Another little Elejah one-shot…just sort of came to me one night while I was enjoying the effects of chronic insomnia (sooo much fun). Anyway, I was itching to write another Elejah fic (I love them) and so I hope you will read and enjoy.

I own nothing. Or, as Hans Schultz from Hogan's Heroes would say: "I see naathing! I know naathing!"


The wood of her kitchen table was a dark, finished wood, smooth under his hands; he guessed mahogany, a common enough wood nowadays. In the years of his youth and for centuries thereafter, he remembered, it had been a rarity: a fine wood from worlds away that only the noblest lords and ladies could afford to import.

He studied her intently as she puttered around the kitchen, moving this that and the other, stirring things on the stove and checking things in the oven.

It had always amazed him how some people were so adept in the kitchen; Elijah himself was a reasonable cook when it came down to a fairly straightforward dish, but he could not claim to know how to manage an actual meal. There were so many components to it, so many things to check on all at once. Roasting vegetables in the oven, some sort of sauce in a skillet on the stove, bread in the toaster, and a beautiful London broil that had just come off the grill outside and lay covered in foil on the counter. If it were him, he would have forgotten something or overcooked something or messed the timing up completely. He wondered how she managed to pull it all off.

Then again, he'd discovered that Elena Gilbert was more than met the eye.

"How do you do all this without messing it up?" he inquired, his voice tinged with awe.

She turned her head at the question, smiling at him. "Well my mom would let me help her some in the kitchen when I was growing up…but it wasn't until my parents died that I really learned how to cook." The words were a tad nostalgic, but he heard no sadness or bitterness in her tone. Elena had never been one to dwell on negative feelings, and had come to term with her parents' death, remaining optimistic for herself and her brother.

"Jenna was a horrendous cook; I swear, she couldn't even boil water," she snorted. "Jeremy looked like he was having a panic attack anytime he attempted anything in the kitchen. So naturally I stepped up to the plate, and found not only that I was good at it but that I enjoyed it as well. There were a few botched meals at the beginning – it took me a while to get the timing just right – but eventually it came easy to me. Now it's just second nature, I guess." She shrugged.

He hummed in response, content to watch her work. She was dressed comfortably in jean shorts and a neon pink t-shirt that said "Mystic Falls Cheerleading" on the back. As annoying as he usually found the color, it suited her, complimenting her tanned olive skin. Her petite, highly arched feet were bare, and she had painted her toenails a lovely shade of periwinkle. Her hair was thrown up in a high ponytail; a few short tendrils had escaped and framed her pretty heart-shaped face.

He was enraptured by the curve of her slim neck, and if he'd been a lesser vampire perhaps he would have let the desire to sink his fangs into it get the better of him. As it was, he maintained a respectable distance from her so as not to tempt himself. Because as strong as his self-control had become over the centuries, Elena Gilbert was the one thing Elijah wanted enough to consider letting himself lose it.

Yes; it was for the best that he kept his distance.

She had surprised him when they'd last parted ways by asking him to come over for dinner. She had not specified why; she had not needed to. Interestingly enough, they had both found that they enjoyed the other's company. There was, for lack of a better way to say it, a certain easiness to their conversation – but they were equally as content not speaking; the silences between them were never awkward.

They could not even claim to be friends; they simply shared an unspoken understanding that neither of them had achieved with anyone else. Each had found that the other provided an escape from the harshness of their reality – and an alternative to their stressful relationships.

They brought no drama to the table, banning all talk of the mess their lives had become. They discussed everything else under the sun, things they had forgotten about amidst the chaos of war: topics that ranged from literature to weather patterns to society to global poverty to sharks to food to politics to the future of the world. They shared their hopes and dreams, never feeling too vulnerable by exposing that part of themselves to each other. Elijah had never found someone so interested in his life experiences and stories he had to tell, and Elena had never found someone so interesting. She was hungry for knowledge and he provided her with a wealth of information; she sucked it up like a sponge. He appreciated her inquisitive mind and discovered she was far more intelligent than people gave her credit for. She had so much to ask, to say – and he came to suspect that no one had ever really taken the time to listen.

All romantic notions aside, they were good for each other. (Even though her heartbeat pounded frantically when he was too close, and she blushed and refused to meet his eyes when her hand accidentally touched his. He knew if he delved deeper he would uncover her attraction to him, but he was too honorable to consider it. Maybe in another life.)

No one knew of the dinner they were sharing tonight, or of their previous shorter meetings (which they had planned under the pretense of "negotiating" – basically just an excuse to spend time together to talk about everything and nothing). Jeremy was spending the night at a friend's house and Elena had ensured that the Salvatores and all of her friends would be elsewhere.

They were their own dirty little secret, so to speak…and they liked it that way.

Elena turned off all of the devices in the kitchen and quickly prepared the food on serving plates. He jumped up to help her get everything on the table. He put a hand on her waist briefly when he passed behind her to grab the meat from the kitchen island. The movement was instinctual and comfortable for him, and he only realized that he'd touched her when her heart jumped and stuttered. Heat radiated from her body, and the intangible smell of her beginning arousal combined with the heady scent of her blood had him almost salivating. His fingers tingled and his hand felt like it had been burned.

"Oh, um, thank you," she said nervously, licking her lips. He followed her to the kitchen table, setting everything down and letting her rearrange it to her specifications. Another nuance he had learned about Elena: she was very particular about certain things. It was endearing instead of annoying.

"Oh!" she exclaimed before sitting down. "Drinks. What would you like to drink?" she asked cheerily. "We have water, of course, some sodas, fresh-squeezed lemonade…and some red wine and a couple of bottles of scotch."

"What kind of scotch is it?" he asked politely.

"Um, let me look…" She reached up to open the cabinet above the refrigerator, struggling to reach its contents on her tiptoes.

Elijah came to stand behind her, maybe too close for comfort (he sort of did that on purpose, selfishly wanting to hear her heart pound), and reached over her head to grab one of the bottles of scotch. Looking at it, he frowned; a Glenlivet twelve year simply wouldn't do. He put it back and grabbed the other one, pleased. A 21-year old Glenffidich – he could live with that. He noticed she remained in the same spot in front of him, frozen. One step forward and he could have her trapped and pressed between him and the refrigerator.

"This is a good one," he said lightly, easing away from her towards the glass cabinet. Her body relaxed visibly, but her heart still thumped rapidly in her chest and heat flooded her cheeks.

He really should keep his distance; every time he was close to her he lost another fraction of his control.

"Glasses?" he asked. "And a bottle opener."

She pointed to a cabinet above the oven, grabbing the bottle-opener from a drawer. "Get two of those, would you?" she asked tiredly. "I could totally use some of that."

He grinned and obeyed, carrying the glasses and bottle to the table. His fingers grazed hers when she handed him the bottle opener (that time he hadn't done it on purpose, but it had the same effect). Her breath hitched a little.

He hadn't known she was that attracted to him. He might have chalked it up to general nervousness, but the smell of her desire was unmistakable. The animal in him inwardly preened, his body begging him to take her. He ignored it.

He expertly popped open the bottle of scotch – clueless to the fact that she found the movement of his hands extremely erotic – and poured them both a finger of the amber liquid. She downed hers before she even sat down.

"Easy, Elena," he teased sitting gracefully and taking a sip from his glass. "Scotch is something to partake in slowly. It's not a tequila shot."

Feeling somewhat chastised, she grimaced. "It should be," she mumbled.

He chuckled, grinning. "Bad day?"

"You have no idea," she returned. She paused, lifting her fork to begin eating. "Well, maybe you do," she added, "but yeah, it wasn't so great."

"Oh?" he inquired, encouraging her. He liked hearing about her everyday problems; it gave him a sense of normalcy that was usually very hard to find. He took a bite of his beef, closing his eyes at the taste. Just because he survived on blood didn't mean he ever stopped appreciating real food. "This is excellent, by the way."

"Oh, thank you," she replied, blushing. He liked the way she looked with her face flushed with color, like she'd just engaged in hot, sweaty sex. The stray thought had his manhood twitching, desire settling low in his stomach. He gritted his teeth in irritation, taking another bite of food.

"So what about it made it so intolerable?" he inquired, genuinely curious.

"Oh you know," she replied, swallowing food, "the usual joys of being a teenager. Especially a not-so-normal teenager in a sea of ignorant classmates. Sometimes it really sucks being supernatural – you're aware of all of these crazy things, making it impossible to just enjoy high school and only deal with normal teenage angst." She sighed. "I remember when my biggest problems were cheerleading drama, popularity and being a good girlfriend to Matt." She smiled wistfully.

"You miss it," he stated between mouthfuls.

"Sometimes, yes," she replied softly. "More than I'd like to admit. Although today Klaus was starting to look preferable to my African Studies teacher," she snorted.

"African studies?" he asked curiously.

She blushed, smiling. Her eyes lit up. "I love Africa. I think it's fascinating. It's sort of a secret obsession of mine. If I could go anywhere in the world, right now, I'd say 'take me to Africa,' no hesitation."

Interesting. "Really? And what about it captivates you so?" he asked.

"Everything," she replied. He could sense her growing enthusiasm, heard the passion in her voice. This time her quickening heartbeat had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her love of the continent. "I mean, these people are among the most resilient peoples in the world – akin to the Bangladeshis, but that's a conversation for another time –" she added, waving her hand; he filed that tidbit away for later, determined to asked her about it, "– but also incredibly resistant to any kind of progression. There is so much potential there: minerals, wildlife, tourism, rich culture, biodiversity, the list goes on and on – but the damage inflicted by past and present exploitation from other countries and large companies has wreaked havoc on their economies and societies. They have no idea how to sustain a governmental system, and the deep-rooted tribal factions that often cross country borders make anything they do establish a complete joke. It's just…" She paused, lost in thought. "It's just a world apart. There is nothing that it can be compared to. I'm drawn to the instability of it, the danger; it's so unpredictable. And there's so much work to be done there, so many possibilities and potential for growth and change and…well, just everything. It's just so…incredible."

She was enchanting when she talked like this, he thought; completely unaware of her surroundings, lost in her own mind and musings. She was probably oblivious to how her hands suddenly came to life, posturing and gesturing animatedly with this that and the other, and of how her eyes lit up, wide and sparkling and locked with his own brown orbs. All shyness had been dispelled, leaving her mind and soul open and vulnerable to his gaze. She was magnificent.

"I'd like to go there someday," she said quietly, staring at the dark wood of the table, running a finger over its smooth surface. "But that's not likely."

"And why not?" he asked.

She looked at him then, her eyes clear and sad. "Because I never get what I want, Elijah. That's just a fact of life I've come to accept: every time I wish for something, or work for something, someone throws a wrench in it and everything is dashed to hell." Guilt washed over him; he knew she spoke mainly of Klaus. "All of this doppelganger-supernatural crap ensures that it will never be easy."

He frowned in consternation, unsettled by the sentiment. He'd never known her to be so hopeless. "Perhaps you should take it then."

"Take what?" she said, her brow creased.

"What you want," he replied simply, shrugging. "Learn to take what you want. The only thing in this world that you can control is your ability to make your own choices. Sometimes I think your compassion gets the better of you, sweet Elena; you make your choices based on what others want because you love them. I challenge you to try something," he continued. "The next time an opportunity comes around and you are faced with a choice, be selfish. Follow your feelings – do what you want, without considering what everyone else wants. Act on your desires, for once. Take what it is you crave."

She was silent, her eyes flashing, mulling over his words. His words had calmed her, eased her mind.

"You should let me take you there someday," he said abruptly. "Africa." The statement was out of his mouth before he could even think of the implications, but the offer was entirely genuine. He hoped he had not scared her.

Her eyes widened and her heartbeat fluttered. "Would you?" she asked softly, her voice laced with barely restrained excitement.

He relaxed. Apparently the implications of such a journey with him – just the two of them – were not enough to get in the way of her dream.

"Of course," he scoffed. "I haven't been to Africa in years. I have some good contacts there. Kol has quite the reputation throughout the continent – a good one, surprisingly enough. He spent nearly a century in sub-Saharan Africa some years back; running with witches, believe it or not. He's always been spellbound by magic – no pun intended," he said, and her lips quirked. "You know, he could probably tell you a lot more about Africa than I can; and he jumps at the chance to hear his own voice, so he'd probably enjoy it."

She snorted. "Hmm, let me think about that… No thank you – I choose life," she said sarcastically.

He chuckled. "He's really not that bad. He's my favorite brother, actually." Her eyes widened. "Oh, don't look so surprised. He's highly intelligent, a good conversationalist, knowledgeable about a great many things; and he looks like me, and I'm simply vain like that," he drawled, smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. She giggled. "And if you were to ever talk with him, he would know better than to mess with you."

"Why? He doesn't exactly seem like the kind of person who follows the rules."

His expression became serious. "He'll follow my rules," he growled quietly. "Kol and I understand each other perfectly. He knows that if he were to so much as lay a finger on you…" He trailed off. "Well, let's just say that retribution would be swift and painful."

"But he can't be killed," she pointed out.

He smiled darkly. She shivered. "There are things worse than death, lovely Elena. Much worse."

She swallowed audibly and regarded him warily. She could not seem to decide if she should feel uncomfortable with the violent sentiment or pleased that he would go to such lengths to protect her. She poured herself more scotch, filling the whole glass this time, and took the liberty of topping his off; he nodded in thanks. She took a large gulp, barely wincing as the strong drink slid down her throat.

Breaking the silence between them, she said, "You've never shown me that side of you, have you? Not really."

"Which side?" he replied, sipping from his glass; then decided to shoot it down in one gulp. To hell with savoring it – she'd had the right idea. His tolerance to alcohol was incredibly high by now, but he could still get tipsy, and he relished the feeling of the smooth scotch settling in his stomach and making his head swim, if only a little. He could drink three bottles of whiskey before he got drunk, but even two glasses would leave him feeling buzzed. He recognized the smoky look in her eyes: one of desire and impending drunkenness. He cocked his head.

"You know…the all-powerful evil Original vampire thing," she gestured. "The BAMF vibe you gave off when we first met in that old plantation house – I haven't seen it since."

"B-A-M-F?" he replied, stumbling over the acronym. "I'm not familiar with that expression."

"Bad-Ass Mother-Fucker," she clarified, smiling and popping a roasted carrot into her mouth. He followed the movement with his eyes.

He grinned. "I like that," he said decisively, nodding in approval. "And no, you haven't seen it."

He offered no other explanation, continuing to eat his dinner. She huffed.

"Well, why not?"

He took another swig of scotch. Then he put his fork down and took a moment to remove himself of his suit jacket, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to expose heavily muscled forearms. He leaned forward on his elbows, lacing his fingers together. His eyes bored into hers, and she squirmed under his steady gaze but did not look away.

"Because I didn't want you to."

She pursed her lips. "That's not an answer," she said stubbornly.

"Yes, it is," he replied calmly. "I feel comfortable enough around you to let my guard down, which is not something to be taken lightly, I assure you. The thing is I don't particularly like being a 'BAMF,'" he said honestly. "I don't delight in it like my brothers do. And with you, I don't have to be one; I can let that persona slip without fear of you taking advantage of me."

She crossed her arms. "How do you know I won't take advantage of you?" she asked smarmily. She smirked. "Maybe I have something planned."

He smirked at her in return; he was much better at it than she was. His eyes glittered mischievously, and he allowed them to peruse her body lazily and in an overt manner.

"Did you have something specific in mind, Miss Gilbert?" he asked quietly, teasingly, his eyes reconnecting with her startled ones, his gaze heated. "If not, I can come up with a few…suggestions."

She gasped. The air between them was suddenly charged, crackling with electricity. Her cheeks were flaming as bright as her t-shirt. He grinned wickedly.

"You are such a pig!" she exclaimed, smiling.

"Always and forever," he responded jokingly.

She threw a carrot at him playfully, unable to contain the bubble of laughter that rose up from her chest. He caught it easily and chucked it back at her. Surprisingly enough, she caught it in her mouth.

He stared at her, puzzled. She beamed at him.

"One of my lesser gifts," she mumbled, chewing.

Experimentally, he tossed another one to her, his fingers now coated in olive oil. She caught it easily, devouring it as soon as it landed in her mouth. She grinned at him triumphantly.

He lobbed another one; she caught it. "So you, what, catch food in your mouth as a hobby? When did this start? Do your friends help you practice in your free time, or is there like some sort of machine that lobs them to you?" he teased. "Either way, we need to find you something else to focus on." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his neck.

She scoffed and stuck her tongue out at him childishly. "No, you ass…I'm just good like that," she replied smugly, sitting up in her chair and tilting her head up.

He wasn't sure how it happened, and would not remember afterwards, either; how and when things had changed. One minute he sat relaxed in his chair, watching her in amusement; the next her neck was exposed to him at full tilt, and the smell and sight of her blood pulsing through her artery and the noise of her heartbeat beneath her ribcage overtook him. His face morphed, eyes flooding darkly and veins surfacing. He felt his fangs slide out from his gums, aching to bite her.

It was gone as soon as it appeared, but she'd seen it, and he was mortified.

"I'm so sorry," he croaked, horrified that she'd seen the monster in him; he'd never wanted that. He had selfishly wanted her to see him differently than the others, as a man instead of a vampire, an honorable person as opposed to the ruthless killer he could be.

He went to stand up, pushing his chair back, but before he could rise to his feet she was in front of him, her knees almost touching his. He looked up at her in confusion.

"Show me again," she whispered, gazing at him in wonder. Her eyes roamed his face, searching.

"No," he said firmly, his mouth a thin line. "Absolutely not."

Her fingers ghosted over his cheekbone, and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord.

"Show me, Elijah," she demanded again, softly. "I want to see."

He caved to her command, letting his vampire visage surface; it came quickly and easily with her standing so close. Her smell enveloped him: the heady scent of her blood, the arousal between her legs that had been present throughout the majority of the evening, and the remnants of her soap and shampoo. She wore no perfume (which was irritating to his keen nose), and whatever bath products she used were a tantalizing mix of gardenia, honeysuckle and vanilla.

He tried to hide his face, ashamed. She took his jaw between her hands and forced him to look at her.

The expression on her face was not of fear, or disgust, or even sick fascination, as he had expected – she looked at him with awe, not bothering to conceal it. Her eyes and hands perused his face, her fingers tracing his clenched jaw and the warped skin just below his eyes with feather light touches.

His face went back to normal, but the overwhelming hunger remained. "You need to step away," he said hoarsely, putting a hand on her hip and applying gentle pressure. She did not budge. "Now, Elena," he growled, baring his fangs, "or I may not be responsible for my actions. My self-restraint is hanging by a thread."

He was already starting to lose control; his other hand had grabbed the opposite hip, his thumbs pressing into the tops of her thighs. Even as he became aware of the action and tried to stop it, he was pulling her forward to straddle him.

"I trust you."

She swiftly and gracefully brought her legs up to kneel on either side of his hips (thankfully her dining room chairs were more than wide enough to accommodate her) and lowered herself to sit astride his thighs. She placed her hands on his wide shoulders and leaned forward to brush her lips over his, barely touching. His body trembled, and his grip on her hips tightened.

"What are you doing?" he murmured against her lips. Only a kernel of logic remained in his mind, screaming at him to stop, stop, STOP – but his body raged, like an animal that had broken a bar on its cage and could sense it was about to be free, it was so close, if only it tried a little harder… Everything within him begged him to take her, to throw her up against the wall and drink his fill and tear her clothes from her body and fuck her –

NO. NEVER. STOP. Please, stop. That kernel of rational thought struggled, struggled, fought to stay afloat amidst the storm of feelings that raged through his brain, fought to live, to keep him from committing reprehensible actions – ELIJAH STOP –

"I'm taking what I want."

Rational thought abandoned him at the words whispered against his ear and he growled, an animalistic rumble in his chest. Catching her face in between his hands he pulled her to him; their lips crashed in a searing kiss that had them both moaning, the tension that had built up between them finally snapping. Teeth nipped and tongues dueled and lips clashed, becoming swollen and red as they moved against each other frantically.

He broke the kiss too soon, leaving them both breathing heavily, and whipped her shirt over her head, revealing her perky breasts encased in a navy bra with delicate lace at the edges. He bypassed them completely, unable to focus on anything but the roar of her blood –

One hand smoothly wrapped around her waist and the other went to press against the tender skin of her throat, just below her chin, squeezing and tilting her head up. He licked at her jugular and then sucked the artery into his mouth, pulling the blood to the surface of her skin.

"I'm sorry –" he managed to blurt out, before bloodlust consumed him and he buried his fangs in her neck.

He vaguely heard her cry out and in the back of his mind somewhere it registered that her fingernails were digging into his shoulders. He could smell her salty tears, felt them run into his hair, but he was too far-gone for any guilt to find purchase in his mind.

The beating of her heart pounded wildly in his ears, resonated throughout his brain. Her smell filled his nose – her skin and hair and blood and the musky sweetness of the arousal at the junction of her thighs – and her blood tasted like copper and salt and whiskey and desire. Its warmth flowed down his throat, and he was careful not to let any escape from the corners of his mouth. He pulled her hips forward and ground his raging hard-on into her core.

When the bloodlust abated he withdrew from her neck, retracting his fangs and breathing hard. Her body shook against his. He held her close to him and pressed his cheek against hers, one of his large hands cupping the back of her neck to keep her head from lolling back in exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry, Elena," he whispered harshly, arm tightening around her waist. He could think of nothing else to say, could only hold her, hoping for forgiveness. Blood that leaked from the wound on her neck ran down to where their chests pressed together and stained his shirt crimson.

Even as he apologized he was unable to keep from touching her – his lips brushed her jaw and came down to leave languid open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, and his hand trailed up and down her spine. Her breath hitched when he unconsciously rolled his hips underneath hers, her center coming into sharp contact with the impressive bulge in his pants. She gasped and buried her hands in his hair.

"Sorry doesn't look good on you," she panted huskily, groaning as he nipped her collarbone with blunt teeth, "and apologies are overrated anyway."

He brought his head up, meeting her steady brown gaze for just a moment before leaning forward and pressing his lips against hers, softer this time. She opened her mouth and parted his lips with her tongue, eager to taste him. The metallic taste of her blood still lingered on his tongue and she moaned, finding it incredibly erotic.

They kissed for quite a while, slowly, leisurely, as if in a dream. Their movements were unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world, and they reveled in each other, enjoying their explorations of one another. Her hands boldly went to his tie, loosening it to hang around his neck, and began to unbutton his shirt; it was a slow and frustrating process, considering he would not release her mouth even for a moment so that she could see what she was doing.

It was only when Elena started to rock against him, seeking greater pressure against her aching core, that he brought one hand up to expertly remove her bra. He wasted no time in pulling it down her arms and throwing it across the room, not caring where it landed. She whimpered as his right hand covered one breast and his mouth covered the other, his left hand splayed between her shoulder blades to bear her weight as her torso leaned back. He used his hand and mouth to bring her nipples to aching peaks that pressed firmly against his tongue and the callused pads of his fingers. She gasped and threw her head back when he gyrated his hips against hers, simultaneously laving at the skin between her delectable breasts.

He brought his head up to look at her, lazily kneading her breast and repeatedly grinding his erection into her core. Her jaw was slack, her lips parted in a drawn out moan, her eyes hazy with lust and locked on his. He could make her come like this, with most of their clothes still on; but he wanted to feel her, wanted to run his fingers over her wetness, impatient to test her readiness for him. Without hesitation he easily tore her jean shorts to shreds, ignoring her noises of discontent, and ripped her panties away from her hips – any protests she had died on her lips when his thumb found her clit.

If there was one thing Elijah had mastered over the years, it was how to please a woman.

She keened as he began to rub her little bud in languid circles with his thumb, her hips bucking instinctively against his hand. He drew his index and middle fingers along her slit and hummed in approval when her juices dripped easily onto his hand and ran down his wrist, some of it staining his expensive pants; he didn't care – in fact he was more likely to keep them now that they were covered in the essence of Elena Gilbert.

He slipped his middle finger into her slick folds, sliding it into her cunt, and began to pump it inside of her to the rhythm of his thumb on her clit. He worked her like this for a while, maddeningly slow, until she was mewling like a kitten and writhing in his arms.

"Elijah," she whined, clutching his shoulders and moving her hips against his hand, desperate for more speed and friction. His free hand snuck around to her backside, steadying and anchoring her hips as he continued to torture her.

"So wet," he purred smoothly, his eyes hot and locked on hers. "So tight. You feel amazing, Elena. You'll feel even better around my cock."

Her eyes darkened. "Yes!" she gasped, flushing at his words and arching her back, putting her perfect breasts on display for him. He leaned forward to lick one, swirling his tongue around her nipple and then biting down on it gently. She inhaled sharply. "Please, Elijah…"

A smug smirk pulled at the corners of his lips. He loved seeing her like this, loved being the cause of such mind-blowing pleasure. He pushed a second finger into her and began to pump marginally faster, and her reaction was instantaneous. He loved how she was so responsive to his touches, her body so sensitive under his ministrations.

No longer content to sit still while he intentionally drove her mad, she bypassed his arms and deftly unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, drawing down the zipper to find nothing but bare skin underneath. She purred in triumph as his considerable length sprung free from its confines, rock-hard and throbbing.

Elijah hissed as her hand wrapped around his newly freed manhood, squeezing. He let her touch him, allowing her to come to terms with his size. He felt her channel squeeze around his fingers in anticipation.

He began to rub her clit at an inhuman speed, needing her to come before he took her. She moaned loudly, her hands sliding inside the flaps of his partially unbuttoned shirt to press against his hard chest.

"Elijah," she breathed.

"Come for me, sweet Elena," he commanded gently, tweaking her nipple. "I want to see your eyes go blind."

She took a deep breath and then was shaking, shaking apart, her eyes clouded and dark. She shouted his name, convulsing, her pussy fluttering around his fingers and her fluids gushing out onto his lap. He brought his hand from between her legs and licked his soaked fingers, sighing at her taste. Then he grabbed her hips, aligned them with his, and lowered her down onto his straining cock.

They both groaned as he slowly brought her down, impaling her on his thick cock. Her orgasm had not yet faded, and her walls pulsed around him. He gritted his teeth.

When he was lodged to the hilt inside of her they took a moment to breathe, staring at each other. Her hands ran up his chest to his shoulders; then, grasping the top rung of the chair firmly in her hands and heaving a great sigh, she moved.

Elijah's eyes closed and his head lolled back when she rocked forward on his lap. She bent forward to place a chaste kiss to his Adam's apple; then she arched her back and rolled her hips, and he saw stars.

He watched as she rode him, entranced by the sight of them connecting, the ins and outs and ups and downs of their two bodies. He was amazed at how easily it came to her; she was a natural. It was like their bodies were made for each other – they moved well together, fitting together like puzzle pieces.

Eventually he put his hands on her ass, helping her move faster, sensing she was close. Her clit bumped against his stomach with every roll of her hips, and she was breathing hard, climbing towards the peak he knew was only moments away. He was mesmerized by the bounce of her breasts in front of his face, and watched them intently as he pulled her hips harder against him. She gasped, and he felt the telltale sign of her inner walls erratically clenching and unclenching around his length. She wailed as she came, a high-pitched noise that shot straight to his balls, tempting him to ride that high with her; but he resisted, happy instead watching her as her orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave.

She was beautiful. She stilled over him, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. The tendrils of hair that had escaped from her ponytail were stuck to her temples with sweat. It reminded him of her humanity.

Her legs quivered. He grabbed her ankles and gently pulled them out from under her where her knees had bent uncomfortably, straightening them out on either side of his waist. She hissed, stretching stiff muscles.

He lifted her easily and deposited her on the kitchen table, stepping out of his shoes and pants in the process, sweeping their forgotten dinner out of the way, much of which landed on the floor. She huffed indignantly.

He shrugged. "Oops," he said flatly, feeling anything but sorry.

"Was that really necessary?" she asked irately as he pushed her back to lie on the table. She was so busy fretting over the ruined china that she didn't notice when he pulled her to the edge of the table and settled between her legs.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he replied bluntly, hooking her knees over his elbows. Aiming his still-hard dick at her opening, he plunged into her roughly.

She yelped at the sudden intrusion, adjusting again to his impressive length and girth. He filled her completely. He immediately began to thrust into her, hard and deep and fast. The time for gentle love-making had come and gone; now he would fuck her properly, show her exactly what it was like to be taken by an Original vampire. He had a thousand years of experience under his belt, and he would put it to good use with Elena.

He rammed into her at breakneck speed. She hiccupped every time he slammed into her, wincing at the depth of his thrusts. The head of his penis hit her womb with every lunge.

He pulled her legs up to his shoulders; the new angle had them both groaning. He continued to hammer her cunt without mercy, pounding her into oblivion. He could feel his orgasm fast approaching.

Staving it off, determined to make her come one last time before he let himself go, he slicked a hand down her body to press his thumb against her clit. She mewled and thrashed beneath him, her palms slapping the table. Her eyes glittered with desire, the same color as the beautiful dark wood she was currently being ravished on. Her lips parted – some time later tonight he would have them wrapped around his cock, he decided.

"Gods, Elena, you have the sweetest pussy I've ever seen," he groaned. His eyes smoldered, burning into hers, his words and the intensity in his stare tripling her arousal and tipping her into oblivion.


She came shuddering and screaming his name, her orgasm exploding through her in a powerful burst of pleasure.

He was moving so quickly now that he was a blur, afraid he would break her but not afraid enough to stop. She had gone limp in his arms, boneless in the aftermath of her fierce climax; he continued to use and abuse her, desperately seeking his own release.

He came with a roar, his hips pistoning as he slammed into her, his seed spreading warmly deep within her core. He gripped her thighs so tightly he was sure she would bruise.

He leaned against her legs, taking unnecessary, shuddering breaths and watching her intently. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with color and her skin was dewy with sweat, glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. He gazed at her in wonder.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against her leg, unable to stop the heartfelt compliment before it passed his lips.

She looked up at him in awe. His hair was slightly mussed but otherwise he looked perfect, as always. His shirt had long since dropped to the floor, and she inspected his muscular body hungrily and unabashedly. He let her – she would not find any flaws. He rubbed her calf absently and she sighed, letting her head fall back on the table with a thunk.

"Elijah?" she asked softly, her voice timid.

"Hmmm?" he hummed in response, his fingers tracing patterns on the shapely legs that remained draped over his shoulders.

"Can we do this again?"

It was said hesitantly, sweetly, as if suddenly she was unsure of herself – even though she made no attempt to move or uncomfortably shield her body from his gaze. She was a conundrum, one he could probably spend years trying to figure out.

He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Come now: what kind of a question is that?" he chided softly. "We have 14 hours before your brother gets home; I intend to make good use of that time." She blushed, her eyes wide. A wicked smile spread slowly across his face. "And I can think of quite a few more ways to utilize this lovely table of yours," he purred seductively, running his hand over the smooth mahogany surface.

He dropped her legs from his shoulders and pulled her up to sit on the edge of the table, wrapping his arms around her waist and lowering his head to her shoulder to breath her in.

"When you take me to Africa," she mumbled against his hair, her hands coming to his shoulders, "I think we should share a tent."

He laughed into the crook of her shoulder. "Sounds like a plan."

She sighed blissfully. "Maybe we can take the table with us."


Thanks for reading – I hope you enjoyed it! Review if you feel so inclined!