Damon's POV
Gods help me—I was playing with fire. And for once, I wanted to get burned.
The second Elena agreed to stay after I offered to blindfold myself, I knew I'd already won. Not the spar, no—her. Her attention. Her pride. Her fire. I could feel it pulsing off her like heat waves, mixing with the scent of sweat and frustration she carried from the moment she stepped into the room wearing those skin-tight leggings and that crimson sports bra.
Fucking hell.
She'd come dressed like that on purpose—like a declaration of war. And I? I was the poor bastard who came unarmored.
I tied the shirt around my eyes, nice and tight. No peeking. Didn't need to.
Her breathing gave her away. Every shift of her stance, every exhale, every moment she hesitated. I didn't need eyes—I had her rhythm memorized.
"Always," I answered when she asked if I was ready. What I didn't say was: I've always been ready for you.
She circled me. Once. Twice.
