10: The Fever & The Fury


What is it men in women do require?

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

What is it women do in men require?

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

William Blake, “A Question Answered”


‘Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint,’ James Russell Lowe once wrote.

Power and control: valuable things. Not easily lain aside, even when tempted by passion to do so.

Tempted as I am, although I do not bend.

And now my passion is in front of me, desire in every line of him. He’s pulled tight, tight, tight and I’ll pull him tighter still.

He stares down at me, wide-eyed and panting, fear and confusion mingled with anticipation and arousal. I hold him in my hands and he could get away, he could twist out of my reach so easily, so quickly. He could end this right now.

But he won’t.

Because I am many things, but I am not impulsive and therefore, rarely wrong. This is a man of hidden wants, buried needs, and I’m going to leave him sated, satisfied but first comes the extraction of his longings and I’ll dig, god I’ll dig right into him until he’s free and mine.

I dig, dig my nails into his neck and into his cock, and he inhales sharply, quickly, pain and power.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, and my voice is ice but my eyes are still ablaze.

He nods quickly, swallowing hard, and I grin at his response and run my tongue up the side of his neck. Taste his skin and his pulse and then a kiss on the mouth his breath. My hand strokes him, fondly fondling as his long fingers curl, form and flex around my hips.

Power. Control.


I look up into his face for my answer, watch as he hurdles over hesitation and nods once again.

My other hand drops from his neck to unzip him, and then I am reaching in and pulling out and he’s long, hot, hard in my hand as I stroke, stroke, stroke and he lets out a long, low moan.


“You… ah… you know it is,” he answers breathlessly.

“You’re big,” I observe conversationally. “I’m very small. I don’t think there’s any way you’ll fit inside me.”

He frowns. “Stop… teasing me.”

“Teasing you?” I ask with a squeeze.

“I’ll fit,” he gasps. “Of course I’ll fit. I’ll fill you up…” he groans again as I squeeze harder. “Shit.”

“You’ll fill me up?”


“You mean while you’re fucking me?”

He nods quickly, his breathing a harsh sound.

“We’ll see about that,” I whisper. “I didn’t come here to stare at your bedroom ceiling while you get off.”

He huffs a sharp laugh. “You don’t think I can get you off?”

I smile, and there is fire in it.


There is an olive-skinned man with eyes and hair the color of new coal, broad shoulders and big smile, teeth flashing as he talks to my father. He’s larger than me, than this room, than life.

“Isabella,” my father calls, beaming. “Come meet the man who’s going to represent Washington’s seventh congressional district.”

Father introduces all of his clients this way; this grandiose predictive title-mongering is one of the reasons he’s called The Kingmaker. It’s all about winning, he’d say. And he wins often.

The man next to him looks like another notch on the victory belt.

“Jacob, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Isabella.”

“It’s a pleasure,” he says easily, offering a large hand and a wide grin.

I shake his hand, and shiver inwardly. There’s a realness to him, a sureness and a savvy that pulls me in, and a reply with a quiet, “Nice to meet you.”

“Isabella is halfway through her senior year at Dartmouth,” my father says proudly. “Sharp as a tack.”

“What’s your major?” Black asks with a smile.

“I’m doubling. Psychology and Women’s Studies.”

“Our Bella’s off to law school next year,” Father crows, beaming. “We’ve just received her acceptance letter from Columbia.”

“Your alma mater,” Black notes. “I’m sure we’ll see great things from you, Isabella.”

I watch him the rest of the evening.

He is a tactile talker, punctuating his statements with casual, glancing touches on the arms of those around him. The people around him listen to him speak, enthralled, as my father looks on with barely-contained glee.

“The next JFK,” I hear him whisper to one of the men beside him, and the nodding his remark elicits is enthusiastic.

Congressional candidate Jacob Black is a masterful conversationalist and storyteller, and I am one of the many transfixed as he talks about political gridlocks, taxation and education, spending and unemployment. He is realism meets idealism, Svengali at work on the people in his vicinity and then some.

His touch brushes against my shoulder as he talks about the inefficiency of politics as they are, and the metal of his wedding band is ice on my feverish flesh.


Edward Cullen’s bedroom is everything I expected.

Hardwood floors. Black and white subway prints of artistic nudes and semi-nudes. Large mirror. A bed large enough to double as his sexual playground.

I look around, inhale and exhale. There are memories in this bed, phantom impressions of the bodies of other women, other hapless players in the scheme of his sexual conquests, and I’m about to exorcise them all.

He comes up behind me, hands on my hips, lips on my neck.

“Take off your clothes,” I command.

He pauses his assault on the skin above my shoulder, every inch of him balking.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there is,” he says into my skin, irritation evident in his tone. “How about a goddamn ‘please’?”

I turn around, stare at him until his gaze wavers.

“I’m not really into being bossed around,” he informs me.

“Is that right?”

He nods.

“Tell that to your cock,” I whisper, reaching down, squeezing his bobbing erection, reveling in his hiss of pleasure. “He seems to like it just fine.”

He glowers at me until I move my hand, up, down, stroke him again. I can see the small surrender in him the moment I’ve won.

“Take off your fucking clothes.”

He stares, glares. Hesitates. And obeys.


Father Brewer is a kind-looking man with a soft voice and small hands. He leaves the door open after ushering me into his office.

“High school can be very difficult,” he begins thoughtfully. “Your mother mentioned that you might need someone to talk to.”

“My mother thinks I’m crazy and she doesn’t want to be seen carting me into a psychiatrist’s office.”

He chuckles. “I’m sure your mother doesn’t think you’re crazy.”

I shrug.

“Your mother mentioned specifically that there are some issues regarding your relationships with boys.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“Tell me this, Isabella: do you feel a compulsion to follow or fixate on certain boys around you?”


“Be honest, child.”

“Father, I haven’t been to Mass since my father decided it was more politically profitable to be a Methodist. Also, I’m not a child, and I don’t lie.”

He sighs, looks down at the notepad in his lap. “Who is Tyler Crowley?”

I flinch, and he notices.


There is a rumpled pile of clothing on the floor bearing Brooks Brothers and Armani labels.

There is a discarded Rolex on the dresser.

There are the faint lights from the city that peer in through the windows.

There is a man, naked but for his black boxer briefs, standing in front of me.

I take my time letting my eyes rake up and down his body; I’ve waited too long to miss any detail of him. Tall frame, pale skin, broad shoulders that taper into a narrow waist and well-muscled thighs a runner’s body. He is fit, but not overtly muscular; the lean lines of his torso show the possible beginnings of yuppie excess: early morning meetings mean shorter runs, long hours mean too much time at the office, and his social life provides copious amounts of alcohol, late-night meals and lazy sex. He’ll have to work harder if he wants to keep his pretty muscle definition.

He’s turned on, but with every moment that passes, there is another war in his eyes. He thinks he still has decisions to make.

“Your turn,” he says, eyebrow cocked, as he stares meaningfully at my still-clad form. I smirk.

“Soon. Get on the bed.”

He sits immediately, his expression one of reluctance, but I can see how his cock jumps when I speak.

“Lie down,” I instruct.

“What, are you going to tie me up?”

“I will if you don’t stop talking like a petulant child,” I reply calmly. “Lie down.”

He does so, muttering something mutinous under his breath. He’ll pay for it later.

But there he is, stretched out, supine and susceptible, a slightly worried look on his face and the fire inside me roars with approval.

Take him.

Take him.

Take him.

I crawl onto the bed until I am above him on hands and knees, and the only thing touching him is my hair and the hem of my dress as gravity pulls it toward his skin. He stares up at me, his hard eyes and stubborn mouth transforming as he looks. See me, I want to whisper. You can see me.

“I see you,” I whisper, and his mouth opens to form words he doesn’t yet know.

My hands run down his arms to his wrists and I push at them until they’re pinned above his head, sinking down until his cock is cradled against my center. He whimpers.

He’s mine.

Panting, prone.

He’s mine.

“Please,” he breathes, and I am almost disappointed.


“Please stop torturing me,” he clarifies.

I smile. “Torturing you? How?”

“You know how,” he replies in a low voice.

“Mm. Tell me.”

“I want to fuck you,” he says boldly.

“I know.”

“You’re being a tease.”

“I haven’t even begun to tease you,” I laugh, relishing the frustration in his voice, on his face, and roll my hips against him.

“Baby he groans, and the word nicks a raw wound, a nerve in my chest.

Something inside screeches, shrieks indignantly.

I slap his mouth, and he recoils.

“The fuck?” he snarls.

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss, my fingers a vise on his chin as he attempts to look away. “Look at me. Don’t you dare address me with the same nickname you’ve given all the other sluts you’ve paraded in here for a quick fuck.”

His breathing whistles harshly through my hand as I hold his face firm, his eyes sharp, searching and wretched.

“Bella,” he says finally.

“That’s better. Stupid boy. It’s easier than learning names, and I’ll bet it works on them, doesn’t it? A few vague terms of endearment and they’re begging to suck you off. Isn’t that right?”

He does not answer, but the darkening of his gaze tells me he can’t think of anything to say.

“Am I right?” I ask again, and I grab one of his hands, beautiful hands, and guide it down, down, down to me, to where I’m dripping. I slide our hands beneath the lace of my underwear, smile as he breathes a low, long, “Fuck,” as he feels me.

His fingers gently probe, lightly stroke, and I exhale sharply at the sensation.

“Your women are too easy, Edward Cullen,” I whisper in his ear, nipping at the lobe. “They’re so happy just to have you look twice at them, do you know why?”

He doesn’t answer, and I raise my head to look at him. His eyes are wild, unfocused. “You’re so wet,” he breathes.

My fingers encircle his wrist, pull his hand away. “Open your mouth,” I command.

This time, he does not hesitate.

I lift his hand toward his mouth, watching him, watching his tongue dart out to lick his lips. “Taste that,” I tell him. “And enjoy it, because I don’t give it away for nothing. I’m more than some bitch you’ve picked up in a bar.”

His mouth opens, and I shove his fingers inside.

“Those women take what they can get from you because they don’t know their place. They don’t know how bland they are, how bored you are.”

He sighs against my fingers, eyes feral and hips rising to rub himself against me.

“Please,” he mumbles around my hand, thrusting futilely upward.

“I am your danger and your play,” I hiss. “And I’m going to make you work for it.”


The smell of the city assaults me as I step out of the car. I’m no bumpkin, but New York is new, and unlike London, Paris, or Washington. I feel free, cut loose, set adrift in the teeming sea of humanity and architecture looming on all sides.

A broken heart, my father said, but it feels more like wounded pride as I’m shuffled into the heart of the world on a short leash.

“Ms. Swan,” the doorman greets with a friendly smile. “I trust your trip was alright.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“My name’s Billy. Mr. Carlisle’s given me very strict instructions to make sure you have everything you need for the duration of your stay here.”

I frown. “Are you the concierge as well?”

“I’m whatever you need me to be, Ms. Swan,” he says with a wink. “Welcome to the Saranac.”


His hands stay above his head as I pull down his boxer briefs.

“You’re leaking,” I remark nonchalantly, eyeing his length as it juts upward against his abdomen. A flick of the wrist and his briefs are discarded to the pile on the floor.

“Tease,” he mumbles.

I smile, lifting my dress over my head. I can hear the quick intake of his breath. “Do you like thigh highs?” I ask conversationally. “I can leave them on.”

“Yes,” he whispers.

I climb back over him, straddling one of his thighs and scrutinizing his cock with a frown. “You’re too worked up for the little I’ve done to you.” My hand encircles his length, and I stroke him again as he sighs. “We’ve barely even started.”

“Oh, god…”

“I won’t even get to put you in my mouth, at this rate.”


“I hope you don’t come too soon.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he rasps, a weak smirk on his lips. “I’m going to tear your shit up.”

He screams when I slap his cock.


The light in my bedroom is on when I come home, and I tense.

The way my mother icily calls my name cements the dread in my gut, and I stop in the doorway, anger and fear warring in my chest.

“What are you doing in here?” I demand.

She stands up from the floor beside my bed, her face a mask of fury. “What the hell is this?” she spits, holding up the object in her hand, and I freeze.

“Put that down.”

“Explain yourself, young lady,” she commands coldly. “You’re too old for this. You know better.”

I shrug. “What I write in my journal is none of your concern.”

“How you treat your father’s clients is,” she angrily rejoins. “Why are you writing about Jacob Black?”


“Are you going to cry?” I ask incredulously, running his head up and down my slit.

“No,” Edward gasps. “Just… ah, fuck. Let me in.”

“Say my name,” I command. “Say my name and ask me nicely.”

“Bella,” he blurts, eyes frantic. “Bella, god, c’mon…”

I lightly pinch his foreskin, smiling at his started yelp. “Ask me,” I say again. “Nicely.”

Power and control.

Without it, he’s a fish out of water, gasping for air as he says, “Please, Bella, fuck me.”

I smile, line him up and begin to sink down, hiding the sudden wince from the motion. It’s been several months, and he’s larger than I’ve been used to.

I discover that the discomfort I feel is not mutual, and the pain of him recedes to the back of my mind as I watch him, head thrown back, mouth agape, eyes clenched shut in rapture as he pants my name like an invocation.

“Bella, Bella, Bella,” he breathes, and I’m one fantasy closer to owning him. He is everything right now, my prey and my prayer and my captive, my spoils of war, my conquered city and my friendly fire. I sink down even further and stare as he comes apart, panting and chanting my name and fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Tight,” he wheezes. “Holy fuck.”

I slide down more and he is in, home home home and the pain is pleasure as I flex, squeeze around him.


“Edward,” I grind out, the sound trial and triumph. “You have to know… I’m the best you’re ever going to have.”

“Bella,” he repeats dumbly, and I take it as assent.

His hands move hungrily to my hips, and I swat them away, pin them above his head again and he complies. He eyes my breasts hungrily as they sway above him, licks his lips and sighs, but minds his place and does not touch.

And then I move, I fuck him up and down and hard, watch him as he watches me, malachite and ivory and copper in a brilliant blur below. His sounds come steady, the fucks and Bellas and pleases and yesses, the whimpers and shouts and grunts and groans blending together into a magnificent cacophony of subjugation, of desperation.

I move my hand to his throat, but his arms stay above his head of his own volition, fists clenching and muscles flexing as my fingers savor the skin beneath his jaw. His eyes are turbulent, tempestuous and more than ever I can see him, see him, see him.

Passion, I think. Passion and more passion, and perhaps we’ll both die for it but—

“I’m going to come,” he warns.

“Not until I say,” I growl in response.

He shakes his head in agitation. “No, it’s… fuck… it’s too much…”

“Get your shit together,” I snarl, my own finish fast approaching, almost there and almost there and muscles begin to tighten around him. “Work for it.”

“Too much…” he repeats, but grits his teeth, determined and desperate and I continue to fuck him as hard as I can, and we are sweat and sex and sound as I gasp my release, gasp my consent for him to follow and he is captive and captivating as he howls, howls, bays at the sky like a lycanthrope loosed by the moon.

I am frozen above him, muscles locked as he shudders into me once more with a heavy groan.

And then there is only breathing.

Moments turn to minutes, and the minutes drift by slowly, dead leaves on a lazy river.

He is splayed out, soft inside me, arms akimbo and eyes closed as he pants, pants, pants. I am above him still, perched like a carrion bird above a carcass, wings in tatters, winded and weary and worn. This is his bareness and his beauty; in his exhaustion, he is transcendent.

Now, more than ever, I see him, and am mesmerized.

The fire inside is not yet gone, and embers flare at this thought:

He is mine.


You have a broken heart, my father tells me, before assuring me it will heal with time and distance both of which he is promptly providing.

“The Blacks are being more than accommodating right now, especially in light of this… indiscretion, Isabella,” he says sternly. “Make sure you remember that when making new friends.”

I nod. “I’ll remember to stay low-key.”

“Low-key is good. Invisible is better, though. Especially right now.”

I know this. Election cycles and the goodwill of politicians everywhere are the life’s blood of my father’s work. Powerful people in pretty places love the way the Charles Swan family looks.

Irreproachable, people have said. The family is simply perfect.

“There are only so many opportunities I can give you, Isabella,” he warns. “Do not waste this.”

I thank him again.

We stand in silence until Mother comes in to inform us that my car has arrived.


“Where are you going?” Edward asks.

He is still naked, uncovered and unashamed, his spent cock flaccid against his thigh, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat even after his light post-coital doze.

“You know where I’m going,” I reply, sliding into my shoe.

His scowl furrows the faint lines on his forehead. “Then may I ask why you’re going?”

“Because I don’t stay in places I do not want to be, and I no longer want to be here.”

The frown becomes a sulk. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Why? Because I’m leaving, or because I’m leaving before you ask me to do so?”

I head for the bedroom door, leaving him to his thoughts, to the heavy smell of sex that lingers in his room, to the dark.

“Bella,” he calls, and I turn around.

“I had a great time tonight,” he says, and he is watching my face for something weak, something wanton that will make me disrobe again and join him in that bed.

He does not find it.

“Of course you did,” I reply with a cool smile. “Good night.”


About hollelujah

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