Part 6 What’s Mine is Yours
It should have been alarming, the ease with which she surrendered, sparing only a cursory thought for the mother she’d left imprisoned in the safety of their car before losing herself in the bliss that was Spike lips ravishing hers.
The chain holding his right arm screeched in protest as he wrenched it free, his hand moving immediately to the waistband of her pants. Before she could form a coherent thought and kick out in protest, the stretchy fabric was skimmed down her legs and pitched over the side of the bed.
Spike yanked at her thigh impatiently until she hovered over his lap and with a sinuous twist of his hips, he slammed into her with barely controlled ferocity.
She flung her head back, mouth stretched in a silent scream as her body detonated around his throbbing length. He granted her no reprieve, working her over mercilessly, barely allowing her time to draw breath between intoxicating kisses as his hands flashed from each pleasure center to the next.
Her own hands were never still, nails cutting into his shoulders and dragging thin trails of blood red down the alabaster smoothness of his chest and belly. Buffy was appalled at her wanton response but helpless to resist his dark temptation.
A shudder ripped through her as his thumb found her clit and circled it, his rapacious touch driving her to the brink of insanity. She clenched around him, every muscle tensed to fling herself joyously into that endless void.
He sank his fingers into her hair and wrenched her head back sharply to expose the long line of her throat. The burnished glow of his eyes fixed on the pattering tattoo of the pulse at the base of her neck and the nearly healed marks there. Growling softly, he moved in.
Buffy caught her breath as his lips and tongue worried at his earlier bite, the resulting surge of anticipation causing a flutter of weightlessness deep in her belly. She moaned, low and frustrated as he taunted her, barely scraping her sensitized flesh with his fangs.
Vampire foreplay, she thought dazedly. And God, he’s driving me crazy with it!
She couldn’t control the exultant shout of his name as he bit down, sending his sharp canines deep into her throat. The pleasure-pain of the bite and the first deep pull he took of her blood sent her careening over the precipice. Each softer, subsequent tug at her flesh only intensified the effect in a mounting maelstrom of sensation.
Her entire body shuddered with the force of her orgasm and she clamped down on him as tightly as she could with her inner muscles. His answering roar of repletion made her ears ring, but her hearing wasn’t so hindered that she didn’t hear the possessive words that burst from his lips as he found his release.
“Slayer. Mine!”
It took a monumental effort, and even then her legs were refusing to cooperate with her brain when she attempted to lift herself off of him, but she finally made it off the bed and on her feet. Thankful that the shackles on his ankles still held, she moved to put some much needed distance between them before she confronted him.
“You have got to stop doing that,” she insisted hating the tremble of her voice. She located her reasonably unscathed pants and fought to get them on. Where her panties were she had no clue. She couldn’t even remember him tearing them off of her.
“No.” The harshness of his tone drew her eyes back to him. He was glowering fiercely at her as she nervously set her clothes to rights and then fussed with her hair in an attempt to hide the glaring, puffy-looking brand he’d gifted her with.
“No. Slayer mine,” Spike repeated his voice harsh from disuse.
She was ready to tear her hair out in frustration. “No, Spike. Not yours. Bad idea. Very bad idea,” she insisted. “No more of the…the uh… um… what just happened. And no more with the bitey-claimy stuff, either!” No matter how big of a happy it gave her.
The blue eyes that followed her every move were brimming with amusement as they took in her flushed cheeks and evasive eyes, and a ghost of that familiar cocky smirk curved his lips.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” she snapped. “I’m already in deep shit with my mom over this-this… God I don’t even know what this is or why you’re even here, but…”
“You,” Spike said, that single word effectively interrupting her tirade.
Buffy swallowed hard, suddenly very nervous as she met the intensity of his gaze. There was a clarity there that had been missing before, but he still had to struggle to express himself coherently.
“Me?” she prompted keeping her voice deliberately soft, moving closer but careful to stay out of reach. She’d quickly come to the conclusion that she lost all control once those wicked, wicked hands came into contact with her skin.
“You,” he repeated. He shook his head with an impatient growl, frustrated with his inability to convey his thoughts. When he finally found the words, they seemed to reverberate in the silence of the small room. The same words he had spoken in her dream.
“Be ready for me.”
~*~*~
She fled like the hounds of hell were nipping at her delectable little backside, spurred on by both his words and the strident blaring of a car’s horn from somewhere outside.
Spike threw himself back against the mattress with a growl of frustration, cursing his uncooperative tongue. For some reason, his attempt to tell her of the dream that had been his salvation during his stint in hell had sent her running for the hills instead.
The dream. Him and the slayer, bound together in what seemed like a child’s version of hell, complete with dragons and annoying little imps. Even more fantastical had been the vision of her tight little body writhing on his lap while her succulent lips sucked the evil right out of him.
That fanciful little delusion had been the only thing he’d had to cling to in the nightmare that his life had become the minute he’s been sucked into that portal instead of Angel.
Angel.
Angelus.
At one time the younger vampire had adored the alpha male of their little quartet. Had strived constantly to emulate his elder’s evil and sadistic ways, no matter how much his actions had offended the faint essence that somehow remained of the shy, romantically inclined William.
Nothing had ever been good enough. The cruelties he had endured, both great and small, had all been for naught. Angelus had thrived on building him up and then methodically tearing him down time after endless time.
The smallest transgression often resulted in hours of senseless torture. Memories plagued him of his bloody and broken self lying in a heap while his grandsire had pressed a careless splinter of wood to his heart with ominous intent.
“You came back wrong, Will. Dusting you would be a mercy killing in so many ways.” That hateful, sibilant whisper echoed in his mind to this day.
In the beginning there had been a part of him that wished for Angelus to leave off the taunts and drive the intricately carved stake home. The constant inner battle between his demon and the tattered remnants of the man he had been was enough to drive him as starkers as his beloved sire. Only the demon’s rapacious will to survive had saved him from a dusty oblivion, ruthlessly beating the more tender facets into submission.
It had been the demon that had taken everything that Angelus could dish out and thrown it back in his pompous face, grinning all the while and knowing that one day he'd get his chance to chop him down to size.
Maybe he had come back wrong, but whose fault was that? Only so much of the blame could be laid at Drusilla’s feet. After all, who had forsaken his twisted creation, leaving her to roam the dank alleys in despair while he sank his miserable excuse for a cock into Darla’s diseased crater? Angelus was just as much at fault for the botched turning of William the Bloody Awful Poet as Dru and her fractured little mind was.
Spike lay back on the rumpled bed and allowed the tears to flow as he grieved for his sire. He knew his dark princess was lost to him with the same certainty that told him that the slayer hadn’t been the one to do her in. He'd seen the grief in her eyes as he was sucked backward into hell. She’d had no time for thoughts of Drusilla.
That left Angel and his bloody pompous soul.
He seethed with hatred for his grandsire. It festered inside him like some noxious boil, ready to spew forth its ichors. It didn’t matter what face he wore, Angelus or Angel; it was past time for him to atone for his sins. Their day of reckoning was coming, Spike was sure of that.
Spike shot up with a snarl, glaring balefully at the blood-splattered wall in front of him. While he was grateful to be back from a hell he still couldn’t think about without having to bite back horrified screams, something told him that vengeance against the souled poof wasn’t the main agenda. Higher powers were definitely at work here.
He didn’t know how. He damned sure didn’t know why. All he remembered was feeling weak and dizzy, free-falling through time and space until he landed with a jolt. There were vague memories of stripping and crawling into the familiar bed. While hovering on the edge of sleep, the sound of fighting had called to his demon.
He remembered the blood. Remembered slashing and tearing until the miserable creature had begged for the death he so obligingly provided for the one that had dared to touch his property.
His slayer.
The demon had been in total control, but even in his feral state it recognized the girl for what she was. Knew it and felt compelled to claim her anyway; had rejoiced in the act, in fact.
Not that he had any regrets now that he was reasonably coherent and almost back to what passed as normal for him. The attraction--the all-consuming lust—for the little golden morsel had always been there. The demon had merely taken advantage of the situation. Her presence had danced its way through far too many of his fantasies since the night she had been pointed out to him at the Bronze, and in spite of his devotion to Drusilla, his demon had been enraged by the knowledge that his prancing arse of a grandsire had been the object of the tiny blonds affections.
But Angel had made one glaring error. During their one night of unrestrained passion, he had neglected for whatever reason to claim the slayer as his own.
A mistake Spike’s demon had been careful not to duplicate.
He was confident that she would be back in spite of her fear and confusion. He’d taken her blood three times now, and each time he did so it strengthened the claim he’d placed on her.
The restorative properties of slayer blood were renowned. He could feel it coursing through his body, practically sizzling as it raced to his extremities, healing his broken mind and spirit as well as his battered limbs.
Casually, almost disdainfully, he reached down and grasped the chains that bound his legs. With one powerful tug the links snapped, leaving him free to lever himself from the bed in search of his clothes.
Once dressed, he sat back to explore his options. Going out wasn’t even remotely possible. Not only was the sun shining, but he was nowhere near ready for the inevitable confrontation with his grandsire. As soon as the ponce caught his scent all over Buffy and got a gander at the nifty little scar he’d gifted her with, Spike had no doubt he’d be seeing a side of Angel that he never had before.
Because this time, he might have had the girl first, but in the end, she belonged to Spike.