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| In Omne Tempus - Just One Little Dance by Holly (1 Review) | | - abc + + |  | | | Chapter Seventeen
Just One Little Dance
Things had changed. He could feel it with every move she made. Every time her eyes met his, shy and uncertain, yet resolved in something she had not yet voiced. She no longer had the look of a small girl, lost in the big bad world of otherworldly truths and faced with a decision that wasn’t so much a decision as it was a reality. No, it appeared she had made peace with it, even though she hadn’t told him anything.
She really hadn’t needed to. The cautious glances she gave him were not frightened, rather shy. Like she had emerged from childhood into adulthood in the time they were apart, and she wanted him finally in the way he wanted her. The way he needed her.
Her bashfulness enchanted him. She had touched him that morning like a lover, but without truly realizing the full impact of her actions. She moaned when he explored her, sighed into him when he kissed her, and looked at him like he was a giant among men.
She had been afraid of him before. And while some of that fear was still present, there was warm acceptance as well. She basked in it.
“I bloody hate musicals,” he growled, albeit good-naturedly, as she turned the channel to AMC, and Gene Kelly filled the screen. They had decided after an uneventful patrol to return to the house and attempt to talk things out, but had thus far made it no further than the sofa and a teasing argument over what to watch on the telly. “Dru used to drag me to every sodding flick that came out, an’ then she’d eat everyone who criticized her for singin’ along.”
Buffy stiffened in his arms where she had previously been soft and relaxed, and it took him all of six seconds to realize what he’d said and begin the many rounds of kicking his inner self.
Right. The girl finally wants you an’ you bring up your former.
He truly didn’t expect her to say anything, and for a few long minutes, she didn’t. However, after watching Gene Kelly dance in a rainstorm, she drew in a breath and turned over slightly so that he could see her eyes. “Do you miss her?” she asked gently.
“Miss her?” He was playing dumb and she knew it, but this was not a conversation he wanted to have.
Buffy didn’t call him on it. Instead, her gaze remained patient, and she elaborated the obvious answer. “Your old girlfriend.”
“Sweetheart—”
“It’s okay if you do,” she said. “You kinda…I mean, I know it’d be easier if she was the one you were supposed to mate with.”
She was a strong girl. A strong, brave girl. He knew from experience that even considering a mate with another was the source of cold shudders and raw outrage. And yet, even as she said it, Buffy refused to balk. She held his eyes, and the small, nearly indiscernible flickers of pain he found in hers broke his heart.
“It’d be easier,” he replied honestly, tightening his arms around her when she shuddered. “But I wouldn’t change this for anythin’.”
“Why?”
The immediate response on his lips startled him, and he nearly shoved her away with the blunt edge of realization. However, he refused to voice it now. The weight of the words was too heavy to consider, too earth-shattering for a world that he wasn’t ready to give up. And yet, there was no other way to explain it. What he felt for Buffy went beyond emotion. Went deeper than any feeling he’d harbored for Drusilla—those old pangs and longings that he’d already conceded were a falsity from the start. A trick his nature had played on him in an effort to guide him to the arms of his salvation; the girl who was looking at him now with wide eyes that demanded honesty. With a body she had entrusted to his touch. A heart she was giving him freely, even in the midst of her fears.
So why couldn’t he admit that he loved her? Why was that so difficult?
Because he did, he realized. He did. And he’d already promised himself that he wouldn’t love without having love returned to him. That promise was evidently forgotten; replaced now with a revised agreement to admit to nothing until he was certain that he would not be hurt again.
Ponce. Bloody ponce. You’re afraid of a girl.
Ah, but Buffy Summers wielded power over him that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. Not only did he love her, but she was his mate, and that gave her more control than anything else the earth could hand her.
Spike found himself choked slightly, and he forced his eyes away for a second.
I love her.
The realization was overwhelming. It liberated him, brought his demon peace, and sent him into a world of deeper reckoning. Not only did he love her, but she was the first woman in his life—his existence before and his existence now—that was worthy of the love he had to give. The love he had tried to give others, those he had mistakenly revered as goddesses. Now, the idea of anyone else made him feel ill. That hadn’t been love before. It had been infatuation, and he’d been used and taught that it was something it wasn’t.
Drusilla, Cecily…they were spiteful. They lived in darkness. They were born to it. They could not touch sunlight.
He could. Buffy had given him that. Buffy touched him, and he was lost in light. She wasn’t spiteful; she was innocent. And unlike the women in his past, she cared for him. When she touched him, it wasn’t to incite her own pleasure, it was to convey her affection in any way she could.
Spike had gone a hundred and thirty years without the love of a woman. And even if Buffy didn’t feel it yet, even if she never did, she had given him so much more than Dru ever had simply in letting him hold her without it turning into sex. Without using his body to satisfy her desires. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that until it was given to him.
Tell her. Stop bein’ a bloody coward, an’ tell her!
No. He couldn’t. Not yet. His history with love was dark and sad, and now that it was real for the first time, his courage was running on empty.
He hated himself for it. He was a vampire, he was a part of the most revered, feared Orders on the planet. He was the thing that went bump in the night. The creature made of nightmares…and yet, he was so terrified of the power the girl in his arms held over him. What she could do with his love if she wanted to.
She wouldn’t, though, he told himself. Buffy isn’t like that.
He knew it was true. He knew it. But that didn’t help budge his reservation.
My sweet, sweet Buffy. My gorgeous mate.
“What I felt for Dru…” he began carefully, mindful of the jealousy in her eyes. “…it doesn’ even begin to compare to what I feel for you.”
There. Told her without tellin’ her.
That didn’t make him feel any more of a man, but it would have to do for now. Even vampires were allowed their fears.
“It doesn’t?”
“God, no.”
“So…if the claim wasn’t a thing, and it was me or Dru, you—”
“Sweetheart, you’re…you’re everythin’ to me. An’ that much doesn’ have anythin’ to do with the claim.”
“But you loved Drusilla.”
I thought I did.
He didn’t say anything; merely looked at her.
“You loved her,” she pressed, “and you feel more for me than you did for her?”
Spike smiled. Clever girl.
“Spike—”
He shut her off with a kiss, determined to distract her away from this dangerous train of thought. She melted into him immediately, her tongue plundering his mouth with bravado that surprised him. He groaned and grasped her shoulders, twisting her so that she was under him. So that her hips were cradling his erection, her warm softness inspiring a symphony of heat through his skin.
Spike broke his lips from hers, trailing a wet path of kisses down her throat, his hands sliding down her arms. God, he needed her so much. “Christ,” he moaned, suckling at her throat. His demon roared and his fangs tingled. “Buffy…”
“Oh…”
“You’re so gorgeous. So pretty.” His fingers slid under her camisole, caressing the undersides of her breasts. “My li’l Slayer.”
She whimpered and arched into him. “Spike…”
He released a deep breath and drew his lips away from her skin reluctantly. The desperate little mewl that tore through her throat inspired a grin to his face. Gorgeous. “You’re not gonna kick me out, are you?”
Her lust-filled eyes fought for clarity. “Huh?”
“I need to touch you. Taste you.” He lowered his mouth to her neck again, nibbling at her skin seductively. “I need to make you come.”
Her face flamed. “Oh my God.”
“You want me. I can feel it.”
Buffy released a muffled sob and nodded fervently. “Oh yes.”
“But—hey, look at me.” He tilted her chin up and waited until he had her gaze. “I don’ wanna do anythin’ that makes this worse for you…the eternity thing, your fears about control. If you need me to leave, tell me now before I do somethin’ to bugger it all up.”
“No,” she gasped, tugging his mouth back down to hers. “Please, stay. I won’t kick you out again. I won’t. I just need…”
“I won’ claim you without permission,” he swore to her.
“Then I have nothing to worry about.”
He felt for a second like a lying bastard. Bleedin’ hell, she’s so trusting. The last thing she needed to do was relax around him. The words were easy enough to say, and while he meant them with everything he was, he was terrified that his demon would get in the way. Hurt her before he could rein in the control he spent every second around her fighting for.
You love her, he thought. You love her. You won’t hurt her.
God, he hoped so.
“Spike,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I don’t expect you to be a saint.”
“I jus’—”
“I know.” A small smile flitted across her lips. “I trust you.”
He moaned in protest, sliding her camisole completely over her head. “Hope you know what you’re doin’,” he told her, licking one of her nipples. “I’m a bloody brute.”
“Oh…”
“Such sweet little titties.” He kissed the swell of her breast, laving a wet path around her areola, one hand palming her neglected breast as the other slid a languid path down her abdomen, circled her bellybutton, then began tugging at her sweats. She had forgone panties tonight; they’d gotten home, she’d changed, and she hadn’t put on panties. She’d wanted this, and the knowledge filled him with delight. “Fuck, you smell so good.”
Her heart was thundering, her pulse humming melodically against his fangs. She was nervous. Hell, she was petrified…but she also wanted him. He could feel how much she wanted him with every shiver of her skin. She was a girl on the edge of embracing her womanhood and the thought was appropriately terrifying. What she felt was new but natural. What she felt was the reason wars were fought. The reason man had come out of the cave.
She was feeling it all for the first time. He was guiding her into a new world, and fearful as she was, she followed. She craved. She moaned her pleasure when he nipped at her breast, when his skilled fingers slid over her pussy and teased the juices that told him—in no uncertain terms—how desperately she wanted him. How her body wanted him in ways that she couldn’t yet comprehend. Mechanics aside, he knew the power of sex beyond the simple union of bodies. He knew, because Drusilla had used sex to make him believe he loved her. Used his inexperience to make him believe that the one he gave himself to would be the one he was with forever.
God, he’d been so horribly naïve then. Such a bloody pathetic wanker. Duped so easily. Old fashioned, even for then, when the term meant something else entirely. Hell, old everything. An old man at twenty-eight. He’d thought that love was the way the poets wrote it. That, despite the debauchery of underground London, most people equated love with sex.
Dru had known that about him. She’d used her sex as well as her power over him as his sire to get what she wanted, and she’d done it for over a hundred years.
She’d used sex to make him believe he loved her, and he never wanted Buffy to be in that position. He wanted her to love him before he took her body. Before he sank his fangs into her throat and made her completely his.
Now that he loved her—now that he knew he loved her—everything changed.
God, he wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her so badly.
“Buffy,” he murmured, releasing her breast with a soft plop.
“Oh…” She arched beneath him again, her fingers threading through his hair. “Spike…”
His mouth wandered southward, peppering soft kisses across her stomach.
“I need…”
“Gonna give you what you need, sweet.” He nipped at her skin. “Gonna eat you up.”
“What…”
“Let me?” He had already sat back and was edging her sweats down her legs. “I wanna taste you so badly. Your sweet li’l puss is jus’ beggin’ for my mouth. Lemme give it to her, yeah?”
“What about…” Buffy whimpered slightly and attempted to sit up. He licked at her cleft, sending her back to the cushions with a long mewl. “Oh God!”
“Fuck yeah. Lemme taste your honey. You want it, don’t you?”
“Spike!”
He chuckled against her, and he couldn’t help but grin when she moaned at the vibrations he sent shuddering through her body. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What about…oh god…what about you?”
“Me?”
Her skin was turning a charming shade of red, and it took only seconds to decipher what she meant.
“Oh Buffy…” His mouth returned to her sodden folds, nibbling gently, drinking in every pleasured moan that erupted from her lips. “This is what I need,” he promised her. “Right here.”
She gave him so much in simply letting him touch her. Be with her. Share her home, share her sofa, share any part of the world that had been graced by her.
“I want to…Spike, I wanna make you…” His lips wrapped around her clit, and she trailed off with another throaty moan, her head digging further into the cushions as her hips thrust against his hungry mouth. “Oh!”
He shuddered at the implications of her open-ended sentence, sinking two fingers within her tight sheath. “Such a tasty quim,” he growled, teasing her swollen pearl with the hint of his teeth. “You like that?”
“Oh!”
“You like me licking your clit?”
She trembled, and he trembled with her. His thrusting fingers venturing just a bit further with every plunge. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was so warm. So bloody hot. So open and inviting, even if she didn’t know it. And her innocence about ripped him apart. Somehow, he knew that there was no other man—alive or dead—that would ever begin to understand the gift Buffy had to offer. She was his for the taking. She was all his.
“Spike!”
“Want my tongue inside you, baby?” He thrust his fingers deeper within her. “Want me to taste you here?”
She was flushing so brilliantly, he honestly didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or arousal. He hoped the latter—as much as her shyness enchanted him, he never wanted her to feel ashamed of what they did together. As crude as he was, whatever happened between them was natural, and poncy as it might sound, beautiful. She’d given him beauty where he thought it couldn’t possibly exist anymore.
“Don’t be shy,” he murmured, suckling her clit into his mouth again. “Tell me what you want.”
“Spike…”
“You got that.” He grinned. “You got that for life.”
“Uhhh…”
“What do you want Spike to do? He’s all yours. He’ll do whatever you ask.”
Buffy moaned and thrust her hips forward. She was blushing hard, her eyes avoiding his.
“Tell me, pet.” He tongued her sensitive button roughly, coaxing another long whimper. “’S all right. It’s all right to want. To know what you like. I wanna know. I wanna know exactly what you like. You like my fingers inside you, or would you rather have my tongue? Don’ be shy.”
“Ooohh…”
“Don’t be shy, kitten. No one here’s gonna laugh at you. It’s jus’ you an’ me.”
That seemed to relax her a bit. “I want…”
“Tell me.”
“Your tongue.”
He nodded his encouragement. “Where?”
“Inside me.”
Spike grinned and pressed a parting kiss to her clit. “Good girl,” he growled appraisingly, slipping his fingers out of her wet sheath and plunging his tongue inside. She arched back again, howling in pleasure, panting hard as his thumb settled over her abandoned clit and began stroking her roughly.
“Oh my…oh my God!”
“Mmmm…” He pulled back for a beat, smacking his lips. “You taste divine. Like milk an’ honey.”
“Spike!”
“You like this, baby?”
She nodded furiously. “Oh God.”
She was like wine. Pure ambrosia. He couldn’t get enough of her taste. Her juices trickled down his throat, bathed his tongue, and he couldn’t get enough. He felt immersed in purity. Like he was touching the heavens without fear of dusting. God, she tasted even better than she had the night before. When it had been rash and passionate, when he had taken her pussy with his mouth out of anger turned to lust, and lust that demanded a taste of what was his. The promise of what was his.
Now, right now, with her…with her cries of pleasure in the air, the taste of her in his mouth…this was the reward for his patience. This was the reason he’d waited for her for fourteen years. Her legs were around his head, her delicious cunny was thrusting against his face, and he was where he belonged. Where he’d always belonged.
“You’re close, aren’t you?”
Buffy didn’t answer; he doubted she’d even heard him. The next second, she clutched his head again and held him to her as she came. He was awash in her spendings, lapping up everything she had to give him. Drinking her greedily. Holding her as she fell back from the stars.
Stars he’d given her.
Bloody hell.
She was so amazing.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, prying her eyes open almost reluctantly. “Oh my God.”
Spike grinned, resting his chin against her pubic bone. “You like that?”
Her chest was heaving and she sat up weakly. “You’ve turned me into goo.”
He smirked, sliding a finger into her pussy. “I’ll say.”
“Oh God, I can’t again.”
“Ohhh, I think you can.”
“Spike, no, I—”
It was too late. He was gone; determined to prove her wrong.
And he did. Twice. He could have stayed between her heavenly thighs all night.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Buffy asked, pulling her sweats over her hips before he could dive in for fourths. “This is the way you do it. Death by orgasm.”
He was surprised she managed to say the word without blushing, though he figured if she grew any redder she might burst into flames. “Yeh, that’s it,” he drawled. “This is how I did in the other slayers.”
From red to green in point two seconds. Interesting.
“What?!”
Spike chuckled and tugged her into his arms. “Kidding, luv.”
“Better be. I’m still not wild about the idea of you and another woman for a hundred years. That’s hard to compete with.”
“No, sweetheart. Not you.” I love you. “I’ll never want anyone but you. Never.”
“Never’s a long time.”
“I promise.” He kissed her. “You think you can promise me that? Forget the claim for a moment. You think—”
“Easily.”
The word meant nothing compared to the conviction in her voice. She meant it. God, she really meant it.
She was his.
Buffy adjusted herself so she was sitting completely in his lap, her pussy rubbing his straining erection. He would have thought she didn’t know what she was doing had there not been a wise, womanly look in her eyes that explained, in no uncertain terms, that she knew all too well exactly what she was doing. “Tell me what you like,” she murmured, nibbling at his throat. “Tell me what to do for you.”
Oh God.
Spike drew in a breath. The weight of her offering had him ready to come in his pants, and he figured that would be one hefty mood spoiler. “Buffy—”
“I want you.”
“Fuck, I want you, too, but we can’t—”
“Why?”
Why?
Yes, that was a very good question.
“You don’ owe me anythin’, luv.”
Buffy frowned and drew her head back. “You don’t want me to—”
“Bloody right I want you to. I jus’…” He sighed and cast a hand through his hair. Stupid git, how the hell did he explain this without coming out looking like the mother of all wankers?
“I think we should go to bed.”
“We?”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’ want me to stay?”
“I want you to stay…I just didn’t know if you were going to.”
“Sweetling, the only way to get me out now is to kick me out, an’ we’ve established that’s something you’re not likely to do anytime soon.” Spike smiled and tugged her further into his arms as he rose to his feet. “You’re tired. I don’ want you doin’ anything now ‘cause you feel like I expect it. Like you owe it to me.”
Buffy looked offended for a minute, then flushed again and glanced down. “I just wanted to…I wanted to make you feel good.”
“You do, baby. You think I don’ get off from tastin’ you?”
“Well, I’ve read—”
“Forget what you’ve read. None of that rot applies to me, an’ since I’m the only one touchin’ you—now or forever—you don’ need to waste your time with anythin’ else.”
She smiled sleepily and didn’t offer further objection; rather let him carry her upstairs.
She didn’t speak again until he was settling in bed beside her.
“Spike?”
“Yeah?”
“What do we do about Angelus?”
He drew in a breath and froze. Angelus. Christ, it was so easy to forget the presence of his family when he was in his goddess’s arms. He’d seen them only the night before, but it felt as though so much time had passed. As though Buffy had the ability to alter time and reasoning, and he’d lost himself completely.
Angelus wouldn’t remain silent for long. The sooner he was dealt with, the better.
“Tomorrow,” he told her, kissing her brow. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Rest now.”
“I wanna know…”
“Tomorrow.”
“…what you like. What to do for you.”
His cock stirred at that. God, this girl was going to be the death of him. His death, salvation, and rebirth. She was everything.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated hoarsely.
“Promise?”
His cock wouldn’t let him hold off any longer, he feared. His cock wanted tomorrow to start right now.
But she was tired, and he loved her so much. Too much to ever use her as means to physical gratification. That wasn’t the way he loved, and certainly not the way he loved her. At the same time, he wasn’t a saint, but she made him want to try.
“Promise,” he said.
That seemed to satisfy her, and the questions stopped. She curled in his arms, and was still in seconds.
For the second night in a row, he was given the sanctuary of her embrace. Only now they were both older—they had both wizened and would not repeat the mistakes of that morning.
He held her now as she slept. Held her with love he hadn’t known to recognize the day before.
Held her in the solace she’d given him without even realizing it.
Held her in peace.
To be continued in Chapter Eighteen: The Devil Is A Gentleman…
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