She bared her throat for him and his lips smoothed down the curve of her neck, to the fleshy, ugly scar. He growled as the rough skin brushed against his seeking tongue. She arched against him, her head falling back against his shoulder.
"Please," she whispered again. Her hips rocked back into his groin as he fastened his mouth on her throat.
She tasted like salt and fire and her slender body was limp, boneless, in his arms as he fed her fetish.
"Oh...yes...." she murmured as he sucked. "Oh, yes...please." The name expelled along with her breath was by accident...an accident that always happened. "Angel..."
They both shuddered simultaneously and for different reasons. When it was over, she pulled away, flipping the collar of her blouse up.
"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry." For an instant, he caught sight of her huge hazel eyes filled with pain and her face flushed with the aftershocks of arousal. And then she fled.
He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and tried to wipe away her taste. Instead, it lingered on his knuckles. Sweet. Spicy. Bitter.
He steadied himself against the wall, watching bar patrons of the various human and demon ilk weave and sway down the sidewalk. His body was aching. It ached every time. Don't let her go. Grab her. Make her look at you. Make her stay. But he never listened to the call, did he? Instead he let her push him into dark corners, with her blank eyes. He let her ignore everything except the forbidden erotic that only he could provide. He let her turn her back to him and close her eyes. He let her lips stay untouched.
He was her whore.
Spike laughed, covering his face with his splayed fingers as his shoulders heaved. Angelus. Drusilla. Harm. They'd all had his balls in their hands, hadn't they? Watch Spike dance to the bloody piper. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed except that he was even more unmanned--un-demoned--than usual. Not second to his sire. Not in a wheelchair. Not dumped or locked out. Just the defanged doxie of the killer of his kind. For a woman who could never love him but needed him nonetheless. No vampire was Angel...but he was damned close, wasn't he? The closest thing she could have to the addictive bite of the sod who'd left her for her own good. His sire had ruined her for most mortal men...and for any demon's love.
"I hope you're happy, Angelus..." he muttered, staring off in the distance towards a shrouded vision of L.A. "Because we're all bloody miserable here."
The Slayer spent her meaningful nights with an upstanding boy who liked to hunt demons and render vampires helpless...and she got her darker kicks in alleys with Spike. It wasn't a life. By all Hell, it wasn't a life.
It wasn't an un-life either.
Spike waited another five minutes before he pushed off the wall and headed in the same direction his lover had gone. Except that she wasn't really his lover. The hickey on top of her scar could mark her as his victim. Her hold on him could mark him as hers. In reality, they were both victims of that cursed name. That martyred fool.
"Damn you, Angel. Damn you."
He was going over to the Watcher's house. He would flop down on the couch to watch reruns of "Are You Being Served?" and drink Earl Grey and be a general nuisance. He would insult everybody who walked in the door. And if, by chance, she was there, he would treat Buffy Anne Summers like his worst enemy and unwilling ally. Most of all, he would not let her see just how deeply and absurdly he loved her. Her secret need for him was enough.
He damned himself a couple of times for good measure.
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