Disclaimer: Not my characters, obviously. Just playing in their world for a while.

Hey, everyone! I'm finally back to finish this up. Better late than never, right? ;) Thanks so much for all the faves, follows, and lovely reviews. You're the best! xo

There was one part of the prompt I didn't get to before, but I've remedied that here. Let's just say the story's really living up to its rating now. ;)

Much love to the wonderful, amazing, all-around best partner-in-fangirling Daroh for the beta. *mwah*

Enjoy, and if you feel like leaving a review, that'd be awesome. :)

Elena makes the next turn, her eyes darting back and forth as she searches for the sign that will tell her she's come to the right place.

The destination is on your right, Siri chirps, and Elena hits the brakes a little too hard, nervously glancing in her rearview mirror to see if anyone's giving her the finger. Thankfully, there's no irate driver waiting to rip into her, so she uses the temporary reprieve to peruse the storefronts and other businesses on the block, looking for the one she needs.

She finally spots it, surprised at the slab of aged wood with gold lettering that reads Bourbon or Bust. She might've been expecting a flashing neon sign to match Damon's electric personality, but this is nice. Classy. Probably not the kind of signage attached to a place where she'll get groped by the first drunk patron she comes across, which is a relief.

The private lot Damon told her about is just ahead, and she pulls in, grateful to be done with her drive. New Year's Eve traffic is a snarl she could do without. Still, this trip is worth the hassle.

She tosses the pass he sent her on the dash so she won't get a ticket and spends a few harried moments smoothing her hair, reapplying her lip gloss, straightening imaginary wrinkles in her dress, and generally trying to make herself presentable for what feels like—and essentially is—a first date. An official one, anyway.

A gust of wind on her way up the sidewalk almost has her doing an impromptu reenactment from The Seven Year Itch, but she flattens her skirt to her thighs just in time. Cursing the unusually cold air, she rubs her hands together to warm them because, of course, she left her damn gloves in the car.

The front door gives with the gentlest of pushes, and the tinkling of a bell announces her arrival. She shifts from one foot to the other, wishing she could ditch her cramp-inducing heels after wearing them for the entire trip, and gazes at the room full of chatting, laughing, generally cheery-seeming bar goers. The main seating area is packed, and it takes her a couple minutes to scout out a small, miraculously empty table in the corner. As she heads toward it, she passes the bar, craning her neck and peeking over people's shoulders in an attempt to locate Damon in the melee. She sees the bartender—a woman sporting a friendly smile and light brown hair styled in a pixie cut—and another man, his voice laced with a British accent, helping her serve drinks.

"Where are you?" she mutters, her words immediately swallowed up by the din surrounding her. Waitresses are bustling back and forth from the kitchen, delivering plates of nachos, wings, and fries. A burger catches her eye, reminding her of the Christmas Eve dinner she and Damon shared. If only she could find him now . . .

"Is this seat taken?" a familiar voice asks, his lips brushing her ear as he leans in close so she can hear him.

Elena jumps and grips the table, her heart pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to hammer its way out of her chest. "Jesus!"

"Sorry." Damon pats her shoulder, grinning at her reaction. "Just me. Worried a serial killer's going to sneak up on you in a crowded bar?"

She scowls at him as she tries to remember how to breathe, but then he holds his arms open for a hug, and she abandons her slightly put-out act and goes willingly. Eagerly, even.

"You've gotta stop doing that," she murmurs into his shirt, soaking up the warmth of his embrace.

"Scaring you or hugging you?" He's rubbing her back, the soothing motion encouraging her to stay wrapped in his arms indefinitely.

"The scaring part. Hugs are nice. Really nice." Great, here comes her awkward alter ego again.

"Happy to hear it."

When they part, she makes the mistake of looking into his eyes, the irises a darker shade of blue in the dim lighting. Her gaze dips downward, taking in the black V-neck tee and snug-fitting jeans. She chews her bottom lip until the urge to blurt out something embarrassing passes, her cheeks heating as he continues to watch her with the same alluring smile.

"Thanks for having me," she finally manages.

"I'm glad you came." He treats her to the same visual inspection she just gave him. "You look beautiful." Her blush is burning out of control now, a five-alarm fire raging across her skin. Mercifully, he curls a hand around hers and gently tugs her toward a staircase she hadn't noticed before. "C'mon. It'll be quieter up here. We won't have to shout at each other."

As they weave through a sea of people, she considers the string of events that led to her spending New Year's Eve in a bar with a guy she met a week ago in a train station. On the surface, it sounds like the plot of a Lifetime movie that's about to take a very bad turn, but this feels different. Spontaneous. Exciting.

The beginning of a new adventure.

###

As Damon sinks into a chair across from Elena at the table for two he may or may not have put a "Reserved" sign on earlier in preparation for her arrival, he runs his hands over his jeans, wondering when the hell he lost his cool. He had it when they first met. In spades. Now, his palms are sweaty and his leg is jogging up and down with a nervous tick he hasn't had since high school.

Maybe it's because the station was neutral territory, but this is his bar—his baby—and she's here with him. Does she like it? Hate it? Think it's too small? Too seedy? Not seedy enough?

Whoa. Slow down, Salvatore.

Instead of letting his panicked thoughts get the best of him, he focuses on Elena and the little black dress she's wearing. It's perfect for tonight, and the lace accents provide tantalizing glimpses of skin. Plus, those heels. Damn. Add drool to his laundry list of issues.

She's still flushed, and it only deepens as he stares. "Shit, sorry," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can whip you up a cocktail that'll make Sex on the Beach seem like a romp in the janitor's closet." He waggles his eyebrows and gets her signature giggle in return.

"I am kinda hungry, actually. Could I get a burger, but without—"

"Pickles. I remember." Or strawberry shakes. Or mayo. All these tidbits about her are already stored in his brain as if they've always been there.

"Impressive." She smiles and rummages in her purse, handing over a twenty. "Will this cover it?"

He waves it away. "Your money's no good here."

"Damon . . ."

"Nope. You're my guest, so whatever you want, it's on the house."

She pouts and tries to push the bill across the table. "That's not fair."

His hand settles on hers. "My bar, my rules. How about that drink?"

"I know it's lame, but I better stick with water for now. If I get too tipsy, I tend to forget stuff, and I don't want that to happen tonight."

Well, hell. Can't argue with that logic. "Water and a burger, coming up. Fries?"

"Um, sure."

"You got it. Be back in a few."

###

When Damon returns from the kitchen balancing a basket of food in one hand and a glass of water in the other and puts them in front of Elena, her mouth falls open at the sight. Adorably, of course.

"That is a mountain of fries. I hope you're planning to help me eat all this."

"I can probably be talked into it."

She attacks the burger first, and it retaliates by leaving a glob of ketchup on her chin. Before it drops onto her dress, he pulls a stack of napkins from the dispenser and passes them to her, earning him a grateful smile.

"Thanks." She wipes her mouth and tries a fry instead, probably figuring it's safer. "You're too good at this. Are you sure you're not already taken?"

"Positive."

Elena's not convinced. "Seriously? You own a snazzy bar and look . . . like you do, all handsome and capable of making people swoon."

He lights up at her description. "You think the bar is snazzy?"

She pauses mid-fry. "That's all you got out of that?"

"Um, also something about me being passably good-looking?"

She lobs her wadded up napkin at him, and he watches as it bounces off his chest and skitters across the table. Her slightly miffed expression only lasts another second or two, then she's grinning and rolling her eyes. "You're impossible."

"Part of my charm," he agrees with a wink.

"So you're well and truly single?"

"Well and truly." When he first opened the place five years ago, the steady stream of women eager to invite him into their beds was an added perk, but the whole one-night stand thing really isn't his scene. "What about you, O Mistress of the Night?" he teases. "Looking for a new addition to your harem of men?"

Elena turns beet red and plucks at a sesame seed on her bun. "Sorry to disappoint, but there's no harem. Believe it or not, when you spend most of your time at home hunched over a laptop, it doesn't do wonders for your social life."

He dusts a grain of salt from the tip of her nose. "I might know a guy who's interested in coercing you away from your computer every now and then. I hear he's a big fan of your work. Even has a signed copy of your book on his nightstand."

She laughs and picks up a fry, offering it to him. "You're laying it on a little thick."

"Am I? I didn't notice." He nibbles on the end of the fry, deliberately keeping his gaze locked on hers.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a bit of a flirt?"

"Once or twice."

With the are-you-sure-you-aren't-dating-anyone landmine cleared, they settle back into the comfort of casual, easy conversation, catching each other up on their respective holidays. She lets it slip that she's been using the journal he gave her, and damn, if that doesn't make him feel good. Her smile when he describes the rugrats' reaction to his Santa hat is positively radiant. They'd plunked themselves on his lap and babbled until dinner was ready. Even Stefan had been impressed.

Damon managed to trade a few texts with her during the past week, but family obligations kept the chit-chat to a minimum, much to his dismay. The highlight was when she dropped a particularly juicy tidbit about maybe leaving the big city behind and moving back to Virginia, and he'd really like to see that happen.

The art of persuasion is one of his talents, after all . . .

He's preparing to put it to use when someone beckons to him from downstairs.

"Damon, can we get a hand? The rush has arrived," Enzo, his assistant manager and backup bartender, hollers. The man's usually cool in a crisis, but a quick glance confirms that the place is now standing room only, and he and Rose are frantically trying to keep up with the orders.

"Duty calls." He sighs and grabs a fry for the road. "Hopefully, I won't be down there forever. Promise you won't leave before midnight?"

She bats her lashes, and, intentional or not, it makes him wish he didn't have to go. "Promise."

"If you need anything, you know where to find me."

"Roger that." She gives him a thumbs-up, and he lingers for a second longer than he should. That smile of hers is a tough one to part ways with.

He finally takes off before Elena has to shoo him away, but the struggle is most definitely real.

###

Elena glances at her phone for the hundredth time and draws a random design on the tabletop using the condensation from her water glass. Five minutes to twelve. Despite Damon's best intentions, the unending flow of patrons has kept him busy behind the bar. She's happy business is booming, but she misses his company. If she listens closely, sometimes she can pick his voice out of the jumble of conversations taking place around her. It's a little like being in the eye of a storm.

Maybe he's grateful for the reprieve after she acted like such a dork. Again. "Who says 'Roger that'?" she groans, flicking at a crumb. Still, she didn't think their date would become a party of one. If she wanted to be lonely tonight, she could've easily accomplished that by staying home.

A flat screen television mounted on the wall flickers to life, showing the revelers in Times Square, smiling and waving at the cameras. Three minutes left now.

She peers over the edge of the railing, surveying the mob scene below. It might be worth it to wade into the horde and try to find a spot at the bar. At least then she'd be in Damon's vicinity when the clock hits midnight.

She scoots her chair back, immediately bumping it into someone else's. "Oh, sorry!" The guy doesn't seem to mind as he gives her a crooked smile and salutes her with his half-empty beer bottle.

Gracefully weaving her way through a crowd has never been her forte, and she proves it still isn't by stumbling, stepping on toes, and quietly cursing a blue streak. She hasn't even made it to the top of the stairs when she hears the countdown begin, a chant that spreads across the bar until everyone joins in:

"Thirty . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . ."

"Dammit," she mutters, frustrated by the lack of movement. Her path is completely blocked in every direction as couples pull each other close in preparation for a traditional New Year's Eve smooch. "Excuse me, please!" she tries again, but her request falls on deaf ears.

"Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . ."

She finally finds a tiny opening in the swarm of bodies and dashes for it, but someone catches her by the wrist and presses a glass of champagne into her hand. "What are you—"

Damon grins at her, looking every bit like the mischievous kid who used to get in a sledding wreck every winter. He loops an arm around her waist, coaxing her nearer until not even a whisper of space separates them.

"Three . . . two . . . one . . ."

"Happy New Year, Elena," he murmurs as he dips his head, thrilling her for the second time with the way his lips play over hers—teasing at first then settling into something more serious. Something that has her tightening her grip on the stem of her glass and clutching his shoulder as her knees start to wobble.

She's vaguely aware of the hubbub surrounding them: glasses clinking as toasts are made, peals of laughter, a chorus of "Happy New Year"s. "Auld Lang Syne" starts playing somewhere—the TV? The jukebox? She can't be bothered to think about it any longer as Damon deepens the kiss, surprising her with a hint of tongue.

More of that, please.

Her hand leaves his shoulder and slides around the back of his neck, fingers curling in the soft hair at his nape. No one's kissed her like this in . . . well, forever. Damon seems content to explore her thoroughly, his focus solely on her. There's nothing sloppy or rushed about it. This is a man who knows exactly what he's doing, and it shows with every gentle swipe of his tongue and brush of his lips.

When they part, it takes her a moment to catch her breath. She's not the only one affected; his exhale is sharper than normal, a touch unsteady.

"Happy New Year," she echoes, embarrassed at how raspy her voice sounds. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"No chance of that happening," he assures her.

She arches a brow. "I could've been stuck kissing some stranger."

"Then I guess it's a damn good thing I found you when I did. I didn't mean to be gone so long, but things were crazier than I expected. I'm all yours now."

The smile that accompanies those words is positively swoon-inducing. Damon Salvatore is a dangerous man—dangerous to her sanity. "Not that I'm complaining, but how did you get up here so quickly?"

He gestures behind her. "There's another set of stairs in the back for the staff."

"Ah. Handy." She raises her glass, studying the tiny bubbles gathered just beneath the rim. "Is this the part where we make a toast?"

"It is." He lifts his as well, easily holding her gaze. "Here's to a brand new year filled with good health, happiness, and the thrill of the unexpected. It's already off to an amazing start."

She beams at him as they clink their glasses together. "Cheers."

The champagne goes down smoothly—a little too much so—and she polishes it off in a few swallows, enjoying the pleasant warmth it leaves in its wake. "This is delicious. Can I have more? Just a bit? I don't want to go overboard."

He nods and chuckles, gathering her hand in his and entwining their fingers. "Right this way."

###

"So, have you given any more thought to what you mentioned the other day—moving back to Virginia?" Damon asks, breaking the companionable silence. Now that the bar is closed, empty except for the two of them, they don't have to yell to be heard. His tone is casual, but his undivided attention tells her how interested he is in her answer.

"Um, yeah. I think I might." She grabs a mozzarella stick and pushes the basket toward him. "Eat the rest of these. Save me from myself." Snacking on fried food in the early morning hours wasn't her wisest decision.

He laughs and bites into a stick, stretching the stringy filling until it snaps, dangling down onto his chin. "That's good to hear," he says brightly after scooping the cheese into his mouth where it belongs.

"My family's here. Most of my friends are still in the area. Plus, there's this great bar that's run by a really sweet, sexy guy . . ." Oops. The post-champagne glow isn't finished with her yet, apparently.

"Sexy, huh? That's an upgrade from handsome," he points out, cocking a brow.

"Don't get too smug, or you'll revert back to passably good-looking."

He pouts. "Harsh."

"Your words, not mine."

Once the last mozzarella stick disappears, she checks the time. "Holy jeez. It's almost five. I'm so sorry. You should've kicked me out instead of letting me yammer on and on."

He waves away her concern. "I live in the apartment upstairs, so I don't have far to go. Besides, I'm always up late. This is normal for me."

"Still, I should probably make a mile. My friend's expecting me to crash at her place tonight—er, this morning."

"Wait a minute. Before Enzo left, he said it was getting icy out there. I don't want you to risk the drive if it's worse now."

"Lemme go check." She slips on her coat, struggling with one of the sleeves until Damon helps her.

He follows her to the front door, and after he unlocks it, she peeks outside. A light rain is falling, and her breath clouds the air as she scans the street. There's no traffic, no one wandering about.

"I can't tell from here." She carefully navigates the steps without wiping out—a minor miracle. The sidewalk has a sheen to it, but that could be from the rain. She decides to test it, venturing out onto the wet concrete.

"Elena, wait!"

Damon takes off after her, but it's too late. Her heels skid on the slick surface, and she flails her arms, hoping to grab onto something to stop her fall. Luck isn't on her side, however, and she lands on her ass. Hard. In a puddle.

"Perfect," she groans. Now that she's sprawled on the ground, she can see the fine coating of ice on the parking meters and benches.

"Elena!" Damon's at her side in an instant, nearly falling in a heap himself in his haste to get to her. "Are you okay?" His hands flutter from her face, to her arms, to her bare legs—oh, hey, look at that scrape—and back again. "Shit. Let's get you inside."

###

Crappy weather. Staying at Damon's, so don't worry. See you later! xo

Elena hits send, knowing the text will probably wake Bonnie, but she doesn't want her to panic when she never shows up. Her friend lives on the outskirts of Richmond, a short trip under normal circumstances, but she doesn't dare try it now. The last thing she needs is a fender-bender as the cherry on her series-of-unfortunate-events sundae.

Damon returns from the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand and a couple Tylenol in the other. He passes them to her and sinks down beside her on the couch, watching as she swallows the pills. "Let me see your palm," he says softly, taking the empty glass and setting it on the coffee table.

"It's no big deal, really." Turns out her knee isn't the only part of her that took a beating.

"C'mon, sidewalks are filthy." Before she can argue with him, he reaches for her hand and carefully turns it over, surveying the damage. "Ouch. Hang on."

He vanishes into the bathroom, and she spends the next minute or so trying not to dwell on the fact that she's lounging in a borrowed t-shirt and a pair of his flannel pajama pants—on loan while her clothes, undies included, are drying. She shivers and burrows deeper into the blanket he tucked around her as her dive into the puddle replays in her mind. After getting drenched in freezing slush, the cold has seeped into her bones.

Damon reappears with a washcloth, towel, and first aid kit, digging through its contents until he finds what he needs.

Her eyes widen at the sight. "Wow. You're prepared for everything."

"Bars and broken glass kinda go together," he explains. "We've all gotten some nasty cuts." He pats his lap, inviting her to swing her leg over his. When she does, he rolls up the bottom of her pants and slides the towel under her battered knee. The warm washcloth feels good on her skin, but she bites her lip when he encounters a tender spot. Damon winces in sympathy as he gently dabs at the scrape. "Sorry," he murmurs.

Some Neosporin and a few Band-Aids later, she's all patched up. "You don't have any Hello Kitty ones?" she teases, studying her bandaged palm.

He chuckles. "Fresh out."

"Are you sure you're not a secretly a doctor moonlighting as a bar owner?"

"Nah. Sounds like a good plot for a novel though. You should get on that," he suggests with a wink.

Another tremor runs through her, although she's not sure if it's chills or Damon. Both, probably.

His smile fades as he notices her trembling. "It's a lot warmer in my room. More comfortable, too. You can take the bed. I'll crash on the couch."

"Oh, no. I've already barged into your apartment and stolen your clothes. I can sleep here. I'll be fine." She tries to demonstrate by pulling the blanket tighter around her and curling into a ball, but Damon tsks and scoops her up in his arms.

When he deposits her on the bed and swaps out the blanket for his down comforter, she notices her book on the nightstand. "You were serious," she murmurs, opening it and rereading the message she wrote inside. How ironic. "Stranded again. I guess this is the sequel," she adds with a laugh.

"But this is better than the station, right?"

She says nothing, hoping to get a rise out of him.

He doesn't disappoint, eyes widening in alarm. "It's worse?"

"My overnighter in the station didn't require first aid." She crosses her arms over her chest, giving him her best I-mean-business 'tude. "Maybe I should sue the negligent bar owner for pain and suffering because he didn't tend to his sidewalk."

Damon couldn't look more shocked if she pushed him out of bed. He gapes at her, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to come up with a response. "But, I . . . you . . . we were . . . I thought . . ."

"I'm kidding." Elena snickers and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. "This is much, much better."

He shakes his head and bops her on the nose. "You have a devilish side, don't you?"

"Possibly."

"Mmhmm." Damon's gaze drops to their joined hands. "You're still cold," he frets, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "I don't have a fancy fireplace, but I could do a pretty decent job of warming you up, if you'll let me."

Her blush returns with a vengeance, and he grins, evidently pleased with himself.

"See? It's already working. Scooch over."

She makes room for him, and he tugs back the covers, crawling in next to her. His arms settle around her in a move that's so natural she doesn't even realize it until she finds herself leaning closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. It's quiet, peaceful—the only sound coming from an occasional rush of air as it leaves the heating vents.

As he strokes her back, she grips the neck of his shirt, her fingers slipping inside and flirting with the bare skin hidden under the thin cotton. Skin she's eager to explore.

"How're you doing?" he asks, a slight hitch in his voice when she traces the line of his collarbone.

"Not bad. Less achy." Without stopping to think about it, she presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat. "Thank you for taking care of me," she whispers.

"Elena . . ." He cups her cheek, urging her to look at him. When she does, she sees the emotions flickering across his face—uncertainty, desire, concern, need. She has no idea where this burst of courage is coming from since the slight buzz from the champagne faded long ago, but maybe it's because, for the first time in a long while, she's chasing something she wants. Something they both want, judging by the way Damon's pupils are swallowing the pale blue of his irises and his heart is thumping against her palm.

And it feels . . . right.

He clears his throat. "Are you sure?"

She meets his gaze head-on, warmth that has nothing to do with a comforter and flannel pajamas—and everything to do with Damon—pooling low in her belly.

"Positive."

###

God . . . damn.

Damon's last coherent thought vanishes as Elena slips a hand under his shirt, trailing her fingers over his stomach and up to his chest. She pouts when the fabric won't go any higher, caught beneath his arms.

"This is a nice shirt and all, but can we make it go away?" She tugs on the hem again, insistent, and he barely manages to stifle a groan.

"Your wish, my command." He hauls the thing over his head and tosses it halfway across the room, eager to find out what her next move will be. He doesn't have long to wait.

Her hands settle on his sides as she studies him, the tip of her tongue sneaking past her lips. The intense look of concentration on her face when she leans in and feathers tiny kisses over his pecs and traces a path down to his belly makes the situation in his jeans go from mildly uncomfortable to holy-fuck-these-things-are-going-to-cut-off-my-circulation. Her thumb rubs absently—no, she totally meant to do that—across his nipple, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"My turn," he murmurs, tipping her back onto the pillows. He grins as he palms her breast through the Jack Daniels t-shirt she's wearing. "I've never stripped my own clothes off of someone before, but I'm really, really looking forward to it."

Her soft laugh spurs him on, and rolls up the worn cotton, slowly exposing her skin inch by glorious inch. He's dying to put his mouth everywhere at once, but he settles on a spot just below her ribcage, enjoying the way her muscles contract at his touch. She squeals when he dips his tongue into her belly button, squirming in his hold. He pushes the shirt higher, revealing her full breasts. He's not usually a stop-and-stare kind of guy, but she's . . . exquisite.

"You're so beautiful, Elena."

Her blush is visible even in the near darkness. "Um, well—"

"You are." Unable to resist, he tongues her nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. She moans, sending a jolt of desire straight to his groin, and her fingers tunnel into his hair, holding him in place. His leg parts hers, his thigh tight to her core. When she rocks her hips, seeking the friction they both want, he nearly self-destructs. "Same problem," he rasps, gripping the edge of the shirt in his fist. "This has gotta go."

She happily lets him peel it off her, and that first moment of skin-on-skin contact—his chest pressed to hers—is pure heaven. He kisses her deeply while her hands flutter over his back, caressing him and hugging him to her. The minute he starts loosening the tie on her pajama bottoms, she lifts herself up so he can shuck them down her legs. A button pops free on his jeans, and he glances down to find her struggling with the zipper.

"A little help, please?" she asks sweetly, her hand snaking around to squeeze his denim-clad ass.

She doesn't have to repeat her request. His pants disappear in record time, followed by his boxers and socks. Now it's Elena's turn to stare, and judging by the way she licks her lips, she likes what she sees.

She grins and crooks a finger at him. "C'mere."

Damon narrowly fights back the urge to ravage her on the spot, reminding himself that she's still sore from her earlier spill. Returning to her waiting arms, he trails his fingers down her thigh then back up again, skimming them across her pelvic bone before delving between her legs. He entices her with barely there touches until she nips his bottom lip.

"Please, Damon," she whispers, hooking a leg over his hip and urging him closer. He eases a finger past her folds, and—Christ—she's so soft and slick. So ready for him. He works her into a frenzy of need, content to forget about everything but the gorgeous woman writhing underneath him. Nothing could break his focus, even if the walls were to fall—

Her hand curls around his cock, and he shudders in her grasp, biting back a ripe curse. She strokes him once, twice, and he's a goner. He can't wait any longer. He wants . . . no, needs to be inside her. Now.

His one-track mind almost makes him forget one very important detail, and he pauses long enough to hunt down a condom in the drawer of the nightstand. Once the situation is remedied, he's back to being an attentive lover. He claims Elena's mouth in a series of languorous kisses that leave him with a buzz; a sensual high he never wants to fade.

She resumes her strokes then guides him as he slowly enters her. He's not prepared for the feel of her silky heat surrounding him, which has him gasping for air in the crook of her neck. The way they fit together is sheer perfection. He'd be happy to stay like this indefinitely, but she has other plans. Her lips find his ear, and she whispers some encouragement, her words alone enough to draw a low moan out of him.

"You keep that up, and the fun'll be over before it even begins," he warns, rocking his hips against hers and settling into a steady rhythm of slow, deep thrusts. She clings to him, her nails digging into his back as he learns what she likes most. There's no awkwardness, no missing connection. They're completely in sync with one another.

Damon gradually quickens his pace until they're both panting, striving toward the inevitable release that's getting closer with every second that ticks by. He arranges her legs around his waist, and she enthusiastically meets each thrust until the pleasure becomes too much. Her eyes widen, her back arching off the bed as she cries out his name.

"I know," he soothes, his voice rough as his own orgasm bears down on him. "I'm right there with you." With one last jerk of his hips, he follows her over the edge. "Fuck!"

He collapses on top of her, realizing too late that he shouldn't have done that.

"God, Elena. Did I hurt you?" He tries to roll onto his side, but she wraps her arms around him and refuses to budge.

"You're fine. Just stay . . ." she murmurs, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead.

Reassured he isn't smothering her, he rests his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal. His gaze eventually lands on her book, and he chuckles.

"Y'know, I thought about borrowing some of Jack's suave bedroom moves, which you created, so they're technically yours."

"You don't need those," she points out with a grin. "Yours are amazing. Much better than Jack's."

"Yeah?"

She nods, giving him a sleepy smile. "Besides, our story isn't fictional. It's real."

He likes the sound of that. A lot. "Our story," he echoes. "It's not a short one, I hope?"

"I predict several chapters."

"A whole book?"

"Probably."

"With a sequel?"

"Could be."

"A series?"

"If we're lucky. For now, let's just take it one page at a time."

A kiss, unhurried and tender, seals the deal. He still can't believe a chance meeting in a train station on Christmas Eve led them here, but it did. This isn't a dream or a paperback romance. It's real.

And he wouldn't trade it for anything.