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And what a witch.
He knew that Meredith could not have told Bonnie what it was he wanted. Damon couldn’t—even if Damon could somehow find out, the last thing he would want was for Stefan to get ahead of him that way, to have even more intimate memories of Elena than he did.
That left Elena, and Bonnie would have told him if it had been Elena’s idea. Scratch that, if Bonnie had known it was Elena’s idea. There was a core of bright warmth at Bonnie’s center that burned away any kind of black falsehood.
Maybe that was what kept her so warm. Here she was, dressed in less than he was, really, but radiating heat like a contented, purring cat. That last thought gave Stefan pause.
It didn’t seem right, for him to be dressed in his Tshirt while she was wearing only a camisole.
He had been startled when she’d taken off her sweater. But the next moment he had seen the gesture for what it was, a sign to convey familiarity and trust. The girls wore them all the time outside in the summer, it surely couldn’t be improper here.
He could never be sure whether his next move was the kind of noble gesture like that of the Victorian host throwing down knife and fork as a savage guest began eating with greasy fingers, or whether it was from far more human needs. He pulled back slightly and stripped off his own Tshirt.
Bonnie looked at him with wet, wondering eyes. He smiled a little and said, “It seemed I was overdressed with you just in the camisole. I can get an undershirt if you like—
but I promise you, in the name of all I hold dear—that nothing else is going to come off.” She nodded and shut her eyes, putting her head against his shoulder. Then she reached up and lightly ruffled his hair. “I always wanted to do that, from the first day I saw you,” she said. “And—this, too.” She stretched herself tall in his lap and lightly, softly kissed him on the mouth.
It took him a little by surprise. She was flushed, the blood glowing in her skin, radiating warmth, soaking from her into him.
When she shut her eyes and tilted her head back he didn’t need anyone to prompt him. He found that this cuddly kitten was also a very kissable young woman.
Moments flowed and floated. And then Bonnie said, rather short of breath, “Do it now. Don’t ask if I’m sure. Right here, now.”
And then there was a long time of pure rapture. Bonnie’s blood was sweet as honey and strawberries, and she wasn’t afraid or controlling herself, or holding anything back. She was giving the blood he needed for life itself without any confusion or doubt or anger. She even remembered—how could she remember anything?—to think about Elena, horseback riding, at a birthday party, gliding gracefully up to become Queen of some or other school function. More, she gave him the key; the mental combination, to her master memories about Elena. Now, whenever the two of them agreed, she could enter trance and he could rummage through her memories of Elena as he liked.
It was almost too much. It was too much. It enticed him to linger and linger, to let the strawberryhoney liqueur he was lapping, tippling, keep running down his throat.
“Sstefan?”
Dearheart. Bonniedearheart, he qualified, as if to show that he knew her.
Stefandearheart . . .
How can I ever thank you enough? Bonnie, I’ll go to my death happily tonight. I can never make it up to you, but I can certify that you’re already an angel.
I made you happy, then.
Can you have any doubt? This is what it can be when two . . . well, I won’t say lovers because we aren’t, not in the conventional sense. But this is what it can be when there’s no fear, only love.
And—you don’t think I’m just a little girl?
If I’d thought that you’d never have gotten your sweater off. You’re a woman, even if you’re still a girl. Some girls are. And some women of fifty are still girls.
She sighed and lapsed back. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “And you be sure that Damon knows it, too.”
What does Damon have to do—he began and then sensed something more urgent. He felt wonderful, yes, but when he calculated how much of her blood he had taken he nearly panicked.
“Bonnie?”
Let’s not talk just now, Stefan.
Bonnie, my titianhaired angel, we have to. I’ve done something awful. I took far too much of your blood. It can make you seriously ill, and there’s only one thing I can do to help you—if you consider it help.
There was a sluggish response.
He shook her. Bonnie, Bonnie dearest, don’t go to sleep!
Stefan kissed her on the mouth, hard, hoping that indignation or some other emotion would wake her. But Bonnie’s lips were soft and warm—and parted—under his.
