“Very… cozy,” Sir Rupert commented as he entered Spike’s room on the fourth floor of a shabby block of flats in London’s industrial area the next day. He looked around, anxious not to touch anything. If anything could be said in favour of this place, at least it was clean. The windowpanes were cracked, and if he wasn’t mistaken the window did not close properly either. The adjoining bathroom was tiny, without sockets. The TV had been out of order for half a year now because Spike had never had the cash to replace it. A bare light bulb was hanging from the ceiling, the curtains had large moth holes. The wooden bed in the tiny room was full of scratches and marks, lacking some screws and looked like it would break down any moment.
“Have a seat, I’ll be done in a minute,” Spike said, checking he had not forgotten anything in the slim closet where he had kept his few belongings.
Sir Rupert hesitantly sat down on the bed, which began to wobble instantly.
Spike cast him a questioning look. “What?”
“The bed isn’t very stable, I’m afraid,” Sir Rupert said, rising cautiously.
Spike shrugged. “Can be an advantage,” he replied with a smirk.
Sir Rupert did not want to hear any details. He looked around for the only chair, as if to decide whether it was safe to sit on it. “I do not mean to question Your Majesty’s judgment,” he said slowly, “But… how could you live in that hole?”
Spike took his guitar from the closet. “It’s cheap.” He took his bag and headed for the door. “Let’s go, then.”
Sir Rupert hurried to take his bag and guitar case, but Spike refused.
“No offence, but I don’t think you can carry this down the staircase, mate,” he said good-naturedly.
Sir Rupert did not loosen his grip on the bag. “I cannot let His Majesty carry His own baggage,” he disagreed.
Spike shrugged and let go off the bag and case.
Sir Rupert gasped as he started to heave the bags down the corridor.
“You sure?” Spike tried again, but Sir Rupert just replied with a contemplating snort. He felt foolish letting the older man who did not seem too well-trained carry his heavy bag and guitar down four stairs through a narrow Victorian style staircase, yet he realized a lot of things would change in his life from now on, and this was only the beginning.
Sir Rupert gasped and cursed under his breath, but he managed to take all the baggage down to the hall and out onto the street, where the driver of the big limousine with the Royal Coat of Arms on the side doors hurried to assist him.
“Where are His Majesty’s other belongings?” the chauffeur asked, but Sir Rupert signaled the disbelieving man that was in fact everything.
Spike lit a cigarette while they were storing his baggage. Then he started walking around the car with wide eyes, looking like a child at Christmas.
Sir Rupert cleared his voice and gestured at the car. The chauffeur held the door open for Spike. But he made no effort to get in.
“That’s a bloody fine car!” Spike exclaimed then turned to the chauffeur. “What’s your name, mate?”
“Bob, Your Majesty.”
“Bob… Can I drive?” he asked eagerly.
“I do not reckon this a good idea,” Sir Rupert said quickly, “It is not acceptable for a monarch to drive by himself.” He did not mention he feared for his life and the mint condition of the limo if Spike drove.
Spike looked disappointed.
“And, now you mention it yourself, Your Majesty: I would suggest you adapt your behaviour to that of a member of the Royal Family. As our future King, you are supposed to be a role model, especially for young people in this country.” With these words, he snatched the cigarette from Spike’s hand. “Smoking is unacceptable from now on. Would Your Majesty please get into the car now, we have quite a few obligations scheduled for today.”
Spike was too surprised to object.
He got into the limo without saying a word. As they drove off, escorted by several police officers on motorbikes, and the building he had called his residence, if not his home, vanished out of sight, he became painfully conscious of the fact that he was leaving his old life behind him forever. For a moment, he considered he should have backed out of this. He already had a mother, and his love for her would never change even if he got to rule the whole world. Yet he felt obliged to get to know his roots as well.
As Spike was walking through the corridors and up to his personal quarters, he could not help being very impressed. The marble staircase was larger than the whole building he had lived in, and the richly decorated ceilings were breathtaking. His feet sunk into the fluffy carpets as he walked down the corridor.
His few personal belongings had already been taken to the quarters assigned to him. As he looked from his windows, he saw the beautiful park around Buckingham Palace.
Only then did he notice the envelope with the Royal Coat of Arms on the mahogany coffee table near the window. It said E II R, Elizabeth II Regina. He opened it with fleeting fingers to find a letter.
What can I say to you to make you feel better? I hope you will accept my apologies for not revealing your identity to you in all the years I have known, and I desperately long to get a chance to explain myself to you. I wish I could give you the warm welcome to your house you deserve, but the doctors fear the excitement of meeting you might be too much for my condition. I have been moved to Windsor Castle for the time being to recover from the severe stroke I suffered. I will be seeing you at your coronation on June 20th. Please make this your home while I’m away, I know you will make me proud because you are my son.
I long to see you, but we have waited for so long a few more months will not make so great a difference.
Your loving mother.
Spike tried to overcome his disappointment. He had come to meet his mother, and now she did not even want to see him until June. June seemed so far away. Yet he had no more time to mull over his frustration because Sir Rupert entered the room quietly.
“Your Majesty, if you are settled in, I would like to introduce you to the staff here at Buckingham Palace.”
Spike nodded. It seemed unreal. Last night he had been just another bloke without a job and an occasional gig at a disco or nightclub, now he had two mothers and was being prepared for his coronation. He silently followed Sir Rupert down the hall to a large study.
Several people were standing in a long row, the men bowing, the women curtseying as he entered.
Spike looked around uncomfortably. “All these people are working here?” he asked disbelievingly in a low voice.
Sir Rupert smiled knowingly. “Actually, this is just the most important personnel, introducing every housemaid to Your Majesty would be inappropriate.”
“I have housemaids?” he murmured with surprise.
“Well, someone has to clean the 600 rooms, the pool and the cinema.”
“I have a pool?” He lowered his voice again. “How many people work here?”
“Buckingham Palace and its premises have 645 permanent employees, carefully selected among the most distinguished families of the country,” Sir Rupert enlightened him. “These are just the top 30.”
Spike held his breath.
He tried to stay calm as Sir Rupert began to introduce him to the employees, mostly middle-aged men turning out to be chamberlains and secretaries. A younger woman with a pretty face attracted his attention.
“May I introduce Lady Roberta to Your Majesty,” Sir Rupert introduced her, “She will be Your Majesty’s history teacher.”
The woman curtseyed.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Roberta.” Spike was momentarily distracted by her beautiful eyes, then Sir Rupert’s words sunk in. He frowned. “A teacher?”
“Several, in fact,” Sir Rupert informed him, “Your Majesty did not receive the education normally provided for a member of the Royal Family, therefore, I have taken the liberty to employ the country’s most reputed academics to teach Your Majesty everything about the traditions and duties His office comprises.” He went on to another woman. “This is Lady Charlotte, Your Majesty’s teacher in literature and linguistics.”
“I gotta learn foreign languages?” Spike asked, flabbergasted.
“If I may speak openly,” Sir Rupert remarked, “No, not foreign languages. It is just a fact that all other members of royalty have attended expensive public schools, such as Eton and Harrow, where they have been taught to mind their speech from early childhood. In Your Majesty’s case, this has been neglected, I’m afraid.”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Sir Rupert lowered his voice. “It is inappropriate for a king to speak like an ordinary dock worker.”
Spike drew in an audible breath, felt his temper rising. “She is to teach me English?” he burst out.
Lady Charlotte curtseyed then slowly raised her eyes to look at the new king.
Spike realized it could be worse – she was definitely prettier than his elderly primary school teacher. He remembered it was not her fault that Sir Rupert was such a prick, so he gave her a forced smile. “Pleased to meet you, Lady Charlotte. Glad to have you for a linguistics teacher.”
Lady Charlotte hoped he did not see her blushing as she wondered what those gorgeous lips would feel like on her mouth… or elsewhere.
“This is Sir Riley,” Sir Rupert introduced the last in row.
Spike looked at the young man suspiciously. He looked a little dull.
“He is Your Majesty’s polo instructor.”
“Polo.” Spike repeated the word with a mixture of horror and disgust.
“Polo,” Sir Rupert confirmed coldly. “I suggest Your Majesty retire to His quarters to change, the Royal tailor is awaiting Your Majesty with the new polo outfits. I have taken the liberty to arrange Your Majesty’s first polo lesson in an hour’s time.”
Spike glared at him. “You are taking lots of liberties, Sir Rupert.”
Sir Riley was already waiting at the polo field, grinning like an idiot as he caught sight of Spike in his polo clothes.
Spike felt ridiculous. His carefully styled hair was getting all squashed beneath the stupid helmet, he felt he walked like a duck in his knee-high boots and limited in his movement by knee protectors. His hands were sweating under the white gloves on the warm day.
“We shall start with some simple explanations, Your Majesty,” Sir Riley began and tried hard not to giggle. ” On a full sized grass field, each team has four people. The ground is 300 yards long, 160 yards wide if boarded. Being boarded means the field has a 12 inch upright board bounding the perimeter which stops the ball rolling out of play easily. The goal posts, positioned at each end, are 8 yards apart. The full game is 8 chukkas…”
“Eight… what?” Spike asked disbelievingly.
“Chukkas,” Sir Riley confirmed, “Rounds, Your Majesty. Each chukka is timed to last 7 minutes, then a bell is rung, but the game goes on until the ball goes out of play, or for another 30 seconds when the bell is rung again, the chukka ends where the ball is.”
Spike stood and stared for a moment.
Sir Riley grinned. “Your Majesty’s gonna get used to it in no time. Each player is handicapped on a 4-6 chukka basis from -2 up to 10 goals. The aggregate handicap of the four players in a team is the team handicap. For example if all players have a handicap of 2 goals each, the team handicap is 8 goals and is referred to as an ‘8 goal team’.”
Spike began wondering if Sir Riley was handicapped himself.
Then Riley led him up to a pony. “Polo is played using an English type saddle. There is an overgirth in addition to the regular girth to keep the saddle from slipping,” he added helpfully. “This is your pony, Your Majesty. Her name’s Darla.”
Spike looked at the pony hesitantly.
“How about you climb her from the near side?” Sir Riley suggested.
“The left side of the pony is called the near side, the right side is called the off side,” Sir Riley explained.
Spike sighed. It was going to be a long day. As he tried to ride Darla, she backed away and neighed nervously. Sir Riley held her reins. “Good girl, relax,” he said soothingly. But as soon as Spike approached, Darla pulled away again.
“Allow me to assist Your Majesty,” Sir Riley offered. With the right hand, he held Darla’s reins, with his left arm, he pushed Spike up onto the pony. “There you go, Sir,” he said with a pleased smile that made Spike want to smash his face in. Riley slapped the pony on the back. Darla apparently decided she didn’t like this at all and began to take off at high speed.
“Side reins, Sir!” Riley shouted after them.
Spike pulled the side reins as hard as he could. Darla twisted and arched beneath him, lifting her front legs in the air. Spike could no longer hold on to her back and fell down on his rear in the mud.
Sir Riley came running up to him. “It’s okay, baby,” he told the pony, gently stroking her until she calmed down. Only then did he see to Spike.
Spike was outraged that arrogant fool of a horse whisperer cared more about the bloody pony than his future King.
Riley did not ask if he was alright. He smiled good-naturedly: “Happens to everyone the first time. The chemistry between you and Darla will soon improve.” He held out his hand to help him up.
Cursing under his breath, Spike struggled to his feet without assistance, his white pair of polo trousers ruined by the mud.
He was extremely upset with Sir Riley and himself when he returned to Buckingham Palace, his clothes soaking with mud, his face showing bruises, his butt aching from the fall. He was carrying the behated helmet under his arm when he walked down the hall to disappear into his rooms, preferably without anyone seeing him. Yet as he was crossing the carpet, he noticed a blond woman standing next to a cleaning trolley, dusting the expensive vases in the hall. One of the housemaids. And a pretty one. No way she was going to see him like that, all the servants would laugh tears about their king if anyone saw him in this state. He tried to sneak past her and had successfully crossed the carpet when her sharp voice addressed him from behind: “What do you think you’re doing?”
He turned around to look at her.
She was standing before him, hands on her hips, the plain housemaid uniform emphasizing the curves of her body. Her blond hair was tied to a knot at the back of her head in order not to fall over her face while cleaning, yet a loose strand of her golden curls kept getting into her eyes. Her eyes were beautiful, huge, luminous. Her luscious lips were not smiling, however. She stared at him with a burning gaze. “I’ve been cleaning the carpet for over an hour, and you come trampling in here like an elephant staining my carpet with your muddy riding boots! Who do yo think you are? I gotta clean ten more rooms this morning, how am I supposed to get around my work schedule? Stupid sonuvabitch!”
“Sorry.” Spike’s face lit up. She was even more cute when she was angry.
“Sorry?” she blurted out, “Sorry! You think you say sorry for ruining my day’s work and it’s okay?”
Spike looked down at the carpet. His muddy footsteps were all over the fluffy surface, getting drier and harder to remove with the minute. He made a step towards her. “Look, I wasn’t thinking, I’m really sorry.” He cast her an irresistible look from his blue eyes.
“Yeah, I guess you aren’t used to thinking,” the housemaid continued her ranting, then she looked into his eyes. God, they were adorable. If only he hadn’t been wearing those stupid clothes. Her eyes widened. “Now I know who you are!” she exclaimed. “You’re Sir Riley, the new King’s polo instructor!”
Spike considered correcting her mistake for a moment, then he decided it was refreshing to talk to someone who had no idea who he was. He smiled. “Call me Spike.”
“Alright, Spike.” She smiled. “The polo lesson’s over for today?” she asked seductively, getting so close to him he could feel the warmth of her body.
Spike felt his mouth go dry. “Yeah.”
“Then I have just the job for you,” she replied curtly, pressing cleaning foam and a sponge into his hand. “You’re gonna clean the carpet you’ve just ruined, and hurry, I haven’t got all day!”
He stared at her.
She cast him a determined look. “As in now.”
Spike looked at her in disbelief. “You’re serious about this.”
She glared at him. “Well, no, I’m kidding, I don’t mind losing my job! Of course I’m serious! Jerk!” She held his piercing gaze. “On your knees, moron.”
Spike shrugged. “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her an amused smirk as he took off his jacket and shoes, carefully putting them aside on the cleaning trolley to avoid upsetting her more. He went down on his knees and began to clean the carpet.
She looked satisfied as she went back to her work.
“You’re American,” he noticed, “How come you work here?”
“I live in California, with my mom and my sister. My dad’s English,” she explained, “He got me this job to work off my debts. I crashed his car against a tree,” she admitted, wondering why she was even telling him this.
“Why not work in California?” he inquired.
Her pretty face darkened. “My mom’s married again. His name’s Ted. Can’t stand him. Took every chance to get away.” She sighed. “And my dad thought it a good idea to get me a job where I have to work with my hands, says it’ll be good for my character to do hard and honest instead of hanging out with the other students!”
Spike smiled. “So you’re a student?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m graduating from college next year. I took a break ‘cos my mom was ill, but she’s much better now.”
He sighed with relief. She wasn’t as young as he had feared. Hell, why was he even interested in this? He kept rubbing the mud out of the carpet. He began to understand why she had been so upset. “What does your boyfriend say about being separated from you for so long?”
She crossed her arms before her chest. “Do you always cross-examine other people before asking their names?”
Bloody hell, she was right, he hadn’t even asked her name. He tilted his head as he looked up at her. “Bet you have a poetic name. A fairy name,” he said in a low voice, “How about Willow? Or Cordelia.”
She giggled. “Not even close!” She looked down at him as he was still kneeling in front of her on the carpet. “It’s Buffy.”
“Buffy,” he repeated thoughtfully. Queen Buffy I, it ran through his mind for a dreamy second. Then he snapped out of it and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Buffy asked angrily, “Riley isn’t that much of a name either, Sir or no!” She put her foot down as if to emphasize her words — right into the last spot of mud that had remained on the carpet. Her face was so shocked it was almost comic. She looked as if she was considering running away.
“Let me take care of that,” Spike said quickly. His hand closed around her calf.
Buffy startled at his unexpected touch and pressed her thighs together.
“It’s okay,” he said in a low and silky voice that sent shivers down her spine. “Just part your legs.”
Buffy felt hot and cold at the same time. “What?”
His hand slowly drew her feet apart. Buffy did not protest as he was lifting her foot and began to wipe the muddy spot on her shoe with the sponge while he was slowly running his fingers over her skin, yet never rising above her ankle. She looked down at his tousled hair, resisting the urge to run her fingers through it and felt reduced to a stupid schoolgirl.
When he had finished, he slowly put her foot back down and rose, putting the sponge and carpet foam back in place on the trolley.
He winked. “See you around, Buffy.”
Whistling a tune, he walked away from her and down the hall. Maybe that whole king thing wasn’t that bad after all.
He was in an extremely good mood when he threw off the muddy polo clothes and took an extensive shower. He would spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing by the TV, a luxury he had not been able to afford for the past few months. As he came from the bathroom, still toweling his hair, he looked around. Where was the TV?
He kept looking, in his bedroom, his study and the living room, but he could not find it. He put on a clean white shirt and a pair of brand new jeans and rang the bell.
After a few minutes, Sir Rupert entered. “What can I do for Your Majesty?”
“Where’s the TV?” Spike asked.
Sir Rupert smiled like a cat who had just devoured a canary bird. “I thought it wiser to remove any distractions from Your Majesty. You will be so busy for the time being you will not even miss it, I guarantee.”
“I bloody well miss a TV,” Spike contradicted him.
“You didn’t have one at your old… home,” Sir Rupert pointed out.
“Well, that was before I was a king!” Spike protested. “What am I supposed to do all day?”
Sir Rupert smirked and rang for the Secretary. Instantly, two big red boxes were carried into the room.
“What’s that?” Spike asked irritatedly.
“Your mail,” the Secretary explained.
“All of that’s my mail?” Spike asked, astonished.
“Just the official paperwork,” Sir Rupert corrected him, “from government ministers, foreign ambassadors, representatives of the Commonwealth. Policy papers, Cabinet documents and other State papers. The 500 personal letters from your subjects have been passed to Your Majesty’s study.”
Spike stared at the boxes. “How long has my mum not done her paperwork?”
Sir Rupert could not suppress an amused chuckle. “Your brother, the Prince of Wales, was so kind as to attend to the paperwork in Her Majesty’s name while Her health did not permit her to do it by herself. This is just today’s mail.”
“And I have to reply to all of them? That’s gonna take years!” Spike protested.
“Of course not,” Sir Rupert said to his relief, “You just have to read, approve and sign every document contained in these boxes. You can make a cross-selection of your personal mail according to your own taste and tell your staff how you would like them to be answered. Your private Secretary will take care of the others. Oh, and before I forget, Lady Charlotte and Lady Roberta have sent up some books for you to go through before your first lessons tomorrow morning.” With more than just a hint of irony, Sir Rupert added: “As Your Majesty will agree, there will be no need for a television set.”
The sun had already set over Buckingham Palace when Spike threw the last letter back into the second red box. This had been hard work; he was lacking concentration, and had no desire to go through The Language of Kings Part One – A study in RP and Royal English or History of the British Monarchy 1660-1800. “My kingdom for a TV,” he murmured. Then it hit him that Sir Rupert had said something about a cinema. For a moment he considered ringing the bell to ask where the cinema was, but he changed his mind. If he was unlucky, Sir Rupert might come in with more mail. Better to sneak out and find the cinema by himself.
The hall was completely dark now, everything was quiet. A look at the large clock in the hall told him it was almost ten, which explained the absence of servants on the corridors.
“If I were a cinema, where would I be?” he asked the empty staircase.
“Bloody hell.” Spike had been wandering the stairs and halls of Buckingham Palace for half an hour without meeting a soul, yet he had been unable to find the sodden cinema.
At last he followed a narrow staircase down to the basement where he could hear muffled voices, sounding like some kind of motion picture.
He found himself standing in a dimly lit hallway with doors to both sides. He listened hard for the voices and sneaked past the doors silently, not minding where he was going… and bumped into someone.
“Sorry,” he said, snapping out of his trance. Then he saw to his surprise it was the young woman who had been yelling at him earlier that day. She was dressed casually, wearing a satin nightdress and a matching morning coat, carrying microwaved popcorn,
“You again,” Buffy said, trying to sound as upset as possible and to hide her surprise. “What are you doing here? Do you always go wandering around corridors to scare clueless girls?”
Spike smiled self-assuredly. “You didn’t seem so clueless to me,” he said dryly. “No, I’ve just moved in, and I must have got lost.”
Buffy nodded. “Yeah, with 600 rooms, you can easily get lost. This is the floor for the housemaids, I guess your room is near the gardener’s, I can take you back there if you like.”
Spike felt the heat rise to his face. If she wandered the corridors with him and they were seen by anyone, she would inevitably learn who he was. “What are your plans for tonight?” he asked bluntly.
Buffy blinked at him in surprise. “I was making myself some popcorn at the shared kitchen. I’m watching TV tonight, I was too tired to go out.”
Spike looked at her enviously. “What’s on?” he asked.
“Channel 4 has When Harry met Sally,” she explained. She noticed the devastated look in those baby blues. She had no idea what drove her to it when she asked: “Wanna come?”
For a fraction of a second, pictures shot through Spike’s mind of himself coming all over Buffy’s perfect body. He shook his head to get rid of the pictures.
She misinterpreted the gesture. “If you have other plans, of course…”
“No, no,” Spike said quickly, “I’d love to!”
Buffy beamed. “Great!” She became aware she might seem a little too eager. “I mean, okay.”
She opened the door behind which Spike had seen the bluish light of the TV. The room was tiny, with a small washbasin, a closet that wouldn’t even have had enough room for his collection of new polo shirts, a slim bed and a TV.
“I don’t have a chair,” Buffy apologized, “So we’ll both have to sit on the bed.”
Spike shrugged. “That’s alright.”
Hesitantly, Buffy sat down on the bed.
Spike sat next to her.
For a moment, they watched the commercials without saying a word.
“Buffy?” he finally asked.
“Don’t you think it will be uncomfortable to sit here for two hours? Wouldn’t you prefer to lie down?”
Buffy looked at him suspiciously. “You wouldn’t mind?”
He laughed lightly, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ve slept in beds much more narrow than this one, there’s plenty of room for two people.”
“Oh. Okay.” Buffy tried not to look at him as she lay down on the bed, putting a pillow behind her back to be more comfortable.
She felt the mattress moving under her as Spike took off his shoes and slowly lay down next to her. When Harry met Sally started.
“… whatever that woman has had for lunch, I want it!”
Buffy was giggling so hard she couldn’t stop. The next commercial came on.
“I don’t know what women find so funny about this movie,” Spike growled.
“It’s so true!” Buffy explained. “Men are like that!”
“Crap,” Spike disagreed, “Any man can tell a faked orgasm from a real one.”
Buffy regarded him with an amused smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
“I can,” Spike insisted.
“No, you can’t,” Buffy teased him.
“Believe me, I can, I’m not as dull as that Harry guy.”
Buffy sat up in the bed. “It’s okay, I believe you.” She started giggling.
Spike shook his head angrily. “No, you don’t, you’re just saying this because you want me to shut up! But that doesn’t mean you believe I’m right.”
“‘Cos you aren’t,” Buffy insisted. “A woman can always fake an orgasm, and there is no way for a man to tell.”
Spike looked at her with sparkling eyes. “Prove it.”
Her eyes widened. “Sorry?”
“Prove it. Fake one.”
She looked shocked. “Now? No way!”
Spike shrugged and reassumed his position, turning his attention back to the TV. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
“Hey!” Buffy protested, kneeling on the bed, blocking his view.
“It’s okay,” Spike said levelly, “Let’s watch the film.”
“I have no intention of faking an orgasm just because you’re an arrogant bastard!” she defended herself.
Spike shrugged again. “I said it was alright, pet. Calm down and watch the rest of When Harry met Sally, just forget about it.”
“Fine,” Buffy said stubbornly.
She lay back down.
After a few moments, Spike felt her move. He looked at Buffy and gasped. She was lying by his side, her eyes clouded, her cheeks flushed. Tiny pearls of sweat were on her forehead, her hair was tangled and falling over her face, one strap of her nightdress falling lazily over her shoulder, revealing her tanned skin, the nightdress showing a hint of cleavage.
Buffy moaned silently.
She licked her lips, her pink tongue curling about her teeth. “Oh, yeah,” she whispered.
Spike stared at her. “What’s this supposed to be, Buffy?”
She did not reply. Instead, she closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and her breath sped up. More sweat was showing on her forehead. She ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, Spike,” she whimpered.
“This isn’t funny, Buffy,” he said, when Buffy’s breathing went even quicker. She arched against an imaginary partner in the air above her, bucking her hips.
“Oh, yeah, faster, harder,” she sighed, her voice husky. She threw herself from one side to the other, gasping, moaning, whimpering.
Spike meant to leave, but he could not do anything but watch her. God, she was hot.
“Yeah, please, don’t stop,” Buffy said, now even louder, thrusting her hips into the empty air. “Spike, oh, Spike…” Her eyes flew open. “Oh, God, yes!!!!!!” He could clearly see her hardened nipples against the light fabric of the nightdress; her skin was all flushed. “Almost there!” she informed him, now almost screaming. Her hands went up against the headboard as her eyes closed again. “SPIKE!!!! SPIKE!!!!” she was yelling again, past care if any of the other servants was going to hear her.
Spike wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then he quickly grabbed a pillow so Buffy would not see he had a massive hard-on.
Buffy opened her eyes and grinned at him. She smoothed her nightdress with her hands, adjusted her hair and sat up on the bed, munching some popcorn. Her gaze was fixed on the screen now. “I like the next bit,” she commented, “Watch closely.”
Spike stared at her. Then he jumped from the bed and out of the room, accidentally taking her pillow with him.
Buffy lay back and sighed. “I love that movie!”