Chapter 6
That was all it took. Spike grabbed her hard and thrust his tongue into her mouth. Soon their tongues entwined with an urgent need. It was no longer combat or games but a difficult want.
Buffy’s tongue grated over his trying to wrest something from him. The sudden thrill to taste death filled her head. She searched his mouth repeatedly. It was a cavern of echoes and absences. Enamel and soft palate. She wanted the taste of blood, to sample the darkness of this specter surrounding her; infiltrating her. She wanted the taste of death from the tongue of this killer.
When she opened her eyes white blond hair and blue eyes were all she could see. Not brown, not soft but searing. She closed her eyes again and he was there. Brown eyes looking at her from across the room. Nothing else but his soulful confused brown eyes, watching her do this thing: sup from the mouth of this miscreant.
Buffy pushed Spike away from her and their lips separated with a tremendous smack. She held his black t-shirt bunched in her fists. “What’s wrong with me?” she mumbled, unaware that she had voiced her question. A sly giggle touched her ears.
“Nothing pet, I think you’re doing just fine.” There was acid in his seductive voice.
Why hadn’t she thrown him through the wall? Why was she standing there considering what she was considering doing with this abomination in her grasp? Why wasn’t he dust out the door?
A troubling primal beat claimed her body and her focus. She was being occupied by something dark and ancient. It was a blistering desire to engulf him, to take him whole to the bone. This unexpected feeling shamed her deeply.
Angel’s phantom gaze burned into her skin but she wanted this one in front of her. This smug-faced bastard who was toying with her, putting thoughts into her head and making her knees tremble.
Suddenly she wanted Spike to pay for her misery. She wanted him to suffer as she had, but she also wanted to be punished. There was a smoldering need within her to be punished. She wanted the horrible darkness to smother her, to reduce her to ashes. But she also wanted his lips on her; his fingers on her and the hardness pressed to her hip buried deep inside her. A buzz tingled between her legs accompanied by a flare from Spike’s nostrils.
Breaths surged from her mouth as she juggled her twin desires: to kill him and be done with it or to fuck him in a messy horrible frenzy. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. A quick glance at his face betrayed his preference. A hard swallow gulped down her throat as she saw his eyes sparking with lust.
The choice was made; the consequences be damned. She already knew what hell was: a mismatched motel room in a quiet friendly town. Why not act as damned as she felt, as empty as that lonely main street after midnight? It wouldn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
Her mind filled with the innumerable horrors of this meaningless world, the unworthy orb she sacrificed Angel for. She wanted something in her mind other than that guilt and sorrow. She wanted Spike to take that burden. She wanted to shove that choking weight down his throat.
Spike’s mind filled with the delicious promise of the warm and yielding slayer in his grasp and the signs and scents of delights to come. He felt strangely honored to be in her company.
He sneered at her and reached to unzip her uniform. “Take off that bloody plastic dress.” Spike drew the long zipper down her back. The frilly apron was tugged off and discarded on the desk on top of his duster. This was soon followed by her dress, pulled off over her head as she stood there in a stupor. He tugged his t-shirt off in one motion.
Buffy stood before him in mismatched bra and panties shaking with panic and desire. Spike hissed a quick breath at the vision before him. Her golden skin was sprinkled with bruises, reminders of their dance in the alley. She looked resplendent, a dazzling flesh jewel of swelling shades pooling under her soft skin. Spike slowly bit his lower lip as he drank in her soft curves caressed by his personal signature.
Her eyes clung to the expanse of his chest. The taut musculature beneath his parchment skin snaked over his body like a hardened dirt road. Her eyes drifted over his abdomen and belly button and further down to observe hands unclasping his belt buckle. Spike removed it from the fabric loops, folded and snapped it between his fists.
“I don’t know, Slayer, but something tells me you may be an adventurous girl.” He dropped the belt and undid his jeans snap. A well muscled hand casually caressed down over his covered bulge. She followed his actions with her eyes. “See something you like, pet?” His eyebrows flared over his whisper.
Two pale hands carefully untangled her tight bun. Twelve bobby pins fell from her tethered hair along with any fragments of resistance she may have thought she had left. Buffy’s hands rested on his hips as his fingers gently massaged her scalp. She closed her eyes. The brown eyes were gone. Her eyes opened again with effort. Rational thought made a final weak bid for dominance.
“But you hate me…and I…hate you…” She struggled to complete that thought as her voice dwindled to nothing.
“So what?” He looked at her with hunger. “There’s not much better than a hate fuelled fuck. You’ll see. The more you hate, the harder you come.” Tilting his head to observe her, Spike licked along the blunt edges of his upper incisors and rolled his lips into a smile. “And Slayer? I think we may rip the roof off of this place,” his soft giggle burrowed into her mind as her arousal accelerated.
They were both on the same hate filled page.