Chapter Four

A/N: First and foremost, characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.
*Hi Everyone, just a little side note...Playboy was started in December, 1953, not 1952, as I am writing in the story. The "Playmate" of its inaugural issue was the very lovely Marilyn Monroe from a 1949 calendar shoot. Since this is a work of fiction, I took a little liberty with the date. Thanks for listening.*

Chapter Four -

I wasn’t sure how long I had been sleeping, but before long I heard a light knock on the front door.

My eyelids shot open as I jerked awake, sending the photo floating to the floor. I groped for the lamp chain, found it after a few feeble attempts, and pulled as gently as I could muster. Soft light illuminated the room in a gentle shade, but it still didn’t prevent my eyes from screaming in protest.

Who the hell was at my door so late?

I looked over at the large sundial wall clock that hung over my stone mantle.

Two o’ clock in the fucking morning. Someone better be dead.

I ran my hand through my hair. My head was beginning to throb, I felt disgusting. My mouth felt like I had been eating sawdust for a month. I rubbed at my face, scratching at the overgrown stubble. I took a chance on assuming I looked exactly like how I felt; like shit.

“This better be good!” I yelled rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I tried to focus, concentrating on peeling myself off of the couch.

Accomplishment surged through me the moment I stood up, but a sudden wave of the alcohol still flowing freely through my system quashed my momentary glory.

The knock became more insistent as I tried to steady myself.

I tried yelling again, but it only came out as a soft, irritated whisper, “I’m coming. I’m coming. Give me a second.”

Counting.

Counting at a time like this always reminded me to focus. If I could get to five, I was not as drunk as I thought I was, therefore, I could fake it enough to get myself through whatever it was that I had to do.

One, two, three…what the hell came after three…oh, that’s right, four. Fake it on five, Cullen.

To make my uncoordinated jaunt to the door even more unimpressive, I jammed my unsuspecting knee into the corner of one of my end tables.

Fuck it all. I’m going to kill whoever it is on the other side of that door.

I grabbed the burnished metal of the doorknob, twisted, and yanked as hard as I could to let whoever was on the other side of that door know I meant business. What ‘business’ I meant, I had no idea. I just knew I was pissed at the sudden intrusion of a wake-up call, considering I didn’t ask for one.

The heavy, red door swung open sending a slight chill through the entryway, filling my head with a momentary sobering clarity.

“What could--” I stopped short.

In my doorway, stood the most angelic sight anyone could ever wake up to.

My muse.

Isabella Swan.

“Did I wake you?” she asked shyly, looking a little startled. My appearance probably would have scared anyone.

She was such a beautiful sight, even in the middle of the night. I was dumbfounded. Knowing I was disheveled, still buzzed from too much liquor, and smelling rotten, I put on my best grin.

Fake it on five, Cullen.

“No…no, of course not. You know me. Up until all hours.” I replied waving my limp hand dismissively. I stepped aside, allowing her to make her entrance.

Isabella’s heels clicked delicately over the earth-colored travertine flooring of my entryway. The room became engulfed with her strawberry scent.

“Are you sure I didn’t wake you? You look like you were…sleeping, or doing something else…are you…alone?” She asked glancing around the room with a weary expression on her face.

Of course I was alone. I’d been alone for the past year.

Alone and jacking off to you.

“Yes, I am alone. And yes, you did wake me. But it’s alright, really.” I shut the front door softly. I watched her walk into the dimly lit room.

She was wearing a short navy satin Japanese mini dress. I paid no mind to the fact that the neckline looked like it was strangling her because I was far too enthralled with the sound of the soft brush of silky satin caressing her thighs as she walked. It was all I needed to kill any sleep that still may have resided in my being. It definitely woke up the long, stagnant erection I had been harboring.

Relax, Cullen.

Still stunned, I shut the door and automatically walked over to the wet bar, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Martini, stirred. Please.” Isabella responded laying her purse on the bar, taking a seat on one of the black bar stools. As I watched her hoist herself up with ease, a slight shock of black lace peaked from under her dress as she crossed her legs demurely.

Get her dirty drunk and she’ll be getting fucked six ways to Sunday in an hour.

As appealing as the inner-evil-Edward made that scenario sound that just wasn’t my way. I wanted Isabella to take me with no regrets.

I grabbed the vodka from the freezer and the vermouth from the cabinet. Isabella watched me measure out each part. I stirred the concoction absently while I grabbed two frozen martini glasses from the freezer at the last minute. I took a chance and peaked at her while I poured the icy cocktail. She watched my every move without taking her eyes off of my hands. It almost made me think she was nervous.

“Olive or onion?” I asked raising an eyebrow at her. I knew better then anyone, she took an olive, but I asked because I was a gentleman. Gentlemen were polite.

She smiled seductively, “You know I love olives.”

A slow grin spread across my face as I tossed a green olive in each glass. She took one of the glasses and lifted it, pinky extended, “Cheers”

“Cheers,” I replied in a smooth tone lifting my glass to hers.

I wanted to knock the glass out of her hand, bend her over my couch, and sink my hands into her sweet ass as I slid my cock into her delicious pool of wetness.

Goddamn, fuck me woman, said evil Edward.

Nice, Cullen. You are a real gentleman, said conscience-ridden Edward.

Internal debate began to rock my brainwaves, but the almost-full bottle of Jim Beam I had consumed earlier was still rearing its ugly head, diminishing any logical thinking I was capable of.

Fake it on five, Cullen. Keep it together.

As long as I kept my thought process in line with a Dick and Jane story of simple phrases, I would be able to get through the conversation. I mentally chastised myself for drinking too much.

“Two questions,” I was trying to enunciate every word, so I wouldn’t look like a complete ass. I continued, “Number one, what are we celebrating and two, what brings you out this way at two in the morning?” I asked making my way around the bar, concentrating on each step. I positioned myself at my growing collection of vinyl. If I could casually lean against something, I wouldn’t look like some drunken fool.

“Those two questions are one in the same, aren’t they Mr. Cullen?” She was toying with me. Her eyes danced with mischief as she shimmied herself out of the barstool, making her way over to the numerous racks of vinyl I had shelved next to my phonograph. Next to me.

Her scent was overpowering. Strawberry fields in the middle of May. It was so inviting. So relaxing.

Holy hell.

“Music?” she asked stopping at the player, running her cherry red nails over the wood casing.

What in the hell was she doing? Music? Martinis? What next? A fuck me invitation? Yea right, Cullen. Try again. You couldn’t handle a woman like Isabella in the inebriated state of mind you are in right now.

“What would you like to hear?” I asked beginning to thumb absently through the vinyl. I needed another source of interest to occupy my attention. Besides, if she wanted music, I wanted her to make the decision. That’s all I would need is to put on something sultry and seductive like Billie Holliday and have her think I was another sick pervert wanting to bed her like the rest of the male population.

“Sarah Vaughan.” She simply stated, indulging in one lone sip of her cocktail.

Fuck me twice! That was as bad as Billie.

Running my fingers over the hundreds of album spines, they finally rested on my Sarah Vaughan collection. I pulled out one of the LP’s and placed it gently on the phonograph. The bewitching, seductive melody that was Sarah Vaughan enveloped us.

Isabella closed her eyes and let the music of Ain’t Misbehavin’ move her. I noticed her nipples began to harden underneath the smooth fabric as she moved.

This isn’t happening. Don’t get your hopes up, Cullen. She’s probably thinking of Jacob.

I ran my hand through my hair, walked over to the couch, and threw back half of my Martini before sinking into its inviting cushions. Icicles began to form in the back of my burning throat. My silly effort at nonchalance was failing. I placed my glass on the coffee table in front of me. The vodka began to take effect immediately, mixing with the remaining bourbon in my system.

I continued to watch Isabella sway gently to the music, but within seconds, my eyelids began to droop.

Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake…

She stopped suddenly as if remembering why she came here, nursed another sip of her drink, and sat down next to me. She sat very close to me. Touching my knee with hers. Her eyes were wild with excitement. What in the hell was going on with her?

“I was posed with a proposition tonight.” Isabella blurted. She was obviously too excited to contain herself anymore.

Shit and double shit, she wanted to talk business.

I tried to focus on each word that dripped out of her pretty mouth. Word by word. Dripping like honey.

Focus, Cullen.

“But I told him the only way I’d do it, was if you were the one to photograph me.” She continued.

If I continued to speak, I could keep my body from betraying me with the sleep it was longing for.

“What the hell are you talking about Isabella?” I countered. Every proposition, good or bad, was proposed directly to her agent.

Her goddamn husband.

Who in the world would have the balls to go directly to her?

She continued to eyeball me as though I was something to devour, rather then her trusted friend and photographer. That was a new development. Or was sleep starting to mock me?

Holy hell, there were those eyes again. Hot, seductive, entrancing. Those were the eyes she saved for the lens, not for me.

Maybe I had been drinking too much for one night.. I was seeing things that weren’t really there. Maybe, I couldn’t differentiate between my sleep-and-alcohol-induced hallucinations and reality anymore.
Reading between lines that couldn’t be crossed.

Unless she crossed them first.

I placed the Martini on the table in front of me, pulling myself into a more erect position, so I was leaning towards her in earnest, prompting her to finish. Her diamond-encrusted wedding band caught a glint of light that sent shimmers across my newly polished hardwood floor, taunting me. It was the subtle reminder I desperately needed to keep me from pouncing on her.

What the hell was she doing here? Looking so goddamn fine. So goddamn fuckable.

“Who propositioned you? I want to know who has bigger balls than me.” I reached for the glass again, raised it to me lips and took the last sip, allowing the remains to trickle down my burning throat. Her scent was driving me mad.

Isabella crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to get comfortable. “Hugh…Hugh-fucking-Heffner!” She was screeching now.

“What?!” This was huge. It was bigger then huge. Being a Playboy bunny for Hugh Heffner was like the Pope inviting a Catholic over for dinner. Did you decline? Fuck no.

“Yes, I know!” Isabella sensed my excitement and set her drink down on the coffee table, grabbing my silver cigarette case, “Do you mind?”

I waved my hand dismissively, “No, no. Go ahead.”

She lit a cigarette.

She sucked on the burning paper without remorse and let the smoke fill her lungs. Her chest rose and fell gently, relaxing her completely. Watching the rise and fall of her breasts was calming.

Stay AWAKE, Cullen…

“Edward, this is it, love.” Her eyes dropped downward to her hands. Her right hand twitched nervously as she flicked at her half-burning cigarette. She bit her lower lip with what seemed like a self-conscious air.

“You’ve made the cover of Life, Harper’s Bazaar, and now Playboy.” I mused. My eyelids were beginning to drop heavily. Alcohol-induced sleep was normally high on my priority list this time of night, but right now I didn’t want my physical body to exclude me from what could possibly happen. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.

“Without you Edward, this never would have happened.” She was breathless.

Without thinking, I caressed her flushed cheek lovingly, “You’ve made it kid.”

Just crossed that line, Cullen. And you crossed it first.

She was covered from head to toe in pink, startled by my impulse.

“I guess I could have waited until the morning. I mean we were having lunch at the Derby in the morning. I could’ve told you all this then.” She was talking so fast. Moving so fast. I didn’t want her to leave.

“Isabella, it’s alright--” I started. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted her here with me, in my bed. I wanted her. Not the pin-up, not the glamour girl. Her. All of her.

“Bella…you know you can call me Bella. In private.” My heart was thundering. There were two people in her life she allowed to call her Bella. Her father and her husband. Now I was the third. What did this mean? The possibilities were screaming at me.

She’s married, Cullen. Back off.

Before either of us could hesitate, I did what I would probably regret in the morning. I let primitive submission in to play its hand.

I leaned in and kissed her.

I thought she would resist. I thought she would push me away. I thought she would slap the shit out of me. Something. Anything. But to my shocked surprise, she kissed me back.

Holy hell, she was kissing me back.

Primal instincts began to take over. My hands locked into her hair. Our breathing became labored. Bella’s hands seductively slid down my back, tracing the contours of my muscles on her way down. Her intensity must have shocked every nerve ending in my body. She wanted it just as bad as I did.

Little warning bells began to scream in protest.

Married, Cullen.

Didn’t care.

Yes, you do. He could have your balls for breakfast if he wanted.
Still not listening.
Letting her warm tongue sweep across my bottom lip--

“Edward? Edward? Did you hear me? Hello?” Isabella was waving her hand in front of my face. When did I check out? What the fuck were we talking about?

Heffner propositioning her at a party about Playboy. Wake up, Cullen! Get with it, L7! She’s never going to want you if you can’t even pay attention during the most important moment of her life.. Get her out of here, Cullen, before you make a complete ass of yourself. Talk to her in the daylight, SOBER!

“I’m sorry, love, I think I must still be half asleep.” I rubbed at both of my sleep deprived eyes wearily. I needed to get her out of my house.

I wasn’t ready for this yet. I wasn’t ready to be alone with her. In my house. In the middle of the night.

In the back of mind I knew I needed to be sober. The alcohol played too much of a part in tonight. I couldn’t think without being seduced into the haze of my dreams. I couldn’t even distinguish what was reality and what was a fantasy anymore.

“I’m really sorry, Edward. We had such an intense day today and here I am waking you up and stealing away your beauty sleep.” She giggled, stood, than placed her glass on my coffee table, “I better shuffle off. It’s late and I have to make sure that I get enough sleep to talk about this tomorrow. Or else I’ll be the one falling asleep in my Cobb salad.”

Please don’t go.

I couldn’t even muster a response. I was still too drunk and too tired to protest. Isabella smiled delicately and bent over, kissing the top of my head, letting her fingers trail through my hair. Pleasurable warmth enveloped my body as she gently forced me on to the couch. Her touch was like a warm bath after a bad day. I couldn’t resist the allure of the soft cushions as my head hit the throw pillow that she must have carefully placed under me. Without thinking, I allowed my tired lids to droop shut.

She leaned over and whispered, “I’ll let myself out, Mr. Cullen. Sleep well.”

I groaned softly in response.

I was pretty sure my dream-like conscience played a cruel joke on my alcohol-induced state of mind during the night because in the distance, before the door clicked shut, I thought I heard her whisper, “Good night, my love.”

I decided to play along, allowing my dreams to overcome me, “Good night, my love, my Bella.”