Enough
“Say it.” “Never.”
(Harder, he thrusts harder and her drawn-out groan is his reward-but it is not enough. He wants more.)
“Say it.”
(And his fingers on her hips, tighten, harder, bruise, and her breath catches and he hears it-but it is not enough. He wants more.)
“No.”
(And she growls low in her chest and it is primal and it is raw and it is all for him and he feels it-but it is not enough. He wants more.)
“Say it.”
(Almost a question and his teeth rake along her neck, follow the viney veins to their vertex at her collarbone. Brand her clavicle with his fangs and she hisses encouragement and she might call him Jesus and it fills him, it tops him off-but it is not enough. He wants more.)
“Not. Gonna. Happen.”
(Her lips are at his ear and she punctuates each word with a wicked roll of her hips and her eyes blaze and every candle in the room is aflame and he is lost in her and she knows it-but it is not enough. She wants more.)
“Say it.”
(Snarled, a demand, and she expects to be obeyed and her knees slip just wider and he forgets he doesn’t have to breathe and he chokes and his guttural moan is her reward-but it is not enough. She wants more.)
“Never.”
(And he is mocking and smug and her fingers singe as they dance down his spine and the pleasure-pain rolls his eyes back in his head and she enjoys it-but it is not enough. She wants more.)
“Say it.”
(Softly, whispered, lips where his pulse point should be.)
“You. Won’t. Win.”
(But she will. Her lips shadow the trail of her fingers from collarbone to breastbone, lower, her tongue laps at the sweat that trickles, and his muscles jump under her touch, and she feels it-but it is not enough. She wants more.)
“Say it.”
(Fact. Simple, direct.)
“No.”
(He is calm and sure and she will change that and her nails drive him to frenzy, rake over his knee and one finger grazes his inner thigh, higher, the blood is there and gone and her teeth nip his chest, trace his hip, clamp down above his ribs and he bucks desperately and he spits filthy curses and he might call her a bitch and it thrills her, it gets her hot-but it is not enough. She wants more.)
“Say my name.”
(And he flips them over and leans close, closer, and his eyes look through her and she is not satisfied but she will be and he has the upper hand once again and he relishes it-but it is not enough. He wants more.)
“You think you’re so smart.”
(And she lounges beneath him, stretches her arms out above them and spreads her legs wider still.)
“I am so smart.”
(He smirks and the smarm drips from his words and he pins her limbs, swallows them beneath one hand, admires the caramel flesh that remains unmarred by ugly red blotches no matter how hard he squeezes and his hips rock and his thumb flicks and his teeth tug and his tongue laves and his bangs tease sensitive skin as they track the path of his lips. And she gasps and roils and her fingers grasp for bed sheets and headboards just out of reach and her toes curl and she pants, harder, faster as he moves, and her eyes are on him, inside him and he knows that she sees and he hauls her closer still and there is nothing left between them and the air is on fire and she is seeping into him and he can’t force control into his voice anymore and it doesn’t matter because she is lost in him and he loves it-but it is not enough. He wants more.)
“What’s my name, Bonnie?”
(And he snarls, predatory, feral, angry, because he owns her, she belongs to him and she will believe it. And she breaks, crying out, clenching, milking him until all he can hear and smell and feel is her blood rushing in his ears and tormenting his nose and warming every cold, dead inch of his skin that she is wrapped around. Living, breathing.)
“Damon.”
(It is a plea, an order, a prayer. And he answers, obeys, worships at her altar. He pants because that’s what the living do and gingerly rolls to the side of his Judgy Little Witch but does not remove the arm snaked low across her hips. His breath tickles her ear and raises goosebumps in delicious places when he whispers)
“I win.”
(And somehow she has enough oxygen to laugh and it is beautiful and loud and not-at-all bashful and she is haughty when she replies and she leans into his side, rests her head on his shoulder)
“Actually, I win. You said it first.”
(And he thinks he detects l’eau de smug on her breath and to be honest he can’t remember who said what when or if there was English even spoken but she likes this game and he likes to play with her so he plays along because Angry!Bonnie likes to have loud sex where she knows Elena and Stefan can hear and that is just the best gift anyone could give him-ever. So he snarks)
“Maybe we should ask the neighbors?”
(And he rolls to his side so he can see her face and there’s a lot of eyebrow quirking and lip pursing that means he’s doing it right and she flutters her lashes)
“You don’t have any neighbors.”
(And she is facing him and that look, he knows that look and she leans closer and he can feel her breath when she says)
“Maybe we should just play again if you don’t believe me.”
(And he flops onto his back without answering and shrugs his shoulders non-committally as if this is a question he actually needs a second to consider and they get past ‘lub’ but not to ‘dub’ and there is a bronze goddess straddling his lap with a devious glint in her eye and his length in her hand-but it is not enough. He wants more. And she hisses)
“What’s my name?”