Damon Salvatore Photos Novels & Stories

I replied unsure of how he knew it was my birthday. Just then one of the doors opened and Damian came in holding a beautiful birthday cake. I couldn't tell which was more beautiful him or the cake. he was wearing a blue jeans and an unbuttoned short sleeve white shirt. clearing revealing his broad chest and abs. seeing him standing made me have a flash back of all the times we have cuddled. He looked like he has just been dipped into a hot sauce. how I want long kiss those thick full lips and be wrapped up in his strong steady hands.

Damon countered, “right now, as a matter of fact.” “Are you about to sweet talk her?” Dathan laughed sarcastically. “Tell her some of the things you told Maya?” He added. Immediately, Damon's eyes switched, one minute, he had the blue eyes of a tall, handsome 6 '1 man, that he was. The next, he had the hazel slit eyes of a feral wolf. Dathan didn't need to be told twice, he made a quick exit.

I had faith that Dane could and would. The man chuckled once more and remarked, “If you believe so.” He shook his head while still laughing and added, “He was unable to rescue Selena. How will he save you?” Then he slapped my ass. I let out a yelp, and fury burned through me. He was the one who killed Dane’s mate. “You bastard!” I sent a blow on the side of his head with all my strength, causing us to lose our balance and fall onto the cold forest floor.

Might as well have him wipe it with a napkin instead of using the back of his hand. Both men frowned at me before seeing me pull out two napkins to hand to Dante before throwing inside the car. He looked at them for a second before taking them from me and wiping his nose again. “Eva D’Angelo” I said, extending my hand for him to shake, letting him know that I meant them no harm “daughter of Beta, or in other words, ex beta, Mattia D’Angelo and Gabriella D’Angelo. Keeper of the Guardian’s Eye, and as a relation to you, I believe that I am brother’s mate…”

He had a frown on his face, and she wondered what he was thinking about. "Take a picture, darling, it last longer. But then again, I doubt you'll need one as you'll be seeing me each day." Damien leaned into her and whispered. "Whoever said I was staring at you? And why would you think I need a picture of you?" she rolled her eyes. "I know I am the best-looking werewolf out here, and you know the most powerful, so it only makes sense if you see me as an imaginary extraordinary creature," Damien said, glancing at her briefly with a smirk adorning his face before looking elsewhere.

They had left nothing for me to use as a weapon. The steel door grated open, splitting the darkness with a blinding shaft of pale yellow light. I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes, preparing myself for whatever violence was about to enter. It wasn't a mercenary. It was Damon Salvatore. He stepped into the cell, impeccably dressed in a light grey suit, carrying an expensive briefcase and looking infuriatingly fresh. He looked around the cell with a sneer, as if the cold and the darkness were a necessary, aesthetic component of the scene.

Although, he didn't seem to mind it at all. "Thank you. You look handsome." I said honestly, a grin on my face. Dominic always looked neat but that particular night, he looked a little bit different. A good different. He was dressed in a black suit and tie, tailored for his large body. The tattoos trailed down from his neck down to his hands and onto his fingers. At first glance, one would know not to fuck with him. He looked ravishing and despite telling myself it wouldn't happen again, I knew it would because I wanted it to.

Damian. 'Can I... record this?' ***

**Lennon (11:05 AM):** working out? **Damian (11:06 AM):** Yeah! **Lennon (11:06 AM):** can i see? A few seconds stretched. Lennon stared at the screen like it might bite him. Then the photo loaded. Damian in the penthouse gym—shirtless, skin gleaming with fresh sweat under the overhead LEDs. Chest carved, shoulders broad, arms flexed from whatever set he’d just finished. One hand held the phone out for the mirror selfie; the other raked back through damp, dark hair. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, devastating path down the center of his sternum, past the snarling bear tattoo, disappearing into the deep V below his navel. The waistband of his black gym shorts sat low. Too low.

I felt exposed under his gaze, yet strangely powerful. Damon Torres didn’t look away. He held my eyes across the crowded terrace as he slowly raised his glass in a private toast, the corner of his mouth curving into a knowing, devastating smile. The golden Mediterranean sunset painted sharp shadows across his strong features, highlighting the silver threading through his dark hair and the confident set of his broad shoulders. He was older than Liam by at least fifteen years — early forties, I guessed — but carried himself with the kind of effortless authority that made every man around him seem like a boy.