6.
Buffy took her time in the bathroom. Spike heard the toilet flush and then the faucet activated on and off about eight times, then silence, some quickly aborted humming and then more sounds of water running. Spike tried for patience but resorted to drumming his thumbs against his thighs. What was it with her, simply nervous energy or some water related compulsion? After what Spike decided was an extraordinary amount of time he decided to knock. Just at that moment Buffy emerged from the bathroom. Now was the time to pounce. Spike had her against the wall in the hallway as soon as she switched off the light.
“Your enthusiasm could become annoying,” she tried to sound blase but he buried his mouth deeply in her neck and sucked on her skin. Nonchalance left and skittered out the door. He mumbled some reply but the wordless vibrations only trickled down her spine. This allowed her to showcase an uncanny impression of human pudding. With little urging her legs wrapped around his waist and he walked her back into the bedroom.
Spike set her on the bed and stretched out beside her. Buffy pried off her shoes instantly and reclined on her pillow. “Did you have a nice time at school?”
“It was just school.”
“Did you think about me at all?”
“Nah,” she lied, “too busy.”
“I thought about you.” Spike opened her cardigan and traced up the mid line of her camisole. He lightly circled a hardening nipple with the tip of his finger before tracing the lace neck edge of her garment. Buffy took a deep breath. “Thought about this,” Spike circled her other nipple. “And this,” his middle finger found the hollow at the bottom of her throat followed swiftly by his tongue.
“I-Is that so?” Buffy failed to sound aloof. Her heartbeat accelerated.
“Yeah. You’ve got a lot of interesting nooks and crannies, Slayer.” Spike dove into the small indentation below her ear. This got a gasp in reply. “I’ve have been paying attention, you know. I’ve made a few notes.” He moved back to the planes of her neck, tracing the ligaments and veins with his tongue, working his way down to the curve of her collar bone and further down toward her sternum.
With slow deliberation and whispering fingertips, Spike gently teased down the front of her camisole, exposing her bra. A brief flick of his fingers and the front clasp was unhooked. Buffy thought momentarily of removing her cardigan and camisole. Spike’s palm on her belly stopped those thoughts. He swept her camisole up over her breasts and bent over for a taste.
“Your skin,” he whispered as his cool lips kissed her tanned sternum. “It’s like honey, like glowing honey.” Each touch of his lips and tongue pushed thought and word further from Buffy’s mind. Her hands found his back and shoulder. The situation was a little unequal. He got skin and she got fingers full of black cotton fabric. She tugged at his lower back.
“Yeah love,” he encouraged, “give it a good yank.” Buffy pulled the garment up and over his head. It was a fairly snug fitting item and further mangled his already messy hairdo. Skin or hair? Her fingers itched for both. While her brain was deciding her fingers found their way to the skin on his back.
“I like your hands on me,” he hushed and swept a waiting nipple into his mouth. Buffy’s breath caught in her throat. “You like my mouth, pet?” He looked casually into her softening face.
She nodded and had to admit that his mouth was okay. When he wasn’t talking and saying something idiotic or menacing or–
“Like my tongue?” He curled the tip of his tongue around her nipple and pulled on it. Buffy nodded in a daze. A prehensile tongue? That must be a Spike thing because Angel never… Her thought dissolved into the sensation.
“Unh, yeah. Tongue.” She wasn’t sure if she said that aloud. Her lips thickened with desire. Spike switched nipples but maintained his light teasing touch. His hand trailed down her torso to the top of her jeans and undid the snap.
“Wanna try something new, pet?” The zipper opened slowly, tooth by tooth. Buffy looked at him nearly cross eyed from his proximity.
“Uh huh,” she answered dumbly, holding his head to her breast. Spike took a last lazy pull on her nipple and broke from her to stand up. Buffy propped herself up on her elbows to watch him. Once more he retrieved the bag and dumped its contents on the bedside table.
“Ooooh, butterscotch candies. You are one kinky kitty.” He winked at her tender blush. She lay open before him, with soft liquid skin beckoning his return. Was this blushing something new? He remembered an indignant adversary with lightning moves and a sharp tongue; not much actual wit to recommend her, but she was quick with a comeback. Peppy and perky, that was the Slayer, complete with a cotton candy wardrobe.
She was a know-it-all school girl with an inexplicable need to reinvent the King’s English and slather her lips with the most perfect shade of pink lip gloss he’d ever seen. Usually those sweet girlish lips would blast him with one nasty insult after another. It used to infuriate him.
In her absence he’d studied her makeup selection with interest. From what he figured, Buffy Summers’ color palette should have been filled with dangerous shades with names like Vixen, Seductive, Fleshy, and Harlot. Instead he found that she opted for soft pastel shades with outrageous names such as Shy, Relax, Mellow and Dulcet. Dulcet made him snicker. The Slayer was a lot of things, none of which could be described as dulcet.
How often had he dreamt about a scenario such as this? The two of them together skin to skin. Those dreams had mostly revolved around his hands on her annoying neck, strangling the quips out of her while he told her how stupid and infantile and useless she was as a fighter and a slayer and a human being in general. Strangling dreams were satisfying, once upon a time. Spike had a detailed mental manifest of dead slayer dreams, all hands-on arias to her destruction. There were innumerable biting fantasies and some highly satisfying evisceration scenarios, but that was before. New scenarios tickled his fancy as well as other more sensitive areas.
Lately his dreams revolved around the sound of her breathy orgasm. One favorite involved spirited combat, fighting tooth and nail with the Slayer while their clothing inexplicably dissolved from their bodies. There were also some assorted high heel fetish dreams, and one that involved braiding her hair. There may have been some poetry recitation in that one, but he’d never admit it. Anyway, all recent dreams ended the same: Buffy begged for him…his attention, his time, his affection. Him.
“Kitty wanna play?” He rolled his shoulders and slowly undid his jeans. He could practically taste her heart pounding in her chest signaling a clarion call to action. He did that. William the Bloody: denizen of the night and wicked gentleman of shadows made the Slayer pant with anticipation. He made her mouth water for his kisses and her skin sizzle with a need yearning for expression and satiated in one word: Spike.
Buffy’s gaze dropped from his down the shallows of his chest, past the symmetrical grooves of his lower abdomen to the thickness in denim, cupped invitingly against his palm. His growing erection angled sideways under the fabric toward his left thigh. Coarse pubic curls appeared like a downy bouquet at the opening of his zipper.
She watched with interest as he slipped the fabric down his legs, still amazed at that revealed sight: the length of a man, the sweep of his yearning, his whispers made flesh and slightly reddened in his hand. Pleasures aplenty promised in skin and gathered blood.
Sticks and stones, wasn’t that what the old rhyme said? Was that what little boys were made of? Or were they the weapons that could take her heart? No, it’s snips and snails and puppy dog’s tails. Yeah, that’s what little boys are made of. But vampires?
They are made of conceit and hunger and the scent of the hunt. Fearsome adversaries they may appear, but they are eternally vulnerable. The world was a lonely place for the Chosen, Buffy knew this intimately. But what must it be like for the damned? A life on the run or the hunt. A life folded into tunnels and crevasses and subterranean pockets. Each turn of a corner could be their last. What was awaiting them? A blood feast or the sudden swift kiss of a more permanent death?
Seeing his pale silhouette before her Buffy could not imagine Spike scattered to the winds. He wasn’t much of an adversary — she had to be honest with herself about that — but he’d stayed alive, or less than dead for over a century. That had to mean something. Perhaps it meant only that he was lucky. Buffy tilted her head to gaze at his unashamed form.
Maybe Spike had some lucky to spare.
Raising herself to a seated position, Buffy watched with curiosity as Spike walked to her weapons chest and knelt down.
“Let’s find a nice pile to put your clothes on, yeah?” He smiled at her and opened the lid. Buffy didn’t even feel her clothes on her own skin. She pulled off her dangling cardigan, camisole and bra swiftly. She moved to the edge of the bed and wriggled her tight jeans from her body just as Spike brought out a double headed battle ax.
“Tell the truth Slayer,” he teased, “does this get you hot?” He waited with an expression of mild inquisition on his face as confusion turned to panic on hers. She shook her head vigorously.
“NO. N. O. No.”
“Me either,” he sighed and considered the heft of the sturdy weapon. “Although there was a time–“
“Shut up!” she shouted quickly, a visible shudder flowed down her body. “God, don’t say that.” Spike laughed heartily at her indignant response. Too often in the past he saw the stone faced resolve. The slayer was not just a costume she wore; no, the slayer self went bone deep. To the marrow. It was a treat to see the other one, the Slayer’s other self, this sweet girl. The one whose eyes raked over his flesh before settling decisively on his cock. He was pleased he could make her jump and squeal; make her show an honest response.
“Slayer, it was a joke. I’m a vampire, not a bloody degenerate.”
“I’m not familiar with the distinction there, Spike.” His low warning growl reverberated through Buffy’s pelvis. She fell back on the bed covers gasping for breath and rubbing her legs together.
“How can you do that? I felt that.” What was that connection crap he was spouting only that morning? Buffy tried to comprehend this latest development. She was effectively incapacitated by a growl. Granted, a sexy, earth trembling growl; but still, it could qualify as a potentially slayer proof offensive weapon. Several thoughts of warning and distress casually ambled across her mind, only to be captured and subdued by her growing desire for a certain slim hipped villain with killer thighs and deep hip indentations.
“I know,” Spike smirked, pleased that he could achieve that, bring her almost to climax by the sound of his snarl alone. Buffy stood and removed her panties. Spike walked to the bed and sat down, placing a couple of stakes on the bedside table.
“Come here,” Spike held out his hand. He maneuvered her legs over his own until she was perched on his thighs, straddling him. He bucked his thighs a couple of times, opening them wider and in turn Buffy’s legs. She linked her fingers together softly behind his neck. He caught a firm nipple gently in his teeth and tasted its contours, causing her to arch her back in an automatic response.
His fingers found her already damp cleft and caressed her before reaching back to circle her sphincter. She clenched convulsively in reply.
“Ready for some nasty delights?” He whispered into her face. “Ready to howl at the moon?”
“That’s just a cliche, right? You don’t really do that, do you?”
“Bloody wolves can’t have all the fun now, can they?” Spike looked brazenly into her flushed and expectant face. Her hands did not move from their position.