(Yikes...I forgot to post this little follow-up to Massage Therapy...shame on me! I'll fix that little problem now. Enjoy, everyone. And thanks to any of you who are reading on the blog. You're the best!)
The Diary of Bella and Edward
EDWARD. ANTHONY. CULLEN. WHAT are those things hanging on the bedroom wall? And who printed those pictures?! If I find out a single soul saw those photographs besides you, I will mark you. You know I can do it. I’ve been growing out my fingernails so I can finger-pick my guitar better. You’d better have some answers for me before I finger-pick YOU.
I’m going out to get some groceries so I can make those special cookies I told your mom I’d bring to their house for Christmas. I expect full disclosure when I come back.
ISABELLA. MARIE. SWAN. You know exactly what those “things” are. Those are incredibly artful, tasteful, nude photographs of my hauntingly gorgeous girlfriend. I actually planned them as an early Christmas present for you, so that you would finally see how beautiful you are. I think you secretly know, but you’re too modest to admit it. I’m not interested in your false modesty. You are an incredibly sexy woman, and I want you to own it, the way you own me.
My dear, feel free to “mark” me anyway you like. I’m perfectly fine with the fact that my kitten has claws now. Go ahead and use them on me. Your idea of “finger-picking” holds all sorts of intriguing possibilities. I can always blame Lucky if anyone asks questions.
Hmm. Why do I get the feeling that we’re going to have some fun tonight?
Shit, reading that you’re at the grocery store just reminded me that I was supposed to pick up some wine to take to Mom and Dad’s. I told Jazz I’d bring the beer to rehearsal tomorrow night, too. It’s a peace offering for not accepting his offer to officially join The Grade. It’s tempting, but let’s be real. How the hell will I keep up my own grades next semester if I’m working on his?
Besides, I like making music with you better. Take that however you like.
I’m leaving for the liquor store now, and those photos had better still be hanging in the bedroom when I get back. I’m not taking them down. And before you sharpen your claws, no one saw your beautiful body but me. Well, okay, and Kate’s girlfriend, Victoria. She’s a graphic designer so she let me use her computer equipment to make the enlargements, and she helped me tweak the contrast and stuff. (She’s jealous of me, just so you know. She thinks you’re hot. See?) When the photos were printed, I matted and framed them myself.
Think about it, Bella: do you really believe I’d share you with anyone else? Let alone strangers in a photo kiosk?
Love you. See you in a few.
Well, when you put it that way. . . You are a little on the jealous and possessive side. Just a smidge. Which I rather enjoy, by the way. So please don’t change on my account.
But if you expect me to believe that those pictures are a Christmas present for me, then you must think I’d buy swamp land in Florida from you, too. Those are clearly a Christmas present for YOU.
Okay, I’m sitting here in the bedroom now, studying the photographs, trying to view them objectively. The black and white is a nice touch. Sometimes I think those images barely resemble me. But then I see the look in my eyes, and it takes me right back to that night. The way you made me feel. . .so wanted, so desired. Beautiful. I am beautiful, because your love makes me so. And that is the best gift you ever could have given me.
I’ll let the pictures be. For one thing, knowing you, they’ll frequently put you in the mood for all sorts of kinky fuckery, and I’ll be the lucky recipient.
For another, I know where you keep your camera. Maybe I’ll take some pictures of my own, to hang on the opposite wall. Tit for tat, so to speak. I showed you my tits. Now it’s your turn to flex your “tat” for me. *ahem*
There you are now. God, I love the rusty screech of that loft door swinging open -- the sound of you coming home to me. I know, I know -- if I moved in here permanently, I’d get to hear it all the time. Don’t worry. If Ben gives Angela the sparkly little Christmas present that I think he will, then she and I might be giving up our apartment sooner than you hoped.
If -- no, when -- we move in together, then I hope for your sake that Charlie likes you. I still can’t believe he’s actually coming here to visit for Christmas, let alone spending it with us at your parents’ house. He’s obviously accepted that you and I are the real deal, and that’s saying something.
Enough parent talk. You and I are going to have some fun tonight. I’ll try to be careful with my claws, but since they are rather new to me, I can’t make any promises. I suspect you’ll like the feel of me digging in and hanging on for dear life, anyway. I do have a possessive streak of my own.
No more written words tonight. I’m coming to claim you now in person.