Emulsion

Edward wanders around the Super Stop ‘N Shop, feeling completely out of his element. He’s never bought groceries before—not even when he was human. Though he told Bella he’d return with the staples needed to stock the kitchen, he has no practical idea what this means. He places items in his cart based on the the thoughts of those around him, hoping Bella will be pleased with his effort despite his culinary ineptitude. There’s a spring in his step as he makes his way to check-out counter; he doesn’t think anything could eclipse the pure joy he feels in having finally someone to please.

As he stands in line, he thinks of Bella. By now, she’s probably stripped out of her clothing and climbed into the large claw-foot tub. If she makes the water hot enough, her pale skin would be delightfully flushed. If only the cashier would work with a modicum of urgency, he could be home in time to catch a glimpse of her nude and possibly washing herself between her legs. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this thrilled by the prospect of peeping—not even when his father informed him his recently-orphaned cousin, Rosalie, would be coming to live with them.

How often he had watched Rosalie through the very same bathroom lock he’d used to catch watch Bella! Though the majority of his human experiences have faded from his memory, he recalls her porcelain skin, blond curls, flat chest, and inverted nipples with perfect clarity. There wasn’t much to hold his interest, and by the time he left New York to attend college, he’d mastered the art of climbing trees to peep through second-floor windows. By the time he completed his degree and returned to his father’s house, this skill was no longer needed. It didn’t take long for him to discover the second cousin he recalled as pre-pubescent had grown into a wasp-waisted beauty. His pants tightened with the realization he could now satisfy his need for live, amateur pornography simply by walking down the hall.

Rosalie became an active (if unknowing) participant in Edward’s sexual gratification and remained such until they were married. Though her full breasts and puffy areoles were now legally his to do with as he saw fit, he couldn’t derive pleasure from gazing upon. Fetish notwithstanding, he was a gentleman—and a gentleman from his time would never subject his wife to such base desires. Their perfunctory marital relations were performed under the cloak of darkness. Foreplay consisted of raising her nightgown.

His marriage to Bella will be different. He desires her in ways he never wanted Rosalie. Though his need for Bella’s blood factors factors into his lust, it isn’t his only motivation. Bella’s pure and virtuous, therefore she deserves his respect. He wants to have her in every way possible, but each time he’s violated her privacy shame has consumed him. Edward may be a pervert, but he’s not a hypocrite. If he were to arrive home before Bella is finished bathing, he doubts he’d be able to resist peering at her through the lock. If nothing else, there’s a level of self-awareness that comes with his age; he’s all too familiar with the limitations of his restraint.

Just as the customer before him in line completes her purchase, the cashier flicks a switch, causing the illuminated aisle number to flash.

“Sorry,” she tells him. “I can ring you as soon as my supervisor changes the tape.”

He smiles; he can’t help but feel relieved. “I’m not in a hurry.”

After putting the groceries away, Edward follows the sound of Bella’s heartbeat to the living room. She’s standing in front of the fireplace, focused on a photo on the mantle. For several moments, he watches her in silence, captivated by her loveliness. Her hair is wet, her skin is pink, and her pajamas are indecent. He wants to eat her.

Sensing his presence, she smiles at him over her shoulder. Startled by the intensity of his expression, her cheeks are ablaze as she turns back to the fireplace. She’s familiar with lust—she certainly sees enough of it at the casino—but somehow this is different.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, crossing the room to join her.

“No. It’s just…” she sighs. “I’m still not used to the way you look at me.”

He lifts her hair from her back and presses his lips to her neck. “With adoration?”

“That, too,” she says, laughing. “But I was thinking hunger.”

“I must admit, it’s become a bit of an obsession.”

“Eating me?”

“Drinking you.” With his hands on her hips, he whispers into her ear, “It’s all I think about…the essence of you rolling over my tongue.”

He drags his fingertips across her pelvis. Her shorts are thin enough that he can feel the soft curls guarding her Venus mound through the fabric. Then her scent changes, and he doesn’t have to read her mind to know she feels it, too.

“I wonder how it will feel—if its taste and thickness will change depending upon your arousal.”

“Does that happen?” she asks. “Do…” She struggles with what to call it. The phrase vaginal secretions sounds so clinical, and pussy juice is just obscene. “Does…it…change like that?”

“Oh, yes. You mean you’ve never…”

“Tasted myself? No.”

Despite her humanity, he finds this odd. Has she never gotten a paper cut then placed the injured flesh inside her mouth?

“We’ll have to remedy that.”

Drenched and self-conscious, she changes the subject. “These old photos you have are fabulous. The longer I look at them, the more I think I would have loved to live back then.”

Perplexed by her statement, he still his fingers. “Why?”

“I don’t know. But I look at these pictures…there’s a certain grace to them that doesn’t exist anymore. A hundred years ago, no one agonized over the kind of bullshit we get stressed out over.”

“That’s because they lacked the luxury of choice. There were expectations to be met, and consequences for failing to do so. We didn’t concern ourselves with happiness. Duty was our primary motivation. Naturally, life wasn’t particularly fulfilling.”

“You may be right, but even so…I look at this woman…” She gestures to a tiny black-and-white portrait in an intricate metal frame. “And I want to be her.”

He doesn’t hide the extent to which the mere suggestion disgusts him.

“What?” she asks.

“I never want you to be anyone but yourself.”

“Now that I’m with you, I don’t.” Without taking her eyes off the photo, she leans back against his chest. “Still, I can’t help but find her fascinating. I wonder what her name was.”

“Rosalie.”

“Rosalie,” she repeats, sighing. “Everything about her is striking—her hair, her dress, even the way she’s standing. She has a sort of ethereal beauty to her. I mean, I know very little about what day-to-day life was like a hundred years ago, but I look at the expression on her face. It doesn’t seem as if she’s unhappy.”

He thinks back to when he took that picture. Though Edward wasn’t aware of it at the time, his father had been forcing himself on Rosalie for months.

“I assure you, she was miserable. What little is left of her spirit in this photo was crushed the moment she found out she was with child.”

Bella laughs. “Let me guess—this your great-grandmother or something?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s my wife.”

She stares at the picture, amazed. When she and Kate went to Old Time Photos, the resulting portrait wasn’t nearly this convincing.