Is it Possible to Love you More?

Rosalie and Bella are just friends with benefits. Until one of them wants something more.

It's always the same.

She'll come back from her long absences, smelling of sand, or sea, or ice, or of whatever damn exotic place she has gone to for her photo shoots. Her skin might be bronzed to perfection, or it might be her usual pale golden honey shades. And her hair might be cropped short as if someone angrily snatched up a handful of it and cut it off, or it might be done up in ringlets that curled down her neck gracefully like paint strokes on a canvas. She might even be wearing some new fashion style she has fallen in love with.

But she'll always be here for the same reasons.

She'll invite me to her place, a lavish mansion ridiculously too big for only she lives inside it's abandoned halls, and for a handful of days throughout the year. There she'll treat me to some high class imported wine and food, and give me the souvenir she has bought for me. And I'll oh, and ah at it, and actually appreciate it, not just saying my thanks to avoid looking ungrateful. And from then conversation will start. She'll tell me about her work. She'll show me the pictures of her latest magazine spread. Show me the pictures of her traveling the country sides in her free time. Show me the videos of her walking the runway. Show me the adventures she's had, painting the tales with her vivid words and sparkling recollections. She'll tell me about her latest conquests in bed and I'll try not to grimace and feel sick at her words, and at the beautiful men and women who had spent intimate moments with her.

She'll eventually segue into asking me about what I've been up to and I'll tell her. I'll tell her about my latest book sales, about local conventions, about some friend drama from our old friend group. About the cat I've adopted, about the next art classes I'm taking, about my ex trying to get back into my life. I love the way she pays attention to my words then, like I'm the only person in the world. And honestly I sometimes wish it was like that. Because then I know she could be mine and no one elses. But I don't dare to make such a selfish wish. I don't want to demand more of her than I already have, than she wants to give. Those who have tried to tame her, to claim her as theirs, are shot down and completely cut off. I don't want to lose what little she'll give me so I stay quiet and pretend like this arrangement we have isn't slowly eating me alive.

Conversation slows down to a trickle. I glance at the clock. It's nine pm now. It's always nine pm when it truly starts: the reason for her inviting me over. She'll set her glass down in the exact same manner and her eyes will grow darker and I've already memorized her words, saying them to myself in the dark of my bed when she's gone as I imagine she's here and that it's her fingers touching me and not mine.

"Come upstairs with me."

And her words flip the arousal switch in me and I'm already wet and wanting as I slowly go after her. She takes her time going up the stairs, long fingers caressing the banister, hinting at what is to come. As if she needs to seduce me. She doesn't. I'm already hers and only hers but she doesn't know. She unlocks the bedroom door and a sweet floral scent comes out. Out of all the rooms in her vastly unused mansion, it's the bedroom and the bathroom of which she takes the most care in upkeeping. Because that's where she likes to fuck me the most.

I'm quiet as I enter the room with her, shutting the door shut. She's undressing slowly, shirt, pants, and undergarments slipping off in a teasing display. The muscles under her skin flex, long shapely legs are revealed, and her breasts bounce free of their cages, soft and begging to be tasted. I watch her, mouth dry, waiting patiently for her to undress me next. I don't dare break the process she has going on, because she may have brought me a gift to unwrap, but I will be the gift she's unwrapping.

She rips off my clothes impatiently, hands immediately seeking out my breasts and squeezing them as her lips attack my mouth. I moan at her touch, shivering in the cold air of her room. Her lips are everywhere, nipping and sucking at my skin, hands scratching paths down my back. There is a hunger in her eyes and I want to feed her.

She's rough as she pulls me into bed. She's rough as she eats me out. She's rough as she thrusts into me with her fingers, nails biting into my jerking hips to hold me down. Rough as she makes me climax not once, or twice, but thrice.

She doesn't let me touch her.

Not the first night she comes back.

This night is about her, about letting out all her pent up sexual frustrations. I'm the only one she can reveal her true desires in bed too. The only one who won't judge her for it. Won't say no. And that's why I'm her favorite sex toy. I don't mind it, except when I do. But those feelings of longing and wishful thinking to be something more only arrive much later, when she's done spending her time with me and is off fucking other people for the fun of it. She knows she can do it because I won't leave her. And when she comes back wanting to try out some new move or fetish she's acquired, I let her. I let her ruin me, my innocence, with her every touch.

And I love every damn second of it.

When she's done ravaging me for the night, she'll pull the covers over us and pull me into a warm embrace, chest to chest, legs twined together. We never talk much during sex, or after it. We've done this so long that we can just automatically pick up on what the other wants in bed by body language and moans alone.

I drift off first that first night, tired by the way she has forcefully shaped and coaxed and marked my flesh to her liking. Taken ownership of it. And I'll wake up afterwards in the middle of the night, shivering in the cold dark room, the sheets where she was empty. I know where she is next and what she's doing and I'll pad out to the balcony, finding her there in a thin bathrobe, hair glowing silver in the moonlight.

Smoke curls up and from her mouth, and I'll go stand by her, wrapping the sheets from the bed around me tightly to stave off the chill.

And I'll say just like always, "smoking is bad for you. I wish you wouldn't do it."

And her answer will always be, "this is my last one."

Except it never is.

I'll watch her smoke for a while, words bubbling in my mind, forming on my tongue, making my hand twitch with the urge to write.

i wish you wouldn't smoke

the stench of terrible diseases

curls and floats up with the white sheets vapor that comes from your mouth

do you smoke because of the bright embers at the end?

do they make you feel warm?

comforted?

I could do the same

and with far less worse consequences

I've written so many poems about her that have gone unpublished. Some are scandalous and intimate, others depressive and downright suicidal. And some I can take and reword so that they seem to be about some guy. Those I can sell, those I need to sell. Those are the painful ones, the ones that if I don't get out and share with others, will be my funeral. But the others, the sweet loving ones, I keep locked up and close to my tender heart. I wonder if she notices that the guy in my poems is most often her? They share the same hobbies, the same talents, and I fear one day if I keep writing, unconsciously my feelings will become too obvious, bleed out on paper, and she will leave me.

She finishes smoking and flicks the stub to the ground below. I think there must be a cementary for cigarettes down in those bushes. A fitting comparison. Each cigarette she smokes is like a lover she uses and then tosses away to rot in apathy. I wonder which cigarette will be me; how many more packs till I reach the end of my usefulness?

This time when we crawl into bed it is only to sleep. I don't bother to leave her house when it is the next day. It's the weekend and since we both know I have nothing better to do because I always clear my schedule for her, and that she has time off from work, we can fuck all we want. This time it's my turn to do what I will with her.

I'm gentle and caring, tongue and lips soft and slow, savoring every last drop and gasp that spills from her. Where she used her tongue to ravish me unabashedly, I use mine bashfully. I check every crevice thoroughly and with a thoughtfulness. Her climaxes aren't violently jerked out of her, but meticulously pieced together, like a puzzle. And when she sees the full painting only then does she cum, hard enough to shatter it. And then I have to rebuild it again.

Maybe next time I'll tune her like a song; make her voice reach a glorious crescendo, a cacophony of pleasure. Or maybe I'll make her a jumble and collection of words she can't pronounce, clawing desperately at my back like she can somehow write them into my skin.

I always make sure to take my time with her, to treat her body like the art it is.

She calls me a huge tease. I call her a philistine.

The second night is mine.

She is the first one to drift off this time, in our warm embrace under the covers, turned docile and weak kneed at my ministrations. When she is asleep only then do I feel brave enough to trace my poems about her into her skin with gentle fingertips. I swoop fast for commas, and linger over a spot for periods. She doesn't stir at my sweet unspoken sentiments. They don't get through to her.

I don't think they ever will.

And when the morning breaks after our second night together, we say our goodbyes and go on back to our normal lives.

I go to write my books and she goes to walk her catwalks.

We pretend those nights never exist. That those touches never happened. That we're just friends. We never speak about it because to do so means its something more than just sex. Neither of us wants that complication; wants to ruin the balance of this relationship. Except I do. I just don't have the courage to do it.

And so I wait again for her to come back from her long trips so we can be weekend lovers before we become friends once more. And I wait again. And again.

The cycle continues.

It's always the same.

A/N: Wanted to try a new writing style. Usually (all) my stories are slow burn but its established here that Rosalie and Bella are already sleeping with each other. Don't know where my muse will take me with this. Hopefully somewhere good.

I kept who is who purposely vague that way you guys can decide who gets to be the character in love. I may or may not reveal who it actually is later on.