A/N: My intent was to get this out sooner but the janky weather left me under the weather. Thank you, loves for the reviews!
We were staying at a country estate that belonged to my fiancé's supervisor in Lindau, Bavaria for the weekend. The town itself was a stone's throw from the Swiss-Austrian borders accessed by boat and had a shit ton of medieval architecture. It was porn for him and an escape for me. Three floors, five bedrooms, four and a half baths, and a kitchen with copper amenities it was better than any hotel we could have booked last minute.
Nevertheless, a dull hunger ate away at my insides from the time I boarded the international flight, and two days later it still took center stage in my mind. The calories I consumed weren't necessarily empty or even of the nutritious sort, but were a soufflé of Tyler's boyish grins and nibbling kisses.
For once he was there, in the moment with me.
Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" woke me out of a dream, a recurring one I had that prompted me to shower longer than my usual ten minutes. I stretched my arms and toes, arched my back, and pushed the plush duvet to my waist. Blearily I looked around. The spot next to me was empty, the sheets cold. For a second I surveyed the tapestries on the walls, and listened for movement just beyond the closed door of the guest suite. It was quiet.
Laid out on a French provincial armchair was my pale pink robe, slippers tucked underneath. A fresh bouquet of roses sat on the table next to the bed. The blooming buds were rosy pink and smelled of lush grass and rain. The final thing I spied was a steaming cup of Earl Grey.
Tyler appeared in the threshold that led to the in-suite bathroom. He wore nothing but his boxers and a smile as he dried his hands with a towel.
"You look delicious," he flicked the towel blindly into the bathroom.
I sat back up against the padded floral headboard, smiling sleepily in pleasure.
Things hadn't been this romantic fairytale from the moment our worlds collided in Dusseldorf.
The ride from the airport to his apartment had been rife with innuendo, teasing touches that stroked the flames that I couldn't bear not to feel him pulse and throb in my hand. I had fondled Tyler through his pants, but he had enough control not to crash or swerve…too much.
Coming face to face with Tyler, who these past few months I saw through a touchscreen or monitor, I was reminded he had dimension, layers that failed to translate though pixels. He was flesh and he was hot-blooded, and I couldn't resist wrapping my legs around him nor burying my tongue down his throat.
It had been on.
We had barely made it inside his apartment. Our first fuck nearly happened right there in the doorway. The second time was on his couch with me straddling him and riding him to an aneurysm. The third time on his kitchen table.
We finally made it to the bed for our fourth.
This was nothing unusual. We were insatiable, sexually compatible with some to spare.
As we collected our breath, he sprung the idea on me to drive five hours to Lindau to take up his supervisor's offer to stay at her country house. Free of charge. A kickback, she'd be there, of course but promised to stay out of the way.
"She trusts you that much to invite you to her home for the weekend?" I was a skeptic.
Tyler cupped my cheek and kissed me, "Don't I have a face that screams 'trust me'?"
I was worried about Adelaide Kohler's motives but meeting her—a happily divorced grandmother of six, my fears washed away.
In four strides Tyler was across the room and at the foot of the bed. He reached for my ankle and pulled. I giggled but those giggles were cut short as he fell on top of me, not exactly smothering me. He held himself suspended by his knuckles that dug into the pillow top mattress.
Conscious of my morning breath I covered my mouth. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"No reason. I can't look at you now?"
"Of course, but you…never mind."
"What?"
"My bladder is crying, Ty. Let me up."
He guided me to the bathroom where he ran the bath as I relieved myself. Throwing me furtive looks I wondered what the hell was going through his brain. The Tyler I knew was far from refined and delicate, but the one I had been talking to, eating and sleeping with during this conjugal visit was a total one-eighty from the norm. It left me feeling off kilter but I couldn't say I didn't like it. I relished the attention.
Hands washed, teeth brushed, my pajamas ended up in pools of fabric around my feet. I saw Tyler's chest expand at my nudity. His eyes were nearly obsidian and grew considerably darker as they roamed over my flesh, stopping pointedly to stare at my hardening nipples.
He was a sight, too. Unblemished, muscular flesh with yellow undertones. A body built for stamina, Levi's, and threadbare shirts that clung enticingly to his pecks and washboard abs. A curved cock that could make me scream loud enough to be heard in the Himalayas.
"Come here, bunny," he crooked a finger. The first time he called me bunny we had been in the tenth grade. It was a nickname that stuck.
Tyler and I had known each other since we were four or five. From daycare to high school we had been associates at best. He was the kid who liked to pick his nose and wipe his boogers on you. I was prim and proper and terrified of getting into trouble. I was the rebellious teen to his meathead jock who threw his family name around to get his way. Then we became college educated professionals. But two years ago something changed between us when we happened to be visiting home at the same time. I think of that weekend often but then lately I hadn't been thinking about it at all.
The German countryside really brought the gentleman out of him as he assisted me into the tub. Warm water sluiced down my back as Tyler soaped me up.
"Every day could be like this," Tyler rationed. "We should get married while you're here. I don't want to wait any longer."
Someone hit a sharp note on a piano somewhere.
My head rotated to the right, "You want to spend our first few months as a married couple, apart?"
"I just want to make it official."
"I'm not going anywhere, Ty. Plus your mother and my father would pay someone to kill or beat the shit out of us. I like breathing without the use of a tube, I'll have you know."
Tyler snickered and refocused on his task. He was quiet for a while but I knew how his mind worked, knew how he worked. He didn't make random statements. Everything he said served some kind of purpose, and he brought up us eloping for a reason, not just because it might be convenient with my being in Germany.
"Is that the only reason you won't marry me while you're here?" he craned his neck to see me better.
"You think there's another reason?"
"You tell me."
His tone wasn't accusatory, but there was an undeniable edge to it. I didn't really possess a jealous bone. The same couldn't be said about Tyler. I felt his need to rush to the altar had more to do with securing me rather than being eager to be my husband.
I threaded my nails through his blunt hair, "Say what's really on your mind. You don't think I can handle us being separated. Are you worried about me being faithful?"
"Do I need to be worried about it?"
"Do I?" I countered.
"No, you don't."
"Then neither do you, Ty."
I may have had my fair share of lovers, length of time notwithstanding I had been loyal to each one.
"Seeing Cami keeps me on the straight and narrow and not just with fidelity."
Tyler grunted. I rolled my eyes and had to stop myself from dunking his head in the tub.
"Still have objections to talk to her?" I snipped.
Tyler handed me the sponge and got to his feet. The space between us—telling. "I just don't see the point in airing out contrived bullshit from our childhood and how any of that is going help us when it comes to marriage." He laid a hand on his chest, "I'm fine and you're fine. It's the world that wants you think something is wrong with you that needs to be fixed."
"There's nothing wrong with seeing flaws in yourself and getting help for them."
"You're right, bunny. But your flaws are one of the things I love about you."
If that didn't sound like a line.
"You know my past and flaws, too," he went on. "I just don't want to open that up to a third party. We can talk about anything else…besides that."
"Are you ashamed?"
Tyler moistened his lips, stared down at his feet before meeting my eyes once again. "Not shamed," he shrugged. "Just private."
I sat against the tub. "I wish you would talk to Cami. She doesn't judge."
My intended nodded but I could see he wasn't buying what I was selling.
He sidled to the tub and lowered to his haunches. "We should pick a date. Everyone keeps asking me when the big day is and it's been three months since I asked you to marry me. I think we've lollygagged enough."
"How long do you think it would take to plan? Some people, it takes them a year and things still manage to fall apart on D-day."
"We should try for next summer. I'm home for good in December and we can plan accordingly."
"Are you sure? What if you do such an amazing job on this project your boss sends you to Dubai or Tokyo next?"
Tyler bit the inside of his cheek, clearly seeing the plausibility behind our worst case scenario. "If it happens we'll…make adjustments. I want you more than anything, bunny. Nothing is going to get in the way of that. So pick a date. Any date you want, even if we go down to the Justice of the Peace. We're going to be Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood."
"Lockwood-Bennett," I bartered.
Tyler snorted and took the sponge from me again. "Bennett-Lockwood and that's my final offer."
"No offer is final until the ink dries."
Ever watch a man adjust himself in his underwear, cover his flesh with a button down that's tailor made, hugged his torso and contoured his neck just right? Watched him stand in front of a mirror to knot his tie, see him sit on the edge of the bed and tie his shoes?
Watching Tyler get dressed was one of my favorite things to do. And something I earnestly missed. I crawled to the foot of the bed, wrapped my arms around his shoulders. There we were reflected in the mirror cheek to cheek.
He was leaving me for an emergency meeting. So much for our lover's getaway.
"Bunny?"
"Nothing. I just want to look at you." I kissed the corner of his jaw. "Don't make the ladies cream themselves too hard today."
He smiled ruefully, ran a hand down his tie. "Yes, madam. Anything else?"
"Just get back as soon as you can."
Tyler faced me, his hands finding their home on my bottom which he squeezed. "Be a good girl."
Five kisses later, satchel, traveling mug, and phone in hand, Tyler left.
Distraction time.
I settled down at the dining room table with my MacBook, files, scripts and other work paraphernalia. I ignored my palpitating heart, the light dampness of my panties. It wasn't that I was horny exactly, but my body seemed to want to prepare itself prematurely for later.
Around mid-morning, I don't know why, but I downloaded Simon and Alisha Forever, and played it on a continuous loop as I fielded conference call after conference call.
"The set looks beautiful, Olivia…you did a wonderful job dressing it. Send me the dallies."
"Will do, boss."
"Over and out." I crossed another line item from my list, but I wouldn't be able to give you a thorough synopsis of what just happened.
At lunch I grabbed a sandwich and soup the onsite chef had prepared. This whole time I had been stalling, using work as filler for what had been booming in the back of my head.
Chicago. Thai food.
"Damon Salvatore," I logged on to the net and typed in his name.
I told myself I wasn't going to go too deep with this. I would only find out minor information, look at a few pics, and then promptly get back to work. Yeah, okay, we'll see.
What popped up the most about him was related to his hockey career, a few quotes concerning various disasters and the human condition, and rumors about his romantic life. His last high profile public appearances was at the 2013 Espy's where he had been a presenter, and he had attended the funeral of a fallen NFL player.
Naturally I was curious about the women he was attracted to. Lots of images loaded the screen, an overwhelming amount of them featuring the same type over and over again: tall, thin, and brunette. Oh, he was photographed leaving a movie theater with a lovely African American woman who was significantly taller than him. Her name was printed in the caption, Bree Hurston.
None of this led me to any answers about what he said to me in Chicago, the first man to tell me to tell him to stop wanting me. Was he playing a game? Was he sincere? Did he get off in stealing a woman from someone else? Did he really hate the fact that he liked me and I was unavailable?
Biting intermittently on my thumb I tranced out as I stared at this one particular photo of Damon. Fuck, he was photogenic. He was at some event and he was staring right at the camera. It wasn't just sex he exuded that made it difficult to stare at him longer than five seconds. I didn't know what it was, couldn't put a finger on it, but he had it in spades, and dished it out through eyes too blue for their own good.
"Say it like you mean it," I whispered, repeating his last words to me before his abrupt good night.
When dawn had arrived I was packed and had called a cab. Damon, groggy with sleep offered to help with my bags but I turned him down. I couldn't have felt more like Lizzie Bennett refusing Mr. Darcy's proposal. The wounded look on Damon's face hadn't helped matters either.
By the time I unearthed my nose from my laptop screen dusk had fallen and Tyler's voice boomed through the halls. Clicking out of incriminating programs such as Scrabble and Twitter, Tyler rounded the corner into the dining room.
"Hungry?"
I stretched my arms above my head. "I could eat."
We ate scallions, crab, and kale salad. By morning we were on a train headed back to Dusseldorf agreed on a date for our nuptials. August 12, 2017.
The next time I blinked I was saying my goodbyes to Tyler and Europe. My stomach quivered. I couldn't get home fast enough.
High winds and rain was my welcome back committee. My 4-day stay in Düsseldorf turned into two weeks. No one on my production staff was happy with me about extending my trip, not even when I substituted my physical absence with teleconferencing. My relationship with Tyler, among other things, needed it. Needed that reinforcement because so easily precious things were lost while we were too busy mending other fires.
However, I was eager to return to Vancouver to start pre-production of my company's first psychosexual short thriller. The script spoke to me more than it should have.
Robotically I checked the mail. Most of it useless junk unless you're into extreme couponing. I had two anonymous letters which made my pulse race. Yes! My fingers landed on a notification card telling me I had a package waiting at the courier desk.
I tapped the bell and a middle aged man lumbered from the back up to the counter.
"Hey, I have a package I need to pick up," I slid the card across to him.
"ID?" he drawled in a thick accent as he inspected the card I guess for authentication.
I showed him my credentials and he was off with a grunt and returned with a rectangular shaped box wrapped in butcher's paper with a twine ribbon. He handed the parcel to me and tossed the notification card in the trash after checking my name off a list.
"Thanks."
"Pleasure," he retorted with a crooked smile.
In my apartment I opened the box to discover a bottle of Bordeaux and a handwritten note.
"'How I do apologies…your neighbor, Damon Salvatore'," I read aloud.
Wow. My stomach flipped. I read the card again. My stomach somersaulted once more. This had to do with Chicago. That was the only logical explanation. The gesture was sweet and expensive but presented a doorway. I'd have to see him. I'd have to tell him thank you.
I placed the bottle on the counter by the stove and backed away.
Despite a strong sense of urgency to thank him for a wine, now wasn't the time. I was jetlagged, hungry. It could wait for another day.
Resigned, I soaked in the bath for an hour, made calls, spoke to Tyler. Dressed for bed I padded to the kitchen and stared at the bottle of wine. No. I'd give my thanks tomorrow. That was soon enough. Besides I had plans tonight, read those naughty little ficlets and promptly pass out.
I settled on the couch with the best of Liszt playing in the background. Feet on the table, back cushioned by pillows, I ripped open the envelope of the letter. The note was short this time. Just a paragraph and a lone sentence. I took my time to read each word carefully.
Nothing tastes better than your cream. What I love most is soaking my fingers in your essence and cuffing my dick, stroking myself. Root to tip I squeeze and fondle my cock, sometimes only massaging the head that's bulging, red and angry. Hard as fuck. You're watching me as I do this, skin flushed, breath short and panting between lips you can't help biting every few seconds or so. We tease each other like this until the urge to connect is too strong to be denied.
Don't deny me.
Well, damn. I eagerly open the next letter.
I see I've gone about this the wrong way. You once told me to seduce you using my words. Anyone can show you physically what you do to them, but no I don't want to be like everyone else, and I want to touch you in places I can't reach. Every part of you is beauty and the sound of your voice is music. When we touch it's never enough and when we're apart I feel like I'm being punished. The best thing about you is that you know you are my strength and weakness. Let me bury my soul in your cunt.
Hmm, guess he couldn't help himself with that ending.
Once again I was hearing the wrong voice in my head while I read those letters. Slumping on the couch, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. Five seconds later my eyes flew open.
I couldn't put it off until tomorrow.
It took a shot of vodka for me to work up the courage to head to the penthouse floor. The palm of my hands burned and turned clammy. Never a good sign. I didn't have all the words together in my head that I wanted to say. But what more needed to be added to: thanks for buying me a bottle of wine? Clearly I was making this into something bigger than it needed to be.
There I stood in front of those imposing double doors having a general idea of what awaited me on the other side. I hesitated before knocking.
The same Asian man answered the door. This time around I gave him more of my undivided attention. He was tall, standing a little above six feet. Another tailored black suit covered his two hundred plus pound frame. His black hair was buzzed low to the scalp on the sides, the hair in the center was long, thick, combed and gelled away from a flat forehead. His nose was narrow, pointing straight down to smallish lips. He had eyes the color of brandy and laugh lines around his mouth.
"Yes?"
"Hi…is Damon home? He left something for me and I just wanted to thank him."
Like with my first visit the man widened the door, stepped aside welcoming me into the former hockey star's sanctum. I continued to be floored by the informality. No appointment necessary to see him.
"What's your name?" It would be rude not to ask him since this was our second run-in.
"Hiro Tsuda."
"It's nice to meet you, Hiro. I'm Bonnie."
He gave a little bow and I inclined my head.
I heard music, saw people. "Oh, is this a bad time? I can come back."
The man turned toward me, "No, it's quite all right. Mr. Salvatore told me he might be expecting you."
Did he now?
In my periphery I saw a familiar face. And that familiar face spotted me, smiled, began to approach.
My server from my favorite restaurant sauntered up to me, clapped Hiro on the back. "Hiro, I have her from here. Enjoy yourself." Hiro wandered away, not without giving me a departing bow that I reciprocated. "Hi," bluish-green eyes glittered expectantly.
"Hi, back."
His smile widened revealing longer than normal incisors. I almost asked him if he was serving, but he wasn't dressed in server's garb. Black jeans, thin sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and scuffed boots was his ensemble.
"What are you doing here…?" I had forgotten his name.
"Stefan," he filled in, stretched out a hand which I shook.
"Nice to see you again. So…I take it you're a friend of Damon's?"
The smile on his face melted slowly and he stared at his feet for a second. "Not exactly. We're brothers. He's my older brother."
"Oh." They didn't look a thing like each other.
"How do you know Damon?" Stefan tilted the rock glass in his hand back and forth.
"We just know each other casually. We've run into each other a couple of times." Had a sleep over in the Windy City where he demanded that I tell him to stop wanting me, you know the usual. "I don't mean to intrude but I wanted to thank him for something."
The bottle in my hands was beginning to feel like it weighed ninety pounds from the way Stefan focused on it. He probably thought I came up here with the idea to seduce his brother. Stefan could think what he liked.
"Ah, my brother bearing gifts. I can't say that's a first. I'll take you to him."
I followed after Stefan as he led me through the living room, past the piano and out to the massive veranda. There were three different seating arrangements, white couches with bright colorful pillows on bamboo matts, low tables. One arrangement was set around a fire pit where blue-orange flames danced.
Laughter and shrieks caught my ear and my head swiveled in its direction. A girl had just been thrown into a small pool. I wasn't seeing Damon anywhere.
"He was out here a minute ago," Stefan turned to me. "Hey," he asked a huge tree of a man who was walking by, a brunette on his arm, "have you seen Damon?"
"I think he went to refresh his drink. I'll tell him you're looking for him."
"No need."
My heart jumped at the sound of his voice. My eyes, though, they feasted on the provocative picture he made.
Seeing him in his own element was no different from the first time we locked gazes in the elevator. That was probably my brightest memory of him. What happened or could have happened between us in Chicago battled for that number one spot as the most prolific moment we shared, but there was nothing like that first look, encounter.
Sometimes I could still hear him breathing in my ear. And, if I concentrated hard enough, my cheek tingled as I thought of his touch.
Shit, shit, shit.
Damon's scruff was gone; he was clean-shaven decked in Ralph Lauren. The top three buttons of his dress shirt were undone, showing a hint of collarbone. Shirttails tucked into slacks made it no secret his thighs were all muscle, and…that he was above average if you know what I mean. His feet were housed in a pair of black square tipped dress shoes. Would there ever come a point where seeing him didn't make me feel inadequate?
Tree man and the brunette ambled off. Stefan lingered. He looked between us and normally anyone else would have realized they needed to scram, he didn't budge.
"I see you met my neighbor," Damon began conversationally, never once actually acknowledging his brother. He was too busy watching me.
"I have. Actually I know her."
That got Damon's attention. I've never seen anyone's head turn so fast in my life. "What?"
"I waited on her a few weeks back. She's a generous tipper."
Stefan smiled as if he had a leg up on something that wasn't even close to a competition. Damon's jaw flexed.
I jumped in to diffuse things. "I moonlighted as a waitress in high school and my freshman year in college. I know how it can be."
Stefan broke first and regarded me. "That makes us practically kindred," he wagged his brows.
"Well," Damon placed himself in the middle effectively blocking Stefan from sight with his body. "I saw Hiro…he said that you wanted to see me."
"Right." I presented the bottle, "Pretty expensive apology. You didn't…you didn't have to do this."
Damon's fingers lightly gripped my elbow and I was steered to a quiet corner. He let me go but not without brushing my forearm with fingertips that sparked goose bumps.
"I had to," he explained.
"Why?" I unconsciously rubbed where his touch still burned. "What are you apologizing for exactly?"
"You look beautiful, by the way."
I had exchanged my pajamas for jeans and a shirt with an asymmetrical hemline and Doc Marten's. "Thank you."
Damon leaned his hip into the chrome and glass bannister. He sighed, "I wanted to apologize for what I said to you in Chicago. I crossed a line and I shouldn't have put you in that position considering," he nodded at my ring.
"That's decent of you, Damon. Other guys wouldn't have cared. Wouldn't have bothered."
He leaned closer, bombarding my five senses. "I'm not like other guys."
My lips twitched. "Is that so? How?"
"You'll know one way or another if I'm thinking about you. Are your legs tired? Because you've been running through my mind all day."
I giggled and shoved him lightly. "You are so corny."
"But I got you to smile and now I know what the sound of your laugh sounds like."
I just swallowed a marble.
"So, do you accept my apology?" Damon lowered and tilted his head to the right.
I examined the bottle, then him and the expectancy that made his eyes glow and turn sensuous at the speed of light.
"What would you do if I didn't?"
Damon sucked in a breath, exhaled it slowly. "I'd move on. Get over it."
"That easily?"
"Probably not. I take things hard."
"Rejection being one of those things?"
Damon circled me to stand on my left. "Rejection is nothing but foreplay to me."
"Ah, so you're one of those persistent bastards who can't take no for an answer, and thinks it's cute to keep bugging a woman because you feel entitled to her time, attention, and phone number because you're a 'nice guy'."
"That was certainly a mouthful, but let me go ahead and put your mind at ease. First thing, I don't see myself as a nice guy, Bonnie. I do what I need to and sometimes it's not always pretty. But you'll never doubt your importance when you're around me. I don't like the word no, but I know when to bow down to its power."
Of its own volition, my lips spread into a smile.
He's given me another reason to like him.
My face flushed and color slowly began to bloom on Damon's cheeks.
I covertly looked around. "What are you celebrating tonight?"
Damon shrugged his brawny shoulders, averted his attention to the activity happening just feet away. "Nothing in particular. Just invited a few friends over to shoot the shit. Living on top can get lonely."
Presumptions, we've all made them. Anyone could take one look at Damon and think he never spent a single night or hour alone. It was said that attractive people were often more lonely since everyone assumed they had plans. I didn't know how true that was, but I believed loneliness was a disease that infected everyone periodically. What I was reading from Damon, loneliness wasn't always a choice, but one he's come to expect and maybe even perpetuate because of who he was. His celebrity. How could anyone in his shoes believe they were liked for who they were and not because of the notoriety attached to them? My heart ached for Damon, and a part of me was so close to offering to help alleviate his loneliness, but I couldn't go there. I couldn't take on that responsibility.
My hand somehow found its fast self on top of his. Damon stared at it for a moment, questioning without speaking a word if I was aware I was touching him.
He spoke, "Are you going to save that bottle for a special occasion?"
"I guess I could."
"Or we could open it. Share it."
We could do that as well. Yet I was fighting fatigue and had a million things I needed to get ready for, for tomorrow.
"I can…hang for a minute," I said.
"Good," Damon slipped the bottle from my hand and crossed to a settee that was unoccupied. I joined him after a few beats of hesitation.
He disappeared and when he came back he carried two glasses, a corkscrew, and a plate of…something. He was stopped, made a quip that had those close enough to hear screaming in laughter. Damon continued in route to where I was, placed the glasses on the table. He handed the plate to me. It was a plate of oysters.
He sat beside me, close enough that each time he moved in the slightest I felt it. He stared as he popped the bottle of wine open.
"Anyone ever tell you, you have a very intense gaze?"
Damon blinked. "Once or twice." He cocked his head. "You don't seem to mind it too much."
"How do you figure?"
"You would have told me to stop looking at you. Or asked what I was looking at. You've done neither."
"It's a habit built from my profession. I have to look at things, scrutinize things. It doesn't bother me when someone does it to me."
"Is that the only reason?" he filled a glass, passed it to me.
My brows narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Are you sure doing what you do is the only reason it doesn't bother you to have someone look at you?"
I sat the plate of oysters aside. "What other possible reason would I have?"
"That you enjoy it," Damon stated matter-of-fact, like he wanted me to contradict him so he could tell me about myself though he hardly knew anything about me. "You like being watched. You like being seen. You don't shy away from the attention."
I broke eye contact, stared at the wine. "If that were the case I'd be an actress."
"We're all actors and actresses. From time to time. Some just don't know when to turn it off."
I lifted my head. "Are you acting right now?"
Damon leaned forward, "Are you?"
"I've never faked anything with you."
His Adam's apple bobbed and his eyes shuttered. "What does it feel like? Being engaged?"
Damon's question threw me for a minute because it reminded me—shamelessly—that I had agreed to become someone's wife. I inhaled deeply, let my mind and attention roam around to the other guests before settling on Damon once more.
"I guess you could say I feel…special. Wanted. Needed. Chosen."
"Did you not feel that way just being yourself?"
I was stumped for a second. "I was complete before my fiancé asked me to marry him."
"I notice how you're careful not to use his name. Why? Do I know him?" he smiled crookedly and sat against the cushions, threw an arm over the back of the couch.
"I don't think so."
"So what is it?"
"Why do you always bring him up when we're talking? You know what the situation is. It's not something that always needs to be discussed."
"Does it make you uncomfortable…talking about him to little ole me, or just talking about him in general?"
The words were right there yet my irritation kept them at bay. I felt Damon was picking me and my relationship apart in a very subtle way, trying to expose something. What he failed to see was that I wasn't one of those people who chatted and gushed endlessly about the person I loved. And the reason why went no deeper than that. I was secure in my relationship and didn't need to throw it up every five seconds.
"I don't know you. So why I would talk to you about a very intimate part of my life? I can forge a connection or an association with you or anyone else without having to do that. My private life is that. Private."
I waited for Damon to…react positively or negatively. Some found offense when they couldn't revel in the sacrosanct parts of your life. Everything you did wasn't fodder for the masses. My parents raised me to be discreet. My grandmother said I could be an open book, but that no one needed to see the footnotes.
Seconds ticked away and slowly Damon smiled. "You covet your privacy I can definitely respect that," he drank some wine.
"You really don't have a choice in that matter."
He shrugged. "Guess I don't. I know people who tell me shit five seconds after they've done it. No one I've encountered in a really long time has figured out what a luxury privacy can be. But you know."
"I do."
"And that's why I like you. And I think you like me too."
I used that as my cue to take a sip of wine. Pleading the fifth didn't only have to be used when facing criminal charges.
"What you said to me in Chicago…"
Damon affected a mask of neutrality. "Don't worry, Bonnie. You're okay."
I felt anything but.
Drinks and conversation segued into an abbreviated tour of his lair. Damon had an eye for fine art and a love for dark floors and furniture that looked antique. He deliberately skipped his bedroom. We ended up in his Hall of Fame room. The walls were decked in framed photos of Damon from his days of playing high school football to stills of him on the ice in full hockey regalia. His team never won any championships while he played, but he had amassed himself a few awards: MVP, Player of the Year, Most Improved.
Damon hovered a step or two behind me as I ogled the athletic part of his life. I caught myself grinning slightly at the pictures of him celebrating with his teammates. I came to a stop in front of head shot of my ubiquitous neighbor.
"Wait a minute," I murmured and peered closer. "This is a drawing. Someone drew this?!" I exclaimed and looked again.
"Yeah, a fan drew that. That's a print. The fan has the original with my signature on it."
"Oh, wow this is amazing."
"The artist's name is Minka Barrows in case you're curious."
"I'll keep that in mind. I'm always on the lookout for new talent to do concept art and movie posters."
"I know you produce films…have you ever directed one?"
I glanced at Damon over my shoulder. "I've directed a couple. One was for my senior project…the others for fun. Are you familiar with film noir?"
"Not really."
"It's a genre that was real popular in the 40s and 50s that usually dealt with femme fatales or anti-heroes shot in black and white film. They were short pieces, the ones I directed, and part of a series about a woman whose profession was scamming men. It ended with her scamming the wrong one."
"What happened to her?"
I faced Damon. "She died."
Damon took a step. He was closer. "Do you think I could be an actor?"
"You have the face for it."
"You find me handsome?"
I penned him with a droll stare. "You're not ugly."
"Anyway I could coax you out of retirement and direct me?" his eyes were wandering.
Throat dry I managed to say, "Not a chance."
I started to move along but tripped. My shoelace had come undone and I bent to re-tie it.
"Allow me," Damon lowered to one knee, brought my foot up and rested it on his thigh.
"I can do it."
"Shush," was a sharp, whistled sound that escaped between his puckered lips. He chastised me with a frown.
"You like being on your knees in front of a woman?"
Damon tied a perfect bow, but didn't place my foot back on the floor. Not right away. Again he seemed to be thinking very hard about something.
He speared me with an indescribable look. "I do."
You need to leave, Bonnie, common sense nudged me. The pulse in my veins had other ideas and none of them were good.
I wrangled my foot free. Stuttered, "It's getting late. Walk me to the door?"
Damon, he wanted to argue but motioned with his hand for me to proceed before him.
At the door I waffled and then blurted, "I Googled you."
Damon wasn't surprised but probably figured I would at some point. "Did you?" I nodded. "What did you learn?"
"You're generous when you need to be, have a preference for brunettes, but other than that…everything else was superficial."
He ambled forward, towered over me. "What do you sense about me, Bonnie?"
"I…you're…"
Vaguely I recognized I was being herded to a corner by the door. My back was against the wall. Damon stood in front of me, feet shoulder length apart, his hands bracketed my head.
Why was he doing this? What I sensed from him I could only guess was being fueled by whatever Damon sensed in me. Dangerous.
"I need to go. Damon."
He didn't move an inch. Studied me. Tried to pry inside at different spots and angles with no such luck. The second his thighs touched mine…
I ducked beneath his arm and zipped for the door almost half expecting him to catch me around the waist and haul me off my feet. It didn't happen.
Forget the elevator, I rushed for the stairs.
"You like being on your knees in front of a woman?"
"I do."
Damon Salvatore just cast himself in my villain origin story.
Camille O'Connell observed as I paced from one end of her office to the other waiting patiently for me to explain why I called for an emergency session.
"Bonnie…?"
"The thing you don't know about me and Tyler is…he used to be my submissive."
There it was out.
Camille blinked. It was a relief to let that out although it had gone against Tyler's wishes, but fuck it I was taking my chances. I couldn't have this sitting on my chest any longer. Now that we agreed on a date to marry, and I still had so much stuff to deal with that admission seemed small by comparison.
"He was your submissive?" Cami seemingly tested the words on her tongue. "Meaning, you were the dominant in a BDSM relationship?"
"Yes that's what it typically means," I snapped.
I took off my engagement ring and slammed it with more force than intended on the coffee table. Cami jumped a bit in surprise.
"I need to know if that," I pointed at the ring, "is real or if I'm making a mistake. If I'm just settling, or if my connection is stronger with this man I met that I barely know. A man who I think wants me to be his dom."
A/N: Thoughts? Thanks for reading!