A/N: This was a chapter one of my betas was asking me about for a long, long time. I really hope it was worth the wait. ^_^

Thanks to Mari, Megan, Tami, and Jenny for looking over this for me. And of course, thank you everyone for sticking this out with me. *bounce*

OH! And thank you SO MUCH to everyone who voted for this fic and Beloved in Blood over at the Spark and Burn Awards. I was…well…astonished is the easiest way to describe it. Thank you so much.

Beloved in Blood won Reader’s Choice for Best Romance, Best Claim, and Judge’s Choice for Best Episode Stealer. And because I’m so excited about them, I’ll post what Strawberry Fields won here. *dances*





Thank you so, so much!!!!


Chapter 14

The hum of the Desoto kept him company along the lonely stretch of highway. There was rarely heavy traffic in and out of Sunnydale, and he was glad. The faster he got the Slayer away from the Hellmouth the better. Now in the aftermath, he didn’t care to ever see the pissant town again.

For her part, Buffy sat silently in the passenger seat. He thought she’d nodded off, but every time he hazarded a glance her way, he found her eyes focused with frightening intensity on the endless stretch of black pavement ahead. God, what he wouldn’t give to know what she was thinking.

If she was still with him at all.

Spike sighed, a very cold shiver racing through his body. He didn’t want to think about what had happened at the mansion. He didn’t want to think of the agony on Buffy’s face, or the way she’d looked at Angel like he was her personal fucking savior the sodding second the big git’s soul was stuffed up his arse. It was a hell of a time to be jealous, but dammit, he couldn’t help himself. In a blink he’d witnessed and suffered through a century of déjà vu. The women in his life—the dark sorceress of his past and the golden goddess of his future—falling over themselves to be with Angel, no matter the incarnation. All Angel had to do was gasp her name and Buffy was in his arms. As though the past few months Angelus had spent terrorizing her were so easily pardonable. As though her budding relationship with Spike meant nothing at all.

The only thing keeping him cool was the look he’d seen flash across her eyes. It wasn’t the look of a woman returning to an old lover; it was as though, for a few seconds, the past few days hadn’t occurred at all. As though Angelus’s regime of Sunnydale had never existed; as though someone had hit the rewind button on some cosmic remote, sending them back to a place where Buffy wouldn’t know to care for Spike. Where Buffy only had eyes for Angel. In that second, he’d known it wasn’t her steering. It was a shadow of herself. It was the girl who’d lived before her virginity was stolen by a monster.

The Slayer he knew—the girl he loved—had slowly returned to herself once her eyes locked with his. It hadn’t been immediate, and it hadn’t stopped her from kissing Angel with the lips that belonged to Spike, but he’d seen her withdrawal. The lovesick look vanished with conviction, and while the pain on her face never abated, he knew she’d come back to him.

Spike wasn’t a fool. While he’d entertained the idea of Buffy’s love for the wanker ending as quickly as his for Drusilla had, he knew it was different for her. Buffy was young. She was so young and she’d been through so much; for her, this was all she’d known. She didn’t have decades of experience in her past. She knew what she’d been handed. Now another door of her life was closing and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to react.

He could relate. He’d be lost as all bugger were it not for her. And yet here he was. Speeding to Los Angeles as though the flames of Hell were licking his rear bumper.

Things were different for him; he was in love. He was in love with the woman sitting in the passenger seat. Because of Buffy, the pain of his sire’s attack quelled to nothing more than a gentle hum.

The pain of the love in Buffy’s eyes—the love that hadn’t been aimed at him—would render him dust if he didn’t stop thinking about it.

Let it go. She’s with you, isn’t she?

Sure, because he wasn’t dead. She wouldn’t be with him if Angelus hadn’t yanked the bloody sword out of the over-sized gargoyle. No, she’d be with her honey. Cuddled up and making kissy-face and crying a thousand tears over a thousand apologies.

Logically, Spike knew it wasn’t true. But it could be true, and that was what killed him.

“You hungry, pet?” he asked before he could stop himself. The silence between them was unnerving. He longed to hear her voice. “’m sure there’s a grease-infested fast-food joint ‘round here somewhere.”

He didn’t expect a response, and was surprised when Buffy’s eyes broke from the road, her head tilting in his direction. “I wouldn’t say no,” she replied.

A thin smile crossed his lips and he nodded. “Right,” he drawled, veering the Desoto to the right-lane. They’d passed a sign denoting an impending exit-ramp a few minutes before, and while his attention was mostly engaged with the hurting slayer at his side, he didn’t think he was so foregone as to have missed the exit without noticing.

He was right. In a matter of careless seconds, they were cruising through a strip of various fast-food restaurants and lodging options, nearly all of the latter declaring free rooms. He didn’t know if Buffy was in the mood to stop yet; if they’d gotten far enough away from Sunnydale. He hadn’t paid too much attention to the mileage signs, but he guessed they were in the outskirts of Los Angeles. Or the outskirts of the outskirts of Los Angeles. The town seemed to double in size every time he visited.

“Name your poison, love,” he offered conversationally, careful not to incline his head in her direction.

“I don’t care.”

“Only sodding place open this late is Denny’s.” At least, it was the only place he’d be willing to take her right now. The bustling nightlife of southern California wasn’t exactly the antidote to Buffy’s sorrow. He didn’t want to make things worse by degrading her goodness with the filth only thriving metropolises could provide.

Buffy offered a half shrug. “Then Denny’s it is.”

Spike inhaled sharply and nodded, flicking on his blinker and swerving into the indicated parking lot. He didn’t know if she wanted to go in or order grub to go, but this was one instance where he was willing to sacrifice her desires for her needs. They’d been driving a while now and she hadn’t slept a wink. There was no harm in a breather.

“Want to just park here tonight?” he asked, attempting to keep his tone light.

“Where are we?”

“Jus’ outside LA, I’d reckon. Maybe an hour or so.”

Buffy seemed to ponder this, worrying a lip between her teeth. Her eyes were drooping, large circles arcing under either lid. “We didn’t get very far,” she said reasonably.

“We din’t start till a few hours ago.” They hadn’t left Sunnydale immediately; rather, after Buffy’s breakdown in the mansion, he’d resigned himself to the fact that her decision making skills were likely a little fried by everything that had occurred. They’d returned to his room in the Sunnydale Inn, which had been left untouched by housekeeping. There was still a sizeable bloodstain on the far wall, and a trail of red leading to the loo.

The visual alone had made his gut ache. The bleeding from Angelus’s cut had stopped soon enough, but there wasn’t a bone in his body left unscathed. He was worn and tired, thirsty for blood, and so worried about Buffy he was afraid he’d collapse before she did. As it was, Buffy had fallen into bed without a blink, where she hadn’t slept, rather reclined and waited for nightfall.

When evening came and Buffy reiterated her desire to leave town, Spike hadn’t hesitated. And now here they were—a few hours down the road from Sunnydale, contemplating a cholesterol-heavy menu in a joint no self-respecting demon would frequent. Buffy hadn’t eaten since yesterday; since the poptart she’d barely touched and the orange juice she’d ingested under protest. Her stomach had been growling at him for hours but he hadn’t wanted to mention it. Now he was wishing he had.

There was no good way to approach situations like these. He was howling inside, screaming at the injustice of not owning her heart when she possessed every unbeating inch of his. Loving her had buggered his plans and good, but for Chrissake, he couldn’t stop. The vacancy in her eyes crippled him.

What was she thinking? Had she made a mistake? Did she regret leaving with him? Did she regret the kisses they’d shared? Did she wish…

He was going to drive himself batty if his mind didn’t mute. All that really mattered right now—really mattered—was Buffy. His feelings and bruised heart were secondary concerns. Buffy hadn’t promised him rot, except that she couldn’t off him. She’d only kissed him of her own volition once to his memory. Everything thus far had been entirely one-sided—she might like him, yes, but she’d never pretended to love him. She’d never pretended there would be something beyond their forbidden kisses after the big battle was behind them.

Angel was dead. Angel was dead because of Buffy, and he’d died without knowing why. He’d died just seconds after professing his love for her. Any reasonable bloke could understand why she wasn’t chatty.

“Wanna brave the flapjacks?” he asked, looking at the menu but not reading it. “Fried cake with liquid sugar on top. Sounds tasty, doesn’ it?”

“I guess.”

She wasn’t reading the menu either.

A voluptuous woman with frizzy red hair and a name-tag labeling her as Margo approached the table a few minutes later. She made sure to thrust her triple-Ds into Spike’s face, either not registering his wince or not caring. “Can I get somethin’ to drink for you, dahlin’?” There was a pronounced Texan twang in her voice.

Spike’s eyes unwittingly landed on the throbbing vein in her neck. “Coffee,” he said shortly, dragging his gaze away and ignoring the hungry sting of his fangs. “Black.” He turned to Buffy. “Sweetheart?”

“Diet coke.”

“Ya’ll ready to order?”

Spike kept his eyes on Buffy, who nodded. “Sure thing,” he replied. “Number three, heavy on the bacon.”

Margo jotted down the order and favored him a wink. “I love a man with a healthy appetite.”

His eyes narrowed and he nodded pointedly to his travel companion. “The lady hasn’t ordered yet.”

To her credit, the big-breasted server didn’t bat an eye. She nodded and turned to Buffy, pen ready. “What’ll it be, sugar?”

“Veggie omelet.”

“An’ a side of flapjacks.” At the Slayer’s questioning look, Spike shrugged a shoulder and clarified, “We’ll be on the road all day tomorrow, pet. Might as well eat your fill.”

“Oh, that’s sweet!” Margo gushed. “Ya’ll taking a road trip?”

“Why don’ you jus’ bring me an’ the lady our drinks?”

He didn’t miss the flash of hurt across the waitress’s face, but he didn’t care. Instead, he turned back to Buffy and reached for her hand without thinking. The feel of her skin beneath his fingers sent an electric shock through his body. “You all right?”

It was a bloody stupid question but he couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” she replied with a soft smile which didn’t reach her tired eyes. “Suffice to say, no sums it up pretty well.”

A pang struck his heart. “’m sorry, love…I din’t…I wasn’t thinking.”

Buffy nodded but didn’t reply. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Long after Margo returned with their drinks, and again a few minutes later with their respective orders. They ate in silence for what felt like forever. It nearly startled him out of his bloody skin when she spoke again.

A vamp being startled by a girl’s voice. He was truly pathetic.

“Do you think she meant it?”

Spike blinked uselessly, a forkful of sausage suspended between his mouth and his plate. “Huss’at?”

“My mother. Do you think she meant it?” Buffy’s eyes were trained on her plate, playing idly with her omelet. She’d gobbled down the flapjacks in less than two minutes. “Do you think…she told me…”

Spike stilled, unsure how to proceed. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her mother’s decision to boot her from the house since before Angelus found himself stuffed with soul again. Since before they raided the mansion. “I dunno, love,” he replied honestly. “Tempers were runnin’ high.” He paused. “Do you…do you wanna head back an’ talk to her? See if…she’s more inclined to listen now?”

Buffy was quiet so long he began to wonder if she heard him at all. Ultimately, she shook her head and replied, “No.”

“No?” Spike arched a brow and popped the bite of sausage into his mouth. “Jus’ like that?”

“Just like that.” She glanced up again, her eyes shining. “I can’t go back there.”

“You need some time.”

He hoped she would seize his observation and either rebuke or affirm it, but she did not. Instead, Buffy finished her omelet and wiped her mouth delicately. She drank her cola and the refill Margo provided without needing to be asked. Spike cleaned his plate as well, and though his demon was hardly appeased by the lack of blood in the processed meat he shoveled into his mouth, his stomach was momentarily satisfied.

Margo approached again with the bill, all signs of southern hospitality having long abandoned her eyes. She didn’t jiggle her breasts for Spike when she slipped him the check, and he was glad. There were some women on which big breasts simply weren’t flattering, and Margo was definitely one of them.

At any rate, it was hard to ogle large knockers when the ones he wanted in his hands and mouth were just the size to occupy either or both desired destinations. All the while he couldn’t help his eyes from wandering down the length of Buffy’s throat until he was staring at her chest. Just two days ago, it wasn’t hard to imagine cradling the soft weight of her in his palms, stroking her nipples with his eager fingers. Now everything had changed. Now Buffy’s mind wasn’t with him. He was fortunate enough that her body was.

“Do you wanna keep drivin’?” he asked at the register as he handed the cashier a twenty. “We can go as far as you want.”

“Sunlight?”

Spike smiled thinly. He had a canister of black gunk he could smear across the windshield if need be. He seemed to remember telling her as much, but decided not to dwell on it. “Poses no problem, sweetling. We’ll drive as long as you like.”

Buffy seemed to mull it over, not questioning his assertion that their journey could continue beyond dawn. “No,” she replied at last. “No.”

“Wanna motel?”

She nodded and curled herself into his side. Spike inhaled sharply and willed his body to keep from stirring at her proximity. Still, he couldn’t keep his heart from warming with hope. It was the most she’d done to assert contact between them since the mansion. She hadn’t recoiled from his tentative touches but she certainly hadn’t returned them. Now she was purposefully pressed against him, her head finding his shoulder as his arm closed around her. He had no bloody idea what she was playing at, or if she was fully aware of her actions. All he knew was that she’d made the prospect of motel hunting both immeasurably important and incredibly dangerous.

Not if she didn’t want to be touched. With less than twenty-four hours between them and the mansion, his hands were aching to wander across her body. To make sure she wasn’t hurt physically, even if her heart was bleeding. Moreover, the taste of her blood was still prominent in his mouth. His demon was roaring for completion; he craved the touch of the woman he loved. Craved the silky hot feel of her pussy clamped around his cock. Craved things he felt now he had no right to want.

“Ya’ll come back now!” Margo chimed with saccharine sincerity as Spike steered Buffy into the parking lot. He flashed her a disarming smile and made a point of brushing his lips across his girl’s brow.

Perhaps he’d be back later tonight. His demon’s thirst had yet to be quenched, and Margo’s neck looked mighty juicy.

The thought, at least, provided a moment of pleasure. He directed Buffy to the car and helped her into her seat. Across the street was a Super 8, and he supposed it was as good a place as any for the night.

He just hoped that rest and morning light would clear the fog in his slayer’s eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We have the room all day tomorrow,” Spike said conversationally, though the strain in his voice was pronounced. He locked the door and tossed the room keys onto the table that sat on his left. Buffy stood several feet away at the foot of the bed, her back to him. She hadn’t said anything since the restaurant. “An’ if you wanna stay longer, jus’ say the word.”

Buffy inhaled sharply and nodded.

“Sweetheart?” Spike sighed and took several steps forward, stopping when he was all but pressed against her, his chest at her back. “Buffy…talk to me.”

She didn’t say anything. His hands closed around her upper arms, and before he could stop himself, he’d inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair. God, there was nothing about her that didn’t tempt him. Just standing here—holding her but not—and he was a man lost. He’d left Drusilla for this; for the simplicity of being with the woman he loved. True, he’d left Dru for a number of reasons, one of which being his rather reasonable problem with women who nailed him to walls, but he knew he’d be here with Buffy regardless of the way his relationship with Dru fell apart.

He loved her. He loved her so bloody much.

“Buffy please…” Spike’s mouth dropped to her shoulder unwittingly. “Please talk to me, baby. Please…”

He knew he was asking for it. Suppose she did start talking; suppose she broke down about how much she loved Angel and how she’d never heal from shoving him ass-first into Hell. It’d break him completely. It’d leave him in ruins. But God, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t help himself. Not when he needed to touch her so badly. Not when the accumulation of the past few days was pushing past the last barrier. He’d promised her and himself it wouldn’t be over with the ending of Angelus. And standing with the curve of her ass pressed against his crotch, with her scent flooding his nostrils, the last logical strain of knowledge was dangerously close to snapping.

“Please…”

Then something happened. Something which changed everything. Before he could blink in surprise, Buffy twisted in his arms, cupped his cheeks, and dragged his mouth to hers. Warmth exploded and stars fell—her tongue pushing past his lips as his senses exploded with her taste. And that was it. He was an evil bloke. Pure evil. And the woman he wanted was growling into his mouth, shoving his duster to the ground and scraping his lips with her teeth.

Christ. What did she want from him? He wasn’t a fucking saint. He thought he covered as much with the evil thing. But God help him, her heavenly scent was thick in the air, tickling his nostrils and making his mouth water. Her body was open to him at long last, arousal pumping her veins and need stretching every move she made. And if he answered her—if he gave her what she was suddenly screaming for, there would be no going back.

“Buffy—”

“Shut up,” she barked, raking his shirt over his head before turning her hands to her own top. “Just shut up, Spike.”

Objection flared within him, but God, he couldn’t help himself. His avaricious eyes immediately landed on her lace-clad breasts, the rose protrusions of her delectable nipples silently begging for his mouth. Spike swallowed hard and licked his lips, a disobedient hand reaching to palm one of her ripe breasts before he could help himself.

“Buffy,” he choked, his dick painfully hard and straining against the denim of his trousers. “Oh fuck.”

“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. And then the flimsy garment fell away, and he was staring at her naked tits for the first time. His mouth watered and his cock strained. She was even more perfect than he’d envisioned. Golden and curvy and mouthwateringly delicious. All woman. This little creature was all woman. Her breasts were the perfect bloody handful; he wanted to feel her skin against his, he wanted to suck her nipples into his mouth. He wanted to do everything at once and it left him paralyzed with astonishment.

One would think a hundred years of living would have left him jaded when it came to the female body. But the only other woman he’d ever fucked was Dru. Dru was cold. Buffy was hot. Dru was pencil-thin. Buffy was shapely and athletic, hard where a woman should be hard and soft where a woman should be soft. Dru was pale and fragile. Buffy was sun-kissed and courageous. Buffy was Dru’s antithesis, and perhaps that was why he loved her so much. She was everything he’d ever wanted while thinking he only deserved what he’d been given. He’d never wanted for anything else while at Dru’s side, but staring at Buffy’s body he couldn’t help but feel like he’d finally surfaced from Plato’s cave. He’d never mistake shadows on the wall for the real thing again. How could he? How could he now that he’d seen perfection?

“Touch me,” Buffy said with boldness that surprised him.

No need to tell him twice. Spike all but lurched forward at her invitation, closing his right arm around her middle, his other hand wrapping around her perfect, weighty flesh as his head dove for her other breast. He licked a wet path around her nipple, drumming the perfect nubbin with his tongue until he wrangled a truly feminine moan from her perfect lips. Spike grinned and swallowed her flesh whole, worshipping her breasts with his amorous mouth and growling into her skin. Christ, she tasted so good. He’d wanted to taste her like this forever—like this and in so many other ways. The rich, womanly aroma tickling his nose beckoned his mouth like a siren. He wanted to bury his face between her legs and inhale her completely. He wanted her flavor in his mouth and her moans in his ears. He wanted her thrusting against him with desperation only he could quell. He wanted—in that second—everything.

Buffy wove her fingers through his hair and clutched him to her breast, whimpering helplessly. “Spike,” she whispered, arching her hips against his. “Please.”

All thought of going slow or providing her with an exit abandoned him without warning. He couldn’t see but for the need splitting his insides. “You wanna be fucked, little girl?” he growled, his hand releasing her breast to cup her ass completely as he angled her into the frantic thrusts of his hips. “Wanna feel my cock inside that juicy quim of yours?”

Buffy mewled and nodded, her glassy eyes finding his before her hands dropped to the waistband of his jeans.

“You know how bad I want you, don’t you?” He fisted her sweats, grateful for the first time that she hadn’t adorned herself with a pair of designer jeans before leaving her home. The unimpeded fragrance of purely woman slayer had teased him mercilessly for the duration of the drive. Now he couldn’t be happier with her wardrobe; he didn’t have to bother with a fly; it was only a matter of seconds before her legs were free and the only thing keeping him from her drenched pussy was a thin strip of cotton. “You know what you’ve done to me from the very bloody beginnin’.”

“Spike…”

“You’ve known how often I laid awake at night, pullin’ at my dick an’ wishing it was you.” He turned his hands to the clasp of his jeans. “Wishing you were—”

His words were rewarded with a fresh wave of desire; it exuded from her. Her flushed face. Her small gasps. The way she clenched her thighs. The hazy look clouding her gaze. God yes, she was aching for this as much as he was. “Spike,” she whispered again, but she didn’t say anything else. She blinked with innocence which betrayed her. Her eyes were large saucers. A man could lose himself in those eyes—in the tumultuous storm raging within those endless depths. God knew he had.

“What?” she asked. He’d thought she’d be the type to attempt to shield her nudity, but her arms remained at her sides. Her glorious body was bare for his perusal, and Christ, it was impossible to look his fill.

The previous litany of crude references to how much he’d wanted her abandoned him. In a blink he was overwhelmed by her beauty. “You’re so gorgeous.” Words were cheap—she wasn’t just gorgeous; she was radiant. She was magnificent. Just knowing her luscious body was his—his to touch, his to fuck, his to cherish—made the demon growl in delight. He would never let her stray. After tonight, there was no going back. There was no returning to any embodiment of the way things had once been between them. Once he’d tasted her, he wasn’t letting her go.

Mine.

The demon snarled again in approval. Yes, she would be his. Spike licked his lips and raked his eyes down her body, focusing intently on the damp material clinging to her quim. “Take your knickers off,” he said slowly, popping the button of his jeans with measured intent. “I wanna see that delectable pussy of yours.”

Buffy stiffened but the air exploded with another wave of arousal. She was dripping for him, and he couldn’t wait to taste her honey. And while he saw defiance flash in her emerald eyes, it didn’t stop her hands—trembling now, much to his satisfaction—from seizing either side of her panties and slowly dragging them down her legs. His eyes followed the progression greedily, his own hands stripping himself of his jeans. He enjoyed the widening of her gaze as her eyes followed the enthusiastic bounce of his cock, almost as much as he enjoyed the breath she inhaled and the shimmer of juices along her inner thighs. Her pussy remained closed to him; he wanted to see her on her back with her legs spread. He wanted her to open up—to let his fingers and tongue explore every crevice of her womanly secrets. He wanted to taste everything.

And just like that, they were both naked. They were naked together for the first time. The knowledge was positively intoxicating.

If he were a gentleman, Spike reasoned as he took a pronounced step toward her, he would allow her one last out. One last escape hatch. One last chance to end the dance before it began. If he were a gentleman, he would remember the freshness of her loss and the soreness of her heart, and recognize a good rutting was likely not the antidote. But with Buffy standing before him, naked as the world had born her, he could not claim himself to be a gentleman. No, at that moment, he was very much a demon. A sinner. A creature of the devil who wanted nothing more than to devour her every inch.

Moreover, he was a man in love—a man in love who wanted to worship the woman he loved with his body. He craved her pussy like he’d never craved anything. He wanted to make her forget everything—Angel, her mother, the apocalypse, everything.

He wanted to make her love him.

“Spike?”

There was only question in her tone. The resounding echo of a girl too lost to be found. And if he allowed her a moment too long of introspection, he feared her sudden rush of bravado would vanish and he wasn’t strong enough to relinquish the promise of her touch.

“Back up,” he growled before he could stop himself, gesturing to the piece of furniture which housed the motel’s television set. There was a good two feet of space to the television’s left—providing her scrumptious arse with more than enough wiggle room. “Sit.”

“You’re not in control here,” she fired back, though her voice was shaking.

“No?”

“I want—”

“An’ you’ll get what you want. Lord knows I’ve wanted it long enough.” Spike wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked himself unabashedly for her widening eyes. “I want your pussy around me so bloody badly. I wanna taste every sodding inch. I wanna fuck you till you can’t stand.” He broke forward for her without a second thought, shoving her onto the stand and spreading her legs with his free hand. “You want me here, don’ you?” he rasped, uncaring he was repeating himself, his eager fingers parting her slick vaginal lips, drunk instantly when her honey ran onto his skin. “You want me to fuck your brains out.”

Buffy sobbed and bucked against his hand, nodding desperately. “Yes,” she whispered, shuddering hard as though the word scandalized her. “Make me forget.”

Rage split through his body without warning and he didn’t know why. The head of his cock rubbed the length of her sopping hole, slathering him with her juices and driving him out of his bloody mind. “You wanna forget?” he snarled. “You want me to fuck his memory right out of you?”

Buffy’s eyes flashed and she met his with crippling understanding. “Spike—”

He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to see her awareness. Didn’t want her to see the hurt she caused without knowing it.

She wanted to forget Angel.

By God, he’d make her forget.

Spike snarled and smashed his lips to hers, slamming his cock so deep inside her light exploded behind his eyes and he saw stars. He was suffocating in heat—surrounded by liquid velvet and squeezed so tight it was a wonder he could feel his dick at all. White hot pleasure crashed over every plane of his body. It was the most perfectly bittersweet moment of his life. He knew all at once he’d sold himself forever—he’d given into temptation and made himself more an addict for her. And in doing so, he’d lost her completely.

Knowing it didn’t slow his body down. Too soon he was sliding out of her pussy and slamming in again. Her body rocked hard against his, a heady gasp tearing through her throat as her lips tore from his and her head flew back. “Oh my God.”

“That’s right,” Spike growled, unable to quell his fury. Whether at Buffy or himself, he didn’t know, but at the moment it didn’t seem to matter. Logic intervened and told him plainly he had no right to be angry with her. Again, she’d asked for nothing. Nothing but a good fuck, which he could give her. Which he would give her over and over if it was what she wanted.

She was so tight. He’d never known a woman this tight.

She was tight because this was only her second time with a man. Her virginity had been intact not too long ago, and she’d given it to her precious Angel.

Spike roared, his neck snapping back, his hips pounding into hers hard enough to hurt. He wasn’t being careful and he knew he ought to be, but he couldn’t help himself. “Look at me,” he growled, seizing her cheeks and leveling her eyes with his. He was rocking against her with fierceness which almost terrified him. His cock pierced her soft flesh with ruthless intensity, dipping into her pussy over and over again so hard it was a wonder the wooden surface on which she sat hadn’t cracked beneath her. “Is this what you wanted?” he growled.

Buffy sobbed and nodded.

“Then look at me.” He bit at her lips furiously, possessively, marking her body for all she was worth. “I’m not him, Buffy. I’m not.”

“I know.” To her credit, her eyes didn’t waver from his. Their eyes locked and held, mingled pants lingering between them, his cock sliding between her soaking flesh, stroking her innermost parts as her molten walls molded around him. “Unh…Spike…”

It was all it took to melt his hard façade. Spike found his anger fading away, soaking her in and realizing for the first time this was truly happening. The dream wasn’t dissolving into a slow awake. Her heat was singing his skin, her small, timely gasps only serving to forward the eagerness of his thrusts. He loved the way her breasts flattened against his chest. He loved the way her body rocked with the sharp drive of his hips. He loved the ‘O’ her perfect lips formed, the cloudy haze storming her eyes, the way she gasped every time his cock sank inside her warm depths. She was perfection—she was going to burn him up and bugger if he cared.

“Oh Buffy,” he moaned, his eyes rolling back, fingers digging into her hips. “You’re so warm.”

“Nnuah,” she offered ineloquently, her hips attempting to meet his every thrust, even from her slightly disadvantageous position atop the television-stand.

“You’re so fucking warm. Christ, you feel good.” Spike’s mouth dipped to nip at her throat, slapping against her hard. “So…so bloody good.” He licked his way back to her lips, capturing her in a needy, desperate kiss. He needed her taste in his mouth. Needed her tongue entwined with his. “I’ve wanted you so much.”

Buffy mewled in protest.

“Wanted you…” Spike kissed her again, pressing his brow to hers. “Look at us, baby. Look at us.” His eyes were glued to the mesmeric sight of his cock, glistening with her juices, pushing rhythmically into her pussy. “Look at how well we move together.”

He felt her tremble beneath his fingers. Undoubtedly she’d never seen anything like what he was showing her, even if she had had sex before. Angel would’ve been a sodding prude; he wouldn’t have wanted her focused on their bodies as much, when in actuality, the union of their bodies was bloody glorious and not something to be disregarded as sloppy or sinful.

Though perhaps that was the lack of a soul thing talking; he just didn’t understand the human tendency to demonize an act so natural it was the very method by which life was created. Pleasure was similarly forbidden—and for the pleasure waving through him with every thrust, there was no question whether or not he would ultimately end up in Hell.

Perhaps his ultimate sin would be dragging Buffy with him. One glance at their thrusting bodies, and she couldn’t stop staring. Her eyes were glued to his cock, to the way her flesh folded around him, her pussy welcoming him with every plunge. “Ohhh…” she whimpered, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. “Spike—”

His eyes widened and his hips bucked madly against her. God, she had no idea what she was playing at. “Buffy!”

Then something happened that he couldn’t have predicted. Her hands found the smooth planes of his chest and before he could blink, he’d been shoved clean out of her body, cock bouncing against his stomach as his legs hit the edge of the bed. And before he could raise his voice in protest—though to scream or whimper he didn’t know—Buffy shoved him onto the mattress completely and straddled his waist, her eyes gleaming with intent.

Spike inhaled sharply, his chest heaving with breaths he knew he didn’t need. He’d never breathed so much as he had around her. “Buffy—”

“I don’t want you to be him,” she growled, and though it was a belated reaction to an earlier assertion, it hadn’t lost its punch. “I just want you to fuck me.”

The word smacked him hard. In Buffy’s voice, it sounded so raw, so taboo—it was a word he never thought he’d hear her say. Not in anger. Not in bed. Not in anything. And for the life of him, he didn’t know if he was pleased or distressed.

As for the implications surrounding the word in question, his mind closed and refused to consider it. Buffy had his cheeks in her hands the next instant and was ravaging his lips with hers as he slid a hand between them to position his cock at her sopping hole once more.

Then she sank down and the stars exploded. Spike’s jaws fell slack, a strangled moan catching in his throat. Holy fuck, she was such a goddess. A warm, wanton goddess. Her pussy clamped hard around him, sucking him so deeply into her he truly understood the old adage of not knowing where he ended and she began. She was soaking; God, she was perfect. And he’d dust before letting her go.

“Buffy,” he gasped, his fingers digging into her thighs. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to; her body did all the talking.

The sight of her lifting off his aching cock only to welcome him back into her wet heat was mesmerizing. He could watch himself sink inside her pussy all bloody night. He was completely split apart; bliss ripping through his body and burning every black stain marring his past into a euphoric baptism of absolution. Buffy’s head rolled back, and he felt her stretching around him, her body adjusting to the heady strain of control. Spike was certain she’d never steered before, and knowing he could provide at least one first—one thing no one else had shared with her or ever would—sent a purely masculine jolt of pride through his pleasure-riddled bones.

“Oh yeah,” he growled, licking his lips as his eyes flicked from the wet-suction of her pussy swallowing him to the bounce of her small, perfect breasts. He tightened his hold on her thighs, arching his hips upward every time her vaginal walls pulled on the skin of his dick. “You’re burnin’ me up, baby.”

Buffy moaned and bit her lip, her right hand closing over her breast. The ecstasy crashing over her face shook him with gut-tightening awareness; it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Buffy teased her nipple as she bounced mercilessly on his cock, moaning unintelligible words which sounded like his name but could have just as easily been a number of things. Spike clenched his jaw, his balls tightening as he reigned in control—pressure built and warred for supremacy, but while he longed for release, there was nothing stronger than his need to prolong this moment. This wonderful first-time inside Buffy.

“You love this, don’ you, you dirty minx?” He flashed a grin when her eyes shot open. “You love riding me.”

Her lips parted, heat crashing over her face. The thrusts of her hips became more demanding, as though to answer him with her body if not her words. “Guh,” she managed to cry. And that one little nonsensical word meant more to him than anything she could have otherwise conveyed.

“You love driving my cock into that sweet li’l cunny of yours.” Without warning, Spike hauled himself off the bed, pressing a hand to the curve of her ass and subtly encouraging her to keep bouncing, even as he speared himself deeper inside her. “You feel that, Slayer?” he whispered when his mouth was at her ear, her nipples rubbing his chest and driving him out of his sodding mind—though from the feel of her or the heady moans reverberating through her body, he didn’t know. “You feel how your juicy li’l pussy sucks me right bloody back inside you every time you—”

“Oh God!”

“Fuck yes.” Spike covered his mouth with hers and flipped her onto her back, consuming her whimper when the move jerked him hard inside her. “I love the way you feel.”

“Spike…” Her nails scratched at his shoulders, her legs wrapping instinctively around him as he began to pound into her. She was so soft. So soft and warm and wet and his. God, she was his. He was going fuck Angel’s name right out of her vocabulary. Never again would he find himself standing across the room from the woman he loved as she wrapped herself in another bloke’s embrace.

Never.

Jealousy split him again and Spike roared before he could help himself. He knew he had no right—the git was dead and the matter was done with, but he couldn’t stand the idea of competing with his grandsire’s ghost. He intended to keep Buffy forever. Forever. He didn’t want to worry about who she saw when she slept. If she was thinking about someone else when he touched her. He wanted her with him. Always. Always.

He fisted a handful of her hair and tilted her head back. “Look at me,” he growled over the noisy slaps of their bodies.

Buffy’s eyes were wide but void of fear, and she didn’t question him. Instead, she merely held his gaze, her hips arching off the bed in time with his desperate thrusts.

“My name. Say it.”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation. “Spike.”

“Who’s fucking you, Slayer?”

“Spike…”

He sighed hard and dipped his head, nipping at her lips with his teeth before consuming her in another desperate kiss. He mauled her tongue with his, sucking her so deeply into his mouth he’d be tasting her for weeks. And that was just the way he wanted it. He would make it his prerogative to never awake without Buffy in his mouth ever again.

“Feel so good,” he murmured when their lips parted, brushing a kiss over her cheek with a sudden rush of gentleness. He released her hair and scaled his hand south, slipping between their thrusting bodies and finding her clit with a purr of satisfaction. Buffy jerked and gasped, arching into his hand, her vaginal walls tightening hard around his cock.

“Ohhh!” she cried. “What…what are you…”

“Wanna feel you come. Drench me, baby. Lemme feel it.”

“Oh! Oh my GOD!”

Then she was squeezing him with intensity he’d never felt before. Squeezing him with muscles he didn’t know existed. Squeezing him with desperation unlike anything he’d experienced, as though attempting to lock him inside her with each slippery slide from her wet pussy. As though to make it impossible for their bodies to ever part. And every wonderful squeeze had his eyes crossing and tortured growls ripping off his lips. Spike pinched her clit and howled, the pads of his fingers quickly setting to rub her out of her mind. His fingers were wet. His balls ached. Buffy was thrashing and mewling beneath him and reason blinked out the window.

He needed her. He needed this to be forever.

He needed to ensure she never left him. Not for a second. Dru’s infidelity had hurt, but Buffy leaving him would render him dust. He couldn’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.

And as his demon finally roared free, fangs descending as his blue eyes glowed amber, he knew what he needed to do. He knew.

He needed to make her his.

Thus before he could stop himself, Spike buried his face in the crook of her neck, his incisors piercing her flesh, and as the warm ambrosia of her blood flowed into his mouth, he knew he’d arrived home.

Buffy screamed and clenched hard around him, soaking his cock as her body exploded into a series of spasms that had him spilling himself inside her the next second. It was the purest release he’d ever known. Thrusting hips determined to take as much of her as she’d give him, her blood bathing his tongue and the singularity of intent clearing his mind.

“Mine,” he growled against her flesh. “You’re mine, Buffy.”

She sobbed in pleasure. “Yes. Oh God, yes.”

The skies parted and something within him locked. And when he realized what had happened—when the fog faded and reality set in—he found himself battling tears. His. Oh God, it was final. She’d said yes. She’d told him yes. He’d asserted a claim on her and she’d agreed. Buffy was his. She was really his.

There truly was no going back.

“Mine,” he said again, this time proudly and not possessively. His long tongue licked at the mark he’d given her, trembling when she did. “God Buffy…you’re mine now.”

There was nothing for a long minute.

“No,” she whispered, shattering him with alarm a split second before her teeth sank into his shoulder. “You’re mine.”

Spike’s eyes fell shut and his already hardening cock grew fully erect in a blink. “Oh yes. Yes.”

No sense arguing with the truth. He was hers. He was completely hers. He always had been.

So overwhelmed with belonging, he didn’t consider asking her if she knew what had just transpired. Beyond their panting bodies, beyond the fingers at her clit stroking her still as he began thrusting inside her again, the significance of what they’d just done remained in the haze.

Tomorrow, he thought. We’ll talk tomorrow.

He was too much in need of her to talk now. Tomorrow, when the gritty edge of his desperation was at least fleetingly satisfied, he would tell her.

Right now, he just wanted to make love to her. Over and over and over again.

The rest could wait until tomorrow.

TBC

A/N Cont’d: Finally worth the rating? *g*

A/N: Not as long between updates, right? *bats eyes*

BIG hugs to Megan for all her help with this chapter. Sweetie, you absolutely did not overstep your bounds with your suggestions. And of course, big thanks to Mari, Jenny, and Tami for their revisions. You gals are awesome! *hugs*


Chapter 15

She’d never before awakened in a bed with a man, and the sensation filled her with a devastating rush of warmth and alarm. The arm around her middle tightened almost immediately as though sensing her unease, the chest pressed against her back rumbling a soothing purr as Spike subconsciously drew her nearer to nuzzle her hair. Buffy lay awake for a long time, staring mindlessly into nothing. Trying hard to put to right what had happened last night in the jumbled mess of her mind. What she’d done in the mindless aftermath of complete devastation.

The tears she’d cried weren’t for Angel. Not entirely. While she knew she would never forget the betrayal in his eyes or the way his hand had reached for her, she’d reconciled with what she’d done almost immediately. There hadn’t been a choice—Angel himself had made sure of that. It was sacrifice Angel or lose the world, and after everything they’d suffered through, the world definitely deserved the most weight.

Angel didn’t know why he’d died. Why she’d run him through with a sword. Why she hadn’t returned his declaration of love. Why anything which had occurred in the last moments of his life had occurred at all. It was something she couldn’t change; something she’d just have to live with. Something she’d done to save the world; something she couldn’t regret.

It wasn’t losing Angel which had broken her; it was everything. It was this. It was lying in an unfamiliar bed in the suburb of a city which hadn’t been her home for two years. A city where she’d left as a child and was returning to as an adult. It was lying in bed beside a man who touched her in ways no man should—her worn, beaten heart was bleeding, and she’d willingly tossed herself into another arena. She was broken all over, and she’d hoped Spike would fix her.

She didn’t know why she’d thought sex would make it better. Lying in the calm beside him, the idiocy of her actions glared with unforgiving scrutiny. She’d used him. She’d tapped into the feelings she knew he had for her and used him in order to feel something other than hollow. She’d used him and she was disgusted with herself.

Namely because despite all her efforts, turning off her own feelings was impossible. She’d thought she could ignore what she felt for Spike in the aftermath of something so brutal. She was wrong. God, she was wrong. But that didn’t make things better.

No. It made things immeasurably worse.

And she hurt. God, she hurt. She hurt for Spike. For the tender way he cuddled up behind her. For the gentle purrs he released into her hair and the loving way his hands caressed her body, even in sleep. He gave her so much without asking for anything, and while last night had been one of the most explosive nights of her life, her bruised heart was prepared for another crushing blow.

I can’t do this.

There was nothing left to give. Nothing left in her whatsoever. No want of love to give. No want of love to receive. Nothing but an ugly scar where there had once been warmth—a scar which ached with resounding freshness whenever her treacherous mind wandered into the forbidden territory she’d crossed last night. In everything that had happened, she’d never suspected this would be the fallout. She hadn’t known what she’d thought would happen, but complete isolation was about as far down the line as one could feasibly travel.

Spike hadn’t been coy in his intentions or desires. Since the beginning, since the sinful kiss they’d shared in the halls of Sunnydale High, he’d been as forward and blunt in his wants as any man she’d ever known. He’d rocked her foundations and wheedled his way into her heart. He’d defied everything she knew about conventional vampires in how unconventional he was. He’d been her friend and confidant when she felt at her loneliest.

She’d wanted him so much before what had happened at the mansion. Before the totality of her loss came crashing down and she realized the consequences of everything which had occurred since she awoke that fateful morning.

She’d lost her home. She’d lost her friends. She’d lost her Watcher. She’d lost her mother. She’d lost her first love. She’d lost everything.

She’d lost everything but Spike, who refused to allow himself to be lost. Spike had rushed her away at her request. Spike hadn’t pried her for conversation. Spike had fed her, cared for her, and wouldn’t have touched her last night had she not been the one to jump him. Had she not been so desperate to feel something beyond the cold that she was willing to do anything or use anyone in order to fulfill her needs.

Even someone she cared about.

At once, Buffy felt old. Very old. She’d just barely crossed the boundary of her seventeenth birthday and she felt decades had passed overnight. She’d used someone she cared about and there was no taking it back. There was only the hurt she’d cause him in the afterward. The knowledge she had nothing she could give him. Nothing of the words he’d whispered or the caresses he’d given her. There was absolutely nothing.

Sex without love was something she couldn’t abide. Not after what she’d had. A part of her had hoped Spike would fuck her cares right out of her, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he’d been convinced he was fucking Angel out of her when there was no way he could. Not when Angel wasn’t the source of her pain. Angel was far removed from her; she hurt for him but not because of him. Not because of what she’d done. Killing Angel was necessary. She’d known it going in, and she knew it now.

It just didn’t happen the way she’d wanted it to happen. Losing Angel hadn’t crushed her, but it had been the final straw.

And now here she was. Lying beside a man who cared for her—a man she cared for in turn—but there was nothing more between them. Nothing she could part with; nothing her broken soul could entrust into his bloodstained hands. He was a vampire; a vampire whose moral boundaries were about as set as the devil’s in paradise. He said he wanted her, and she believed he meant it, but what would his promise be worth in a month? In two months? What would it be worth to him when he realized how broken she was? What would it be worth to him after the excitement was over and it became painfully clear she couldn’t stomach being with a man who regarded morality with the same casualness that others might regard the weather.

Spike had whispered pretty words, but pretty words couldn’t save her.

Buffy shivered hard and sighed. She knew her conclusion wasn’t fair. She knew it, but she couldn’t help herself. The bottom line remained: Spike was still a vampire, and no amount of poetry or promises could change his nature. Spike was a very soulless vampire. Spike could destroy her without hurting a hair on her head.

If Spike gave her a reason to kill him as Angel had, she wouldn’t survive. And she didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out if he would.

There was nothing left in her. Nothing left at all. If she stayed with Spike, she would end up destroying him. She couldn’t keep giving her body without giving her heart, and her heart was too battered to be given away. She couldn’t trust herself with another vampire, knowing he might one day give her reason to kill him. She couldn’t stay with Spike until she was healed because the blackness inside her would rip them both apart.

Buffy sniffed hard and slowly wiggled out of his embrace. She expected the arm around her middle to tighten at the first hint of movement, but Spike offered little more than a yawn and turned over in his sleep. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, wincing when her sore muscles complained under the movement. Her thighs were tender, and her pussy ached. Spike had nearly broken her at first; his anger and outrage at what he thought was holding her back.

Then the night had turned on her, and the fury in his eyes washed into bone-melting awe and wonder. He’d stroked her face with his fingertips, pumping sweetly into her body and whispering words against her lips which would have crushed a lesser woman. He’d claimed her as his own. His fangs had pierced her body and her blood had flown into his mouth. He’d murmured words and proclaimed her as his. She supposed it was the truth.

She did belong to him. She just couldn’t have him, and he couldn’t have her.

Her vision blurred as she raised herself to trembling legs. She ignored the dull ache attacking her muscles with every step she took, just as she ignored the cold air stinging her skin and the resounding pang which struck her heart the further away from him she walked.

She couldn’t stop herself, however, from glancing wistfully over her shoulder at the man she’d left on the bed. Her eyes were soft and her heart was sore; there wasn’t an inch of her which didn’t hurt.

Somehow, Buffy made it to the bathroom without collapsing. She flipped on the light and winced as her tear-filled eyes blinked in adjustment. A long violent sigh rolled off her shoulders, and before she knew what she was doing, she was standing under the shower nozzle, her face turned upward as water cascaded over her aching body. It always seemed to work in movies. The cleansing power of a good scrub-down. The purity of water to wash away the night’s sins. She hoped the dirt and grime staining her flesh would carry with it the weight holding her down, but she received no such satisfaction.

She could bathe and scrub all she liked. Her problems weren’t going anywhere. She was still far from home. She was still quaking with the aftermath of Spike’s passionate lovemaking. She was still breaking because she knew she wasn’t programmed for this. For any of it. For the softness in his eyes or the way he touched her like she was cherished. For feeling like she ought to give him something when she had to keep whatever she had left. Whatever feeling beyond the cold had to be preserved, else she’d truly be left with nothing.

It was because of that, she couldn’t stay with him. At all. She couldn’t hand herself over to reckless abandon and allow him to fuck her concerns away. She couldn’t do last night again. Never again. She couldn’t have sex when love wasn’t in the equation, and though she felt closer to Spike than anyone, there was no love. There was the want of love, but wishing could not make it so. She couldn’t love when she was broken.

And even if she could, one resounding truth refused to waver.

No more vampires.

Buffy sniffed again and wiped at her eyes. A useless gesture, of course, but needed nonetheless.

I can’t do this.

There was no reason to believe Spike would make any of this easy. A part of her had expected him to join her in the shower, and she was not disappointed. Buffy honestly didn’t know how much time passed before the shower-curtain rattled and his presence consumed the small space surrounding her. Her body rejoiced even as her heart broke down sobbing again. She stood motionless, facing the showerhead, trembling and waiting for him to make a move.

And God when he moved, the walls came tumbling down. Spike’s arms wrapped around her middle, his strong chest flattened against her back. His cock, hard but undemanding, settled provocatively against her ass. And he held her for long minutes without a word.

He was going to crush her.

“It’s all right, kitten,” he murmured, and she realized with a start she was crying again. Spike didn’t pressure her; didn’t ask why or plead with her to stop. She’d seen men come undone at a woman’s tears and wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful that he didn’t demand she cease sniveling for his benefit.

It didn’t matter; she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t all right.

“I’ll take care of you.” His lips innocuously brushed the bite mark he’d given her the night before. The one proclaiming her as his to the world. Buffy trembled and gasped, an unwanted but sorely-needed rush of lust making her already-wobbly knees even weaker. To her surprise, Spike didn’t purr in delight. Instead, he merely kissed the mark again and nuzzled his face against the curve of her neck. “I’ll take such good care of you.”

“Spike,” Buffy whimpered, her hand falling to his where it rested against her abdomen. Their fingers intertwined without hesitation. As though this was what they were built for. As though every move was purposefully synchronized, and her body knew it in spite of her head’s confusion and her heart’s objections.

His left hand fell from her waist, his right maintaining a possessive, near reverent clasp on hers. Perhaps subconsciously, his hips had begun a seductive dance against her backside, the sensual length of his cock rubbing her ass into a new kind of crazy. She had no idea how it was possible to collapse with desire with her heart and mind at such war—especially with her body sore and overly tender from last night’s lovemaking. But God, at the softest touch, her insides liquefied into molten desire. She was at once aching and consumed with need. Wetness slicked the flesh between her thighs. Sparks of arousal had her every fiber blazing. Her conviction, fresh and painful as it was, surged and died. She knew then she wouldn’t be able to walk away without one more taste.

Without knowing exactly what she was leaving behind.

Buffy wasn’t accustomed to being so easily manipulated. So effortlessly aroused. Not once had Angel left her burning like this. His touches had always warmed her, made her feel precious and cherished, but similarly kept her dressed in pure white without any move to soil the ideal of her untainted innocence. While his kisses had done their part to ignite an inner fire, Angel had never pursued her arousal. Not until the night she gave him her virginity.

Spike didn’t just pursue her arousal—he hunted it down. He craved it. He drove her out of her mind and made no small noise about the magnitude of his rejoicing when his pursuit was met with success. Spike wasn’t the type to be content simply building a fire. No, he would caress her until her insides were burning, then encourage the flames to a roaring explosion.

The determination housed within her bones began to waver. How was she supposed to think about leaving him when he touched her so lovingly? Her set mind blanked completely as his free hand dipped between her thighs, nimble fingers caressing her tender folds with flippancy which made the strokes seem almost accidental. Raw emotion spread through her body like a disease, and she sagged against him, weakened and powerless to fight.

Allow me this. God please, allow me this.

“Are you sore, baby?” Spike asked, sucking her earlobe between his teeth and giving it a seductive tug. “I wasn’t exactly gentle with you last night.”

Could he feel her indecisiveness? Did he know she was too much of a coward to stick this out? Did he know she was slipping away from him? Did he know she wouldn’t be with him this time tomorrow?

Tears threatened to spill down over her cheeks again. Buffy’s eyes fell shut and she trembled, her legs spreading in silent welcome for his addictive touch. He didn’t question or allow her time to second-guess the invitation; he captured her clit between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth dropping again to the mark on her throat. His arm tightened around her middle when she gasped.

“Answer me,” Spike pleaded softly, his voice tight with need. “I want to be inside you so bloody badly, but if it’s gonna hurt—”

“I am a little sore,” she confessed, regretting the words immediately for the way he inhaled sharply and began to withdraw. The decision she’d made was unmovable—her intentions undeterred. But she’d be damned if she didn’t leave him with memories of warmth and tenderness to coincide with the cold solace he’d provided her with the night before.

She’d need memories of this to keep her warm when she was alone.

“I don’ wanna hurt you.”

Alarm seized her insides. No, she needed this. She needed him one last time. Before she sent herself into a self-imposed exile, she needed Spike. She needed to know exactly what she was leaving behind. She needed to try and convey everything she didn’t want to feel through touch—and in doing so, everything she wanted to give him. “Please.”

“Please?” he echoed, his teeth gently scraping the bite mark. “Please what?”

“Please, Spike…”

Spike squeezed her hand and tugged her against him so that her back was resting completely against his chest, her weight supported by his entirely. “Please what?” he echoed. “Hurt you? Sorry, sweetheart, no can do. I’m not angry now. I hurt you enough—”

“You didn’t—”

“An’ I’m not gonna.”

Buffy shook her head, hot sparks blazing across her skin. “Don’t hurt,” she managed between gasps, coherency mingling with desire. “Just…just love me.”

For a second she thought she’d said something to upset him; Spike went rigid, breaths crashing against her wet, trembling flesh and his body quaking so hard against hers she honestly didn’t know where he ended and she began. Perhaps she’d gotten ahead of herself—not that it mattered, of course. It wasn’t like she was going to see him again. Today would be her last with Spike. She was spiraling down a dark path where even he could not follow. She didn’t need any more demons whispering in her ear. She didn’t need another vampire lover.

Not when she couldn’t allow herself to love him.

The silence around them broke on a reverent gasp. “Oh Buffy,” Spike moaned, twisting her at once in his arms. And the thin veil keeping reality from fantasy shattered; he was there, drowning her in the crystal tide of his endless eyes, preventing her from hiding herself from the veracity of the world around her.

Her heart hammered hard against her chest, making her knees rattle and her bones shake. And when his lips fluttered over hers, a dam inside broke. His kiss was so soft. So tender. His tongue stroked hers, savoring her, his small whimpers rumbling against her mouth. He tasted so good—the perfect embodiment of the ever-proverbial forbidden fruit. Buffy could kiss him forever and not want for anything. He was all male. He was danger personified. Yet in his arms she felt safer than she had in all her life.

It was false security, she knew. The hands which caressed her had caused endless amounts of pain and suffering. How many mothers had wept over dead sons and daughters as a result of these hands? How many husbands had lost their wives? How many children had been left orphaned? How many times had Spike licked his victims’ blood off his fingers? How many tears had he left in the past?

Those were the sort of scars which could never be healed. Not with time. Not even with death. And she knew it wasn’t really Spike’s fault. Spike couldn’t be held accountable for being what he was; for doing what was natural to him. She couldn’t hate him for being a vampire. But she couldn’t lose herself in another killer’s arms. She couldn’t—not when she was still scrubbing Angel’s dust off her skin.

She couldn’t risk choking on darkness. Spike had already wormed his way deep into her heart; she hadn’t thought of what would come of it in the aftermath of slaying Angel. Perhaps, had Angel not come back in those fateful final seconds, she wouldn’t feel this way. She wouldn’t have been reminded of the prevailing responsibility on her shoulders. The calling she was fleeing from but could never escape.

Once the emptiness subsided she knew she would have to pick up the pieces. Her sense of duty would return. And if she stayed with Spike now, if she allowed their relationship to deepen even more, and if he one day betrayed her, there would be no recovery.

It was a dangerous supposition, she knew—living her life based on what ifs. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t trust herself with anything absolute. As long as Spike was a demon he would always be evil. Always. He could promise her the sun and moon and stars and mean every word; it didn’t matter. His nature demanded blood and violence. Spike had no ties to her beyond the forged alliance they’d formed over the past few days and the passionate night they had shared together. She’d employed him for solace, and God she hated herself for it.

Vampire or not; she cared for Spike. She truly did. And she hated knowing she’d used him. Even if Spike had known he was being used.

He had, too. He’d known he was being used. Last night it had angered him. He didn’t seem angry now.

“You taste so good,” Spike murmured into her mouth, hiking her legs around his waist, the head of his cock rubbing along her aching slit. “So warm an’ sweet.”

Buffy mewled against his lips, thoroughly hating herself. She wanted to shut her mind off completely.

He stroked her clit almost lazily, his mouth breaking from hers to whisper small kisses down her throat. “You’re mine, you know,” he whispered, his teeth again grazing the bite mark he’d given her. “This here? This makes you mine. Forever.”

The words made her stomach tighten but Buffy didn’t reply. She merely tightened her arms around him and rubbed herself against his hand.

“Say you’re mine, Buffy. Say it again.”

Her eyes blinked with new tears. “I’m yours,” she said, but the words rode out on a long, strangled sob as his cock sank deep inside her pussy. Her vaginal walls clamped hard around him, her body attempting to suck him in deeper than biology would allow. Tortured bliss spread through her veins. The water hitting her skin had long gone cold, but she didn’t care. Between the cold at her back and the cold body of the vampire moving inside her, she was surprised she hadn’t melted with heat.

Nothing in her life made sense. Nothing.

“Again,” Spike begged, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Say it. Please, baby…”

Her heart wrenched. “Yours.”

Deeper and deeper. Buffy couldn’t keep herself from crying. Spike didn’t question her. Didn’t do anything but caress her face and kiss her lips as his cock slid rhythmically in and out of her body.

She wanted to freeze this moment. To forget the pain ripping her insides apart. To forget the world which defined them by what they were. She would never have this again. This was a moment she would bottle and carry with her. This would be a moment to take with her wherever she went.

Because, with Spike or not, she was his. Somehow she knew she was his.

She just couldn’t stay.

“It’s all right,” Spike murmured, kissing her shoulder. “It’s all right.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

And try as she might, even as he made love to her with his words and his lips and his body, Buffy couldn’t stop weeping. She just prayed he didn’t look into her eyes. If he did, he’d know immediately this was their last time together. And he’d hate her for it. For using him. For making him believe something. For making him think she could give him something she didn’t have.

He’d be within his right to loathe her. God knows she loathed herself enough.

The very thought, however, left her feeling colder than before. And Buffy knew without question that she wouldn’t survive it. Even if she never saw him again, she couldn’t abide the thought of Spike existing in the world…and hating her.


TBC