Author’s Notes: If you haven’t read ‘The Intern’, this might not make sense though you could read this as a stand alone. I wouldn’t suggest it because you’re missing out on some hottness.
This ficlet has SOME dialog, though not much. I would have just added another chapter to The Intern, but I really like it as its own story and the style of this one is slightly different, considering it does have a bit of dialog.
Spike picked her up at seven o’clock sharp.
She was slightly reluctant to have him do so as she was embarrassed about her shabby apartment and sparse furnishings but it seemed that he didn’t even seem to take notice of her surroundings when she opened the door. He smiled, appreciated the black halter dress she wore and asked if she packed any bobby pins. When she said ‘no’, he casually waited for her to retrieve some. They were for later, he said. Spike grabbed her suitcase that she prepared for their weekend together and walked her to his car. 1961 Jaguar XK-E, custom job, black, with a long sleek muscular front and a tight back end. So very Spike. The license plate read: PDA. Clever.
He folded his Italian suit jacket that was previously lying in the passenger seat over his arm after he opened the door and closed it with the heel of his hand once she was settled inside. The interior was just as attractive with soft black leather seats that barely clung to the remnants of his cologne and cigarette smoke. It was a heady aroma that she almost felt ashamed to tarnish with her own perfume, delicate as it was. He tossed his jacket in the tiny area behind their seats and then reached over her, smiling coyly when she flinched. He was making her nervous.
When he grabbed her seat belt and slowly dragged it to the side to buckle it for her, she let out a relieved sigh and he winked at her, clicking it into place. He started up the car and it growled, rumbled and roared when he gave it some gas and loud jazz blared from the speakers. Bitches’ Brew, he said it was. Miles Davis, she remembered, and he gripped the stick shift, popped the clutch and took off down the road. He drove fast and smooth, grinning like he held a secret and she watched in awe as he pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a Zippo and rolled down his window all with his left hand as his right shifted the car into gear smoothly. His cufflinks glistened with every jerk of his wrist. She was mesmerized by his hands, one of which held a white band of skin where his wedding ring used to live. But every movement was deliberate, prowling and suave, highlighted by the veins that popped and twitched with each gesture.
Once they were on the highway, comfortably in third gear, his right hand found her bare knee. He exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke and gracefully stroked her inner thigh with his fingers as they pushed their way up the slinky material of her dress. Spike’s tongue massaged his lower lip as he watched the road and Buffy started to breathe heavily. What he did next, she didn’t anticipate. He took her left hand and sweetly linked his fingers with hers. With a soft smile, he brought their entwined hands to his mouth and tenderly kissed the back of hers before placing it on his thigh so he could shift into second gear as he exited the highway. Her hand tingled all the way to the restaurant.
Dinner was long, charming, and cost more than her rent. He ordered for her, of course, and balked that she’d never tasted soft shell crab before. He was gentlemanly enough not to get her drunk, but swore that if she didn’t try the wine he would be insulted. He asked her question after question. Where did she grow up? What was her mother’s name? Why did her father turn into a bastard and leave them? Had she always wanted to work in advertising? Why did she choose his agency for an internship? What size shoe did she wear? Had she ever gone on holiday in Europe? Why not? The more wine he consumed, the bolder the questions became.
Had she ever had sex in an elevator? What about in a limousine, on a boat, on the kitchen table, against a wall, in a Jacuzzi, in a public bathroom, or shit, what about Texas? When her answer repeated the word, ‘no’, he asked why her exes were complete wankers. How many partners did she have? Why only two? Why did she believe anything those pricks said about her talents and what sort of name is ‘Angel’, anyway? Was he gay? Did she have any idea how beautiful, vibrant, sexy and tempting she was? And finally, was she scared to spend the weekend with him?
She took a sip of her wine and smiled into the rim, shaking her head. He leaned back in his chair, tilted his head, rolled his tongue behind his teeth and held his credit card in the air for the waiter.
As they waited for the Valet to retrieve his car, he said, “I hope you like pancakes in the morning. It’s the only thing I can cook.”
She was finally going to see past the foyer of his house. After two months of dropping off his dry cleaning, it was the first time she would enter his estate as something other than an assistant. He flipped the lights on and held her hand as they walked into the main room. She tripped on something on the floor and covered her mouth as she gasped. The entire living room was completely trashed. A couch was turned over, the coffee table was shattered to bits, glass shards from picture frames were scattered about the floor. She’d tripped over what appeared to be a wooden leg of the chaise lounge that was upturned in the corner. She was about to ask if he’d been robbed but Spike casually looked at her over his shoulder and said, “Watch your step,” and led her further inside.
With wide eyes, she daintily walked through the room, carefully avoiding the carnage and wondering about his casual demeanor. His bedroom, luckily, wasn’t in shambles though the bed was stripped bare. Not a single sheet or pillow lay upon it and before she could ask, he’d plopped her suitcase on the mattress and unzipped it. She put her hand on his arm to stop him, but he continued anyway, dumping its contents out on the bed. She nervously chewed on her thumb as he inspected everything she packed. Each garment was carefully looked over and tossed in separate piles. Then he picked something up with his pinkie, dangling it in the air and smiling wickedly at her. It was a black lace teddy with the tags still attached. She blushed. He folded it neatly and put it in a separate pile and rummaged some more through her things. All of her dresses and evening garb were placed back in the suitcase and her boring sleep shorts and camis were neatly folded and tucked in the top drawer of his bureau. It was empty. The suitcase was tossed to the other side of the room and all of her bath products and necessities were instantly set up in the master bath as if she’d lived there for years. The teddy stayed on the bed.
“We’re going shopping tomorrow,” he said plainly.
“You don’t like the clothes I packed?”
“On the contrary. I love them. But they belong in another place. Bobby pins?”
She stared at him for a moment before she remembered his request and retrieved the tiny box of bobby pins from her purse. He placed them in his pocket, a reminder she guessed for something he had planned later. He walked to the closet and she stood silently, watching him as he pulled out a load of linens and sheets that were bunched in a messy wad. He walked to the door and gestured for her to follow him. Spike opened the large French doors that led to his back yard. It was gorgeous. Exotic flowers framed a black stone pathway that meandered towards a large swimming pool with a waterfall on the far end. There was an expanse of black stone in a make-shift patio. There was no furniture, just a large metal trashcan. He tossed the linens into it and walked back in the house after he asked her to wait. He returned with a box containing women’s clothing, several photographs, and some strange looking Victorian doll. All of them were tossed into the trashcan. He procured a bottle of lighter fluid from his back pocket, squirted the contents with it, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a match and tossed it into the trashcan. It ignited with a loud boom and Spike stood silently smoking, watching the flames rise with an emotionless expression. Then he held out his hand. She took it, standing beside him. His grip tightened as he squirted the rest of the lighter fluid on the fire. She knew better than to say anything and allowed him the catharsis he needed. Buffy was grateful to be a part of it. With a final drag to his smoke, Spike tossed the butt into the flames and led Buffy back inside to his bedroom. A plastic shopping bag was retrieved from his closet. New sheets. She helped him make his bed.
Then he led her to the bathroom. It was almost as large as his bedroom and decorated in vintage 1920’s hardware with a modern flair. Tiny mosaic tiles lined the floors, a copper claw-foot tub sat in the center, a vanity in the corner with chrome accents and a plush ottoman sat near the tub. He ordered her to sit. She wrung her hands and watched him walk to the vanity and grab a brush out of the drawer. Suddenly, he was behind her, sweeping her hair away from her neck and started brushing. She closed her eyes and sighed, shivering when his hands delicately grazed her shoulders as he pulled her hair up. He held it there for a moment and she heard the rattling of the bobby pin case. With expertise, he’d styled her hair in a bun and gently kissed the back of her neck. Spike filled up the tub and squeezed a healthy amount of bubble bath into the water. It steamed as it waited for her.
She stood when he gently tugged her hands and allowed him to untie the straps of her halter dress. He walked behind her and traced her spine with the tips of his fingers, tugging the fabric down when he reached her waist. Her dress pooled around her feet. Buffy closed her eyes again as his hands gently wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. He kissed her shoulders as his thumbs dipped beneath the waistband of her panties and slid them down her hips. He walked around to the front of her again and smiled, removing his cufflinks. They were neatly placed on the vanity table and then he meticulously rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows. She knew he wanted her to watch him do this and she had no problems doing so. He sat down and untied his shoes, looking up at her through his dark eyelashes with a sly smile, and then he took a moment to appreciate her naked form. Now barefoot, he stood again and loosened his silk tie and slid it off his neck, folding it three times and set it next to his cufflinks. He pulled his shirt tails out of his pants after he removed his belt, and then he got on his knees before her and lifted her foot to remove her shoe. He did the same for the other foot but caressed her legs as he stood up.
She squealed when he scooped her up in his arms and then giggled when he waggled his eyebrows at her. Very carefully, he lowered her into the tub and then sat on the ottoman next to her. Silently, he grabbed a bar of soap and worked up a lather. He needed to touch her, avoiding the washcloth that lay slung over the side of the tub. His warm hands slid across her collarbone leaving a soapy trail, working from shoulder to shoulder and finally down each arm. He lifted her beneath her arms and pulled her back flush against the tub. He knelt behind her, lathered again and rubbed down her sternum between her breasts, wrapping one of her arms behind his head with his free hand. She arched her back when he kissed the side of her neck and slowly descended down her stomach, uncaring that the rolls of his sleeves were getting wet with bubbles. He whispered his praise in her ear, how pink her nipples were, how soft her skin was, how hard he was, and said each sonnet between warm open mouthed kisses behind her ear. His touch swept up her sides and gently caressed the underside of her breasts. Hands slick with soap, his palms slid over her taut nipples, then his fingers, and finally he pinched them as he bit down on her neck. She gasped, curling her toes in the water and craning her head back into his shoulder.
The evening was so bizarre, filled with so many questions but as he continued to wash her like royalty, she became emotional. It was difficult to quash the feelings building inside her and even more difficult when he came to the side of the tub and she looked into his eyes. There was something there, something restrained that she couldn’t see but knew this was more than a sexy tryst in a bathroom for him. He lifted one foot out of the water and set it on the edge, soaping up her leg. He kissed the arch of her foot before placing it back in the water and treating her other leg to the same tender caress. His sleeves and shoulders were drenched at this point, but he didn’t seem to mind. Spike watched her intently as his greedy fingers trailed up her thigh and ended with a slow slide against her folds. His lips parted as he exhaled and stroked her slit. Buffy couldn’t hold it any longer. The combination of his hands sparking a desire she’d never felt before and the emotions of his meaning was too much for her and she started crying. His hand froze and he frowned with concern but she smiled at him with teary eyes and a quick breath of air escaped his lungs.
In an instant, he’d pulled her to a standing position in the tub, bubbles and water trailing down her body and he cupped her face, his eyes darting from her mouth to her green eyes before he closed the distance and kissed her for the very first time. It was chaste at first, a soft exclamation of his appreciation before his arms banded around her waist and tugged her wet body against his. She was drenching his clothes, and he didn’t care. He tilted his head to the side and deepened the kiss, moaning softly when her tongue slipped between his lips seeking entrance. She raked her nails against his scalp. He slid his hands up her bubble covered back. She gasped when he left her mouth to lick and suck her neck as he unbuttoned his shirt and flung the soggy garment to the floor. Her wet nipples easily glided against his bare chest as he lifted her out of the tub, attacking her mouth again with desperation. A towel was suddenly wrapped around her and he hurriedly dried her off and lifted her naked body up into his arms and walked to the bedroom.
He laid her on the bed and quickly unbuttoned his slacks and stepped out of them before joining her. Their mouths met again as he settled on top of her, silently exploring her body. Spike was struggling to keep his sanity and she was his anchor. She’d allowed so much and asked so little, as if she knew instinctively what he needed. Their affair started so innocently, though the depth of his touches was a constant reminder of what he’d been denied with his ex wife. The simple fact that she allowed him to touch her leg on his desk in such a domestic way was all it took to drive the point home. She was so different from Drusilla, so pure and wild, yet yielding to his every desire. Whatever he asked of her, she eagerly carried out for him. She never questioned and he wanted her to know how grateful he was to have met her. Drusilla never let him care for her, never allowed even the smallest of touches. She’d get naked, and they’d fuck. Period. This control over Buffy wasn’t something he took for granted, and somehow, he knew she needed it, too. In the few intimate moments they’d shared, he could see the desire tattooed in her eyes whenever he ordered her to do something.
But this, this was different. She was in his bed, in his new beginning, openly accepting what his vulnerable state was too insecure to ask of her. This was more than an office fling, more than some sexual fantasy worked out in his head to get over his divorce. He simply adored her and would readily make room in his heart if she granted him the pleasure of caring for her. When she cried, he knew she understood. And now, she was on his bed beneath him, letting him kiss her, something Drusilla hated. She stroked the back of his neck like a lover, moaned when he licked her nipple and sucked it into his mouth, arched her back when his hand cupped her mound and caressed her folds, and sighed sweetly when he slipped a finger inside. His tongue found her clit and he moaned at the heady taste of her arousal. Buffy lifted her hips, wanting more of his mouth, more of his fingers, more of him. He worried her clit with his lips and tongue and added another finger. He sat up and watched her writhing on the bed as he pumped his hand, trailing his fingers across her breasts. She was gorgeous. He’d stared at her so often before, studied her every movement and now he had more to explore, more expressions never seen as he brought her to climax. Her nipples and lips darkened as she came, her stomach tightened and her eyes shined as she looked at him. Never before had Drusilla looked at him so and every second he spent with Buffy, the more he hated his ex wife, the more he regretted.
He removed his fingers carefully from her and started to stroke his cock. She watched, fascinated by his exquisite form. He closed his eyes and rubbed his chest with his free hand, biting his lip. He felt her weight shift on the mattress and opened his eyes to see her on her knees facing him, her mouth inches from his. She kissed him and wrapped her hand around his shaft, taking over for him. His forehead dropped onto her shoulder and he started panting, licking his lips and screwing his eyes shut as she set a steady rhythm on his cock. He felt the head of his cock brush against something wet and realized she’d rubbed him against her pussy. She lay on her back and continued to rub his length against her folds. That was all the invitation he needed and he gripped his erection at the base and pushed his way into her. Remembering their conversation over dinner when she mentioned that sex was never really a big deal to her, Spike decided that it was time to prove her wrong. With subtle determination, he slowly entered her, wanting her to feel every inch of him as he slid inside. He stretched her to the limit and she cried out, squeezing his forearms until he was seated fully inside her.
His breath tickled her neck and she moaned when he pulled out and shifted his hips before he pushed in again. Spike’s mouth was on hers, his hand caressed a nipple and he moved fluidly against her and inside her. His head rolled to the side and he pressed his cheek against hers, hot breath wafted in her ear as he picked up the pace. She was on the brink, clinging to him like a life line as he found a spot within her, rubbing it exquisitely with every pump of his hips and Buffy learned at that moment that she was a screamer. He lifted his head and smiled at her arrogantly and plowed into her. Every time he entered her she sobbed his name, so incredibly lost to lust and entranced by the masculine moans that tore from his throat. As the feeling intensified, so did his ministrations. He sucked her lip, lifted her knees and swiveled his hips, stroked her clit, sucked on her nipples, growled into her neck and hummed sweet nothings in her ear when she came.
As her body quaked beneath him, he flung her legs over his shoulders and dug into her rapidly, shouted her name and came inside her, jerking his hips slightly as the last bit spilled from him. He was agonizingly gorgeous when he came and she couldn’t resist sucking on his red lips when he collapsed on top of her. He pulled the sheet over their heads, never parting from her mouth and they kissed for what seemed like an eternity; perfectly content beneath the crisp white sheet, slick with sweat and cum until exhaustion took over and he rolled onto his side. The bedroom light offered just enough illumination beneath the sheet to see one another. Buffy felt like a kid in a fort and giggled when he curled a fist beneath his chin and smiled blissfully at her. It was such a boyish expression and it warmed her heart to be the cause of it. His hand slowly slid across the mattress, nervous fingers played with the tips of hers and he bit his lip with a shy smile when she linked her hand with his. They fell asleep that way.
As promised, he made her pancakes the next morning. Six flap jacks and a make out session against the counter later, Buffy decided to take a bath while Spike cleaned up the dishes. After a long soak, she wrapped a towel around her wet hair and slipped on one of his work shirts and went looking for him. She found him in the back yard and leaned against the door frame, watching him. He wore a pair of black jeans and nothing else and was dumping the charred remains of the trashcan into a large cardboard box. Ashes and soot floated up into the air as he shook the contents inside, marring his porcelain skin. The loud tearing noise of packing tape broke her from her reverie. He was sealing it shut. She walked closer. He pulled a sharpie from his back pocket, pulled the cap off with his teeth and wrote on the box:
P.O. Box 55789
Los Angeles, CA 90025
He shoved the marker back into the cap and smiled. “She wanted me to send the rest of her things over. Thought I’d save on shipping by putting everything in one box. Want to go for a swim?”