Chapter Three

A/N:
First and foremost, characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Rated: M

Chapter Three –

With Heidi gone, you could hear a pin drop. That was nice.

And not so nice.

Quiet seemed to ignite all of my restless thoughts of her.

Watching her crawl across a tangled web of satin sheets, holding me prisoner with those alluring brown eyes, playing every emotion I was conceivable of having. Her perfect mouth curving into that delicious smile I loved so much.

How could one woman stir so much emotion? Isabella was just a woman. One woman that drove me to the edge of insanity every time I saw her. She drove me to drink too much, and to smoke even more. I was enraptured with her throughout every waking moment. Dirty thoughts ran rampant throwing off my ability to concentrate on anything worthwhile. I was a goddamn train wreck.

There had to be a pill for this sort of thing. Something, anything to make me forget about her, at least for a moment.

I could hear the radio advertisement now:
“Dirty thoughts clouding your judgment? Try DirtyThoughtRemover. One little pill to drive away all thoughts of pornographic images of the woman you can never have. Doctor recommended.”

It seems to me, Mr. Cullen, that you have a serious illness. It’s called Obsession & Denial. It stems from obsessing too much over something that is unattainable. Like, for example, your obsession with a married woman.

It was true. Isabella Swan was married to a man that I had to work with just as closely as I worked with her. And I hated that. I despised the fact that I had to smile, be cordial, and kiss his arrogant ass every time I saw him, because if I didn’t, he could take her away from me.

And break my career into a million little pieces.

He was a powerful man in the industry. Someone you didn’t mess with. Someone who had the capabilities of making or breaking a client, if he so chose.

He was her agent, Jacob Black. An agent that had a countless array of valued ties in Hollywood.

You’re playing with fire, Cullen. This could be detrimental to the career you’ve worked so hard for.

I was just about done giving a damn about my career. It meant nothing without Isabella. My life meant nothing without her.

Love eventually fades away, my friend. Careers have solid longevity.

But if you’re life had no meaning, a career was worthless.

I piled Isabella’s photos into a neat pile on my black coffee table next to my fourth glass of bourbon and the Czech crystal ashtray. Numerous half burned cigarette butts littered the beautiful crystal cube.

The pain crying in my heart for a woman I could never have beat like a snare drum, drilling me to my core.

It was a horrible thought, knowing you couldn’t have something you wanted so badly.

The most crippling realization that ran through my head every time I saw her, every time I thought of her, was the fact that I knew the lucky son-of-a-bitch that did have her, didn’t even have one fraction of appreciation for her that I held in my little finger.

Fucking son-of-a-bitch shouldn’t have a woman as beautiful as Isabella. Goddamn, Jacob Black, didn’t deserve her.

Sighing, I grabbed my glass of bourbon and strode to the phonograph. I took out one of my favorites and flipped it onto the player.

The needle of the record player caught the vinyl. Dust-covered crackles began to buzz through the speaker. The heavenly rhapsody of Brownie McGhee’s Real Good Feeling began to vibrate my soul.

I got that real good feelin’
Makes me feel so good
Well a real good feelin’
Makes me do things I never would

I finished off the last of my drink and immediately went in search for the bottle of bourbon. I was drinking myself into oblivion. Something I tended to do after I shot Isabella for a good part of the day.

The sweet swell of her breasts through that goddamn fabric drove me insane. My cock swimming through that beautiful ravine of sensuality.

The ever-present ache that had set up residence in my stomach grew with longing as I continued to think of her. My Isabella. She was a goddamn Aphrodite. A Goddess of Love and Beauty.

Taunting.Teasing. Fuckable..

I found my best friends, Jim and Jack, hiding in a cabinet underneath the bar. I grabbed the remaining half of the Jim Beam.

Did I put that there? Heidi obviously made a half-witted attempt at hiding the liquor before she left. No matter.

I watched the amber liquid cascade into the glass, making myself a double, no ice. Heidi was right. I was a hopeless drunk.

A hopeless drunk that wanted Isabella. No, not wanted, I was beyond wanted. I needed her. Needed to hold her. To smell her. To taste her. My cock twitched in response.

She probably tasted as good as she smelled. Exploring every crevice of her with my tongue. Nipping at her swollen clit. Plunging my tongue into her pool of wetness. Goddamn, she tastes so fucking sweet.

Me and a married woman. When did I lose all of my common sense?

Isabella pulling me in deeper and deeper, locking her hot thighs around my head, running her hands through my hair, begging me to lick faster and harder as she came. Pushing more of herself into my mouth as she arched her back with her release.

Fuck me twice, I was a disaster. Not only did I have this unprecedented desire to feel her and to taste her, but I had to smell her invigorating scent that she brought into every room with her. It was like an aphrodisiac.

That could’ve been why I still stood in my grey flannel pants and my white linen shirt from earlier. I wanted her scent to surround me as long as I could have it. The torture I was putting myself through was madness.

Torture.

Ahh, yes, her wrists bound above her, like our photo shoot last week. A white handkerchief wrapped around those pretty wrists. Her beautiful eyes blindfolded in black lace. Black, naughty thigh-highs constricting her beautiful gams, as I fucked her as hard and as rough as she liked it.

I was torturing myself. I was a fucking sadist.

I couldn’t remember how I made my way to my bedroom, but I did. In an alcohol-induced state, I was laying spread out on my satin sheets, drink still in hand, with the biggest, most painful erection I had ever had. It was begging to spring free from the confines of my pants.

Something needed to be done. It was apart of my normal nightly routine anymore. A few glasses of bourbon, a hand, and a photo. Great.

It should be her working my cock. Her pretty lips teasing and sucking as I fisted that gorgeous hair. Her tongue nursing the orgasm greedily, like a woman and her lollipop.

I threw open my closet door and pulled the silver chain. Bright light illuminated the small torture chamber of my soul that I had created.

Fucking damn, it was bright.

The light bulb swayed back and forth.

My eyes shifted through the numerous boxes, each labeled according to date and magazine. My eyes rested heavily on the one I was searching for.

Eyeful, June 1951.

Fuck yes!

I pulled the brown box down, dropping my drink in the process, crumbling into an almost useless heap next to it.

Fuck! Damn it all to hell.

I pulled the box lid up and dumped its colorful contents next to me, taking great pains as to not dump them into the spilled bourbon.

I couldn’t end my search by getting up for another shot, so instead I thrust another cigarette in my mouth. My hands shook uncontrollably as I lit it. If I weren’t careful I’d light the whole goddamn house on fire. Heidi would not appreciate it if she came home to a burned up gravy train. I chuckled humorlessly at the thought and went back to my treasure hunt.

Hundreds of colorful photos of buxom blondes, brunettes, and redheads began to shuffle underneath my fingertips. One picture after another, each one blurring into the next.

Had to see her. Had to look into those deep pools of chocolate brown as I came.

I took another drag of my cigarette before I put it out in the small ashtray on the shelf. God bless Heidi for thinking I would smoke in the closet.

I pulled off my belt. I needed to release, but I needed to see her face more. My searching came to a fevered pitch as my breathing became labored. I had to find at least one of the pictures. Just one.

And then, there it was. There she was.

Isabella.

Lying on blue velvet. Isabella’s satin white-gloved arms twisting at the wrists, posed above her head. Her breasts fully exposed, the lusciousness of her aroused pink nipples pointing right at me, begging me to take one in my mouth. Her chocolate brown eyes smoldering through the apex of my camera, piercing me right to my soul. That enrapturing smile taunting me, begging me to kiss her. White Dior stilettos to match the white garter belts and thigh-highs that had the pleasure to grace her silky thighs. Her white lace panties clung low to her hips exposing her naval. Her long locks fanned out above her head like a halo. The coyness of her gaze sent a wave of pleasure through me like a lightning bolt.

Goddamn delectable sex kitten.

She was biting her blood red bottom lip, playing with the camera. Playing with me.

I unzipped my pants and grabbed hold of my length, beginning to stroke as I had always imagined her to. I looked into her eyes. Those seductive eyes trapping me against my will. But I loved that. With one look from a goddamn picture, I could get lost. That’s what made her so fucking famous. That’s what made me who I was a photographer. I could capture those looks. Suspend them in time.

My tongue searching her mouth, relishing in the sweetness of her breath. Her hands wrapping around the length of my throbbing member. Goddman, her hands felt so good. Rubbing, pulling. The friction, the heat. Almost there, Isabella. Almost.

My breathing was rough, my eyes continued to lock on her picture. Only her. She was there. In the room with me. Calling my name.

“Edward…Oh God, Edward…Edward, cum for me.”

I was a desperate man.

Wrapping her warm, wet mouth around my cock. Thrusting deeper. Feeling the tip erotically hit the back of her throat. She was moaning. The vibrations from her lips cascading over my cock sent me into a fucking frenzy. Not much longer. Not long. Those eyes. Those seductive fucking eyes looking up at me through her long, gorgeous lashes. Her hands all over me. Pulling me into her mouth further. Fuuuuccck!

I allowed myself to moan softly, “Isabella.” The picture in my hand crushed with my release.

I let my head fall backwards, resting against the wall. My fist releasing her photo.

I needed her. Not just for the sex, but for her. Not the starlet. Not the glamour girl she had become. Just Isabella. The girl I found drinking a chocolate shake, reading Moby Dick.

Like I needed a fucking bowling ball dropped on my head.

Another Kool cigarette found its way between my lips. I inhaled deeply, than pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. I needed to clean myself up. Then pass out.

What the hell was I doing?

Torturing yourself, Cullen, remember?

I grabbed a clean towel off of the shelf next to me, and shed my clothes from this afternoon. My body was in great desperation of a shower.

I grabbed a newly laundered pair of comfortable pajama bottoms, a fresh white wife-beater, and some new boxers, grabbing the empty crystal glass on the floor next to me.

Drinking and dry fucking to a picture was not what I did. I could have any woman I wanted. Any woman in the goddamn free world. But I’d rather fuck a photo.

But I wanted her. I would give my right arm for the unattainable.

I walked unsteadily on shaky legs out of the closet, closing the door behind me. I threw my half lit cigarette out of my bedroom window and walked into my bathroom.

Maybe I should call Rose and Emmett, I thought with despair, as I placed the empty glass on the bathroom countertop. This couldn’t be healthy.

I turned on the water to my shower and stepped into it without waiting for the heat to reach the cold droplets. The cold water began to clear my head. I soaped up quickly, and dried twice as fast, slipping my still-damp body into the clean clothing. The faster I moved the less I thought about her.

My thoughts of Isabella subsided for a few short moments as I walked into the dimly lit living room where my bottle of bourbon waited cordially on the bar where I had left it.

What in the hell did I do with my glass?

I scanned the living room and decided not to worry too much about it. Grabbing the half-full bottle by its neck, I sank down into the couch. I held the top of the bottle with my thumb and forefinger, twisting it absently against the top of my knee. My eyes drawn back to her face in the pile of black and whites I had left out.

Jacob didn’t have a fucking clue what he had. She was smart, beautiful, and extremely talented.

I unscrewed the cap of the bottle. I didn’t feel like getting up again for a new glass. I was too goddamn tired.

Who the hell needs a glass? What’s the point of being civilized after masturbating in the closet like a pimple-faced 14 year old with a stolen copy of Eyeful magazine?

I tipped the bottle head to my lips and drank down four large swallows. The alcohol burned the gentle lining of my already raw throat.

I turned off the small end table lamp, allowing the full moon to blanket its soft, white glow over the living room. With the glass bottle in one hand, Isabella’s crumpled picture in the other, I absently watched the small dots of light travel the Los Angeles streets through my large floor to ceiling windows.

I wanted the darkness to take over. I needed it. I needed to flush the fluid memories of this afternoon out of my head so I could sleep, even if it was just a little.

*Another swallow*…drowning myself. Just for tonight..

I was going to bring her back here tomorrow after lunch. Jacob was in Paris this week wooing the likes of a new client. Heidi was away in New York on her errand. No one to bother us. I would talk to her about the next opportunity. Giving her the ideas I had come up with for our next issue of Beauty Parade. Tell her about my conversation with Robert Harrison and his next endeavor, Wink.

Then I would get intimate with her. Accidentally, brush my hand against her cheek, making her blush that gorgeous color of pink I loved so much. The blush that made her famous. It was her signature. I would relax her over a Martini. Billie Holliday playing in the background. It would be perfect.

There was just one set back. The one thing I had to overcome. It was the one thing that could prevent my happiness.

My goddamn conscience.

Could I do it? Could I make another man’s wife my own?

Yes, I could. I would take her from Jacob Black. And Isabella would come, willingly.

It was a moral dilemma.

I was a bad, bad man.

I took another long swig from the almost-empty bottle; the lights of Los Angeles become a kaleidoscope of colors as the bottle fell from my hand to the hardwood floor. Still clutching her photo, I pulled it into my line of sight, my eyes barely focused on hers.

So beautiful.

Before I lapsed into a sea of unconsciousness, I grinned.

I was definitely going to hell.