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And I never want to.
“Ryan, the bastard responsible for Rowan’s death,” I say, opening the oven door to check on the lasagna, “he was my first blood. Killed him before leaving for college. It was sloppy, but fuck—it was cathartic, splattering his guts all over his grandmother’s kitchen tiles.”
Gwen chuckles darkly as I take the lasagna out of the oven, setting it on top of the stove to cool. “Not exactly the kind of thing I like to talk about over dinner,” she remarks with a half-smile.
“That piece of shit got away with murder for too long. Someone needed to take a stand, and that someone was me.” I grab two plates and forks from the dish rack and place them on the table. “I had no regrets or guilt over it, either. If anything, it felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”
She nods, her green eyes glimmering with agreement; I always knew she was more like her father than she wanted to admit. “I guess it was justice, then, in its own way.”
The tension between us is simmering down into something closer to mutual respect and understanding. Seeing that her birthday dinner is almost ready, she attempts to get up from the couch. But her stitches pull, causing her to gasp sharply in pain.
An unfamiliar panic hits me all at once, and I rush over to her. “Careful,” I gently chastise, supporting her weight with one arm and steadying her with the other. “You have to take it slow for now.”
“It’s alright, I’m okay,” she assures me with a weak smile. “But thank you for being here for me.”
I feel a strange warmth spreading through my chest as I help her hobble over to the table and into her seat. She looks up at me with a small, grateful smile, and bizarre waves of emotions flood me. For the first time in a very long time, I feel guilty.
Just a bit.
“I really am sorry, Gwen,” I say, dishing out two generous portions of lasagna. “You know, for …” I motion to her side.
“Don’t worry about it.” She spears a piece of lasagna with her fork and blows on it. “Something tells me you liked it, though—seeing me bleed.”
Did she seriously just say that? A thousand replies run through my head. I laugh, trying to play it off as a joke. “Of course not! I would never?—”
“You don’t have to deny it. Seeing me covered in blood also got you off.” She stares at me for a few beats before breaking into a smirk. “Also, you don’t have to be Blake. You can be yourself—be Damon around me.”
I can’t help but smile; she understands me so well. With her, I can be myself, no need for pretense or a facade. It’s a beautiful thing, the freedom I’ve found with her.
And I plan on savoring every minute of it.
“Okay,” I say, cutting off a bite of my lasagna. “You got me.”
We both laugh.
As we eat, I steal unsubtle glances at her. I am in awe of how perfectly attuned she is to my thoughts and feelings, even when I try to hide them from her.
“So, what do you want to do now?” she asks after dinner once we’re back in the living room.
“I think I have a few ideas,” I say, waggling my brows.
She flushes pink as she takes in the meaning of my words. “But my stitches,” she weakly protests.
“I’ll be careful.” I snap my fingers, pointing to her legs. “Spread ‘em.”
She obeys, clearing her throat. “You know I desperately need to shower, right?” she states as I carefully tug off her pajama pants and underwear.
“Does it look like I care?” I retort, dropping to my knees.
She shivers as I grasp her ankles and place her legs on my shoulders. I kiss her mound gently before plunging my tongue inside of her, causing her to moan softly at the sensation. Leaning back, she allows me full access to explore every inch of her body with my mouth, to devour what is mine.
“You’re already soaked,” I remark, licking a stripe down her slit, then back up. Lazily, I circle her little bundle of nerves with the pad of my thumb as I eat her out, tasting her sweet nectar. She moans, twining her fingers in my hair, pulling me closer. I chuckle against her folds. “My girl is greedy.”
“Shut up,” she moans, her eyes fluttering closed.
I shake my head and smile, inserting a finger inside of her while I suck on her swollen clit. I use my teeth, nipping at her bud. She whimpers, clawing at my scalp. I soothe her clit with my tongue, pushing another finger inside. Then another. She clenches around me, and I feel myself harden; I want to fuck her so badly. But I can’t risk tearing her stitches.
Later, I owe her a rough fucking.
