Note: Hi everyone, I'm still around. Before I leave you to the new chapter I wanted to advice to brush over the last one because it takes off from the last scene. Other than that, enjoy your reading.
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Bonnie can feel her heartbeat drumming under her caramel skin and between her legs in a spot that only barely brushes the driver seat as she tries to hold the wheel as steadily as she can with her trembling fingers. The presence of Damon's solid frame and implacable will is covering her body like a humid fog that makes her unable to think straight, that makes her twitch and shiver and wish she could just succumb to it. Because it suddenly feels like she's spent years overlooking the irreparable coiling of heavy tension in her petite body and she's so tired of ignoring it - that ache whispering at the back of her brain whenever his touch lingers distractedly and she feels like he owns yet a bit more of her soul, that tingling that echoes from gazes of long ago that her skin cannot seem to forget, for it burns suddenly and overwhelmingly at the smallest glimpse of the rawness he only burdens her with.
Her brain is clouded, and her blood feels so hot inside her veins that she feels like she's falling prey to a fever. Oh, and that lovely, hot feeling leaking at the joint where her legs meet whenever his name crosses her mind. She's barely lucid enough to understand that she can't drive in such a state, so she stops the car on the side of the road, breath heavy like even now that she's alone and away from him every cell of her body is still under his control, waiting for him to command each of them to pleasure.
Bonnie feels resentful, and guilty and frenzied with the thought of him. A part of her wants to drag his caveman ass for behaving the way he did, for going from the best friend she can successfully manage to this sweltering, raunchy man ruled by a passion that she had been so willfully blind to; but the other part of her - the one she must silence at all cost - that part of her just wants for him to open the door to her car and implacably finish what he has started.
Her fingers tighten around the wheel, so much that her knuckles turn white. Bonnie shuts her eyes trying to regain control, but the emptiness around her echoes with the touch of him and it's impossible to turn the switch on her aflame nerves. Her skin is burning despite her, and her brain is damp with his husky voice.
She opens her eyes again, meeting her large pupils in the rear-view mirror and she's taken aback by what she sees, for the girl she sees is beautiful, erotically so, an extremely sexual creature she had never met before. Damon has barely touched her and yet managed to lure out a part of her she didn't even know existed. A part of her that makes her feel both ashamed and powerful. Is this the woman he has seen today? Is this woman the one he's seen all along? Her pupils are dark and large as she takes her own beauty in.
It's all too much to grasp and she slaps her hand against the glass of her car window, shutting her eyes, as all other cars go about their way, and a black stain starts spreading all over the glass until the vehicle is obscured, hiding her from strangers' views.
When she opens them again she's hidden to the world, and alone, and safe, and yet in the silence the call of her need is louder. Here she is in the darkness, and darkness would feel gratifying with him.
She regrets escaping Damon's lust and she regrets letting herself be entangled in it in the first place and she regrets not killing him any chance she got, and she regrets not laying down over the hood of his Camaro to let him repeatedly scratch this itch that's driving her insane. She breathes in and breathes out but instead of feeling her control come back to her she's only more aware of the humming in her whole body, of her sex, hungry for him. And in the attempt to alleviate the tension she presses her legs together and sits still. She hides her eyes away like truth is a living thing staring at her, right in the face.
Bonnie licks her lips. Her mouth is dry with the need to come and she covers her face with both hands in the futile attempt to keep him and her own hunger out. It takes her awhile to tear away this half-rejected fantasy of her best friend guiding her to a long-denied orgasm with his throbbing cock and the lewdness of his blue eyes observing her intoxicated, like he could eat her alive and never be satiated, but she must.
She should have known the moment she begrudgingly drank from him that first time that things were going to get messier with him, but she would have never imagined herself entangled in such a way, with him of all people. She felt so secure, covered in logic and martyrdom, more likely to suffer a real death than a little one, though she's young and – turns out – irresistible.
Bonnie is a little bit high on that feeling.
She never envied her friend's tumultuous love life, not really, she only wanted someone to care. But now she saw eyes bewitched by her, has felt the electricity of the bone-deep wanting of a man like Damon Salvatore, and the blinding need she could unknowingly cause, and she knows nothing will surpass this feeling. Should no one ever look at her like that again, she would still not be able to go back to believing herself the meek, self-effacing, plain little thing she thought herself to be.
Should no one ever look at her like that again she would not feel dejected, because Damon Salvatore has desired her in such a manner. She's still trembling because of it. And yet, though she adamantly refuses to admit it even to herself, she longs to bask in that feeling.
It has spilled into her system - that ravenous hunger, his implacable hunt for her lust, the way he looked at her like it would kill him not to have her – and now she can't lock it away, cannot disentangle it from her limbs. It's a power that is new to her, something that cannot be lulled back into oblivion.
Now, because of him, her nerve endings are fried, and the sound of her cellphone ringing for a short moment reminds her of a fire alarm predicting the impending doom. She should get away to safety, a faint, scared voice inside her suggests, as she stares at the screen where his name appears.
His call is compelling, trying to lure her in and even if she still cannot give in, she can't help herself but takes the phone in her hand, watching it like it could tell her all the things she could have if only she would allow herself to.
One moment she's staring at the phone in her hand, the next she's staring at his face, trembling on her legs that aren't physically holding her up, as he growls, "Fuck, Bon," with that hoarse voice she's never heard before today, while he's leaning against the wall, right next to the window that looks down into the garden where he was about to take her on top of his Camaro.
She's about to panic, realizing that his is not just a hallucination, but she's actually just projected herself into his bedroom, and she covers her mouth with both hands before a moan of surprise escapes her lips. He doesn't seem to have heard a thing, and she tries to calm herself down.
His eyes are closed as he listens to her short voice mail message. It's Bonnie, leave me a message, she hears, and if she can get a hold of herself she's going to be back inside her own car on the side of the road in a moment and everything will be fine. And yet, he's so gorgeous, unashamed of his unbridled desire, and she cannot deny herself the sight of him. Bonnie just wants to look at him, for one moment, she bargains with herself, for just one short moment he'll never be aware of. Oh, what harm can it do? She asks to her own weak, stupid morals, that wants to reply something about consent but barely gives off a dull electric whistle, like a tv that can't catch a signal.
Damon drags the hand that's holding the phone away from his ear and presses the closed fist against his forehead, hitting himself once, then twice, because his brain won't think straight. His other hand drops to his clad cock, gripping it un-gently, like he's trying to will down his painful, stubborn erection. She can see it pushing its way through the coarse material.
Damon growls like a caged lion behind his perfect white teeth and her eyes won't decide where to rest, for everything about him beckons her, so much so she takes one step forward, unaware of her own movements. Is she really moving if her body isn't even there?
His other hand opens, letting the phone fall to the floor, and it reaches down to the metallic zipper of his dark jeans. It slides down with effort, as it meets the pressure of his large member straining against the coarse fabric of his pants, and one marble-like hands, the one where he wears his blue lapis lazuli ring, slides inside with strain, metallic teeth scratching the skin on the back of his hand as it goes to hold his cock to slowly bring it out of the confines of his clothes and finally alleviate the pressure of its dull throbbing.
"Bonnie," his pinkish lips breathe her name with unadulterated lust and her eyes fly up to his, as they open. Pupils are large and unfocused as everything goes black.
Bonnie is breathing hard, her body trembling like she just came.
She abandons herself against the seat of her car, heart pounding hard into her chest, her hand pressing down against her ribcage to stop it, and she realizes, as the minutes go by and her brain starts to properly function again, that that is actually what has happened. Seeing Damon like that, seeing him on the verge of pleasuring himself – possibly to the thought of her – has given the last push to her already overloaded body, which, combined with the fear of being found out intruding on such an intimate moment, has pushed her to an unexpected climax.
But it's okay, she tries to reassure herself. He didn't see her. He surely didn't see her. And even if he had, he'll probably ascribe that to a fantasy, some sort of lust-induced hallucination, and she'll call him a pervert, pretend nothing happened, because truly nothing happened, because she's nothing like him. Because they are just friends.
Everything is under control, she repeats to herself.
And yet, even from the other side of town and with absolutely no contact whatsoever, Damon Salvatore – her friend Damon Salvatore - has managed to make her come, hard.
He'd brag so much if he knew.
#
Over the years, she's become a pro at pretending like everything's okay. Her mother left them, yet her grades didn't change. Her father missed most of the parent-teacher meetings, but they were mostly useless anyway. Her newly found powers acted out in the most inopportune moments, she didn't miss one cheerleading training session.
Yes, she is a pro at pretending like everything is okay. The notion makes her feel more in control. And so she turns off her phone to avoid any new assault. She looks at herself in the rearview mirror to make sure the light makeup she applied that morning hasn't smudged. She uses some wet wipes to freshen her skin up, and smoothes her thin flowery dress with both hands trying to look composed before getting out of the car.
Like her panties aren't actually damp and clinging gently to her pussy, like she can't smell that vague scent of sun and sex around her that brings her readily back on top of Damon's Camaro every time she tries to poke at the memory like it's a caged beast, trying to determine how far she can push it before it bites at her.
Bonnie clears her voice, picks up her bag from the trunk and walks towards the entrance of her college. There are just a few students, those that have assignments to yet complete and had to resign themselves to going back before the others, and she's glad about that because she feels like there's a neon sign on her forehead: I was almost fucked on top of a car by my hunky best friend.
It's so stupid of her, because the world doesn't revolve around her, it never did, and yet she catches glances thrown her way, and even if they do not seem to want to shame her, it feels like she's the Pied Piper making all the male gazes follow her around, sometimes openly, sometimes not. And yet, it's like being tickled in all sorts of places, like a teasing foreplay that will give none of them the satisfaction they want, leaving her to lazily contemplate her effect on them.
A light, fresh breeze makes her shiver, and it makes her acutely aware of her humid underwear.
She crosses paths with a fellow student that drops his books to the ground, too busy turning his head over his shoulder to worry about what he's doing with his hands, and Bonnie feels absurdly pretty (shamefully gorgeous, her brain suggests remembering Damon's words from the night before, realizing now that his attraction wasn't something off the spur off the moment).
"What the hell!" a girl protests when the guy that has dropped his book bumps into her.
Bonnie looks back and can't help but giggle at the scene, though she hides her lips with one hand: the guy is stammering an apology and still has the nerve to throw glances at her, like he can't help himself.
She tries not to smile too openly as she walks away, and she's still a bit high on it as she closes the door behind her. Her eyes find herself in the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. Her hair is a bit disheveled, her clothes slightly crinkled, one strap of her dress falls down the shoulder letting her see the light blue lace band of her bra, and her eyes are still darker with the echo of desire that Damon has awakened in her.
Bonnie can see it plainly now, the wanton desire that makes her limbs softer and her curves rounder.
She leaves the bag by the door, walks up to the mirror almost studying her newly discovered self. She drives down the zipper of her dress, lets the bra fall away, slides the humid panties down her tapered legs, and touches her skin measuring the rising temperature and the softness of it, let her hand slide down to touch her sex with the tip of her fingers to guess at what Damon felt in touching her. It's a dangerous curiosity, for it brings back the ghost of his touch and the promise of his cock.
Bonnie takes a step back and after an appraising look at her naked body, walks away to take a long shower.
#
Bonnie straightened her shoulder, throwing one glace at Damon as he talked to the director about the state of mind of his character before going back to the open laptop with his schedule, cursor flashing on the screen as she tried to work in an hour for a massage and sauna.
He had been throwing himself into work even harder than usual in the last few days and she was trying to give him a break before his muscles could get the worse of it. It wasn't a great idea to do most of his own stunts, and Patricia had grated her ass even though they both knew there was nothing she could do to change his mind once it was set. And if he went on like this it could only end with him in a bed (would he ask for his favorite nurse then? A voice in the back of her brain asked, sounding so hopeful it irked her). Bonnie shook her head and went back to finding a hole in his schedule.
His phone vibrated on her lap and she looked down distractedly, catching the name she was so curious about: M Lady. Everyone else in his phone was saved by name and surname, and sometimes professional title, but this one woman.
Because of this one woman, he had taught her to write ti voglio bene and instructed her to always write back those words to her whenever he was too busy to reply himself. And whatever the message was, not that she could know anything about that since all the messages were in Italian, it made her feel uncomfortable that he'd rely on her to convey love messages to another woman.
Of course, she hadn't protested at his request, she had in fact carefully disguised any interest in the matter and had actually made sure to spend a few minutes practicing the words on paper and leaving the proof of her effort on his coffee table to make sure he knew how serious she was in taking care of this.
She had bitten her tongue not to ask what the words meant, when he had instructed her so, like it was just another task she needed to do to before carrying on with the rest of the busy schedule. Though that night she had searched the words online to understand the meaning of them.
The words were translated as I love you, and yet it wasn't always intended necessarily in a romantic way. It was used to express love towards sisters – but he had none - and friends and such, and yet it could still be a first stage of romantic feelings, when you are unsure of the other's involvement and are trying to not pressure them into anything. So basically, she had discovered nothing truly illuminating and was left to tell herself she didn't care.
So once again, she unblocked his phone – to which he had given her his password – and typed the words in: ti voglio bene. But this time, instead of ignoring the chat she looked down in the grey bubble that encircled the woman's words and typed her line in the google search bar, like the main character in an industrial espionage movie.
Yes, maybe she is a little curious about it. After all, it's not like she hasn't ordered a book of Italian grammar just to be able to guess his conversation with that woman whenever he talks freely in front of her.
Ho trovato una ricetta che ti piacerà… non vedo l'ora di cucinare per te. Which google translated as "I found a recipe you'll like… I can't wait to cook for you."
She cleared her throat, closed the page and went back to the infamous schedule. What did she care if he tore a muscle during the shoot? She was getting paid anyway. Suddenly he fell into the chair beside her, taking a sip of water from his bottle, and when her eyes didn't move from the screen where she was looking at the list of at least a dozen e-mails requesting interviews to get to know every possible detail about his newly blossoming romance with Alexandra Davenport, he spoke quietly his "Sorry".
It took her a moment to understand that he was talking to her. Her squinting eyes focused on his face when she turned her gaze over her shoulder.
Damon was sitting there with his shirt artfully slashed to show the soiled muscles of his defined chest and a patina of perspiration recreated with what she supposed was Vaseline.
"What did you say?" she asked, confused.
"You've been giving me the silent treatment for a few days…" he began, and she was about to protest that she was not when she realized that her constant wondering about that woman and their lovey-dovey communications had made her appear more distant and cold. The error could be in her favor, because he thought her unaffected enough that she'd kept her distance easily when in fact her insides did some strange twisting and melting every time he was near. Did it bother him that she was not talking freely to him? Did he miss it, or it was just a general annoyance because he deemed it unprofessional? She wanted to know but she wasn't about to pass on the opportunity to have one on him. "…and I know you're angry because Patricia kicked your ass because of me. I'm sorry about that, but it's my job and I'm only trying to do it to the very best of my capabilities," he explained, candidly, his blue eyes fixed to hers like they could speak soul to soul. "And I know you can relate to that."
"Can I?" she asked as quietly as him, trying to understand him without giving away any of her anxieties and feelings.
"You seem to have learned to prevent my requests and foresee my needs," he admitted with an impressed smile. "I've never had someone as good as you," he said, with no preamble or reserve. And his words were of professional admiration, yet his voice was husky, enthralled, and took her breath away, pinching a cord inside her.
For a moment she seemed to forget where they were, the constant buzzing of the people working around them disappeared in the background like a well edited moment in a movie and she was only aware of his eyes, of the way his breath left his lips and the short distance between the tip of his finger, as arm rested on the wooden arm of the chair, and the curve of her thigh as she sat harnessed with severe, unrevealing black clothes, her legs crossed and a certain liquid warmth starting to tickle her pussy.
Someone called for makeup to retouch the blood of the kidnapped woman of the scene, and it broke the moment letting Bonnie breathe again. She shifted into her seat pulling her legs away to put more space between them.
"You don't make my job any easier," she said, easily sounding reproachful. She wanted to reprimand him for making her feel so lustful so unexpectedly. It was always like this, they were arguing or even just communicating impersonal, unimaginative info and he started a fire with just a stupid word, with barely a passing touch, and she fell into it.
Damon Spada filled her with a feminine urge to satisfy his most carnal needs for…whatever the truth could be, he always made her feel like the only one that could.
To push away the feeling of intimacy still tender between them she pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to appear tired. That was fairly easy, because the heavy tension building in her petite body sometimes exhausted her. She slipped one hand in the bag hanging from the arm of her chair and pulled out a pair of glasses with a black cat eye frame. After the buttoned up black blouse, and the high-waisted jeans and the no-nonsense ponytail, it was just another thing to hide behind and she wondered if he knew.
"But I make it interesting at least." His voice was tense, slightly gritty; and, though he smiled at her, his body seemed to tense up as he stood from his seat. His dirty, solid presence now imposing like he was engaging her in a game of power. Did he think she had any when it came to him? Was she threatening him in some obscure way?
Bonnie held his eyes, emotionless, feeling strangely in control despite it all, realizing she could be the indifferent professional if he thought her so, if he helped her along in playing the part, even if he wasn't aware of his.
"I'm not sure that is exactly the word I would use," she replied sarcastically, pushing her cat eye glasses back on the bridge of her nose.
#
A moan escapes her lips as the water touches her.
Her chest rises as her lungs fill with air, the muscles of her stomach tremble as she pulls it in, shivering because of the contrast of temperature between the shower's jet and her hot skin. Bonnie steps courageously under the water like it could physically clean her brain from the aftershock of events of the last few hours, like she could scrub Damon away with a charcoal sponge and her favorite Philosophy shower gel. A part of her wonders, looking at the golden gel as she pours it into her palm, if he likes that smell, if he finds it delectable.
She shakes her head, puts back the bottle of Homemade Honey Bun, and starts slathering herself in it, rubbing it over the wet skin making it foam.
It was sudden and unexpected and now she's curious about it the way a kid at their first introduction to reproduction would be. Hers, she tells herself as her hands travel over her body with a more deliberate rhythm, could be defined academic. Yes, she'd like to know how that happened, and how they've come to this, and how bad he wants her, and how good he can actually be if he only touched her with purpose, but she's interested in the theoretical part, nothing else.
Her body is still too sensitive and she stills her hands with some regret.
"Are you thinking about me?" a hoarse voice asks, echoing over the tiles of her tiny bathroom, making her jump and turn around. The water's jet makes her blink and behind a huff of steam she can see Damon staring at her.
Her arms fly up, to cover her naked, round breasts. Her rational mind lists all the reasons why he shouldn't be here but her voice doesn't seem to function properly as she stands stiff, almost scared. If of him or something else, she is not ready to admit.
"What are you doing here?" she asks him, standing her ground despite the vulnerability of her undressed, wet state.
"Where do you think I was going to be?" he asks back, flippant, his sly smile firmly in place. His face is tense with desire, his eyes are shining, and his body seems ready to strike a mortal blow. She's seen him like this many times during the years, when he circled around her like a threat or the promise of it. But even though his vampire nature has always presented a demise that to his victims could often times appear like a sort of seduction, with her it has never been as evident as now.
"You didn't even spell the room." He smiles, and his towering figure looks like it's about to launch forward to bite at her.
Her heart is beating so fast she wonders if he can possibly hear her protest at all.
"I locked it," she replies, trying to sound resolute and unmovable. "That's usually enough." She tries to convince herself she did everything in her power to keep him away from her. "How did you open it?" She asks in the desperate attempt at having the last word. Nevermind that she is talking, as she stands naked under the shower, to the best friend that almost fucked her out in the open of his garden, over the hood of his beloved car, less than one hour ago.
"I might have possibly broken down the door," he suggests with a sneer.
The breath she takes breaks into her throat, and her heart is hammering painfully behind her ribcage, but even trying, Bonnie can't find any trace of real fear in her.
"That's crazy," she murmurs. "You're crazy."
"Would it be too cliché if I said that I'm crazy about you?" he asks, almost quietly. Yet, she knows him too well to believe that the danger is over.
"Go away, Damon," she says, trying to sound firm. Everything in her, down to the very soul of her, is trembling.
"I want you," he replies, starkly, taking a step forward. Instinctively, she takes one back.
"You can't have me," she retorts, almost pressed against the tiles behind her.
"I'm not sure I'm at a point where that will stop me," Damon replies darkly, taking yet another step and using both his hands to hold on the walls of the stall, like there's still some reason in him trying to hold him down.
"Damon," she breathes, horrified by the moist reaction of her body. "Don't."
"Do you want me to beg you, Bon?" he asks, arms open and tense like chains as he is still holding himself back. She can't help but wonder if they would hurt, tight around her, now that he's so overwhelmed with desire he can barely care for her consent. She can't help but think she would like to be held, in any case. "I will," he says. "I can," he insists, between his teeth like he's struggling to keep down a beast that rising to seize her. "Bonnie, please."
Her breath is erratic as she stares at him with eyes open wide, wishing she could give in silently, feeling her body become compliant under his hard will.
"Bonnie, please."
And thud, thud, thud of her heart.
"Bonnie," his voice repeats, in the distance, under the thud, thud, thud of his hand hitting the locked door.
"Fuck!" she cries, startled, as she stands under the shower alone and hot with the fever of her own desire. Her heart is hammering inside her ears, and she scrambles out the tiny shower stall to wrap herself in a large towel and goes to the door of her room.
"Bon, I can hear your heartbeat," he growls, almost like a wounded animal, "Open the damn door!"
They both know what will happen if she does, and her hand flies to the knob only to stop with the tip of her finger on the metal. She doesn't want to be the weak one and give in. She's the level-headed one, and she's not sex-driven, and she's not going to mess their friendship up just because she feels, possibly, some type of attraction towards him.
"Go away, Damon," she says, feeling frustrated with him, but mostly with herself. She's being horrible right now, because the truth is what is truly stopping her right now from opening the damn door and letting him in is the fact that she doesn't want to lose her pride, admit to herself she wants this as much - maybe more. She's not ready to recognize the fact that one encounter with Damon would count more than her own morals, her own rules and the keeper role she's cut for herself in their little microcosm. Otherwise, why didn't she burn his brain when he touched her the first time? Why would she imagine a scenario where he wouldn't take her refusal into account? Much less let a door stand between them? The truth is that a cowardly part of her wants to have him and still be able to deny she ever did.
Because wanting him, the way she does, could make her a bad friend to a whole lot of people.
"We need to talk," his hard voice says, reasonable.
Bonnie could agree with that. She could pretend to believe his words and open the door to doom and some seriously world-shaking, obscene, animalistic sex. She knows him enough to know what would happen if she opened the door. She knows him enough to know that she would love every second.
"You don't want me to go either," he presses on, seeing the faltering will behind her stubborn silence. "Let me in, Bon. Let's talk," he suggests, his voice forcedly lighter, like he's suggesting they discuss a book over coffee.
"Please, Damon," she begs, leaning against the door, missing his presence that is always both so reassuring and adrenaline-pumping, but unable to find a way to give in and not lose the structure that makes her function day by day.
"You can't avoid it forever," he insists, the tension floating back over the surface.
"I know, we will talk…but please," she begs again, but her moan holds no satisfaction for him now, because she sounds scared and helpless.
Bonnie slides down against the door, sitting on the floor and listening to her heartbeat screaming his name long after he's gone.
#
Note: I hope you're doing well. I know I don't often find the time to write lately, but I hope you can still come back to my stories and find some solace and excitement. As usual, if you want to send me a prompt you're welcome to come over my tumblr page and send me a message. I will try if the characters show some collaboration.
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