Author's Note: I would like to thank the following people for reviewing the first chapter: Queen Of TheGalaxy, wishes2mind, 1, voicegrl, Jenny Cici G, and bamonfangirl. You guys were the first few to take the time to write a review. Thank you. To the other people who left a review. Your comments mean the world to me.

Regarding the writing style of the last section of the first chapter, from Damon's perspective, the first meeting was a blur. He was too nervous to retain much from the first meeting with Bonnie. His memory of it is comprised of snapshots, and that was what I was trying to convey with the quick, disjointed writing.


CHAPTER TWO

The Excitement Stage

Damon was not above lying to his therapist. Hell, he's lied to himself many times over.

"How was the first meeting?" Brikham asked, a tentative smile on her face.

Something between a smile and a grimace stretched Damon's visage, "It was okay. Nothing special. I meet girls all the time."

Brikham raised an eyebrow. She never knew her face could be so reactive, but having Damon as a client was proving to be useful in exercising her facial muscles. It wasn't that his life was any more outrageous or difficult than any of her other clients in all of her 23 years of practice. He seems to have all of the tools to manage his overall wellbeing, and he just…doesn't.

"Bonnie seemed to think it went better than okay, "Brikham replied. Brikham lifted up a sheet of paper and seemed to study the words carefully. "In Bonnie's report, she noted your nervousness. You seemed to be at ease when she touched you or made some physical contact with you, but you would still display signs of anxiousness. At one point, there was at least twenty minutes before you made direct eye contact with her."

After reading the notes, Brikham lowered the paper on her lap and looked up at Damon expectantly, patiently waiting for a response.

Damon stopped and started. He tried valiantly to make sure the next words out of his mouth were carried with his usual manly pitch, and not that of a thirteen-year-old going through puberty. "She told you about our…session?"

Brikham nodded, a bit puzzled as to Damon's reaction.

"All surrogates write a report of each session they have with a client. We informed you of this during the orientation."

Damon swallowed. He forgot. He forgot that Bonnie wasn't a real girl. Oh, she was a woman all right, but not his woman. With Damon's luck, he was probably one out of a dozen "clients" that Bonnie had.

"Yeah. I forgot about that," Damon answered truthfully enough.

"You seemed bothered by that fact," Brikham observed.

Damon made a show of looking at his watch. 'Well, would you look at the time. I gotta get back to work."

Brikham did not protest. There were fifteen minutes left in the session. She knew. And she knew Damon knew it too.

"We can certainly stop now if you like. I'll leave you with this: whatever you are feeling, it's perfectly natural."


Damon has had a terrible habit of going too fast for the women in his life. His mother would always tell him to stop running through the house when he was a child, afraid that he would hurt himself. He learned his lesson when his seven-year old body fell head first down a flight of stairs because he didn't stop himself quick enough.

His mother cried all over his armed, plastered from fingers to shoulder. His father didn't even bother to leave work for the occasion. Stefan used his arm as a teething instrument, gumming the orthopedic cast like his life depended on it.

In second grade, Damon gave Lucy Sitwell a chocolate heart every day for a week. It ended after her parents' threatened him with a restraining order. He was reasonably sure he was too young, but his father didn't want the embarrassment.

At sixteen, he broken into his girlfriend's house because she wasn't returning his calls. Her mother went through with the threat of a restraining order. His juvenile records were sealed, thank you very much.

He moved into Elena's apartment fourteen hours after she and Stefan had broken their engagement.

Damon moved way too fast.

But that didn't account for him behaving like a nerd who has never seen a girl before. Seriously. He could hear his father calling him a loser right now.

Actually it was Stefan's voice, "Hey loser, are you ready or what?"

Damon blinked as Stefan's hand moved rapidly in front of his face, attempting to bring Damon out of his reverie.

The Salvatore brothers were on their way to one of the many galas Mystic Falls' mayor, Klaus Mikaelson threw, continuing the horrid tradition of raising money for a town whose combined AIG gave Donald Trump a literal run for his money. There were working class, sure. But more and more the town was divided into four categories: really rich, sort of rich, lower middle class, and really poor.

Miklaelson was really rich. He was also the newest novelty of Mystic Falls: He was unmarried, had no children and hadn't the stench of scandal about him like their former mayor Todd Stevens (two words: Male Hooker).

"Where did you go right now?" Stefan asked, concern marring his features.

"Just thinking about mom and dad." Damon replied.

Stefan nodded like he understood, his jaw ticking. He placed his hands on Damon's bowtie, straightening it. "Mom hated these things," Stefan commiserated.

"And dad reveled in it, "Damon added.

"Remember that one time mom made dad stop at Carvel and you got ice cream on your dress shirt. Dad was furious."

Damon smiled at the memory, "And mom said, at least he has something to talk about at this stupid thing."

The brother's chuckled, the memory creating pure mirth. Damon's eyes crinkled at the corner's. Stefan's cheeks dimpled just a bit.

Stefan sobered. He willed himself to say what he knows he should say before he loses courage. "Mom would be proud of you, you know."

Damon searched his brother's eyes, and retorted, "She would be proud of both of us."


Bonnie was about a third of the way into a manuscript about a boy primed to take over his father's kingdom. King was the title. Bonnie would bet her entire paycheck that the publishing company will change the it, however aptly named.

She reclined on the one piece of furniture she chose to indulge in when she moved into her grandmother's home.

Lindy sofa, cornflower blue. Bonnie coughs every time she thinks about the price, her bank account choking her from its electronic prison.

Her grandmother her passed away three years ago, leaving Bonnie her home in her will. Bonnie was always close to her grandmother, and regarded her as one of the strongest women she knew.

Sheila Bennet taught Bonnie everything, like how to cook, dance and sew. Bonnie learned some dishes didn't rely on the science of teaspoons and pinches, but were as flavorful as can be with just the right amount of heart and soul. She learned to count a second behind the beat, and let your partner think he's leading when he's not. She learned how to sew the perfect sweater seam on a cable knit that even the dry cleaners were afraid to touch.

While her father was working, Sheila was there. While her mother was off trying find herself, her grams was there. And now she was there again, making sure Bonnie had a place to live when she moved out of her childhood home to set out on her own.

Bonnie stretched, her sweatshirt riding up in the middle, inevitably creating a chasm between her shirt and her jeans, her brown skin peeking out.

She thought of her other job. She thought about Damon Salvatore. She only met him once but she could tell already that she would have to be careful with him. He seemed fragile, his heart too close to his skin. There were flashes of his arrogance, of course. His smile. His 'come get me' wink. His 'I don't give a shit' attitude. He was a bit of a child that way. Like how boys stick out their scrawny chest at the first sign of muscle.

Bonnie was superficially aware that he was ridiculously handsome. Although a few years older, he was closer to her in age then her other clients have been. And he was single, which was a welcome change from the married clients or those who had a significant other.

In many ways, it was easier working with a client who had a significant other. There was more of a direct goal, especially since Bonnie's work was much more comprised of talking and psychoeducation, than physical sex. Premature ejaculation? Okay, let's work on stamina. Can't have sex with the lights on to the point where it's pathological? Okay, let's work on body positivity, and believing your partner when he or she says they love your body. Frigid? Nope. You can have multiple orgasms, my dear. Helping an asexual husband foster closeness and intimacy with his wife. Piece of chocolate cake.

When Bonnie first spoke to her parents about becoming a sex surrogate, or an intimacy coach, as she likes to refer to herself as, the vein in her father's forehead pounded, along with his fist on the dining room table. Bonnie never heard her father raise his voice before until that day. Bonnie's mother was more reasonable, with her wheat germ and belly tattoos. Abby was just glad her daughter felt strongly enough to discuss such a daring career choice.

Bonnie yawned. She opened her copy of Human Sexual Response, and reacquainted herself with sensate focusing, a technique developed by William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson. While sensate focusing had many aspects, the main objective of the technique was to open up sensual pathways beyond the traditional sexual parts of the body.

Bonnie definitely wanted Damon to think outside of his penis. She had a feeling he fell on that sword a little too often.


The first meeting at a rinky dinky café had some charm. This clinic that he and Bonnie were currently in, not so much.

Bonnie gazed at Damon, curbing the urge to rub his arm. "Are you nervous? It's okay if you are. I'll start slowly. If there is any place that you feel uncomfortable with me touching, we can stop and talk about it," she assured.

Damon's eyes bugged. He found it funny that Bonnie spoke to him like he was a child, explaining about 'no-no' places on his body.

He smirked, something vulgar on the tip of his tongue. He then rubbed his hands together and thought the better of it. "I'm ready when you are sweetheart," Safe but flirty.

Bonnie's eyes flinted between the distances of Damon's eyes and his chest. She was unsettled by his smile, as plastic as can be. The syrupiness with which he called her 'sweetheart,' making a mockery of the word, made her sad.

The therapy clinic was housed in a new building, courtesy of [cough] Salvatore Construction[cough], fitted out with startling bright lights and sterile looking furniture. Fortunately, the Sex Partner Therapy (SPT) rooms of the clinic were design by a person who had some inkling that a hospital bed wasn't sexy.

The walls were a muted peach, conservative enough to be professional, but inviting to whomever was in the room. Wide windows, mauve curtains draped in front, obscuring the view of voyeurs who may journey by the clinic. A throw rug, a tall lamp, a sofa and a loveseat. Damon supposed it was cozy.

Bonnie leaned into his personal space, framing his face with her hands, inadvertently forcing him to look at her.

"If it is okay with you, I am going to touch you. I am going to touch you everywhere. And you can touch me too. I want you to think of this as us exploring each other's body without the worry of hooking up. In fact, I won't touch you anywhere really provocative." Bonnie stated, whispering the last word with an air of conspicuity.

"So…it's not a sex thing." Damon affirmed, boredom creeping into his voice. He thought having a sex surrogate was going to be entertaining.

Instead of responding, Bonnie traced Damon's left ear with one finger, flicking when she got to his earlobe. Damon took that as a signal to shut up.

He hesitated before placing his hands on her delicate shoulders, griping her like a buddy. Bonnie smiled, a light, meaningful thing exposing her white teeth. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders, too. She smoothed the black Henley over the muscles there, marveling over the apparent strength; the softness of his shirt, the fact that she was wearing a Henley of her own, just as soft but in white.

Damon's breath stuttered. He's been touched before. Many, many, many times. But God, she was beautiful. Not just her face or body. Her entire being seemed something fantastically optimistic as if she never had a hard day. Or more realistically, she never let a hard day get her down. How wonderful must that be? To be so comfortable in one's own skin.

Damon wanted to ask so many questions, but he held his tongue. He focused on the hands rubbing his back, circular, kneading his muscles.

It is only when Bonnie rested her face against her neck, her lips dangerously close to his skin, that Damon realized that he should definitely participate.

He folded her into a hug, his arms tight around her. He gripped her shoulder blades. He ran his nails down the line in the middle of her back, right along her spine. He inhaled her perfume and nudged his nose against her hair. Bonnie gripped the nape of his neck, grazing the hairs there.

Damon moved her until she was straddled on his lap. He moved his face lower, pressing his lips along the curve of her breast, the cotton barrier of the t-shirt supple against his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but something softer.

Damon lifted Bonnie's shirt to run his hands on her bare skin. She responded by pushing Damon away, putting space between their bodies. He thought he did something wrong then.

Bonnie smiled her sweet smile. She ran her hands over his chest and stomach, soothing him like a wild horse.

They spent what amount to two hours just touching.

Just breathing.

Just being.


"Where do you live?"

Damon walked out of the clinic after the session feeling lighter than he ever did in the past few years. He thought he would have missed Bonnie leaving as well.

Bonnie cursed. She had hoped she would miss him on her way out. She wanted to avoid what usually follows in this kind of situation.

Damon didn't wait for Bonnie to answer. He stopped in front of her, some wind that had kicked up late in the afternoon blowing his hair. "I can give you a ride. Do you live close?" Damon asked, staring down at Bonnie.

"I have my own car. Thanks. "

"Okay. I'll walk you to it. Where are you parked?" Damon plowed on.

Bonnie took a few seconds to think carefully before answering. "Why don't I walk you to yours?"

Damon smirked, a lightbulb turning on in his head. "You don't want me to see what your car looks like."

Bonnie opted for honesty. "Yeah. Or get my license plates."

"Is this some weird thing where you have to be anonymous or something?" Damon asked, squinting.

"Or something. And it's not about being anonymous. It's more like ethics. We are in therapy. You are my client."

"What is your last name?" Damon responded, changing the topic of conversation.

Bonnie sighed, rubbing her hand through her hair. "You know I can't tell you that, Damon."

He averted his stare at her answer. An expression of annoyance flashed on his countenance before it was replaced with indifference. "What can you tell me?"

Bonnie quickly assessed that Damon would stand here all day until he got something out of her. "In addition to being an intimacy coach, I work for a publishing company. But you already know that. I love tea. You know that too. I love macaroni and cheese. Casserole style, with chunks of cheese, not that orange, runny crap in the blue box. I like to swing dance. My favorite color is blue. Any kind of blue. I have no pets but I love cats. I'm currently reading All-Night Visitors by Clarence Major. And now I'd like to go home to prepare dinner and take a nice long bath."

Bonnie paused in her soliloquy. This wasn't some guy hitting on her in the street. She softened her delivery. "I would love talk to you more but I'm sure you're tired like I am. I'm…I'm just really drained actually."

Damon nodded in sympathy. He felt great himself. Like he could run a marathon. But it must take a lot of a person to give and heal and get nothing in return.

Bonnie frowned because she is usually so professional when dealing with clients. Steady. Perfect range of emotions.

"You are human so I guess being tired is expected. Can I call you?"

"What?" Bonnie stopped berating herself in favor of staring at Damon like he had grown two heads.

"Can. I. Call. You?" Damon repeated, annunciating slowly.

"Yes. You know the clinics number, right? It'll patch you through to a private line."

"Or you can just give me your number and cut out the middle man," Damon suggested.

Bonnie placed her hand on his leather jacket, patting his chest. "Call the hotline."


He waited four hours before calling her.

He crammed Stefan's chicken down his throat, only marginally aware that it wasn't dry like the last time Stefan cooked.

He downed a fingerbreadth of bourbon. (Okay. Two fingers worth).

He thought about Bonnie. He thought about her skin. Her eyes. Her lips. He thought about her everything, really.

And usually. Usually he did not believe in pacing himself. Why wait for anything, especially anything pleasurable?

He showered. He bickered good-naturedly with Stefan about the Super Bowl. He may or may not have purchased Clarence Major's bibliography off of Amazon.

"Are you busy?" Damon asked, vaguely aware that Bonnie would probably say 'yes.'

Bonnie pressed the phone to her ear with her shoulder, leaving her hands free to rub lotion on her arms and legs. "No. You called at the right time. I'm just getting out of the bath."

Damon could easily pretend that this was a normal phone call. He could pretend that he didn't have to call a hotline, listen to an automated system tell him he had reached the clinic but that there was no there and he should call back during business hours.

He could pretend that he didn't punch in four numbers at the prompting of 'If you know your party's extension, please dial now.'

He could pretend that this was real.