He wanted to taste Bonnie Bennett, which, in and of itself, was nothing new. She was a witch. He was a vampire. Her blood was more than sustenance for his kind – It was liquor.

But the 'want' he was currently experiencing was more than your standard 'vampire likes witch blood' want.

It was... he wanted... he wanted to taste Bonnie Bennett. Taste her blood. To taste her skin. To taste her essence.

And his desire to taste her was getting stronger with every passing day.

Shortly after the underwhelming Elena/Stefan wedding, he'd found himself noticing the witch. Noticing when she came to the boardinghouse. Noticing when he saw her at the Grille. Hell, he even started noticing when she 'wasn't' around.

And as the weeks passed he found himself doing the lamest things when she was near. He sniffed the air when he entered a room that she was in, searching for a trace of cinnamon. He watched her – furtively of course - when she moved around the room speaking to Stefan or Elena or Blondie, or whomever... anyone but him. He watched her and felt his anger rise. Anger that she had the power to make him 'notice' her.

And when he wasn't angry at her? He was all over her. During the past week, he'd touched more of Bonnie - kissed her more than he'd ever - even in his wildest dreams/nightmares – imagined he would. They were secretive kisses, secretive touches, but they were amazing.

And when they were done kissing and touching they'd – each of them - back away from one another with a mixture of horror and longing and hate and admiration shooting through their veins. Longing and admiration! The two of them!

It was confusing as hell.

If he didn't know better, he'd think he was falling for Bonnie. But he did know better. There was no way a vampire would fall for a witch.

And more specifically, there was no way in hell that vampire, Damon Salvatore would fall for witch, Bonnie Bennett.

What he was experiencing was clearly an aberration. An overload of hormones brought about by the gutting of his emotions by Elena. And Katherine. And every other woman he'd ever attempted to give his heart to.

Yeah, he was pretty certain his heart was giving up the ghost and his hormones were just running rampant – attempting to grab on to anything – anyone – in order to make that something – that someone – his. Basically, his hormones were screaming at his heart: 'Anything is better than nothing.' Even if that that 'anything' is Bonnie.

Fortunately for him, he wasn't a slave to his hormones... He looked down at the dark haired, caramel skinned, Bonnie-look alike who lay passed out in the bed. When she woke up in the morning, she'd be a little sore at the neck, a little sore between her thighs, and feel slightly euphoric – memories of meeting a somewhat faceless, tall, brunette man... sharing some drinks with him at a bar... laughing with him, all fading into a confused, but pleasant swirl.

Picking up his jacket, he left the apartment of the woman who's name he'd already forgotten.


Fifteen minutes later and her blood was still pumping through his system, and he was – physically – warmer for it. But the closer he moved towards the Boardinghouse, the more his mind began to wander.

Wander towards the source of his angst.

...towards Bonnie.

Half an hour later and he was still sitting in his car, parked in the driveway of the Boardinghouse, and the hunger that should have been satiated, but wasn't – was eating at him again.

He shook his head to clear it of a vision of hazel eyes and nutmeg skin, and a pout... Christ, her lips...
At first, he'd labeled the desire to seduce her as being just an extension of his nature. He flirted with every woman. It was who he was. And historically, flirting with Bonnie meant he was irritating her; pushing her buttons. Which was always a good thing. So flirting with and seducing her, at least at the start, had felt like a win win situation; he was able to do two of the things that were most natural to him at the same time: flirt, and annoy a witch.

But these days he was thinking that perhaps he was spending so much time with Bonnie - trying to touch her - because he wanted her. 'Wanted her' wanted her.

Peeling out of the driveway, he headed to the Grille; headed to where he happened to know a certain witch would be located right about now.

How someone could go from loathing even being in the same room with someone, to being unable to keep your hands off of that person, Bonnie didn't know.

What she did know, however, was that it could happen.

How did she know? She knew because it had happened to her; in the past few months she had gone from outright hate of Damon Salvatore, to closeted make-out sessions with him.

And here she was, once again, with Damon – tucked in the alley behind the Grille, her back pressed against the brick wall, his body pressed against hers. Their lips attached, their hands... in places they probably - definitely - shouldn't be...

He'd come into the pub twenty minutes ago, and even though her back had been to the door, she'd sensed his arrival the moment he entered the building; a bright, sharp tingle curling down her spine at his arrival.

Within minutes he'd settled across from her at her table, a bottle of scotch and two glasses in his hand.

She took the first shot – preemptive defense - "You weren't invited to sit down."

He grinned, "Public place, I don't need an invite." He poured two fingers worth of the scotch into a glass and placed it in front of her.

She ignored the scotch and took a sip of her soda. She was rather proud of the fact that her hands weren't shaking even the slightest bit. Not from fear. And not from want. Good girl Bonnie. She silently patted herself on the back. Maybe she was getting over the illness/attraction to Damon that she had been suffering from.

Of course the fact that she hadn't looked him in the eye since he sat at the table meant nothing. She wasn't avoiding temptation.

Nope. Not at all.

Damon shifted the glass of soda she'd placed back on the table to the side and pushed the scotch closer to her.

"I don't want any sco-" she started to snip at him when he interrupted her.

"- use it as an excuse."

In her confusion, she made eye contact – her first mistake of the night. "An excuse?"

He poured his own helping of scotch, lifted his glass to his lips and threw half of it down his throat.

She watched his throat move as he swallowed.

And there it was again, that bright, sharp, tingle – right down the center of her spine – only this time it didn't just dull and fade, this time, it settled between her thighs. She surreptitiously crossed her legs beneath the table.

"An excuse for what's going to happen later." His eyes were locked with hers now. "When you're in my car and you're trying to tell me to 'stop', but all that's coming out of your mouth is my name." He leaned in towards her, "An excuse for when my fingers will be inside of your jeans, between your legs, and my lips are at your neck, and your legs are wrapped around me." His eyes dropped to the glass in front of her then lifted back up to her face. "All it takes is one little sip Bonnie. And then, maybe a second one, and a third one... and then, then it's not your fault."

He sat back and lifted his own glass back up to his lips. Before swallowing the amber liquid, he sniffed the air. Alcohol, perfume, food, and the faint scent of Bonnie's arousal. He threw back the rest of the glass, and reached for the bottle to top it off again.

He didn't smile, didn't smirk, didn't even blink when she picked up the glass he'd placed in front of her and wordlessly drained it.


She only had two glasses of scotch, not enough to get her drunk, not even enough to actually make her tipsy, but it was enough to do the job; enough to make being here - in the alley, in his arms – excusable.

As his hand slid underneath her top, she grimaced with the realization that they hadn't even made it to to his car. He'd gotten up from the table after his third glass of scotch and headed out the Grille door. And then she'd sat there at the table, silently arguing with herself about the stupidity of drinking with Damon. The stupidity of even contemplating getting up and following him out into the night.

It wasn't a long argument.

And it was an argument she lost.

Or won... depending upon how you looked at it.

But in any case, she'd walked out of the Grille, her eyes directed towards the parking lot, looking for Damon's car, when she'd suddenly found herself being jerked off to the side of the building and into the alley. She opened her mouth to yelp when her frame landed against the wall and then she found herself looking into Damon's face.

His smirk was back – firmly in place – and as he leaned in to her he teased, "What the hell took you so long Witchy?"

She angled her head up and whispered a short "Shut up and kiss me."

As he lowered his lips to hers, he murmured, "What ever you want Bon Bon."

As she wrapped one of her legs around his thigh she took a small measure of comfort in the knowledge that at least no one else had noticed the madness that she and Damon and sunk into.

Or so she thought.


"Seriously, what's up with you two?" Caroline stabbed at the lettuce on her plate and popped a forkful into her mouth. The two women had met for lunch at the Grille and had been chatting about classes and – of course – Elena and Stefan, when Damon's name came up.

"What do you mean?" Bonnie knew exactly what Caroline meant, but her theory, at the moment, was that denial was her best friend.

"Oh please, for the past four months you and Damon have been acting... weird around one another."

She tried for sarcasm, "One - we live in Mystic Falls – when are any of us ever not weird? Two – we're talking about Damon... he's the king of weird."

Caroline put her fork down and stared at Bonnie, "'The king of weird'? See, that's it right there, a few months ago and I could have relied upon you for scathing, witty, to-the-point defamation of Damon's already 'weak' character... and now, all I get is: 'the king of weird'?" She leaned forward, "Did you guys get your bodies taken over by body snatchers?"

"Oh good God!"

"Or, oooh! Is it some sort of spell?" She leaned even further across the table. "Are you and Damon under the spell of some powerful witch... or warlock!?"

Bonnie couldn't even count the number of times she herself had this very same thought in the past few weeks but she didn't need Caroline taking off on a half-cocked search for a non-existent warlock. And yeah, Bonnie was pretty certain as this point that whatever she was experiencing with Damon had nothing to do with magic. "We've... called a truce with one another; he's Elena's brother in law now, and...and she's one of my best friends. It's better for everyone if we get along."

Air quoting the words as she spoke, Caroline mimicked Bonnie, "'It's better for everyone' if you get along?" Her stare deepened. Shaking her head, she picked up her drink and declared. "Fine, don't tell me what's going on. But be aware, I will figure it out eventually."

Bonnie smiled and shook her head innocently while inwardly she thought: 'If you figure out what's going on between Damon and I, please, pleeeassse, let me know!'