Chapter 48: The Thin Line…
DAMON
The problem with the stairs is that they won't sit still. I close one eye and squint at them in warning, placing my foot squarely on the next riser. It wobbles and waves disobediently. Just like Jell-O, that fucking unnatural substance that some imbecile invented half a century ago or so. It shouldn't be food and it sure as hell shouldn't be my stairs.
I decide to risk it and put my weight on the gelatin stair just long enough to shoot for the one after that. Loud sounds ensue and pain explodes in my head, shoulder and knee. I open my eyes, recognize the ceiling and close them again. I feel the bruises begin to heal and I consider the stairs currently re-arranging my vertebrae. They certainly seem solid enough now.
Did I drive home? There is no possible way Kyle would have let me drive home, right? I'm a little surprised his solution didn't include that pointy Louisville Slugger, but I'm not complaining.
At least I think I'm not.
I set my considerable brain power to the task of sorting out my torso and various limbs into an upright and ambulatory position. When I finally manage to make it to the door of my bedroom, I twist the knob on my second try and note the fact that my lamp is on. This generally means someone is waiting to kill me and I am in no shape to deal with it whatsoever. I lean against the doorjamb to ponder this state of affairs.
While pondering, I make the mistake of leaving my eyes open. The problem with this is that my eyes are telling me that Elena Gilbert is in my bedroom. Worse, they then insist on describing her clothing in excessive detail and by the time they're finished with their verbose elucidation, I'm first cousins to stone cold sober.
The issue, of course, is that she's wearing a corset made of black lace, with padding strategically added to make the full curves of her breasts more dramatically plump, the arc of her waist accented by the fine boning of the corset. My traitorous superhuman eyes can make out the pattern in the lace between bones: it is a fine ivy and leaf design, snaking across her creamy flesh with a naughty twist here, a flounce of a leaf there.
The panties match, though there is barely enough of them to prove it and I'd wager a good 2/3 share of the Salvatore fortune that the part I can't see is only a lacy thread, intimately acquainting itself with the luscious curves of her backside.
They're paired with an ivy lace garter belt that is attached, crookedly, to a pair of silky, shadow-toned stockings.
I'm a fucking dead man.
I feel vaguely uncomfortable. I wonder if this is because I'm about to betray everything I've ever stood for without a second thought. And then I realize I haven't taken a breath in somewhere between five minutes and two weeks.
Elena starts to walk toward me, prowling in a swivel-hipped catwalk of a movement only amplified by the delicacy of balance required by her midnight-colored stilettos.
"Dirty trick," I acknowledge.
She responds with a fluid Italian phrase that sounds incredibly lovely on her lips, even with its precisely-mimicked Google Translate pronunciation. My tattoo prickles, as if ink-scarred flesh can recognize its verbal translation.
I smile humorlessly. She's clever, my beautiful girl and more devious than I gave her credit for.
I turn and leave the room, blurring down the stairs and out the front door into the forgiving night.
Elena slinks closer.
Okay, so that didn't work. I give my body the escape cue again, but it is supremely uninterested in what my mind has to say. It remains stubbornly planted against the doorframe.
I've got a step and a half left for a Hail Mary kind of move. I try something more daring than my usual fare: the truth.
"I didn't think you were cruel enough to try something like this."
"The New Testament got it wrong, Damon," she says, pausing. "Love isn't patient or kind. It's fucking desperate."
I agree, wholeheartedly, but I don't answer because her body is too close now, her faint heat enough to light every molecule I possess in spontaneous, glorious combustion.
I know how I'll feel if I let her get her arms around me, because it never fails. It feels like everything you are is good. It feels like waking up when you're sick to find that you're not alone. It feels like when my mother was still alive and my father didn't hate me. It feels like the sun, before I needed a ring.
It's every bit of gold in the world, alchemically rendered back into coal. Because it's as counterfeit as the Stefan ghost that told me she was gone forever.
"I don't love you," I say desperately.
"Yes," she says. "You do."
She takes the last step toward me and wobbles in the unfamiliar shoes and fuck me, I catch her.
My vampire speed kicks back in as I release her elbows and snatch up her hands before she can touch me.
I'm too late. Her lips are already on mine and they're ruining me. I hear a low, terrible sound and I don't know if it came from her or me. I missed her so much, more than it's possible to miss anyone even after 146 years and I would know.
My hands have hers in a stranglehold, safely down by my belly. I'm losing a whole different battle to her mouth, which is soft and welcoming and understands why I need her and can't admit it. I pour my troubles into her, begging wordlessly with my tongue, apologizing with my lips, punishing with my teeth.
Her hair is tickling my cheek, but I don't have a free hand. I rescue my mouth from hers and my head turns, rubbing our cheeks together, strands of her pretty hair caught between us. I pull back and switch both of her hands into one of mine. She tries to pull away but I tighten my grip to just short of bone-breaking force.
"No," I tell her, the command as strong as if I'd armored it in compulsion.
She subsides, waiting to see what I'll do to her.
I fist my hand in her hair and pull her head back, daring to meet her eyes. They're outlined darkly, the sweet earth tones set in shades of edgy sex and exotic beauty.
They're full of trust.
It's the Guardian spell that makes her special, the spell that makes me want to be worthy of the trust in her eyes. Without the spell she's just another girl, another insanely hot girl and yeah, maybe it's hormones but suddenly I'm not that interested in running.
Without the spell, I could fuck her like any other girl. And maybe I should. Maybe that would get her out of my system, remind us both that this isn't about happily ever after.
She yields easily to the harsh pressure of my hand in her hair, her lips parting in response to the increase in her breathing. I spin her to face away from me and she loses her balance. My right arm tightens around her waist without releasing her wrists and I take her weight until she finds her feet again. Then I reach behind my head, flexing my tricep in a powerful movement that tears my shirt all the way down both sleeves.
It drifts in shreds to our feet and Elena sucks in a breath as my bare chest meets her back. I scoop her hair back over my shoulder, bending my knees so more of it can caress my deprived skin. She tilts her head back, shaking it slowly from side to side, raising gooseflesh all across my back.
I don't usually play with girls' hair when I fuck them, I realize. A slip. Just a small slip.
I push her hair away from me and drive my hips forward, assaulting her with the evidence of my arousal. She makes a pleased sound in her throat and shifts her legs apart slightly, tipping her round, bare buttocks back against the bulging front of my pants.
I groan. I can't do this.
I pull hard on her right wrist, spinning her out and away from me so her back collides with the wall. It knocks the breath out of her long enough for me to catch her left wrist again, pinning her arms wide apart.
I inhale the scent of her neck, my predatory aspect taking hold of my face. I shove my hips against her, throwing my knee into the seam of her thighs to force them apart. I'm brutal, as crude as I can force myself to be.
I pause, grinding her hard between the wall and my cock.
"You don't want me like this," I grit out through my teeth.
"I always want you," she says achingly.
"You need to go," I warn.
"I want to stay."
"You can't." My voice is somewhere between a whisper and a howl.
Her lips press into my forehead, just above my left eyebrow. I feel the shudder all the way into my shoes.
I bend and when I straighten, she's draped over my shoulder. Her only protest is a surprised gasp and then she relaxes into me. I wrap one arm around her legs to keep her from falling and with my free hand, I take off her shoes, tossing them to the floor.
They land with the heavy clunk of a poor decision, firmly made.
I carry her to my bed and give her a flip that lands her square on her back, bouncing slightly on the thick mattress. She's already reaching for me, trying to draw me down on top of her, but I catch her wrists again with my left hand and unbuckle my belt with my right.
The hiss it makes as I yank it free of my belt loops feels like the burning stripe of leather across unprotected flesh. That sensation must not exist in Elena's world, because she doesn't flinch at the sound.
Her eyes are never tainted by fear, even when I wrap the belt around her wrists, buckling it very tightly.
Now that it's safe I touch her face, my thumbs tracing familiar lines across her high cheekbones as I risk a kiss. I try to make it hard and demanding and fail utterly.
This isn't real.
The unsteadiness in my belly.
The need in my hands.
The way I want to loosen the strap of her corset where it's digging into her skin.
It's a witch that needed a magical ingredient protected. And Elena, bewitching as she is, is just an artifact of a power game much bigger and older than she is.
I pull back and watch as I dare a single finger stroking the plump, exposed curve of her breast above the lacy edge of her corset. It is soft, yielding easily to me. I take my hand away and I don't look at her.
"You're not safe here. I'll let you go, if you leave right now."
She shakes her head, her bound hands coming up to my face and her fingertips stroking my jaw. I capture them.
"Elena. Go. Please go." My voice has crumpled somehow, from an order into begging.
"It's okay, Damon. Let me stay." She sits up and tucks her head against my shoulder, her hair swinging against my arm. I have a sudden, vivid recollection of carrying her out of the hospital, her hair draped over my arm when I saved her from being drained by Klaus.
My mouth twists into a sneer. How did I not feel the puppet strings moving my feet that night?
I shove Elena's hands back above her head and roll her roughly onto her stomach. Her legs are beautiful; long, demon-tempting. I spread them with my knees and hold her to the bed with one punishing hand on her lower back.
Her breathing picks up and she wriggles a little against the mattress. I bite the back of her thigh and she squeaks. I kiss and bite and suck my way up the backs of her legs, edging closer to her inner thighs while she writhes under my mouth, trying to push closer.
I bend one of her knees, spreading her wide so I can sneak my tongue under the string of her thong, tasting the place where she opens to me, her skin soft and slick. I know to Elena this angle will feel forbidden and unfamiliar and I don't allow her enough time relax into it. Instead, I roll her onto her side, propping her thigh on my shoulder and pulling her panties aside as I surround her clit with my lips, sipping at it slowly so that I can lose myself in the helpless sounds she makes.
I scrape my teeth along the lips of her sex, biting with extreme care and Elena cries out sharply. I smile fiercely with self-destructive satisfaction; not thinking, not planning, just letting my body speak to hers. I want to control her every sensation, sharpen the intensity of each one until it glides down the knife edge between pleasure and pain. Until her gasping breaths begin to beg. Until her cries are screams. Until she can't take any more but she'll hate me if I stop.
I keep her on her side, her legs spread wide and allow my canines to lengthen. My fingers dig into her thighs as I force her to be still, trailing my fangs up the graceful thread of her femoral artery.
It's dangerous, too much blood. If I really drink from her tonight, I'll be lost in the land of lovesick puppets again by morning.
But just a taste. Because temptation is not for resisting. Not for a sinner like me.
"Don't move," I whisper and Elena whimpers and obeys. My fangs slide into her, so close to her steamy core that she finally cries out in fear, her legs trying to close to protect herself against me. I don't allow it. It's far too late for that, for both of us.
Her bound hands come down and clutch at the only thing she can reach, which is my hair. I make a long swipe, taking her blood all the way up to her clit and rubbing it with the full, rough length of my tongue.
The taste of her blood explodes inside of me like shrapnel, shredding everything under my skin.
She makes a strangled sound and comes apart, rolling away from me as her whole body tightens against the force of the orgasm.
I manage to choke down a breath now that she's not touching me. I can't take this, can't risk being this close. I reach desperately for the uncluttered, hedonistic ease of all the years when my switch was off. I can't find it, can't remember how I ever found it.
My eyes refocus on the graceful curve of her back, which is trembling slightly with the aftershocks of her climax.
This is her fault. She's the one who made me feel again. She's the barbed noose the Guardian spell has wrapped around my balls and if I can't control what I feel, she shouldn't be allowed to either.
I let her come back down alone as I begin to open all the tiny hooks closing her corset, trickling my fingers down her exposed spine. When the corset is open, I push it up her arms so it catches around my belt, tangling her hands together even more and leaving her bare and unprotected before me.
I circle her nipple with a fingertip, watching it flush with blood as it hardens. Her eyes open and slowly focus on me.
"Damon?" she asks, shifting closer to me on the bed.
I'm surprised by how much it hurts to hear her say my name. She shouldn't even know my name. I'm an accessory, a servant to the necessity of her continued existence.
"Damon, look at me," she pleads.
I sweep my eyes down her body, pleased by the expanse of unblemished skin highlighted by dark lace. I nip at the skin above her hipbone and she jerks in surprise. My tongue assaults her lower belly and her hips roll wildly against me even as small fingers comfort the back of my neck, pushing past the tangle of corset straps and belt to reach my skin.
I growl, displeased and roll off the bed.
"Wait, don't," she protests. "Don't go."
I grab a tie from my closet, not bothering to see which one and stalk back to the bed.
Her eyes soften. "Damon, lie down with me. Just for a second and then you can do whatever you want," she bargains.
"You can go," I tell her harshly. "Or you can stay and do whatever I want. Two choices."
"Stay," she breathes.
I grab her hands and unbuckle the belt long enough to get rid of the corset. The flesh under the leather is slightly reddened and I feel something stormy threatening at the edges of me.
Satisfaction, I tell myself fiercely. Any sympathy you feel for this girl isn't your own. It is a side-effect of your mental illness. I buckle the belt back on and thread the tie through it, tying her hands firmly to my bedpost.
"Damon?" she asks in a small voice.
Young. She's so young, she's never done anything like this.
I snarl at the impudence of the thought, for intruding when I'm trying to punish her. I start at her neck and smooth my hands down her whole body, testing her response. She arches against my hands, hungry for more, even now.
I smile cruelly. Good.
I want her to hate this as much as she likes it.
I meet her eyes and they're a mix of love and hope highlighted by anxiety, hazed by arousal. I rip her panties off without blinking and her eyes roll back in her head a little bit. My hand is close enough to her center to feel the wave of increased heat. I shove her legs apart and hold them there while she gasps, squeezing her eyes shut against the enforced intimacy.
I push one finger into her, stroking her as her muscles clench around me. Then I slowly pull out, gathering moisture before I move between the two halves of her bottom.
She flinches, not used to being touched there.
"Damon, what are you doing?"
"Fucking you," I tell her hoarsely. "You ready to run yet?"
"No…"
I test the tight, puckered opening, pressuring her. "You should get out of here, Elena. You can't handle me, can't handle what I'm going to do to you."
Deliberately, she relaxes her muscles and wraps a leg around my back, rubbing her smooth stocking against my shoulder.
"You'd never hurt me. I trust you," she says gently.
She shouldn't.
I bend my head to her, distracting her with my mouth as I slowly enter her with one finger. Her legs tighten and she makes a little sound of distress. I pause and play with her, tracing the layers of her with my tongue until she relaxes before I push the rest of the way into her ass, moving in and out with the barest of movements until her hips begin to eagerly mirror my advance and withdrawal.
"Damon, that feels-" She groans, her head thrashing.
I tip my head up and smile humorlessly. "It's a bitch, isn't it, hating how good something feels."
I'm determined to trample on every boundary of hers I can find. Let her know how it feels to crave, even when you don't want to. I push into her and bite again, just outside her opening so that her arousal mixes with her blood when I penetrate her with my tongue. It's dirty as all hell and she's delicious and it makes me forget entirely that I'm not supposed to love making her feel good.
I kiss her very intimately, indulging both of us with my unhurried rhythm. Elena catches her breath and comes silently, beautifully, her leg wrapping around my back to hold onto me the only way she can. I pull gently out of her and lay my cheek against her thigh. When I find myself smiling, I jerk away from her, blurring into the bathroom and leaning over the sink, my teeth creaking as I grind them harshly.
Fuck.
How can she do this to me, even now when I'm supposed to know better?
"Damon?" She sounds worried.
I turn on the water to drown out her voice and start to wash my hands because I have to do something to distract myself from the fact that I'm losing my damn mind.
I'm fully on board with the part of me that loves that she's wearing nothing but garters and stockings, tied to my bed for my pleasure alone. The part that I hate is the part of me that wants to wrap her in the softest blanket I can find, carry her back to her own room and tuck her in with her bear where she's safe from my depravity.
That's the witchy juju for sure, because I've never wanted to do that for a woman in my life. Damon Salvatore doesn't fucking cuddle.
The only two women I've ever wanted to take care of had the same face and that face has always had way too much power over me. I refuse to give in to it, but I'm powerless not to.
I turn off the water and brace myself against the idea that I am going to have to run the gauntlet of my Elena-occupied room to escape out into the world. If I can make it past that door, I can lose myself so thoroughly that no one will ever be able to find me again.
It feels like I already have.
