She hates that she’s doing this. It's wrong. Confusing. Distressing. Not neatly boxable. But she needs him.
It isn’t like what she’d wanted from Angel. Angel was all when you kiss me I want to die, and lurking in the shadows with soulful eyes. He was wrong, wrong, wrong, because he was the other, the thing she was born to kill. But he wasn't, he had a soul, he was different, he loved her.
She’d loved the way he’d looked at her. Brown eyes liquid, almost worshipful. She was a princess, perfect, wearing petal pink and blushing at his adoration.
Spike didn't look at her that way at all. It wasn't hate or loathing in his eyes.
It was something darker. Deeper. He wanted her. Wanted to sink into her with his fangs and drink the Slayer essence, then spread her legs and thrust within, force her to acquiesce, to come with his name and only his on her lips.
She was something to conquer.
And when he turned those icy eyes that somehow were molten in their glacial stare on her, when they were alone and no one else could see it but her, it made her legs quiver, her body thrum with anticipation.
She didn't want him to kiss her. But she did want something to make her freefall away and forget the heartache and worry of the last few months. And he could give it to her, a moment of oblivion, an escape.
For all Faith's commentary on slayage making a girl hungry and horny, she won’t admit it. Because she doesn't like it. Doesn't like her body, or the urges the surges of power bring. The wild out-of-control feeling.
She doesn't want images of a vampire in her dreams, leering and smirking with that infuriating mouth, doing things with it that leave her waking, gasping, flooded with desire and slickness between her legs that make her need to touch, to stroke, to find relief from the dull ache DreamSpike drives her to.
But she does. Has for nights now.
And he always knows. Shoots her that look, swipes his bottom lip with his tongue like a cat lapping the last remnant of milk in a way that makes it that much worse.
He makes her feel like she’s in heat.
And it’s wrong.
But she’s going to see him anyway.
She's defiant as she stands there in the flickering light, the request hanging in the air. He'd been watching her for days now as she drew closer and closer to the edge, but he hadn't thought she'd ask him for this.
Her wrist is the only thing he can see. Her skin is tan and smooth, but when she flips her hand, the inside curve is a beguiling lighter shade. Not quite white, but a color that reminds him of fresh sweet cream.
His mouth starts to water.
There's one vein that catches his eye. The bluish purple snaking beneath that delectable cream, hiding the deep crimson he knows it disguises, pumping, pumping, pumping away the life force that would make any vamp fall to his knees and beg for a taste.
Slayer blood.
Every vamp knows there's something no right with them. They aren't human. Quite. The package is, but there's something in the girls, the power, that transforms them over time.
Or would if they lived long enough.
And she's offering him a taste. He's knows why, knows it’s not really him she wants, him she sees as she proffers her wrist and closes her eyes.
But then there's a flicker, something that flashes just as she blocks him out that tells him she knows exactly who's about to sink into her. Him.
He's suddenly never wanted anything so much in his existence.
But the package is human and the chip reads it as such. So he's got to take it easy.
He grasps her wrist. Close his eyes, lets her heart beat fill his ears, the fast pitter patter rhythm that's too quick, shows she's anxious, scared.
Fuck. She's gonna set off the chip.
"Slayer?"
"What?" Her voice is still annoyed, but it's higher. Thin. "Are you going to do it or not."
"Need to calm down. Can't do it if you're pulse is racing like a jack rabbit."
She jerks her hand away. "I'm not afraid of you."
He opens his eyes then, grabs back her hand and plasters it over her heart. His fingers mold it in place, cupping her breast in a way that has her hissing in a pissy fashion. But he presses her fingers to the inner slope and forces her to feel.
"’s normal. You'd be a poor excuse for a Slayer if being this close to a vamp didn't get you amped. Even one who's all but fangless."
But his voice only seems to make it worse, the pounding, pounding, pounding that makes him want to, want to . . .
He drops his hand and walks away, fishing for the fags with shaky fingers. Maybe she'll just go now. Save him the admission that he can't . . .
The door slams behind him, granting his unspoken request.
She’s back within an hour, door slamming open. He hates that she never knocks, treats him like some sort of thing that doesn't merit a private moment.
He thinks about protesting as he listens to her bump around, dragging his one battered chair up to the edge of the tomb on which he lays. He still hasn't bothered to open his eyes.
"I'm ready now."
Her heart beat is measured, rhythmic. She's breathing in and out, almost in a meditative state.
He opens his eyes to find the slender wrist, just as creamy as before, thrust imperiously under his nose. Her eyes are tightly shut, she's slumped in the chair, in her own space.
He tries to ignore it. Tries to remind himself that he's just the tool to get what she wants, some sort of revenge on the soldier boy, a twist sort of rebound. Not worth the headache.
But she's so calm. The thump, thump, thump, sounds in his ears and he can see the delicate trace of the blood curling right there, so very, very close.
Well, why the fuck not? Give it a try. Get his own out of it if it works. Show her . . . Show the Slayer what she's missing.
He can't resist savoring the moment, the thought of warm, pumping, coppery blood that will be flowing onto his tongue in seconds. He knows it won't be much more than a taste, but his fangs descend none the less, the slight crunch as bones shift and he's ready. He traces the vein with his roughened tongue.
Her heart rate accelerates. Perceptibly.
He stops. Waits. It's still beating fast, she's still got her eyes shut, she's not looking at him.
He tries again, testing the elasticity, the fabric of her skin, delicate and smooth above the pulse now hammering away.
And that's when it hits him. She's not afraid. She's fucking aroused by this. He might be hard and heavy beneath the covers, but he can smell the scent now, knows if he slides one finger up under the floppy little skirt she's wearing he'd find a spill of fluid.
And that's when he knows the chips not gonna fire.
He sinks his teeth in.
She’s tired of waking up from the same dream, over and over. It always starts the same way, in that decrepit room where she’d watched Riley, sitting slack and dark eyed, touching the slavering limpet attached to his arm as though he's finally found a satisfaction she could never bring.
But Riley’s not there. She’s the one with arm bared, held like a supplicant until the teeth sink into her flesh. It’s just a sip that the lips take, but her whole body sings with pleasure as the tongue traces the vein further up her wrist. Everything that’s wrong, all the heartache and worry and distress of the last few months fades away into pleasure.
She doesn’t want it to end. Even when he looks up and she realizes that it’s . . . Spike.
He seems to be everywhere now. Turning up at the Magic Box, showing up at her house and chatting with her mother, offering to patrol. Not even her disinvite seems to have discouraged him. And now every time she’s saw him, she imagines the slice of his teeth and the oblivion it could bring.