Don't Look / No Promises

FOUR

Bella 

“I look like a whore,” Bella said.

“No, you look like a slut. Difference,” Rose sighed from her spot on the bed, not bothering to look.

“There’s always a difference with you.” Bella struggled to adjust the tiny shorts Rose demanded she put on. There was a midsummer party on the beach that night, an invitation printed on brown paper and burned around the edges which decreed that attendees come in costume, or at least a mask. Bella thought it was all a little ridiculous. By her own standards, she dressed up every day. It was fun, for the most part, until Rose had an excuse to pull this kind of crap.

Bella looked like she belonged on the back of that guy’s bike. The torn up t-shirt and the shorts and the tights, good god, what was even going on here?

“The boots are a no,” Rose said absently.

Bella glanced down at the worn, black leather boots she’d laced up over her calves. They were flat soled and kind of dirty but considering the last pair of shoes Rose had gotten her caught in, she wasn’t taking any chances.

“The boots stay,” Bella said, as Alice sauntered through her bedroom door, effectively taking all focus off that evening’s footwear.

“What did you do to your hair?!” Bella cried.

“It’s called a bob.” Alice ruffled the chin length fringe with her fingers, smiling.

“You got a hairstyle named after a man? What on earth were you thinking?” Bella shook her head, staring at her friend’s scandalously short haircut.

“I think it’s hot.” Both girls turned to stare at Rose, who was staring at Alice. “What?” Rose shrugged. “I like it. It does something good for you.”

“Rose.” Alice slapped a hand over her heart, speaking in that snarky tone she’d perfected. “You’re being so nice to me. What’s wrong?”

“Quit being a complicated bitch and just accept the compliment. Lord . . .” Rose sighed. Alice turned toward the mirror and Bella tried to adjust the shorts some more, the black tights beneath them riding in all the wrong places, and the room fell silent. When Bella finally reached an agreement with her clothing and straightened, Rose was staring at Alice through the mirror.

Both of them were licking their lips.

By the time the three girls arrived at the beach, the party was in full swing. They were late, very late, but that was because Alice almost refused to play along with Rose’s costumes, which had Bella stripping to her underwear before Rose threw a temper tantrum. As it were, Bella was still in the damned tights. Alice had compromised with jeans that were obscenely tight and a shirt cropped off at her ribs. Rose was in heels that looked impossible to walk in and a dress so small she could barely bend over without showing off stuff she should be keeping to herself. Alice was still glaring at Rose and Rose was still sneaking glances at Alice and Bella had no idea what was up with these two. They were always at each other’s throats, but it hadn’t always been this way. Usually they were tag-teaming Bella, yet it felt like they had no time for her lately, so they focused on beating each other down. Bella left them to their bickering after half an hour of listening to them argue over Rose’s sexual escapades, wandering down to the water by herself. She didn’t really know anyone here, a mix of kids from the south side of town and the reservation, not the kind she typically mixed with. She felt out of place in her costume. In her trio. In her skin.

“Damn, doll. You’re killing it.”

He appeared beside her, the guy on the bike, eyeing her before biting his lip. He hadn’t followed the rules at all, in the same jeans and the same t-shirt and the same embroidered vest that he wore every other time she’d seen him. He looked like he wanted to eat her.

She felt ridiculous.

“It’s just an act.” Bella shook her head.

“You’d look fucking perfect riding on my … bike.” His jaw twitched.

“You’d look real pretty with a bruise on your cheek,” she hissed back, hoping she sounded threatening. Judging from the smirk that spread across his lips, she didn’t.

“Dare ya.” He winked.

Bella crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head.

“C’mon, I’ll give you a free hit and then we can start playing by the rules.” He tapped his cheek with a finger and winked at her again. “You know you want to.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Bella scowled.

“Come on, doll, don’t break my heart.”

“Better than your car.”

“Yeah, well, turns out . . . it’s worse than we thought.” He eyed her pointedly. “There’s a crack in the axle and the gearbox is dust. My pretty Bird is broken.”

“That’s too bad. Hope you figure out who did it.”

“I’m getting closer,” he said, edging toward her.

“And what will you do if you catch up?”

“When,” he corrected her. “When I catch up. Seems to me, she owes me.” He licked his lips. “Big time.”

“What could you possibly want?” Bella snapped and he arched a placid eyebrow.

“You on all fours. Biting my sheets,” he said.

Bella’s mouth dropped open. “Did you really just say that out loud? You did . . .”

“I want a lot more than that, doll, but I can’t say the rest. Don’t want to scare you off just yet.”

---

Edward

What a feisty little shit.

She threatened to slap him and then she blushed apple red, when he told her what he really wanted. And he hadn’t even told her the best parts yet. How he wanted her on all fours and biting, yes, but also how he dreamt about her every night for an entire week and that he wanted to hear her moan his name in every different way possible. The loud and quiet and soft and raw and taking and giving. He wanted to hold onto her hair and wanted to leave a couple handprints on her backside. Wanted her to paint his neck up with hickeys and hollow out her cheeks around his dick.

He’d never gone down on a girl before, but fuck if he didn’t want to bury himself between her legs and let her ride his face.

He couldn’t tell her all that.

Not yet.  

“You do realize this is a costume party, right? You were supposed to dress up,” she accused.

“Oh, I did. I’m the heartbroken biker with a couple of ghosts and great big vice for cute girls with smart mouths. You, in this …” He waved a hand up and down her, licking his lips again. “You look like you could be my girl, on the back of my bike.”

“It’s stupid, I hate it.” Bella fidgeted.

“It’s perfect. Except,” he faltered, and dropped to one knee in front of her. Bella took a step back, startled, but he caught her by the knee, producing a pocket knife and flicking it open. He thumbed the blade and looked up at her, a smirk on his face and his hand gripping her hard by the leg. “Hold still,” he whispered.

She trembled as he plucked the tights off her thigh, lifting the sheer fabric just enough to nick it with the tip of the blade. A hole the size of an orange gaped on her thigh, baring flesh, soft pale pink in a bed of black.

“Stop it,” she whispered, voice wavering as he cut another hole, bigger this time near her ankle. His knees were digging into the gravel beach and his cheek was pressed up against the pocket of her shorts and the space between her legs was so fucking close to his face that he could barely concentrate.

“Not a chance, doll.”

Another nick to her opposite leg and he tucked two fingers inside, her warm skin right there as he pulled at the tights, gaping the pinprick into a hole big enough to disappear beneath the hem of her shorts, baring the soft pale inside of her thigh. He licked his lips and tried to hold back a groan. He had to let go. Stand up. Step back and put some distance between them because he was moments away from pressing his nose up against that seam in her shorts. He shoved his hands into his pockets, hoping his stiff dick wasn’t too noticeable, and studied his handiwork from a few feet away. The holes in those tights, holy mother, they made his knees go weak all over. Her breath was coming short and her eyes were big and wide and she was stretching her arms out at her sides like she looking for something to hold onto.

“Much better,” he told her.

She just shook her head at him, speechless, it seemed.

“Let me take you for a ride,” he said, reaching for her hand. She balled her fingers up in the a fist that fit perfectly into his palm and he held her tight as she tried to step away.

“No, thanks,” she stammered.

“Not that kind of ride,” he said.

Yet, he thought.

“Then what?” she asked.

“On my bike.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t gotta trust me, doll. You just gotta say yes.”

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Author's Note: Hadley Hemingway fixes my mistakes, and then I go back in a probably fuck it all up again. Errors belong entirely to me.