A/N: I usually don't like to post an update without at least having half of the next chapter written so that you guys don't have to wait so long for a new update. But I haven't gotten a chance to write much due to all the studying I've been doing. However, the fiction fairy was kind to me and I was able to get this one out quickly, just in time for Valentine's Day. Thank you to SyLaR'sMEmoRyGuRL for your review. I know that you've been waiting patiently for the next post and here it is. Hope you enjoy. Also, I have to mention another awesome reader who read A Million Ways and this story over the weekend. That reader is Eddieizzie. I hope that this satisfies your Bamon needs. Lol. Now, in the last chapter, I said that the situation in this chapter happened four years ago. Sorry, it was actually three years ago. I messed up on my timeline. With that being said, I hope you enjoy my Valentine's Day gift to you all. It's a racy little flashback with lots of Damon/Bonnie action, plus a surprise ending involving three little words that Bonnie never expected to hear. Again, Happy V-Day my lovelies.

Disclaimer: The only characters that I own are Mrs. Avery. Lol. And she's not really a pleasure to own. By the way, the song is by Kings of Leon. Now, let's get on with it, shall we?

SEX ON FIRE

Bonnie's POV

The first time that Damon and I had ever known intimacy outside of late night movie marathons and innocent pecks on the lips was the day of my father's funeral. A week after I'd graduated from college.

"Heart attack," I remembered mumbling to the tall vampire standing beside me in the cold grey cemetery, repeating a doctor's words that I hadn't wanted to believe all because I couldn't stand the sound of the dramatic sobs. A gospel spread its truth around us in rich D-minor strains, while the others cried tears that I couldn't even muster. I had loved my father, it was true. I'd loved him so much that I couldn't even cry for him at his own funeral. Instead, I focused all of my energy on getting through the day; burying him and the magic inside of me like I'm sure that he would have wanted. If only he had known.

"Death isn't so bad," he'd said after a thoughtful moment of silence. Damon, King of Sarcasm and Scorn, had made a joke. While everyone else at the service struggled between the choices of offering me awkward condolences and taking the long way around the jogging path just so that they wouldn't have to cross me and risk saying the wrong thing, Damon had not only stood beside me, he made jokes. Not a snide remark meant to condescend its listener, but a genuine joke that only set out to give mirth. And I laughed. Hard and loud.

The congregation turned to where he and I stood in the back of the clearing, their faces stunned and somewhat disapproving. On one side, there was Caroline, who sat gingerly clutching Tyler's hands in her lap, her mouth frozen in a wide O. The other side held Elena and Stefan who both scrambled to get up from their seats to comfort me, with a recovering Caroline at their heels. They wavered in front of my eyes as tears seeped beneath my lids. I'm dying, I thought. I'm dying of laughter in a cemetery! How ironic! But he'd held them off, telling my best friends to give me some space to breathe and collect myself.

"Ms. Bennett," the reverend called out to me, clutching his bible in his severely aging hands, "was there something that you wanted to contribute before we lower Brother Bennett into the Earth?" I laughed even harder at his caring tone and careful use of the phrase "lower him into the Earth." He said it the way that one would explain funeral to a child, and it made me laugh uproariously. After all, I was a twenty-two year old witch who had, on more than one occasion, been visited by the ghosts of my foremothers, and he was describing the scene before us as if we were on Sesame Street burying Big Bird or something. The whole thing was Just. Too. Much.

"That won't be necessary. She's just a little shaken up," Elena called to the priest and guests over her shoulder. "Please carry on with the ceremony." Yet, no one seemed convinced. Even worse, murmurs erupted throughout the crowd, unfairly judging "Poor Bonnie Bennett's inappropriate behavior." Contempt floated from their mouths in waves that crashed over me: "…a complete lunatic just like that grandmother of hers," "Death follows that girl more than the grim reaper," "…won't be surprised if we're sitting at her funeral next. The way she's always whoring around with the elder Salvatore bachelor…" And the gleeful hiccups turned to bitter whimpers. They'd had it all wrong. They'd had us all wrong. Oh, not about my death being next, of course, because I too had wondered that when I found my father still lying in bed at noon five days ago when he was usually at the hospital no later than 8am. I had tried to shake him. Tried to wake him from his cold immobile slumber, but there was no use. The only breathing coming from his expansive room was my own short gasps as I crumpled into a heap beside him on the bed. Twelve hours later, Stefan found me, unmoved and unconscious after trying to magically bring him back from the dead. He'd said that he'd gotten a "vision" of me lying next to my father and given our history of being able to somewhat predict the other's moods and actions, he couldn't ignore his instinct to rush to my aid. I suppose that our unbreakable bond also had to do with the fact that since rescuing Elena from the tomb all those years back, he and I had an unspoken friendship stronger than any other that I'd ever had in my life. Including the one between Elena, Caroline, and me. So it wasn't all that surprising that it was Stefan who filled the space between Damon and me and gently squeezed my hand while my weeping grew more intense. What had surprised me; however, was Damon's reaction.

"You're going to get up and apologize to Mr. Bennett's daughter, right now, and then leave," I heard him leaning over Mrs. Avery in anxious whispers, "otherwise we will all be attending your funeral next. Do I make myself clear?" He focused those brilliant blue eyes onto the older woman's rheumy orbs until she stiffly paced back to me and uttered a wooden apology.

"I apologize, Mr. Bennett's daughter," her voice was as hollow and rigid as her stance, "I am afraid I must leave, now." Then she turned and walked away from the cemetery, narrowly missing the truck that almost collided into her plastic hip. And then Damon walked off in the other direction, exiting just as abruptly as he'd entered, without uttering another word.

If there hadn't already been tension between the brothers, Damon's public compulsion would definitely have caused some, but honestly it had been building up for years. Living with the two of them, while Elena and I recuperated had been like living with parents on the brink of divorce; the two of us caught in between. Yet, as ballistic as he was, his anger was nothing compared to mine.

I thought about it during the limo ride home. Visualized myself magically ripping that smug smirk right off of his face for what he'd done to Mrs. Avery. Yes, I knew that I was starting to sound like an unappreciative, judgmental bitch that didn't deserve his defense. But that was precisely why I hated him for it, because, even though everyone else may have deemed Damon's confrontation with Mrs. Avery to be sweet, I saw it for what it really was: clearing a debt.

Even after refrigerating all of the pies and casseroles brought over by condolence-sending neighbors after the wake and assuring Elena, Stefan, Caroline, Tyler, and Matt that I didn't need them to stay with me, I still couldn't get over the anger I felt at Damon for what he'd done. He'd compelled Mrs. Avery not because I'd deserved an apology, but because I needed one. And he wanted me to say that I needed him for a change instead of the reverse.

Even worse, he'd made it seem as if the past four years that I'd looked after him—no matter how reluctant I had been—were just one big debt that he owed. Which bothered the hell out of me. However, the fact that it bothered me was much more upsetting, and I couldn't let him get away with it. Not that night. That night, I would finally give the narcissistic vampire everything he truly deserved.

"You made a mistake in compelling Mrs. Avery, Damon!" My voice echoed through the expansive lobby of the boarding house. There was no sign of him anywhere. For once, even the liquor cabinet was closed. Which should have been my indication to leave. Obviously, the boarding house was empty. But then I saw it. The black high heels strewn along the plush carpet alongside other articles of clothing: some male, but mostly female. And none of them belonging to Stefan or Elena. The rafters above me started to shake under the weight of a rage that had no target. Really. Who cared if Damon slept with half the town? I just needed to be mad, and anyone who's ever been irrationally upset knows that anger always feels better when it has a target.

I pictured the floor of his room caving in. Saw the floor boards collapsing in my mind until the sound resonated throughout the house in reality. Splinters snapped and popped in time to a woman's high pitched scream as two figures fell through the ceiling. Have a nice date, Damon, I had laughed the entire drive home. However, the joke was on me, because the moment I walked into my bedroom in the house where dad died, Damon lay sprawled out on my bed with his arms behind his head, smirking and taking up space like he owned the place.

"Bitch move trying to kill my date, Judgie. Although I have to admit that you've surprised me. I knew that you were capable of a lot, but I hadn't honestly thought that murder was your style," he winked appreciatively up at me through thick dark eyelashes that weren't fair. Murder! Oh God, I really am a monster, I panicked. I hadn't meant to kill anyone, I just snapped. And now…

"Is…is she okay?"

He chuckled at my stammer, "Who? Rachel? Ah, she's going to be fine. We got the blood all cleaned up," he licked his lips. "And don't worry. She won't remember a thing." He was definitely enjoying this.

"Then why aren't you at the manor annoying her?" I gritted my teeth. The day had finally started to catch up to me, and being there reminded me of the many times that I had waited for my father's shift at the hospital to end. Something that I would never be able to do again.

"How're you feeling?" He ignored the question, sad smile playing on his lips as if he sincerely cared about my wellbeing.

"Damon, what right did you have in compelling Mrs. Avery at my father's funeral today?" Anger flashed over his features, replacing any signs of false sincerity.

"She started it," the vampire's jaw clenched, "She should learn to keep her comments to herself and mind her fu—"

"She's a bitch, Damon! What's your excuse?" He gave me an incredulous look that said, I'm a vampire! Duh. But I wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. There was more to his actions than just being a born-again predator. This fact had nearly killed me to admit, but Damon was not the same threat who flew off the handle at the drop of a dime, and had tried to kill me. After losing practically everyone, he weighed his actions more carefully. Thought long and hard before making a decision. So I knew that, despite his stubborn act, there was more to the story than he was telling me.

"She had no right to talk…she shouldn't have said…"He shook his head, stunning us both with his lack of clear speech, and reached around my desk chair for his jacket. "It's been a long day. I almost killed a sixty-year old woman. You almost killed my dinner. Let's just consider ourselves even, shall we?" The indifference that I hated was back, quickly replacing any vulnerability that had almost shown through his thick shield.

"So that's what this is all about!" I telepathically ripped him from my bed and slammed his head against the peeling wallpaper of my bedroom's far wall. "Us finally being even?" At this admission, he exploded.

"You will not ever," the enraged vampire spun us around so that it was my back scraping against the aging wallpaper, "question my motives. Or my intentions!" Angry fists pounded the wall beside me until the commotion split the wall down the middle.

Heated screams of anger and disbelief—not to mention Damon's suspicion—echoed despite the plush carpeting and array of cushioned furniture neatly placed around the room as if my father's absence had caused the house to feel as hollow as did I.

"Why do you even care what I think? Is there something that you're not telling me, Judgie?" He raised an inky eyebrow at me, and ran his finger down my arm. Goosebumps eroded my skin in response to his touch.

"Yes," fire shot out around the room. "Go to Hell!"

He fixed me with one of his cocky, all-seeing stares. "Is that really what you want?" To anyone else, the question would have sounded harmless, maybe even sorrowful, but this was Damon that we were talking about. The last thing that his statement had been was harmless, because it was more than just a simple inquiry. It was a challenge. A test of strength.

"More than anything," I spat back in a surprisingly steady voice, despite the painful racing of my heart. But there was a moment of hesitation before the words came out. A moment of weakness and indecision stilled the room's raging fire as I tried to forget the last time I'd actually felt this tempted and ready to give in. To say that Damon made dismissing him easy would have been a lie. In an instant, he grabbed the nape of my neck and positioned his mouth directly over mine, close enough to make me want a taste.

"Are you sure about that?" He awaited my answer with a look of pure, unadulterated debauchery that caused me to unconsciously tilt my lips even closer to his. I wasn't the type of girl who was easily seduced. Seduction wasn't real. It was all just an illusion, just harmless eye-flirting and lingering caresses hidden behind a wall of smoke and mirrors, and it's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt. Yet, his eyes were doing something to me. Something worse than both seduction and compulsion. No, his eyes were steadily inching me toward my Screw-It point. Dad was dead and Dean was gone. Neither of them was coming back. So why not fall for Damon? Lord knows, it would have been so much easier that way.

Still, I couldn't give in. Not just yet. Not without hesitation. After moments of silence, he dropped his hands to my hips and pressed us together. "You know what I think? I think that I tempt you, that you want this as much as I do. I think you're so tired of being the Little Witch That Couldn't, that you'd do anything to reinvent yourself." His eyes sparkled with ice cold excitement at the word "anything." "But first," he raised the hem of my shirt, tickling my ribs with his thumb, "I think that you need to prepare yourself."

My tongue, which had grown drier than sand, scraped against the roof of my mouth, seeking hydration. "Wh-why?" I croaked, hating the way that my voice cracked at his ministrations.

"I'm not going to be gentle like the hunter," he raggedly huffed.

"Believe me, the last thing I want to feel is another disingenuous person pretending to be gentle." He swallowed back a groan with something that sounded like strangled satisfaction.

"Good," he growled, "because I'm going to make you scream." And as he pushed me on the child-like bed sheets, pulling so that I kneeled before his standing form at the foot of my bed, the fire around us sprang back to life.

If Dean was like whiskey, then Damon could be compared to a fine red wine fermented to a point of potency that resembled blood and tasted like poison. His hands were frantic upon my bare skin, kneading and squeezing with an expertise intent upon bleeding my inhibitions dry. Because that's what wine does. It hides behind the senses, waiting for the most inoperable moment to blind the drinker with immobilizing desire. But even though his kiss made me feel like I was dying, I continued to roll him around my tongue, consumed with what would inevitably transpire between us if I didn't gain control.

"Ah, ah, ah, my little witch," his words were slick against my skin, "I'm in charge, remember?" By then, the monster inside of him had fully taken over, mocking my nerve to unleash his feral nature, and I should have been afraid. I should have been appalled as he proceeded to whisper fetishes in my ear that ranged from risqué—"You didn't think that I came unprepared, did you?" he asked, securing my wrists above my head with a shiny pair of handcuffs that were undoubtedly "borrowed" from Sherriff Forbes—to downright criminal—spilling his own blood onto the flesh just below my ribs until it spelled out letters such as L.U.S.T., M.I.N.E., and A.L.W.A.Y.S., licking me clean, and starting over with a different word.

But instead of being afraid, I tightened my legs around his waist and matched his fervor with a series of insults, "I'll never be yours, Vampire." Damon's eyes blackened to showcase his rage as if roughly nudging my cheek with the side of his face hadn't clued me in to his fiery temper.

"You will be mine! Because after tonight," his hands found my throat, restricting only enough oxygen for me to feel pleasantly lightheaded, his hips increasing to inhuman speed, "I am going to ruinyou for all men.

His words were smooth. His kisses chilled my blood. And his hands could have put silk to shame. But though I sipped his wicked lips like wine, he brought me to my undoing with waves and waves of acidic pleasure as hot-cold as the fire that swelled around my bed, scorching the pale floorboards beneath us. He too shuddered, coming undone to a memory of long, chocolate locks and deceptive brown eyes. It put me at ease, his fantasizing, because then I didn't have to feel guilty about my own cravings for cropped blond hair and whiskey-burnt kisses. We were even, exactly as Damon had wanted.

The brink of dawn found us curled tightly into each other on the bare mattress. "Did you really have to rip my sheets to shreds?" I slurred into Damon's cool chest. He lay beneath me, stroking my hair; the monster was safely trapped in his cage once more.

"You're one to talk, Bon Bon. Any closer with that fire, and we'd have been burned to death," I looked into his pale eyes with amusement, "You know what I meant. Now get your stuff." He jumped from the bed, completely proud in his all together. Fixated upon the curve his ass made in the thin sliver of light pouring from my window, I barely heard myself ask where we were going. "You're coming to live with me at the boarding house. There's no point in both of us living alone, especially since we spend most of our time together anyway. Plus, you've looked at that clock four times in the last five minutes. You know it won't change anything." I hadn't thought that Damon had noticed, but he was right. It was 5am, the time that my dad would have gotten up for work. I was usually up at this time to make him breakfast, and even though I knew that he was gone, old habits die hard.

"You know this doesn't change things, right? I still hate you." He smiled, no signs of a smirk in sight, knowing that it wasn't really in my heart to hate him anymore, and kissed my cheek. The look in his eyes was one I'd only seen him use on someone far less worthy.

"I hate you too," he winked. And that was my final memory of the house where dad died, the memory of my own screams echoing inside the walls, and how Damon had promised to make it happen.

Funny, the little things that you remember about the last place you lived. I'd taken my first steps in this house. Said my first words in the living room. Eaten my first solid food— turkey and cheddar sandwiches. Apparently my mom, before she died, wasn't much of a hard cereal type of person. Like mother like daughter, I guess—while sitting on the kitchen table. All of my birthday parties had been here, not to mention late summer games of tag with Elena, Caroline, and the neighborhood boys. And when we got too old to chase them, if thirteen can really be considered too old for such a thing, we'd invite them in for a game of spin the bottle right here on the dusty, tattered carpet. The memory of Matt's eager grin when the empty beer bottle "coincidently" landed upon Elena for the third time in a row was enough to make me smile.

Every first that I'd ever had in my life had been split between two houses: my dad's and Grams', right down to my first kiss. Perhaps, if I'd lingered around the porch when I'd first arrived at my late father's house tonight, instead of hurrying to my room to change for Caroline and Tyler's "Mystic Masquerade" engagement party, I would have thought about those times. Sat on the porch swing, garment bag folded gingerly in my arms, and absorbed all of the first kisses and soiled chances that had taken place over the years from boys who'd long since grown into men, and one who'd been too old for me from the start. But as it turned out, I didn't linger, which was why the first memory of this house just happened to be my last night here. Yet if I expected to see it the same way I'd left it: bed sheets ripped to shreds, walls peeling and old, burn marks scorching the floorboards and carpet, I was pleasantly disappointed.

The pale oak floorboards that used to creak and wheeze under pressure were now a sturdy rich cherry red wood. I gazed over at the walls, void of wallpaper, and found that they were painted the color of freshly baked bread with white trim. Even the bed sheets were new. The pink and lime green polka dotted blankets that had been ripped were replaced with a beige and black comforter that sported a slight floral pattern. Twice, I looked through the sea blue curtains—also an improvement—, just to make sure that I was indeed in my father's house, and not inside of a home improvements magazine.

When I finally got over the shock, I grabbed the dress, and made my way to the bathroom, only to be greeted by Stefan's handwriting: Hope you like your new room. Just in case you ever need a hideout. –S. and E.

And it was a lovely idea. To actually have a hideout. To have friends that cared enough about me to know that, sometimes, I needed to be by myself. Unfortunately, I'd already found that place in Grams' house, and it could never be changed to here. For one thing, Grams' place was the only place I had that was vampire proof. And secondly, this house held too many memories of Damon. If I were a vampire, I might have been able to still smell him, smell us in the air: thick and disorienting, just as carefully fermented wine was meant to be. Which is why, two hours later, I silently thanked the misguided couple for their gift, grabbed my black clutch, and stepped out into the cool night wearing the strapless blue-grey dress complete with plunging sweetheart neckline and tight skirt that stopped just below the knee, vowing to have a good time and not reveal any of Victoria's Secrets until Damon and I got back home. It was the perfect night for a wedding party. Yet, as I looked up into the night, my breath stopping altogether, I realized that it was also the perfect night for a funeral.

"Hey, Green Eyes," his voice was as tempting and tortured as I'd remembered, like sex and death all rolled into one, and it produced a feeling in me that somewhat resembled a nausea-induced hangover brought on by mixing whiskey with wine.