Love Remembered
By Chris
Hungry
Eyes shuttered, head leaning back, feeling the pounding of the music as if it were his frantic heartbeat, he watched.---
She extended the glistening pink tip of her tongue, moving it ever so slightly closer to her waiting mouth. Jaw trembling with anticipation, she paused a moment to imagine the sweetness, concentrating on the shape of its hard ridges, the feel of her tongue swirling around, examining the pleasure in minute detail. Nibbling just a bit, she leaned in, letting the pleasure wash over her, swallowing the juices generated by her own mouth instinctively as the suction she created pulled it entirely inward. Manna!
Savouring the sweetness, the strokes of her tongue warmed the cool surface quickly, promising heaven. But she went slowly, mouthing its texture, until she could stand no more. Greedily, she applied pressure with her teeth, causing an explosion of incredible proportions to overflow her mouth. Convulsively swallowing the precious liquor, a drop trickled down her chin.
Leaning her head back in satisfaction, she lifted a hand to avoid letting even a single drop escape. As she sucked the last vestiges from the tip of her thumb, her reverie was interrupted . . .
---
"Hungry, Slayer?" a low voice growled from across the room.
---
Starved. Literally.
"Who invited you to the party?" she squeaked, avoiding eye contact. Buffy felt her gut clench as she caught his scent. The sensation sank even deeper as he circled slowly around the chair she was lounging in. Not quite touching her. But far too close for comfort. Completing the circle and coming back around to the table where the rest of the chocolate lay, he leaned in, close. Close enough to feel her hot breath on his face.
"I've got a bone to pick with you, luv." Reaching out with a deceptively gentle touch, he swiped the bits of chocolate goo she'd missed on an index finger and put it into his mouth.
If I just . . .God. He put it in his mouth.
Slowly pulling out a clean finger, he examined it. "Someone needs to teach you a lesson, Slayer. Greedy little girls love chocolate." Tilting her chin so he looked straight into those deep green eyes, he continued, "But you are not a little girl."
Involuntarily, Buffy's head tilted downward as she brushed her cheek against his hand.
Not . . .what? I. . .can't. . . think . . .
"And this," he whispered, sliding the box under his arm, "is not for you. When you're ready act like the grown woman you are, I've got worlds to teach you about satisfaction."
Circling his finger under her chin again he lifted her eyes to look straight into the keen edge of his stare. No lessons from Oxford, either, pet.
Before Buffy could react, Spike whirled around and headed for the door, calling out as he left, "Enough self-medication, Buffy. It's not chocolate you're craving."
---
You're gonna crave me . . .Like I crave blood . . .
Still flushed from the encounter, unable to sit still any longer, Buffy stormed onto the dance floor, grabbing the nearest drunken frat boy and dragging him along for the ride into the throbbing bass. Blindly, ignoring the ache in her limbs, she moved into the music as if it were alive, pulsing and pushing, giving her--almost--what she needed.
. . .Hungry to touch, eager to please
. . .Out of control, I hand you the keys
. . .Every night I am burning to make love to you
The words reverberated in Buffy's skull, knocking her insides around, pulling her deeper and deeper into the music. Her hips swayed rhythmically, hands everywhere at once. A thigh, an arm, a breast. She was lost in her own world, forgetting where she was and why, as the music drowned her thoughts.
. . .But don't try to tell me you think it's all physical.
. . .It goes much deeper than that
Bloody Hell! she's going to burn that kid alive. Deep in the shadows of the balcony, Spike mused at his lack of anger at the scene in front of him.
She doesn't even realize the bleeding wanker's in front of her. Those are my hands she's feeling. She was practically writhing on the floor in front of him, but her eyes were closed. She was thinking of him.
But it's not enough. For either of us.
. . .It's an affair of the heart
. . .It's an affair of the heart
. . .Have a little blind faith believe
. . .It's an affair of the heart
I'll fix that little problem soon enough. No more namby-pamby love-slave Spike for you, Slayer. The next time we meet I'm going to show you what *I* want. What you really want, too.
. . . When we make love, it's a passionate thing
. . . Shudder and sweat, sink your teeth in my skin
. . . I almost believe you were made to be played by my hands
His hands. Here. And there. And hers, on him. Ohhhh God. Still grinding her hips in time to the mental echoes of the music, Buffy's memories were at work full force, a live wire in the nerve centres of her brain.
No. More. no. . . MORE
. . .And you got the power; it amazes me still
. . .How you play my emotions with consummate skill
. . .I don't have to look any further than into your eyes
Ever since he caught her lying about his lighter's whereabouts, he'd known he didn't have to tread lightly any longer. She was on the edge of realizing that he was more than a monster, more than a sex toy - and more than a man. It would only take breaking her control, just once, to crumble those walls she'd built.
Guard yourself, Slayer. No more tame kitten for you to stroke at will. The tiger is awake, and he's ready. For you. He wants that hot little body, but he needs your heart and soul.
. . .I'm the
. . .controller
. . .I want to touch you
. . .seize you
. . .make you mine
What seemed like hours later, as the music faded away, Buffy awoke from her delirium quaking, unsatisfied and confused. Looking around and trying to get her bearings, Buffy was startled at the sight that met her eyes across the still crowded room: Tara and Spike, heads bent until they were almost touching. They looked. . .cosy.
Tara lifted her chin up to whisper something in his ear. Something special judging by the way his eyes lit up, and the unbearably sexy grin that spread slowly across his face.
Oh, now that's just peachy. Isn't it cute… Better!Than!Buffy entertaining the poor, helpless fanged one. It's a wonder she doesn't have Dawn with her, too. She's got no time for poor, drowning Willow, but she's got time to--Oh!
Suddenly, he turned his head to stare straight into Buffy's openly antagonistic glare. Smile disappearing instantly, he swept his icy gaze from her eyes, all the way down to her toes.
That oughta do the trick
Flushing from head to toe with heat generated by his insolence, Buffy realized that the frat boy was still clinging to her arm. As she flung him back, she practically ran from the room.
Stomping through the streets home, Buffy muttered to herself, "Overreact, much, Buffy? Way to show him how beneath you this, this - sicko lust thing is. Idiot."
On top, side to side, upside, inside out, and *definitely* beneath me. . . ummmm. Yes. Beneath me. For days.
Still muttering, she slammed through the front door and leaned weakly against the stair rail. If she didn't get control of herself soon, she'd crawl right out of her skin.
and straight up that hard, beautiful body of his.
Stop that!
The mental strain of constant internal conflict was more taxing to her system than a year's worth of slaying. Maybe here she would find some peace. The house was dark and utterly quiet with both Dawn and Willow gone. Only the faint tick, tick, tick of the wall clock broke the stillness. If only there were a way to appropriate just a *bit* of that stillness for herself.
Exhausted, Buffy dragged herself up the stairs and into her bedroom. The knife's edge of her near-constant state of arousal left her feeling strange in her own space. Silently she stripped her clothing off and flopped onto the bed. A tiny squeak disturbed the queer silence of the empty house.
What the ?!?
Head snapping around, Buffy reassured herself that the garlic was still hanging from curtains that hadn't changed since she was sixteen.
Sliding one foot up her calf and arching her back, Buffy stretched her body outward from the centre of her spine in both directions, trying to shake the heaviness out of her body from the tips of her fingers to the arches of her feet.
Some of the tension drained from her muscles, and her eyelids drifted wearily closed. No pictures, no sounds. Just images, dancing in her head. Clouds of cool mist, swirling around. Coalescing into white, slender shapes.
Lost in the gentleness of the vision, Buffy's fingers wandered lightly across her thighs, tracing the cool images over her hips and up the sensitive skin along the sides of her chest. Melting the mist. Inevitably reaching out for the fire - to touch it. To feel it. To make it hers and hers alone. Sighing with anticipation, Buffy slid the palm of her hand across the dip in her belly into the waiting heat.
The softness began to slip away once her fingers slid across her engorged lips. She stroked slowly at first, feeling the warm slipperiness of her heat cover her hand. Her nimble fingers stepped up their efforts in rapid circles as she increased the pressure, worrying at her clit with a third finger.
Not. Quite. There. Just. Have. To. . .
Impatiently, she shoved her hips upward, trying to find the rhythm her body demanded. With three fingers buried deep inside, she tried to slow the urging, feel the rhythm. Heat, churning up and down. Another finger sliding in and out, bending and straining to fill the void.
A little more. . .just. a. little. . .
Release continued to elude her, hovering just out of reach. With a small whimper, she twisted her lip under sharp teeth, biting down in concentration. Forcing away unwelcome fantasy. Frantically pushing and pulling and squirming. Then. At last. The taste of salt on her tongue pushed her over the edge. Iron will gave way to desperation as her desire overtook her mind, finally, gloriously supplying the images it needed to achieve satisfaction. Male images. Sharp edges. Wicked eyes. A blond head bent at the nexus of her need, insistent tongue teasing her into a frenzy.
Spike!
Her wild cry pierced the dark silence as the waves of pleasure-pain washed over her body. Almost before it began, the brief moment of freedom slipped out of her grasp. Buffy returned to reality, sobbing.
---
12:01
Flip.
12:10
Flop.
12:25
Buffy couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, that feeling of dissatisfaction in the pit of her stomach, almost in her bowels, just wouldn't go away. Her mind -- wouldn't shut off. Meditation was useless now. It had become a constant struggle to maintain a focus, and relaxation was a distant dream.
Is he out there? Past the tree? Waiting?
Rosy white mercury light streamed in through the gaps in the curtain.
Can't look. Won't look. Something else. Anything else.
Giving up and throwing off the covers, Buffy got out of the bed and padded over to the door -- noises drifting up the stairs meant Willow was back.
"Will?" Willow was standing in the kitchen, banging pots and pans around.
"Eureka!" Willow triumphantly held up a steel saucepan in her right hand, and a small grocery bag in the other. Turning around to face the stove, Willow smiled over her shoulder at Buffy standing in the doorway as she poured milk into the pan.
"Hey! You're not asleep. Want some hot chocolate?"
"Yummy. I think I'm hungry, though. Couldn't sleep."
Willow dangled the brown paper bag in the air, "I've got marshmallows! It'll be like old times when we used to..." She trailed off when she noticed that Buffy's face had gone ten shades of pale, her eyes jumping toward the back door, away from the paper bag Willow was holding.
"I'm sorry, Buff. Maybe just the hot chocolate for now? I know it's got to be hard with, ummm, your birthday, umm, coming up and all."
Why would she think I'm upset because of my birthday? But wait - why else would I - Oh..
"It's okay, Will... Extra marshmallows for me! In her honour."
And maybe they'll fill this ache inside. God! How incredibly lame is it that I can't even tell my best friend what's *really* wrong?
Stirring in the chocolate, Willow frowned in concern. Buffy was on a hair trigger tonight. Willow thought things were getting back to normal for the slayer after the invisibility episode, but for the last week, Buffy had seemed wound tighter than a clock. That was a familiar feeling. But it was something more than the trauma of her months-ago resurrection or the impending anniversary of her mother's death.
Something. . .blonder and smirkier. Too bad we can't talk like we used to; this would all be so much easier.
Willow put two mugs on the table when they heard the pounding on the door. Buffy shot for the handle, missing Willow's small smile of satisfaction. Tara burst through, hair flying and breathless.
"Buffy," she panted, "You've got to come. Quick! Spike's trapped by a horde of angry Plegoramon demons. He needs your help!"
Not stopping to think, Buffy grabbed a bag of weapons from under the sink, slung it over her shoulder, and ran out the door. Pausing only briefly at the top of the steps, she asked Tara, "Where are we going?"
And why are your relatives after Spike?