Chapter Nine

            Since that phone call, Buffy hadn’t been able to look at Spike properly.  He’d asked if they could go out to the lake and packed some food for a cold picnic, but quickly got tired of that and applied his clever mouth to her instead.  And Buffy, angry with him but unable to deny herself that sort of pleasure, had let him, and after she came let him hold her as the world stopped spinning and Spike planted gentle kisses on the back of her neck.

            “Bloody hell, Summers,” he said.  “You’d think we’d get tired of that after a while, huh?”

            Buffy moved herself off him and started doing up her clothes.

            “You okay?” Spike asked as he fastened his fly.

            “I’m cold.”

            “You’re... quiet.”

            “Did I have to scream out my orgasm?”

            “No, love, but you’re - Buffy,” he caught her arm, “what’s wrong?”      

            He looked so earnest, Buffy could almost believe he was being sincere.  But then he’d been lying to her all this time, using her, he wasn’t interested in her at all, he just wanted to have sex and as he was stuck with her-

            “Woah, that’s a scary look,” Spike said, backing off, pulling his coat around him.  The wind was freezing, chilling away every last drop of warm pleasure.  “Did I do something wrong?”

            “No,” Buffy snapped.

            “Well, then did I say something?”

            “No,” she said through gritted teeth, throwing bits of food back into the bag.

            “Then-”

            “You didn’t say anything,” Buffy said, telling herself her eyes were stinging with the wind, not because she was crying.  “That’s the point.”

            Spike looked confused.  “What?”

            “Why are you here, Spike?”

            He spread his hands.  “I thought a bit of beach sex might be-”

            “I mean here in Scotland!”

            “Because the Angelus are after you and me,” he said.  “Buffy, what’s this about?”

            “Why are they after you?” Buffy asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

            “Because I escaped?  You were there.”

            “But why did they have you?”

            Spike narrowed it.  “Just ask me what you want to know,” he said levelly.

            “And will you tell me the truth?”

            “Unless it’s about taxes, yeah, I will,” he said, trying to joke but Buffy didn’t look amused.  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

            “Why didn’t you tell me my mom hired you to look after me?”

            “Oh,” Spike said, and stared at her for a while.  “Yeah, that.”

            “Yes,” Buffy snapped, and started walking back towards the car, “that.”

            She put the bag of food on the back seat, then got in and started the engine.  Spike ran over and got in just before she let off the handbrake and stalled.

            “Were you going to leave me here?”

            “A girl can try.”

            “What did I do?”

            Buffy turned to look at him, her face stony.  “You didn’t tell me.”

            “What, that your mum hired me?  I didn’t think I needed to.  You knew someone hired me.”

            “I thought it was Giles!”

            “Giles?”  Spike made to scoff, looked at her face, then amended, “Well, yeah, good guess.”

            “How do you even know my mom?”

            “Well, she has her gallery, doesn’t she?”

            “I don’t know,” Buffy restarted the car and made the engine growl, “maybe she doesn’t.  It’s not like she’s been honest with me, is it?”

            “Isn’t it?”

            “All this time I’ve been inventing places I’ve been and people I’ve been with and she knew, she knew I was lying, and she was laughing at me,” Buffy rolled her head back, trying not to cry, but it didn’t help and horrible, treacherous tears started falling down her face.  Spike reached out an arm to out around her, but she pushed him away like he was an insect, put the car in gear, and spun the wheels leaving the little beach.

            She was silent all the way home, and when they got in aimed straight for the bathroom.

            “Where are you going?” Spike asked.

            “Bath,” Buffy mumbled, not looking at him.

            “Can it wait?”

            “No.”

            “Buffy,” Spike went over and put himself in the doorway so Buffy couldn’t get past, “we need to talk about this.”

            “No, we don’t.  Let me past.”

            “Let me put this another way: no.  Sit down,” he took her arm and tried to push her onto the bed, “and we’ll-”

            But Buffy was still pretty strong, and she twisted against him, grabbing his wrist where the bandage had recently come off and the skin was sore.

            “Ow,” Spike yelled, and Buffy glared at him.  “Let me past!”

            “Not until we’ve talk about this!”

            “I don’t want to talk!”

            “Well I do,” Spike said, prising her fingers from his wrist and rubbing the tender flesh there.  He glared at Buffy.  “You’re such a little madam.”

            “I’m a what?”

            “You heard me.  You only do things when it suits you, talk to me, take a bath, tell me you’re angry, get into a bloody sulk-”

            “I am not sulking!” Buffy cried.

            “Yeah right, you’re not sulking!  All you ever do is sulk.”

            “I do not.  When have I-”

            “When you had to drive the car-”

            “You try driving in a foreign country when you don’t have a full licence!”

            “You’re twenty-one,” Spike said in amazement, “how can you not have a full licence?”

            Buffy glared at him.  “That is so not the point!”

            “No, you’re right,” Spike shot back, “you’re changing the subject.”

            “I’m changing the-?”

            “You know full well,” Spike said furiously, “that the only reason I never told you about your mum was because you never asked me.  Two months, Buffy, two whole bloody months since this whole stupid thing started, and you never once asked me who was behind it.  You think I just protect little girls for the fun of it?”

            “No,” Buffy said, “just when you get paid.  Do you have sex with everyone you’re protecting?”

            For that Spike slapped her, and Buffy stared at him in amazement, her hand to her stinging cheek.  No one had ever hit her before.  No one ever.  Tears came to her eyes, but as she saw Spike’s angry face start to soften, she slugged her fist into his ribs.

            His howl of pain filled the cottage.

            “Don’t you ever hit me again!” Buffy sobbed, kicking his shins and bringing her knee up to his crotch.

            But Spike saw that coming and grabbed her leg, swinging it wide, tripping her up.  Buffy landed hard on the bed.

            “You bastard!” she gasped, as Spike stood over her, massaging his ribs.

            “You bloody deserved it.”

            “For what?”

            He grabbed her wrists, his hands hard, his grip tight.

            “Does that hurt?”

            “Let go.”

            “Now imagine you have no new skin there.  That fucking hurts,” he said twisting her wrists viciously, and Buffy kicked out, aiming for his ribs again, but he stepped out of her way.

            “You never told me,” she cried, “you let me think... you let me...”

            “Why are you so angry?” Spike snapped.

            “You lied to me.”

            “You never asked!  You just trusted me, blindly, which is very sweet but so unbelievably stupid-”

            “I am not stupid!”

            “So you just ran away with me to that cottage in Yorkshire because you wanted my body?”

            “Giles trusted you!”

            “Giles,” Spike said furiously, “spends all day talking to fossils.  You can’t-”

            “And my mother?  Did she trust you, or did you extort money from her?”

            Spike raised his hand like he was going to slap her again, but Buffy deflected it, grabbing his sore wrist again and flipping him facedown on the bed.  She straddled him, his arm twisted behind his back.

            “Did you?” she hissed into his ear.

            “Don’t be so bloody - ow!  She asked me if I did personal protection and I said I’d think about it and she told me about the ring and she was worried about you so I said I’d do it.”

            No need to mention he’d seen the picture of Buffy on Joyce’s desk and that had clinched it.

            “How much is she paying you?”

            “I don’t-”

            “How much?”

            “Didn’t she ever tell you it’s rude to talk about money?”

            Buffy twisted Spike’s arm higher.

            “All right!  Bloody hell, woman, you could work for the Angelus.  She’s paying me in art, okay?”

            “Art?” Buffy asked suspiciously.

            “Yeah, you know, paintings?”

            She twisted his arm again.

            “How did she know about the ring?”

            “I don’t know!  I seriously do not know.”

            “How do you know her?”

            “I brought in some stuff for the gallery.”

            “What kind of stuff?”  Buffy refused to believe he was a painter.

            “Stuff I found!”

            “Found?”

            Spike sighed.  “Will you get off me and I’ll tell you?”

            “Tell me and I’ll get off you.”

            He made a growling sound.  “You know Lara Croft?”

            “Not personally.”

            “She looks for relics, right?  Artefacts and shit.  Well, so do I.”

            “You’re a tomb raider?” Buffy asked doubtfully, relaxing her grip.

            “Well, not tombs specifically, but yeah, I’ve been in a few.”

            “Seriously?”

            But instead of answering, Spike took advantage of her lapse in attention and grabbed her leg, flipping her off him, pinning her down with his body.  Buffy struggled, but Spike had healed fast and he was very strong.

            “Happy now?”

            “Get off me.”

            “You tell a soul about this-”

            “Who am I gonna tell?  The sheep?”

            “I’m serious, Buffy, if it gets back that your mum’s involved in this-”

            “Are you threatening my mom?”

            “No,” Spike sad, exasperated, “I’m bloody warning you.  Your mum is exposed, vulnerable, she’s got your sister to take care of and no man to look after her-”

            Buffy narrowed her eyes.  “Summers women did not need a man to take care of them.”

            “I think we’ve proved that blatantly false so far, don’t you?”

            Buffy scrabbled with her nails at his sore wrist.  “In case you hadn’t noticed, it was me who came to rescue you-”

            “Not that I’d have been in danger if it hadn’t been for you-”

            “I can look after myself,” Buffy said furiously, struggling against him.

            “Well, your mother doesn’t seem to think so-”

            “Leave my mother out of this-”

            “She’s the one who got me in it!”

            Buffy wriggled and squirmed, trying to get free, but Spike had her hands over her head, just like he had when Riley’d shot him, and his body was pressed along the length of hers, and Buffy could still remember how he’d felt inside her not half an hour ago on the beach-

            Stop it! she told herself.  Aren’t you really angry with this man?

            “And also-” she began, but Spike stopped her with a kiss, hard and desperate, and Buffy found her legs curling themselves around his waist, kicking away his duster and trying to flip him onto his back.  But he was stronger, and held her there, both wrists in one hand while he trailed a hand from her fingers to her hip, making her shiver.

            “You still gonna fight me, Summers?”

            She looked up at him mutinously.  “Depends on what you’re going to do.”

            “Oh,” he bit her earlobe, “what aren’t I going to do?”

            He sat back and pulled his coat off, then his shirt, and then his t-shirt.  Buffy, knowing something else was coming and not knowing what, lay tensed beneath him.

            Spike traced two fingers down her face.  “No lies,” he said.  “Do you trust me?”

            Buffy hesitated.

            “Either trust me,” Spike said, “or fight me.  I’m gonna have fun either way.”

            Buffy considered snapping her foot up and kicking him, but deep down she knew she did trust him.  What’s more, her mother did, and Buffy respected no one in the world like her mother.

            “What did you have in mind?” she asked, and Spike grinned as wide as the Cheshire cat.

            “Close your eyes,” he said, and Buffy did.  “Lift your head,” and she felt him drape something over her face.  His t-shirt.  It smelled of him, the hot, musky, spicy scent of Spike, and Buffy breathed in deeply.  He tied it in a sort of knot at the back of her head, then pulled the fabric away from her nose and mouth.

            “That okay?  Can you see?”

            The fabric was draped thickly over her eyes.  “No-”

            “Good.”

            His mouth descended on hers, and Buffy felt his hair under her fingers as she held him to her.  Spike’s hands slipped up under her clothes to caress her ribcage, then further up to rub her nipples through her bra.  She moaned against his mouth, and he pulled back, hands and all.  Buffy was about to ask him what was going on when he lifted her to sit up against him, then removed her sweater and t-shirt, kissing her mouth and stroking her back for a while, before adding her bra to the pile.

            Half naked, she waited for his hands or mouth to touch her again, but all he did was lay her back down and take her hands in his.  He lifted them up above her head again and wound something around them.  Buffy thought it might have been his shirt, twisted into a rope, tying her wrists to the brass bedstead.

            “Kinky,” she said, and heard Spike laugh.

            “Just you wait.”

            And indeed he did make her wait, walking his fingers up her legs under her skirt, making Buffy shiver and writhe, desperate for him to touch her properly.  He unzipped her boots and pulled them off, then her rather unbecoming socks, then he slowly pulled her long skirt down and left her lying there in just her knickers.

            And then she felt him leave the bed and walk away.

            “Spike?” Buffy said, slightly panicked.  “Spike?”  She started tugging at the bindings on her wrists.  Wow, William must have been a boy scout, because these knots were not coming undone.

            “Stay there,” he said, and he sounded like he was laughing, “I am coming back.”

            So Buffy waited, and a draft blew across her, making her nipples harden.  Then she realised it was Spike, blowing on her, and she arched towards him.

            And then she gasped, a high-pitched shriek, as something horribly cold touched her left nipple.

            “Is that ice?” Buffy panted, as cold trickles ran down her breast.

            “Now I remember why I filled the ice tray up,” Spike said, applying his tongue to the nipple he’d just chilled.  His mouth was warm - hot even, like he’d been drinking something hot.  Buffy sniffed.

            “Coffee?”

            “Helps me work, rest and play,” Spike said, icing her nipple again, then licking it.

            The torture was exquisite.  Spike spent ages on each breast, occasionally getting new ice cubes, sometimes running them up her arms or her neck, catching the drips with his tongue.  Buffy writhed and panted and wriggled her legs together, desperate for him to move lower.

            And he did, although it was only to start on her feet.  Buffy, who was ticklish, nearly kicked him when he put ice unexpectedly between her toes, but he held her foot firm, just like he had so long ago in that warehouse when she’d cut her foot.  He took her big toe into his mouth and sucked it, and Buffy nearly had an orgasm there and then.

            The ice and hot mouth travelled very, very slowly up her legs, sometimes going back down for a while, sometimes stopping altogether as he came back to her breasts, her stomach, her arms, her mouth, kissing her with icy lips then a coffee mouth.

            The ice cube slithered up her inner thigh, and Buffy tried to remember how to breathe as Spike moved her legs wide apart and ran the ice cube very lightly over the dark blonde hair between her legs.

            Buffy bit her tongue.

            And then the ice disappeared, and reappeared by her ear.

            “Spike,” Buffy cried desperately, and he licked her lips with his hot tongue.

            “Mmm?”

            “Please - just-”

            She could feel the weight of his body on hers.  He’d taken off the rest of his clothes at some point, she could feel his bare hip against hers.  She wriggled, trying to locate that big, hard magical thing to slip inside her and make it all better, but he wasn’t letting it near her.

            “Please what?” Spike asked in her ear.

            “Fuck me,” Buffy panted, and Spike moved off her.

            Uh-oh, was that too crude?  But no, he was always imploring her to do the same if she teased him too long.  What was he doing?  Was that it?  Was he going to leave her here like this?  In this, this state?

            And then, just as Buffy was working herself up to yell at him, Spike brought the ice cube down on her clitoris, dead centre, and she cried out incoherently.  It was so good, almost painful, exquisite, amazing...

            He moved the ice down over her wet, swollen labia and rubbed it against her entrance.  Buffy writhed against it desperately.

            Then the ice was gone and Spike’s mouth, hotter than before - more coffee? - descended, and Buffy thought she might lose her mind.  She bucked and kicked at him, whimpering and gasping, not caring how much damage she was doing to his back or his ribs as she held him to her with her thighs as he licked at her, ran the ice over her slick, wet folds, nipped her with his teeth, and finally slipped two fingers up inside her, two icy cold fingers, and flicked that sweet spot inside her while his tongue and the ice tortured her from the outside.

            Buffy’s orgasm was loud, screaming like a dispossessed thing, and long, shockwaves shooting through her for minute after minute.

            But Spike still wasn’t done.  She was barely aware of anything, her body still tingling all over, when he flipped her onto her stomach and lifted her up on her knees and entered her, hard and deep, his fingers on her clitoris, his arm supporting her as she hung there, impaled on him, her wrists still tied to the brass post.  He bit into the back of her neck with sharp teeth and thrust into her, and Buffy found herself gasping for him to do it harder and faster, to fuck her, Spike, please...

            Her second orgasm wasn’t as spectacular as the first, but it was still amazing, and Spike clung to her as he came at exactly the same time, gasping her name, losing strength and falling down onto the bed with her, both of them facedown and breathing hard.

            Eventually Spike plucked at the knots on Buffy’s wrists and freed her, then pulled his t-shirt off her face and rolled her onto her back.  She lay there, too exhausted to move, completely wiped out.

            After a long while she managed to turn her head and look at Spike, still facedown beside her, breathing into the pillow.

            “Wow,” she gasped.

            He shrugged.  “Welcome.”

            “That was...” Buffy began, and realised that the human vocabulary hadn’t evolved to take that amount of pleasure into account.  “Jesus, it was...”

            “Really?”

            “I think I saw God,” Buffy told him, and Spike turned his head to her, grinning.

            “What did he look like?”

            Buffy wriggled closer, as if their bodies hadn’t been touching enough before, and very softly kissed his lips.

                “You,” she said.

Chapter Ten

            Dawn got home from late cheerleading practice and found a note from her mother: ‘Client meeting, late back.  This money is for the store, NOT for pizza.  Mom x’

            Well, if she hadn’t mentioned pizza, I wouldn’t want it, Dawn thought.  So she dialled a number she and Buffy had memorised a long time ago and ordered an extra-large with anchovies.  Then she sat down to watch MTV.

            The pizza guy was quick, knocking on the door five minutes after Dawn had ordered.  She took the bills her mother had left and went to the front door, and then she nearly had a heart attack.

            A large figure stood there, broad-shouldered and tall and dressed all in black.  Dawn took a step back.

            Then the figure spoke her name, and moved into the light, and Dawn had to clutch the stair rail for support.

            “Riley?”

            “Yeah.”  He came into the house.  “Is your mom here?”

            She shook her head.

            “Buffy?”

            “She’s on vacation.”

            Riley’s face darkened.  “Do you know where she is?”

            Dawn hesitated.  “Yes,” she said cautiously.

            “Where?”

            “I think it was a place called Westport.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “Somewhere in Britain.”

            “You don’t know where?”

            Dawn shook her head.  She was crap at geography anyway.

            Riley strode into the living room and Muted the TV.  “I need to know where she is.”

            “Why?”

            “Because she’s in danger.”

            “What do you mean?  What kind of danger?”

            Riley looked Dawn over and realised she wasn’t the little girl he’d known before he left.  Dawn was a young woman.

            “She has something that’s very valuable,” he said.  “And there’s someone who wants it from her and he - well, he won’t stop at anything.”

            “But Buffy’s okay,” Dawn said.  “I’ve talked to her.  She’s safe.”

            “She was,” Riley said.  “She’s been kidnapped.”

            Dawn stared at him for a minute.  “Kidnapped?  When?  How do you know?”

            “He took her from me,” Riley said, looking very pissed off.  “I rescued her from him once but he came and found her.  It was about six weeks ago.  I wanted to go on looking for her but I got recalled and this is the first chance for leave I’ve had.”

            “She was kidnapped six weeks ago and you did nothing?” Dawn shrieked.

            “I’ve had people out looking for her,” Riley said.  “Friends.  People I trust.”

            Dawn was not impressed.  “But who kidnapped her?”

            “I don't know his real name,” Riley said, “but he’s known as Spike.  He’s a mercenary.  Thinks he’s Indiana Jones.  He’ll do anything for money - theft and murder being his favourites.  The worst part is that Giles trusts him.  He thinks Spike’s protecting Buffy.”

            “But he is,” Dawn said, then stamped her foot and bit her lip.

            “You know about this?” Riley asked.

            “Mom hired Spike to take care of Buffy.  She knew some insane guy was after something Buffy has so she hired Spike to take care of her in England.”

            Riley collapsed on the sofa.  “You are kidding, right?”

            Dawn shook her head.

            “Dawn, he’s a killer.  The FBI are after him, Interpol, Scotland Yard, you name it.  A lot of Middle Eastern dictators have him on their wanted lists.  If he has Buffy - well, he’s already raped her, I don’t know-”

            “He did what?” Dawn said in a low voice, and Riley passed his hands over his face.

            “He took her by force.  I saw it - well, I saw him trying it again.  She won’t say what he did to her but she was in shock when I found her.  And now he has her back... Jesus, Dawn, I don’t even want to think about what she’s going through.”

            But Dawn was already thinking about it.  She’d been to see Xander and Anya and, while Anya remained tight-lipped about the whole thing and tried to maintain that they’d been in a car accident, Xander had told Dawn a little bit of the story.

            She’d had to wait a while, because Xander’s broken jaw had taken time to heal, and Anya was very protective of him.  But eventually Xander had told them that he and Anya had been ambushed by the man who wanted Buffy, been chained in a cellar and beaten for information they didn’t have.  Then they’d been abandoned.

            He didn’t remember a huge amount of what had gone on, but he remembered Anya’s cries as their attacker set about her.  Xander had told all sorts of ridiculous lies to make him stop, so Anya wasn’t really hurt, not badly violated, but she still cried every night in Xander’s arms.

            “What about Xander and Anya?” Dawn asked Riley.  “They were kidnapped too.”

            “Jesus, when?”

            “Weeks ago.  They’ve been back here for about a month and a half.”

            “Spike kidnapped them?”

            Dawn opened her mouth.  Xander had said it was the guy who was after Buffy, but he hadn’t been able to tell her much.  He hadn’t suspected Spike, he thought Buffy was safe with Spike.  But what if it had been Spike who tortured Xander and Anya?

            And now he had Buffy.

            “Riley, you have to help her,” Dawn said.

            “Just tell me where she is.”

            Buffy was sleeping, totally exhausted.  Spike lay watching her breathe, her breasts rising and falling, her hair tangled about her shoulders.  God, she was beautiful.  He couldn’t believe how much he wanted her.  How much she’d given him.

            He’d keep her safe, keep her warm, keep her happy.  And he’d do it forever, if she’d let him.

            Spike was in love.

            He’d once thought he was in love with Drusilla.  No - he had been in love with her.  Infatuated with her.  Crazy about her.  Made crazier by her.

            Dru was totally insane.  She heard voices and saw stars through the roof.  And eventually she’d left him, because Spike’s adoration wasn’t enough.  She wanted someone more exciting.

            More exciting than Spike?  He was horribly offended.  But he knew what a psycho her now boyfriend was.  He knew that you had to be completely mad to take on Angel.  And Spike wasn’t completely mad.  Just mostly.  And he’d been getting a bit tired of Drusilla’s dreamy ranting.

            He ran his fingers over the soft skin of Buffy’s stomach, felt the fine downy hairs there.  Buffy wasn’t insane.  Well, she was a little bit loopy, but then to Spike all women were a little bit loopy.

            He traced a fingertip down her leg and she sighed in her sleep.  Another finger, and her leg moved a little, a reflex action, opening herself to him.

            To Spike, it was irresistible.

            The curls between her legs were a much darker shade than the rest of her hair, something he teased her about mercilessly.  Buffy had pouted that she was mostly a genuine blonde, but that the Californian sun had made the hair on her head blonder.  The rest of her hadn’t got the message yet.

            Spike twirled a hair around his fingers.  He made little patterns, sweeping the hair this way, then that.  Then he got bored, and let one finger sink a little bit lower.  Her folds were pink and soft and easily parted, as if he was opening up a flower.  Spike dipped inside her and found a well of wetness there, then he drew his finger back up and pressed it against her clitoris.

            All the while, watching her face.

            Buffy’s eyelids flickered, but she didn’t seem quite aware of him properly.  He wondered if she was faking sleep, but a faker wouldn’t have moved so much.

            Spike moved her clitoris in a little circle, and Buffy came awake with a sucked-in breath.

            “Don’t stop,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

            Spike didn’t intend to.  He invited another finger in to play, then he slipped both fingers inside her and rubbed her with his thumb, making slow circles, watching Buffy’s back arch, her nipples harden.  His own breath was coming faster now.  He was getting really hard and he hadn’t even been touched.  She was close, he could feel it.  Tight and hot and so wet, she was going to come soon.  And the second she did, he was going to-

            “Riley,” Buffy whispered, and Spike froze.

            Her eyes opened, and she pouted.

            “You stopped.”

            “You said Riley.”

            She laughed.  “I was joking!”

            Spike removed his hand and wiped it on the duvet, his face turned away from Buffy.

            “Come on, Spike,” she sat up, but he lay down and turned his back to her.  “It was a joke.  I thought you had a sense of humour.”

            “Not when it comes to the woman I’m fucking thinking about someone else while I’m fucking her.”

            “I’m sorry.”  Buffy kissed his shoulder.  She peeked over him and saw that he’d wilted a bit, but he was still pretty hard.  And Buffy was feeling pretty excited herself.

            She spooned herself behind him and ran her hand over his hip, feeling the slope of his jutting hipbone.  She’d never seen a body so beautiful.  Not in pictures and certainly not in real life.  Riley was nothing compared with Spike.

            Her hand slid down to the dark curls between his legs, then up the smooth skin of his erection.

            Spike grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand away.

            “Spike,” Buffy said, exasperated and hurt, “come on.  I’ve said I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking about him at all.  I haven’t thought about him for weeks.”

            “Not since you ran away with him to Prague.”

            “He took me away, and I was in shock.  And he told me you’d been raping me and I - well, what was I supposed to do?  Believe a man I’d been with for a year, or defend a man I’d known for a week?”

            “I didn’t rape you,” Spike said tightly, his back still to her.  “I don’t rape.”

            “I know that,” Buffy said, wondering if there was a woman alive who’d ever resist him anyway.  “That’s why I came back.”

            “How did he know where we were?”

            “I think he talked to Giles.”

            “Giles trusts him more than me?”

            “Giles knows Riley loved me, Spike.”

            “Did you love him?”

            “Of course I did.  I wouldn’t stay with someone I didn’t love.”

            “Do you still love him?” Spike asked after a paused.

            Buffy thought about it.  She didn’t want to lie.

            “I’m not in love with him,” she said carefully.

            “You went away with him.”

            “I was in shock!”

            “He told you I’d raped you.”

            “He wanted to believe that.”

            “Then he’s a bloody idiot.”

            “Why?”

            “Anyone who’s in love with you has to be a bloody idiot.”

            Buffy got off the bed and dressed herself silently and was out of the cottage before Spike could think of a way to explain that.  When he turned over, he was alone.

            “You stupid bloody bint,” he yelled, although he could hear the car moving away already.  “Sodding Buffy.”

            He pulled on his clothes, grabbed his duster and strode out just in time to see the little car ricocheting out of sight.

            “Giles?” Buffy said as soon as the dial tone ended.

            “No, it’s Willow Rosenberg.  Giles is at lunch.  Can I take a message?”

            “Will?  It’s Buffy.  I need a favour.  Can you find me the number for the airline that flew me into Edinburgh?”

            “You’re leaving Scotland?”

            “I’m going back home.”

            “Is that safe?”

            “Well, nothing’s happened out here.  I’m sick of the cold.  It rains all the time-”

            “Yes, but it’s so beautiful...”

            “I want to go home.”

            “Is Spike going with you?”

            “Spike?”  Buffy kicked the wall of the phone booth.  “Spike can rot in hell.  He’s a bastard.”

            “What did he do?”

            “He’s just an idiot,” Buffy said, and ignored the little logic train that comment sparked off.  If Spike thought only an idiot could love her...  “Can you get me that number?

            Dawn replaced the receiver and looked up at her mother.  “He says he might be able to send a telegram.  I didn’t even know people still did that.”

            “Well, parts of Scotland are very remote,” Joyce said randomly, twisting her hands.  “How long will that take?”

            Dawn shrugged.  “I don’t know, mom.  She’ll be okay.  She seemed happy enough last time I spoke to her.  I think she and Spike are, you know...”

            “I can’t believe I trusted him with my baby!”

            “Well, maybe Riley was exaggerating.  He just wants to get Buffy back safe.”  Dawn chose not to tell her mother about the reported rape.

            “Did Giles say he’d call back?” Joyce asked, and Dawn nodded.

            Spike heard the car pull up and was at the door before anyone knocked.  But it was the Royal Mail van, and the postman was holding out an envelope.

            “Telegram for Miss Summers,” he said, his accent so strong Spike could hardly understand him.

            “She’s gone out,” Spike said.  “I’ll give it her later.”

            The postie nodded and retreated to his van, picking up a clipboard and consulting it as Spike closed the door, ripped open the telegram, and read it.

            BUFFY YOU ARE IN DANGER STOP SPIKE MAY HURT YOU STOP LEAVE ASAP DO NOT LET HIM SEE THIS STOP ALL LOVE GILES

            Spike re-read it.  Then he slammed out of the cottage and wrenched open the post van’s door.

                “I need a lift to the village,” he said, and withdrew a shiny pistol from inside his coat.  “Now.”

Chapter Eleven

            Giles replaced the phone.  “She’s left,” he said.  “A flight to Manchester.  Said she didn’t want to wait for the direct flight.  I told her she could be in danger from Spike...”

            “Do you really think he’s that dangerous?” Willow bit her lip.

            “H-he seemed-” Tara began, but shrank when they both looked at her.

            “What?” Giles said.

            “He seemed okay to me,” she mumbled.

            “He’s good at gaining people’s confidence,” Giles said.

            “He had yours,” Willow observed.

            “Yes, well, I was just pretending,” Giles said, turning away and looking at some files.  The two girls glanced at each other and smiled.

            “I really don’t think he’ll hurt her,” Tara volunteered.

            “I thought he liked her,” Willow agreed.

            “William Dashwood likes one thing, and that’s money,” Giles snapped, turning back to them.  “He enjoys the thrill of stealing and selling and cheating and lying, and when it comes to women he is incorrigible.”

            Tara and Willow were silent.

            “She said he was an idiot,” Willow said eventually.

            “Who, Spike?”  Giles laughed.  “He’s anything but an idiot.”

            “Buffy,” Spike whispered.  “I want to make love to you.”

            Buffy shifted in her seat.  “Tell me how.”

            “I want to kiss you until your lips are bruised.  Taste your mouth.  Lick your teeth.  Feel your tongue against mine.”

            “Just kiss me?”

            “We’re naked.”

            “Uh-huh...”

            “I kiss your mouth and my hands move down your back, holding you to me, feeling your soft skin under my fingers.  Right down your back to your buttocks, so I can cup them in my hands, pulling you closer.”

            “Are you naked too?”

            “Nearly.  Your hands are under my clothes, pushing my shirt away, unfastening my fly while I trail kisses down your throat.  God, Buffy, your throat...”

            “What about it?”

            “It’s so soft.  Pale gold, like treasure.  That little dip above your collarbone...”

            “Yes...?”

            “It fits my tongue.  Perfectly.  I could just lick you there forever.  Taste your skin.  Do you know how good you taste?”

            “As good as you?”

            “Your fingers in my hair... I move lower, my fingers touching that sensitive skin on the insides of your arms, while my mouth brushes your breast...”

            Buffy closed her eyes.  “And what does it do there?”

            “Feels all the hairs on your skin stand upright.  Your nipple hardens as I breathe against it.”

            Buffy was breathing pretty hard herself.  “And-?”

            “I lick your nipple.”

            Buffy shuddered.

            “Take it in my mouth and suck it.  Between my teeth and bite it gently.”

            “Harder,” Buffy breathed.

            “My hands are moving down your body, down your luscious legs, wrapping them around my waist.  The rough denim against your smooth thighs.”

            “Yes,” Buffy said.

            “And you’re pulling down my jeans, skin against skin, your legs against my hips, and I’m hard against you Buffy, so hard for you.”

            “And?”

            “Fingers,” Spike gasped.  “Fingers between your legs.  Feeling how wet you are.  How hot.  Like a bloody hot spring, Buffy, bubbling against me.  I can feel your clit, hard and swollen-”

            “Like you?”

            “And I’m rubbing it, two fingers, licking and kissing your breast, slipping a finger inside you-”

            “God, yes-”

            “And you’re so tight, God, I want to fuck you so hard-”

            “Fuck me, Spike.”

            “Not yet.  I want to taste you first.”

            “Taste me?”

            “You taste so bloody good.  My mouth is moving down your ribs, your hard stomach, Jesus, you’re sexy.  Right down to those curls between your legs, damp and springy, and I move your legs further apart...”

            “And then?” Buffy asked desperately.

            “...Remain in your seats until the seatbelt sign is off, on behalf of British Airways we do hope you had a pleasant flight...”

            Buffy’s eyes opened.  Around her, people were fastening seatbelts and gathering possessions around them.  Buffy was alone.

            She did hope she hadn’t been panting.

            She gathered her things and shuffled out of the aeroplane with the other passengers.  Outside it was dark, and Buffy realised she’d been travelling a whole day.  Driving to the nearest airport.  Getting a flight to Manchester, the closest to London she could get.  Then another flight to Stansted.  Hours and hours of waiting.  Delays.  Baggage problems.  Buffy didn’t even have any luggage, but she was still delayed.

            She sleepwalked down to the train station and tried to make sense of the terminal.  Eventually she said to the guard, “I want to get to Kings Cross.  What do I do?”

            He muttered, “All day travelcard,” and pointed her at a machine.

            Buffy bought her card and dozed on the train, changing at Liverpool Street and getting off at the now familiar Kings Cross.  I could get used to London, she thought, looking about her as she set her feet into the purposeful London walk of the crowd around her.  I like it here.

            Most of it.

            There were no lights on at Giles’s house, and when Buffy knocked there was no answer, either.  She sat down on the step to wait, figuring if she went to the museum she’d probably miss him going out another exit.  Stay where you are, her mother had told her when she was little.  If you and I ever get separated, stay where you are.  I can find you better if I know where you were last.

            So Buffy stayed where she was, and leaned against the lintel, watching people go past.  No one looked at her.  Londoners never did.  No one made eye contact, not even in shops or restaurants.  English people were so private, she thought drowsily.  Even when you know them, they never give anything away.  Giles never does.  Spike-

            I must be dreaming, she thought.  I could swear that’s Spike walking towards me.

            Oh, Jesus.  It is Spike.  And he looks really mad.

            God, I’m in bad trouble.

            Buffy cowered into the doorway, hoping Spike would think she was one of the million London homeless, but he came straight towards her, grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet.

            “What the fuck did you think you were doing?” he snarled.

            “What?”

            “Sodding off and leaving like that?  Leaving the country?  Jesus, Buffy - do you have any idea - any idea-”

            He looked slightly terrified, Buffy realised.  He thought he’d lost his grip on her.  Thought he’d never be able to take her to Angel and his psycho group.

            “Get off me,” Buffy said firmly.

            “The hell I-”

            “Spike, I have mace.  And I have heels.  Get off me right now or I’ll scream so loud your eardrums will break.”

            “And you think anyone will listen?” Spike said nastily.

            Buffy opened her mouth and Spike slammed his hand over it.

            “Okay, shut up.  Why did you run?”

            “Because you were a bastard.”

            “What did I do?  You were the one who said someone else’s name-”

            “You said-” Buffy began, but she was too hurt to continue.  “Just go away.”

            “No,” Spike said, still gripping her wrist, fishing in his pocket with his other hand.  “No.”

            Buffy watched as he got a key and fit it into Giles’s door.

            “Since when did Giles give you-”

            “Who says he gave it me?”

            Spike pushed the door open, hollered, “Oi!  Giles?  Anyone?”  then hauled Buffy after him into the kitchen where, without even switching on any lights, he opened the fridge and rummaged through until he found some vodka.

            He drank straight from the bottle.

            “You,” he said to Buffy, shuddering slightly as the cold alcohol shot through him, “are the biggest bloody trouble I have ever met.”

            “Oh yeah?  You’re not exactly an easy ride either,” Buffy said, and regretted her choice of phrasing the second she saw Spike’s amused, enquiring face.

            “You always seemed to find it easy,” he said, taking a step toward her, bottle in hand.

            “That’s not what I...” Buffy faltered.  Damn, why did he have to look so hot when he was mad?  This would be a lot easier if she didn’t fancy him much.

            Spike stepped closer again.  Giles’s kitchen wasn’t large, and Buffy was backed up against the table.  Spike was a foot away from her.  She could smell his hot skin.

            “Why did you go?”

            “I-” Buffy’s mind wasn’t working.  This was really bad.  Why did he fry her brain like this?  She was like a dog on heat.  One sight, one smell, one taste of him...

            God, what she’d give for a taste of him...

            Spike lifted the bottle and took a deep drink, watching Buffy the whole time.  “Drink?” he offered.

            Buffy felt like she needed it.  She grabbed the freezing bottle and tipped a lot down her throat.

            “Careful-” Spike said, but Buffy wasn’t listening.  The alcohol, so cold, burned through her and she shuddered deliciously, gripping the table with her free hand for support.

            “It’s strong,” Spike finished, looking at her with something indefinable in his eyes.

            “Blegh,” Buffy said, and he smiled slowly.

            “Yeah,” he said, taking the bottle back and putting his lips where hers had been.  He regarded her thoughtfully.  “Not a big vodka drinker?”

            She shook her head, making a face.  “No,” she gasped.

            “More?”

            “God, yes.”

            She took two more swigs, drinking hard and deep.  It was sharp and horrible, like drinking paint stripper, but it made her feel calmer and sort of heavier.  Buffy wasn’t a big drinker, she’d never gone out and drunk while she was underage, and it always amazed her how much and how casually the Brits drank.  Giles had wine with dinner every day, and sometimes with lunch, too.  Willow and Tara met up in the student bar most evenings and their friends got totally off their heads several nights a week.  As students, they’d been drinking for years anyway.

            Buffy was a lightweight, and the vodka went straight to her head, numbing her nerve endings, heating her veins, dulling her senses.  It was a while before she realised Spike was even closer than she’d thought.

            “You could have got into trouble, running off like that,” he said, as Buffy hefted herself up onto the table so she wasn’t so close to him.

            “Giles says I’m in trouble anyway,” Buffy said.  Spike reached for the bottle and she held it away from him, feeling as if the alcohol was her only friend, something to defend her against Spike and the weariness of the day.  She drank some more.

            “Easy, love, it’s not lemonade,” Spike said, and Buffy glared at him.  “You’ll get drunk.”

            “Maybe I want to.”

            “You do?”

            “I don’t want to have to think,” she slugged some more, “about the Angelus,” glug, “and Riley,” glug, “and this stupid ring,” another glug, as she waved the ring at him, “and you, and, and...”

            “And?”

            “And what Giles is gonna say when he finds you here...”

            “What if he doesn’t find me here?”

            Buffy looked up at him in drunken incomprehension.  “Wha’?”

            “What if we go somewhere else?”

            She shook her head.  “You can.  I wanna stay here.”

            Spike raised his eyebrows.  “Buffy?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Are you drunk already?”

            She scowled at him, and Spike laughed.  He took the bottle from her and drank a little more, before placing it carefully on the floor.

            “Okay,” he said, putting his arms around her, “I think you need to go to bed.”

            But Buffy, feeling her body held against Spike’s as he tried to pull her to her feet, shook her head and grabbed his face and stuck her tongue down his throat.

            Spike had always been told that a gentleman didn’t take advantage of a woman, but he wasn’t feeling much like a gentleman and anyway, it was hardly like she was a stranger.  So he kissed her back, tasting the alcohol on her cold mouth as Buffy pressed her hands into his face, feeling his cheekbones, hurting him with her strong fingers.

            “Bloody hell, girl, are you trying to brand me?”

            Buffy looked up at him with big eyes and licked her wet lips.  Spike let out a groan and went back for more.

            He lifted her up on the table and she wrapped her legs around him, fitting him perfectly, her small breasts pressing against his chest.  She still had her coat on, but Spike made short work of the buttons, feeling her nipples spring to life under the fabric of her top.  Buffy made little effort to touch him more than she already was.  She hugged him closer and used her legs to push his pelvis against hers.

            “Buffy,” Spike gasped with his last ounce of sense, “you’re really drunk.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “We don’t have to do this.”

            She looked hurt.

            “Don’t you want to?”

            “Well - yes, of course I do, but-”

            “Good.”  Buffy kissed his mouth, licked his cheekbones and his ear, nipped his neck with her teeth, while Spike struggled for breath.  He pushed her coat over her shoulders, but she wouldn’t move her arms for him to remove it completely.  Instead he reached up under her top to feel her ribs, her breasts, heaving in their lacy bra, and Buffy moaned against his neck.

            Spike shoved her top up, pulled down one lacy cup and took her nipple in his mouth.

            “Spike,” Buffy moaned.  “Oh, Spike...”

            His hands were on her jeans, unfastening the belt, the button, the zip.  It was tight, but he slid one finger inside and pressed it against her damp gusset.

            Buffy writhed against him and her hands slid over his body, under his t-shirt to play with the little line of hair that led down his stomach to his jeans, then followed it further, unzipping and finding him hard in her hand.

            Spike closed his eyes as her fingers closed around him, then he pulled away and yanked Buffy’s jeans down to her ankles, throwing her boots across the room when they got in the way, making her giggle.

            But she soon stopped giggling when Spike moved her naked legs apart, laid her back on the table and parted her folds with his fingers.  He slid into her, hot and hard, and Buffy moaned loudly.

            She was too drunk to come, but Spike knew he’d only last a few minutes before he exploded into her.  Moaning, wriggling and writhing, Buffy lay there as he thrust hard into her, her hands on his hips, her eyes closed, whispering his name.

            Spike came, and Buffy threw her arms around him as he fell heavily down on her.

            “You didn’t come,” he said to her.

            “That’s okay.”

            “Did we just have sex on the kitchen table?”

            Buffy giggled.  “Quite a cliché.”

            “Yeah.”  Spike kissed her softly.  “Do you have a bed we can go to?”

            She nodded and pushed him off her.  Spike pulled out and stood up, fastening his jeans, and caught Buffy as she swayed.

            “Oh, God.”

            “Buffy?”

            She looked up at him.  “I think I had too much to drink.”  She blinked and swayed nauseously.  “Definitely too much.”

            “Bed, then.”

            “I don’t think-”

            “Not that kind of bed.”  Spike out his arm around Buffy, picked up her clothes, and led her up the stairs.  He took off the rest of her clothes and tucked her into the single bed she’d occupied so many weeks ago when she first came to London.  Where she’d had that first dream about Spike.

            “Don’t leave,” she cried as he opened the door.

            “I was going for a drink,” he said.

            “Come back.”

            She was drunk, Spike told himself as he went to the bathroom and rinsed out a tooth mug.  Really drunk.  Amazing, really.  Still, that was what abstaining until you were twenty-one did.  Spike had been drinking since he was about thirteen, until he could sink a whole bottle of something potent and still walk in a straight line.  Buffy was going to be smackered tomorrow.  Hangover city.

            She was asleep when he went back in, but when he took off his clothes and slipped in beside her she held him like a teddy bear, nestled her head into his shoulder, and sighed sleepily.

                Then she threw up.