There were so many- layers upon layers of exotic and expensive rugs, criss-crossing the floor of the lower level of his crypt. In truth, they were stunning. They made his home beautiful. Vibrant yet essential to the cover he was molding to his existence.
They usually stayed above the rugs, the soft silk threads a soothing cushion for her back as Spike devoted hours to touching her every part. Physically, he was thorough. Yet the complex turn of intention often left Buffy confused.
There was never a time that didn’t satisfy, that didn’t force feeling into her heart as activity deprived it in her legs. And as eyes as blue as serene waters searched her, hoping and begging for change, she felt something shift aside and tenderness take control. While she lay within his web of influence, she reached contentment. Buffy could let him into her heart for moments before her life made her force him back out.
But really, for a dead guy living amongst the very long dead in his lonely crypt, he had taste. The rugs were simply gorgeous and Buffy was envious. But as usually happens, her too intent thoughts picked up details that Buffy didn’t want to investigate. But once begun, the suspicion continued to tick.
One of them covered her, curled around her form with stiffened comfort as she watched another cross and mold around him, revealing his pale muscled flesh to her needy gaze. She couldn’t help but notice the sense of change on the stagnant tomb air. For one dream filled moment she felt the urge to pretend, to give in to these feelings for him, allow him to visit the burrow in her heart that she had carved out specifically for him.
Even his throw away admittance of once eating a decorator-thus passing on the skill of good taste- couldn’t dampen the desire to categorise the moment as normal. Claim him as something other than her dirtiest, most shameful secret.
“I’ve been thinking of doing something with my room,” she informed him, suddenly scared of the opening she was giving him. “The ‘New Kids on the Block’ posters are beginning to date me.” And her heart flipped a beat at the look of gratitude he captured her with.
“I could probably…” he began with the beginnings of an offer of his help to change her room. And instead of filling her with cold fear-- to make him intimately acquainted with her space-- it felt like something they were meant to share. “Are we having a conversation?” he continued, again spoiling the moment by drawing attention to something good; adding fright to her responses to the unknown.
“No,” was her knee-jerk denial of him once again. But this time it felt more than bad, despite being far from the vicious rejections of weeks before when they first slept together. She felt tired, unable to lift her stare from the skin at his chest. He was so close, but unless they were embarking on another round of ‘rough and tumble’ -of which their current predicament under the rugs revealed they partook often-he remained fearfully hesitant to touch her.
And she wanted him to. Was almost desperate to feel his lips on her bicep, his hand on her collarbone. Over the period of their ‘thing’ she had pushed at him, insulted him so often that he couldn’t feel comfortable about offering his simple touch of love at any other time but sex.
It left Buffy floundering through a tunnel filled with rushing sadness. As she felt the whirl of inner hatred burgeon out of control, she made a choice.
It was time to stop the games. His taunts to make her doubt herself, question who and what she was, think so little of herself that she wouldn’t look too closely at her motivations for being with a monster like him. He believed that Buffy would run- he always saw more of her back than any other body part. He thought she only came to him for his ‘cold comfort’, even though she adored being in his presence before things went too far. In this instance, he was more right than he knew; it was his cold embrace that showed her the moments of when it was all right to be back in the world.
So yeah, decision.
“Yeah,” she finally answered, feeling a small fluttering of warmth spread from the pit of her stomach as the look of hope bloomed in his eyes. Such incredibly expressive, lost eyes.
“Yeah,” she repeated, not wanting to lose momentum of the thing. “We’re having a conversation. You were about to offer to do something to my room?”
His expression was deep in the incredulous, but he nearly jumped out from under the rug when Buffy wiggled closer and rested her head on his chest. Shock crippled his response as she curled her hand into his drifting right. She caressed the knuckles and then, in a burst of sappy inspiration, she brought his hand to her mouth and gently kissed each knobbly bone.
“Tell me what you would do? Would you use rugs?”
She closed her eyes and in happy amazement found it all too easy imagining him in her room, painting and picking colours. The dream was so bittersweet she felt tears tease her closed lids. It was something she was realising, or perhaps finally admitting to herself, that she really wanted…to see him at home in her room. And occasionally in her bed.
“Buffy?” It was the whispery tone of her name on his disbelieving lips that drew Buffy’s steady stare back to his face. She had to arch her neck because she wasn’t releasing his shoulder for anything. “Are you asking me to deliberately be in your room?”
It wasn’t the first time she had seen fear tighten his face, but this was the first time it broke off a piece of her heart to witness it.
“I…I wouldn’t mind if you helped me think up something to do in there.” She held his gaze, desperate for him to see her sincerity.
Rendered speechless, he watched her taking breath and then swooped on her lips, tangling them in a kiss so sweet it compounded her already existing tears.
“I would love to, Buffy.” The short gusts of his cold breath blew over her lips and it made her shiver in want.
She couldn’t help but smile at the tinge of eagerness in his voice, the excitement in his touch as he let his fingers whisper over her cheek, for the first time without waiting for the shoe to drop. God, it was so relaxed!
Buffy curled her fingers through his hair, allowing herself the luxury of mingling, of breaking barriers by mussing his hair. By eradicating the gel. His hair was so soft, released into fluffy bleached curls and she felt the fingers of heat squeeze together in her belly, making fists of desire spread warmth to the hardened buds of her nipples and the warm wetness of her centre. Even her thighs felt like they burned with the need for his hand, for the slide of his coolness that might quench her for a moment.
As his body shifted to press hers deeper into the crypt floor she suddenly remembered the piece of furniture they kept missing, and craved the springy softness of a mattress under her battered back.
“Um, do you think we could continue this-- and maybe talk about my room-- while we get all snuggly comfy in the bed?”
Spike looked over at his made-up bed with not even a wrinkle in the spread, and twitched his nose and lips.
“Not half so naughty doing it in the old standby…”
Buffy arched her brow and gave him a twisted little smirk; playful.
“I promise we won’t do missionary.”
His grin was so happy and he stood with the energy that should be foreign to someone who had just participated in five hours of very enthusiastic sex. With a lowered hand he asked for hers and hauled her to her feet. They stumbled while giggling and kissing till knees struck the bed and they toppled onto it, finally mussing the impeccable manchester.
Exposed to the world, Spike sat back and became mesmerised by the colour of her skin. His finger traced its texture from her neck to her hip and she couldn’t help but give into multiple shivers.
“I’ve got a bloody beautiful bed for your room, luv. Matching dresser. Another rug or two. All in storage.”
His attentions took his eyes from hers so he didn’t catch the warning in her eye the split second before she snatched at his wrist.
“You furnished this place with chairs from the dump, Spike. Why and how do you have furniture in storage?”
He looked suddenly embarrassed. Not uncomfortable, or guilty for being caught with some illegal scheme like Buffy would have suspected. Just a slight almost boyish confusion that he had again put his foot in his mouth and revealed something he’d rather he hadn’t.
“Yeah, well. All above board. Nothin’ for you to worry your pretty little head about.”
That eyebrow Buffy had raised earlier? Hit her hairline with incredulity.
“This is you, Spike. Since when was there a time I didn’t have to worry? And now you’ve got hoards of furniture stashed away and your crypt is all decked out in expensive rugs.” She stopped suddenly and looked over the edge of the bed at the plush rugs with the vivid colourful patterns.
“Or at least they’re just cheap knock offs.”
“Oi,” he interrupted, a furious twist to the corner of his lips. “These are bleeding well genuine. Wouldn’t cover my bloody floor with complete guff.”
“It’s a dirt floor! You should be covering it with vinyl.”
Spike clamped his lips together and looked like he was counting to ten in his head. His cheeks caved in over the bones and he looked unbelievably sexy. Buffy could almost see the steam shooting from his ears, and in spite of the possible immoral situation Spike might be king of, Buffy collapsed into giggles.
It took seconds for Spike to lose the affronted air and lie alongside her, smiling indulgently. He reached a finger out so far toward her lips, paused and searched her eyes as if for permission, before continuing on his path.
When his callused finger pad scratched the length of her bottom lip, she had tears glistening in her eyes. If she could just surrender completely to the moment, it would be the most tender she had shared with the man she loved.
Buffy’s eyes shot as wide as Xander’s favourite donut as giddy sparks of heat exploded everywhere on her body at once. Her flush, she was sure, told her tale. In living-freaking-colour for that added sense of humiliation.
Where had that declaration sprung from? How did she get from letting him in to a small part of her life, admittedly selfishly so she could benefit from his decorating skill? Butchering at her heart to carve up space for him to reside?
That was it then, the moment she had made the unveiling. The moment she had allowed him access to her insides had hastened her own emotion’s escape- and it would explain how she ended up all bunnylike on his bed rather than kicking him in the ribs as she searched under the rugs for her panties.
So, she had done more than stopped the game. She’d taken away her safety net. Now what the hell was she to do? There was nothing for it but to change the subject to something sure to be evil and anger invoking. He was sure to say something to bring back her hatred. Preparing for battle, she pushed away his tingle-inspiring finger and braced herself for an ugly argument.
“So, where did you get the rugs?”
Her mouth was set in a stubborn cement-like fury, banked and growing with just the need to bring back the loathing. The rising heat in her blood was like a red herring and Spike watched her, concerned at the quick change in mood, almost cowering in sudden clarity of a fist to the nose despite having no clue what had altered.
“It’s nothing illegal. Jus’ let it go, luv.” His throat expended noise that made absolutely no sense to her, so in her infinite faith of his badness, she ignored it.
“Riiiight!” she drawled. “Cause something like stealing would be so beneath you.” The flinch caught her unawares, tugged at a memory that refused to avail itself. She quickly dismissed its value and moved on with the harshness.
“Come on, Spikey. Tell naïve little Buffy where you got the nice things.”
Her arms were crossed defensively over her breasts, cold nipples digging into the softness of her underarm. She felt severe chills charge down her spine as he narrowed his gaze and clenched his teeth in mounting dislike.
“An old lady left them to me in her will. Not that it’s any of your bloody business.”
And he stood off the bed, moved away from her, his ass cheeks clenching as he searched for the pile of clothes scattered around the lower floor that contained his jeans. He whipped them with purpose up his legs, sliding the zip closed and buckling his belt all without looking back in her direction.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable and at an awkward disadvantage by remaining naked, Buffy quickly scrambled beneath the bedcovers, not wanting to walk around in front of him fully in the flesh when he was obviously getting more mad at her.
The claim held enough hint of a lie for her to scoff at him, despite the lingering jagged jabs in her skin that he was telling the truth. He was furious, pacing back and forth, shooting her dirty, resentful looks. But her desperation to quarantine him in her evil field gave her mouth vitriolic poison to project across the room until it struck the mark with hateful accuracy.
“You eat old ladies for breakfast, Spike. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you were close enough to a human to inherit something as tasteful and valuable as these rugs?”
“You watch your mouth, bitch. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His derogatory name-calling hit her harder than she would have expected after the strength of her effort to distance from him. She wanted him back in the evil monster basket, but as she shoved him in she found she couldn’t fit the lid.
It was awful when memory struck her and made her question her words, her assumptions. Evil Spike took pride in doing the wrong thing, in hurting others, in eating little old ladies for breakfast. He was responding to her disbelief now with a spiteful anger she wasn’t used to witnessing since he had decided he was in love with her.
Her sudden lucidity whispered horrible things to her. Things like: he was telling the truth. The Big Bad inherited furniture and stunning Persian rugs from a now dead little old lady. And he didn’t want anyone to know about it. So, now she knew there was a story he was super reluctant to share, and it was bound to be completely non-evil, throwing her off her desperate path just that little bit more.
How was she supposed to hide her dirty secret when he was bound to tell her a fluffy story that would make her want to gush with lovey dovey affections like holding hands, spontaneous hugs and quick pecking kisses? In public? In front of Xander and Willow?
Exposing her true feelings for the chipped vamp in front of Anya and Tara didn’t fill her with seriously sub-zero dread like her longest friends did. But if she pressed Spike for his story, what choice would she have left? All her defenses blown apart by rugs that she wanted to continue to ‘shag’ on for an unending period of time. And if she had one on her bedroom floor? All the better. It made her want a matching Spike in her bed. The one in her room, in her house. And as the contemplative series of normal couple moments began, so did her heart flood with warmth and need, and love and passion.
There was nothing left to do but accept him fully into her being, to tell him of the place within her he already existed despite her endless denials. Face up to the reality of her life and her friends, accept their distance from perfection just like she hoped they could realise hers. She wanted it to be the time to grab the Troll hammer and smash her pedestal to the ground. But only as long as Spike was there to help her clean up the mess such a confrontation would leave.
Looking at the floor, Buffy felt herself giggle again at the revelations flocking in her brain. Such amazing decisions sparked completely by her love affair with Spike’s rugs. Her giggles- sweet, childish humour- came to a sad end as Buffy caught Spike’s glowering expression directed at her.
It was time to change her faith from murderous, back-stabbing villain who she’d been sure would turn on them as soon as the chip was removed, to…the trying, loving and caring vamp who’d made it his business to be more than supportive of her after her return from Heaven. She couldn’t help but let her eyes light with fire as her lips twitched again to a smile. He was like Angel in a way, but without the soul. A vampire on a mission to redemption. Only she didn’t dare tell him that!
“So, what did you do for the little old lady that left you stuff?”
And with the current ping-pong of her mood, Spike felt himself crack with the whiplash.
“Are you bloody well fried in the goose?”
“Am I what in the who huh?” The vacuity disturbed him and he rushed her, Buffy falling back in the sudden lightning of his movement. In the blink of an eye he straddled her lower half, leaving her to clutch desperately to the cloth of her covering with clenching fists.
“Not more than two minutes ago you accused me of being a filthy lying thug that steals from old tarts. Now you’re asking for the sickly sweet innocent story of how William the Bloody came to inherit from poor Madame Dubois.”
Buffy’s eyes bugged.
“Madame? There’s a Madame now?” Her voice squeaked.
But it made him smile and he loosened his death grip on her shoulders. He backed up and fell strangely silent. Buffy waited for a few minutes then shoved him delicately with her foot. He flew off the end of the bed and cracked his skull against a protruding coffin.
Buffy’s eyeballs were starting to hurt from all the extra shocked widening.
“Oops,” she sort of apologised as she scrambled across the bed and fell at his feet, taking his head, looking a little at the bump before nursing him against her now naked breast. “Sorry, forget my own strength sometimes.”
His look was dubious at best and she smirked at his lack of belief.
“It’s true,” she pouted, and before he could say it, she offered it to him. Pouty would always belong to him. He sucked it in and nibbled like a crazed hungry man, and Buffy whimpered delicately. But as he fell fully into the mission of kissing her completely brainless, she remembered the Madame that embodied a wicked story and she pulled away from his with a wet lip smack.
“You inherited stuff,” she forcefully prompted and he released a very put upon sigh, struggling to his feet with her naked and half wrapped in his arms, and he stumbled back to the bed, falling happily back on top of her. He grinned with sap as Buffy curled her arms around his neck and gave his eyes her intent focus.
The romantic change in her left him floundering for familiarity. Her about turn was scaring the living crap out of him, but he allowed it to shudder through his body as he rested his head on his hand, elbow by her ear as he lay poised over her, his eyes claiming the attention she was astounding him with.
“You really want to know this, Buffy? Might make me less hateful.”
“I’ve already dealt with that possibility.” She winked at him and Spike could feel his cock twitch from the surprise of her playfulness.
His lower half pinned her to the bed, his top half skimming her side. Until she shuffled closer and they were almost fully touching from lips to toes. Spike’s free hand rested on her waist and he wondered if he’d been shafted into some alternate reality where he was sharing his time with the Buffy Bot. This Buffy, he was positive, was not the one that had kicked her way into the crypt earlier in the evening.
“Story. Waiting for the talky.”
And he began.
“Ah, Madame Dubois. Lovely old bird. Saved her from becoming dinner for her grandson.”
“You didn’t!” Buffy exclaimed in the dramatic vein of some past screen goddess, though secretly she was having conniptions.
“I did!” he smirked at her, unable to again resist the call of her plump kiss bruised lips.
“So, you saved her,” Buffy qualified. “But now she’s dead…see funky new rugs gracing super dusty floor.”
“I didn’t bloody do it just yesterday, you silly chit.”
Buffy was getting the feeling that she was going to love this story. Appreciate it even. And now she could admit to herself, she might even allow the possibility of benefiting from it, too.
“So, when did you do the big saveage, Hero Boy?”
“BeforeIgotthestupidchip,” he muttered at a speed similar to vampish running.
Buffy only realised she had stopped breathing when her lungs began to burn. It still took another thirty seconds for her to remember how to fill them up again.
“Before you got the chip? You saved an old lady from being eaten by her grandson BEFORE you got the chip?”
His affirmative nod was followed with lowered eyes of shame.
“Hello, evil! Didn’t you get your own memo? The Big Bad, too busy for evil wrongdoings because he’s out preventing apocalypses and saving little old ladies from becoming snack food.” Buffy covered her mouth as a very unslayerlike snort burst from her nose and throat.
Spike buried his face in her shaking shoulder and suffered the humiliation he had wanted to avoid at all costs.
“Laugh it up, Slayer. You’ll get yours.” Except it was muffled against her shoulder. And was ticklish.
So, she laughed. He did tell her to. Her bare skin shivered and shook against his and eventually the laughter toned down to moans as he allowed his tongue and lips to tell a different story against her collarbone. He nibbled up her neck until he was pressing fluttering licks along her jaw, hands seeking flesh from her belly to her breast. As his fingers twirled round a tightened nipple, Buffy moaned loudly and rocked her body to the side, dislodging his mouth and freeing it up for her lips.
Fire bolted through her blood as it scorched the surface of her skin, Spike’s tongue instigating a raging inferno she never thought could be banked. He linked with her tongue and they tasted…tested each other’s agility. And sunk into craving more. Her hand tangled in his hair and she fisted a handful of it hard as she held his head to her.
She felt him thrust the bed-covering away along with his jeans, as he slid between her legs, his naked cock rubbing against her sensitive thigh, his chest teasing her stiffened nipples.
He missed the mischief in her eyes as he took the increasingly familiar slide within her depths, feeling almost to tears at the happiness her generosity gave him. She called his name as he began to move, and despite the slight inability to speak, she squeaked out her teasing torment.
“Spike?” Just the gasping cross of laughter and sexy moans was enough to warn him he wasn’t going to like what was coming.
“Yeah,” he answered, more than resigned to wearing his balls in a Buffy sling.
“What…ugh…oh…else did you do for Madame Dubois?”
His dick stilled and wavered a little toward flaccid. His body followed suit until Buffy grabbed at his shoulders and moved him again to her rhythm, biting a little firmly on his earlobe, but hard enough to get the motor running at speed once again. Still, he mumbled his answer against her throat.
“Walked her dogs.”
He found himself flung to the side, Buffy quickly scrabbling to mount him and letting his member stretch and slide, her eyes hooded as she struggled to keep them open with the agony of pleasure. But then she did and he felt vulnerable to her intent stare. Felt foolish fear at her grin.
“Madame had dogs?” The laughter tickled her lips and he could tell it took some effort for her to hold back.
Defiance gave him temper and a backbone.
“Yeah, she had five black poodles. What bloody of it?”
The image of Spike strutting the pavement with five yapping poodles had Buffy tumbling off the bed, and even more mortifying, his cock. He stood tall, glistening with her fanny juices, alone and lonely. As her hilarity struck his psyche, he deflated to a serious half-mast and cursed poor dearly departed Madame Dubois for risking his manly reputation.
Buffy’s divided interest to his flagging package and past altruism threw him completely off his game. In a fit of pique he figured he may as well get it all out in the open, or his humiliation could be dragged out forever.
“And I changed the oil in her car, too. And did her lawn some nights. Someone had to. Idiot vamp grandson ate his entire family and saved granny Dubois for last. Only yours truly stopped him from adding her to the snack bar.”
Buffy had finally stopped laughing but was still curled up on the floor, flexing her leg against a cramp.
“Wow,” was her considered response. “Just wow, and you did all this before you got the chip?”
Thoroughly undone by the topic, Spike splayed out on his back and relaxed all of his limbs.
“Time I came back and accidentally kidnapped Red and the Whelp.”
Buffy snorted indelicately again.
“Did you say accidentally?”
“Bloody hell. Can’t you people let anything go?”
“Ah, try a big fat no on that one. Tell me about Madame. Why didn’t you let the grandson kill her?”
She was back up on the bed, her hand gently caressing his body, back and forth and just skipping the tenderest bits.
But the latest question dragged at memories he hated to think on and in response he vamped and let out a pained growl. Buffy didn’t even flinch in her continued stroking. When his face returned to beauty, tears were shimmering in his eyes.
“I’m not going into this. All’s I’ll say is, family is off limits.”
He knew it was misleading, that she’d probably think Angelus or Dru wiped out his family, but she didn’t need to know the horror that was his mother turned. But it was personal, raw, and he wasn’t giving it for sharing, not even to Buffy. Not yet.
“Okay. So, what exactly did you inherit?”
“Everything.” Spike howled as Slayer nails cut into his unprepared abs.
“Oops.”
Spike eyed her with wary interest.
“Just what exactly is everything? Spike?”
Now he was really setting off the nervous alarm.
“Like I said. House, furniture, these rugs, her car.”
“What? You have a house and you still live here?”
He studied her and decided it might be safer to scoot to the other side of the bed, away from her very vamp like nails. They sure clawed like a bitch.
“Kinda sold it.”
Donuts were back in her eyes as her mouth gaped open like a fish.
“You have money?”
And this time his temper screeched out of control.
“I bloody told you I could get you money.” He was up again, this time pacing in the nude. Then abruptly he stopped and spun around to her. “You will still let me help with your room, won’t you?” His helpless fear that she would renege on the offer now she knew the source of his sudden good fortune was palpable.
Buffy felt her heart splinter at his uncertainty and knew it was her fault for laughing at him. Because the truth was that his story was just as fluffy and good as she had suspected. And now she wanted nothing more than to hug him, and let him do her room. She dived on him and wrapped her arms around him, cuddling for the first time since they started being intimate together. And started to wonder the closeness that might be achieved with sharing other things. Other vampire things.
She’d been bitten in the past, but Spike had never attempted to do it. Would his love, if he bit her, make her his mate? Would she say no if he wanted to do it and that was the result? The rushing waves of mushy goodness at the thought told her she probably wouldn’t. Buffy had the slightly uncomfortable yet reassuring feeling that she’d found her vamp.
She lavished him with looks of yearning.
“Of course I still want you to do my room. Didn’t you mention something about a bed in storage?”
His arms tightened around her and almost crushed her into himself.
“If I give you some money, will you leave that grease pit before it does you in? Jus’ take some time to find something better for yourself? Not tellin’ you to become a kept woman.”
She pulled away, another expert pout jutting in his direction.
“You tellin’ me you wouldn’t want to keep me?”
His legs dropped out from under him and they landed on the floor in a muddle.
“Would you stake me if I said yes?” His voice was low and husky, and Buffy felt it resonate deep in her womb.
“I could go back to school?” Her own voice sounded a little scratchy, shaky, but her arms banded a little tighter around his neck as she searched his face for artifice. His burning sincerity shook her to acceptance.
The skin of his throat was tepid against her cheek as she cried onto him.
“Oh, Spike.”
His arms chock full of Slayer, Spike felt he had just ridden the rollercoaster of his life and come out with his guts only just intact.
“Ah, not that I’m complaining, luv, but what jus’ happened here?”
Buffy sniffled and swiped at her wet cheeks. Her smile was bursting with happiness as a hand came to caress his cheek, his scarred eyebrow, and his temple.
“You stopped being evil,” she said with determined belief and instead of making him shudder with horror, he preened a little with pride.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Guess I did at that.” He suddenly looked very concerned as his hand dived beneath a pile of rugs and tugged forth some silver bracelets.
“Guess we won’t be needing these, then, seeing as I’m all reformed, like.” And he attempted to toss them aside. Buffy snatched at the handcuffs and held them behind her back.
The Cheshire grin was frightening in its implication.
“Do you trust me?” Buffy asked and Spike just nodded wordlessly, his night so filled with stunning shocks that this last one rendered him speechless.
Buffy led him back to the bed and lay back, quickly fastening herself to the bed.
Spike looked down on her in awe, stretched and willing to be his love. She had asked him for trust yet surrendered her own to him.
“Spike,” she called him to her, and like a mindless robot he followed. Lowered head, she reached up to kiss him and encouraged him to touch by stroking his thigh with her leg. “When a vampire bites during love play, is it always a mating?”
She robbed him of speech again. It was ten full minutes before he could move, could open his mouth and force his tongue to move.
“What?” His voice croaked. His eyes teared, and he eyed her throat.
“I-if I asked you to bite me while we make love, is that going to be a mating?”
His head shook a negative before his brain could catch up.
“You want me to bite you?” The awe in his glittering blue confirmed them at a whole new level.
Never breaking his gaze, she nodded.
And that fast, he returned to his place, sliding into her fast and hard with a grunt of appreciation for her slick readiness. He covered her face and upper body with kisses and licks designed to drive her screaming out of her mind, as his hips propelled her into oblivious jellyland. As her body hummed with impending release, he dived for the unmarked side of her throat and allowed the points of his fangs to pierce the skin. Like needles they pressed the point, sinking gradually till they reached a line of supply and blood gushed into his mouth. Gentle sucks tipped her over the edge and he desperately tried to rein in his desire to suck out her heady desire through her throat.
He jabbed her with his cock, the glide confident and sure, as he slowly, reluctantly withdrew his fangs and held his lips over the wound. Only then did he realise he’d never answered her that it wasn’t automatically a claim or mating. Only then did he realise that she hadn’t cared about the answer.
It was all finally too much and he collapsed on top of her moistened body, quivering with her belief. She’d called it making love, had accepted him and his money. Accepted what he had to give her, more than just his appendages. He’d found Heaven in his enemy. Irony was a bloody laugh.
When he could bear to lift his head off her and roll his body to the side, he looked up to find matching tearful devastation on her face. With it she shared a smile. When she strained against the bars in an attempt to hold him, he remembered the cuffs and released her. He was rewarded by an armful of Slayer.
Everything was silent, until another giggle interrupted his ecstatic moment.
“What now,” he rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“What happened to the dogs?”
“Bloody hell!”
But he grinned.
“Gave them to the neighbour on the condition I pay for their food, and walk them nights.”
“Awww, that’s so sweet! Where do you go on your widdle walkypoos?”
Spike’s smirk was nothing but evil.
“We visit Madame and tell her how grateful we are to be a suddenly rich vamp.”
“Oh honey, you’re still an evil fiend.”
“What can I tell you, baby? I’ve always been bad!”
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
“Spike!”
Vamps for miles heard the Slayer’s voice and bolted for greener pastures.
“Would you shut these damn dogs up?” The directive was cloaked in a pleasant request, but the threat of violence poked out with the stake that was half out her waistband.
“Slayer, stop your bellyachin’ and put the flowers down already. It’s time all little beasties were tucked up in a home other than mine, and for big beasties to be tucking into some Slayer.”
“Eeww…Spike, could you be more of a pig?”
“Oink, oink pet.”
They completed their task of placing flowers on poor Madame Dubois’s grave right before two of the five poodles decided the poor woman would be better dug up. Deciding the time to leave was five minutes past; they shared the leads and dragged the doggies out of the cemetery. Vamp and Slayer speed combined and the quintuplet puppies raced homewards.
The walk back to Revello was a little more leisurely, peppered with short kisses and longer gropes.
Between bone jarring kisses, Spike quizzed Buffy for her latest test, and offered ideas for her current papers. Once the house came into sight though, nothing could stop their frantic race for the front door and the bedroom upstairs. The newly decorated space was their favourite place to be together and not a Scooby inside. Lights out, their night began.