A/N: This will have subject matter that may or may not be to your cup of tea. I'll leave that up to you to decide. If it's not, please don't let me know. This is a fic I need to get out of my system, because lately I've been bored with my writing and well it's been a while since I've written something that makes you squirm.

Couple of things: Everyone present is of age of consent. There won't be any dub-con, rape, abuse etc. I don't find any of the above sexy nor do I need to use it to push the envelope. This is also set way in the future. And finally let's reserve all judgement until something happens that should be judged.

I want to thank you guys for reading in advance. If you want to review, that will of course be appreciated. Happy reading!

"I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it."

-Mae West

Introduction

i.

He likes to believe he has me by the heart. That every second of everyday is spent waiting for the moment he can corner me, push me up against a wall, and thrust proof of his lust against my leg. He likes to think that I always want his eyes on me. That I want to be the sole occupier of his thoughts, ruler of his emotions, and possessor of his body. He wants to be the shadow that follows me, the ghost hiding in the walls, the monster under my bed.

One day it will happen for us. Never say never.

That's the message he's been sending me for the last three weeks. A message I never respond to. A message I tuck away in a file aptly named: Hopeless, just for him. He hates that he can't get to me. Hates that I'm not as easily accessible or available as I used to be. That he has to actually work for my time and attention. And I give him nothing. Not a scrap, not a pinch, not a dab.

Tonight is an exception. I'm at a wedding reception. I make it through the ceremony that is short, sweet, but oozing with affection and love. The newly wedded couple is quite sickening in that regard. Pose for pictures, mingle during cocktail hour knowing he's here and always standing less than fifteen feet away.

Seated at a table that sits twelve I listen to sappy speech after sappy speech about the happy couple. Some part of me feels this is terribly scripted. Maybe because my views on love are jaded. Love doesn't have to hurt, doesn't have to be volatile and chaotic to click and make sense, or strip you of your sense of self. It does not happen when you want it to and strikes without warning. Love does not always end in happily ever after.

I perform an autopsy on my love life as the best man delivers his speech. The earlier times I loved was born out of desperation for contact with another living soul. I "chose" because in essence there hadn't been any other options and surmised it had been meant to be. We settle when we think we've found good enough. I can't say I aspired to find anything. Yet things have a way of finding me. Or more to the matter, someone.

The speeches are over. I raise my glass that sparkles in candlelight. I finish drinking before everyone says: "Cheers!"

I glance to my right and as I suspect he's staring. His brows are narrowed to his nose where his nostrils are flared. The look in his eyes is nothing I haven't seen before. If he were to look at another woman the way he's staring at me, she'd cross the street. He appears as if it's taking every shred of self-control he's got to keep him in his seat. It's nice when a man looks at you like you're food if you want to be devoured. It becomes problematic when you really do start to feel like meat. The message is clear. He's not going to let me leave without getting me alone.

Lips are at my ear startling me. "Dance with me."

I accept the invitation, breaking the link between me and dread.

He may accuse me of taunting him, egging him on by letting someone else touch what he believes is his. But he would actually have to be a contender in order for me to put in any real effort to get a reaction out of him. If he could rip out of his skin, fly across the room and shove his tongue down my throat, he'd do it in an instant. If he knows what's best for him he won't.

My dance partner moves extremely well that it's easy to fall under his spell. To match rhythm, to inhale a breath each time he squeezes my hips, to sigh when he grinds his impressive groin into my ass, to laugh when he actually behaves silly. I'm enjoying myself and when I see that he's gotten up from his assigned table and stands on the edge of the dance floor, greedily drinking from a beer bottle, throat working damn near angrily, I beg for him to let this go. To forget about making any attempts to cross lines and barriers.

Naturally that gets ignored.

ii.

The party is still in full swing. I've lost nearly all sensation in my toes, my calves and thighs are burning from exertion. I feel sweaty, but I've found a quiet alcove to have a minute to myself. Bubbly champagne swishes down my throat and I'm one slice of cake away from calling it a night.

I smell his cologne long before I see him. My pulse jumps, nerves make my stomach clench, and I know I should leave, rejoin the partying horde. But I stay right where I am. Leaving means he'll chase me. Chasing me is the last thing I want. And why should I run when I have no reason to?

He swings around the corner, a glass of champagne in his hand that is still full. The middle button of his custom made tuxedo jacket is buttoned. He hasn't loosened his bowtie. Everything about him is still prim and proper. I decide its best not to stare above the bridge of his nose. So I stare at him from the nose down. I don't linger on any one detail. I don't soak in the sharpness of his upper lip indentation that leads to a pair of lips that are not full but not exactly thin either. I see the beginnings of stubble on his chin that is notoriously sculpted, but again I don't linger.

I shift a little and unfortunately that causes me to make brief eye contact with him. He's glaring, which I arch a brow in return.

He presses his shoulder into the wall and drains half the glass of champagne. He pulls his lips back from his teeth and shakes his head a little. His unoccupied hand slides into his tailored black slacks.

"It was a beautiful ceremony," he says grudgingly.

"It was."

He's quiet for a moment before his eyes sharpen on me. Ice-blue, cold and hot at the same time. "Do you think today changes anything?"

"It should change everything."

His nostrils flare again. "It won't last," he seethes lowly.

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," I scoff but irritation flares through me.

He moves to say something else that would probably teeter on the mildly insulting scale, but two women walking arm-in-arm pass by the alcove laughing loudly. He swallows his retort down, and nurses his glass of champagne. Once he figures the coast is clear he's focused his intent gaze on me again.

"When everything falls apart, blows up in your face I'll be there to pick up the pieces. He can have you for a little while but in the end…you'll be mine."

Now that makes me laugh. Loudly. Here we are. Standing in a banquet hall celebrating two people melding their lives together, and he's talking to me like I'm a possession. His possession.

"You're an asshole."

"Never said I was a nice guy," he cracks a tiny smirk.

No, he never did.

"I told you months ago that this has to stop. That wasn't an invitation for you to keep going."

"Or perhaps you've forgotten what my last name is and what that entails."

"As enlightening as this conversation has been…you need to step the fuck back. Now run along. They'll be looking for you soon. To do the garter toss," my smile is nothing less than lethal.

His jaw clenches at the reminder what this day is really about. The part he had to play. The spectacle that drew an intimate crowd to witness the impossible happen:

The day I married my best friend in the whole world.

"This isn't over," he warns. I can do nothing but sigh tiredly. "Not by a long shot is this over. It never will be between us." He steps forward, startling me for a second, moving so close my breasts are pressed against his stomach. "Tell me I'm lying. Tell me you don't want me. Do. It."

The idea of him fucking me against this wall makes him hard and I feel his erection poking me. Maybe it's the champagne or just his proximity but my stomach rolls, and heat flashes through me. My nipples bead against my will, tint the fabric of my dress and I know he can feel them. The maniacal smile that stretches from ear-to-ear is answer enough he does. I should push him away, spit in his face, make his balls my foot stool. I should be angry at this impertinence. My breathing shouldn't change, drawing faster from my lungs. My clit shouldn't throb. The brain disconnects and the body takes over.

I'm a terrible person for this momentary weakness.

With my magic I shove him away but that only makes him smile wider.

Luckily this inappropriate moment is interrupted. The person who does the interrupting looks extremely awkward and uncomfortable as the best man and I try to make it seem we hadn't been having a row.

"There you are," a groomsman clears his throat. He looks from the best man to me and back to the best man. "Uh…Bonnie we need you."

"All right, Tav, tell my husband I'm coming. I just need to freshen up."

I dip into the bathroom, turn on the faucet. This should have been simple. Marrying Damon Salvatore, a man I've known since I was seventeen, the widower of a girl I spent a large chunk of my life protecting and dying for, a man who became a vampire and then a man again, and…the father of a son…

A son who wants me.

A son who thinks he's in love with me.

A son I hope one day I'll never start to want.

A/N: The moment of truth. Thoughts? Thanks for reading!