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, andChrist, 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.