Happy New Year! It's been so much fun sharing this story with you over the holidays. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love you've shown it (and me). Maybe we'll check in with Elena and her prince again next Christmas. :)
Shout-out to Nej, Arthur's #1 fan. I think you're going to like this one. ;)
With this chapter, the story will finally live up to its rating, so . . . *wink wink*
Reviews are like ringing in 2019 with champagne and fireworks, so please leave one. xoxo
Enjoy! :)
Chapter Seven
"Here we are!" Elena swings the door wide and fumbles for the light switch. "Watch your step. Artie likes to scatter his toys all over the floor."
She tiptoes around a stuffed mouse and a plastic bulb he must've batted off the Christmas tree. Naughty boy. There's a reason she doesn't have glass ornaments.
Farther in, she spies a stray sock. What else has the little monster raided from the laundry basket?
In the kitchen, she gets her answer. Four pairs of lace boy shorts. Three thongs. Two bras. And a partridge in a pear tree.
"Arthur!"
The culprit is rubbing on Damon's legs, hollering for attention.
"Um, make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a second."
He surveys her unmentionables with a heated gaze. "Need any assistance?"
Elena tsks and stoops to gather her undies, hiding behind the curtain of her hair so he won't notice the pink firing in her cheeks. She's never thought of her apartment as particularly small, but wandering down the hallway to her bedroom, she realizes the whole thing could fit inside Damon's suite at the palace. Twice.
When she pads into the living room, she finds Damon on the couch with a bundle of black fluff in his lap. Purring fluff. He's cooing at the ridiculous beast in his smooth Italian and Arthur's eating it up, bumping his face against Damon's knuckles.
"Looks like you've made a new friend."
"So I have."
It's the first time they've been alone—no security, no spectators—since the night of the ball. She straightens a stack of magazines and picks a wad of cat hair off a throw pillow. Anything to distract her from the empty spot next to Damon.
"Can I get you some hot chocolate? There's probably a bottle of bourbon stashed somewhere if you'd prefer that instead."
"Cocoa sounds wonderful. I'll help."
Arthur is not happy about losing his cuddle buddy's warm lap, and Elena swears he's scowling at them.
Damon follows her to the kitchen, pausing to study the pictures of her and Jeremy and Jenna. He grins at a shot from last Halloween of her and Bonnie dressed as flappers.
"This is a great place," he says, hanging another fallen bulb back on the tree.
"Thanks."
The upright piano against the wall catches his attention. "Do you play?"
"Nothing worth risking your ears for. It was my mother's."
His fingers briefly caress the keys and even that snippet is more beautiful than anything she could manage.
Elena takes two mugs from the cupboard. As she's hunting for the hot chocolate mix, a wave of heat laps at her back. She turns and nearly collides with Damon.
"Oh! Hi." He's close enough for her to count every long, delicate eyelash. "Do you, uh, need something?"
He nods. "But I'm trying to decide where to start." His thumb sweeps across her bottom lip. "Here, I think."
"But the cocoa—"
"Can wait."
His mouth is as intoxicating as she remembers, his kiss reducing her to a puddle of boneless goo. Damon's fingers wend their way into her hair—tugging, guiding. He swallows the moan that escapes her, coaxing her to open for him. The second Elena caves, he rewards her with the velvety stroke of his tongue.
She latches onto his belt loop, pulling his body flush with hers. Her lungs are burning but oxygen is an afterthought. There's a delicious pressure . . . oh, god. His thigh is wedged between hers and she's rolling her hips and wait just a hot second.
Damon breaks the kiss, dipping his head to explore the pulse point fluttering at the base of her throat. He nips her there and she shudders.
"That day at the castle, I was prepared to beg for your forgiveness. To plead for you to stay with me. I would've gladly gone down on my knees," he murmurs thickly. "I'd like to do that now, if you'll let me."
Is he suggesting what she thinks he is?
His hand slides beneath the hem of her sweater, settling on her bare belly.
"B-beg?"
"If need be."
Cripes. Elena's absolutely certain she's never needed anything more in her life. Damon's eyes are dark—hungry, like he's ready to devour her. His pupils are dilated, nearly obliterating the pale irises.
But this isn't some random hookup.
"We shouldn't do this. We shouldn't . . . should we?" she sputters. "We should."
He nuzzles her jaw, grinning at the sudden breathiness in her voice. "Yes, cara?"
"God, yes."
Damon lifts his hand, taking her sweater with it. He carefully peels it off, smoothing the static from her hair in its wake. His palms cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples through the lace as he leans in to steal another kiss. She's trembling already and he's barely touching her.
She may not survive this.
He tugs at her bottom lip then his mouth trails lower, dusting kisses over the swell of her breasts where they're desperately trying to escape her bra. When he tongues her nipple into a hard peak, she moans and white-knuckles the counter so she doesn't crumple into a needy heap at his feet.
Elena hasn't been with anyone like this in . . . too long. She's out of practice. Damon must think she only has sex once a decade, although that would probably make him ridiculously happy.
With a flick of his fingers, her bra is tumbling to the floor. A blush sears into her skin and she snaps her eyes shut, blocking out the vision of Damon suckling at her, his cheeks hollowing with each pull of his mouth. Watching him work his magic is more than she can handle.
He releases her nipple with a wet pop, and she whines at the loss. Which isn't mortifying. Nope, not at all.
"Look at me, bella," he husks. "Don't hide."
He's kneeling now, just like he promised, one hand kneading her breast while the other plucks at the button on her jeans. His lips skim across her belly, his tongue dipping into her navel. Her squeal fades into a gasp as he yanks on her zipper and pushes the wadded denim to her ankles. Lifting one foot then the other, he peels her pants off and tosses them behind him like yesterday's trash.
Good lord. She's one scrap of lace from being completely naked and he's still fully dressed. Not fair.
Elena runs her fingers over his soft, black shirt, tracing the button just beneath his collarbone. "Can we get rid of this?"
Damon's thumb is hooked in the waistband of her undies, inching them down her thighs, leaving a line of hot, open-mouth kisses from her hip to the neatly trimmed curls at the top of her sex.
"I'm busy," he growls, the light scruff on his jaw gently scratching at her skin.
She slides one button free and starts on another. "Off."
"Bossy little thing."
His shirt joins her jeans and her boy shorts, but Damon isn't interested in giving her time to appreciate his bare chest and ogle every flex of his well-defined muscles. Instead, he props her knee on his shoulder, grinning like the devil himself.
"I wonder"—his scorching gaze locks on hers as he parts her slick folds—"what sounds you'll make when I taste you here."
"Please . . ."
Now who's begging?
"Will my name fall from your lips like the sweetest prayer?"
She's prepared to offer all of her worldly possessions and every last penny in her bank account if only he'll—
"Ah."
The first swipe of his tongue is slow and teasing. He explores her at his leisure, playing her like one of the many instruments he's mastered. Damon demands her attention, stopping his delicious torment whenever her eyes slip shut or she tries to look away because it's all so intense and she can't focus on anything but his mouth on her.
Elena's fingers tunnel into his dark hair, gripping and releasing, her nails biting into his arm. He switches the pattern of his strokes, deliberately keeping her off balance. When he flicks at her clit, she cries out, hovering dangerously close to the edge.
"Damon!"
"Again," he purrs, his lips closing around her sensitive nub.
It's too much . . . but she wants more. She needs more.
She's shaking uncontrollably, and she's sure Damon's steady grip is the only reason she's still upright. A rush of heat floods her belly as he continues to lap at her.
"Damon, please. I can't—"
"I've got you. Come for me, dolcezza."
His tongue swirls over her clit and she's gone. Caught up in a tidal wave of ecstasy, she lets herself fall, knowing Damon is there to catch her.
The bliss spirals on and on, and he stays with her until the last quiver subsides. Completely drained but thoroughly sated, she sinks into his lap. He tucks her against his chest, whispering soft, unfamiliar words while she listens to the soothing beat of his heart.
When she can summon the strength to lift her head, he greets her with a tender smile.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "I could watch you surrender to your pleasure all night. Perhaps that's what we'll do." He chuckles at the sudden tremor that rolls through her. "Have I earned your forgiveness, cara?"
Elena breathes him in, pressing lazy kisses to his smooth skin then laving his nipple. "Maybe . . ."
Damon scoops her into his arms and stands, whisking her to the bedroom with an I-mean-business stride.
"Then I guess I'll have to work harder."
###
"Damon."
"Yes?" He rolls his hips, sliding deeper, and Elena clutches his shoulder and mewls at the exquisite fullness.
"Is this a dream?"
He tumbled her into bed hours ago and took his time exploring her sweets spots. He must have kissed every inch of her body. She can still feel his mouth on her like a permanent brand on her skin.
After treating her to another toe-curling orgasm, he carried her to the shower. He washed her hair and she ditched the loofah in favor of using her tongue. He left smudgy fingerprint bruises on her hips and she scored his back with little half-moon marks.
They collapsed onto the sheets in an exhausted heap, still dripping—in more ways than one. She crashed hard and woke to Damon's hands caressing her, his kisses stoking the fire that never went out.
Elena squints at the glowing red display on the clock. Four something? Damon is at her throat, tracing the throbbing vein with his lips. A gentle suction starts up and his thumb finds her clit, rubbing in slow circles.
"If it were, I'd never want to wake," he murmurs.
There's a familiar flutter and a tightening low in her belly.
"Damon," she cries, too overwhelmed to process how this can be so good between them.
So right.
"I know, tesoro. Let go."
She does, giving into the release that won't be denied. Damon follows her into oblivion, and she beams as he shouts her name in the darkness. As their breathing returns to its normal rhythm, he drapes a leg over hers and wraps her in his arms. It's safe and warm and she never wants to leave this bed.
"How about now?" he murmurs just before sleep takes her, a hint of laughter in his soft tone. "Forgiven?"
"A thousand times over."
###
The aroma of fresh coffee tickling her nose is what finally lures her from slumber.
She pats the cool sheets, but no one is beside her.
Cracking a lid, she spots a vase on the bedside table with a single red rose in it. There's a Post-it stuck to the glass with a note written in flowing lines and flawless loops.
When you're ready, come to the kitchen.
Following the instructions, she throws on an oversized t-shirt and pads into the other room to investigate.
Damon is by the stove, a mixing bowl in the crook of his arm, wearing his boxers and the Santa's Little Helper apron Bonnie got for her last Christmas.
But that's not the only surprise.
Roses. Dozens of them. On every surface in the apartment.
The cat toys scattered on the floor have multiplied, and there are a bunch she's never seen before. She searches for Arthur, finally spotting him on top of the highest turret on the newest piece of furniture in her living room: a kitty castle.
His diesel-engine purr is no doubt directed at the man now sidling up to her to plant a kiss on her cheek and steal another from her lips. A mug of coffee finds its way into her hands.
"Good morning, cara."
"Mornin'. Did you . . ." she waves at the land of roses and dingle balls. Of course it was him, unless Santa arrived a day early.
"Do you like them?"
"The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you."
Arthur jumps down from his perch and strolls over to wind around Damon's ankles. His green eyes flick to Elena as if he's waiting to see what gifts she has for him.
"You're spoiling him rotten."
Damon chuckles and nudges her toward the couch. "Have a seat. Breakfast will be ready shortly."
The future king of Mystfallia is making pancakes. For her.
They're fluffy, chock full of blueberries, and insanely delicious. She'd rather sneak bites off his plate than eat her own, and he smears a dollop of whipped cream on her nose as payback. He feeds her the last few pieces of pancake, sharing a kiss between each.
"Arthur's not the only one you're spoiling."
"You deserve it."
That's debatable.
When they're finished, he drapes a blanket over them and she snuggles closer, resting her head on his shoulder. This is ridiculous. She's barely been awake for an hour and she can hardly keep her eyes open.
She's not used to being pampered. Her mornings are slapping at a blaring alarm clock, stepping on stuffed mice and screaming because her half-asleep self thinks they're real, reheating day-old coffee and inevitably spilling it on her shirt, and stumbling out the door in clothes sorely in need of ironing.
They're lonely and monotonous.
This? Is the sort of thing she doesn't recognize because it's been so long since she let herself believe in it.
Happiness.
###
Someone is playing the piano.
Elena stretches and blinks, shoving the blanket from her lap. She glances at the window, grateful for the light still streaming in it. At least she didn't sleep the whole day away.
Her gaze shifts to Damon, seated at her mother's upright. It's slightly out of tune but it's almost impossible to tell as his practiced fingers glide over the keys, making the old instrument sing after years of silence.
She can't place the melody. It's gentle and soothing, like a lullaby. She watches and listens, staying put so she won't disrupt his focus.
Damon smiles, his pale eyes—warm and gleaming with something she can't quite suss out—finding hers.
"Sit with me."
He scooches back on the bench, settling her in the vee of his thighs. Propping his chin on her shoulder, he presses a tender kiss to her neck.
"That song," Elena tips her head to give him more room to nuzzle, "is beautiful."
"My mother used to play it for me," he murmurs.
"I wish I could borrow some of your talent. It sounds like cats fighting in the alley whenever I try."
Damon's laugh is a soft rumble in her ear. "Place your hands on mine."
With her fingers resting on top of his, he picks up where he left off, filling the room with the sort of music people should be paying to hear at Carnegie Hall.
In the midst of the concert for one (or two, if you count the cat lounging atop his castle), an unpleasant thought unfurls in her mind.
"When do you have to leave?"
"I don't."
Wait. She must've misheard him.
"Damon, it's Christmas Eve. Shouldn't you be with your family?"
"I'm exactly where I need to be."
"But . . ." He can't stay here with her forever. Even if they do try to make this work, he has a mountain of responsibilities that aren't going to magically disappear.
His fingers still and he rearranges his long legs, straddling the bench, facing her. He gathers her hands in his, rubbing his thumbs across her knuckles.
"Come with me."
Three little words that are harder to process than a cold read of War and Peace.
"H-how? What? I don't—how?" she sputters as a grin tugs at his lips.
"This is a lot to ask, I know, but bear with me, dolcezza. The people I'm working to help—they deserve to have their stories told. The world has ignored them for too long. You could change that."
Elena's mouth opens but her voice has deserted her.
"I can scale back the number of trips I personally oversee and let my team handle the others. We could split the rest of our time between New York and Mystfallia. It won't be easy, and I'm sure I'll make mistakes, but this—us—isn't one of them."
Her vision is blurry all of a sudden. And there's wetness on her cheek.
"We haven't known each other long, but now that I've found you, I can't go another day without you. I promise to do right by you. To make you happy, whatever it takes. My heart is yours," he whispers, wiping at her tears. "Sei la mia vita."
He's right. It is asking a lot. A whole reorganization of her life, basically. It's exciting. And scary as hell. And a huge risk.
But she's done shutting people out and letting her fears control her.
She'll do it.
Because the most important part of her already belongs to him.
"My answer," she pauses to trace his cheekbone with a trembling finger, "is yes. You should know—I've never given my heart to anyone . . . until you."
"Elena."
His mouth captures hers, chasing away the tears and igniting a fire in her bloodstream. Damon tugs her into his lap, guiding her legs around his waist. She's pulling at his t-shirt, her hands roaming over his chest, greedy for more of him.
"It's almost Christmas," she pants between kisses, "and I don't have a present for you. I should get dressed. Go out."
"You're not going anywhere," he growls. "I already have my gift. All I need is you."
His fingers trail from her hip to the top of her thighs and lower, teasing her sex with feathery strokes until she can't remember why she ever wanted to leave this spot.
"One other thing, cara mia. The dress? You're keeping it." Damon nips at her bottom lip. "I won't be robbed of the opportunity to unwrap you from it."
Her giggle fades into a moan.
"As you wish, my prince."