Author's Note: Hey everyone! Sorry that this update took so long. I've been back at work and it's been extremely stressful, but I think I finally found spare time to write! Anyways, I'll just leave it at that. I hope you enjoy this chapter of Arms of the Ocean.

Chapter 13: Never Let Me Go, Never Let Me Go

I'm ready to have a real conversation. One that involves words and not sentences laced with sarcasm. I'm ready to holster all of my doubt and be honest with Damon. It's a lot harder than it sounds, because sometimes I can't help but provoke him or lash out. It's a fun dance we do that ends up spinning us in circles as opposed to actually getting anywhere.

We're sitting back in the living room and I'm only slightly tipsy. "Before we continue, you can't come on to me," I say.

Damon smirks. "I'm not going to do anything that you don't want."

I roll my eyes. "Cute," I reply dryly. "Look, I'm serious. We have a lot to discuss and we need to have a real honest conversation, without the flirty subtext."

He arches a brow, giving me that look that turns me into a puddle. "Flirty subtext?"

I wave my hands in the air. "See? This is what I'm talking about."

He pretends to wave a little white flag in surrender with his right hand. "Fine. Let's have a very boring conversation about Richard Lockwood," he says while sitting down and taking another drink. "What did he say when you showed him the recording?"

"Richard has an in with the police department. He brought me in for questioning, but it was informal. I think he just wanted to show how much pull he has with any government run institution, because he ordered the officer take the cuffs off of me and had all the cameras were off. He told me that he'd release me and undo what he did, if I handed the restaurant over to him," I grasp the bottle of wine in my hands and trail a finger over the condensation. "Essentially, he said that it was his plan all along to have me arrested. The fact that I actually had coke in my purse was a surprise because everything was supposed to go down differently. Tyler's room reservation was made in my name and there was additional drug paraphernalia in the room. He threatened to have the police search the room, and add to my charges. Tyler was supposed to slip drugs in my purse, which is why the police were already in the lobby. I wouldn't have handed over my purse when they asked, but they had reason to believe I had drugs because Richard, the owner of the hotel, was the one who called them."

Damon runs his hands through his hair. "So, no matter what you did, you knew you'd end up at the police station."

"Yes, seeing Richard in the lobby solidified my suspicions, and I knew I had the video, so I was pretty sure I wouldn't go to jail."

Damon nods, thinking. "I shouldn't have left you."

I shake my head. "You couldn't have known that I'd be arrested in the five minutes you were gone. It was going to happen no matter what. Richard would've found a way to get me alone in a secured room."

Damon takes a swig from his bottle and sets it a little too forcefully on the coffee table. "It kills me knowing you were alone with him."

"Damon, I've known Richard my entire life. He loved my mother," I stretch my hands out in front of me because I cannot believe I just said that out loud. Something to think about later. "He's conflicted right now, I saw it. For a sliver of a moment, I saw someone who is scared. He told me that this was bigger than both of us, so whatever is going on, I don't think that Richard is the one pulling the strings."

Damon shakes his head. "Elena, how can you defend him after what he's done?"

"Because I know pain, and as big of a dick Richard Lockwood has been, he's in over his head. I met Ricardo Alvarez last night."

Damon's eyes flash with recognition. "Did you say, Ricardo Alvarez?"

I nod. "Yeah, he's the Mexican contact for Richard. This whole time I thought Richard and Ricardo were the same person, but I think he's responsible for the Mexico side of Richard's drug organization." God, that felt weirds to say- Richard Lockwood, drug lord.

"Elena, do you know who Ricardo Alvarez is?" he asks, seriously.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Didn't you just hear me?"

"He's one of the most notorious drug lords in South America. He's like the modern Pablo Escobar."

My eyes widen. He knows my face and my name, and it won't take long for them to connect my face to the person who knows the location of half a million dollars, stole his crucifixes and killed his people. I'm going to be killed. I'm going to be flayed and left at the Mexican border as food for vultures.

"Elena, are you okay? Elena. Elena!" Damon panics, he runs to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of water and a cool cloth. He sits next to me and brushes back my hair.

"You're sweating," he places the cool cloth on my head while I lean back. "Take deep breaths."

What did I get myself into? He'll easily link me to the restaurant or find out where I live. I should warn Jeremy and leave the country. "I did something, Damon."

Damon sits back. "What did you do?" he demands.

I sit up and place the wash cloth on the coffee table, then take another drink of no longer chilled white wine, not entirely pleasant, but has the same effect. "You know how I had to take drugs to San Diego?" I explain. Damon nods. "Well, they gave me a phone, so they could track my location and so they could contact me. After I delivered the drugs, they gave me two returning shipments full of crucifixes stuffed with diamonds and gold. On the way back, I started thinking about the endgame. If I return successfully, are they just going to let us go? The more likely result is they'd turn me into the new Evan and use your imprisonment or torture to get to me, so I knew that I needed insurance."

Damon leans in. "So, you used the return shipment as insurance. How?"

"You know where you taught me to shoot?" Damon nods. "I hid the return shipment there and pinned it on the phone they gave me."

Damon's eyes widen. "You were going to exchange the location…."

"For your safety," I finish. "Our safety. Now they're all dead, and I have the phone with the location of half a million dollars, plus I stole some of the gold and diamonds."

"Why did you take the jewels?"

I shrug. "I don't really know. I wasn't planning on pawning them off, but I had a gut feeling they could come in handy later on. Maybe trace wherever they're getting it from. Why wouldn't they exchange cash? Why gold and diamonds?"

Damon thinks for a minute. "You can trace money and the value of cash is dependent on the market. Gold and diamonds are a more secure exchange, if you can pull it off. Question is, where is Richard getting his gold and diamonds? If this is how he's consistently exchanging his product, how is he obtaining that much without drawing attention to himself?"

"Where does Ricardo fit into all of this?" I ask.

"He has the cocaine and whatever other dugs Richard is selling, or he's able to obtain it from a contact in Columbia that makes it."

My head may explode. "So I have to worry about another person that's involved?"

Damon stands up and starts pacing. "Elena, you've been inserted in a drug cartel, there's a lot of factors involved. There's something you should know."

I lean back against the plush couch and put my forearm over my eye. "What?"

"Look at me," he demands.

"No. Looking at you isn't going to make all of this go away," I mumble.

Damon chuckles. "And walking through life with your eyes covered is going to help?"

"I can't believe your laughing right now."

Damon gently clasps my wrist and moves my arm. I look into his sky blue eyes and see no trace of humor. He's serious. I sit up. "What is it?" I ask.

"My contacts at the border told me that a group of men, known to be part of Ricardo's organization crossed the border," he says.

Oh. God. "You brought me here because you think they're after me."

Damon nods. "We did the unthinkable. We escaped Ricardo Alvarez's grasp and lived to tell the tale."

"Not only that, but I have something he wants. How did you know they were part of his organization?" I ask.

"I didn't. There's a group known as the Crucifiers that match the description of the men at the warehouse and the docks. They crossed the border. I thought they were working with Richard, but after what you said about meeting Ricardo Alvarez last night, I think that the Crucifiers are part of Ricardo's organization.

"Why are they called, the Crucifiers?"

"Because they feel like it's their divine right to reign down justice on anyone who betrays them, or gets in their way. They all have the same tattoo."

"A crucifix? I saw one with thorns and a rose wrapped around it in Mexico and on the dock in Newport." This is all starting to sound very ominous.

Damon nods. "I'm not sure if they'll be able to connect us to what happened in Mexico, but I don't think it'll take them long to put the pieces together."

"Matt is staying at the cottage, what if they figure it out and go after him? What about Jeremy? Oh God, he could be in danger too. Oh my God oh my God oh my God." I need to go back and warn them and call Uncle John.

"I have people stationed in front of the cottage and the Lunch Box. I think you should close for another couple of weeks until this dies down."

I glare at him. "This is never going to die down. If I close the restaurant, it looks too suspicious and we'll loose even more customers. That's not an option."

"Then delegate," he replies. "Give up some responsibilities to your staff, and take care of everything else remotely. You can't go back right now, it's be like walking back into a lion's den covered in blood and wearing a shirt that says "Eat Me"."

That was graphic. "Lions can't read."

Damon's lip quirks. "That won't matter considering you're covered in blood."

I roll my eyes. He's right, I can't go back right now, and I'm willing to delegate, but I need to actively figure a way out of this. "This isn't a solution."

"I never said it was. But I have the resources to keep you safe and right now, with the Crucifiers in Newport and your name all over the news, it's not safe."

"You're creepy," I state.

Damon actually looks offended. "Creepy?"

"You have all these contacts and secret compartments with guns," I shrug. "It's kind of creepy."

"My best friend is a consultant for the special forces. He's a historian and multi linguist," he explains.

I feign surprise. "You have a friend?"

Damon ignores the sarcasm. "Alaric Saltzman. The CIA use his knowledge to help with plans for operations, among other things. When the CIA found out we were friends, they asked him to ask me to help with a few operations. They wanted to use my high profile to gain intel on various people."

I'm actually surprised. "I called you 007 and I had no idea how accurate that might be," I comment. Damon gives me a goofy smile and I'm reminded of what a dork he was growing up. It's kind of adorable. "You helped the US government out of the goodness of your heart?"

Damon gives me a knowing smirk. "We exchanged favors."

"Is that how you got the passports?"

"Not exactly. I'm sort of on the outs with them, but I know too much for them to ever prosecute me." He's not even ashamed. He mentions being on the outs with the CIA like getting into an argument with a neighbor over hedges.

"What did you do?" I ask.

Damon shrugs. "I used some of Alaric's intel to provide a rebel organization in a warring country with guns at a good price."

I put my head in my hands. "You ran guns."

"If it makes you feel any better, I was corroborating with the side that the US government was supporting under the radar."

No, that does not make me feel better. I grab the bottle of wine and take another drink. We sit for a minute, staring at each other, Damon assessing how I've taken this latest bit of news and me wondering why he isn't sitting any closer to me. "So how did you get the passports if you ticked off the US government?"

Damon takes the almost empty bottle of wine and moves it away from me. I think he's worried I'll get too tipsy and fall asleep, because my eyelids have started drooping and gravity is slowly causing me to lay lengthwise on the couch. "Not everyone hates me," he says.

I let out a snort. "That's hard to believe."

He places my feet on his lap and pats my calf. "I still have friends that help me out and I help them out."

"So can't we use your contacts to throw Richard in jail for the rest of his miserable life?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "It's not that simple. You can be implicated in what happened in Mexico and indicted for transporting drugs illegally across the border with a fake passport."

"That you got!"

"I didn't exactly think we'd end up in the middle of a drug ring," he refutes.

"So what are we going to do? How are we going to get out of this mess?"

Damon sighs. "I've spoken with Alaric, and he said that we need concrete evidence and proof Richard is behind everything. Richard Lockwood is too powerful and too careful. We make one wrong move, and he'll cover his tracks with concrete, making it impossible to catch him. Richard can make bail, he has the best lawyers, so we need to have proof that he's breaking a law that will put him away for years," he looks at me, like he doesn't want to say what he's about to say. "Pretty soon, he's going to be able to tie you with the person who transported drugs across the border, and when he does that, he'll have evidence to send you to jail for a really long time."

"I know," I've already thought about this. He won't hesitate to do it, if it means he can take the restaurant. "We have time. Anyone who saw us is dead. It can't be that easy to connect me with Leia."

Damon looks at me like I'm delusional and maybe I am. "I have to go to a business dinner tonight. I want you to come."

Random. "No," I reply. Last thing I want to do is go to another dinner, plus I'm kind of starting to get drunk.

"A dress will be delivered in an hour," he states. "The dinner isn't until nine. Do you want some coffee?"

"No! I'm not going. The LAST thing I want to do is go to a business dinner," I say, reaching for the bottle of wine he pushed out of the way. Damon stands up and takes it out of my grasp.

"You'll enjoy it, I promise."

"Who's going to be there?" I inquire.

"A couple of executives from Wave Studios."

His studio. Could be interesting and I have nothing else to do. "I want to look at the flash drive you gave me last night first."

Damon nods and pulls me to my feet. He walks me to his office. "Make yourself at home," he places the flash drive into a MacBook and pulls out a black desk chair for me. I sit as he double clicks on the drive. "I'll be right back."

Once he leaves, I start sifting through all of Tyler's emails, not wanting to miss anything. There isn't as much information as I thought, considering he'd have to have downloaded the emails onto his phone in order for me to view them. He was pretty good about deleting threads, because there would be a seemingly innocent email conversation with Evan wanting to get together, and then the thread stops when Tyler should've responded with where to meet. Same goes with text messages.

Damon comes back with coffee. "Did you find anything?" he asks, handing me a mug.

I take a long sip, hoping the caffeine will help me sober up a bit. "Not yet, but I've barely started looking. He must've been told to delete information, because the emails only go back a few days."

"Don't limit yourself to scanning emails and text messages. Tyler's an idiot, he's had to have left something he didn't think anyone would find."

He stands behind me, leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen. "Good point," I click on his photos. We both scream and I impulsively slam the laptop shut. "I did not need to see that." Tyler has several dick pics on his phone. I don't know why you'd need more than one, but apparently, he likes to get pictures from all angles.

"Well," I say, trying to brave opening back up the computer. "I always knew he was a dick."

I scroll past photos of him with some friends at a party and girls in scantily clad clothing. "Stop," Damon orders, pointing to the screen. "There's a screen shot of an email."

I click on it and zoom in. "Look at the subject," I say.

"FW: Sommers Project," Damon replies.

"Evan mentioned that name, but the spelling," I trail off. "Damon, that's my mother's maiden name. The restaurant is in her name."

"It's a forwarded email from Ryan Chatsworth," he says.

"Who's he?"

"He's head of development at Lockwood's company."

I scan the email. "He's discussing plans for a new resort covering fifteen acres of beach front property off the Pacific Coast Highway."

"That's where the Lunch Box is located," Damon says, looking at the projected address.

I turn to him, shaking my head. "We don't own that much property."

"Are you sure?"

I think back. There are no businesses located within a mile of the property, but I always thought that was because it was it's an isolated area, possibly government owned. "I don't know," I say honestly, feeling a little like an idiot. "I never looked at property lines. I just assumed we owned the property where the Box is located, not the surrounding area. I've never seen documentation to make me think otherwise."

"I knew," Damon confesses. "It's why I came to Newport looking to buy the Box. I have a valuable friend that works for Richard, and she let it slip that he was going to buy the Box. I was hoping to beat him to it."

I glare at him. "You knew?"

Damon doesn't even look apologetic. "I thought you knew what you owned."

He has a point. But it still doesn't explain why no one has ever approached us about buying the property before, or why Aunt Jenna didn't tell me. Uncle John is such an asshole, he would've pushed us to sell after she died, if he knew.

"No one knew," I explain. "I think it's why I've never been approached to sell before, and why there aren't more people looking to buy the property. Richard doesn't have any competition if no one knows there's that much land involved, plus he lowballed me on the price he bid by a large sum, so he knew that I had no clue I was sitting on a gold mine."

"Your property is worth…"

"Billions. That much build-able land on the coast of California is unheard of," I finish.

"Do you think you have documentation proving that you own that much land?" Damon inquires.

"I must, otherwise how would Richard know? I'd have to look through my mom's things. I haven't really looked since she died. I must've missed something. I think it was a secret or something, because I would've had to have paid more in property taxes, right?"

Damon shrugs. "The Founding Families own Newport Beach, and your family was one of the most prominent. They could've hidden the information."

"Why do you think Tyler took a screen shot of this email?" I ask.

Damon points to the screen. "Look at this line, …ground will break on the Sommer's Project on May 23."

May 23rd. It sits there like lead in my stomach. May twenty-third. What the fuck? How could he? I get out of the chair and bolt toward the front door. "Elena, where are you going?" Damon yells after me.

I make it to the entryway before Damon grabs my wrist, tugging me towards him. I try to wiggle out of his grasp, punch him in the shoulder, kick his shin but he doesn't let go. "Explain to me what's going on in your stubborn head," he says, while I try to break free.

"Let go of me!" I scream. Damon doesn't let go, instead he picks me up and flips me over his shoulder. I continue to hit him upside down, but he easily carries me across the living room, outside, to the pool and then before I know it, I'm being tossed in the air and thrown into the pool. The cool water knocks the air out of me, and I struggle to swim to the surface. When I do, I angrily swim to the shallow end where I can stand, not caring that my dress is completely see through.

"What did you do that for?" I yell, angrier than I've ever been. "We are not together. You have no right to order me around and tell me to go to business dinners. I am not your's to worry about."

Damon does not look amused, he just stares at me while I yell, flailing in the water. "You don't get it!"

Still silent, he pulls up a lounge chair and sits down, like he's watching a fucking water volleyball game. I splash him out of frustration, but he doesn't even bat an eye. "Fuck you!" I scream at the top of my lungs, through tears threatening to break free. "He's planning on breaking ground on my family's property on the fifth anniversary of my parent's death. I want to kill Richard Lockwood. He doesn't deserve to breath the same air as actually people with human feelings."

The floodgates break uncontrollably. "I'm so sick of crying," I yell frustrated. "He's going to keep coming after me until he wins, no matter what deal he made with me. I could publish a video of his son almost raping me and he wouldn't care. This is the man I'm trying to beat."

It's impossible. I'll never win. He has too many resources. I turn away from Damon, trying to hide my tears, when I hear a splash in the water and feel his presence. I turn to him, leaning against his chest as he wraps his arms around me. I look up into his cool blue eyes, searching and run my fingers through his raven strands. "Make me forget," I say in a hushed cracked whisper, through tears. "Please take away my pain."

Damon gazes down at me, easily standing up in the water, towering over me, assessing whether I'm serious or not. I tilt my head, waiting for him to make a move. With one hand he cups the back of my head and pulls me close, hovering over my lips for a fraction of a second and gently opens my mouth with his. As his tongue thrusts in my mouth, he uses his other hand to hike up my thigh and wrap it around him. I melt into him as he drags me to a more shallow end of the pool. I fumble to unbutton his pants, but he breaks away and grabs my wrists, stopping me. I look up, thinking he's playing a game. Maybe he wants me to strip? Play naked Marco Polo. I'm game, but the look in his eyes is filled with regret.

"Elena," he exhales, pain clouds his blue eyes. I turn away and he cups my chin, spinning me towards him. "I can't take away your pain. I can't make you forget, and I wouldn't want to."

The rejection stings. Is this payback for walking out on him in San Diego? "If there's anything I've learned," he continues. "It's that pain is motivation, the longer you allow yourself to feel it, the stronger you'll get."

I turn from him and walk out of the water, angry. I take the hem of my dress that's sticking to my thighs from being in his pool and peel the dress off, leaving me in the lace underwear set that costs more than The Lunch Box's electric bill. I refuse to be called weak and lectured. I turn slightly to him, unclasping the front of my lace bra. "I'll stitch that to a pillow," my words laced with venom. "Pain is the best motivation for revenge." I let the bra fall to the cement and lock eyes with Damon, still standing in the pool. His eyes don't drift from mine to scan what I was willing to hand over to him moments before.

I cock an eyebrow. "I'd better get ready for dinner. Wouldn't want to meet your business associates wet."

XXXXXX

"I may be able to kick Gordon Ramsey's ass in and outside of the kitchen, but I'd never do a show like Master Chef," I argue, dipping a chunk of ciabatta bread in rosemary olive oil.

Glenn Peters, head of the reality television division of Wave Studios, chuckles. "I think you need to talk to your girlfriend, Damon. She's got that combination of looks and brazen wit we look for in a host."

"I'm not his girlfriend," I quickly correct.

Glenn laughs and waves his hand at me as if I've proven his point. Damon doesn't look amused. I haven't spoken to him since I stripped off my dress by his pool. He tried on the way to Craig's in Beverly Hills, but I simply smoothed out the already perfectly steamed Maje red Jacquard sleeveless knit dress, make sure the Hermès scarf is securely tied around my neck to hide the faint bruises from the previous night, and turned away from him towards the window.

"Besides," I continue. "The market is already over saturated with reality cooking shows. I would never want to be the next Gordon Ramsey or the next Anthony Bourdain. Why would I have to be like someone else? Can't you guys think of something original, or do you actually profit off of failed rip-offs, like Emperor of the Kitchen? That lasted, what…half a season before it was canceled?"

Glenn no longer smiles, instead he concentrates on his glass of wine. I peak a glance at Damon, who's smiling into his crystal tumbler of scotch as he takes a drink. "What would you do if you weren't a restauranteur?" Glenn's wife Janice asks, trying to diffuse the tension.

I take a bite of the piece of bread and mull it over. I do know what I'd like to do, but it's never been a realistic option. "Write," I reply.

Janice looks taken aback. "If you're ever looking to free lance, even part time, I'd love to have your perspective in my magazine."

Now it's my turn to look surprised. Janice is young, barely older than myself, with tan skin and golden blonde hair. She comes off as more of a trophy wife than a CEO. "You own a magazine?" She laughs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come off patronizing."

She waves her hand, as if she's had this reaction several times before. "It's technically my mother's, but she stepped down a few years ago so I could take over."

"Janice's mother is Gloria Frei-Bauers," Damon explains.

I turn and look at Janice, as if seeing her for the first time. "You're Janice Bauers? Olympic marathoner?" Serves me right for being a judgmental asshole. "And your mother is Gloria Frei-Bauers, the first woman to run and win the Palm Desert Ultra Marathon?"

Glenn has recovered from my earlier comment and seems entertained by my realization that his wife comes from a lineage of badass runners. Janice just shrugs. "She started Runner's Life when I was eight and started running competitively. She felt like there needed to be a magazine for runners, by runners. Something that had more of a community vibe, than a magazine full of advertisements for the best running shoes," she pauses to take a sip of wine. "Damon told me you're a runner."

I shake my head. "I'm not you," I reply. "I just try to get in a daily run to keep me sane, nothing more."

"You ran the Boston Marathon twice," Damon corrects. "And qualified both times with an under three hour marathon. You're not just a runner, you're a talented runner."

How did he know that? I glare at him before I turn to Janice. "You won the Paris Marathon a few years ago after rolling your ankle at mile ten. How were you able to push past that and not only finish, but win?" It feels like an interview question, but I can't help it. To me, she's more of a celebrity than an Oscar winner.

She tilts her head to the side, recalling the memory. "I knew I'd hate myself if I didn't finish, so I compartmentalized the pain and tried to finish as fast as I could and thought only of going to this little bistro with the absolute best steak frites in Paris," she smiles. "When I was in the aid station getting my ankle looked at, I made Glenn get me a pain au chocolate from a bakery around the corner."

"I believe your first words to me when you finished were, Get me a fucking croissant! I had to pay the reporter who overheard ten grande just to not publish what you shouted," Glenn adds, with a barking laugh.

Damon and I both join in laughing. Conversation around the table is easy. Damon and Glenn talk about different avenues they want to take the reality division of his production company, while Janice asks me about running The Lunch Box with my family. I tell her about the time my mother lost the chili cook-off at the Newport Food and Wine Festival and punched the winner for making a pass at Aunt Jenna after he won. I'm in such a good mood by the end of the meal that I actually share a chocolate soufflé with Damon for dessert. I still haven't talked to him, but we knocked spoons fighting over the last bite.

"Promise me you'll think about it," Janice says as we wait by the valet. "I think your perspective could really add something special to the magazine."

I shake my head. "I really wish I could even think about it, but I'm busy with the restaurant."

"Well," she says, a little disappointed. "You have my number. When things die down for you, we'll have to go to brunch."

I nod and give her a hug. "It was lovely meeting you."

"Likewise," she replies.

Felix opens the door for me as Damon finishes talking to Glenn. I slide into the black BMW sedan and thank him. I turn away from the door, and look outside at people walking across Melrose to their car or to go to another bar. Damon climbs into the car and even though I'm turned away from him, I can feel him looking at me. It's unnerving. "You're not mad at me," he states, trying to goad me into conversation.

I'm not falling for it. "Felix," I say. "Can you turn on some music? The Beatles? Anything that'll drown out annoying noises would be great."

"Don't bother, Felix," Damon orders. "I'd prefer silence over The Beatles."

I'm shocked. Everyone likes The Beatles. I turn and almost say something, but decide against it, resulting in me staring at Damon with my mouth gaping open and closing like a fish. He grins, because he got me to look at him. I turn back around, angry because I fell for it. The car ride home remains silent. I don't blame Felix, Damon is the one that pays him.

When we're alone again in the penthouse, Damon tries to talk to me as I walk towards his bedroom to change. "You aren't mad at me. You knew I was right," he says as I untie the scarf, avoiding his eyes.

I take off the black Stuart Weitzman pumps and walk into his closet. I try to shut the door and shut him out. Willing to sleep in there, it's big enough, but Damon blocks the doorway. "I wasn't going to take advantage of your pain and sleep with you, no matter how badly I wanted to," he says.

I glance at him. "You're manipulative," I reply, finally deciding to say something. "How do I know if you're telling the truth and trying to back peddle your way out of this?"

He takes off his jacket and hangs it up and picks the scarf I dropped on the floor and hangs it up on a special scarf hanger next to the other clothes he bought me. "When have I manipulated you?" he asks.

He's got to be joking. "Oh, I don't know," I reply lamely. "Maybe when you started following me and attempted to seduce me into selling you the restaurant?"

Damon audibly sighs. "When are you going to let that go? You hold onto anger so you can push people away."

I scoff. "I do not! You keep secrets! Lots of them. I feel like every day I find out some new side to you. One day you're a billionaire businessman, the next you're some government operative with very realistic fake passports, and the next, you're a war profiteer. One day, you're trying every which way to get into my pants and the next, you're some chivalrous knight, trying to preserve my virtue. Who is the real Damon Salvatore? Does he have feelings?"

I hit a nerve. Damon's eyes darken as he walks towards me. "You know me, Elena Gilbert," he says, walking even closer to me. "You may not know every facet of my life, but you know me. You want me to take advantage of you? Is that it?"

I step towards him. "It's not taking advantage if I'm willingly giving it away," I reply.

"You were trying to use me as a distraction. Who's manipulating whom?" he tilts my chin up so I'm looking directly into his hooded eyes.

"I didn't manipulate you." Okay, maybe I did. I frown. "Do guys not like it when girls ask for sex?"

Damon's lip quirks. He leans down and kisses me lightly. I deepen his kiss, wrapping my hands around his neck and pulling him closer. He melds his mouth to mine, kissing me hungrily, running his hands down my back, holding me he guides me out of the closet, almost tripping over my heals still lying on the floor on the way out, trying to blindly find the closest flat surface as we hungrily kiss, our senses completely wrapped up in each other.

He presses me up against the floor to ceiling windows. "This window isn't going to break, is it?" I ask as Damon does magical things that involve his mouth on my neck.

He lifts his head and takes a step back. The absence of his warm skin on mine feels wrong and foreign. "I'd never put you in danger," he says. I've hit another nerve.

I run a hand through my tangled hair, take a small step towards him and splay my hands on his chest. I scrape my nails down the length of his torso before I pull out the hem of his black dress shirt from his slacks. "Really?" I ask, casually unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom up. "You mean you weren't putting me in danger when you drove me down to Mexico with a fake passport?"

I slowly peel his shirt off, while Damon hungrily glares at me. "Or what about stalking me on my runs?"

I reach for his belt buckle, but Damon grabs my wrists. Once again, I stand before him on the precipice of getting rejected. For all I know, he now knows just how much the land I own is worth and is manipulating me to sell it to him. My head feels full, dying for release. I have an overwhelming desire to run, and there's an annoying part of my brain that thinks Damon will let me. If I were being completely honest, I would admit that I don't want him to want me to run.

Hands firmly clasped around my wrists he leans down and whispers into my ear. "Do you trust me?" He echoes from so many times before. I nod, unable to speak. "Say it," he demands.

His commanding words cause me to momentarily loose speech, so Damon's lips brush mine before he deepens the kiss, my body magnetically closing the cavernous gap between us. He breaks away, still holding my wrists. "Say it."

I look up into his eyes and curiously search them as if looking into the silver blue hues for the first time. His brows knot, not out of insecurity, but wonder. Wondering what's going through my head, maybe. "I trust you," I finally say, because I do.

He nods and lets go of my wrists. They fall to my side. "Lift up your arms," he orders. I comply out of curiosity. He swiftly takes the hem of my red knit dress and pulls it off of me, leaving me in a red lace bra and boy shorts. He steps back and analyzes me. "Beautiful," he whispers. "You're still hurt."

His hands brush the bruises that dot my ribs, arms, neck and thighs. Damon kneels before me and presses his lips to each bruise as if his lips could magically heal and when he places a kiss at the apex of my thigh, I think he could. My hands run through his hair for balance, and I accidentally grip it harder than intended when he reaches into my panties and runs his index finger along my seam. I gasp.

"Not yet," he says to himself. Not yet, what! I want to cry, but he's now scooped me up in his arms and carries me to the bed. He positions me lengthwise on the bed, straddles my waist, places a soft kiss to my lips and says, "I'll be right back. Don't move."

This is absolutely ridiculous. I really just want a good fuck that puts me into a Sleeping-Beauty-like sleep but Damon seems to want to take his precious time. Controlling asshole. I wonder if he has a guest room. Maybe I should just sleep somewhere else and slip out early in the morning. I need to make sure Matt and the cottage are okay and I really have to find a place to live.

I sit up and hop off the large bed, trying not to think of the number of women who've been in this bed, when Damon emerges from the closet holding the scarf I was wearing earlier. He strides towards me, shirtless and I can't help but gaze down toward his happy little trail that leads to all things nefarious. "You moved."

"What took you so long?" Surely getting my scarf from the closet wouldn't take that long. "You put my heals back and hung up my dress, didn't you?" Wait. What does he need my scarf for?

Damon doesn't give me a chance to think, he cups the back of my neck and kisses me with such force, I have no choice but to walk backwards as he leans into me towards the bed. I am kiss drunk as he once again rearranges me on the bed. "Give me your hands," he says, straddling my waist, trapping me.

I lazily give him my wrists. He takes the black Hermès and wraps it intricately around both wrists in a figure eight. "You've done this before," I cock an eyebrow. "Several times before."

"I'm not about to lie to you," he replies.

"Hasn't stopped you before," I retort.

Damon ignores my dig and lifting my now tied together wrists above my head, ties them to the iron headboard above my head. "Move your wrists," he orders.

I wiggle them. "Are you comfortable?" He asks, checking the bindings.

"I'm curious."

"Answer the question, smart ass," he replies, looking into my eyes for any level of discomfort.

"I'm fine," I reply softly. What exactly does he have in mind? I've never been with someone who was into this sort of thing. Does Damon have some sort of secret sex Bat-Cave? I wouldn't be opposed to visiting, but there's no way in hell I'll ever call him sir or master. I'd castrate him for suggesting such a thing.

"Why the bondage?" I ask.

"You were going to leave and I didn't feel like chasing after you and throwing you in the pool again."

My eyes narrow. My earlier theory of mind reading capabilities seems proven. "How did you…"

"You had that fight or flight look in your eyes," he finishes. "I'm starting to know that look very well."

"Are you saying that I can't fight?" I ask, anger bubbling up in me. I struggle from the bindings, wanting off this bed all of a sudden.

Damon leans over and wraps his large hands around my wrists, and soothingly runs his hands up and down my arms, instantaneously calming me down. Warmth pools in every orifice. I sigh contentedly. "I wasn't saying that you can't physically fight," he says serenely. "I'm talking about fighting for us."

Oh. "You're so sure that there is an us. How do you know that we won't end up Thelma and Louise-ing it and at the bottom of a ravine by the time this is all over?" I ask, fear laced with every word. We are doomed. There is no happy ending for us, so what's the point?

"Oh, angel of mine," he says, gently running his fingers from my forehead to my chin, tilting me up so I can see him better. "There has never been a doubt in my mind that we were meant to grow old together. If I have to fight for both of us, then I will."

My stomach drops. Grow old together? Jesus Christ, I cannot think beyond tonight and he's already planning our retirement. I should've gone back to Newport. Damon runs his thumb along the bottom of my lip. "You're not there yet, but you will be," he says, kissing me.

My brain immediately comes up with the perfect escape route to Newport, but every other cell in my body screams for me to stay as Damon expertly moves from sucking on my lower lip leaving trails of kisses down my neck to my collarbone. I squirm beneath his weight, dying for release as he takes his time turning me to scalding liquid. His right hand is cupping my breast beneath the lace bra and massaging my nipple in soothing little circles. A small moan escapes but my frustration to touch him and bring him closer to me is evident in my inability to stay still. I try wrapping my leg around his body, but Damon annoyingly wags his finger and gets up to leave.

"No," I cry. "I'm sorry, come back." I know how desperate I sound, but being wrapped in Damon feels damn good and I'm not willing to give it up just yet.

He leaves again, but comes back with a pair of silver sheers, to either kill me or cut my bindings loose. I'm hoping for option two. Still in his slacks from dinner, he kneels on the bed. "We ran into a bit of a problem," he says, pressing the cold sheers at my breast bone. I gasp. "Your bra is still on but I don't want to undo the bindings in order to take it off." I pout, because I still won't be able to touch him.

He meticulously cuts off the beautiful lace bra, making sure not to nip me as I squirm under the cold of the steel, and gets up to throw it away, because Damon Salvatore would not simply toss the bra off the side of the bed. He walks back, and I stare at him. His chiseled jaw, cold blue eyes, velvet pink lips, raven hair that's a little messy, and his long torso with accompanying magical V, and his pants, still belted. I frown. "Nope," I say before he can approach me.

He eyes me, amused. "What?"

"I'm laying here, bound and almost naked…"

"I can remedy the almost naked part," he interrupts.

"No way," I shout. "This," I use my head to motion to my body. "Isn't happening until you get naked. It's the least you can do. PANTS. OFF."

Damon flashes a sexy smirk that I'm sure has kept his bed anything but empty for years. "Any other requests?"

I think about it for a minute. I want to be able to touch him, but he shakes his head in disapproval. "Not that." Yup, he can read my mind.

He unbuckles his pants, lets them drop to his black boxer briefs and strides over to me.

"No!" I say, shifting away from him as he climbs on top of me, trying to kiss my lips. "Drop everything."

Damon's head falls as he laughs into the crook of my neck. His short bursts of breath tickle the sensitive skin on my neck, causing me to giggle. "This is so not sexy," I laugh.

"This isn't what I had in mind," he replies.

I look out the window, the full moon glowing in the background. "Do you think that we can only get sex right when we're arguing or trying to get information out of each other?"

I'm thinking out loud, I don't actually expect him to answer. I hear his nightstand drawer open and close, and feel the cold steel on my hands as he releases me from my bindings with one snip. "Let's try this again," he says, tossing the scraps of silk off the bed.

I dramatically wave my hands free as if they'd been bound for days and wrap my arms around him. He leans into the embrace and I feel him smile contentedly on my shoulder, his shadow of a beard scraping against my clavicle in the most wonderful way. He kisses my neck as his hand lazily palms my breast, circling his thumb around my pert nipples. My breathing begins to shallow as my need begins to build, twisting like a coiled wire.

His mouth replaces his thumb as he sucks on my breast. My back arches as he moves to the other breast, my hips grinding into his pelvis. "Oh, God," I breath.

"I've been wanting to do that all day," he says, moving from my chest and kissing me deeply on the lips.

"You were thinking about my breasts while talking spreadsheets with Glenn at dinner?" I ask.

"Since you were standing on the balcony wearing only my shirt," he replies. "Since you were wearing that sheer gown last night. I wanted to wrap you up in my suit jacket and keep you away from prying eyes."

His hand dips into my panties and rubs my clit in melodic circles. "Fuck," I gasp, heat radiating throughout my body.

"Since you saved me in Mexico," he adds. I don't think we're talking about my breasts anymore.

He slowly pulls off my panties and pulls off his briefs, his cock springing free. He leans back in for a slow kiss, thrusting his tongue in my mouth and positioning himself on top of me. He gradually pulls away from my kiss. "Since you curled up in my arms on the side of the highway."

Damon spreads my legs and positions himself at my entrance. My arms still wrapped around his back, he thrusts in me, knocking the air from my lungs, my legs automatically wrap around him, in an attempt to pull him closer, deeper. I cry out and claw his back as he slowly withdraws and then slams back into me.

Our bodies slick with sweat, he finds my lips and presses his mouth to mine as we sloppily kiss. Pleasure blurs my vision as I feel the pressure building for release. Damon moves his hand to my clit and lightly adds pressure to it. I come like a fucking dam bursting, screaming.

Damon continues to thrust in me and slowly massages my clit, not caring that I just had a life altering orgasm. I feel the pressure build again as he leaves me to flip me over. "Can you get on your knees?" he asks. I don't hesitate and move to my knees.

Damon sweeps my hair off of my neck to one side and kisses beneath my ear. "Since I first met you, I've been dreaming about the girl with the chocolate eyes and the smile that made me want to know everything about her," he whispers, dragging his hands down my back to my waist.

Damon grabs my ass and thrusts into me. I fist the sheets beneath me, trying not to collapse. Seeing me struggle, he holds me up by the waist and waits for me to gain my equilibrium before he fills me again. I circle my hips as he moves in and out rhythmically, massaging my waist with his hands, sending me spiraling into nirvana again. Seconds later, I hear him growl as he releases into me and I collapse. He blankets me, resting his head in the crook of my neck, smelling my hair. Spent.

I hum contentedly as he kisses my cheek sweetly and withdraws. He picks me up underneath my legs like I weigh nothing and carries me to the bathroom. "Don't throw me in the pool again." I whisper. Tired.

"I can't make that promise," he replies. "Angel of mine."