Pairing: Willow/Angel
Summary: Angel goes to see Willow one night, and finds out his desire for her is more than just a dream.
Feedback: Please, it’s what I live for!
Distribution: If you have permission to archive my previous fics, you may have this. Otherwise, please ask first.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. It all belongs to Joss and a bunch of other people who are not now and have never been me.
Author’s Notes: This was written in answer to the water_fiesta challenge on the fanfic_fiesta Live Journal Community.
Author’s Notes Two: Thank you Emmy, for being such a great beta on such short notice!
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He stood at the French doors on her balcony, waiting for Willow to reenter her room, needing to talk to her...about Buffy, of course. Why else would he seek her out? Surely not because of the dreams. He’d finally gotten to the point where he could push those out of his awareness and he was now able to talk to Willow at the library and the Bronze without his thoughts becoming alarmingly sexual. But as soon as he saw her walk back into her bedroom, he realized he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here tonight; he shouldn’t have seen her, not like this.
She was wet from a recent shower, her flimsy cotton nightshirt clinging to her still damp skin, her hair dripping water , making the garment cling even more and become sheer in all the right, or wrong, places. And making Angel lose sight of his reason for being there in the first place.
Try as he might, he couldn’t bring Buffy’s face to mind. All he could see was Willow...wet and naked in a steaming hot shower. He pictured her running a sponge slowly over her small, pink-tipped breasts, lathering them with fragrant soap. Then bringing the sponge lower, caressing the auburn curls he was certain hid the juncture between her thighs. He could see her arching gently under the spray, the water making rivulets down her body as she twisted slowly underneath it. He pictured her smiling shyly, yet sensually, at him, holding out the sponge, inviting him to join her.
"Wash my back?" He could hear her say, half in question, half in invitation.
"Only if you’ll wash mine," he would say, disrobing and joining her under the warm, inviting spray.
He could picture his hands roaming over her body as he stood behind her in the steam-filled shower, caressing her with both the sponge and his fingers. He could almost feel her wet, soapy skin beneath his hands as he imagined teasing her breasts, feeling her nipples harden, moving his hands behind her again to stroke the firm flesh of her delicious bottom, then wrapping one arm around her and slipping the hand of the other between her legs to dip between her folds, bringing her to orgasm with his fingers as he moved his cock against the globes of her ass. He could almost hear the delightful moans and gasps she would make as she neared her release, almost taste her skin with his tongue...
He stifled his own moan as he stopped his thoughts short, not wanting to take himself in hand on Willow’s balcony or cum in his pants. But there’d be no talking to Willow this night, that was for certain. Innocent though she was, she would still notice the tent in his trousers. And besides, he couldn’t trust himself around her now, not in his current state of arousal.
He leapt soundlessly from the balcony before she even knew he was there. What had he been thinking? And what would he be thinking every time he saw the bright young girl from now on? It was bad enough that he’d been dreaming about her since that night at the Bronze, now he was having thoughts he could no longer blame on the novelty of seeing her legs or transferred frustration over Buffy’s relentless cock-teasing. He was now forced to admit the truth to himself. He wanted Willow. Wanted her badly.
He needed to get home and take a shower, no, not a shower, no showers for a long, long time. He had a feeling that he might never be able to take a shower again without feeling as if he were cheating on the girl he had been so sure was love of his unlife with her own best friend. How had things gotten so complicated? And why, after all the years he had spent trying to atone, had Angel never felt more unclean?
The End