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Author: Ameeya
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: S.3, during Lover’s Walk.
Summary: Spike returns to Sunnydale to kill the Slayer. He’s just too
drunk to do it properly, and ends up getting himself into the deep without even
realizing it. Perhaps worst of all, he has no memory of his actions the next
day.
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em; I’m just playing. Please oh please, do not
sue me.
He’d come here to kill her.
Spike stood partially secluded
among the library stacks, his eyes focused on the Slayer’s every move. Every
bounce. Fuck, every pant. He hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived,
and if he’d had a plan, he’d forgotten it by now. All he knew at the moment was
that she was bouncing. God, she was bouncing. Or rather jumping. She was jumping
rope; her tits were bouncing, her pony-tail was flopping, and Christ, she
was making him hard.
He’d come here to kill her. That was the plan. That
was what he told himself he was going to do. Kill her, make her neck his chalice
at long bloody last, and return to his regularly scheduled life. Perhaps he’d
even crawl on his hands and knees and beg Drusilla to take him back—further the
humiliation even more. After all, she’d said that all she saw when she looked at
him was the Slayer. If he returned to her with the Slayer’s blood in a vial
around his neck, she could no longer rely on the
he-doesn’t-love-me-anymore approach to her bouts of infidelity.
Buffy was as good as dead. She was jumping rope and bouncing; in a few
seconds, she’d be cold on the floor, her blood washing down his throat. He was
sure of it. Sure that as soon as he started moving, she’d be nothing more than a
memory, and then his fucking reoccurring nightmare of the past few weeks would
finally be over.
He was going to do it. He was going to kill her.
And yet, all he could do was watch.
It was crazy. God, he knew
it was crazy. After all, she was the reason Dru had left him. She was the
end-all cause of his misery; the proverbial thorn in his side. His plan had been
simple: get drunk, get Slayer, get revenge. Tonight was supposed to be the night
he repaid all debts. The night he settled all scores. He craved resolution; he
needed solace. Perhaps killing her would win Dru back, and perhaps not. Either
way, he was certain that he wouldn’t look back on killing Buffy as the moment it
all went wrong. Oh no, bathing in her blood was the only way at this point to
turn his life around.
He’d tracked her scent to the library; found her
alone, oblivious, and blessedly vulnerable. Two of her chums were in the lab,
putting together some sodding awful potion, the Watcher was nowhere to be seen,
and Angel was halfway across town, buried head-first in some eighteenth-century
bore of a read.
Granted, it wasn’t as though Spike hadn’t had the Slayer
alone before. He had—only the world had been ending. It wasn’t now. The world
was still here and he had her all to himself for as long as he wanted. And with
as blissfully ignorant as she was at the moment, he could do any number of
things to her for hours before anyone thought to call a search party. She
wouldn’t have time to scream for help—not with as fast as he moved when he had
his eyes on the prize.
His eyes were on the prize, all right. He
couldn’t tear himself away from the prize. The toss of her hair, the bounce of
her breasts, or anything that did everything to accentuate her femininity
and nothing to ostensibly remind him that he was supposed to hate her.
Rather, his first thought was: I haven’t had a woman in weeks.
The Slayer, though, wasn’t a woman. She was a girl. Just a girl. And
as much as he repeated that to himself, his cock wouldn’t listen. No, Buffy had
had his cock’s attention from the very start; seeing her now, and running on
both alcoholic confidence and the knowledge that he had nothing left to lose,
seemed to do little more than accentuate said attention of the one part of his
anatomy that hadn’t known any love in a long time, aside his left hand.
The same disobedient hand that was currently running down the front of
his jeans, his fingers cupping the bulge pressed insistently against the zipper.
A long, guttural moan crept through his throat, and all rational thought
abandoned him. Buffy’s tempo with the rope hadn’t slowed—she was likely too much
in her own world to pay anything—even turned-on vampire whimpers—any mind. Spike
sucked in a breath and slowly dragged the zipper down, stifling another excited
growl when his thick cock jumped into his waiting grip.
Fuck.
She was panting hard, now. Her speed kicked up a notch or two, and
she began performing a few of those fancy criss-cross maneuvers that he’d seen
girlies do on a whim in teeny-bopper movies. Spike bit back another moan, his
hand tightening around his cock as his strokes intensified.
She’s
magnificent.
That had to be a drunken thought, just as wanking off
to her aerobics had to be a drunken action. Dreams he could excuse, as they
typically consisted of him fucking her into the ground before sinking his fangs
into her delectable throat. He never seemed to be able to see those dreams
through, though; something always awoke him before he could snap her neck or
watch the life fade from her eyes.
She was nearing the end of her
workout, he could tell. Her jumps were becoming more forceful, the small grunts
that escaped her lips more emphatic. His hand sped up as well, pumping his cock
hard now, his eyes glazing over.
Magnificent.
How warm
would she be, he wondered. Angelus had always said that was the high point of
fucking the Slayer. She was wonderfully warm—gripped him like a glove, he’d
said. A low growl tickled through Spike’s throat and something startlingly akin
to jealousy spread through his veins.
Mine.
She was his
slayer. He knew that much. If nothing else in this crazy world made sense, Spike
knew that Buffy was his slayer. His to bleed, his to kill, his to
fuck.
His head jerked up. “What the hell…” he murmured, though his foggy
mind didn’t care to explore the thought more than necessary.
God, that
was entirely the wrong image to conjure while his hand was pulling his dick.
Buffy on her knees, her mouth open. Buffy’s lips surrounding his head. Buffy’s
tongue tracing his length. Buffy’s hands squeezing his balls. Buffy on her back,
her hands framing her pussy, her fingers stroking her clit. Buffy guiding his
cock to her sopping entrance. Buffy’s nails scratching his back as he fucked her
raw.
She’d lick his neck and tug at his earlobe with her teeth, then
she’d whimper his name as she spasmed and drenched his cock.
Spike
growled loudly and came, his spendings ending up on some dusty book that likely
hadn’t been checked out in years. He swallowed a whimper and leaned his head
against the book stack. God, he hardly ever came so hard when he wanked off, and
while he was admittedly more boisterous than usual, masturbating in public was
hardly a shining example of just how much of an exhibitionist he could be when
prompted.
The library was silent. He didn’t realize just how silent it
was until he tucked himself back into his jeans and zipped up. Spike lifted his
head and peeked around the book stack. Buffy wasn’t jumping rope anymore.
Rather, she was staring hard in his direction—not seeing him, thanks to the
shadows, but she’d definitely heard something. She’d either heard something or
sensed something, and now he has back to where he started. He’d come here to
kill her, and yet he was at a loss.
Only now, there was no time to mull
his options over.
Buffy frowned and stepped forward, her chest heaving,
her body pink with exertion and glimmering with sweat. Human sweat wasn’t
generally something Spike found appealing. Rather, he found most human things,
aside from their propensity to bleed, rather disgusting. So why was it that her
scent was tantalizing, and the image of her after a hefty work out did little
more than make his cock harden all over again?
Christ, he wanted her. And
that was only mildly disturbing. Which in and of itself was extremely
disturbing.
Buffy reached for a towel that she’d left draped over the
library check-out counter. “Hello?” she asked, frowning as she dabbed the
terrycloth across her brow. “Angel?”
It was all he could do to refrain
from shoving the book stack over. Instead, Spike bit back another growl and did
his best to ignore the jealousy that flared in his chest.
She rolled her
eyes. “Angel, look, we can give up the whole stalky thing. I told you, Giles is
out of town this weekend. He has some weird retreat thing to go to. There’s no
Wrath-O-Watcher coming up. Besides, I told him I’d be seeing you
anyway.”
Spike snarled again and slinked further into the shadows. Daft
bint. And here he thought she’d at least be able to tell the difference between
her honey-pie and the one that had come to kill her. Weren’t slayer vibes
supposed to be impeccable?
It wasn’t until Buffy started up the stairs of
the veranda that his anger gave way to a fleeting spot of panic. And panic
wasn’t exactly natural for Spike. If something unscheduled happened, he
improvised. He always did, and it hadn’t failed him thus far.
Only he’d
come here to kill her, and now, for whatever reason, he wasn’t so sure that was
what he wanted. The only thing he was sure of was that he’d never get this close
again—never get a chance like this again—and would be kicking himself come
morning if let her slip through his fingers and he went home.
Since he
didn’t know what he wanted to do—kill her, fuck her, or both—the most reasonable
solution was to incapacitate her until he made up his mind. Which was why, when
she rounded the corner, he wasted little time throwing her into the wall with a
growl.
Buffy knew it a second too late. Slayers relied on every second,
and she knew it a second too late. She was pressed against the wall, his chest
at her back, and fuck she felt so good against him that he nearly tore
her sweats off and got at least one of his urges out of his system right
then.
“Spike!” she spat contemptuously, wriggling against
him.
“Finally got the name right,” he growled. Then he fisted her
ponytail and slammed her head against the wall. Once, twice, and then she fell
limp against him.
Spike blinked and glanced down at her. He didn’t know
how it happened, but suddenly he was holding a very unconscious slayer. Buffy’s
head rolled back onto his shoulder, and before he knew what he was doing, he had
scooped her up into his arms.
That hadn’t been part of the plan.
No, knocking Buffy out had not been part of the plan.
A slow
smile spread across his lips as his eyes raked over her body.
This was a
definite improvement.
Author’s Note: Okay, so…ummm, extremely
nervous about this chapter. I just want to remind everyone that it is Season 3
Spike, and therefore he is evil. Not to mention drunk. He is very, very
drunk.
If my planning goes right (and please don’t hold me to it) this is
about as angsty as I intend to go. The fic itself is described (in my head, at
least) as a fluffy fic, bordering on comedy. However, I didn’t want to shorthand
the characters…at least not so soon in the story. I’m sure I’ll take them plenty
out of character later, but for now, I’d like to at least try to maintain the
pretense that I know how to write Spike before he gets bitten with the
Buffy-lovin’ bug.
Having said that, I have major, major issues with
non-con, which made very this incredibly hard to write. So, be prepared…some of
this may be perceived (and likely will be) as non-con. But hopefully, the
fluffiest non-con you’ve ever come across.
Thanks to my betas for
talking me through it.
“Schlaaaayer!”
Buffy tensed, her eyes flying open. While she
hadn’t been sleeping, she’d taken an honest stab at it, hoping she’d be lucky
enough to wake up on the other side of this with the middle conveniently cut
out. Her mind, though, was too chattery to sleep, and every time she found
herself drifting, the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach would lurch her
back to consciousness.
Now Spike was back and—from the sound of
things—very, very drunk.
“Still here,” he said shortly, stumbling
slightly as he crossed the threshold into the small room. Her muscles were
killing her, but it didn’t stop her from struggling helplessly against her
restraints. “Wha’s this? Not crafty enough to slink away, are
we?”
“Spike…”
It wasn’t as though she meant to sound all pleady
and breathless; Buffy truly hated helplessness, and not being anywhere near the
zone of control had her panicking.
“Dunno what’s keepin’ you here,” he
retorted, his eyes glazing over as he raked her body with long, lustful looks.
“Thought slayers were s’posed to have super strength.”
“Spike, you’re
drunk.”
“I’m very drunk,” he corrected, stumbling over to her and
shedding his duster. Oh God, he was shedding his duster; from the way his hands
went to the hem of his tee, it seemed that wasn’t all he intended to shed. “An’
I intend to get drunker.”
She paused, fighting off the initial swell of
mirth that climbed up her throat. “Spike, you’re so drunk you’re quoting Gone
With the Wind. You really wanna be letting me go right about
now.”
“Yeah. That’s what I wants to do with you.” He plopped down
beside her, his left hand settling on her leg, fingers caressing her inner
thigh. Then his head was dipping toward her, and he inhaled appreciatively.
“Christ, you smell fantastic. You always smell so bloody
fantastic.”
Buffy pursed her lips. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and
she felt her body reacting against the will of her mind. It was humiliating—he
was sniffing at her, touching her, and all she could do was tremble. She was
terrified and furious; combined with mortification, the urge to kick and scream
was near unbearable. But she couldn’t kick, and screaming would do little more
than anger him. And while she had little to no practice with diplomacy, it
seemed to be the best alternative. “Spike,” she said softly. “I really need you
to untie me.”
He ignored her, and for the second time that evening, his
sensuous tongue found her throat, licking at the vamp mark she’d been branded
with a year earlier. Never before had the mark been an erogenous zone, so she
was quite surprised at the pleasured gasp that tore through her throat and the
rush of wetness between her spread thighs.
Spike inhaled and shuddered
against her. “Naughty li’l schlayer,” he murmured, nipping at her neck as the
hand on her thigh brazenly slid upward until he was cupping her clothed pussy.
“Mmmm…”
Shock filled every inch of her body. Well, shock and the most
potent rush of lust she’d ever experienced. That was sick. She was sick.
He was touching her in that way, and her body was reacting to it. She was
reacting to him, and he was touching her as only one man ever had before. More
than that, she was chained to a bed, no one knew where she was, and he was
drunk. She was chained and he was drunk, and she was in no position—aside from
screaming in protest—to fight what he was doing to her.
“Show her,”
Spike murmured defiantly, his lips trailing southward. He dropped kisses as he
went, pausing to tease her nipples. In a blink, he’d torn her sweats and panties
as far down her legs as he could, and tore the material away before she could
hope that he’d unchain her legs to finish the job.
It wasn’t until she
felt him dotting kisses along her pelvis that astonishment and self-loathing
faded into true panic. He was going to—oh God, he was. Her first time
experiencing this shouldn’t be terrifying. Shouldn’t be forced. Shouldn’t be
with a vampire she hated. The dreamlike atmosphere vanished again, and she was
left with the biting smack of reality.
“Spike, no,” she whispered, her
urgent tone in direct counterpoint to her treacherous body—the same treacherous
body that had stretched beneath him invitingly, her hips lifting in want of his
mouth. Her mind was at war with her arousal; this was violation. It shouldn’t
feel good—but God, he was nuzzling her and it did. And she didn’t want it
to feel good. She wanted anything but to feel good about something so
fundamentally wrong. She needed him to stop now before she betrayed everything
there was about being female. “Please. You can’t do this. You hate me. You don’t
wanna do this. I don’t taste good—God, I’m sure I don’t taste good.
Please!”
While her mind and mouth objected, her body welcomed him. She
was seriously hating her body right now.
This was something she’d wanted
with Angel, in the fantasy future she had planned—the one where they eradicated
the clause of his curse and had the chance at a crime-fighting life. He’d
offered to do it their first and only night together, but she’d been too
terrified and nervous to let him. In the months since she’d lost her virginity,
she’d opened herself to experiencing any number of things that had seemed taboo
at one point.
Okay, if she was totally honest with herself, the
Angel part of the future equation was more out of lack of options. His
behavior since returning from Hell had been understandably distant, and she
wasn’t stupid enough to think that things could ever go back to being the way
they once were. God, at this point, she wasn’t even sure she wanted that. Angel
as a soulless killing machine had robbed her of her innocence in ways that no
amount of violence or slaying or apocalypses could ever have. No. Going back to
Angel wasn’t an option. She’d seen him as she’d never wanted to, and it would
never be the same.
However, her girlish mind hadn’t quite been willing to
let go of the fairytale, and thus, all her fantasies about the future she could
never have had starred Angel as the male protagonist. There were things that she
wanted to experience someday, and yes, the female dream of pro-cunnilingus
boyfriends was one of them.
Spike nuzzled her pussy, his fingers
massaging her skin through her curls. “Show her,” he murmured again, his tongue
lapping at her folds. Buffy threw her head back and screwed her eyes shut,
determined to feel nothing—enjoy nothing—and let him get whatever he needed out
of his system. All she needed to do was get through to morning—or to a point
where he was confident enough in her complacency to make a mistake and let her
go.
She was determined to not enjoy this, no matter how good it
felt.
“Slayer,” he growled, sucking her clit into his mouth. Buffy
inhaled sharply and pulled at her restraints, her hips thrusting upward. He
purred approvingly, spreading her pussy lips wide with two fingers. “My
schlaaayer.”
“I’m dreaming,” Buffy gasped, arching into him again.
“I’m dreaming I’m dreaming I’m dreaming.”
Spike’s tongue curled around
her clit, his wandering fingers imploring her opening. God, this was so
humiliating. Women were not supposed to react to coerced sexual acts like wanton
hussies. She was not supposed to react to Spike like an
under-sexed porn star. And yet, she found her legs were straining the chains to
open wider for him, rather than close. Her pelvis thrust determinately against
his mouth, and the moans that scratched at her throat were definitely not in
protest.
“My slayer,” he repeated, his tone primal. His tongue abandoned
her clit the next second, his eager fingers stretching her pussy lips again.
Then he was lapping at her exposed skin, suckling at her, and at last, plunging
into her tight, wet hole. Her eyes shot open at last, latching onto the
attentive blond head between her legs, and Buffy trembled so hard that the bed
rocked against the wall.
“Oh God,” she moaned. Reason abandoned her
completely. “Oh my God.”
“Show her…show her. Covered with you.
Covered.”
“Wha…?”
“My schlayer.”
“No…oh God,
please…”
“Mine.”
He captured her clit between his thumb
and forefinger and began massaging her rapidly. Ecstasy split her veins, and she
trembled hard around him. Her body exploded into a thousand tiny spasms, and she
cried out hoarsely. For a few seconds—a few, glorious seconds—nothing around her
mattered. Nothing at all. She was drowning in pleasure and nothing else
mattered. Nothing.
And then it happened. Spike slipped his tongue out of
her pussy, filling her with two fingers as his thumb settled over her clit. He
rubbed her attentively as his mouth moved to her inner thigh, licking at her
tender skin with a purr.
Awareness shot through her. Buffy gasped loudly
and attempted to sit up. “Spike—no, you can’t—!”
Her words were wasted.
The next second, his fangs pierced her skin, sending her spiraling down a second
orgasm. He feasted on her, growling and drinking his fill. And when he finally
retracted his incisors from her flesh, she was too weak to fight him.
“Mine.”
Buffy blinked. She was numb all over.
Spike
growled and slammed an angry fist into the mattress, his tongue sliding over her
bloodied skin again. “Mine,” he insisted. “Say it!”
Defiance rose
and died. At some point, she had simply stopped caring. “Yours,” she agreed, her
voice small but satisfied. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to cry for
him. He could have her blood—hell, even her body—but he wouldn’t have her tears.
Not tonight. “Yours. Whatever. Just please…let me go.”
Her demand wasn’t
out of desperation anymore; rather necessity. She’d been taken from a world
guarded with rules—many, many rules. She might be a novice to the whole sex
thing, but she was certain that what had just happened should not have given her
the pleasure it did. She should not be trembling with the aftermath of an
orgasm—let alone two. His fangs should have terrified her. Everything that had
just happened should have terrified her. Instead, she was terrified of herself.
She’d just experienced something that women dreaded, and she’d enjoyed it.
God, she was disgusting. And even knowing that didn’t change
anything.
Again, Spike ignored her. Instead, he purred in delight and
licked her clit again before pillowing his cheek against her thigh. And then he
stilled, two fingers locked inside her. He stilled.
And
slept.
His mate was crying.
Spike was barely awake—barely aware of
anything. His senses and instincts were on autopilot. His conscious mind was
completely absent, and only the demon was present. And all the demon knew at the
moment was that his mate was crying. Crying and struggling beneath him. He
sensed her displeasure at her tears, her fear and repulsion. He felt her
disgust, both with herself and with him, and the awareness made him want to
weep.
Instead, he groggily rose to all fours, his hand going to the clasp
on his jeans. He didn’t know how he knew, but something told him that those new
to a vampiric claim often craved a physical bond to soften distress. It was the
best way, especially with the new sensations spreading through them, to soothe
fears and concerns.
His cock was erect, which did little to surprise
him. The rich scent tickling his nose always made him hard. He rumbled several
encouraging growls and nuzzled her throat, his eyes remaining shut. She was his
mate—sight wasn’t needed for this. All he needed to do was calm her. Calm her
for now by giving her the physical connection she craved.
His tongue
darted out instinctively and lapped up her tears, the head of his cock sliding
sensually against her slick opening.
But this wasn’t about pleasure. Not
now. Pleasure could wait.
Spike nipped at her neck and purred soothingly
as he slid inside her. So warm, he thought, curling his arms under her
shoulders, his head resting against her breast.
So warm.
Perhaps tomorrow, he’d think to question her near-virgin tightness.
The strange presence of a heartbeat. The tears that refused to stop flowing down
her cheeks. The whimpers that itched at her throat, and the foreign heat
radiating from her body.
Right now, though, he’d done all he knew to do.
He’d done what was needed to calm her.
So he rested.
Author’s Note: I so appreciate all the comments/reviews
on this fic, particularly the last chapter. I’m gonna try to get this revved
back into the fluffy/comedic light and not do the “expected” thing when it comes
to non-con…but at the same time, treat the non-con for what it was. However, I
do think it’s important to note that, while Buffy was hurt by Spike’s actions,
she was more terrified of her own reactions. It was the only way I could
talk myself into doing non-con. Trust me, that scene was specifically for plot
purposes. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.
Again, thank you so much!
Every nerve in his body was on fire; he was swimming in warmth. God,
there’d never been a feeling like this. Never in all his years, and he’d been
around for quite a while. There were a few things he knew immediately, even if
he wasn’t completely awake. First, he was balls-deep in the hottest, tightest
pussy he’d ever felt. Second, the woman beneath him was very definitely human.
Human, warm, wet, and wiggling.
It was quite possible that he’d never
been this hard before. Spike moaned, rotating his hips as he began to lazily
thrust inside her. His head was throbbing from the effects of more alcohol than
the entire Barrymore family line had ever seen, and memories of the previous
night came in a series of broken fragments.
Not a surprise. And even
though his drinking rarely got so out of hand—he usually stopped before he lost
control of himself completely—Spike saw little reason for concern. Obviously,
the night had worked out well for him. He was in a bed, he was in a woman; the
natural conclusion was, his carelessness hadn’t cost him his life. Rather, it
seemed he’d had a right decent time.
Now if only he could remember
it…
The woman beneath him gasped and whimpered and arched. Spike lowered
his mouth to her neck, favoring her sweet skin with long laps of his tongue.
“Mmmm…” he murmured. “So sweet.”
The words shocked the hell out of him.
He’d long ago stopped trying to fill his sexual void with nameless women,
especially since their faces seemed to turn into the Slayer’s rather than Dru’s.
But even more than that, Spike wasn’t one to go for meaningless sex. He could do
it, sure—and when he did, he did it with gusto—but a century had schooled him
well and although he’d love to, casual fucking didn’t do it for him. He’d
already had his revenge fuck. Well, in all honesty, several revenge fucks, but
it didn’t take long to realize what he was missing. It didn’t take long for said
revenge fucks to become anything but a reminder of how alone he was. And
nothing—absolutely nothing—about those nameless, faceless women had been sweet.
The one beneath him tasted sweet, and Christ, she felt like Heaven. She
was moaning and squirming, thrusting up against him, her breasts flattened
against his chest, her breath hot against his skin. The whimpers scratching at
her throat were driving him mad. There was something about her—he knew, even
without opening his eyes, that time had yet to jade her. That was another thing
about the few women he’d been with since Dru, and even Dru herself, that he
hadn’t thought to question until now. Women who were no longer impressed by sex,
who performed as though it were a routine to a dance they wished over long ago.
He didn’t take it personally, though he did relish the satisfaction of
their surprise once he made them come. Bet that hadn’t happened in years. But in
the end, they were just using each other, and he couldn’t give a damn if they
got off or not.
How did he manage to get so drunk and find a woman
like…
“Spike!”
His eyes flew open.
Oh my fuck.
A long, trembling whimper tore through Buffy’s lips, her eyes
fluttering shut as she trembled beneath him. Spike gasped along with her; the
pace of his thrusts increased. God, she felt so sweet, and he couldn’t keep
himself from fucking her. Not when she was so hot. When she had been looking at
him like that.
“You’re awake,” she hissed through her teeth,
though he couldn’t tell if she was strained with pleasure, or outrage.
“Oh my God.”
“You’re telling me.”
Spike stared at her for
a long minute, then his head fell to her shoulder, and he moaned. He forced his
hips to a standstill, his cock slipping out of her pussy with reluctance that
nearly tore his body in half. He immediately lamented the loss of her warmth,
and shivered as though he could, after a century, finally feel the cold. “Oh my
God. Slayer…I don’…how—”
It all came back in a rush. The library. Buffy
jump-roping. Buffy’s luscious tits bouncing. Buffy chained to a bed. Buffy
sleeping. And then—and then…nothing. There was nothing but a blur. He remembered
a bar. Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol…and then nothing.
Only very
obviously not nothing, as he’d awakened with his cock inside the Slayer’s
succulent pussy. That was definitely not nothing.
“Oh for the love of
Pete!” the Slayer all but growled. “Spike, please…don’t make me…God, don’t
make…”
He blinked stupidly. “What?”
“I…I’m…” She was blushing
furiously, which intrigued him until he realized what she was about to say. She
was close. Fucking Christ, he had the Slayer close to coming. She was close and
she didn’t want to say it—hell, from the look of things, she didn’t even want to
think about it. She was mad as hell, though he couldn’t tell if he was on the
receiving end of her anger, or if she was irritated with herself.
She’d
seduced him. That had to be it. Little vixen had seen him stumble into the
factory, very obviously drunk off his arse, and she’d seduced him to escape.
Fuck, if he wasn’t so bloody horny, he might have to punish her by not getting
her off. As it was, his cock was only too happy to slide back inside
her.
“Slayer,” he growled, fangs descending. The gasp that scratched her
throat only fueled his enthusiasm. She looked torn between ecstasy and
humiliation, and God if the combination didn’t shoot another bolt of lust
straight to his dick. “So hot.”
“Shut up,” she hissed through her teeth,
her eyes falling shut. “Just shut up and do it.”
“Do it?” He grinned
nastily, grinding his hips against hers. “The Slayer afraid the Big Bad’s gonna
make her scream?”
“Shut up.”
“Come on. You wanna scream
for your Spike.” He dropped his mouth, teeth clamping on her earlobe and giving
it a good tug as he slid a hand between their thrusting bodies, his callused
fingers finding her clit. The gasp that spilled from her lips was worth a
thousand of these mornings, hangovers and all. “Tell your Spike how much you
love this.”
He saw tears pricking at her eyes, but pushed his concern
aside. For God’s sake, she’d asked for this. What did she expect? Candles?
Roses? Sweet kisses and a promise of commitment? Had she forgotten who she was
dealing with in her attempt to seduce her way out to freedom?
“Come for
me, kitten.” He rubbed her clit fast, his other hand tugging her camisole down
until her tits were exposed to his hungry eyes, and his wandering lips
immediately navigated southward until he had a mouthful of Slayer-breast. “Come
on. Come for Spike. Wanna feel your pussy squeeze me into the next sodding
life.”
He said it more for her sake than out of desire. In all honesty,
Spike didn’t want her to climax so quickly—he wanted to enjoy this, draw it out,
because he knew it would never happen again. It was a realized fantasy that he’d
never again get to taste. So when she finally cried out and trembled around him,
drenching his cock with her juices and biting a lip to keep from screaming his
name, he couldn’t hope to hold on. He suckled on her nipple a second longer
before releasing her with a wet slurp, massaging her clit speedily as his eyes
took in the sight of her.
God, she was a glorious creature when she
came.
“You’re gorgeous,” he gasped, his voice near reverent.
And
somehow, the Slayer managed to ruin that moment with a well-timed glare. “Shut
up,” she spat.
Fucking bitch.
Spike snarled and
dove for her throat, but his fangs decided to bite into the pillow instead. God,
she was squeezing him mercilessly, her beautiful body in spasms as he spilled
himself inside her, his growl of completion lost in a sea of goose down
feathers.
It took several minutes for him to come back to himself. When
he opened his eyes, he found his head pillowed at her breast. Her very-much
heaving breast. A long moan rumbled through his throat. He felt spent, but his
cock was on a very different train of thought. Staring at her ruby nipple gave a
bloke ideas, and when he began to harden within her for round two, it was only
her sharp, panicked gasp that had the power to send him spiraling back to
reality.
The Slayer was staring at him, horrified. Horrified, and
gloriously bedded. God, she was edible.
“Don’t,” she said shortly,
ruining yet another moment. “Don’t. Just get out of me.”
“Slayer, never
let anyone tell you that you don’t know how to romance a fella.”
“I mean
it. Get. Out. Of. Me.”
Spike rolled his eyes and obliged, biting back a
whimper when his cock was suddenly deprived of her warmth. “Don’t see what
you’re so brassed about. You’re not the one that woke up with a
hangover.”
“I swear to God, you’re counting away the seconds until
you’re dust.”
His hands came up. “Oi! I just did what you asked for, you
stupid bint. An’ after that, don’t you think it a mite rude to start makin’
death threats? It’s not like shagging the Slayer was my number one priority when
I came back here. Fuck if I know what—”
God, the stupid bint looked ready
to cry again. Women were so bloody fickle.
“What?” he demanded.
“Let me up. I wanna go home.”
“Yeah. Two seconds after you’ve
threatened to stake me.” He rolled his eyes and jerked his jeans up. “Sorry,
luv. You’re good, but not that good.”
He regretted the words the
second they escaped his lips. The Slayer’s face crumbled completely and she
dissolved into tears. And he didn’t know why, but the sound of her crying tore
at him from every feasible angle. The next thing he knew, he was approaching her
slowly, his hand diving into his jean pocket for the key to her
shackles.
Stupid bird’s guiltin’ me into letting her go.
But guilt wasn’t on the menu—at least it shouldn’t be. However, he
couldn’t deny the twist of something that took command of his body. He
wanted to comfort her. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her brow, and
tell her that everything was going to be all right. Didn’t that just beat
all?
She was twisting so much by the time he knelt at the foot of the bed
that it took several minutes before he had one ankle free. But it only took a
second for her to kick him across the room.
Ungrateful
li’l…
“You stupid bitch,” he growled, fighting to his feet. She was
still crying, only she’d turned over—best she could—closing her legs but showing
him her ass, which really wasn’t in her best interest, but he wasn’t one to
complain. “I’m tryin’ to help!”
“You’ve done enough.”
“What? You
want me to apologize for shagging you? Sorry, Slayer, but you
asked.”
There was an angry pause at that, and she twisted to face him,
her legs remaining stubbornly pressed together. “I didn’t ask for last night!”
she screamed. “I didn’t ask for that.”
A very, very still beat
spread through the room.
“What?” he replied slowly. “Wait a mo’. Start at
the beginning. How’s it that I ended up in bed with you in the bloody first
place?”
Buffy stared at him, then shook her head incredulously. “You
don’t remember?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“I don’t
believe you.”
He shrugged. “Believe me or not, that doesn’ change
anything. Near as I can figure, you wanted outta here so bad you put that
scrumptious body of yours to use. Not a bad ploy when a man’s drunk,
but—”
“Me?!” she shrieked. “You forced—”
The word stopped him
dead, an ugly, heinous accusation that made even him shudder. He was many
things—many cruel, nasty things, but a rapist wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t
Angelus; he didn’t need to get his jollies off in order to, well, get his
jollies off. He’d tortured girls till they cried and begged for death,
sure—living with Angelus for twenty years, pre-soul, there hadn’t been much
choice. His Yoda, after all, demanded that he be an obedient student.
Of
the many terrible things he’d done to women, though, rape was simply
inconceivable. Most female blood that stained his hands post-Angelus had been at
Dru’s jealousy. She’d see a girl, make a snide accusation toward his nonexistent
wandering eye, and the next thing he knew, she had dinner in a Victorian
dress.
He hated to be a cliché, but really, violence against any
woman—save those with a sacred calling—had never been his thing. There was
something about his upbringing that refused to be shaken by violence and
hatred—some residual William factor that kept popping up. It didn’t keep him
from inflicting pain without bias, of course, but when possible, he avoided
drawing blood that wasn’t male.
Fuck, he hadn’t even offed Cecily, and
God knows, the bitch deserved it.
So Buffy telling him now that he’d
forced himself on her…well, that was just impossible.
Only, the look in
her eyes didn’t make it seem so impossible. Rather, it inspired a suddenly sick
feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he knew without a doubt that she was
telling the truth.
Oh God.
“Oh God.” Spike expelled a deep
breath and turned away, his body trembling.
There was very little in his
past that inspired guilt. Siring his mum for one. Dru’s run-in with the mob in
Prague. Somehow, a whole past full of wrongs had washed away, and he was bathed
in something he didn’t recognize. Beyond guilt. Beyond remorse. This was
something no vampire should feel. Never.
Never before had his demon wept,
but for the way in which his insides were shattering, it could be nothing
else.
Buffy was beyond exhausted. She climbed into her room and
flopped helplessly on her bed before remembering that she did not want to fall
asleep in Spike’s clothes. She didn’t want to fall asleep with his scent all
over her, or the ghost of his hands and mouth on her skin.
She just
didn’t have the strength to get up and walk to the shower. Furthermore, she was
certain that her mom had stayed up the night pacing the halls and calling the
entire Sunnydale directory because Buffy had never phoned or showed up for their
scheduled college discussion. And Angel was probably worried, too, since she’d
told him that she’d drop by.
She didn’t have the strength to start
fabricating an elaborate where I was last night story just yet. A part of
her needed to talk. Needed to tell someone that Spike had hijacked her life for
about twelve hours and now she was confused and angry and disgusted with
herself, only she wasn’t because she’d refused to think about it. It was over
and done with, and as far as she was concerned, the entire affair had been a
hellacious nightmare.
All she needed to do now was wake up.
There
was a tentative knock on her door, followed by her mother’s quiet, inquisitive
voice. “Buffy?”
She moaned and dragged a pillow over her head. No. Such.
Luck.
“Yeah,” she replied, her voice muffled. “I’m in here.”
The
door flew open the next second, and before she knew what was happening, Buffy
was all but yanked into her mother’s arms. “Oh, thank heavens!” Joyce exclaimed.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again! I had no idea where you were! You didn’t
call. You didn’t tell Willow. I couldn’t get a hold of Mr. Giles. And that
awful…that vampire that you said was your boyfriend?”
Buffy tensed.
“Angel?”
“Yes. He was here. He was here, Buffy! I had no idea what
to do.”
She groaned inwardly. “Mom, it’s
cool.”
“What?”
“Angel…he…he came back a little while ago. From
Hell. He came back from Hell, but he’s all souled up and…” She scowled at the
horror-laced disappointment flooding through her mother’s eyes. “Oh, don’t give
me that look. We’re just friends. I’m trying to help him acclimatize to life
here on the boring ole Hellmouth.”
“Buffy, he’s dangerous.”
“No,
he’s really not. Trust me; he’s soul-boy now. We’re not dating. We’re not gonna
be dating. We’re not anywhere near Datesville. We’re just friends.” A long sigh
rolled off her shoulders. “I couldn’t date him again if I wanted
to.”
“Isn’t he the one who murdered your teacher?”
“Mom, please.”
She was so not in the mood to argue about this right now. It was too
early, she was running on little to no sleep, and her mind was suffering the
most hellish of all hells. “Just…call school and tell them I’m
sick.”
“Are you?”
She shuddered, her mind flashing to Spike’s head
perched attentively between her legs, his tongue curling around her clit. And to
her astonishment, she was attacked by a fresh wave of lust. Spike-lust. Oh, she
was sick all right.
“Yes. Yes, I am very, very sick.” To solidify her ill
health, she frowned and coughed into her hand, earning little more than the
patented look of motherly disappointment. “I’m totally sick.”
“You were
out all night.”
“Yes, and don’t you think that’s a little
strange?”
“You were out all night and your ex-boyfriend, whom you sent to
Hell, just happens to be around, too. And he came by here, looking for you. Then
he left, and you were out all night.”
The only thing worse than being
with Spike was being with Angel. Being with Angel led to badness. Much badness.
And yes, her mother was partially right in that she’d been screwed
senseless—literally—by a vampire. She just had the wrong vamp in mind.
But Buffy didn’t tell her that. Any of it. Rather, she just swallowed
hard and said, “I really can do without the slanted looks and the judgment right
now.”
“And I can really do with a little honesty.”
“I wasn’t out
with Angel.”
Joyce visibly relaxed, a sigh rolling off her shoulders.
“Oh,” she said shortly. “Okay. Good. Who were…you were out all night with
someone else?”
Buffy shuddered again, her mind dragging her back to
Spike’s bed. Back to the second that his cock had slipped inside her; despite
the mind-numbing fear, some measure of peace had spread through her
panic-stricken body. She’d felt whole for a blink before remembering that he
wasn’t supposed to insert anything into her pussy—his fingers and tongue
had been bad enough, but now she was marked with him. She was different now
because of what had happened.
Only she wasn’t supposed to be thinking
about it anymore.
“I…Spike came back to town.”
“Spike?” Joyce
blinked. “Oh, the young British man? The one who helped you defeat
Angel?”
“Mom, you do realize he was a vampire, right?”
“Well, yes,
but he’s still a young British man.”
“A young looking British
vampire.” She paused and made a face. “And he didn’t even really help me
defeat Angel. He just kinda signed on so he could vamp-nap Drusilla. He snagged
her and left me to die.”
Her mother looked appalled. “He left you to
die?”
“Well, he had what he wanted. And he’s a vampire, so it’s not like
he was acting out of a want for the greater good. He said he wanted to save the
world, but he just wanted his ho-bag girlfriend back.” Buffy paused, surprised
at the bitterness in her voice. Why should she care if Spike had wanted Dru
back? She had no idea, but she cared anyway. “Stupid ho-bag bitch,” she added
with an emphatic nod.
“Buffy, language!”
“Sorry.”
Joyce
shot her a stern look, though her lips edged upward in a grin. At least one
person was amused; Buffy most certainly was not. For whatever reason, the idea
of Spike wrapped away in another woman’s arms—a woman he loved—made her feel
violently ill.
I’m deranged.
“So Spike’s in town,” Joyce
concluded, nodding and crossing her arms. “I…were you two fighting all night?
About his leaving without helping you?”
Buffy groaned inwardly. She
really needed to sit down with her mother—preferably sometime soon—and try to
get it through her head that Spike was bad news. That all vampires,
regardless of first impressions, were bad news. All vampires aside from Angel,
who was only bad news if he got laid. Besides, Joyce’s first impression of Spike
hadn’t been a positive one to begin with. She had, after all, smacked him upside
the head with an axe. That most definitely did not make for hugs and
heart-shaped chocolate kisses.
If her mother couldn’t get her mind
wrapped around the fact that Spike was bad news, then she might do something
stupid like invite him into the house. Not that Buffy had ever bothered to
revoke his invitation. Not that Spike was dumb enough to come calling,
especially since she’d made it painfully clear that he was a dead vamp walking
if he ever tried.
Not that he wasn’t Dead Vamp Walking anyway. What with
the being dead and all.
Okay, now she was getting a headache. And just
who was she kidding? Of course Spike was dumb enough to stick around. She’d told
him explicitly to leave, which meant he was likely sitting in his paint-smeared
car at the city limits, unsuccessfully trying to convince himself to heed her
demand.
Something monumental had happened between them. Something that,
for all the want in the world, could not be blamed on coercion.
Buffy
shivered again. “Mom, it doesn’t matter why he’s here. He came, we…talked, we
fought, we did the tango, he left. I’m running on about two hours of sleep and I
think if I try to go to school, I’ll pass out or get sick or something.”
Their eyes held for a minute, then the fight slowly left Joyce’s face
and she finally nodded her acquiescence. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, brushing
a kiss across her forehead. “Mmm. You do feel warm. Maybe you should go take a
cold shower…cool off a bit?”
She bit back a dry laugh. “No, I don’t need
a cold shower. Really, I just need some sleep.”
Suddenly, the thought of
washing Spike’s scent off her skin wasn’t as appealing as it had been. All she
wanted to do was curl up and rest. Let her mind wander off to that wonderfully
dreamless place where nightmares and slayer visions couldn’t touch her.
There would be plenty of time to wash off when she awoke. When the
previous night felt more like a horrid stint in non-reality rather than an
emotionally draining—however sensuous—fantasy getaway.
It would be
easier to hate him—easier to forget last night had happened at all—after she had
some sleep. It would be.
Buffy sank against her pillow as her mother left
the room, softly closing the door behind her. She closed her eyes and sighed,
and found herself drifting off within seconds.
It would be
easier.
It had to be.
Spike sat in the Desoto, his hands curled around the steering wheel,
his eyes glued to the sun-bathed sign that read: NOW LEAVING SUNNYDALE:
Come back soon! He had the car in park, though his foot hovered over
the gas pedal.
Leave.
He inhaled sharply and reached for
his cigarettes.
Get the bloody fuck outta Dodge now.
God,
he couldn’t. Something had a hold on him. Something that went beyond guilt. For
the hell his mind had been through in the past few hours, he should have been
out of town the second Buffy walked away from him. His insides were ripped to
shreds. Every time his thoughts returned to her, he felt nothing but
pain.
Pain that wasn’t hers. Pain at the thought of what he’d done. God,
he’d never felt pain like this.
Spike choked a laugh and puffed on his
fag. Somehow, he always managed to thoroughly bugger his plans. Kill the Slayer.
It’d seemed so simple just twenty-four hours ago. Kill her, bathe in her blood,
and go home to Dru. See if she really wanted slime and antlers when he could
finally deliver Buffy’s head.
Instead, he’d forced himself on her. And
now he couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t do anything but fight the need to crawl to
her side on his hands and knees and babble apologies until she staked
him.
Angelus’s example was through mental torment of his hapless victims.
Spike hated Angelus’s example. He’d never wanted this. Not for himself, not for
anyone; not even for his mortal enemy.
So here he was: deadlocked in a
black car under the blazing sun, peering through the black-smeared windshield.
Spike trembled and sighed. It was useless.
He wasn’t going
anywhere. It might kill him, but he wasn’t going
anywhere.
Author’s Note: Thank you guys so much for all
your lovely comments! I’m so glad you’re enjoying my little fic.
I would
like to address one thing, though, so as to hopefully avoid any confusion in
further chapters. As I understand claiming, it’s pretty much a fanon thing.
Something that doesn’t really have “rules,” even if there are certain
expectations that come with it. In the end, though, it seems to me that it’s
pretty much writer’s choice on how a claim is written/portrayed. I’m trying
something different here—something I haven’t seen before, though it might be
written somewhere. Either way, since claiming is a fanon thing, I think it’s OK
to explore.
Spike doesn’t know he claimed Buffy, and it’s not going to
just occur to him from nowhere. I’ll get into it in further chapters, but
basically, I’m working from the angle that Spike has never claimed anyone or
been claimed before. He doesn’t know what to associate his feelings with, and
jumping to the “claim” conclusion isn’t even on his radar. He has a passing
knowledge of claims, but he’s never really researched them (again, something
I’ll get into in later chapters), thus the demon claiming Buffy was an innate
thing more than anything else. I just thought I should clarify that before I go
on. In my little world, this isn’t something that Spike is just going to
magically know. With as much as I’ve read, and with as much of a
hot-button-issue as claims seem to be in the Spuffy fandom, I wanted to try
something a little different.
Okay, that’s all. Thank you all again so
much for your kind reviews. :)
- Ameeya
Buffy very rarely looked at herself naked.
Several months
ago, before the attack of Angel’s multiple personalities, Xander had asked her
if girls ever stood in front of the mirror and looked at themselves naked.
They’d been at the Bronze on a rare, demonically inactive Friday night, and he’d
shouted the question during an inconvenient quiet point between the band’s
songs. Willow had blushed profusely, Cordelia had huffed in disgust and slapped
his arm, and Buffy had just laughed and laughed.
After she was all
laughed out, she’d told him no. And the crestfallen look on his face was nothing
short of hysterical. She’d cushioned the blow a bit—told him that some girls
might, that not all females were linked psychically, and she didn’t know about
girls that were more confident. Girls that were sexual creatures first and human
beings second.
Just a few weeks ago, during one of the gang’s outings
with Faith, Buffy had caught Xander’s eye and said softly, “She might be one of
them.” And the goofy look on his face had told her that he got the message, loud
and clear.
Buffy had no reason to be thinking of her friend’s bizarre
question, aside from the fact that she was currently standing in the bathroom,
naked, and looking at herself. Just looking. Her body had no marks that would be
indicative of sexual assault. Her skin bore no bruises. And she wasn’t
surprised, because sometime after waking, she’d consigned herself to the reality
that her experience couldn’t be compared to the horrors of actual rape. Spike
had been nothing but caring with her, even when he’d gone down on her in spite
of her pleas. He hadn’t done anything to bring his own body release. He’d slid
his cock inside her, yes, but nothing had happened after that. Nothing until the
next morning, when she’d all but begged him to keep screwing her.
A long
sigh hissed through her lips. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious.
She wanted to feel violated. But she didn’t now. She had before—before Spike
awoke and regarded her with shock instead of malice. When he’d taken her slowly
and sweetly, when he hadn’t bruised her body with his. When she’d seen the
horror and guilt in his eyes rather than cold satisfaction.
Buffy had
been angry that morning. She wasn’t now. Not with Spike. She was just disgusted
with herself.
And she was looking at herself naked, her hands
occasionally twitching at her sides. She lifted her smallish breasts, rubbed her
flat stomach, and finally lowered her eyes to her pussy and shivered. Her body
might as well have been a stranger’s—she didn’t know it very well. She was an
organic weapon against evil, and only once before had she viewed herself as
someone sexual. She was used to appraising her muscles, doctoring cuts and
bruises, and applying bandages to sore skin before patrol. She wasn’t used to
noticing her own femininity. Not in a sexual way. Sure, she loved clothes and
make-up and doing girly things with her gal-friends, when possible, but even
when she was a part of a couple—when she’d been with Angel—it was hard for her
to view herself as anything other than Buffy. Girly Buffy, yes. Slayer Buffy,
check. All-Woman-Buffy, double check. But never Sexual Buffy. Not until the
night that Angel had taken her virginity, and certainly not any time since.
She’d thought about sexual things, yes, but always as other people would
experience them. Even when she thought of Angel, she’d see herself and Angel
from a distance, her mind taking on the role of a voyeur as she concocted
fantasies that involved her without involving her.
Spike had made
her feel sexual, and now she was looking at her body and wondering why. Buffy
was pretty certain that she didn’t look any different than other girls, and she
was more than convinced that there were women out there with more impressive
figures. Women who had bigger boobs, better tits, and perhaps less hair between
their legs—the sort of women she’d seen in her father’s dirty magazines a
lifetime ago. The kind that were more plastic than human, but somehow still more
appealing to the male population. She didn’t see herself as truly desirable, and
yet Spike had wanted her. He could have come home with any demon whore he
wanted—and damn if that didn’t smart. He could have, but he hadn’t. No, he’d
returned to the factory with her in mind.
Well, she supposed she couldn’t
prove that. Alcohol made the mind all foggy; at least, so said her health class
instructor. Perhaps she’d looked more appealing to him when he was drunk.
Perhaps she’d looked like a Playboy centerfold with too many clothes on. She
didn’t know.
Buffy pursed her lips and parted her legs just slightly,
her eyes immediately attracted to the bite mark that graced her left inner thigh
for the first time. It was startlingly beautiful, nothing like she would have
expected. Nothing like the ugly scar the Master had left on her neck. Spike
hadn’t bitten her in anger or violence, rather with tenderness and care. And the
mark was beautiful.
Compelled, she reached down to stroke it, and gasped
at the shard of ecstasy that shot to her core the second her fingers ran across
the mark.
“Oh my God.”
What the hell was that?
She ran her
finger across the bite mark again, and her knees about buckled in pleasure.
Oh my God.
Instantly, she shot her hand back to her side
and took a step away from the mirror, as though seeing her reflection was what
had prompted both her action and her very prominent reaction. She turned
quickly and twisted the bath nozzle. Better to just shower, as had been her
intention upon coming into the bathroom in the first place, and return to her
life. Her wonderfully dull
if-you-didn’t-include-world-savage-and-o
It had been the strangest day, and she hadn’t done anything. She’d
wasted away in bed, wrestling with her disturbing Spike-shaped thoughts and
trying very hard to convince herself that she hated him when, actually, she
found that she wasn’t even angry. And wasn’t that a kick in the pants?
Buffy sighed and braced her hands on the wall as water from the
showerhead cascaded over her body. Had it only been twenty-four hours since her
life made sense? She knew she wasn’t perfect; she knew that she had her
problems—Angel’s sudden return from Hell being a big one—but she’d been at least
mildly well-adjusted. What seventeen-year-old girl could attest to being so
level-headed when the world was constantly falling down around her and she had
to destroy her one-and-only to prevent the apocalypse?
Not many,
she thought bitterly, reaching for the soap bar. Only one in every
generation.
Her eyes fell shut as she began rubbing her body down.
This time yesterday, she’d been chained to Spike’s bed. This morning, she’d
walked out of the factory, and her life had changed. She wanted to ignore it,
but Buffy wasn’t an idiot. She knew her life had changed. It would never be the
same because of what happened, and honest to God, she didn’t know
why.
Buffy sighed, her left hand skating down her stomach and coming to
rest over the bite mark, and she shuddered with pleasure.
Why does
this feel so good?
Tears pricked at her eyes; she didn’t know why
she was so damned emotional over a bite. She should be grateful, right? At least
he’d bitten her there and not on her throat where the world could see.
Not that she liked that the bite was so close to her pussy. It made it so much
easier to…
A strangled gasp tore from her throat and she squeezed the
tender skin at her thigh, her right hand cupping her pussy, fingers dancing over
her slick flesh. She shivered and ignored the churning in her stomach—the same
that had followed her whenever her mind took her to subjects she’d always
thought were taboo.
Buffy had never really tried to bring herself off.
She’d explored, sure, but never like she’d read about in magazines. Something
about it seemed dirty, or had at one time. But Spike wasn’t here—oh God, it was
so easy to imagine that he was. So incredibly easy to picture that they were
his hands caressing her body. That he was rubbing the bite mark,
that his fingers were prying apart her pussy lips and dipping inside her.
“Ohhh…” She whimpered and threw her head back. Spike was behind her,
kissing down her throat and rumbling unintelligible adorations into her skin.
She felt the inside of his wrists rubbing across her pelvis as he caressed her
clit. She felt his mouth tasting her skin. She felt his chest rumble behind her
when she cried out, heard his whispered commands that she not hold anything
back. He told her how warm she felt, purred at how wet she was, all the while
thrusting his cock against her backside as his balls slapped against her
backside.
Buffy whimpered again desperately, and he growled at her ear.
And all the other voices shut up. The one telling her that she was being
disgusting. The one telling her that it was wrong. The one telling her that
Spike had abused her. The one telling her to forget it and move on. Everything
drowned out. Everything went away. All that was left was Spike.
Spike,
who had suckled on her clit, sunk his fangs into her left thigh, and declared,
“Mine!”
The world trembled around her as she came. Her legs
shook. Her insides quivered. Her fingers were drenched. Oh God, that had been
wonderful. She’d taken something that was hers and enjoyed it. Enjoyed it with
Spike, only this time, there was no guilt. There was no horror. There were no
tears. There was only Buffy. Only Buffy and Spike.
Except Spike wasn’t
actually there. He’d felt real, yes, but he wasn’t.
Something that Buffy
remembered just seconds later when she sighed and tried to lean against him.
Instead of a sturdy chest and loving arms, she met with cold air, and yelped in
surprise as her footing abandoned her and she fell inelegantly to the shower
floor.
“Owwie.”
Okay, so maybe next time, she shouldn’t get
so caught up in the fantasy.