Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended. The rest of the story is mine.

This piece was written for the Truly Anonymous Contest. What I'm posting here is an edited version of the one that was submitted for the contest. I was lucky enough to win the anniversary draw at Emergency Beta Service and the prize was having two betas edit a chapter or one-shot.

Marly580 grabbed the reins and ran with my story, getting it back to me in record time so I wouldn't miss the submission deadline. Wednesday Addams took that entry and helped me make it more powerful and succinct. Her commitment to this story and to the beta process was unparalleled. Raum came onboard to help with the Italian passages. I just want to thank all three of them. Each, in their own way, made this story better, and made me a better writer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Destino

"Scusi."

He turns his head and finds a slim brunette looking at him expectantly. With no desire to speak to anyone, he ignores her and goes back to his coffee. He can't be bothered to put effort into anything but self-pity.

"Do you speak English?" she tries again, a hint of pleading in her tone. If she senses the intentional slight, she doesn't let on.

"Se ti parlo italiano, spero te ne andrai." He doesn't answer her question. Instead, he tells her that he's going to speak Italian to her in the hope that she'll go away. He omits the fact that he speaks fluent English, that it's his native language as a born and bred American. She's attractive; he hates himself for noticing.

"Il mio hotel è scomparso." She struggles to piece together the Italian she knows because she needs his help. She can't find her hotel, but in her attempt to convey this she tells him her hotel has gone missing.

He snorts in derision, mocking her innocent mistake despite knowing what she meant. She's stupid in his eyes, nothing more than one of the thousands of annoying tourists who descend upon the city in high season—which in Venice lasts almost all year. All she represents is an opportunity to make someone else feel as shitty as he does.

"Non mi sono accorto che hanno demolito un edificio oggi. Dev'essere stata l'esplosione più silenziosa della storia di Venezia." He ridicules her by saying he didn't realize that a building was demolished that day, that it must have been the quietest explosion in the history of Venice, and laughs loudly. The sound is so harsh, she flinches.

"Sorry. I speak very little Italian, and poorly at that." She nods apologetically and takes a step back as her cheeks begin to colour. She feels foolish, grasping the sardonic tone of his message without understanding the words. His beauty appealed to her from a distance, but it's tempered by the sadness she sees in his eyes. She won't judge him for his treatment of her, too forgiving for her own good. "Sorry for bothering you. Scusi."

He rolls his eyes at her, pretending the irritation he feels is due to her compunction, but deep down, he recognizes it's himself he's angry with. He's being a dick to her, he knows. But it's because she reminds him of home, and that only reminds him of why he's not there—and the father who's manipulated every important decision of his life. He's miserable and homesick, but by overseeing this engineering contract for his father's company, he hopes to earn his approval, something he's been fighting to gain for as long as he can remember. At this point, he'd settle for his respect.

He watches her turn and walk away, finally allowing himself to really look at her. She has the most amazing dark-brown hair. It shimmers in the sunlight as if adorned with rubies, and stops just above her ass, emphasizing the most spectacular part of her body. Her self-effacement makes him suspect she has no idea how beautiful she is, and that kind of humility makes him curious.

"Aspetta!" Instinct compels him out of the chair. He calls out to her to wait and goes after her without really thinking about what he's doing.

He arrives at her side, and she fixes him with an appraising look before she speaks. "You've already had your fun at my expense. I'm not talking to you until you speak English. Nice try, but you're as American as I am. Although, I have to say, the accent is pretty impressive."

"What gave it away?" he asks, nervously pushing his hands into his pockets. He feels exposed. Even more, he feels like an idiot for assuming she was stupid and incompetent.

"Your clothes, your hair, your bored expression. You don't exactly blend, and only someone who's been everywhere and seen everything would be bored in St. Mark's Square."

"That's Piazza San Marco," he corrects in a perfect accent, being a smart-ass on purpose. It's second nature to him. "And I haven't been everywhere or seen everything. I've just seen enough of this place to last me a lifetime."

"How can you say that? There's so much history and culture here." She takes in his skeptical expression and continues. "Even if none of that matters to you, this has to be the best people-watching spot in the universe. Let's face it, laughing at strangers is kind of your thing."

He hates that she's so observant, that she sees through him so easily. Vulnerability is like a poison thanks to the lessons his father's taught him. Yet, he can't help but be impressed. He can't remember the last time someone understood him so quickly or fully. He's intrigued by her.

"It's not very much fun to laugh all alone," he says matter-of-factly, hoping she'll get that he wants her to stay. "I'm Edward, by the way. Current Venice resident, hater of St. Mark's Square, and alone despite being wickedly charming and good-looking."

"Don't forget modest," she adds. He's grinning at her, and it's completely contagious. He's not exaggerating about his looks or charm. She's already forgotten his refusal to help her, and all it took was one crooked curve of his lips. He's all mahogany hair and pale skin, with piercing eyes that seem a different shade of green every time she looks at him. And she looks every chance she gets.

"You didn't say who you were." He's leading her, trying to make her open up. Normally he's better at reading people, but she holds her cards too close to her chest for his liking.

"No, I didn't."

"And you're not going to." It's a question and a statement.

"Does it matter who I am?" Surely he doesn't want to know the boring details of her life. She's lived in the shadow of other people for too long, and just this once she wants to be who she is right now. Free, alive, in the moment.

The way she looks at him makes him believe she's as interested as he is, but her dodges suggest otherwise, and he takes them as a rebuff. If she doesn't want to tell him her name, she probably doesn't want to know him. It must be her politeness that keeps her in the conversation.

"No, I suppose it doesn't. Describe your hotel, and I'll give you the directions." He masks the dejection in his voice with civility, something he's mastered with considerable practice. So much of his life has been about obligation, putting on a dignified air and doing what's expected of him. He doesn't like slipping into that fakery with her.

"Does that mean you're going to make sure I get home safely?" She looks away as she speaks, smiling at the ground instead of him. Feeling recently released from the "shoulds" of her life, she realizes she wants to be near him, and the force of the feeling surprises her.

"Your home is on the other side of the world, isn't it? I don't think I can get you there, but finding your hotel is a sure bet." He's not certain what she's implying with her question, whether she's teasing him about earlier or asking him for help again. He hopes she'll tell him where she's from rather than keep deflecting.

"Home is where the heart is," she says. She's irritated at her own evasions, but too afraid that who she is won't be interesting enough to hold his attention. He's worldly and sophisticated. She's a small-town girl who'd never been out of her home state until a few weeks ago.

Disappointed that she won't tell him anything, he's inadvertently short with her. "If you say so. Do you want my help or not?"

His inflection warns that she's crossed some kind of line with him, but it's the way his eyes harden that confirms his mood-swing. She doesn't know how to lighten the mood, but she wants to try.

"Maybe… maybe not," she teases, just as an oblivious tourist bumps into her. She stumbles and reaches out for Edward. He's faster, his hands around her waist before she can fall.

"I think maybe you do…" He speaks quietly, willing her to agree. When she doesn't respond, he continues. "Besides, you've already accepted it." He squeezes her waist to remind her, then releases his hold.

She grins at him, and gestures to the piazza. "Show me your Venice." It's a dare, and she's counting on him to take it. She wants to see what the city means to him. It's such a beautiful place. He can't hate everything about it.

For a moment, he doesn't know what to think. She's a mystery, and he wants to solve her. Once he realizes she's finally given him the leverage he's been after, he arches an eyebrow at her, fighting a triumphant smile. "On one condition… you have to give me your name."

She closes her eyes and blushes. "Bella."

"Of course," he mocks playfully. He's not sure he believes her, but the name suits her perfectly. "Are you ready to see the real Venice?"

Bella nods, inwardly congratulating herself on the decision to blow off her tour group today. She adores their guide, Jessica, from UW's Italian department, but J's husband, Mike, has been starting to get on her nerves.

Edward holds out his hand. She takes it, and they set off. In his excitement, he's practically dragging her, overlooking her inability to match the gait of his long legs. She laughs and rushes to keep up.

They start at St. Mark's Basilica, which he describes as a masterpiece of Byzantine architecture. He points out the arches and marble columns, and directs her gaze to the carvings around the main doorway. When she mentions she likes the bronze doors, he sweeps her inside to show her the vivid metallic and stone mosaics that decorate the domed ceilings. She takes in the magnificence and listens to him explain the details, as he draws her attention to his favourite parts.

The bell tower is next: Campanile di San Marco. They climb the Campanile all the way to the belfry and look out over the city. The view is breathtaking, and Bella squeezes Edward's hand to say thank you, too filled with awe to break the silence. He points out the bells and describes what each sound means, including the execution bell. When he jokes that he wants to ring it, just to see what happens, she giggles and pulls him away while he pretends to resist.

Wanting to escape the crowds, Edward has a boat owner he knows ferry them to the nearby island of San Giorgio Maggiore. He takes her to the Cini Foundation Arts Centre where a friend of his gets them into the library. The collection of manuscripts thrills her, and while she's looking, Edward wanders over to the music scores. She sees the reverence he has for them and asks if he's musical.

He smiles wistfully. "Not any longer."

When they return to St. Mark's, he does something he never would have imagined, approaching the cluster of gondoliers who lie in wait for sentimental tourists. He has a quiet word with one of them, then takes Bella's hand to help her into the boat, slipping some cash to the gondolier as he follows her in.

They float along the canals while Edward points out specific buildings. He explains the differences between the fondaco houses and grander palazzos, drawing her attention to the detailed friezes and capitals. When he contrasts the older Byzantine elements with Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and Neoclassical styles with ease, she realizes he has a greater than average knowledge of architecture. The passion in his voice is unmistakable, and the way his face brightens as he speaks makes the angry young man of the piazza a fading memory.

As they approach the Ponte dei Sospiri, he reveals his ulterior motive. "This is the Bridge of Sighs. Local legend has it that lovers who kiss as their gondola passes beneath the bridge at sunset are granted eternal love and happiness."

He has turned to speak to her, and they're close enough for him to feel her warm breath upon his cheek. Only his doubts about what she wants prevent him from kissing her. He wants to, so badly.

She wonders if she should wait for him to make a move, but his perfect mouth is too close to resist. She closes the space between them.

"But we're not lovers," he says, wishing they were as they pull apart.

"It's not quite sunset either, but it can't hurt. Besides, I'm not superstitious." She smiles at him, then looks away.

When the ride is over, they stop at Edward's favourite café. She asks him to order for them both, and he does so without looking at the menu, noticing how her eyes smoulder when he speaks Italian. They share the dishes, talking and laughing, exchanging brief touches from time to time. His yearning grows inside him.

Darkness begins to creep in around them, but neither acknowledges it. This is the beginning of something—a crossroads—and they both feel it, but time is the enemy.

Finally, he takes her face in his hands, searching for the right words. He wants her like he's never wanted anyone, but it's not just physical. There is something about her that is so alive, so different from what he's become, and he covets it like an addict. He wants a piece of it for himself, to take it in and let it loose inside his broken soul so that he can feel that alive for even a few moments.

"Bella, I…"

"Do you trust me?" she asks. Her hands are shaking, but she knows what she wants.

"Yes," he replies, confused by her question, but certain of the answer.

As they leave the café, she takes his hand and walks with renewed purpose. They pause as they pass the Correr Museum, and wrapping his arms around her from behind, he turns her towards it. His lips brush against the shell of her ear and press a kiss to it as he whispers, "Museo Correr." His breath on her skin makes her shiver. She stands stock-still, waiting, hoping, wanting more. So much more.

"They have a wonderful collection of Antonio Canova's work. Perhaps you've seen photos of his 'Cupid and Psyche'? He's one of the great sculptors of his time; his marble nudes are unparalleled."

She gathers her courage. "Come on."

There's a shop to the left of the museum that she's been in already, so she knows it has what she needs. Stopping in front of the condom display, she points to a popular brand, hoping it might be the one he uses. It's easier to ask him this way.

His heart skips a beat once he understands what she's doing. It's exactly what he wants but not what he expected. He slides her hand over to a textured variety promising female pleasure, so she'll know he wants it to be good for her. She shakes her head and reaches for a box of super-thins. She wants him as close as he can be.

She isn't afraid when she whispers the name of her hotel in his ear. Going there no longer means her time with him is over.

They weave through the streets, breathless and giggling, stumbling like they're drunk. In some ways they are—drunk with anticipation, with excitement.

They're two opposing forces when they enter her room. She's rushing, undoing buttons while she forces her tongue into his mouth and uses her body weight to urge him toward the bed. He's gentleness and patience, covering her hands, and doing his best to hold her close as she squirms away. He's torn between giving in to what she wants—what he ultimately wants, too—and slowing things down. He fears if he hurries through, what he's feeling will disappear before he has a chance to figure out what it means, and that he'll have to let her go that much quicker.

He is transfixed as she peels off her clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a pile. She pauses for a moment, meeting his gaze as she reaches back to unhook her bra. He walks over to her, and she pulls him down onto the bed.

"You're taking away my fun," he grumbles, only partially joking. The sight of her half-naked is already driving him crazy. She'll be irresistible completely nude. He needs to control the situation before it controls him. "Leave the rest to me, or I'm out of here," he mock-threatens.

She knows he's playing, but she's more than willing to go along with his demands now that he's so close. His hard body pins her to the mattress authoritatively, and she's keenly aware of how much she likes it. If he were to spread her thighs, he'd find she's already wet enough to fuck.

He pulls her hands above her head, not entirely comfortable with the position he's got her in. He's not into domination and certainly doesn't want her to feel submissive, but he needs the distraction, a brief pause so he can touch her the way he wants to. He knows he can make her forget that she ever wanted to rush.

Without breaking eye contact, he secures her wrists with one hand and uses the other to draw a path down her body. He slowly drags his fingertips across her collarbone and along her shoulder to her side, barely grazing her breast as he passes it on the way to her hip. She's silent as she tries to process the sensations without being consumed by them, but the way she moves tells him he's on the right track.

She relaxes underneath him, and his body further molds to hers. It's almost too much, too fast. She's all softness and curvy curves—more than he'd imagined she'd be. He buries his face in her neck, trying to calm his thundering heartbeat, but it's in vain. The warmth of her skin is melting his resolve.

"You don't know what you're doing to me," he murmurs. She brushes her cheek against his in response. She wants to touch him, but he still has her arms pinned.

As if he can read her mind, he releases his grip on her wrists, and her hands settle on his torso, tracing the lines of his back. Every caress makes him feel less solid, less like himself, and more like something he doesn't recognize.

"This needs to come off." She gets two of his shirt buttons open before he sits back on his heels to help. The shirt discarded, he offers his fly to her, more than willing to take off his pants on his own, but hoping she'll want to do it for him.

She feels like her behaviour is too forward as she tugs his jeans down, even though she realizes how ridiculous it is that wanting him inside her makes her feel nothing of the sort. The conflicting feelings confuse and distract her, planting a tiny seed of doubt somewhere deep inside her soul.

Her blushing cheeks are beautiful, but worrisome. He'd give anything to know what she's thinking. The negative filter he sees the world through contaminates his thoughts until he's so afraid of the answers, he won't ask the questions that plague him. Instead, he watches her face for hints and quietly asks if she's okay.

The answer to his simple question has never been so complicated. She's more than okay in some ways, less in others, so she nods and gives him a reassuring smile.

He debates for a second before he finishes undressing, but then decides he'd rather not have to stop to take off his boxers later.

Their bodies come together. She fits perfectly—it's like a taunt—and their parts line up in the most dangerous way. His hips move against hers, granting and seeking friction. He knows he shouldn't, but it feels so good. If not for her panties, he'd be pushing into her already.

With every kiss, she's wordlessly begging him to take her. She can feel his hard cock pressed right where she wants it, and as good as it feels, she'd sooner have him inside her. Each moment that passes makes her more doubtful that it will happen at all. She can't figure out why he's stalling, and fears he's having second thoughts. She knows she should ask, but she won't. It would be like giving him an out. If he'd rather stop, he needs to find the courage to say it. She's never been more certain about what she wants.

He shifts to the side a little, so his weight doesn't crush her, and slides a finger over her nipple. It pebbles under his touch, and he watches the rose-coloured flesh struggle against the lace, then pulls the cup down to free it. He quickly sucks her nipple into his mouth. She arches her back and writhes against him. When she's sure he can't make the pleasure any more intense, he adds his teeth, pinching her delicate skin until it's just this side of painful.

Drifting in a haze of lust, she's almost incoherent. She can't remember how he got her bra off, only knows it's gone. He continues his torture, and she can barely breathe though the sensations. It's too much and not enough, and God, she's never been so horny.

"Touch me," she pleads, reaching for his cock.

He curses when her hand wraps around him. He's either forgotten how good it feels, or she has magic in her fingers, because it only takes a few pumps to bring him to the brink. If it weren't so embarrassing to lose control so quickly, he'd let her finish him right then and there. Stopping her feels almost sacrilegious and is against every instinct he has but pride. The only upside is that prolonging his release will make it that much stronger.

He slides lower, out of her reach. She whimpers in frustration, but stifles her complaint when he spreads her legs and settles between them. He's turned on that she's watching. He has every intention of maintaining eye contact while he goes down on her.

He runs the tip of his nose down the centre of her sheer boyshorts, then traces the same path with two fingertips. He realizes she's completely bare. The delicate fabric leaves little doubt, but he slides a finger to the inside of her thigh and pushes it under the lace for proof. It's his undoing. She's lusciously fleshy and warm, and he wants in.

Her panties are shed roughly and crudely, but once his tongue plunges inside her, she couldn't care less whether they're still in one piece. His stormy eyes hold hers. The sadness she saw earlier is gone. Though she can't name the emotion she sees in them now, she enjoys the weight of his stare. It makes her feel sexy and desired.

She's so responsive. The way she moves—as though her whole body is ignited by his fingers and tongue—tells him she's completely unabashed to be with him. It's hard not to get lost in her. Each time her eyes flutter closed, he softly coaxes her to open them. He needs that connection, that reassurance, that intensity between them.

Her hands slide into his hair, grasping it and pulling him in to her with each thrust of his tongue. She's so close that her thighs are shaking. With a loud moan, she shifts slightly, searching out the extra stimulation to push her over the edge.

He senses her desperation and closes his mouth around her. The contact makes everything fall into place; the circling of his tongue, the pressure of his lips, connecting with her in exactly the right way. She cries out when the sensations overwhelm her, tensing and arching her back as her orgasm takes hold. Her eyes gaze into his until the moment she comes, and it thrills him that she does this.

As soon as she relaxes, he crawls up the bed so he can hold her. He feels jubilant when she cuddles into his chest. She rests in his arms while she catches her breath, woozy and weak in the best sort of way.

She's satisfied but not sated, and begins to kiss his neck when she's ready to return the favour. He doesn't move, unwilling just yet to disturb the intimacy and contentment of having her so close, but his mind and body aren't on the same page. His cock can't ignore the feel of her lips on his skin or the press of her body against his.

"I want you," she whispers, stroking him to make herself perfectly clear.

He moans and focuses on her touch, enjoying it for a minute, before reaching for the box of condoms. Once he rolls one on, she notices his pink cheeks.

"It's been a while," he mutters, eyes cast downward.

She doesn't want him to feel embarrassed. In a weird way, she'll be flattered if her body's too much for him. She pushes him back and climbs on top of him. His face reflects his curiosity and confusion.

"Just let me."

For a moment he worries that she thinks him incapable, but then realizes she's trying to help. And he can't deny the view is superb. He puts his hands on her hips when she lowers her mouth to his chest. He likes the way she feels under his fingers, and a sense of belonging washes over him. It's not real—he knows this—but, for now, he'll pretend that it is.

She's doing everything right: the lightness of her touch, the places she touches, the warmth each touch leaves behind. Whether it's the roll of her hips, the arch of her back, or the soft slip of her skin against his, the way her body moves is so erotic to him. It takes everything in him to keep from trembling underneath her, and he's barely holding it together.

It's too bad he's already put the condom on. She'd like to put her mouth on him. Oral normally isn't her favourite pastime, but he makes her want to perfect the skill. She likes the idea of his hands in her hair, guiding her back and forth, and imagines the way his silky skin would feel against her tongue.

She touches every inch of skin between his thighs and his navel—everywhere but where he craves it. When her tongue presses into the grooves low on his abs, he grabs her by the shoulders and flips her over. He's on her within seconds, the tip of his cock pressed against her entrance, his eager eyes searching hers for the go-ahead. She does him one better, pushing her hips up slowly, so he sinks into her.

He quietly swears. She feels so good wrapped around him that he grabs the headboard to channel the rush, fearing he'll lose control. Even the idea of letting go and really fucking her is dangerous because of how it toys with his desire. He pushes it out of his mind. He focuses on the movement of her hands as they caress his sides, and the gentle brush of her lips against his neck. Once their eyes meet, they lock. She's the only thing he wants to see.

He moves slowly, savoring every bit of the delicious friction. It's a struggle to keep the pace unhurried; being so close to her messes with his resolve. Not only does he not want it to be over, he knows this may be his only chance with her. He's been told he's good in bed, but he's not trying to wow her. He just wants her to remember being with him, to leave some lasting impression, as she has on him.

She's never felt so out-of-body. She feels him everywhere, all at once, as if time has slowed down, making each second distinct and distinguishable from every other, as if each cell in her body has its own brain and the ability to process touch and emotion. Every press of his hips brings on a new round of pleasure that streams all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

He eases her thighs up, bending his knees and sitting on his heels. The urge to pull her legs over his shoulders is strong, but he doesn't want to make her feel like a slut. It's about making her feel good, and he knows how deep she'll take him in this position. She moans softly when he presses forward.

He gradually quickens the pace, his eyes holding hers. It's the only way he can share what he's feeling; words won't do it justice.

No man has ever made her come during sex, so her second orgasm sneaks up on her. His deep strokes hit her in just the right spot until she explodes. White light flashes behind her eyelids as the waves of bliss wash over her, one after another.

Her orgasms are as beautiful as she is. Now that he's seen one up close and personal, he thinks he'd like them to be his life's work. It would be more fulfilling than any job he'd be paid for, and stellar compared to the life he's stuck in. The 'if onlys' trickle into his consciousness, but he refuses to let them distract him from his time with her. He can waste the rest of his life on regrets. This moment is theirs, and he wants it to last as long as possible.

He leans forward and kisses her, pressing her thighs into the mattress as he rocks against her, barely moving. He wants to make the moment last, but he's so close. She whispers in his ear. Words she's never said out loud. He groans and squeezes his eyelids shut. When she wraps her legs around his waist and takes him in deeper, he can't control himself any longer. He slips his arms under her shoulders, gripping them tightly to brace her body, and thrusts with abandon. He's never known this kind of intensity, let alone shared it with another human. He didn't think it existed.

His name leaves her mouth sounding like a plea, and he's done for. He comes so hard that he loses all sense of his surroundings, holding her so firmly it leaves marks on her skin. She watches, enthralled, as he goes over the edge. She's never felt so connected, so complete.

Emotional and choked up, he presses kiss upon kiss to her shoulder, whispering hushed apologies for hurting her, for losing control and fucking her so frantically. He kisses her everywhere, coming back time and again to the marks on her skin that are sure to become bruises. She shushes him and asks him to hold her. She wants the refuge of his arms; she's not ready to let him go yet. Just this once she'll be indulgent and leave the world on the other side of the door for a little while longer.

She settles against him, and the weight of her body next to his floods him again with that sense of belonging. He loses himself in the feeling, imagining that she is his. The notion makes him so content that he drifts off, and soon after, she follows.

He can't remember ever sleeping so soundly, and when he wakes with Bella in his arms, there's no doubt why. It's early, before 6:00 AM, and he's already thinking about letting her go. He knows he has to, but has no idea how he's going to do it.

The alarm on her phone goes off some time around 6:30. He tries to shut it off, but fails. Startled awake, she grabs the phone out of his hand to stop the noise. She tells him she hates getting up, and when he suggests there's no need, she reluctantly admits that she has to leave in a couple of hours.

He's crestfallen. He'd hoped he would have the day, or at least the morning. Two hours is barely enough time to say goodbye.

They hurry through showers. He watches from the vanity, unsettled and withdrawn, as she rinses her hair. Before she finishes, he pushes his way in behind her. There's barely enough room for one, but he doesn't care.

She tries to focus on the comfort of being in his arms, but the way his insistent cock presses against her ass is distracting. The condoms are in the other room, and she doesn't want to pull away from him to go get them. Instead, she drops to her knees and takes him in her mouth.

The sight of her lips wrapped around him is almost worth the fact that she's too far away to touch. He'd rather get her off, but he can tell she wants this by the way she moves his hands to her hair and demonstrates what she wants him to do. He won't fuck her mouth, especially not after last night's loss of control, so he whispers how good it feels and lets her lead.

She watches his reactions as she experiments with her tongue to learn what he likes. He moans loudly when she takes him as deep as she's able. She's so turned on by the way his ass flexes, his hips moving unconsciously to match her rhythm. When he comes, he pulls away, but he's a beat too late. Most of his semen spills on the tile. The small amount she swallows leaves a reminder that he's been in her mouth.

He steps from the shower and grabs a fresh towel, tenderly drying her off before leading her back to the bedroom. He lies down in the middle of the bed and pulls her body over his, maneuvering her until her knees rest on either side of his head. Now that she understands what he wants to give her, she slowly lowers herself onto his mouth.

The position makes her feel dirty in the sexiest way. She's not quiet or shy while he pleasures her. He pinches her nipples and squeezes her ass, running his hands all over her body, but it's the way he finally entwines their fingers that really gets her. She clamps his head between her thighs as she comes. She doesn't see stars, but that's probably because she's beyond comprehension, so thoroughly tongue-fucked that her brain can't recall the shape.

They lie on the mattress, spent, avoiding the inevitable until a chirp from her phone brings them crashing back to Earth. Without reading the text, she explains it's a warning about meeting the tour bus on time.

He shrouds his dismay in a smile and gathers himself to focus on the time he has left. Running a hand under her hair, he curls it around her neck and kisses her softly before getting up to dress.

She stares at his naked ass, his beautifully chiseled back, his strong legs, watching them disappear under clothing she now resents. Nothing feels right. Under the pretext of brushing her teeth, she rushes to the bathroom to hide the sudden tears in her eyes. Once she can control herself, she rejoins him, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt.

He thinks of telling her not to go. Instead, he helps her pack, checking the room for anything she might have left behind. He has no claim on her; he never did. If she knew him and what his life was like, she wouldn't choose to stay. He wouldn't either, if the choice were his. He won't saddle her with his misery.

They drop off her suitcase and start to walk, neither ready for the goodbye. Watching her leave will bring him to his knees. He leads her in the opposite direction with a particular place in mind.

Bella follows Edward without a word. She knows she shouldn't wander too far, but secretly hopes it will be far enough to make her miss her bus. Sharing this thought might make him laugh and break the tension between them, but she keeps it to herself. Her time with him was never about keeping him, nor was he ever hers to keep.

They don't walk far, a few blocks at most. It's early, and the sunlight is breaking just above the buildings, making everything glow orange. On a different day, it would make him feel warm and hopeful, but he knows it's an illusion. Hiding his dejection has become impossible. Each second that ticks away brings him that much closer to the end; he's all too aware how near it is.

They reach the Rialto Bridge, and Edward whispers "Ponte di Rialto," wanting to see her eyes smoulder one last time, to know again that he can affect her. It doesn't make him feel the way he thought it would, or perhaps he simply can't get past the sorrow of what is about to happen. To delay their imminent farewell, he begins rattling off the bridge's history and architectural facts, at least until he sees the frown on her face.

"It's time." She bites her lip to keep the tears at bay and squeezes his hands lightly. He won't look at her. She senses this is hard for him, and doesn't want to make it harder. Pushing up onto her toes, she kisses both his cheeks—as she's seen so many Italians do—and murmurs her goodbye close to his ear. She hesitates to give him a chance to say something, then lets him go and starts back in the direction they came from.

"Bella, wait!" he calls. He knows his question will only make their goodbye more difficult, but he has to know. A few quick steps and he's beside her. She walks on a little and sits on the top step of some stairs. He folds in beside her and takes her hand.

She waits patiently for him to speak, wondering if the pattern he's drawing on her knuckles is all he's capable of.

"Do you regret it?" he asks softly.

She pauses to hide her emotions. "Not one minute."

"And if you could do it again..."

"I'd do it again and again and again."

"You don't think... I mean, if we—"

"It would have been amazing," she tells him, cutting him off. In a different time or place, they might have had a chance, but she can't hang on to an unrealistic dream, not when what she shared with him was already a dream come true.

"I wish..."

"Me, too."

Her answer makes him smile. As much as he would have liked to make plans, he's not in a position to. Getting a definitive answer about her feelings would have been preferable, but knowing that what happened between them means something to her is enough.

He glances at his watch. "You'd better run or you'll miss your bus. I'm going this way." He points toward the San Polo district and gets to his feet, brushing off his jeans. He leans in and places a tender kiss upon her forehead, and then he's gone.

She looks over her shoulder and watches him walk away until he disappears from view. Even though every cell in her body is screaming at her to go after him, she doesn't. Her tears fall freely. They might never have had a future and he might never have been hers, but her heart is broken all the same.

xxx

After getting in a heap of trouble for his disappearing act, his father has him under even closer surveillance. Edward barely notices. The world seems colourless since he kissed Bella goodbye. He walks by her hotel daily, clinging to vestiges as he fights for his fading memories. It's easier to recall the way she made him feel than the exact brown of her eyes or the sweet smell of her hair. Like a zombie, he wanders aimlessly through his days.

His work slips, and it leads to mistakes that cost his father's firm a major client. He's indifferent to his father's threats, even the personal ones. There is nothing his father could do that would make Edward feel worse than he already does. He's accepted that his life is not his own; what remains holds no value to him.

Ironically, it's Edward's indifference that finally goads his father into allowing him to return to New Hampshire. The house in Hanover feels as empty as Italy felt, its familiarity lacking the emotional comfort he expected it to hold. He feels no sense of belonging—rather, a lack of fit. There is no motivation or reason for anything. No connection. The only real thing that remains is the pain he feels. It slithers out at night, clawing at him with its sharp talons and steel teeth, and rips him to shreds. He welcomes it because it is part of the only thing he holds dear: Bella. The hazy, dream-like images of her are the sole warmth in his otherwise cold life.

When everything else has failed, his father plays his final card and annihilates Edward's future. Firing his son isn't good enough. He disowns him, loath to allow his ungrateful heir to sully his good name any longer. Edward is too depressed to feel the relief and freedom he would have a few months earlier. He's given twenty-four hours to clear out his belongings and vacate the family home.

His stepsister takes pity on him, secretly taking him in. Alice gives him a few days before she presses for details. The story breaks her heart.

He's a ghost of his former self. Alice has never seen someone so lost and convinces him a change of scenery might help. They end up in Texas to visit a friend of Alice's from college. Edward feels like a third wheel. Even in his stupor he can tell there's something going on between Jasper and his stepsister. He tries to keep himself scarce, spending a great deal of his time outside or sleeping. At Alice's insistence, he joins them for meals. On this particular night, Edward decides to explore the house while Jasper and Alice watch a movie. He finds himself in Jasper's office.

He stares at the diplomas on the wall before taking in the framed photos on a nearby shelf. A group shot where Jasper's hair is twice its current length captures his attention. Edward's eyes peruse the other faces and settle on the hooded girl in the corner. She looks so much like Bella that his stomach twists, and the pain that is normally reserved for his dreams stabs him in the gut. He grabs the frame and brings it to Jasper.

"Who is this girl?" he demands.

"I didn't know her very well, man. She came with my friend Charlotte," Jasper explains, pointing to a petite platinum-blonde in the photo.

"Do you remember her name?"

"Umm... I think it was... now what in the world was her name?"

"I really need you to remember, Jasper. It's important." Edward's tone is imploring, his eyes, almost frantic.

"Izzy?" Jasper asks. "I think it was Izzy."

Edward paces impatiently, keeping his eyes on the picture. Alice senses his tumult and asks, "What is it?"

"You're sure it's not Bella?"

"That's Bella?" Alice blurts.

"I'm not sure of anything," Jasper replies, "but I keep up with Charlotte on Facebook. Let me contact her to see what I can find out."

Edward wears a path in the floor as he waits for news. Alice is quietly optimistic. This is the first spark of life she's seen in him. She desperately wants the girl in the photo to be his Bella.

A couple of hours later, Jasper announces, "Her name was Izzy, but it's short for Isabella. Charlotte couldn't remember her last name because they weren't close. They hung out occasionally because Izzy was dating her friend. She did give me his name."

Even if she has a boyfriend, Edward refuses to consider that it might be too late. Until he spotted her in the photo, their whole relationship was an impossibility. Now, the only things he wants to concentrate on are her beautiful face and the piece of paper in his hand that says 'Emmett McCarty.' Even if Emmett no longer knows where she is, he'll know her last name. With a last name, Edward can find anyone.

Edward is ecstatic to learn that Emmett is no longer dating Izzy Swan. Though the name feels strange on his lips, he's grateful to have it. It's another clue that brings him one step closer to finding her. Emmett hasn't kept in touch with her since graduation, but gives Edward the last address he had for her, a third floor walk-up in Wicker Park, Chicago. It's the first tangible link to her, and despite the fact that it's out-of-date, Edward travels to Chicago to see if she still lives there. She doesn't, it turns out, but seeing the apartment she once lived in makes him feel closer to her. Rosalie, the young woman who used to be her roommate, is kind enough to give him Bella's forwarding address.

With Alice's financial help, Edward finds himself in the small town of La Push, Washington, to chase down the next lead. The Quileute reservation has a strange vibe to it, and he gets the distinct feeling that he's not welcome. His face-to-face meeting with the man at the address he was given is just short of hostile. Aside from admitting he knows Bella, Jacob Black is tight-lipped, to put it mildly, on the subject of her whereabouts. His answers to Edward's questions are clipped and evasive, and each question seems to provoke him further. Edward sees he's getting nowhere and decides to cut his losses. He books a motel room in the closest town and prepares to try again tomorrow, hoping he'll find a friendlier person to speak to.

A few hours later, there is a knock on his door. A police officer with salt-and-pepper hair and a big, bushy moustache greets him and explains that he is following up on a disturbing-the-peace complaint. Edward knows this is Jacob's doing and smiles politely, answering the questions asked of him without hesitation, even volunteering his driver's licence of his own accord. When asked why he's visiting the area, Edward falters, taking in the man's small-town appearance and weighing it against the possibility that he might be able to help. Edward throws caution to the wind and explains that he met and fell in love with a girl in Venice. He doesn't offer why he lost touch with her, but describes the way he chanced upon her photo in a friend's home, and how he's followed leads across the country, trying to track her down.

The policeman nods once or twice as he listens, and when the story finishes, he asks the girl's name.

"Isabella Swan, sir, but I knew her as Bella."

The police officer clears his throat roughly and makes a joke about the story being a little far-fetched. As he leaves, he makes light of the dubious complaint, shaking Edward's hand in a warm, firm clasp, and apologizing for the interruption to his evening.

Thirty minutes later, there is another knock. Edward expects Jacob Black or the police officer, not the person he finds there.

She's too stunned to speak. She hasn't allowed herself to say his name since the day she left Venice. The idea that she might see him again had become an ever-present dream, but not one she expected to come true, especially not in her own small town. At first glance, he's pale and too thin, and his eyes look dull. As she watches and waits for his recognition, they spark to life, taking on the brilliant green they held in her memory.

He falls to his knees, at a loss for words. He reaches for her, not entirely sure he isn't dreaming. The moment he feels her solid body under his hands, he wraps his arms around her calves and murmurs that he's never letting her go.

"I don't ever want you to," she replies, her soft voice the most blessed sound he's ever heard. She kneels down to look him in the eyes.

"How did you know I was here?" he asks, wondering who he needs to thank.

"You told our story to my father, but I hope you didn't tell him everything." Her cheeks blush pink as she remembers his hands on her body.

"That was your dad?"

She ignores his rhetorical question. "Edward, what are you doing here? How did you find me?"

He tells her the story, linking Alice, Jasper, Charlotte, Emmett, Rosalie, and finally, Jacob. For now, he doesn't mention Alice and Jasper's engagement, nor how he's apparently brought Emmett and Rosalie together as a couple during the course of his detective work. There'll be time enough for all that later.

Bella listens, stunned, as tears spill down her cheeks. He dries them with his thumbs before sitting back on the floor and pulling her into his lap. He whispers words of regret, apologizing for hurting her, for not realizing how much she meant to him before it was too late. His world was so hollow without her.

She cries openly, unable to hold back the wave of emotion as she shares how lifeless she's felt since she left his side in Venice, how her father recognized her as the girl in Edward's story, and knew Edward was the one she'd been pining for.

"I thought we weren't meant to be," she admits in a small voice. "That what happened—the good and the bad—was fate."

"Il destino," he whispers, laying on his Italian accent thickly to make her smile. "I don't know whether the course of our lives is predetermined or not; what I do know is that you're it for me—il mio destino—my destiny."

He smiles; it feels like a lifetime since he's had a reason to. Bella nuzzles her head into his neck and kisses him, and before long they move to the bed. Their reunion is urgent and hurried—the aftermath of so much pain and lost time—but it's just as well. Her father is waiting for them back at the house, looking forward to finally welcoming the man his daughter loves. This time Bella helps Edward pack. He won't be returning to this motel; his journey is done. She smiles and offers him her hand. "Let's go home."

A/N: Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think, if you care to leave a review.

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