With the harsh words still lingering in her head, she shakily walked towards the mansion. She's been here before - a few weeks ago, actually. But back then, she had been human, her body adorned in a beautiful gown.
Caroline hates me, She thinks. She doesn't understand. She's just blinded by jealousy.
Even now, with her expression dead and her fingertips still, no pulse pounding beneath the flesh anymore, she felt more than alive.
(Maybe because she had finally sobered up, or maybe because she was about to kill the fucker who ruined her life - again.)
Except, whenever she spared a thought on his death, her mind brought her back to the many times they fucked like rabid bunnies. He was so rough, so animalistic and so sure of himself. He painted her curves with his fingertips, words of desire and wanton falling from his lips like a prayer as he brought her to ecstasy.
Elena hated herself more than ever in that moment (but she also loved the heat pooling in her stomach and the fluids rushing across her panties).
She thought of his smirk and the fast thrusts and the rough hands and the locks of hair pressed against her collarbone and she thought, just for a second, that perhaps although he was her destruction, he was also her becoming of.
And he was so beautiful. So intelligent and snarky and talented and experienced. Beautiful.
She can feel him before he even opens the door. She feels his lips on her skin before he even steps forward. She feels his excitement before she even registers the look he sends her.
A look of hunger.
Words leave her lips, mumbling out angered phrases about her blonde friend and Damon and Stefan and about Matt and how his eyes are so fucking blue and how she wants to drink something but she's about to throw up. She mentions she hates him once. Maybe she says it seven times, she doesn't know.
She knows, though, that the next second, the railing of the grand stairs is pressing into his back as she steps in front of him and his hands are rough and hard against her exposed skin. She doesn't realize she loses her shirt somewhere between telling him she wanted to fuck him and raging at him for liking Caroline.
The gaze they share is intense, so intense she feels it in her throat and then her stomach and then her southern lips. She feels his breath on her lips and she breaths him in, softly, gently, worshipping his lips with her eyes.
And then she's kissing him the only way she knows how, with hunger and anger and guilt. She kisses him like she hates him (she knows she doesn't anymore) and she's ripping off his shirt and pants and a little part of her wonders if they'll ever do this in a bed.
He tugs her hair, ripping off her skirt, his hand going behind her as he grasps her ass cheeks and grounds into her repeatedly. She loves it and she growls, tongue in his mouth and hands grabbing at his hair.
She wants to tell him she hates him (again) but it dies on her lips when she feels two fingers deep inside her. His fingers are so rough as they penetrate her, bringing her to a new high. She hates this. She hates the way he makes her feel, as if he was a part of her and the mere thought of him never touching her like this would send her off to the deep end.
(She has no idea how this happened, but perhaps it has something to do with his stupid, fucking, addicting and delicious blood).
They do make it to the bed, although only barely. He doesn't take off her bra and his boxers are around his ankles. She's bent over the bed, the golden tan skin of her back on full display to him. His hand runs from her neck to her mound as he thrusts into her, almost unaware at the loud groan he releases.
She clenches around him as he wastes no time fucking her. She's not broken china and he treats her like an equal, not a broken toy. She loves it. She loves this.
His hand in on her stomach now, lifting her and pressing her closer to him. His sweat meddles with her and his face is almost a rosy pink as he listens to her appreciative moans. He's proud of himself then, because he's sure no one's ever heard little Gilbert the way he has.
When he feels his climax coming on, he turns her around, thrusting into her as he leans his chest against her, grabbing her face and kissing her. There's no tongue or lip-biting, just a chaste press of his ruby lips against hers. The entire time, she's moaning and her eyes are shut tightly. He realizes that this is his favourite look on her.
He comes so hard that his groans muffle hers. He barely registers her thins arms wrapping around his neck as she holds his trembling body. It's kind of nice, actually.
And selfish.
While he's destroying her, she's holding him together.
Kind of tragic, really.
Her eyes don't open for a while and the only time they do is when she's sick of his staring. Legs still wrapped around his waist and his length buried deep inside her, she thinks they fit together like this.
She feels like a lunatic when she thinks this, but it feels so fucking right.
She goes to kiss him again but stops herself, gulping as they crawl under the covers. She shows her back to him again, feeling so fragile she might actually break. And she does.
At first, her tears are silent and they they're louder. She doesn't realize his arms were around her shoulders until he turns her around and he's brushing away her tears and telling her that he wants to keep her around, even if just for a quick fuck, because he's taken a liking to seeing her pleasured face and the feel of her tightly wrapped around him.
"I hate you." She mumbles. It doesn't sound as convincing as she hoped it would. He knows this too.
Ignoring the lie, he nods. "I know, little Elena."
She looks more like a child than ever as her cheeks turn red and her lips, swollen with both his kisses and her bites; tremble.
"I don't want to feel like this anymore." She whispers.
The suicidal double meaning doesn't go unnoticed by him and he frowns. "And risk leaving me alone with these children? Love, be reasonable."
She traces his tattoo's the entire night, her eyes never straying from his skin. He likes it this way. He likes having someone look at him the way Elena does. He likes the familiar ache deep in his chest at the thought of spending even a single day more in bed with her just like this.
And when she falls asleep, he feels her touch although she is across the room. And then he draws her... her wild hair and her beautiful, golden curves and the pink of her gorgeous set of lips.
And if anyone asked him if Elena had sparked an interest in a soul he long thought was gone, he would lie.
