"I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up. I've got muscles you've never even dreamed of; I could squeeze you until you popped like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more. And you know why I don't? Because it's wrong."
He growled low in his throat, watching her from the shadows as she entered the crypt. Did she even know he lived here? Did she care? Not likely. All perfect and blond and tiny. Tight black leather pants and a pink tank top. She looked like candy. Her damned mouth was like a prissy little rose. She had a stake in her hands and her impossibly high-heeled boots made rhythmic clicking noises on the stone. A frat boy's fantasy. And a fanger's.
"Heeeere, Vampy Vampy Vampy," she trilled lightly. "Auntie Buffy has a present for you."
A present, eh? Warm champagne. The bitch. The bloody cocktease. She'd known. She'd known how close he was to slamming her up against that wall at the Bronze and she'd flounced away like a high-and-mighty streetwalker who hadn't heard the right price. He was hard just watching her circle the musty old vault he was still decorating. He'd been in a perpetual state of erection for days. Maybe years. She probably knew it. Every demon in Sunnyhell knew it. He was a laughingstock. She probably got off on it.
"You brought me a prezzie, Slayer? I'm touched." He moved into the dimness just as she reached the corner where he'd hidden himself, making her jump back a few feet and crouch into a fight stance.
"Spike!" Her free hand flew up to her throat, no doubt trying to calm her heaving bosom and her racing pulse, and her other tightened around the stake. Both sights had him enthralled like a puppy in heat.
"Yeah, me," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your own personal vampire toy horse."
Her lips were so red. Her tongue flicked out and wetted them as her brows furrowed. Then, she cocked her head, challenge glinting gold in her eyes. "Giddy-up." She was mocking him. Mocking his impotence.
He clenched his fists and stepped up until they were nearly nose to nose. He wanted to hit her, to tumble her to the ground and streetfight like wharf rats. And he wanted to fuck her. He wanted to get her down in the dirt and fuck her. When his hands came down on her shoulders and he dragged her against him, his head exploded with a blinding pain. He closed his eyes against it, choking. Slayerbitchbeautifulsexyslayerbitch. She kicked and punched and he grabbed both of her slim wrists in one hand and knocked her stake to the floor. Flashes of bright, wet, red. Jackhammers. Her mouth. He kissed her then...and it was blood, fury, and agony. It was a mutual struggle...they both cried out...they fought...they gasped for air they didn't need.
"Spike...Spike, damn you!"
"Damn you, Slayer."
Then, she kissed him and it was the Fall. And they did fall...a senseless tangle of limbs and mated mouths. He took the ground hard, but the pain was nothing compared to that of the chip...or of her touch. She kissed him back ferociously and he could taste the copper and salt on her lip. Aches vanished into the odd tenderness of her hands sliding up under his t-shirt, pulling it out of his jeans... into his fumbling fingers sliding the straps of her tank top down so he could bury his face in her breasts and taste the vanilla of her skin. She tasted like it everywhere. The curves below her arms...her elbows...her taut stomach...the hollow of her belly button. And her hands warmed him everywhere...his chest...his biceps...his hips...his legs.
Slowly, he urged her back up his body, until she was straddling him. Riding him, so to speak. "Aren't you going to say this is wrong?" he wondered harshly as his cock strained at the juncture of her thighs. Balls and garters...he wanted her...even though he hated her, he wanted her.
Her head fell back, her face a mask of frustrated pleasure. "N-no," she gasped out, moving restlessly above him, desperately trying to rock into his groin. A fine sheen of sweat bathed her body in a glow. Her eyes were green with heavy lust. She was so fucking lovely. She was so fucking lovely he couldn't take it. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, brought her mouth crashing back down to his. It was like kissing his wide-eyed fiancee...all that charmed innocence that had made him weak those months ago...he couldn't stop it. Didn't want to.
"Spike...are..you...making...love...to...me?" Each word was punctuated by a deep, shuddering breath as her thighs clasped him, urged him inside.
"Hey! You think I don't live with the shadow of Drusilla over my head? That I'm not wondering if you're going to be thinking of her on our honeymoon when you're making...sweet...love...to...me?"
As he slid into her giving, slick heat, he paused there on the edge. He was thick. Stupid sod. He had the brains of a lily-livered poof. "I could squeeze you until you popped..." ? The piece of tits and ass in the black leather, with the tarty mouth, couldn't have been the woman in his arms. Someone else's cold soul had been behind her eyes. Someone else's shadow over her head. His Slayer. His Buffy. Here. Now. She was who was wrapped around him. It was her taste on his tongue and her smell in his nostrils and her soul staring him in the face.
"Yeah," he murmured, sinking up into her depths. "Yeah, Baby...I'm making love to you."
He did it slow...savoring each dip into her hot little spring, each little moan and gasp she made when he touched the very core of her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, drew blood, and the scent quickened the pace. She squeezed him between her thighs, urging him on. Her hips rocked into him. A rosy flush crept up, over her breasts and up her neck. He wanted air. He wanted water. He wanted fire. She was all of it. They clenched together at the same time and his undead body vibrated with something almost like life before it died again against her satiny skin.
"Slayer...oh, bloody Hell, Slayer." He couldn't keep the wonder out of his voice. And the weakness. Weakness he'd always had, hadn't he?
She drowsily trailed her lips across his chest as they sprawled on the dusty stone. Moments passed and then she spoke. "What did Faith say to you? What did she say to you to make you do this?" There were no accusations in the questions. Just a sleepy, quiet, rightness.
Faith. The other slayer. Yeah, it fit. He shifted slowly, freeing a jagged piece of rock from under his shoulder. He closed his eyes, buried his face in her hair, and replayed the encounter word for word. "She said, 'I could ride you at a gallop'..." Buffy kissed his throat, squeezed his forearm gently with one hand. "'I've got muscles you've never even dreamed of'." He shuddered as she stroked her thumb along the side of his face. "'And you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more'. Then she looked at me with your eyes and your face and bloody contempt. She said, 'And you know why I don't? Because it's wrong'."
Before he could say anything else--add any apologies or half-arsed threats--she silenced him. Her eyes were big, brown, and honest. Her prissy rosebud mouth made his eyes roll up and his knees shake. Her slender leg slid in between both of his, rubbing slowly and sinuously. He arched up, feeling the borrowed blood in his veins dance like bubbly streaming out of a bottle. Pop!.
"Its not wrong," she whispered. "Not right now."
He gasped hoarsely and airlessly into her kiss and moved back into her body. They fucked with love. Slayerlovebeautifulsexyslayerlove. Fiercely. Mindlessly. There in the dirt.
And he begged.
"Hurt me just a little bit more?"
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