Damon shifts on the couch, his lean and muscled body flexing seductively beneath his white tee and dark levi's. The arm splayed haphazardly over his head rests against the cushions, his dark feathery lashes hang closed over slumbering eyes. A single sunbeam races across his chest giving the impression of nothing less than a deadly predator at its rest. Surely a panther stretched on a tree limb could have looked no more natural or graceful then this ethereal creature. A twitch at the mouth and a subtle movement of the head tells us that perhaps some sleeping cats are not quite..what they appear.
A muffled noise in the distance.
Dark smoldering eyes open wide. She's home. How had he missed that? He hadn't fallen asleep had he? Under that patch of sunlight? Damn it, this life was domesticating him too much. He was getting slow. He wasn't used to being this...relaxed. A grin spreads across Damon's face. The great Damon Salvatore was not known for taking cat naps to say the least. Just the opposite in fact. Ah yes, the good ole bad ass days, Damon muses merrily. Years, decades, even centuries that dripped of nothing but sex, blood, mayhem and more blood with more sex and oh ya, did he mention the blood? And the sex? A pleasant shiver runs through Damon's body at the remembering.
But then SHE had come into his life. Like a whirlwind, tornado, tsunami all wrapped into one. She just had to come sashaying into his life flashing that oh so innocent, but really wasn't innocent smile. Oh no, Elena Gilbert wasn't fooling anyone. Damon Salvatore knew what she was. She was just like him. Strong, powerful, passionate and ready to do whatever it took to reach her goals. She wasn't just a dreamer, she knew how to fight for what she wanted, for what she believed. And right now, that goddess of goddesses, the woman who he always hungered for, a desire that could never be sated, was walking around in the house. HIS house. Damon knew he would never be able to drink too much from that fountain, to drink in too much of her perfume, her smell. Just to touch her soft hair, to push her body close to him was like blood to him. He needed her more than blood. Gods he could drink her in forever, give up blood forever, if only he knew he could always be at her side. He would live on nothing but her, and that was just fine with him.
Somewhere deep in the house, the unmistakable sound of a shower head turning on.
Damon's stormy blues fill with mischief and more than a glint that promises sweet, sensual torture and all the pleasures his dark princess could endure. Yes, he would scorch her blood with her need for him. She would call his name, weep for his touch, his caress. He would see to that. He would return this hungry feeling she had awoken in him. Every time he thought of her it stirred in the deepest parts of him, something primal, something instinctive. Something he had not thought himself capable of feeling ever again in his unnaturally long life.
Oh yes, this just wouldn't do at all. She was holding all the cards and he knew it. But that didn't mean he had to ACT like he knew it. Besides, she had woken him from his slumber hadn't she? Had interrupted his beauty sleep, so to speak. Damon smirks. As if. He was so beautiful already it killed. But the predator had sensed its prey, her intoxicating scent was in his nose, smoldering in his blood, heating a fire inside him that never seemed to end. And the more he fed that fire, the more it needed feeding. Oh but that was the beautiful, intoxicating paradox that was his feral princess. Damon stretches, pulling his long lean muscles taught under his clothes, squeezing and then relaxing them, readying himself for the pursuit ahead.
Blue eyes flash.
Oh this was going to be fun.