She was dressed to kill. In her thigh-high heeled boots and a sinfully sheer dress, all eyes would inevitably be glued to her. By the end of the night, she would leave a trail of broken hearts in her wake. (But c'est la vie.)

It was past midnight and she had a long day ahead of her, but she felt like dancing and dance she will. The club, with its dark vibe and tedious soundtrack, was exactly what she needed. So she slipped on her laciest panties and took her highest heels out for a spin.

LATER

It's four o'clock in the morning. She's naked in a stranger's bed– with a hellish hangover, but that's nothing new. She lies awake, her hair fanned out on her pillow, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He's asleep.

Usually she's long gone by now. She has a routine: every time she wakes up in a foreign bed, she gets herself out the door before the sun comes out because– under the harsh glare of day, everything becomes too real.

But sunlight has already begun to stream in. She has to leave right now... or she knows she never will.

She slips away from his embrace.

He doesn't stir. He doesn't even seem to notice her absence.

Which is good. She doesn't want to make a scene.

She isn't sentimental. This is a one-night-stand, nothing more. "Having sex" doesn't equate to "having a relationship". She knows that. She's known this ever since Mason fucked her then chucked her. After months of heartbreak, she made the life-altering decision to stop getting attached. She decided that every relationship she would thenceforth engage in could only be ones of purely physical natures. She's managed to stick by this resolution– the longest relationship she's had in the last three years lasted an entirety of four and a half hours and took place in the business class bathroom on a flight to Miami.

This guy is certainly no exception. They may have spent the better half of a night having some admittedly hot sex but that would be it. She could have woken up in another stranger's bed this morning. He wasn't special. He just happened to sit beside her at the bar last night. He was horny, like most men are around her. Ogled her cleavage. His hand eventually ventured beneath her skirt. She was bored. Thought, "why not?" He was exactly the type of person her mother warned her about– tall, dark, brooding– so of course she let him into her pants. No feelings were involved in the process. They got to second-base on the drive to his place. He unhooked her bra, she gave him a blow-job, they had a fun time for an hour and a half jumping each other's bones. No strings were attached whatso-fucking-ever. They didn't even exchange names.

A crack of moonlight seeps through the parted curtains; other than that, the room is pitch black. She looks for her clothes blindly.

Her hand identifies something, and she places it to the light to see it better. It's an... oh, used condom, one they had flung to the floor after their second round. Awkward.

All of a sudden, she hears a sound– she stops cold. Her heartbeat quickens– she holds her breath– and her thoughts run wild. Is he awake? She shoots a quick glance at him, her heart in her throat. But no, he's practically comatose. He couldn't have possibly...

She is relieved.

She hurriedly gets herself dressed then goes without a sound. No note, no last kiss, no nothing. They started off as strangers in the bar last night, and despite having spent a night in the throes of passion, strangers they shall remain. As she escapes through the door her eyes catch on a framed photo by the mantle. It's a teenage version of him with crimson face-paint, proudly sporting a football letter-jacket. She would spend more time examining it but the truth is, she doesn't really give a shit.

She leaves no trace of her ever being there. He would probably wake the next morning thinking she was a figment of his imagination if not for... well, the aching in his boxers.

So she leaves without turning back, a vision to behold in smeared lipstick and a misbuttoned top, striding down the street with her blood red heels in hand.

He awoke feeling extremely hot and bothered.

As his eyes focused to the room around him, he tried his best to recall what the hell happened last night.

A colleague had dragged him into an over-18 club, he remembered. He was told to score some numbers, have some mindless fun, maybe break some moral codes. And he remembered thinking to himself, rather skeptically, that having fun would be pretty fucking impossible as 1) Katherine had just dumped him, 2) Katherine Pierce was everything he had ever wanted, and 3) he was certain that she was The One for him. He remembered hating every square-inch of that club, with the desperate girls and desperately uninspired Katy Perry soundtrack. After a seemingly endless five minutes on the dance floor, he made a beeline for the bar with the sole purpose of getting mind-numbingly drunk. He remembered ordering a scotch on the rocks, slapping down a fifty dollar-bill and instructing the bartender to "keep them coming".

That explains the throbbing hangover.

Yet there was still a pressing question to be resolved: Why the hell was he feeling so fucking sore... in that area?

Then finally– he remembered Her.

Even in his drunken haze, he remembered her to be abnormally beautiful. She was sitting beside him at the bar. He remembered watching her as she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and thinking in that moment that she was the most exquisite woman he had ever laid eyes on. She downed her alcohol voraciously, and as he watched her down her drink he realized she was someone who possessed just as much emotional baggage as he did (who knows, maybe even more). He hadn't had the slightest amount of interest in any woman since meeting Katherine, but somehow, he just couldn't get himself to look away.

After three more drinks, she finally seemed to acknowledge his presence. She smiled at him, but– as he observed– the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

He remembered the passionate night they had shared. Everything he initiated she had reciprocated with twice the fervor. The feeling of electricity shooting through his veins the first time their lips collided. How much they were able to accomplish in the backseat despite the taxi driver's wandering eyes. How wonderful she felt around him, her legs wrapped around his hip as they bustled into his apartment. The unadulterated awe he felt when she removed her top. And the feeling of how perfectly he fit in her... how in the moment they became one he forgot any and every other person in the world. But, above all, he remembered how– just before he hit his climax– he searched her eyes and– as she stared back– realized there was nothing to be found.

Despite all the question marks drawn from that night, there arose one certainty: She left him undone.

After tasting liquid silver, he craved more.

Please review and favorite if you liked it! I welcome your feedback.

So again, this was written as a one-shot but it may end up being a multi-chapter if you guys want it to be one!

xox, E