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This story idea came to me so I decided to write it. This fic is pretty angsty and there are explicit sexual situations.
I hope you enjoy!
“A little part of me dies every time I come here.”
Spike gazed at the blonde on the other side of the door, standing there nervously, one hand playing with the ends of her hair as it glistened in the sun almost like a halo. She was his angel, after all. He tried not to flinch at the harsh words, reminding himself that he should be used to them by now. Pushing down the hurt he leered at her and surveyed her body from head to toe so seductively that she visibly shuddered under his attention.
She was wearing a black silk blouse and a knee length skirt. The combination of innocent and wanton was beguilingly enticing. Her figure hugging outfits never failed to send the blood rushing downwards in his body, even when she couldn’t keep from telling him how much he disgusted her.
“Then why do you keep bloody well coming here?” He asked with disdain, taking a long drag of the cigarette that dangled between his fingers. His other hand tapped on the edge of the open door, belying the confident arrogance that laced his voice.
Buffy blinked her eyes and sucked in her cheeks as a rouge flush flooded them but she didn’t answer him. Instead she just forced the door the rest of the way open and leapt into his arms.
This was why she came here, not for a heart to heart.
As their bodies molded together in a familiar dance, her lips longed to taste his, but instead, she fixed her teeth on one side of his neck and bit down, drawing a long satisfied moan from him. Kissing was something that they never did. Never had done. Kissing was personal and intimate and to give that part of herself to Spike would be too painful.
Because if she did she would never be able to take it back.
And the worst thing was, that deep inside of her heart, a tiny voice asked her if she would even want it back.
He smelled so good, and she took a long deep breath to inhale her lover's scent. She wanted to memorize it, keep it imprinted on her mind until the day she died. He was a combination of Spike-musk, cigarettes, leather and liquor. It was intoxicating to her, filling up her senses and bringing them to life.
Kicking the door closed, Spike walked her over to the motel room bed, and dropped her down, launching himself on top of her and licking the tan column of her neck with a sensual fervor. Reaching down to her feet, he pulled off her shoes and bent her knees up so that he could gingerly tend to them with his hands while his mouth serviced the prone skin of her neck.
For almost a year they had been meeting once every week in this motel room. Ever since they had met in a downtown dive of a bar that a woman like Buffy should never have been caught dead in, they had formed this arrangement. Every week he would wait for her to arrive, and every week she would be there.
The fateful night that the pair had met, Spike had been drinking away his own pain. When she had joined him at the bar his first instinct had been to deride her, and question the motives of a woman like her in a place like that. But her fiery heart and the fact that she gave as good as she got ensnared him immediately, and like a rat in a trap he was hooked on her.
Over several glasses of whiskey she poured out the pathetic truth of her flailing marriage and loneliness. She wasn’t even 24 years old yet but she felt like she had nothing to look forward to except the pain of being trapped in a marriage that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with appearance and convenience.
She confided things that she was unable to tell another soul, such as how no one else understood what she was going through, and how all her family and friends thought that her lawyer husband and house in Bel Air gave her the kind of happiness that she wanted. But the emptiness in her gut was ever-growing and all she wanted was for that void to be filled.
Spike couldn’t offer solace with words, but he could with his body.
Later that night, still buzzed from the alcohol in their systems, they had found themselves in that motel, their bodies writhing together, their sweat mingling as their bodies joined and they brought waves of ecstasy crashing down on each other.
Ever since it had become their weekly ritual. Each week, she told her husband that she was going to her book club because learning was important, right? Instead she allowed a different kind of knowledge to wash over her.
The knowledge that there was something more to life than cocktail parties and sexless marriages.
Of course, for Buffy it had also become a ritual of shame. All her life she had been told that she had to fit a certain mold. Being the wife of a rich lawyer was basically what she had been chosen for from her birth. Just like her mother and her mother’s mother.
This bad rude man who hung out hustling pool and drinking in grungy bars was from the opposite kind of world than the one that she had been raised in. While her life was steeped in money, so much she was practically drowning in it, Spike had to beg, borrow and steal to get enough cash together to live from day to day.
With his peroxide blonde hair, leather duster, black attire and silver jewelry, he was the original punk, the kind of guy her Mom had always warned her about. His character was little better than his façade. He was rough and uncouth, and never apologetic for it, and he could never fit in with the refinement of her own seemingly flawless life.
But he had become her addiction, one for which there was no cure. He was her dirty little secret, and damn it if she didn’t need him with ever fiber in her body. While she was with him all the other stuff didn’t seem to matter, and his rough calloused hands could be paradoxically gentle when they danced over her sensitive flesh. When she wasn’t touching him she craved him, and afterwards she would wash the same from her body with guilty tears of self-hate.
But right now she didn’t care about anything but the feel of him against her. She wanted to feel him everywhere, on top of her, underneath her, and most of all, inside her.
Still suckling on her neck, Spike hummed his awe at the sweet taste of her skin. She arched underneath him, a huge moan escaping her lips. She looked to him like a fallen angel. A wanton goddess begging and pleading for him to touch her, taste her, take her.
And he had never been happier to oblige anyone.
Making his way down her body, he peeled off her blouse without care, sending some of the buttons flying to the floor. So desperate to feel his skin against her own, Buffy didn’t seem bothered about the garment’s destruction, and arched her breasts up towards him.
The two milky mounds were like a delectable treat to Spike. Some men craved the taste candy, Spike craved of Buffy.
Freeing her petite bosoms from the confines of her bra, he took one rosy nipple in his mouth and suckled on it, his tongue flicking over it. It puckered under his ministrations and he smiled lightly at his success, drawing back for a second to watch his mewling kitten, heavily mired in the throes of passion.
“Spike, please…don’t stop touching me.” She gasped as he palmed the breast which he had just finished sucking on and massaged it gently with his fingertips before taking her other nipple into his mouth and giving it the same treatment.
Before she had met Spike, no one had ever taken care of her like this. Even when the two of them got to the rough times and he pounded into her from behind, there was always a caring gentleness that underlined his every movement. He never failed to take her soaring to the highest possible heights.
With one final suck on her left nipple, he let it pop out of his mouth, and peppered kisses down the valley between her breasts, mesmerized by the tiny droplets of sweat forming there.
“Do you like what I do to you, love?” He growled his voice so low and grainy that it sent shocks of passion directly to her womb.
Unable to form the words to reply, she nodded with a blush, averting her eyes shyly from his intense stare. It was as if he was able to look into her soul with that piercing cerulean gaze, and it was too disconcerting. She didn’t mind being naked to him in body, but laying her heart bare was another matter altogether.
“You like the way I touch you?” His finger trailed between her breasts and down her stomach, the taut muscles rippling and tensing under his fingers.
“Tell me, kitten, I want to hear you say that you like it here with me, with what I do to you. I want you to look at me and know just who’s touching you.”
She wiggled under him, trying to entice him with her body, but he wouldn’t give in. In moments like this he was always determined to draw her out of herself. He wouldn’t be just a sex toy to her. He needed to be more than that. Refusing to dip his hand lower, he smirked and waiting for her answer, his smile only growing wider at her frustration.
“Please…” she begged.
“Tell me what you want, Buffy. Tell me who you want.”
Hesitating for a moment, she finally conceded, and sighed.
“I want you…Spike. I need you to…to touch me.”
“Where, pet? Here?” He ran fingers over the bottom of her abs in a barely-there caress that left her panting with its tantalizing teases.
“Lower!” She gasped.
Adjusting his position he rose to his knees and unclasped her skirt, pulling it from her body, and leaving her exposed to his gaze as he casually dropped it to the ground.
“No knickers.” He noted with a smile, secretly pleased that she had chosen to come here sans panties especially for him.
“Didn’t think I’d need them.” Her shy retort embodied everything that made him want her. She could sit there with her legs spread for him, her body begging him to take her, yet blushing like a teenager.
“You definitely bloody well won’t.”
His eyes caressed her bare mound, waxed smooth and glistening in the dull lamplight of the room. It didn’t matter that they were in a shambles of a motel room when they were together like this. Nothing mattered but each other.
Lowering his head to her thighs, he licked the skin of each, gradually nearing the center of her womanhood. He could smell her musky scent enticing him, calling to him like a siren as her juices leaked from between her legs.
Unable to resist tasting her a moment longer, he gave a long lick from the back to the front of her pussy and moaned at the taste of her. He could never get used to how incredible she tasted, salty and sweet, creamy and musky all mouthwateringly wrapped together.
Wiggling his tongue inside her, more of her juices pooled on the organ, and he gripped her thighs with his strong hands, pushing her legs open further to give himself better access to her treasures.
Underneath him, Buffy moaned more voraciously, her whole body throbbing with the pleasure he was giving her.
“More, please! I need…”
Pre-empting her needs, he pursed his lips and began to suckle on her little pearl, in the same way he had done for her nipples. The nerve endings flashed with insurmountable pleasure as his he sucked her flesh into his mouth, and began to pump inside her with his fingers.
Her fingers grabbed onto his peroxide locks, tugging and pulling as she lost control. Climbing higher and higher, he could barely hold on as she bucked beneath him. Drinking down the juice of her orgasm, he watched her flushed, still shaking and shivering from her climax.
A smile spread across his face, like the cat who got the cream, literally in this case, and he leaned forward to place tiny kisses on her stomach.
“Did Milady enjoy that?” He asked, his baritone British drawl giving her goose bumps of the kind that were definitely of the good.
“Mmm.” She sighed, stretching her arms upwards and arching her back, her body free of tension for the first time in a week.
Spike was suddenly painfully aware that he was still fully clothed as his erection strained in his pants, and he reached a hand down to cup his cock and adjust it.
“No,” Buffy smiled, “just take them off.”
Flashing a grin he quickly stripped off both his t-shirt and jeans, smiling even more broadly when her eyes widened at the sight of his dick bobbing up and down as it escaped from the confines of his jeans.
Now, in stature Spike wasn’t exactly a big man. He was compact and leanly muscled, but not one of those huge, oversized football player types that so many women seemed to like.
But his penis…well it defied the size of the rest of his body. It was almost nine inches long, and thick too. And every time Buffy saw it, she was assaulted with flashbacks of just how good that rod could make her feel.
Pulling him down to her, she shoved him back to the bad and clambered on top of his, grasping his dick roughly. Her nails made pale pink furrows in the skin of his chest as she ran a hand down it.
Leaning down, her mouth beside his ear, she whispered seductively.
“Do you want to be inside me?”
With his eyes wide as could be, he audibly gulped and nodded.
Buffy loved having him like this. She loved being able to take the reins of power sometimes, and Spike was always happy to let her. She suspected that he had a little fetish for being dominated by a powerful woman.
Rubbing her slit up and down his dick, hitting all the right spots of her own, she finally positioned him at her entrance and slid down onto him. Both their moans reverberated in the silence, and she stilled herself for a moment, trying to adjust to the size of him again.
Clasping his hands onto her hips, Spike gritted his teeth and wordlessly urged her to start moving. There was nothing else in the whole of his existence that had ever come close to the way it felt to be inside her burning heat. She was like fire, incinerating him from the inside out, and hell if it wasn’t such a lovely way to burn.
“God, Buffy, you feel so bloody good. Being inside your pussy like this…”
She increased her pace, mostly to try and shut him up. In many ways she hated the times when he talked sweetly to her. When they first started this affair, every word had been crude and nasty. He even confessed once that he had always wanted to “shag a rich bint” and that kind of thing allowed her to distance herself.
But this honeyed talk as he leveled his bedroom eyes at her sent her heart flipping in her chest and it terrified her to her core.
Bouncing on top of him, she threw her head back and howled in pleasure as he hit all the right places inside of her. Sensing she was coming close to reaching her climax, Spike flipped them over and buried his head in her neck.
She tore her nails down his back, drawing blood, marking her territory in a primal way. It was amazing how quickly their couplings could shift from tender to wild and animalistic.
Relentlessly he kept pounding into her, adhering to her constant shouts that she wanted it harder and rougher. Bracing his hands on either side of her, locking his eyes with hers, he poured his whole heart, body and soul into fucking her.
No, it was not simply fucking any more. He was making love to her, even if she didn’t realize it.
As they reached the elusive pinnacle of their passion together, the sounds of heavy breathing and their flesh smacking together were the only noises to fill the room. With a final shudder, Buffy shrieked in orgasm, while Spike roared out his pleasure.
“Oh! Yes, Spike! Oh God! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Fuck! I love you, Buffy! God, I love you so much.”
Both of them froze simultaneously at his words, still intimately locked together and both breathing hard in the aftermath of their passion.
He stared down at her, eyes wide, a little smidgeon of hope in them, as if waiting for her to tell him that it would all be okay or that she felt the same. It was the first time he had ever said those words to Buffy, but not the first time that he had felt them in his heart. In the passion of their shared orgasm, he just could no longer contain them within himself though, and they had spilled forth from his lips in the same moment that he had spilled his seed within her body. As she opened her mouth to speak, Spike felt his heart leap in his chest.
“Get off of me.” She demanded. When his hopeful expression turned to shock and searing agony, she repeated herself. “Get off of me, damn it!”
After a moment he complied, withdrawing his softening cock from inside her wet depths, eliciting a moan of loss from her despite herself.
Rolling away from him, she sat up and ran her hands through the tangled mess of her blonde locks.
“So not staying for another round then?” He tried to keep the pain and hurt at her blatant and cruel rejection out of his voice, but she had just ripped his heart out of his chest and crushed it between her deceptively delicate fingers, so understandably the pain bled through a little causing a frown to form on her face.
Buffy didn’t want to hear this. It was so much easier to live in a vast quagmire of denial, and pretend that although his every emotion shined through his eyes, Spike was just a toy to be played with when she felt like it.
However, whenever he made those heartfelt declarations, it tore at the core of her being and made her question what kind of person she really was. Being with Spike like this was hurting both of them. But being apart…it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Can we just not talk?” Pulling on her skirt and top she refused to look at him, even though the budding tension in the room was like a entity of its very own.
“No!” He jumped to his feet in one swift movement, seemingly uncaring of his nudity. “We need to chat this out, pet. All we ever bloody do is avoid the sodding subject, but we need to talk. About us.”
She scoffed nastily and turned to face him.
“There is no us, Spikey. You’re an idiot. This is all we can ever have. A few hours at a time in a dirty room. It’s beneath me.”
With a sneer he suddenly had her pinned to the wall, his hands flanking her head, and his face inches from hers.
“I’m filth to you. I get that, pet. But don’t forget that you’re the one who likes to roll around in it.”
“I can’t forget that, Spike. God help me, I wish I could.”
The silence stretched between them, both stubbornly refusing to look away before Spike dropped his gaze from hers.
Heaving a deflated sigh he let his arms drop away from her and moved back letting her free from the prison of his body.
“Fine.” It was strange how one word, said so blandly, could make Buffy feel so cold.
Ignoring the furious prickling behind her eyelids, she adjusted her clothing, sighing angrily as she noticed that most of the buttons of her blouse were gone. Improvising, she tied the hem in a knot under her breasts and prayed that she had left a change of clothes out in her car, which was sitting in the parking lot. With one final check in the mirror she headed towards the room exit, trying to ignore the splayed form of her illicit lover, reclining on the rumpled sheets that provided evidence to the intense passion of their shared trysts.
Opening the door, and glancing back one last time, she inhaled sharply.
“Because not all of me dies.” She whispered, sotto voce.
“What?” He screwed up his forehead and confusion, fiddling with the cigarette he pulled from his pack.
“The reason I keep coming here. You asked me why. It’s because…not all of me dies when I’m with you. But…I feel like all of me is dying when I’m not.”
It was the closest she had ever come to returning any kind of affection to him. At least with words.
Silently their eyes locked for a moment before she drew away and opened the splintery door to the outside.
Stepping out of the room she walked out into the sunshine, back to her own world where Spike could not follow.
All that remained was the lingering scent of her sweet perfume.
But he knew she would be back.
Because without each other, they both would drown.
Chapter End Notes:
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