Damon is not one for limits and confines and rules and all that jazz, he takes what he wants whenever he can, which is probably why the two Bonnies mix up so easily in his mind leaving him to enter the boardinghouse with the need to look into Bonnie's eyes and see that, for some heavenly error, she is in love with him, and he can have her for himself. But, it dawns on him, that she doesn't blush for him, and they didn't have sex the night before, and she's not even in sight as a bunch of stupid teenagers come dangerously close to staining the carpet at the foot of the staircase.
It's irrational of him to get irked by that, but not unusual, and no one will think him resentful because he was so lame that he bought a bunch of bamon merchandise like it made the possibility of having Bonnie less unlikely and just plain absurd. As if buying her a t-shirt with the writing "Caution, danger ahead" made her more likely to fall for him. As if buying a cup with the writing "I'm the Damon to your Bonnie" made it more likely for them to fall into bed together. As if staring at some blue lingerie on a catalogue gave him a chance to see it on her.
"Spill that drink on my carpet and I'll rip your head off your neck," he threatens in a low tone. The guy turns around ready to strike back, but he shuts his mouth immediately. Damon doesn't even need to show a hint of teeth to make the guy go pale. That's how fucking serious he is right now.
The slightest trace of an excuse will make him slaughter each one of those fuckers invading his house, and he won't even say sorry, no matter how much Stefan broods about it.
He shuts his jaw, feeling the bone ache. He kneels down, rolling the carpet to put it to safety like his life depends on it, when he sees white heels at the end of a pair of long legs clad in white stocking. His eyes travel up, half enthralled. The white skirt with a slit in the middle comes into sight, and then the cropped shirt, knotted on the front, and the breasts almost completely on display. There is a rush of blood to his head – the one on his shoulders – but it quiets down easily as he sees the face staring down at him. She's pretty enough, and quite fuckable actually, if he wanted to find some cheap relief, but she's no Bonnie and that makes half the appeal of the costume vanish.
"Who are you supposed to be?" she asks, cocking her head to the side, her pigtails touching her right cheek as she does so.
"The owner of the house," he replies, knowing that's not what she was actually asking.
"I suppose you look too good to wear a costume," she says, flirting openly. Everything about her is open. As he stands up, keeping the rolled carpet to his side like a pillar, he can see flat stomach, her round tits, and if he asks her – nicely or not – he'll see the rest too.
"And you should see how good I look naked," Damon replies with a condescending grin, throwing his hook as he tries to decide if it's worth it. She has all the right stuff in all the right places but he's not that interested, in fact if she disappeared in the crowd to go get a drink he probably wouldn't even remember her face.
"I might be interested in checking for myself," she replies. And though he smiles at her words, even the thought of getting laid does not dissolve his horrid mood. In fact, his lack of enthusiasm worsens it, making him sour. He wants to break her neck. Like it's somehow her fault for not being more timid, or smaller or darker or basically another person.
"Then please pick a number and get in line," he says, walking away holding his precious rolled carpet to his side. There's a storage room next to the kitchen and he fits it in the between the box of his new vacuum cleaner and the cabinet where he keeps his detergent supply.
Under the constant chattering and the easy beat of Are You Gonna Be My Girl Damon can hear the mediocre flirting game of someone in his kitchen. He thought Caroline's attempt at baking a birthday cake was the worst thing that could happen in there but clearly he was wrong.
"You do really look the part," Lame Guy says, getting a bored "Mmm" for a reply. Damon can hear the clinking of glass and he wonders if blondie remembered to put away the glassware. "I really like your costume," Lame Guy adds. Damon is about to go ask her when Lame Guy asks the girl her name.
"Bonnie," she says, answering with a certain reluctance and making Damon walk back to peek inside the room like a bomb could explode in his face.
Lame Guy chuckles sleazily. "You're really into it," he comments, way too pleased for Damon's taste. He can see Lame Guy's profile wearing a camouflage suit and a red pimple at the base of his neck, but Bonnie is hidden by the guy's frame so Damon must step inside the room to see her.
"Into what?" she asks puzzled.
"You know," he begins, suggestively, reaching out to touch the white cap fixed on her hair, "the devoted nurse stuff." It's all white, her uniform, the spark going off in Damon's eyes, a faint imitation of the effect of a good, milking orgasm. There is a lingering ringing in his ears, and the familiar rush of blood making his muscles go hard.
Bonnie steps back, annoyed by Lame Guy's liberties, "Hands off" she says.
"But that's how they start," he replies, readily, "with hands." He winks at her, leaving her confused.
"What a coincidence," Damon piques, appearing next to the guy and throwing an arm over him in friendly manner, lowering his head just enough to speak next to his ear. "That's how I'm gonna start, too, with your hands," he says, like he's telling an enthusiastic tale. "That's what I'm going to break first," he cries out happily. "After that, I'll accept suggestions."
"Listen, buddy, I didn't—"
"Shh, shh," Damon hushes him, one finger over his mouth, while staring at a vein in his neck and wishing he could tear into it, right now. "I meant her suggestions, not yours. I don't give a flying fuck about you," he clarifies, amused. "Do you think I give a flying fuck about him, Bonnie?"
"Nope," she replies, making a point to look unimpressed with his bordering psychopathic display.
"My friend, Bonnie, here…" he explains trying to keep calm, though his canines itch to come out and play, "…does not think I give a flying fuck about you and she'd be right," he continues. "She's not one to hurt people, though she didn't take any oath, but I am. I really, really enjoy it, especially when sleazy people touch my friend Bonnie wrongly, thinking she's remotely interested in their sleazy selves."
The arm around his shoulder disappears suddenly, making Lame Guy breathe in relief, before Damon's fingers grip his hair and pull the head back exposing his neck. It would be so easy to take out his frustration on this poor excuse for a man. He doubts he would be missed. But there are rules about killing people etc. etc. and Bonnie would give him hell about it.
Bonnie is startled but she bites her lips and doesn't comment on it, trusting that he won't take it too far. He's so distracted by the tiny action Damon forgets the words of his monologue and looks down at Lame Guy with disdain.
"It seemed to me that you've touched her," he decides.
"I didn't," Lame Guy stretches out his arms to keep some sort of balance and not fall back as Damon keeps his head pulled at a awkward angle.
"I'm not reassured by that," Damon mulls aloud.
"I really didn't."
"He really didn't," Bonnie agrees mercifully, taking away his toy.
"Oh well," Damon shrugs letting go of his hold. After that he doesn't bother looking in Lame Guy's direction. He can hear something with two legs scramble away, but suddenly, with no protecting to do, he can't tear his eyes away from Bonnie and her delicious attire. She's sexy without being too much in his face, revealing a little just to let him envision the rest.
"Well, that went well," he comments, stealing glances at the buttons of her perfectly-in-place shirt. The length of her skirt isn't short enough to make people insane while trying to guess the kind of stockings she's wearing because he knows she is wearing them from the very faint shadow the aureole makes under his enhanced sight.
"Define well," she replies with a reproaching inflection in her voice.
"I saved the damsel in distress," he replies proudly.
"You're the one distressing the damsel by threatening to torture people at a party," she insists, crossing her arms over her chest. The buttons of her shirt pull a little, calling his attention.
"The music would have covered the screaming," he retorts the moment his brain can latch on her words. In the back of his mind that statement would fit another scenario entirely, one where the one screaming would be Bonnie and he would have to quiet her down by covering her mouth with his hand while he drove inside her hard.
"You always think about everything," she says, faking a complimentary tone and helping to interrupt his fantasy.
"I mostly think about one thing," he admits, forgetting himself as he looks at her. They are mixed up again, the two Bonnies, and for a moment he thinks this might be it – the sign he was waiting for, the opening he's always wanted and could never admit to.
"What is it about guys and this nurse fantasy, anyway?" she comments, embarrassed, turning around to put away some empty bottles.
"I don't know. That's a new one for me," he shrugs, thinking back at the book scene he's read so many times already. "Mostly because I bedded various categories of medical professionals so I never needed to fantasize about it."
Bonnie grimaces, falling back easily into their routine and begins tidying up, unwittingly leaving him room to watch her. "I can do without the details, thanks." The details he'd like to share are branded in fire in his brain, but if she'd like something less gruesome there's always the printing of descriptive words to explain exactly how he would eat her if given the chance, but that one was not his Bonnie. His Bonnie reproaches him when he wants to torture sleazy guys, would not think about him as sex partner and can't even see how completely dependent he is on her.
She turns around and his eyes fly up immediately as he tries to look like the poster boy of friendly affection.
"He seemed nice enough," she considers.
"And at some point, you dated Jeremy Gilbert. I think that says everything about your standards," he jokes, earning a bad look. But her mouth is curved into a pretty smile and so it's good. Everything is better when Bonnie smiles.
"I just don't get it, why he suddenly became so slimy when I told him my name…"
"No idea," he lies, badly.
"You know something I don't?" she inquires, suspicious.
"I confessed my worst deeds to you. What would I hide, now?" he asks, trying not to panic and making a miserable job of it. He's cheated and lied and killed all his life, undead and otherwise, but he finds it really hard to lie to her.
"Right."
The sudden silence it's suffocating, though he doesn't need any air, and his frustration makes him blurt out his question with more edge than he meant to.
"Why the nurse costume, Bonnie?"
"Because I wanted you to understand that I want to take care of your every need, Damon, not just as a friend, but as a devoted, sexy nurse," he imagines her saying with her plump lips and those innocent eyes that make him want to teach her how to talk dirty against his ear before she start sucking on it. But the real answer doesn't even come close to the one he made up.
"Caroline was bored with my choice and cut my Hermione Grandger costume to pieces," she explains instead.
"And she casually had a nurse costume to let you borrow?" He tells himself he's irritated by the fact that Caroline has put her into an awkward position, embodying the latest male sexual fantasy without warning her or thinking of the dangers connected to it when you put such a gorgeous girl in the middle of a male crowd that would die to see some pussy; but actually, he's an egoist, more concerned for himself and the fact that he'll never be able to un-see her dressed this way, or detach her from Bonnie Bernet's character, or not have an erection because of it. "I mean, you could go with doctor, or firefighter, or astronaut or whatever but she's put you into a nurse costume?"
He's getting visibly flustered and angry as he talks, and Bonnie doesn't know what to make of it. There is some sort of tension between them she can't decipher.
"Does it matter so much what I'm wearing?" she asks confused, looking the very picture of naiveté while she's dressed like his newest jerking fantasy. She'll look exactly like this next time he's got his hard dick in his fist and he'll hate himself, but only after he's come. He knows that already, he's weak. He's weak for her and it's something he's come to terms with; because he can be an asshole and a killer, but he's honest, with himself at least.
"Yes, when you look like this and guys—" he stops himself. The possibility of her being someone else's fantasy, of being used that way enrages him. A lot of guys saw her with this fucking costume and they probably won't be able to un-see it, either. He'll fix this problem with some compelling, he decides. "I mean," he tries to change direction to not give himself away and scare her off. "It's not even your style, it really doesn't suit you." He grimaces looking at it, happy to manage repelled rather than attracted.
"So, this is too sexy for me, you mean?" she asks, annoyed at his behavior. Looking annoyed is still better than being heartbroken; because of course, as she has trouble not thinking of him as man, he only sees her as his friend. His friend Bonnie, as he has said many times already.
How ironic that she's angry at him for being the better person.
"What?" he replies dazedly, blinking. What?
"Of course, I'm not as attractive as your conquests," she continues, her voice getting shriller.
"That's not what I meant," he tries to remedy, but she doesn't even listen. He knows how she becomes when she jumps on a train. She rides it 'til the end.
"You can admit it, Damon. Your opinion of me is not everything." The lie is heavy on her tongue. It tastes bitter because she didn't know before now. But it's true. What Damon thinks of her is everything, and it hurts that he doesn't find her desirable, or at least pretty enough for someone. "The world doesn't revolve around you," she continues, pushing him away with her open palms over his chest, "and I thank you for wanting to spare me the disappointment of having to live with my poor sex appeal but I think I might actually manage to find someone interested in taking me to bed," she decides, walking away. "In fact, I think I'll go and do exactly—"
"Nothing," he interrupts her, grabbing at her arm and pulling her back. "You'll get into trouble and—"
"Why would I?" Her eyes are blazing and challenging him to offend her again. "You think that I'm—"
"Embarrassingly gorgeous and I'll have to wipe everyone's memory so that you don't become their three a.m. thought because that would not sit well with me." Damon hisses between his teeth, looking at her like he wants to pin her down and never let her out of his vicinity again. His breath is against her mouth and her heartbeat's drumming in his ear.
Her eyes are large, and he knows he's said too much, so he takes a step back, takes his hand away and tries to offer her the friendliest explanation he can find.
"I'm a bit of a territorial asshole and I take offence when unworthy men think about my best friend in a less than respectful manner," he says, observing her as her brain absorbs his perfectly rational explanation. "I swear I'm just trying to look out for you."
Add blasphemous to the list of today's sins, he reminds himself.
#
Bonnie hasn't touched the book in the last two days, and right now it is more than appealing. Her own Damon thinks her embarrassingly gorgeous and that made her heart beat so fast she thought she was going to die, but he spoke in such a way about their friendship that she cannot let herself be happy about what he's confessed to think of her.
She has no right to dirty their relationship. Because maybe he would be flattered, but it would still be unfair towards him, so she wants to make Damon Spada the only Damon capable of drawing her romantic interest and her carnal fantasies. And maybe if she keeps on reading, more differences between the two will come to light and she'll be able to differentiate between the two and stop being so confused.
She disappeared into her own room towards the end of the party, making an effort to smile because being around Damon felt a little like having someone blow hot air on raw skin. But he was there, and she hadn't had the heart to leave him, though she had tried. He had come out into the garden and covered her with his leather jacket to keep her warm, and for awhile she had decided to just enjoy his presence and his smell and his unique brand of devotion. Only, sometimes he forgot to look at her like a friend, and she forgot to not feel trepidation when he pressed closer to shield her from the cold air. And then someone looked at them and giggled knowingly and that - the thought that someone has read her stupid little fantasies on her face - broke the moment and her resistance.
So, she went back to her room, to a safer Damon, and found herself reading in excruciating detail how Damon would avidly eat Nurse Bonnie out until she felt herself on the verge of fainting. Everything was clear now, why that slimy guy had changed his behavior when she had told him her name, why a lot of people snickered when they saw her dressed as a nurse. The only solace she can find in the whole thing is knowing that Damon hasn't read it, and never will, not if she has a say in the matter.
The thought of the sheer shame she would feel if he ever knew what she's reading, what has passed in her mind, makes her grow cold and she's reassured by the fact that her body doesn't immediately respond to the idea of Damon's tongue licking her pussy, by the fact that her Damon doesn't slip immediately into the role of her ravenous lover, and so when it happens, when her sex quivers because she felt his tongue eagerly penetrating her sex and she can feel the ghost of it like a promise, compelling her hips to roll like it could drive him in, it takes the breath out of her, and she's ruined.
#
She turned the key in the keyhole holding her agenda and Damon's mail to her chest and morphing her face into a blank expression. She felt proud and incredibly strong the moment she entered his apartmen,t to find him talking on the phone in dark jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, but did not falter at the sight.
"Ti sbagli," (you're wrong) he was saying, shaking his head a little, tearing his eyes away from her as if she could detect something in them. She didn't even know what he was saying in the first place, and she did not care.
"Sto diventando più selettivo di così, credimi," (I'm becoming more selective than this, believe me) he insisted, highlighting the last word and throwing a look to the side where his assistant was sitting and paying him no attention.
Maybe, she told herself, Nurse Bernet had scratched an itch and she was now free to do her job without being affected by Damon Spada and his chiseled chest, and his piercing blue eyes, and that constant, subtle, unavoidable burning that lingered on her skin whenever he was close by.
She let her keys fall into the bucked bag dangling from her shoulder and put his mail on the coffee table. One of the envelopes was so large it covered half the glass surface. On top of it there was a gossip magazine, on page fifteen there was an article depicting the beautiful couple that Damon Spada and Alexandra Davenport made, and spoke about anonymous sources that confirmed the fact that the two had been dating. She ignored it and sat on the sofa going through his weekly schedule as he went on speaking on the phone.
The door to his bedroom was ajar, and she wondered if the bed was unmade, if there were still traces of their passion on the sheets, if it was okay to go look and see if she could find the nurse cap she had apparently lost somewhere between Damon's merciless pounding and her craven escape at dawn. She was going to have to pay a fee for losing a piece of the costume she had rented, still, she supposed he would have given it back if he had found it.
"L'unica donna della mia vita sei tu," (the only woman in my life is you) she was adamant in keeping her eyes on the words displayed on the electronic agenda, but his saccharine tone immediately brought her back to the night before, when he had complimented Alexandra. And though she had no idea what he was talking about with his interlocutor, she immediately knew it was a woman. And she did not care, she told herself trying to shush that little voice that was asking her if he had already moved on to the next conquest, if at least some part of him was still thinking about the night spent with his nurse. If the ravenous hunger of her had been fully sated already. Maybe it was purely a matter of pride that she did not want it to be so.
Damon Spada was no Navy official and owed her no fidelity, but it would have been nice to know that Nurse Bernet had done a number on him, that was all.
"Non essere gelosa," (don't be jealous) he continued, and though Bonnie spoke no Italian whatsoever, it wasn't very complicated to guess what he had just told the woman on the phone. Bonnie looked down at her knees and brought a hand to smooth her sleek hair, pulled back into a low bun. She wanted to appear as professional as ever, and had opted for a pair of khaki trousers, a white shirt completely buttoned up to her neck, a couple of tiny golden earrings and a pair of ballerina flats in patent leather; because, if the previous night had taught her anything, it was that dressing for the part made it all the easier.
"Ti chiamerò presto…" (I'll call you soon) he started, clearly being interrupted from the other interlocutor. "Lo so che lo dico sempre… si lo so che sono pessimo e il tuo irriducibile amore per me è prova del tuo cattivo gusto."(I know I always say that… yes I know I'm the worst and your unshakeable love for me is proof of your bad taste) he said, trying not to chuckle at her. "Ti voglio bene" (I love you) he hung up, slipping the phone into the pocket of his jeans.
"So, what page?" he asked, suddenly appearing in front of her, making Bonnie look up. She stared at him for a long moment, forgetting his question altogether, and he stared back. Each of them giving nothing away. Bonnie wondered if he was thinking about it, the passionate night their alter egos had shared. If he wanted her still, that seductive, complying girl she had been. Or had he moved on already, and she was the kind of embarrassing bed companion Patricia would refer to, next? The mere though froze her, and made her feel sick.
"What?" she asked, trying to regain her composure.
"My great romance with Alexandra Devenport," he said, turning to bend and take the magazine off the table. "What page it is?"
"Fifteen, I believe," she replied as she watched him flip through the pages.
"That's all?" he asked, grimacing. "I must have played the ardent lover lousily," he commented with a sigh, "Patricia's going to give me hell about it."
She didn't feel safe enough to digest the fact that it had been all an act, at least on Damon's part, and yet a wave of relief washed over her making her feel slightly high for a moment.
"I think you were very believable," she offered, trying to sound unaffected and rational about it. "She won't say anything about it."
"Well, if she does, she'd be right." He scratched the base of his neck before walking to the bin in the kitchen and throwing the magazine away without a second thought. "I was distracted," he added, leaving her to stare at his back.
Was he trying to let her know that he had been that affected by her? Was he that affected still?
If he was, it wasn't going to change anything because she was not Nurse Bonnie. She was his assistant, a professional and she only cared that he keep his schedule and do his work in a way that let her do hers at best. Moreover, maybe Alexandra was not a real interest for him, but what about the Italian woman he was sweetly talking to?
She needed to stay lucid about this, be rational, compartmentalize, and above all, never attach any meaning to make it more that it had been—namely some more than good, absolutely mind-blowing, exquisite sex. And yet, under her working attire and her sleek professional appearance, there was a renewed tingling that squashed her hope for indifference. And though she was disappointed about it, the rush of adrenaline and arousal made her feel so much more alive. She was unable to get rid of it right away, for it made her feel vibrant and sensual and special, something she never thought she could be.
He turned on his heels, closing the last buttons of his shirt, then grabbed two cups hanging over the countertop of the kitchen. "We got time for coffee," he said. "I really need it." He filled the cups. "I'm actually rather…hungry," he commented casually, making her heart beat faster, though there was no innuendo in his voice, "But I'm supposed to film an action scene so it's better to keep an empty stomach to avoid throwing up on Gunn." He raised his eyes to hers and grinned maliciously. "Though, wouldn't that be fun?" he asked as he made his way to her.
Their fingertips touched briefly as he offered her the coffee and she said nothing, though she tried to smile. His proximity and the familiar way he spoke to her was dangerous because it always started this way. He treated her like a friend, made her lower her defenses, and somehow they ended up entwined together, like it was the only natural progression for them. And yet they had spoken for the first time less than twenty days ago, when he had begrudgingly saved her from being run over by a truck; and in a month, he was going to have a new assistant, and she was probably going to be a blurred memory.
"You're unnaturally quiet this morning," he said, taking a sip of his coffee and picking up the larger envelope on the table, "You slept badly?" His voice was soft as he casually enquired, putting down the cup to give a look to the content of the envelope.
Inadvertently, she pressed her legs together to shush the moistening response of her body. Memories of their previous night together piled up in her brain and made her see sparks, because suddenly it was all so much more real. The air in the room was charged, like a switch had been turned and she felt the compelling need to look down at her outfit and check her clothes to make sure she wasn't wearing her pristine white uniform.
"I knew it was going to be this good," he said, with a certain satisfaction, and she didn't dare raise her eyes until the glossy piece of paper appeared in her line of sight.
In the picture she was lying with her cheek on his chest and he was looking down at her with an impossible softness in those blue eyes that were often busy mocking people. Twhole scene was soft but he contrast of colors made it impossibly sharp, like the image could cut away the frills and gimmicks of love and leave them bare and real.
It felt beautiful rather than looking so; but more than that, there was something about her that was so stunning, she blushed. She had trouble recognizing herself, leaving her to stare to try and search her own face for clues of when it had happened. What had passed for her to become like this?
"Girls in love...they glow," Grams used to say.
#
"Breakfast?" Damon asks when she appears on the kitchen's threshold, his smile faltering only slightly when he notices the suitcase at her feet. She was supposed to stay a day more, but he supposes some distance could help with handling the situation better. And at least she won't be in the room next door the next time he jacks off thinking of her, so he tries not to protest the idea of her going back to campus.
"Sure," she replies after a long moment, like she's considering not staying one minute longer. He's not a paranoid creature—he knows she has her courses, her goals, her schedule—but falling back to being a ghost in her life burns a little.
"And are you going to help me with the mess your friends made?" he asks, trying to find another reason for her to stay a little bit longer.
"They were Caroline's friends, or at least I hope she knew them. And I would never take away the joy of cleaning up from you and getting to put your new vacuum cleaner to use," she jokes, mocking his maniacal attitude with cleanliness.
"It's a Dyson V8 Absolute Cordless Vacuum Cleaner, Bon," he replies, offended that she'd joke about such a prodigy of technology. "It operates hand-held. It slips into tight spaces and is 50% quieter," he explains, making it sound suggestive and smiling while he does it. Damon elevates innuendo to an art.
"I thought you went for the loud types," she jokes, realizing too late what she has said. But still, Damon makes always everything about sex so it shouldn't matter if, on occasion, she does too. Even if that reminds her very sharply of the things she conjured up last night, of the things that are making her run away like a coward.
Bonnie usually takes the jokes with a blush and a reproach. Damon is not used to a blush and an innuendo. It makes her smell sweeter, and look more inviting, like she could actually, honestly, irremediably be his perfect half. Not just the best friend he can't be without, not just the carnal need he can't speak of, but the whole package, the forever kind of package, the 'til death do us part kind of package, but that's impossible. Isn't it? He should remember that, should remember why it is, but right now nothing comes to mind.
No one comes to mind.
The world is made of Bonnie, so pretty in her blue sundress, so close into his vital space, too distant in his life. Her limbs should be intertwined with his and her breath should be in his mouth and her heart should beat into his chest. That's how he could know peace.
She puts the suitcase in the trunk of her car as he fixes the table.
Breakfast is too short an affair. They do the crosswords, discuss her next college project, the assignment due in five days she must absolutely go back to work on – though it's all a lie because she did it already. They do the dishes side by side and he brushes bubbles on her nose. She pulls back at that, making him feel like an idiot.
"I really have to go, now," she says, smiling like nothing happened. Like he didn't accidentally get too close, too lovey-dovey and stupid shit with the girl that never looked at him twice if not to burn his ass. He needs to get a grip and put things into perspective, see her for who she truly is, his best friend, the buddy to drink with when his mood is sour, the buddy to watch a movie with every Wednesday, the buddy that will save his ass when needed, or kick it when necessary.
"Yeah," he says, nodding.
He can do this. He's not getting manipulated by a stupid book into ruining the best thing he's got going in his life.
So he follows her through the doorway, past the steps of the Salvatore's patio, looking at the naked skin of her back—honey glazed and lovely—as the strap of her sundress constantly threatens to fall down her delicate shoulder and he tells himself he's not affected. He's not.
He tells himself everything is fine. He's not wondering what it would feel like to touch her, how would it feel to see his fingers sliding down the curve of her spine to follow the bone like a designated path to a treasure.
Yet, his breathing hitches.
Damon tears his eyes away, once, twice, follows her thumb as it hooks under the loose fabric of the strap to hold it up and he notices it. In his skull it makes the same sound of a record stuck under the pin of a record player. He doesn't realize it right away, but his brain clings to the lace so long that it kicks him in the gut. Under the sun, beyond the doorway, the juxtaposition of colors, the blue on light blue, the delicate glimpse of lace of it, and the electric rush of energy through his muscles make his fingers grab at her arms more roughly that he had intended to, forcing her to stop and turning her around to stare down into her eyes, to look at her heart-shaped lips opening up in surprise.
His own eyes are large, fixated on hers and there is the rising shadow of rage simmering though his blood as he looks at the strap falling down again, letting him observe the hint of her light blue lingerie in more detail.
"Are you wearing the matching panties?" he asks, barely keeping at bay his irritation at the thought. He's here trying to be good and shit, trying to convince her and himself that he's actually unmoved by the sexual tension that tries and break his nerve every time she breathes in his direction, and she has the poor sense and the sheer audacity to wear lingerie made to recreate his eye color when he is not allowed to lay eyes on her body.
Bonnie struggles out of his grip, yanking her arm from his hold. Her eyes move nervously away from his face as she takes a step back and denies it. "I don't know what you're talking about." She takes yet another step away from him until the back of her legs hit the body of his Camaro parked outside the house.
"You don't?" he presses with the step of a hunting predator, hissing, "How can you not know?"
One finger hooks easily under the strap of her blue top and pulls it down enough to reveal the floral lace on the edge of the cup of her lingerie and then more. She's too surprised to react immediately and he steals a glance at her sinking neckline, at the supple bust cupped by the bra she's wearing, and catches the white of the pearl detail between her mounds, before she can slap his hand away "What the hell do you—" She can't even finish her sentence, outraged as she is, and she readjusts her clothing in a rush.
"You don't play fair, Bon," he accuses, gritting his teeth and almost shaking, mad at her blindness to the way she hits all the right buttons without even intending to. Doesn't she see the effect she has on him? Doesn't she understand just how hard it is to stay away and play the part of the nice guy?
"I don't play at all," she tries to retort, keeping her chin high and looking unimpressed by his rattled state.
"Really?" he bites back, leaning towards her face, "Because I could swear you're trying to fuck me over," he croaks, and he'd like her to fuck him, period.
Her hands open over his chest to push him away as his own drive under her skirt to hook his index around the lace at the front of her matching thong, pulling at the fabric enough that it roughly rubs against her sensitive center as he tries to tie his last shred of sanity in the bit of skin he can feel against the back of his finger.
Bonnie's eyes grow large, and alarmed, and that would slap him back into reality if it wasn't for the scent of her arousal. Faint yet, but delicious and sweet and tantalizing. If it wasn't for the lingering warmth he can feel against the back his fingers, humid and inviting.
"Damon," she tries to say his name with all her righteous indignation, and yet there is a trace of trembling need in there that he detects immediately. It makes her breasts rise and fall rapidly. Her cheeks warm up and her eyes darken, while her fingers struggle not to wrap around the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer.
He loosens his hold on the piece of fabric only to pull at it again one moment later, stroking her once more.
"What?" he asks, holding her chin in between his fingers with his other hand and studying her face, mesmerized by her reaction, by the way her pupils grow larger over the shade of green he's learned to love with every fiber of his being, by the way her breath breaks in her throat, the way her chest rises up with every rub on her delicate, tender flesh.
"You need to stop…" she insists, purring, fingers curling around the material of his shirt as she weakly tries to push him away once more. He nimbly brushes the tip of his ring finger along her lower lips as she begs, "Please," looking up at him to no avail.
Her pupils are large and her eyes are pleading and she looks around them as he pulls at the lace again, providing her with little more friction. "Someone might see" she reasons breathlessly. It's not I don't want this. It's not you disgust me. It's someone might see, and her voice is alarmed, whiny, needy.
"No one will see," he reassures her, voice husky and smooth as he looks down at the hand that's working on the right rhythm for her, hidden by the hem of her flowery skirt, "We're covered by the trees," he explains with a voice as hypnotic as the cadence of his rubbing against her sex, leaning in to let his mouth ghost over hers without touching, gazing up into her green eyes to murmur, "And if they do, I'll compel them to forget." He's so close that his lashes tickle her cheekbone as he lets his eyes slowly travel along her body.
"Oh God, Damon," She's so surprised by his plan and his boldness, so surprised by the voice in her head that begs her to let him have his way, that she pulls back from him only to find herself sitting against the hood of his car, sweaty palms open against the metal, but as she pulls away Damon steps closer, his hard presence hunting her down like a prey, his body unyielding, eyes implacably pinning her down to put her through a sensual, vicious, mind-altering delight that has her defenses miserably falling apart. Her legs are spread just enough that he can stand between them and continue his sweet maneuvers, chipping away at her will with a single-minded rhythm. The muscles in her legs tense as she unknowingly drags them open, the rubber border of her immaculate tennis shoes brushing against the concrete, getting dirty. Her hips roll forward following his lead.
Bonnie bites her plump lower lip to try to keep the moan in but she's too late; and, though there is a part of her that is embarrassed and ashamed that this is happening – that this is happening with him, whom she should not desire outside in broad daylight where everyone might see, no less – her hips undulate back and forth over the metal hood with the overwhelming impulse to follow his exquisite stroking. Damon's face is hard and his body unwavering, so set on pulling the pleasure out of her she feels her knees weakened by the lewdness in his dark blue eyes, by the vulture-like look on his gorgeous face, by the way he uses a simple piece of fabric to make her melt against the blue metal of his car, under the sun and in front of him like he has a right to it. Insolent, entitled, irresistible.
Bonnie is so wet that it would be embarrassing if it didn't feel so good.
She moans, for there is no part of her that can resist what Damon is giving her. She moans, and it's such a lewd, irresistibly erotic, purely feminine sound he could come at this very moment. His eyes flash briefly as he holds on to his will and steadies the devoted maneuver of his hand for her, because when he comes, it will happen while his cock is stretching her and is deliciously milked by her velvety walls as she's clinging to his shoulders and coming around him. Though – fuck – she's making sounds that make it difficult for him to stick to the plan.
Her pretty, plump lips are pursed and her eyes are large and her pose is so delicately seductive and she's every high aspiration and every dark fantasy all wrapped into one. He doesn't know who wants her more, the demon in him, or the man.
Damon groans, so enraptured by what he sees, by the dark blue patch of fabric he catches between her parted legs when he looks down where her skirt rides up over his agile wrist, that he hears the sound of Stefan's car barely a second before she does and yet cannot bring himself to connect the dots and react, hypnotized as he is.
He's so on edge, so dazed, that when she pushes him away to fix her skirt and try to stand on her trembling legs again, he almost grabs her forcefully by the hips to spread her legs again and claim his righteous place with hard, punishing, implacable fingers. Almost.
Yet, he moves forward, his hands spasming with the need to plop her onto the hood of his car, to look at the helplessness of her desire as he lowers the zipper of his jeans and slides into her, pushing the flimsy lingerie to the side to penetrate her without wasting any more time. But there is a spark of lucidity going off somewhere in his fucked up brain because this girl is his precious Bonnie, the girl he wants to make love to, to no end, and he wants to give her more than a quick fuck on top of his car. Nevertheless, staying still and letting her get away it's the single most excruciating thing he has ever done in his life.
It literally feels like staying put as someone skins him alive slowly with the dull edge of a fruit knife.
His brain is stuck in the heat of her, so much so that he can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue, dense and honeyed. The illusion of it ghosting in his hungry mouth make his gums itch.
Bonnie rubs her hot cheeks with her hands like she can wipe off the traces of her concupiscent longing and he slips his own hands into the pockets of his jeans to hold himself back and at the same time hide, as best he can, the arousal he's sporting, though with little shame.
He wants her to see it, to know with painful certainty how badly he wants her, to come to terms with the fact that though he's letting her go right now, she can't run forever.
"I… I n-need… I need to go," she mutters, bewildered by what has just happened, unable to fix her eyes on his face more than one second at the time, unable to un-see the bulge in his jeans as she walks away towards her car as fast as she can—feeling awkward and empty without his touch—on trembling legs, without raising suspicion.
Damon can only watch her go.
A few minutes more and he would have had her coming on the hood of his Camaro. A few minutes more and he'd have torn her defenses and her pretty dress apart on his king sized bed.
So much for trying to be the nice guy.
Damon swallows the knot in his throat, staring at her back as she leaves him, every cell of his brain damp with the idea of her wetness. He turns on his heels before Stefan can turn off the engine and put his nose where it doesn't belong. Literally.
His hand still smells like her, he thinks, too busy basking in a certain roaring pride and the drumming need pulsing in his jeans to bother about anything else. Oh, she's going to put up walls, and deny what happened, and try to avoid him, probably, but for a few minutes, for a few short, glorious minutes, she has wanted him too, and he won't let her forget that.
He won't.
#
Note: I know, this story is quite different from my usual kind, that there are wuite a few unexpected turns but I hope you trust me and you're enjoying it nonetheless. Leave me a review, let me know what you think, what you're hoping for or expecting, I'm anxious to read your comments.
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