He found the concept of aging fascinating. When Chelsea told him that she was eighteen, he thought it was a foolish daydream, product of the overactive mind of a child. Chelsea shrugged it off because of a thought that grew in her mind, grew and grew and would not let go as each minute passed beside this devastatingly handsome man.
It had felt like being reborn. She had let go of the tight control she kept over her age, the Peter Pan words, one whisper each morning of "I'll never grow up." One whisper and she stayed a child - or to be specific, in between, at the brink of adolescence.
She watched as her body reformed, her hair grew longer until it brushed the small of her back to make up for the growth that it never had, her breasts swelled full and her legs lengthened. The first thing she noticed was the heat in her loins against the lapping water. The hormones of the past eighteen years had caught up, and made waves in her mind, dark thoughts. She wanted to experience, and she stepped out of the bathtub, trailing water behind her with each step.
He stopped her with one touch, fingers gently prying her own away.
"I don't sleep with children," He said, eyes heavy lidded from sleep.
"Do I look like a child to you?" She was the one who made the first move, driven by desire. She kissed like a little girl, lips pursed and closed. It was Damon who taught her the art of frenching, Damon whose hand drifted up her thighs, Damon who made her back arch in release.