Rating: NC-17
Summary: Spike summons Willow to his crypt. Willow POV.
Feedback: PLEASE! I really want to know that people are reading this! Don't make me beg!
Distribution: If you have permission to archive the previous stories in this series, 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 fic was written for the Winter of Spillow Live Journal Community. I would like to thank my betas, Tonya and Elisabeth, from the bottom of my heart. I would also like to dedicate this story to Kat, Emmy, Em, Missy, Inell, Danielle, and Feen. And to everyone who has ever sent or ever does send me feedback...I love you!
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It had been a week. A week in which Spike's strict avoidance of her, her own earnest abstention from magick, and her own cursedly optimistic nature had given her hope. Hope that what had happened between her and Spike had been forgotten; hope that her friends would at last forgive her; hope that Tara would finally come back to her.
But then she found the note under her pillow. Not only had Spike come into her bedroom, but now, it seemed, he wanted her to return to his. He had summoned her to his crypt that morning. So she was here, though she wished she had the courage to refuse, to simply not show up.
What could Spike possibly want from her? Had he finally decided to make her squirm? To enjoy her fear and dangle their tryst over her head like the blade of a guillotine suspended on a fraying rope? Or did he want her again? Was he so lonely and longing for Buffy so desperately that he wanted to take his comfort in the arms of a substitute once more?
Willow didn't want to be used again. Sure, a week ago they had used *each other*, but now that Willow realized how hollow it was to substitute another person's body for the one you really wanted, she didn't want to use Spike again. And she didn't want to be used herself.
There was only one way to find out what was going on in Spike's head, Willow concluded, and that was to talk to him. So, as she tentatively knocked on the door to his crypt, she tried to hold her fear in check. No need to give him more ammunition against her than he already had. And when she heard him tell her to come in, she cautiously opened the door and walked inside.
*****
Nothing had gone as she expected, even though she thought she hadn't known what to expect. Upon entering the darkened room, she had immediately been caught up in Spike's arms, her protests swallowed up in his passionate kiss, her traitorous body surrendering to his demanding hands. And once again she had gone down the ladder to his bedroom, to a room lit up by candles and obviously prepared for this very event with clean sheets on the bed and soft music playing. There was none of the impetuous spontaneity, the fevered rush, of their first time together. The heat was there, but different; Spike was different. And it frightened Willow even as her body responded more intensely than it had a week ago. His touch was more deliberate, yet just as intent. He was more controlling, insisting on exploring her flesh with more care, more thoroughness, as if he wanted to commit every inch of her to his memory, to feel her response to his hands and his mouth on every part of her.
After her experience with Oz, Willow had thought that it was because Tara was a woman that she showed such consideration, such interest in touching and tasting. Just as she had thought that Oz's need to be inside her quickly was because that was what all men wanted. And now her world was turning madly upside-down. For Spike was unquestionably male, yet was an even more thorough and considerate lover than Tara had ever been, not even allowing her to explore him in return 'til he had brought her to orgasm three times and to the brink of lust-induced madness even more often. It must have been at least an hour, probably much longer, before he finally entered her, calling out her name and staring so intently into her eyes that Willow wanted desperately to close them, but couldn't; finding herself unable to look away from what she had longed to see in Tara's eyes and had never thought she would see in Spike's . . . unbridled passion and . . . love? Could Spike, *did* Spike, love her?
After Spike had finally spent himself inside her and she had hoarsely screamed in pleasure for the last time, they had slept, so deeply that Willow had not had a nightmare for the first time in longer than she could remember. Then, just before sundown, he had awakened her, telling her she needed to go home, but that the two of them would need to *talk* the next day. He had smirked as he said that, and Willow hadn't been able to stop herself from smiling back and kissing him. And she had left; quietly, sadly, and once again missing something.
It wasn't until she was nearly at the house that she reached into herself
and realized what that something was. The loneliness and the longing for
Tara that had been her cold comfort as she struggled through her penance
were gone. And Willow didn't know what to feel about that.
The End