitches her hip around my waist, grabs my cock firmly in her left hand and guides me inside her icy, wet body.
“Shit…” I groan out as she clenches her muscles around me, making me gasp, “so tight…so cold…” I whimper, as she holds my hips firmly, encouraging me to move inside of her.
Mumbling, I push myself up onto my elbows on the hard stone, and begin thrusting in and out of her, frantically, desperately.
“Edward!” she whimpers, “Tell me again, tell me that you want me!” she says, stroking my hair, yanking my head slightly backwards, exposing my neck.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I gasp out, in time with my thrusts, “I want you; yes I want to stay with you,” I pant as my speed increases and my stomach muscles clench and tighten deliciously.
Yelling, I cum, pouring inside of her, as bright white lights explode before my eyes, my vision blurs.
It feels like hours later when I open my eyes.
The nig
ht seems less dark, either that or my eyes have become accustomed to the lack of light.
I am cold, almost numb with cold in fact, and Bella’s tiny body is coiled tightly around me, where I lay; my cloak wrapped around me.
“Bella?” I whisper, “Bella, are you alright?”
She nods but makes no sound.
“We need to get up and go back, they will be wondering where we are,” I say quietly, suddenly nervous, the coldness is biting into the very marrow of my bones.
She doesn’t move.
“Bella?” I say again, and still she doesn’t respond.
I shake her lightly, before I drag my fingers through her hair. She stirs in my arms.
I push myself up again, yawning loudly and shivering in the cold, night air.
“Do you want to leave me, Edward?” she asks quietly, “Do you?”
“Of course I don’t want to leave you, Bella, but I need to get dressed and warm up before hypothermia kicks in! Come home with me, please?” I say.
“Are you inviting me into your home, Edward Masen?” she asks, surprise colouring her tone.
Smiling and nodding, I swing my legs to the edge of the stone slab and start to hop down.
“Don’t leave me, please,” she says quietly.
“I’m not leaving you, Bella. I want to take you home with me so that I can make love to you properly in a nice, warm, comfortable bed!” I chuckle.
Before I can pick up a stitch of clothing, Bella has me pressed onto the slab once more, and begins kissing me all over again.
“You’re lonely, Edward, I know you are. You have no family. You have very few friends. I know everything about you,” she says, firmly, “Choose to stay with me, and none of that will matter, ever again,” she finishes, staring at me, her brilliantly bright eyes, flashing in the starlight.
“How do you know that I have no family?” I ask, confused, “I’m not lonely! I have friends!” I say, affronted at her remarks, but at the same time, a snake of fear wriggles its way along my spine.
“It’s alright, Edward,” she coos at me, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, I only have Alice, Rosalie, Emmett and Jasper, I have no one else, Edward. I don’t want anyone else. At least I thought that I didn’t. But I want to have you. Tell me that I can have you with me always?” she says, stroking her fingers along my body.
Shit.
My treacherous cock springs to life once more and I groan as she wraps her hand around it lightly, stroking me languidly, licking her way along my neck, as she does so.
Sucking my skin into her mouth, I shudder, and not altogether in a good way. Alarm bells begin ringing at the back of my mind as her teeth graze my flesh.
“Bella… I need to get warm… I don’t feel so well,” I mumble, as she begins sliding down my body again, once more licking around the head of my agonised erection, immediately causing me to lose all coherent thought.
She suddenly looks up at me, “Do you want to stay with me always, Edward? Would you like to stay young and beautiful forever? To never feel cold? To never feel scared? To never feel lonely?” she asks, her voice lowering, making me shiver.
“What do you mean?” I say, “Everyone wants that, wouldn’t they? Everyone would. But it isn’t possible! It just isn’t, is it?” I say, trying to sit up.
“What if I told you that it was? What then? Would you want it, Edward?” she says, staring at me.
I stare at her, “Are you serious? Of course I would want that! Who wouldn’t, Bella? But it isn’t, so there isn’t any point in me dreaming of shit like that,” I say, angrily now, pushing her off of me.
“I want to keep you, Edward. Say you want the same,” she says, holding my arm tightly, “You have to say it! You have to tell me that you want to stay with me always!” she says, hysteria building in her voice, “I’ve waited for you for centuries! Please! Please say you need me too!” she says, dropping to her knees in front of me.
Fuck.
“I do want to spend time with you, Bella, but I don’t know what the hell you mean! I don’t know what you are talking about!” I say.
“Say, ‘Yes’. Please, Edward,” she whimpers.
Do I want this?
What is ‘this’?
“What do you want from me, Bella, and what the hell do you mean? You’ve waited for centuries to find ME?” I say, sitting back down on the tomb, and running my fingers through my hair. I wrap the cloak around my body once more. “I don’t know what you mean... I’m only twenty eight …” I say, my teeth beginning to chatter again.
A shadow crosses before us, catching my eye.
As I look up, Jasper, Emmett, Rosalie and Alice are standing in a loose circle around us.
“Edward, what Bella means is that she has walked this earth, searching for her soul mate, for hundreds of years, and where does she find you? Working as an accountant in our New York branch. She saw you there, did you know that? That is why you were transferred back here, Edward. We arranged it. Please. Join us, Edward. Join us. Be Bella’s mate and join us for eternity. Join our family,” Emmett says, smiling.
I stare at him, open mouthed.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I gasp out, going to stand.
Before I can blink, Rosalie pins me down by legs and the diminutive Alice secures my muscular arms with her stick like ones. I try hard to fight my way to freedom, but I’m held rigid.
“What the fuck are you?!” I say, terror taking over.
“Vampires,” Bella says, coming to stand beside my head.
I gasp.
“We are Vampires, Edward. But not like the Vampires that you’ve seen in the movies. We live off human blood, that much is true, but we feed rarely, so we limit the victims we take. We take the undesirables of the human race; there are many of those. Join me, Edward…” she says, staring into my eyes hypnotically, “and you will never be alone again…”
Staring back at her, she strokes my cheek and I see something that I have been looking for, for all of my life.
Love.
“Edward… please,” she whispers.
Closing my eyes, I nod.
“Yes, Bella…” I answer her.
She climbs up onto the tomb once more and kisses my rock hard erection again, gently, once, twice, three times, before scraping her teeth along my skin. Opening her mouth wide, she sucks her cheeks in hard; painfully hard, making me yank my pelvis backwards.
Groaning loudly, I begin jerking my hips against her mouth.
She strokes my balls with her cold fingers, making me shudder. I feel my balls tighten, and just before I cum, she pulls her mouth away from me once more.
Trailing her fingers along my inner thighs, she bites into my soft flesh gently, making me whimper.
“Are you cold, Edward?” she says, smiling, sitting up between my spread knees, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a dark smear appears across her snow white skin.
“What’s that on your face, Bella?” I say, concerned, “Shit! It that blood? Oh my God…” I say falling backwards; nausea washes over me, and I collapse onto the stone again.
Jasper and Emmett hold an arm each, and Alice and Rosalie restrain my legs, as Bella slides up my body, wrapping her naked, icy frame around me. Kissing me passionately, she lets me taste my own blood on her tongue.
And the fire begins surging through my veins…
………………………………………………………
LAUDERDALE HOUSE IS SET IN WATERLOW PARK, HIGHGATE, NORTH LONDON. IT WAS THE HOME OF THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON AND WAS BUILT IN 1582.
THE CEMETERY IS SPLIT INTO TWO VERY DISTINCTIVE PARTS, EAST AND WEST.
IT HAS A BEAUTIFUL GROUP OF CATACOMBS, CALLED THE CIRCLE OF LEBANON, WHICH ARE TOPPED BY A HUGE CEDAR OF LEBANON, AND IS ACCESSIBLE VIA A VERY ELABORATE WALKWAY CALLED THE EGYPTIAN AVENUE. IT IS A GRADE I LISTED PARK NOW, IN OTHER WORDS, NOTHING CAN BE CHANGED, ONLY PRESERVED AND IS A SANCTUARY FOR WILDLIFE. LEGEND HAS IT THAT CONTAINS VAMPIRES TO THIS VERY DAY.
THE WESTERN, AND OLDEST SECTION, IS ONLY NOW ACCESSIBLE VIA ORGANISED WALKS AND TOURS TO HELP TO CONSERVE THE FRAGILE, ANCIENT TOMBS AND TO PROTECT AGAINST SOUVENIR HUNTERS AND VANDALS.
IT IS VERY LOVELY, BUT VERY SPOOKY!
A VAMPIRE HUNTER USED TO RIDE ACROSS HAMPSTEAD HEATH AND AROUND THE CEMETERY IN THE 1980’S, DRESSED IN BYRONESQUE STYLE ON A WHITE HORSE, AND HE ALLEGED THAT HE KILLED A VAMPIRE IN THE CEMETERY!
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