*banner by Selene*

Title: It All Belongs To Me
Author: Oracleholly
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, Sex, Blood play, BDSM
Pairing: Spike/Drusilla
Summary: Spike and Drusilla enjoy the offerings of Chicago, December 1928.
Disclaimer: Spike and Drusilla are the creations of Joss Whedon. I'm not making any profit from this story (unless by some miracle a little birdie tells Joss about my story and he decides, "Yes! I must have that made into an actual book." - but that event is unlikely.)
Distribution: Written for the Fall_for_Spike community, 2005. Ask permission if you would like to post this in your archive.

A/N1: The talented Selene2 created the incredible banner for this story. Thank you so much for crafting it for me.
A/N2: The title was inspired by the song, "It All Belongs To Me," words and music by Irving Berlin, 1927. Lyrics in this chapter are credited to this song.
A/N3: Since I'm not from Chicago and have never had an opportunity to travel there, the historical information of the various sights and locations were gleaned from researching this site: Jazz Age Chicago.
A/N4: Thank you to Flexsis for once again making my work even better.

Chapter One
beta by Flexsis

A cold, steady wind drifted across the streets of Chicago, carrying a hint of moisture from Lake Michigan, as a striking couple stepped off a train that had recently arrived at Union Station. The couple had apparently taken advantage of the overnight train service provided by Broadway Limited, traveling directly from Penn Station in New York City. Despite the lateness of the hour, Union Station maintained a healthy crowd of tourists, businessmen, locals, thieves, and other sundry visitors. In spite of the crowd, the couple caused heads to turn as they strolled past, both seemingly containing an ethereal beauty.

The woman resembled a living porcelain doll, with obsidian hair fingered into delicate curls pressed tightly against her flawless skin, in a version of the popular bob. A crimson sheath dress draped over her lithe frame. Black beading accentuated and hinted at curves, which would delight any man lucky enough to capture such a bounty. Her pale, bare arms braved the frigid December air until a brown mink suddenly obstructed any view of them. The sudden presence of the mink drew attention away from her to focus on the man in her company.

Of average height, the man's head barely inched above his lady's. Unusually dyed blonde hair, slicked back, topped his head, but small hints of curls sprang away in opposition where it met the nape of his neck. The blonde hair seemed an oddity in this age where only women were known to brave such a color, and caused many to wonder why he'd not stuck to the traditional black dye so favored among ageing men. However, no one - man nor woman - could deny that the color suited him. Cobalt eyes, steely in their intensity, softened at something the lady whispered to him. A devilish half smile livened his angelic face and impossibly deepened his razor sharp cheekbones. The gentleman wore a proper suit, suitable for an evening spent enjoying good jazz. Those sizing up the man for an easy mark failed to notice how the cut of his suit alluded to a wiry, muscular frame.

Both began strolling toward the main concourse of the station with a confidence carried by those who possessed money and power. Local riffraff surreptiously began following the handsome couple at a discreet pace, none of them recognizing the pair as protected by the Mafioso. None of the would-be muggers observed the unmitigated, lethal delight in the eyes of their "prey" as both the man and the woman became aware of their followers.

The couple slowly walked through the enormous main concourse, the woman apparently delighted by the ninety-foot high, skylighted ceiling that allowed travelers to peek up at the stars. A redcap, who 'til now had gone unnoticed, caught up to the couple, with three pieces of luggage in tow. The man stopped, shushed his lady, and asked the redcap a question. With a gesture toward the main waiting area, the couple began following the redcap.

The thieves shadowing the couple thought that they'd hit the jackpot, as it appeared their targets were going to be resting in the hall area while waiting for their next train. Unbeknownst to the thieves, however, the couple had no immediate plans to leave Chicago. Having worked together several times previously, the three Italian-looking men took their prearranged positions, fanning out in a sort of v-formation behind the couple. One kept dead center behind them. He would be the one to bump into the man, at first acting as if he were just another flustered, tired traveler. Then, once he started excusing himself, his associates would close in on the flanks with carefully hidden handguns. The leader, the "bumper," nodded his head to his two associates, as they entered the waiting area.

The couple entered the main waiting hall of the station; complete with its pink Tennessee marble and massive wooden benches. The hall's lighting highlighted the marble and generated a sense of calm and comfort to those weary travelers killing time between trains.

The leader of the thieves overheard the lady say, in a markedly British accent, "Look at all the pretty dollies. All dressed up, but no party for them." Unsure of what she was referring to, he decided that the lady was a loony, making these targets much easier to take down. A sinister smile crept across his face, showing hints of poorly maintained teeth.

The redcap had also overheard the strange but beautiful creature, but quickly dismissed her utterance as some British slang. He'd been working for the Station since it opened in 1925, and during that time, he'd heard and seen many a strange thing. Life always seemed to surprise him, and despite some of the more irritating aspects of his job, such as pains in his shoulders and arms after a particularly long day, he enjoyed the variety that came with it. He used to work mornings and afternoons, but a change in schedule a couple of weeks ago forced him to work nights and early mornings. His wife didn't much care for his new schedule, but she couldn't really complain - at least he had a job and was providing food for the table.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, the hand placed on his shoulder startled the redcap. Turning around, he saw that his charges had stopped; the man dropped his hand. Starting to blush with embarrassment, the redcap stammered, "I apologize, sir. Where would you like me to stow your baggage?"

"He would be delicious, my William. May I keep him?" asked the woman.

"No, my plum. There're other treats close at hand," answered the man. "Feel them, luv?"

A wild, hungry look reflected in the woman's eyes, and she began caressing the man's chest with carefree abandon. "Oh, yes. Miss Edith tells me their wicked little plans. But she's angry with me for putting her to bed." A pout quickly formed on her cupie bow lips.

The redcap stood at the ready for any directions the couple might give concerning their baggage, but he really wanted to just drop the bags and run as fast as he could away from the pair. Both of them had to be mad - completely insane - and he for one wanted no part in their reality.

The man turned his head away from his lady and looked at the redcap. The redcap would later swear that he'd seen the man's blue eyes turn gold for the briefest of moments. "Not to worry, mate. You've been right helpful to me and my girl." The man suddenly seemed to grow fangs, and his forehead creased into pronounced ridges, shocking the redcap. As quickly as the fangs and ridges appeared, though, they vanished. "Now, sod off, or I'm letting my princess have a taste."

"Oh yes, please," the woman excitedly responded.

Not needing any further incentive, the redcap dropped the bags immediately, and quickly walked away back to the main concourse. Only later, and after consuming a number of illegal drinks, did the redcap lament that he'd not received a tip.

Unfortunately for the band of thieves, they'd neither seen the transformation, nor overheard any of the conversation that had occurred. They only witnessed the redcap suddenly - and completely uncharacteristically - drop the couple's baggage and leave quickly. The leader paused and contemplated whether the man was packing heat. He looked over at the associate to his right, who was in charge of covering the male target, cocking his head as if asking that question. The thief on the right shook his head in the negative, and then shrugged, indicating that he didn't know what was going on, either.

The pair started walking over to a wooden bench in a darkened corner of the hall where the lights had dimmed. The leader thought, "They're making this too easy." But, not allowing himself to listen to the niggling sensation in his gut that told him to just let the couple go, he nodded his head to signal the others to start the shakedown. Bumping hard into the right shoulder of the male target, the leader was startled when the man didn't even budge or give an inch. Quickly recovering, he took on his role: "Oh, excuse me. I wasn't looking where I was going."

The cue had been given; from the left and the right, the would-be thieves converged on the couple. The man on the left poked his gun into the lady's side, but she just looked at him, smiled, and said, "You brought toys! Bad moppet. Daddy said it's not nice to tease, unless you mean it."

All three thieves heard the lady's strange remark, which distracted them from the man, who quickly grabbed the fist of the thief to his right. Slowly but sickeningly loudly, the bones in the thief's wrist began to break, causing him to drop his gun. "Shoot him, Cy!" the thief cried. "He's breakin' my friggin' wrist!"

Before Cy, the leader, could cock the gun and fire, the man swung around, and Cy came face-to-face with the devil. Golden eyes, elongated fangs, and sharp forehead ridges met the stunned and now terrified Cy. His mind too preoccupied with trying to digest what was standing before him, Cy didn't notice what was happening to his pal, Alberto, on the left.

As her man had swung to face the snack to their rear, the woman shifted her features as well. Her ridges were smoother than the man's, and she appeared more feline in her countenance. Reaching out to her would-be captor, she pulled him close against her body and began swaying with him. Alberto began to protest and tried to pull away from her vise-like grip.

"Tut… tut," the lethal beauty said. Still maintaining her hold on Alberto, she waved two fingers of her right hand in front of his eyes. "Be in me," she commanded. Unable to do anything else, Alberto began to willingly sway with the creature holding him. She danced him farther into the corner, smiling wickedly the entire time. Without warning, she struck, fangs slicing into the flesh of her victim's neck. Drinking the pooling, flowing blood of her prey, she grasped him even tighter into her embrace. In moments, it was over, and she dropped the dead being once known as Alberto the Fish unceremoniously to the floor.

Licking her bloodied lips, she clapped her hands in delight. She briefly watched her companion play with his victim before she took notice of the wounded man on the floor. Stalking her new prey with the poise of a tigress on a hunt, she backed him into a wooden bench.

The man with the crushed wrist had watched in mind-numbing horror as the creature now approaching him killed Alberto. Scooting backwards as best he was able, he tried to put as much distance between him and her as possible. Then he felt the unmovable wooden bench hit his back. He knew he should be screaming for help, even from the police, but he was frozen in fear. And still she kept coming.

While Alberto's life was being drained away, the once cocky leader had become fodder for the monster before him. Cy's mind finally cleared, reaching the impossible but inevitable conclusion that he was facing a vampire. Belying his scruffy looks and streetwise ways, Cy had once been a smart boy, who used to love to read before his dear mama died. One of the books he'd loved to read again and again was Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Immediately, Cy knew his gun would do him no good in this situation. Being Italian and a Roman Catholic, he wore a silver crucifix inside his shirt. With fumbling hands, Cy pulled out the cross with an expression of triumph. However, triumph soon became misery, as the vampire simply tore it out of his hands, breaking the chain and flinging it out of reach. "Aren't vampires supposed to be afraid of crosses?" Cy wondered, right before his neck was viciously grabbed.

"Stupid ponce," said the vampire. Maintaining his grip on Cy, he began to rant. "You know that poofter has made it hard on the rest of us. But does he care? No, he had to go and get bloody famous. And it's not like we all are like him, you know." Deliberately nodding Cy's head, as if in agreement with what the vampire was saying, he continued, "I mean, the git's got those gypsy tricks. Wanker."

Briefly looking over at his lady, the vampire commented, "Drusilla, mind you not dirty your pretty new frock." Turning back to Cy, he continued, "I'll never hear the end of it if she gets blood on her beading - such a chore to clean. So, mate … you and your little gang here thought you would take advantage of some nice, unsuspecting travelers, did you?" Seeing the nervous look in his prey's eye, the vampire chuckled. "I like your style. Another time, I might have made you a fledge, but I'm just not in the mood."

With that, the vampire brought his fangs tantalizingly close to Cy's neck and sniffed. The vampire relished the fear emanating off the burly thug. Gleefully, he bit into the thick, fleshy neck, bringing the intoxicating blood to the surface. When he was finished, instead of following the lead of the female vampire he had called Drusilla letting the corpse fall to the ground, the vampire dragged the body over to a bench and sat it down.

To any unlikely observers, it would have appeared that the man was helping a very intoxicated or tired fellow to a seat. However, everyone who could have seen was too caught up with his or her own problems, and no one cared to notice anything amiss. After setting his corpse down, the vampire quickly retrieved Drusilla's kill and set him on the bench beside his associate. Then he returned to his lady's side.

The last survivor of the unlucky gang was named Salvatore, but his friends called him Aces, because he was a world-class poker player. He had been the youngest of this group formed by Cy, and had no one to go home to. He'd carried on with a bevy of girls who liked his dark looks and muscular physique and the money that he flaunted. Allegedly, he was somehow related to the South Side mob boss, Al Capone, but he really wasn't. Of course, he took advantage of the rumor, seeing it as a good way to keep him alive.

Looking into the horrible faces of the killers before him, he knew inherently that nothing he could say or do would get him out of this mess. So, he began to pray. "Our Father, who art in Heaven…."

"I know that one. Can I play, too?" Drusilla's face, despite its vampire visage, took on a child-like quality. "'Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be His name…' Bad puppy. Chord's all broken now." Spike began caressing her cheek to calm her down.

Salvatore couldn't believe that this monster could begin to recite the Lord's Prayer and not be struck down for it. He started trying to stand, using his good hand to prop himself up on the bench. Looking past the monstrous couple, Sal saw the bodies of Cy and Alberto sitting, seemingly asleep, on another bench. They appeared to be at peace, and he hoped that it was so. Then he bravely glanced back at the duo that were stroking each other's faces.

Spike's attention strayed back to the last of the thieves, now sitting on a bench. "Come, Dru, we can't keep the man waiting. Shall we take him together, luv?"

"Please, I've been such a good girl."

"That you have, my treasure… that you have."

With very little effort, Spike lifted the wounded man off the bench, allowing the man to regain his footing. Sliding his right arm under the man's left, Spike kept him aloft. Drusilla slinked to the man's left and took a similar hold.

Salvatore felt he'd rather be looking into the eyes of the lady than the man, and did so. Seeing the man ogling his woman, Spike started softly singing in Salvatore's ear, "Hey there, you. You'll get in dutch. I'll let you look, but then you mustn't touch. For it," gesturing to Drusilla swaying beside him, "all belongs to me."

Salvatore began to protest that he wasn't thinking about the vampiress that way, but any denials were silenced by the feeling of two pairs of fangs piercing his neck on both sides. Abashedly, instead of the expected pain, Sal began to grow aroused at the lulling sensation of his blood flowing from him into his killers. It didn't help his situation when the woman began discreetly stroking his cock in rhythm with her sucking. His last coherent earthly musing was whether Cy and Alberto experienced the same thing.

Swiping his middle and index fingers across his bloodied lips, Spike then inserted the coated digits into his mouth licking them clean. "Now, that was fun." Drusilla nodded enthusiastically.

Taking Drusilla's left hand in his, Spike brought it to his lips, turned it so her palm lay bare, and kissed it where palm met wrist. Drusilla seemed enchanted by the delicate, loving gesture. With a simple jerk, Spike pulled Drusilla close and nuzzled her neck, purring low. Drusilla rubbed her cheek against Spike's forehead.

Then, with unspoken synchronization, both vampires turned their heads toward the Adams Street exit. Spike spoke mischievously, "Let's go make nice with the locals, luv." Strolling through the exit, the master vampire couple stepped out into the dark Chicago night, braving its freezing temperatures, and disappeared.

TBC
A/N5: Yes, Spike's hair is dyed blonde for this piece. Yes, normally his hair would have been brown. You'll find out why in Chapter 2.

A/N1: Once again thank you to Flexsis for the beta.

A/N2: If you'd like to take a peek at the car that Spike drives in this chapter (and what inspired me to have him drive it), please see Clive Cussler's Car Collection or go to Clive Cussler's Numa site.

A/N3: Credit for the Jazz slang in this chapter and in future ones goes to Internet Guide to Jazz Slang. For definitions to the words in this chapter, see A/N4 at the end of the chapter.

Chapter Two

A few days had passed since a pair of Union Station patrolmen discovered what they thought were three vagrants dead on a couple of benches in the waiting area off the main concourse. One of the patrolmen had taken his nightstick and nudged one of the men, who had not responded to their orders to move. The body fell forwards, hard, onto the floor, and caused the other body to fall backwards in a similar manner. One patrolman, a retired Chicago police officer, remained on the scene and sent his partner back to the base to get help, and also to retrieve a doctor from the Station's hospital.

Not wholly unfamiliar with crime scenes, the retired cop searched the bodies for identification, and to his surprise he found wallets for all three. He noticed that two of the bodies had twin puncture holes on one side of the neck, but the third had almost matching marks on both sides of his. He'd heard of some mob hits where an ice pick had been used, and thought that perhaps that's what he had here. Rubbing his hair and sighing with resignation, he knew that finding witnesses would probably be impossible. Until the doctor could give him an approximate time of death, any investigation would be stalled.

The retired cop was correct in his prediction. Even though the dead men were known criminals, no clues were ever discovered that led to an arrest. The case was filed with other mysterious but unexplained deaths in the area and was never solved.

*****

Cruising up North Clark Street at a pace that allowed both the wealthy and the poor alike to whistle in appreciation, the red 1926 Hispano-Suiza H6B Cabriolet's aluminum coachwork positively gleamed in the twilight. Unlike other motorists traveling in the freezing temperatures, the driver of the red beauty had the top down, letting the wind whip through his blonde hair. His female passenger had her arms waving in the air, and those they passed standing on the streets could hear her command, "Faster, faster!"

Appreciating both the feel of the automobile and the view of Drusilla's ecstasy, Spike laughed. The vehicle had been freed from the ownership of an exceedingly obese wealthy man who had an equally obese wife. Spike justified his newly acquired ownership, thinking to himself that the fat man could never have truly valued its handling.

*****

After leaving Union Station, Spike had led Drusilla down Adams Street, toward the Chicago River. Several taxicab drivers hollered out offers to drive them to any destination. Picking one cab at the end of the line, he told the driver to take them to the very best hotel.

A block away from the Hotel Sherman, Spike had ordered the driver to stop. After the driver pulled up to a curb, Spike helped Drusilla out of the cab. The driver had foolishly demanded his fare, but after Spike flashed some fang, the driver sped off. Enjoying the night air, but sated from their fresh kill, Spike sniffed the air for any scent of their brethren. Sensing none, he proceeded to lead Drusilla to the Hotel.

As Spike and Drusilla walked hand in hand up Clark Street, Spike ran his fingers through his recently dyed locks. He thought he must look like a complete poofter. He'd seen the glances the humans had cast in his direction from New York to Chicago. It'd not been his idea at all, and he wanted to undo it as soon as possible. If not for his ladylove, it would have already been returned to its natural brown shade.

They'd remained in New York for only a week upon arriving in America after sailing across the Atlantic. Darla had taken her leave of them, which she had often done before and after Angelus' departure. Drusilla had a vision of her "poor Daddy" in the "place of stars and stripes." Although he didn't like the fact that Drusilla craved Angelus like he craved her, Spike would do anything for his dark princess. Surmising that she was talking about America, Spike found them convenient - well, not for the bloke and his mistress whose tickets he'd acquired, not like they had further use for them, or anything else, for that matter - passage.

So, they'd been in New York City for a week when, after having a particularly nasty tasting fellow, Spike had fallen asleep. For some reason only known to Drusilla and that damnable Miss Edith, Dru had somehow found blonde hair dye - probably from the wanna-be actress she'd eaten two days before - and decided to have some fun with him. The next evening, he'd arisen to find all of Drusilla's dolls lined up around the bed, their eyes seemingly looking into his demon, and Drusilla perched in a chair at the end of the bed.

His eyes focused on the presence of a fledge, who had a camera. Then he realized he'd been awakened from his rest by the sound of the shutter and flash of said camera. Once a professional photographer for the New York Times, Stephen had been orphaned soon after having been turned, when a priest had killed his sire. Wandering on 42nd Street, Spike had found the lost fledge and taken him back to Drusilla as a pet.

Apparently, Drusilla had had Stephen, taking pictures throughout the day. Already, a developed photograph had been laid on his chest. Curiously, and before he elected to yell at the fledge, he picked up the black and white photograph, and saw to his horror that his hair was now a stark shade of white. After hollering and destroying half of Drusilla's dolls (though not Miss Edith - even in his fury, he dared not touch Miss Edith), Spike had, as calmly as he could, despite the tension in his jaw, asked a distraught Drusilla what in the bleeding hell had she been thinking.

The cryptic words still rang in his mind: "The sunshine will look upon you, and your princess will be lost. Miss Edith whispers to me that I must prepare you for the sunshine. I tell her my William would never leave his princess. Still, she hisses and laughs, and mocks me." Spike had promised her that he'd never go meet the sun. For a while, she had protested and hit him, until he'd managed to soothe her by raking his nails down her arms, turning her frantic cries of sorrow to ones of passion.

So, he'd kept his hair blonde for the time being, hoping that soon her affinity for this look would fade. Still, his ego enjoyed the appreciative glances he received from women and a few men alike. He'd had to admit, from what he'd seen in his picture, that the white-blonde hair seemed to lend him an extra surprising aura of danger.

Across the street from the hotel, Spike surveyed the scene. Rising high in the Chicago night, the Hotel Sherman obviously catered to the wealthy and the notable, as indicated by the dress and cars of its clientele. Just as he and Drusilla started across the street, a red vehicle pulled up to the entrance. Immediately, a doorman approached what Spike recognized as a Hispano-Suiza, and attempted to assist an enormous woman out of the passenger side. Then Spike watched as the driver waddled out into the street. After puffing out some orders, two bellhops appeared and helped with the couple's baggage.

Drusilla began giggling and said, "Greedy man. His stuffing's all stretched out."

Spike agreed and continued watching where the bellhop took the car. He'd seen one like it in Europe and had liked it look. The owner had to be quite wealthy to have had it shipped here. After crossing the street, he was assailed by the scent of sweat and talcum powder lingering heavily in the air.

Stanley had worked for the hotel as its doorman since its expansion in 1925. He'd just closed the door behind the condescending, fat, German couple when two figures stepped before him. He'd not seen their approach, and he felt chagrined that he'd failed in his duty. As bizarre as the German couple had looked, this couple was equally bizarre, but for different reasons.

The doll, Stanley saw, was a vision of chalk white skin, ebony hair, and ruby lips. If anyone in Hollywood were casting for Snow White, surely they would hire this lady for the role. In contrast, the man had shocking, platinum blonde hair. In this day and age, one typically found the opposite - a woman with platinum hair, and a man with dark hair.

The man had fixed him with a superior but kind appraisal, which shook him out of his thoughts, and he quickly moved to open the door. Despite his hair, the man certainly was no Ethel. Belatedly, he remembered to ask if the couple required assistance for their baggage or their vehicle. He'd seen neither, but one never knew with the wealthy.

Effecting his proper "William" accent, Spike answered the obviously flustered doorman, "No, my good man. My sheba and I took a nice stroll, and plan on dining here this evening. Who's playing tonight?" Drusilla wandered away, and Spike glanced in her direction as he listened for an answer.

First the rude Germans, and now the polite Brits; Stanley just loved the mixture of people he encountered. "Sir, Isham Jones is conducting his band this evening in the College Inn."

"Isham Jones…" Spike said, mulling the name in his mind. "He leads an all-white jazz band, correct?"

"Yes, sir. You've heard of our Mr. Jones?"

"Yes. I've acquired a taste for good jazz and other things. Tell me…"

"Stanley. My name's Stanley, sir."

"Nice breezer that baby grand had, Stanley," Spike ventured, referring to the Hispano-Suiza.

"Pos-i-lute-ly, sir. That is was," agreed Stanley, with a wistful smile on his face, before realizing he'd also agreed to the insult this man had directed toward the owner of said 'breezer.' He frowned.

Spike was pleased that the doorman seemed willing to punch the bag with him. Information was at a premium whenever one traveled to a new place. Seeing Stanley's sudden frown, though, he changed his tack. Choking on the words, Spike apologized, "Forgive me, I certainly don't intend to get you into trouble talking out of school."

Relief filled Stanley's face, and Spike knew he'd recovered an informant. "My lady," gesturing toward Drusilla, who'd found a stray dog and was now petting her find, "has a fondness for red autos."

Stanley looked over at the strange skirt and replied, "She certainly has good taste."

Amused, Spike agreed, "That she does, my good fellow. That she does." They both watched Drusilla spin the stray mutt in a circle before setting it back down and allowing it to scamper off. Then, seemingly recalling where she was, Drusilla turned toward Spike and sauntered back to him.

Once Drusilla had reacquired his arm, Spike turned his attention back to the doorman. "Stanley, you look like a bloke who knows his onions," Spike said in a lower tone, giving the doorman a meaningful look. "Perhaps you can tell me where I might be able to go see a man about a dog later?"

Before replying, Stanley checked over his shoulder to make sure none of the bellhops were around. Anticipating an appreciative tip as a reward, he answered, "Two blocks west, you'll see a narrow alley beside a warehouse. Two slow knocks, three fast ones. Everything's Jake."

"Ta, mate." Slipping tomorrow night's potential meal a clam, Spike asked, "Will you be on duty tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, then perhaps we'll see you then." Spike then moved to lead Drusilla inside, and Stanley quickly opened the doors for them

"Have a good evening, sir… ma'am."

******

After listening to Isham Jones' band for a half-hour, Spike had taken Drusilla on a "tour" of the hotel. After three floors, Drusilla had paused in front of a door, her head tilted in contemplation, her eyes closed.

"Here, luv?" he asked, even as he scented the air. Sure enough, he smelled sweat and talcum powder, with a hint of expensive perfume. Drusilla flashed an evil smile as Spike knocked on the door.

A blustery, German-accented voice called out, "Who's there?"

"Hotel management, sir." With his suit, Spike assured himself that he looked the part.

The door opened a creak and Spike gave his most innocent and deceptive smile. "Just making sure the room's all in order, as a courtesy. May I come in?" From inside the room, the wife ordered her husband to let them in, because they needed more towels.

"Yes, come in," said the German.

Hearing the magic words, Spike raced through the entrance, immediately shifted his features, and broke the man's neck. Before the wife could even scream, he was upon her, dragging her to the threshold, making her step over her now-deceased husband. Scratching her neck with his fangs, Spike ordered, "Now, be a good girl, and invite my lady in."

"Why should I? You just killed my Gustav. You kill me, too."

"If you don't invite her in, you'll suffer. But if you do as I say, I'll do you a favor and make it quick."

Deciding she'd rather have a quick death, the wife invited Drusilla inside the room. As Drusilla entered, Spike dragged the wife back to the bed. Drusilla began twirling around the room, as Spike maintained his hold.

The wife had begun to cry, the enormity of her peril hitting her full force. To her horror and astonishment, the "lady" picked up the body of her husband as if he weighed nothing, and started dancing with his body as she hummed an unfamiliar tune. She closed her eyes to the horror of it.

With a jerk of his prey's head to the left, Spike struck her neck, draining only enough to render her unconscious. He'd lied - no quick death was in store for her. Dropping the woman on the bed, Spike crept up to his salvation and kissed her passionately.

The man's body was quickly forgotten as the two became enraptured in each other. Spike spun Drusilla 'til her ass ground against his straining erection. Deftly, without ceasing his tongue's caresses on her earlobes and neck, Spike worked to unfasten the seemingly endless hooks and eyes on the left side of her dress. His attention wavered when Drusilla slid her hand between her ass and his crotch and began massaging his cock through his pants.

Giving an appreciate growl in her left ear, Spike finished undoing her dress and removed it from her. Now dressed in only her chemise and bloomers, Spike pulled the chemise over her head and flung it to his side. He cupped both her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over the already hardening nipples. Pulling them to the point of pain, Spike bit into the ivory column of her neck, but didn't drink.

Drusilla arched in response to the stimuli of Spike's fangs in her neck and the dual manipulation of her nipples. Her right hand sought his pants' fastenings, while her left reached back to grab Spike's head.

Spike didn't want to stop what he was doing, but if he didn't get his clothes off soon, his cock threatened to rip through them. Pushing Drusilla roughly onto the bed, Spike stood back and attacked his own clothing. Drusilla ran her fingers through her inviting quim as she watched her childe hungrily.

Standing next to the bed, Spike raised Dru's legs and placed her ankles on his shoulders. Spike plunged hard into her center, bone meeting bone. Keeping his cock buried in the velvet glove of her womb, he began making small circles, applying delicious pressure to her clit. Then he set a slow rhythm for a few strokes, before speeding up the pace, and then slowing down again.

Drusilla writhed with the need for release. Her childe was being cruel and not letting mummy see the stars. Just as she thought he was going to allow her to come, he'd slow the rhythm.

Dropping her legs from his shoulders, Spike pushed her more to the middle of the bed with each thrust. Getting onto his knees on the bed, he rested his ass on his ankles and drew Drusilla up for a kiss.

The unexpected change in position was all that she needed. As his cock hit the oversensitive nerve bundle, Drusilla shattered, her womb convulsing. Spike tried to hold off his own release, but the violence of hers strangled his cock and he went over the edge.

******

Wind whipping through his hair, Spike gripped the steering wheel with his left hand, and reached surreptitiously for Drusilla's legs with his right. Moving his right hand under her hem, he inched his fingers up to her pussy. Drusilla cooperated by scooting over and parting her legs wider.

Inserting two fingers, Spike relished the combined feel of driving the car and his princess.

TBC

A/N4: Slang and their definitions used in this chapter are as follows: baby grand (heavily built man), breezer (convertible), doll & skirt (an attractive woman), Ethel (an effeminate male), "go see a man about a dog" (need to buy whiskey), "knows one's onions" (knows one's business or what they are talking about), "punch the bag" (small talk), pos-i-lute-ly (affirmative), and sheba (one's girlfriend).