#michael crist

The elevator drags itself up to the twentieth floor, slow and steady. It rattles with the kind of sound you stop noticing when you’ve lived somewhere too long.

The hallway’s too quiet. No muffled arguments, no doors slamming, none of the usual noise that reminds her other people live here. Even the flickering light at the end of the corridor seems to be holding its breath.

She slides the key in, but the lock’s already loose. The door gives with barely a nudge, like it’s been waiting for her to come home.

The apartment hums with an ambient stillness. A thick blanket of calm that’s too heavy to be comforting.

Somethings wrong.

Her eyes sweep the room. The lamp on the side table glows low, though she’s sure it was unplugged this morning. A glass sits on the counter, half full, stark against the dry dishes. And the picture frame on the TV unit, the one she always keeps facedown, now stands upright, the eyes in the photo fixed squarely on her.

The air smells funny. Not like her perfume nor her floral detergent. Not like the half-burned vanilla candle on the coffee table or the leftovers she reheated that morning. It doesn’t even smell like the plug-in air freshener a friend gave her as a house warming present.

Instead it smells of him, of his cigarettes and the expensive cologne she had spent hours picking out for his birthday.

She stands there for a long moment, caught halfway between denial and certainty. Maybe she left the lamp on. Maybe she poured the water herself and forgot. Maybe the photo frame just shifted by itself.

People keep telling her he’s gone. Out of the country. Russia, probably.

She wants to believe it, but somewhere deep down she knows the truth.

Every time she turns a corner, she swears she catches him. A shadow his height, the low growl of an engine idling too long at the curb, a ringed hand flicking a lighter in a reflection that disappears when she blinks.

She saw him on the subway platform once. Or thought she did.

A hoodie too familiar, a stance too casual, but by the time the train rushed past, he was gone.

Her eyes flick to the drawer by the sink, the lamplight glazing over the polished surface. She reaches for it without thinking, fingers itching to feel the cool metal inside. The pistol’s small but heavy enough to ease her mind. She bought it after the yacht. After the nightmares. After realizing she didn’t believe a single person who told her he’d left.

She remembers the yacht too clearly. The cold slap of water when Trevor shoved her. The moment her lungs seized. The panic.

And above it all, him.

Damon.

Standing at the edge of the deck, still and watching.

Not helping.

Not worried.

Just stood there without a care in the world.

And later, when Kai and Will dragged her out, coughing, shaking, salt water burning her throat, Damon hadn’t even flinched. His eyes had found hers across the chaos, and for a heartbeat she’d thought he was relieved she was alive.

Then he’d smiled.

Almost proud.

She never figured out what he was proud of. Her for surviving, or himself for orchestrating the mess they were in.

The weight of the pistol grounds her. She doesn’t pull it out. Just feels the metal under her fingertips, lets it steady her, and then lets go.

Her phone buzzes.

The screen lights the counter.

Unknown number.

There’s a whole thread. Weeks’ worth of messages.

You still take the subway home?

You leave your light on when you can’t sleep.

Your curtains are open.

You should eat more than takeout.

The black suits you better.

I saw you today. You didn’t see me.

She’d told herself to block it. To change her number. She’d even sat there one night, thumb hovering over delete conversation, but she never pressed it.

The newest one’s wait at the bottom.

You look cute when you’re confused.

You won’t shoot me.

She reads them twice and feels it. A shift. The faintest whisper of a floorboard moving.

She sets the phone down slowly, the screen face-down on the counter, and exhales.

“You think this is funny?” she says, her voice thinner than she wants it to be. “I know you’re here, Damon.”

Silence answers first. Then, the low scrape of leather against the floor, teasing.

Her eyes flick toward the balcony doors.

The city lights spill through the glass, pale and fractured. She sees herself at first, then a figure standing just behind her, tall, still, Damon.

Her pulse spikes. The phone on the counter keeps its screen turned down, humming quietly in the silence.

Then in the glass, his head tilts.

────────────

The quiet stretches until it hurts.

Her reflection doesn’t move, but his does, a slow step closer. She feels his heat, the weight of him filling the space between heartbeats.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” she says, weak. Her resolve slipping by the second.

“I never left.” His voice is low, crawling under her skin and taking root.

Another step. His reflection grows clearer behind hers, their shapes almost overlapping in the glass.

She tightens her grip on the counter. “You’re supposed to be in Russia.”

“Supposed to be,” he murmurs, that ghost of a smile still there. “You believe everything people tell you?”

Her throat works around a swallow. “You can’t be here.”

“I’ve been here.” His tone softens, but it’s no comfort. “Weeks now. You make it easy, you know. Same time, same routine. You hum when you boil the kettle. I always loved that.”

She forces a breath through her nose. “You’re sick.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “At least I’m consistent.”

Another step. The scent of smoke and him thickens, wrapping around her. She can see the faint edge of his jaw in the reflection now, the way his eyes stay locked on her even when she looks away.

Something in her gives then, it’s not courage, not fear, just exhaustion. She’s done pretending she doesn’t already know who wins this game.

“What do you want?”

For the first time, he doesn’t answer right away. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, not touching her, not yet. In the glass, she sees his fingers hover just beside her shoulder.

Then, quietly, “You. I always wanted you.”

Her pulse trips hard. “Damon.”

He leans in, close enough that she feels the warmth of his breath against her hair.

“Tell me you don’t still feel it.”

She knows she should move. Step away. Reach for the gun again. But her body betrays her, every muscle tight and utterly still under the heat of him.

His breath is warm against the shell of her ear, and she feels the ghost of his lips barely skimming her neck, just reminding her how close he is.

"I don't," she lies, voice barely above a whisper.

Another low chuckle, dark, knowing. His fingers finally make contact, tracing the curve of her shoulder. "Try again."

She shivers despite herself. The scent of him is suffocating, spiced cologne and something sharper beneath it, something that makes her stomach clench.

His hand slides down her arm, fingers tightening just enough to make her breath hitch.

"You want to pretend you're scared," he murmurs. "But you're not. You never were with me."

Her jaw tightens. He's right, and that's the worst part. The flicker of fear is there, coiled low in her gut, but it's tangled with something else, something hot and shameful that makes her skin prickle. “That was before you pushed Will into the water and nearly got me killed.”

His other hand fists in her hair, tilting her head back with just enough pressure to sting. She gasps, chest rising as she stares at their reflection in the glass, his mouth hovering over the exposed line of her throat.

His breath ghosts over her skin, sending a shiver racing down her spine. She can feel the faint stubble of his jaw brushing against her neck as he lingers there, not quite touching, just close enough to make her pulse thunder in her ears.

The city lights flicker beyond the glass, casting erratic shadows that dance across their forms, turning the moment into something surreal, almost predatory.

Damon's fingers tighten in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back further, exposing more of her throat to his gaze. He doesn't kiss her yet. Instead, he drags his lips along the curve of her neck, feather-light, tasting the salt of her skin with the tip of his tongue. She bites her lip to stifle a sound, but it escapes anyway, a soft, involuntary whimper that hangs in the air between them.

"That's it," he whispers against her ear, his voice low and rough, laced with that edge she was all too familiar with. "Let me hear you. No more pretending."

Her hands clench at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she fights the urge to push him away, or pull him closer. The counter presses into her hips, cool and unyielding, grounding her in the reality of his presence.

Every inch of him invades her space; the solid wall of his chest against her back, the heat radiating from his body, the subtle shift of his weight as he presses one thigh between her legs, nudging them apart just a fraction.

Slowly, agonizingly, his free hand releases her arm and trails upward, skimming the side of her ribcage. His fingers find the hem of her shirt, slipping beneath it to caress the bare skin of her waist. The touch is electric, tightening the coil low in her stomach. He explores her like he's mapping territory he already owns, thumb circling the dip of her navel before sliding higher, brushing the underside of her breast through the thin fabric of her bra.

She inhales sharply, her body betraying her with a further arch into his hand. "Damon..." His name slips out, half plea, half curse, but he only chuckles, the sound vibrating against her skin.

"Say it again," he demands, his mouth finally closing over the pulse point at her throat. He sucks gently, teeth grazing just enough to sting, marking her without apology. His hand moves to fully cup her breast, thumb rolling over her nipple until it hardens under his touch, straining against the lace.

The sensation shoots straight to her core, a rush of warmth flooding between her thighs. She squeezes her legs together instinctively, but his thigh is there, a firm barrier that only heightens the ache. He rocks against her slightly, the friction of his jeans against her leggings making her gasp again.

He pulls back just enough to spin her around, his grip on her hair guiding her movements until she's facing him. Their eyes lock, his dark and intense, hers wide with a mix of fury and hunger.

Without a word, he crashes his mouth down on hers. The kiss is fierce, demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim every inch. She resists for a heartbeat, her hands shoving at his chest, but then her fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer. He tastes like sin and memories, whiskey and salt, the faint metallic tang of danger that had always clung to him.

His hands roam freely, one sliding up her back to press her flush against him, the other dipping lower to grip her ass, kneading the flesh through her clothes. He lifts her slightly, just enough to grind his hardening cock against her mound, the pressure making her moan into his mouth.

Breaking the kiss, he trails his lips down her jaw, nipping at her earlobe before moving to her collarbone. "I missed this," he mutters, his voice muffled against her skin as he tugs her shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside. The cool air hits her bare shoulders, but his mouth is there immediately, hot and wet, sucking a path across her chest.

He unhooks her bra with ease, letting it fall to the floor. His mouth latches onto one nipple, tongue flicking and swirling while his hand pinches the other, rolling it between his fingers. She threads her fingers through his hair, holding him there as waves of pleasure ripple through her. Her hips buck against him, seeking more friction, but he pins her down with his weight, controlling the pace.

"Not so fast," he murmurs, lifting his head to meet her gaze. His eyes are hooded, lips swollen from their kiss. He kisses her again, slower this time, savoring, while his hand slips between them. Fingers hook into the waistband of her leggings, tugging them down along with her panties in one fluid motion.

She steps out of them, kicking them away, now exposed from the waist down.

Damon drops to his knees before her, his hands gripping her thighs to spread them wider. He looks up at her, a predatory smile curving his lips as he presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His stubble scrapes deliciously, making her tremble.

"Look at you," he says, voice husky. "Already so wet for me." His fingers part her folds, exposing her to the air, and she feels the slick evidence of her arousal coating his skin. He doesn't rush; instead, he blows a cool breath over her clit, watching her hips jerk in response.

Then his mouth is on her. Tongue flat and broad, he licks a slow stripe from her entrance to her clit, savoring her taste. She cries out, one hand bracing on the counter, the other in his hair. He circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing, alternating with gentle sucks that make her knees buckle.

His fingers join in, one sliding inside her, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind her eyelids. He pumps slowly, adding a second finger, stretching her as his mouth works relentlessly. The sounds are obscene, wet. Her ragged moans fill the kitchen, the city hum a distant backdrop.

She grinds against his face, chasing the building pressure, but he pulls back just as she teeters on the edge, leaving her panting and desperate. "Please," she whispers, hating how needy she sounds.

He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming. "Begging already? We're just getting started." He unbuckles his belt, the clink of metal echoing, then shoves his jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock. It's thick and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum, veins pulsing along the length.

He strokes himself once, twice, watching her reaction as her gaze drops to it. Then he grabs her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. The cold granite bites into her ass, a stark contrast to the heat of him stepping between her legs.

His hands roam her body again, tracing every curve, squeezing her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples, then down to her hips, holding her steady. He leans in, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss, letting her taste herself on his tongue. All the while, his cock nudges against her entrance, sliding through her wetness but not pushing in.

She wraps her legs around him, heels digging into his back, urging him closer. "Damon, now," she demands, her voice breaking.

He teases her a moment longer, the tip breaching her just enough to make her clench around nothing. Then, with a groan, he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. She gasps at the fullness, her walls fluttering around his length as he stills, letting her adjust.

"Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, forehead pressed to hers. He starts slow, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in, each drag of his cock against her inner walls building the friction and pushing the her to the brink.

His hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider as he sets the rhythm, deep, measured strokes that hit every sensitive spot. She clings to his shoulders, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. The counter creaks under them, dishes rattling faintly in the cabinets.

He shifts, angling his hips to grind against her clit with each thrust, the added pressure making her vision blur. Sweat slicks their bodies, the scent of sex heavy in the air. He captures her nipple between his teeth, tugging lightly, and she arches into him, her orgasm coiling tighter.

But he slows again, drawing it out, pulling her down from the brink. "Not yet," he says, voice strained. He pulls out completely, flipping her over so her chest presses against the cool surface, ass in the air. His hand comes down in a light smack, the sting blooming into heat that makes her moan.

He rubs the spot soothingly before gripping her hips and sliding back in from behind. The angle is deeper, his cock stretching her further, pounding against her g-spot with every snap of his hips. One hand reaches around to circle her clit, fingers slick and insistent.

She pushes back against him, meeting his thrusts, the slap of skin on skin punctuating her cries. "Shit, Damon please-" she begs, and he obliges, pace quickening, his free hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back, exposing her throat again.

He leans over her, chest to her back, biting down on her shoulder as he drives into her relentlessly. The tension builds unbearably, her body trembling on the edge. His fingers pinch her clit, and she shatters, walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, her scream muffled against the counter.

He doesn't stop, fucking her through it, prolonging the ecstasy until she's sobbing with overstimulation. Only then does he pull her up against him, one arm banded around her waist, the other hand on her throat, squeezing just enough to make her dizzy, as he thrusts erratically, chasing his own release.

With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep, cock twitching as he spills inside her, hot spurts filling her up. They stay like that, locked together, breaths mingling in the aftermath, the danger and desire still thrumming between them like a live wire.

Damon eases out of her slowly, leaving a trail of their mixed fluids dripping down her thigh onto the counter. He doesn't pull away fully; instead, he wraps his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his chest, his chin resting on her shoulder. The warmth of him is overwhelming now, a stark contrast to the chill that had gripped the apartment moments before.

She slumps forward slightly, elbows braced on the granite, her forehead pressed to the cool surface as she tries to steady her racing heart. The orgasm lingers like an echo, her pussy still pulsing faintly, sensitive and raw. But beneath the haze of pleasure, reality creeps in; the scent of him everywhere, the weight of his possession, the unspoken threat that this isn't over.

Her mind races: the pistol in the drawer, the messages on her phone, the way he appeared like a ghost from her nightmares.

Damon presses a lazy kiss to the nape of her neck, his lips lingering as his fingers trace idle patterns over her hip, dipping into the curve where her ass meets her thigh.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice rough from exertion, his breath stirring the fine hairs there. “That's us. Not some memory you can lock away.” He shifts, turning her gently until she's facing him again, her bare back against the counter's edge. His eyes search hers, dark and unreadable, but there's a satisfaction in them, a claim staked deeper than before.

She meets his gaze, her chest heaving, nipples still pebbled from the air and the intensity. Part of her wants to shove him, to scream, to grab the nearest knife from the block and end this haunting. But her hands only rise to his shoulders, as if he's the only solid thing in the swirling chaos of her thoughts.

Cum leaks from her, warm and sticky between her legs, a tangible reminder of how thoroughly he's marked her.

He cups her face, thumb brushing her swollen lips, then leans in for a softer kiss, less demanding now, more like a seal on their shared surrender. When he breaks it, he doesn't let go. “I'm not leaving this time,”he says, his other hand sliding down to cup her mound possessively, fingers parting her folds to feel the wetness there. She winces at the touch, but doesn't pull away.

The city lights pulse outside, indifferent witnesses. Her apartment, once a sanctuary, now feels like it’s his, clothes scattered, the air thick with sex and smoke from his earlier cigarette.