Twilight fic: steady on the wheel, Rosalie/Emmett
Title: steady on the wheel
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters belong to SMeyer, but I let them have more fun.
Rating: 17+
Warning: heterosexual sex, slight mention of a m/f/m/f foursome and m/m f/f pairings off it
Summary: Rosalie knows Emmett and automobiles above all things.
Rosalie bends over the engine of her car; she knows Emmett is watching. He walks with stealth, like any good predator, but she can hear him come, and she can smell him over the metal and grease and oil and gas. She knows his scent well, and the sound of his body, in movement and at rest.
There isn’t anything wrong with the Bimmer. It’s just such a pleasure to get her hands dirty, put her fingers on all the parts. She loves the feel of a car, any car, beneath her hands, working on it or driving it, the way the engine purrs for her, and rumbles, the way the pistons fire and axles turn. How good it feels to freshly grease a u-joint, or change the oil, or pop a dent out of the frame.
It’s not the first M3 she’s owned, and she’s going to upgrade soon, she thinks. She’s been doing her research, and delimited with DKG, the E93-the convertible, a requirement in her cars because it makes her feel like she’s flying-is supposed to hit two hundred. She’ll tweak it as much as she can, but still, that’s a nice place to start.
She needs a new junk car, one to rebuild from the ground up. Or maybe it’s time to branch out into motorcycles; Alice was particularly taken with that vampire movie, The Lost Boys, and how much fun they had on their bikes.
Plus, she said after they watched it, and laughed, the little one exploded into sparkles. He’d fit right in.
Emmett comes up behind her, puts his hands on her hips, distracts her from her thoughts. She can feel him pressed against her in a long line, his legs against hers, his hips, his back as he bends over. Her hair is tied back - the only time she does so is when she works on their vehicles - and he can press his cheek against hers without anything in the way.
He says nothing, simply leans against her and watches as she works. He’s done it enough he knows when to move back or to the side, and he never gets in her way.
When she’s done tinkering, when her thoughts are peaceful again, she pushes away, moving him back a step so she has room enough to shut the hood and turn. Her hands are greasy, her fingers black in places.
Emmett grins, wicked, grabs the bottom of his t-shirt and peels it off. It makes her throat go dry. She wants to set her mouth to his shoulders, the muscles which curve there and angle down his arms, his back. He dwarfs the women of their family, but she is tall, too, a fitting match.
She opens her arms and he comes to her, he swaggers to her, all strut and confidence. They will not fuck against the car, she refuses, they might damage it, but this is fine, when he curls his arms around her, brushes his mouth across hers. Her fingers slide across his skin, leaving streaks on his back. She curls her hands, drags her nails down his spine, and he arches into her, thrusts against her with a snarl.
Rosalie tosses back her head and laughs, but the move isn’t the same without her hair loose. Emmett seems to agree; he tangles his fingers in it, jerks it out of the messy bun, sending the hair tie flying. She’s lost quite a few to him doing just that, ripping them out, snapping them around his fingers, tossing them away.
Her hair tumbles down over his hands, tickles her neck as it falls, and she wraps her legs around him, pressing her calves against the backs of his thighs. He slams into her, bounces her against the hood, and she rocks her weight, throws them to the ground. She straddles him as they fall away from her car, down to the concrete where it doesn’t matter what damage they do.
He pulls her hair, jerking her head back, and closes his teeth on her throat. He won’t break the skin, but he gnaws a little, curving up the column of her neck to her jaw. She rolls her hips against him, and she can feel him harden beneath her.
Rosalie puts her hands on his stomach, digs in her nails, and he tugs at her hair, drawing her down so he can kiss her.
He rolls them, slams her back into the floor, and lifts up long enough to toe off his shoes and shove down his jeans. Once he’s naked, she shoves him up and over so she can sit on him again.
Emmett puts his hands on her thighs, resting there, still and patient. She eases her shirt off; it’s an old t-shirt of his, worn soft and faded. The sleeves are long gone, and it is baggy enough it hides her curves, turns her from untouchable Most Beautiful Woman in the World to just another woman, pretty and mechanically talented and real.
She tosses it to the side, and he moves his hands to her ribs, and then skims them slightly higher, until his thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples are hard, and she has a delicious tightness between her legs.
“Rose,” he says, and their eyes meet. He’s sweeping his thumbs higher with each stroke, back and forth, and she settles herself over him perfectly. If her jeans - gone nearly white, streaked with grease, ragged on the ends, good for the garage only - were off, she’d be fucking him, riding him, driving herself to orgasm. “Please.”
He’s like this with her, pretty, sweet. Sometimes he does the same for Alice, and once or twice with Jasper even. Mostly he teases and wrestles and fights, but he still has his moments of almost but not quite submission, of peace, of waiting for her to lead.
She presses into his hands, and he tweaks her nipples, twisting them. She lifts up, letting him take her weight so she can unbutton and unzip her pants and slide them down. They catch on her feet and she kicks a little; Emmett is holding her up in such a way it feels like flying.
She settles back on top of him, her legs on either side of his body, and he slides into her. It feels so good it makes her catch her breath, and he cups his hands around her breasts.
She could drag this out; she knows when to push, when to hold back so they both quiver, there on the edge, for hours. They’ve spent weeks, months, wrapped in each other, only breaking to hunt together. The chase is the best, the race for bears or elk or mountain lion, whatever predator is there.
The only animal they never hunt is wolf.
He scrapes his nails across her nipples, and she runs a hand down her stomach, down between her legs, where their bodies meet. She leans back, arches so she can press her breasts into his palms, and touches herself, strokes her finger against her clit.
Emmett growls at that, and his hands tighten on her. She knows he’s looking, staring, and she twists her head so her hair falls around her face, so she can watch him watch her. His eyes are bright gold, and the color grows deeper with every thrust.
She shakes a little, her stomach quivering, and he lifts his hips, pushes harder into her.
“Rose,” he groans, “let me see.”
She can’t count how many times they’ve had sex, how many orgasms they’ve had together.
It doesn’t matter. The fact that he wants it, wants to watch it sweep through her, that’s enough to put her on the edge, and over. She presses harder against her clit, moving her finger in smaller and smaller circles, and she comes, holding his gaze, watching as appreciate slides across his face, hunger, pleasure.
She can feel the moment his orgasm hits, the way his body jerks beneath hers, the way his fingers go tight on her breasts, squeezing her nipples.
Rosalie drops her hands to his stomach, rubbing him through the aftershocks. When they’re both calm again, relaxed and sated - partially, for the moment - she settles down, her head on his shoulder, and he strokes her hair.
She’s hungry. She wants to hunt, to run and chase and destroy trees and feel the blood, in her mouth and down her throat, and the life pulsing out beneath her fingers.
Emmett kisses her temple, and his breath is cool against her skin. She will propose a camping trip soon, and ask Alice and Jasper to go with them. Edward, too, if he wants, but he will read her intentions, and likely make himself scarce.
She is happy, in this moment, and it is nice to have such peace.
End
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters belong to SMeyer, but I let them have more fun.
Rating: 17+
Warning: heterosexual sex, slight mention of a m/f/m/f foursome and m/m f/f pairings off it
Summary: Rosalie knows Emmett and automobiles above all things.
Rosalie bends over the engine of her car; she knows Emmett is watching. He walks with stealth, like any good predator, but she can hear him come, and she can smell him over the metal and grease and oil and gas. She knows his scent well, and the sound of his body, in movement and at rest.
There isn’t anything wrong with the Bimmer. It’s just such a pleasure to get her hands dirty, put her fingers on all the parts. She loves the feel of a car, any car, beneath her hands, working on it or driving it, the way the engine purrs for her, and rumbles, the way the pistons fire and axles turn. How good it feels to freshly grease a u-joint, or change the oil, or pop a dent out of the frame.
It’s not the first M3 she’s owned, and she’s going to upgrade soon, she thinks. She’s been doing her research, and delimited with DKG, the E93-the convertible, a requirement in her cars because it makes her feel like she’s flying-is supposed to hit two hundred. She’ll tweak it as much as she can, but still, that’s a nice place to start.
She needs a new junk car, one to rebuild from the ground up. Or maybe it’s time to branch out into motorcycles; Alice was particularly taken with that vampire movie, The Lost Boys, and how much fun they had on their bikes.
Plus, she said after they watched it, and laughed, the little one exploded into sparkles. He’d fit right in.
Emmett comes up behind her, puts his hands on her hips, distracts her from her thoughts. She can feel him pressed against her in a long line, his legs against hers, his hips, his back as he bends over. Her hair is tied back - the only time she does so is when she works on their vehicles - and he can press his cheek against hers without anything in the way.
He says nothing, simply leans against her and watches as she works. He’s done it enough he knows when to move back or to the side, and he never gets in her way.
When she’s done tinkering, when her thoughts are peaceful again, she pushes away, moving him back a step so she has room enough to shut the hood and turn. Her hands are greasy, her fingers black in places.
Emmett grins, wicked, grabs the bottom of his t-shirt and peels it off. It makes her throat go dry. She wants to set her mouth to his shoulders, the muscles which curve there and angle down his arms, his back. He dwarfs the women of their family, but she is tall, too, a fitting match.
She opens her arms and he comes to her, he swaggers to her, all strut and confidence. They will not fuck against the car, she refuses, they might damage it, but this is fine, when he curls his arms around her, brushes his mouth across hers. Her fingers slide across his skin, leaving streaks on his back. She curls her hands, drags her nails down his spine, and he arches into her, thrusts against her with a snarl.
Rosalie tosses back her head and laughs, but the move isn’t the same without her hair loose. Emmett seems to agree; he tangles his fingers in it, jerks it out of the messy bun, sending the hair tie flying. She’s lost quite a few to him doing just that, ripping them out, snapping them around his fingers, tossing them away.
Her hair tumbles down over his hands, tickles her neck as it falls, and she wraps her legs around him, pressing her calves against the backs of his thighs. He slams into her, bounces her against the hood, and she rocks her weight, throws them to the ground. She straddles him as they fall away from her car, down to the concrete where it doesn’t matter what damage they do.
He pulls her hair, jerking her head back, and closes his teeth on her throat. He won’t break the skin, but he gnaws a little, curving up the column of her neck to her jaw. She rolls her hips against him, and she can feel him harden beneath her.
Rosalie puts her hands on his stomach, digs in her nails, and he tugs at her hair, drawing her down so he can kiss her.
He rolls them, slams her back into the floor, and lifts up long enough to toe off his shoes and shove down his jeans. Once he’s naked, she shoves him up and over so she can sit on him again.
Emmett puts his hands on her thighs, resting there, still and patient. She eases her shirt off; it’s an old t-shirt of his, worn soft and faded. The sleeves are long gone, and it is baggy enough it hides her curves, turns her from untouchable Most Beautiful Woman in the World to just another woman, pretty and mechanically talented and real.
She tosses it to the side, and he moves his hands to her ribs, and then skims them slightly higher, until his thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples are hard, and she has a delicious tightness between her legs.
“Rose,” he says, and their eyes meet. He’s sweeping his thumbs higher with each stroke, back and forth, and she settles herself over him perfectly. If her jeans - gone nearly white, streaked with grease, ragged on the ends, good for the garage only - were off, she’d be fucking him, riding him, driving herself to orgasm. “Please.”
He’s like this with her, pretty, sweet. Sometimes he does the same for Alice, and once or twice with Jasper even. Mostly he teases and wrestles and fights, but he still has his moments of almost but not quite submission, of peace, of waiting for her to lead.
She presses into his hands, and he tweaks her nipples, twisting them. She lifts up, letting him take her weight so she can unbutton and unzip her pants and slide them down. They catch on her feet and she kicks a little; Emmett is holding her up in such a way it feels like flying.
She settles back on top of him, her legs on either side of his body, and he slides into her. It feels so good it makes her catch her breath, and he cups his hands around her breasts.
She could drag this out; she knows when to push, when to hold back so they both quiver, there on the edge, for hours. They’ve spent weeks, months, wrapped in each other, only breaking to hunt together. The chase is the best, the race for bears or elk or mountain lion, whatever predator is there.
The only animal they never hunt is wolf.
He scrapes his nails across her nipples, and she runs a hand down her stomach, down between her legs, where their bodies meet. She leans back, arches so she can press her breasts into his palms, and touches herself, strokes her finger against her clit.
Emmett growls at that, and his hands tighten on her. She knows he’s looking, staring, and she twists her head so her hair falls around her face, so she can watch him watch her. His eyes are bright gold, and the color grows deeper with every thrust.
She shakes a little, her stomach quivering, and he lifts his hips, pushes harder into her.
“Rose,” he groans, “let me see.”
She can’t count how many times they’ve had sex, how many orgasms they’ve had together.
It doesn’t matter. The fact that he wants it, wants to watch it sweep through her, that’s enough to put her on the edge, and over. She presses harder against her clit, moving her finger in smaller and smaller circles, and she comes, holding his gaze, watching as appreciate slides across his face, hunger, pleasure.
She can feel the moment his orgasm hits, the way his body jerks beneath hers, the way his fingers go tight on her breasts, squeezing her nipples.
Rosalie drops her hands to his stomach, rubbing him through the aftershocks. When they’re both calm again, relaxed and sated - partially, for the moment - she settles down, her head on his shoulder, and he strokes her hair.
She’s hungry. She wants to hunt, to run and chase and destroy trees and feel the blood, in her mouth and down her throat, and the life pulsing out beneath her fingers.
Emmett kisses her temple, and his breath is cool against her skin. She will propose a camping trip soon, and ask Alice and Jasper to go with them. Edward, too, if he wants, but he will read her intentions, and likely make himself scarce.
She is happy, in this moment, and it is nice to have such peace.
End