Contrition by FaithC

Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Written and read for enjoyment not for money.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse /mysticmuse.net
Please email me first.
Feedback: Yes, please!
Spoilers: Through Season 6.
Author's Note: I hadn't originally intended to write a follow up to Compassion but I got so much positive response (thank you to everyone who sent feedback!) and encouragement to write more on these two characters that I did. I hope you enjoy.
Pairing: Buffy/Tara

"Sorry. Everybody's sorry. I know that you guys are just trying to help, but it's just, it's too much. And I can't take it anymore."

It's late. I wish I could sleep. And since I can't sleep, I wish I could get up, stretch, read, get ahead in classes, do a tarot card reading, study the stars, something. But Buffy's lying curled up beside me, half on top of me and she's got a death grip, even in her sleep. She doesn't like to wake up alone, and if I don't manage to slip away from her I'm likely to have more bruises in the morning and if I do manage to slip away from her she'll wake up with a start and call my name or else just scream.

I know this because this isn't the first time Buffy's fallen asleep in my bed. It isn't even the first time she's fallen asleep beside me and on top of me, curling, pressing, burying her body into mine like a cat into the long grass, clinging, even in her sleep, the way small children cling to swings and round-abouts, never trusting gravity for an instant.

The first time was her house, and her bed. And it seemed okay somehow, at the time, though it was nothing I'd gone looking for. Loneliness was an emotion I wasn't used to, and didn't quite no how to handle. I'd grown up withdrawn, even isolated, but I read, spent time with my animals, lived inside my head where it was dark, but safe. Willow changed all that, and when I left her, going back to the solitary life I'd known for so long was like taking out a favorite shirt from the closet and realizing with horror and despair that it had shrunk in the wash. And so for the first time in my life I was experiencing loneliness, and I took the gift Buffy offered me that night gratefully. I thought it would end there, and it did seem as though it would end well. At her birthday party she couldn't stay in the same room with Willow and I, but other than that she treated me with the same kind, slightly flippant courtesy and warmth she'd always shown me.

Two nights later it was raining. One of those hard, driving rains, rare for coastal California, where raindrops aren't so much falling as being thrown, hard, to the ground. I was back in my old dorm, Stevenson Hall, though a different room of course. Other universities have housing shortages in the dorms. UC-Sunnydale does not. It was pretty easy to find an opening in University housing, and I try not to dwell too much on what might have happened to the co-ed who was living here before me. I like to think she transferred someplace, or even that she went home. It's one of those defense mechanisms you build up after you've lived in Sunnydale for while. I see how it happens to the townies. I do.

Same view from the East window, though, and I'd put out all the lights in my room and was staring out into the rain. Thinking about other things I shouldn't be dwelling on, like the night I, a different girl then, so different, sat in another darkened room, with a different kind of broken heart, and the knock that came at the door then, that should have startled me, but didn't, and this time when I opened the door it wasn't Willow, with a candle in her hands, it was Buffy, her hair plastered to her skull and her sodden wet clothes already making a sizeable puddle on the floor.

"Buffy!" I didn't need to say anything else and neither did she. The shattered look, her hands twisting together, the flushed red lips, the fresh bruises coming out along her wrists, throat and cheekbones pretty much said it all. "Sweetie …" and she fell against me like a runner at the end of a race, flinging her arms around my neck and burying her face in my shoulder.

I put my arms around her, running my hand along the back of her head, feeling her body chilled to the bone, even in the warmth of my room. Looking back on it, I guess that was the moment when I could have chosen to do something very different from what I actually did. But she was so cold, so tiny in my arms, shivering, that I couldn't bear the thought of sending back out into the night. So I didn't. I walked her over to my bed and took my hands in hers, pulled her into my arms, whispered into her ear, "Shhhh, Buffy, sweetie you're here now." And just held her for a few minutes, hard, but I couldn't make the shivering stop. And everything I thought about saying to her in the next few minutes all sounded stupid and redundant so I didn't bother to say anything. I pulled her to her feet and led her into the bathroom I share with the girl in the suite next door; I knew she was probably gone for the night – her boyfriend lives off campus, in Oz's old block ironically enough, in one of those big falling apart Victorian mouse nests that are so popular with guys in bands – and he'd come to pick her up earlier. I turned the taps on and threw in a handful of my good bath salts. Buffy just stared at me, almost stupidly; it frightened me.

"My mom was from the 'a hot bath'll cure anything' school," I explained. "You need to warm up … inside and out." I was stammering horribly. And still she stood there, her clothes still dripping audibly onto the white tile, staring at me silently. "I'm going to make some tea …" I was exasperated with both of us by this point; I'd already seen her naked a few nights before. So I stepped forward, pulling her blouse off, unclasping her bra, having her step out of her shoes and then her jeans, trying to suppress what I was feeling as her body became revealed to me. I remember Dawn telling me once she'd had to do the same thing when Buffy first came … home. I sure as hell never thought it would be me next.

Shivering and naked in front of me, her eyes still wide, she was losing some of that stunned look. Which was a relief. I helped her into the bath tub and went out to plug the kettle in, choosing Chamomile, which I thought might relax her a little. I was hunting for a spoon for the honey when I heard her in the bathroom: the unmistakable sound, not of crying, but of that deep gut level sobbing that makes you feel like you're going to turn inside out. She was in my arms before I realized I'd even dropped the spoon, and I was rocking her, my eyes stinging and my throat tightening up, rocking her, whispering and murmuring words that weren't words, kissing her hair, her eyes, her hands where they covered her beautiful face, finally just holding her for a while.

The bath was working after all, or something was, and she was relaxing a bit. I was trying to pull away from her, but she let go of me only after I picked my bath sponge out of the water and pressed it between her shoulder blades. The warm water running down her spine seemed to uncoil her. I did that a few more times, then got my hands slippery with the soap, and ran them the full length of her arms, trying to push tension out with my hands, the way you knead knots out of bread. When the kettle started whistling I went and got her tea, and had her drink it in little sips. She was sitting in the warm, fragrant water with her knees bent and her shoulders and neck arched slightly forward. She looked so sad, so vulnerable that it pulled at something inside me, like a memory, but I couldn't have told what I was feeling at that moment. I'm still not sure, exactly.

I leaned towards her, brushing her wet hair away from her face, smoothing my slippery fingers over her spine and shoulder blades, resting my hands heavily in the spot where her shoulder met her neck. I kept waiting for her to say something, but wasn't much surprised when she didn't. And I've never been someone who believed in talking just to fill up the space between people. There are other ways to do that, and there wasn't much space between us anyway, from a practical point of view. I leaned as far forward on my knees as I could, occasionally reaching over her to add more hot water, all the while I rubbed, splashed and rinsed, and again, not at all surprised that she simply sat there let me. Sometimes she would shift, stretch her neck, arch her shoulders, extend her arms, giving me a breathtaking view of the play of muscles beneath her wet skin, and showing me where she wanted to be touched next. I washed her short hair, letting my fingers work against her scalp and ears. Combed the tangles out gently, and rinsed with clean water, warm, then cooler. My fingers were shaking.

She was clearly tired out from the night (it made my stomach twist a little, even then, flinching away from the image of the activities with Spike that gotten her to this state, and the one before it, too) and her limbs weren't responding very quickly as I helped her stand up and wrapped her up in a big clean fluffy towel. I walked her back into the main part of the room and she made a beeline for my bed, promptly curling up on her side and falling into a sleep that took away the last tightness around her mouth, her lips curling into a small, enigmatic smile.

The water in the kettle was still passably hot, so I poured myself another cup of tea and wandered with the mug through the tiny room I'd perversely refused to decorate. It was as flat and ugly as an old nickel and I hated it. I turned out the lights and found matches by sense of touch and lit a few of my candles. Candlelight can make even the ugliest spaces less threatening, transforming sharp corners into shadows of potential, hiding cracks and disguising blankness. And candlelight can make even the most beautiful things become reborn. It was like that now, as I settled down on the bed and watched the flicker of gold and silver light dance over Buffy's skin. I was unable to pull my gaze away from the shadows and curves of her body revealed and re-revealed in the halo of the candles with each breath she took. Her hair, drying quickly in the warm room, was curling against her temples and fanning out against the long column of throat. I let my eyes wander from the dark hollow above her collar bone down the exquisite trail of skin and shadow to the tops of her breasts, just revealed by the loosely wrapped towel. She had one hand draped lightly across her belly and even as I watched she twisted a little in her sleep, the other hand reaching out weakly. Had it been just a few nights before that I'd kissed that skin, that I'd had those hands inside me? Impossible, and yet, I'd been there.

Her hand brushed against my thigh and she moved towards me, still sleeping lightly and peacefully, resting her cheek and temple against my body. The towel had gotten twisted under her hips, and I pulled it away from her, my mouth dry and my heart pounding. I was dizzy with desire and shocked by my own courage – or was it weakness? It seems to me that times like this redefine everything we think we know about each other and ourselves. I raised my hand to pull the sheet over her frail body, and I felt it hover there, just above the beautiful dip between her hips and ribcage. Unable to bear it any longer, I bridged the small, remaining distance between my fingertips and her skin and began to stroke her lightly, so as not to wake her.

Even the candlelight couldn't disguise the ugly bruises on her ribs – some in the shape of hands, others in the shape of fists. And even though I knew Buffy had probably given better than she'd gotten in her latest round with Spike it still bothered me. Even though they'd probably be gone in the morning with that famous Slayer healing power, I had the overwhelming urge to take them away. But I couldn't, so I did the next best thing (for Buffy? No, for me) and ran my hands gently over every surface of her skin I could reach without shifting. I didn't want to wake her, to break the spell. I had the chance I hadn't the other night, now. To savor this moment, to commit to memory the way she felt beneath my hands – the softness, the smoothness of skin covering a muscled body as hard and yielding as sand near the water's edge. To observe how deeply she breathed, even in her sleep, as though her body never stopped working.

To realize she was responding to my touch, her murmurs and soft moans telling me what was giving her the most pleasure and what was giving her the most peace. She rolled over onto her back, her arms falling back against me, against the bed, her hips reaching just slightly off the tangled sheets and her legs falling open with another whispered sigh. I shifted with her, letting my hungry gaze take in every part of her, from the high, proud forehead, that beautiful face, her vulnerable throat, her tiny breasts and narrow waist. The smooth, hairless mound exposed to me, beginning to flush as Buffy's body responded to my touch. I continued to run my hands first just over her belly, back and forth, not unlike the way I used to rub Miss Kitty's tummy. And very different from the way I used to rub Willow's. I first let just the tips of my fingernails graze across that skin, felt my lips pull into a smile as her hips arched further off the bed, seeking more contact, a more substantial touch.

The last time – the first time – I'd been with her had been a strange, wild night. Now, with Buffy asleep beside me, her soft hair fanning out against my skirt, her thighs spreading like the petals of a flower I felt like I had all the time in the world. And I took it, took my time, running my fingernails against the soft part of her belly, drawing arcs and letters, circling her tiny naval around and around until her breathing sighs became shallower, harsher. She'd been cold, so cold, when she came into my room: shivering inside her clothes, inside her skin. Now her naked pale pink flesh was flushing to a deeper, richer color, the lightest sheen of sweat imaginable beginning to glow under her ribs, under her breasts. The warmth and slick texture of her body made it easier for me to glide my fingertips across each swell and dip, exploring the pattern her ribs made with each rise and fall of her chest – it reminded me the branches of pine trees. I let my knuckles dance lightly across her hip bones, trailing the backs of my fingers across the dip of her lower belly, letting them spread and stretch down towards the warmer, wetter concavity between her thighs, without quite reaching it. She was so thin, so tiny, so perfect, every complicated pattern of her strong bones and tight, hard muscles mine to contemplate, to touch, to coax into shivers and stretches.

Her hips were beginning to roll a little, the movement as uninhibited and unmistakable as wind or tide. A primitive, inevitable response to the ministrations on her body. I danced my fingers lightly down her belly, caressing her inner thighs as they slid further apart, revealing the center of her pleasure, the core of her primitive self. Gently, carefully, intending to relieve tension and not to build it further, I dipped fingers into her warm wetness. Already she was all heat, and liquid, and aroma richer than earth or sea. When I touched her, just touched her, not allowing myself to cross that invisible line, gliding my fingers through that impossibly slick pool of moisture gathered at her thighs and clinging to the smooth, hairless skin, a rush of liquid came out to coat my fingers with a sensation like warm silk. I was too breathless, too stunned and glorified to speak but I felt my mouth form the words, "oh god, oh Buffy," and I forced myself to stop, to pull my fingers back away from her flesh, knowing I was rapidly losing what was left of my self control. After a few deep breaths, I let my fingers play again, caressing her lips, stroking lightly up between them to soothe her firm, hot budding pleasure, loving the way her moans were deepening, the music of her sighs climbing up with the rise of her fever.

Through it all her eyes lay still gently closed, her long, thick lashes casting half-moon-shaped shadows beneath them, but she was responding in every other way to the sensations my hands were evoking in her body. I let my eyes drift up to the gentle swell of her breasts, pushed a little higher with the arch of her back, and swaying as her head began to roll back in forth. Looking back on it, I don't remember what I was thinking of, or if I was thinking at all, but I was watching her swaying breasts, and then I watched as my fingers trailed up and between them, slowly and without rush or panic, as if I they were stealing and I was merely observing a petty crime. But when the very tips of my fingers brushed the curve of each of her breasts a gravely, deep sigh escaped her throat and moved towards me and I was no longer able to control the rush of blood to my temples, the sharp intake of breath that sparked a fire to life deep in the pit of my stomach, or maybe it was more that I was finally able to admit I didn't want to control myself anymore. Invisible line be damned. I felt my own mouth fall open, mirroring Buffy's flushed, pouting lips and I pressed my eyes closed for a full minute, the better to savor the feel of Buffy's breasts in my hands, and the better to pray that she wouldn't wake.

And she didn't. And I moved my fingers to the darkening, tightening nipples that, in the candlelight seemed to take on the color and shape of candy roses. I found myself not so much rubbing, or even cupping the firm, round little hills as petting them. Letting my palms pet and stroke, coaxing each nipple into a peak, which was fondled and caressed in turn. Her breathing was still deep and sensuous, her body heavy and relaxed, and, before I could decide if it was worth the risk or not, I bent forward and took one rosy nipple hungrily between my lips, letting my tongue lave the pebble-like peak as I tasted that sweet perfect flesh and tightened my grip on her other breast, not sure I was ever going to be able to let go.

And instantly, with no heaviness of limbs or sleepy languid fumbling, but with the precise, primitive, predatory movements I should have been expecting all along her hands came up and tangled themselves in my hair. Her breath expelled from her lungs in one soft scream of "Tara!" and she pressed her breasts up towards my mouth so completely that I was sure her body was one perfectly curved arch beneath mine.

I exhaled the breath I had not even realized I was holding and she tangled her fingers further into my hair in appreciation of warm breath, adding a new sensation to that sensitive skin. I moved my head between her breasts. "Buffy." Planting kisses between each word, each breath. "How … long … have you … been awake?"

She let out a sharp, beautiful cry as my tongue found an especially sensitive place to play, and I let myself linger there, exploring with lips and teeth and tongue as she responded in a hoarse, almost mournful voice. "I don't know. I never seem to sleep anymore. But then … I never feel like I'm awake, either – oh god Tara don't stop, don't stop …"

So I didn't stop, letting my mouth pull every range of sensation from the sweet little spot it had happily discovered, and then switched seamlessly to find its mate. When I felt her moan of satisfaction I moved my head aside again, to breathe deeply into my lungs. And also to draw breath to tell her, "You're awake now, Buffy."

I felt her nod her head and her fingers trailed through my hair and down to my neck. "I am very awake now, Tara."

I kissed her between her breasts again, sighing. "So am I." More awake, more alive than I'd been since that day 4 months ago that I'd packed up my life (6 boxes – how does a woman get to be 21 and have a life that can fix in 6 boxes – but the bigger, better part of my life was still upstairs in my – Willow's – bedroom) and walked out that door. Left Willow, left Dawn, left the flowers I'd planted in the backyard that summer, left the only place I'd ever lived that had actually felt like home, and I'd been shocked numb ever since. Now, tonight, dulled nerves were coming to life, desires and feelings that I'd had to clamp down on, hard, in order just to get through the day were waking up and, as she pulled my head down for a kiss, the feeling of Buffy's tongue on mine was so intense I was sure there were sparks. She let her lips part completely, no pouting, no pursing, as though she were breathing my breath. I felt her tongue explore my mouth slowly, deliberately, but with none of the peaceful laziness I expected of the slow kisses in my life. In the way Buffy kissed me there was nothing of hesitation or shyness or even discovery. Instead she mapped every curve of my mouth claiming it as hers. I felt her strong arms come around my shoulders and her body shift slightly as she pulled me on top of her, wrapping her legs around my hips and forcing my hips and belly to press into hers without once breaking the hot, wet hold her lips had on mine.

She slid her tongue over and over every sensitive nerve in my mouth, leading my tongue in a spiral of slowly building desire, refusing to be rushed or guided, taking gentle but unequivocal control, which I unhesitatingly gave over. She pulled back to let me breathe, and nibbled on my lips, making them swollen and sensitive to the slightest pressure before pulling me down, hard, for another breath-stealing kiss.

Her hands moved from the back of my head to my back, sliding across the thin, worn fabric of my blouse, impatiently digging her fingers, and then her nails into my shoulder blades. I pulled away from her lips then, to breathe and also to release some of the tension I could feel building in me to unmanageable heights in a little gasp of pure joy. In response, Buffy grabbed up the fabric of my shirt in her tiny little hands and ripped it to ribbons as if it were tissue paper, pulling it from between us until my breasts and stomach were naked and pressed into hers, that warm skin to skin contact so good, so intense that I barely noticed her hands pulling down my skirt. Until suddenly her hot, wet clit was pressed into mine with a feeling of pleasure so sharp, so complete, so overwhelming it was almost pain. I was lying on her, my body covering hers, but it was she who was in control, and I who was gladly submitting.

I don't know how long we stayed like that together, her legs wrapped around my hips as she rolled towards me, over and over again, brushing her clit with mine – sometimes hard and firm as any hand had ever been, sometimes so lightly I was only sure I was feeling something by the fresh flood of warmth that was pulled from my body and spilled into hers with each undulating, exquisite movement. Her nails raked down my back, sending trails of pleasure, delicious, the way pain can be. The smell of her, the smell of mingling desire, was so thick it was overwhelming the fragrance of the candles, and I couldn't bear it any longer. I had to taste that desire, had to know again if that exquisite essence of her tasted as good as I remembered.

I pulled away from her, and I was relieved when she allowed it, spreading her thighs a little further as I arched away, as if she could read my mind. Maybe she could. She was a Slayer, after all, and I'd seen before how she reacted to changing situations so quickly I had to wonder if it wasn't partially pre-cognizance. I kissed my way down her throat, pausing again to suckle at her breasts, and then to plant nibbling little kisses at her ribs. I could have stayed there for hours, I felt I could explore her belly, ribs, breasts, hipbones for a lifetime and never be satisfied, but I wanted to give Buffy more.

And Buffy clearly wanted more: her moans were becoming deeper, stretching into words that sounded sometimes like my name, and sometimes like pleading, her head tossing back and forth again. When her hands came to rest on my head so heavily it bordered onto a push and then crossed that line, I relented and slid my tongue from the patch of skin below her naval it had been tasting and teasing down to the smooth, naked flesh between her thighs. I didn't need to coax her body any further: her knees bent slightly and she pressed her back deeper into the bed, her legs spreading and opening her beautiful nether lips, exposing her hard, firm clit, glistening in the candlelight and so flushed with blood and desire that it was almost crimson.

I was in awe of her. And I realized suddenly, in that moment, that I always had been. But now I was in awe of me, too, that it was Tara's hand that reached forward and brushed her clit, Tara that bent forward and took that perfect, womanly core into her mouth and eased two fingers deep inside that perfect, dangerous body, Tara's skill that pulled from Buffy, the Vampire Slayer a keening cry so high-pitched it might have shattered glass.

I can still remember that first taste of her on my tongue, so new, and yet so familiar. The sweetness and the saltiness, the smooth satiny skin contrasting with the bundle of nerves so hard with pounding blood. I moved my mouth, my tongue over every surface of her, sometimes adding a light nibble with my teeth, pressing my lips over her clit. Bent on discovering every possible place of pleasure on every possible surface of Buffy's secret body that I could find. And I believe I did find them. I stretched the strong internal muscles with just my two fingers until she begged me for more. I added a third finger, reaching deeply, even as my mouth played, danced, sang against her, with her. I pressed her flat stomach with the palm of my other hand, giving her more resistance to work with, which she eagerly responded to, moaning with delight as she rocked towards me. There was nothing in the world for me but her pleasure, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds she was making, the perfume of her desire, all overwhelming every sense until there was nothing left of me. I was drowning in her, helplessly caught in the flood of her. And I liked it.

I could feel her trembling beneath me, beside me, feel her cries of pleasure becoming cries of hope and then of despair. And still I didn't ease up on her. I brought her to me again and again without letting her come, I wanted her to experience every possible range of feeling it was in my power to evoke. Finally, when she was writhing, twisting above me so hard and so furiously that I was simply no longer able to keep up, I swirled my tongue around again, added a fourth finger and forced my hand just that much deeper inside and closed my lips and teeth on her clit.

Buffy came hard, too hard to spare breath for a scream or strength left for movement, still as a statue and silently forming my name with her lips she flooded out over me, pouring herself down my throat in a taste as earthy, sweet and intoxicating as rich wine, spilling over and soaking my neck, my shoulders, my breasts … and still she was coming, each wave of pleasure cresting and crashing and birthing another one … she was more mindless than I was, swept away more completely. And I liked that too. And finally there was nothing left for her body to give but soft stillness, and she relaxed into her own limbs, as if she was discovering her body again, as if remembering that before she'd left it behind she had actually liked it.

I leaned my head against her thigh and looked up into her face, listened to her sighing. I don't believe she felt my eyes on her, because when she opened her own, the look on her face was so vulnerable that it twisted that last little space in my heart for her. I sat back on my heels, moving my face into her view. She bit her lip and stared up at me, her hazel eyes wide and filled with too many things for me to try and read. I held out my arms to her and she smiled, rolling over and literally crawling into my lap, fastening her arms around my neck, ducking her head onto my chest.

I lay down with her like that. Pulling her closer, stroking her hair and back, kissing the top of her head. I pulled the covers over us, tucking them in around her, felt myself smiling blankly into the darkness that had grown around us as the candle flames drowned in their own wax and flickered out. I licked my lips, tasting Buffy on me once more, and began to settle my body down for rest when I felt Buffy's hand begin to stroke my breast.

I couldn't see her face, but the small, strong hand on my breast was playful and shy and curious. I felt my body respond, instantly, the heat Buffy had seeded in me earlier growing quickly into fever. She kissed my chest and my neck, licking her own taste off my body but still just stroking first one breast, and then the other. I moved my hands around to her back, supporting her slight weight and I guess she liked that because she began to caress me in a more focused way, as if having satisfied her initial curiosity was interested in discovering more.

Her fingers circled each nipple, pulling them very gently towards her and drawing my pleasure out of the pit of my belly and the damp heat beneath it. She bent towards me and her strong lips tightened over one nipple. I heard a long, high, rippling sort of noise in my ears before I realized it had to be coming from me. It was so good, what she was doing. So very good. Her tongue circled the sensitive peak, and then licked downwards to draw half-moon shapes along the underside of the heavy part of my flesh, darting out at the end to caress the hyper-sensitive line where that breast met the harder skin of my ribs. I moaned again … it was so good, what she was doing felt so incomprehensibly wonderful I couldn't seem to keep the little noises, the mewling and the purrs from rolling out of my throat, or my hands from tightening into her back.

She kissed and licked and nibbled a path from one side of my body to the other and repeated every caress with her tongue and lips, moving her way back up to my nipple again and pulling it into her mouth. One palm held one breast up to her lips as she sucked and suckled, and my own high-pitched cries of delight were soon accompanied by her satisfied murmurs. Her other hand circled the breast she'd switched attention from, and she brushed against every surface of it. Explored the shape, tested the weight in her hands and then, sighing happily again, she just lay her full palm against me, pressing and kneading like a kitten. I don't know how long her attentions went on; I'd never imagined anything quite like this wet worship of my breasts, one and then the other, and sometimes all the sensitive places between them, too. She didn't touch me anywhere else and any craving I thought I might have had for other attention was lost in whirls and waves of pleasure and light in every color of the rainbow.

Even so it was a shock. When with one last little mewl of pleasure she pulled my breasts together and ran her tongue across them, pulling both nipples into her mouth and I felt it, that rising up from between my legs, and then the tightening, the tingling in my belly and calves and thighs and shoulders and hands, that wave, that wall of warm, burgeoning pleasure, swelling like a bubble and reaching into every nerve of my body … incredible, impossible even, but undeniable and I screamed, "Buffy!" as I came, hard, so hard! the secret, inner parts of my body no longer able to contain me, contain this unbelievable, pure sensation that was everything and also nothing, nothing at all but heat, and liquid, and light, and color, and pleasure.

And still it went on, and I was shaking but her mouth never left me, her skilled tongue never tired and never stopped and the sheets beneath us were drenched and I was biting my lip so hard I tasted blood and I was clawing her back and then what I thought was candlelight flickered behind my eyes and I fell backwards onto the pillows pulling her with me and crying her name one last time.

She was still snuggled up next to me when I was able to pry my heavy eyelids open, her face pressed between my breasts and her hand still stroking me, and I was still shaking, just a little.

I looked down at her in renewed awe and brushed her short hair away from her temples. Her satisfied little smile told me she was quite pleased with herself and I had to smile back.

I breathed deeply, more than ready for sleep. As I drifted off I heard her soft voice break as it pleaded, "Don't leave me."

"Sweetie." I kissed her again and replied automatically, "No, shhh. Tara's here. Go to sleep, darling."

And, almost instantly, she did. I felt myself drifting off too. Without waking her I picked up the last candle still flaming and snuffed it out. Just before sleep claimed me it occurred to me what an odd thing it was she had said. We were in my room, my bed. Where did she think I would go?

That's not where it ended, of course. She was gone when I woke up the next morning, and if not for the stumps of candles and the towel on the floor and my blouse in tatters by the bed and the dampness that lingered in my sheets I would have been convinced it was all some preposterous dream. But the next night, and almost every night after she's come to my door again, and I've let her in.

Even though I know, in my heart, this isn't right. She should be home, with Dawn, with Willow, even, on the nights that she's here with me instead. For that matter, I should be with Dawn and with Willow, and not here with her. And every day I tell myself that. And every day, as I walk between classes, take study breaks, as I'm drinking my tea, I rehearse what I will say the next time I answer her knock on my door. I tell myself that I will say: "Buffy, you are going through a rough time. And I'll always be here, I'll always be your friend, but this must stop."

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Contrition

by FaithC

Copyright © 2003

faithcorvid@yahoo.com