She was so lost in his tender mouth, in the warmth of his solid body supporting her, that she had no idea how they made it upstairs without falling.

He set her back on her feet at her door, but didn’t release her. Instead, as she tried to find the keys she’d had just moments before, he curved his hard lines against her back, one hand wrapped around to rest on her stomach, the other drawing her hair back to give him clear access to her neck.

The keys struggled against her like live things, her hands resisting all commands to do anything but touch him. His tongue toyed with the weight of her earring, sliding the tip of his tongue along the sensitive underside of her lobe, setting the ornament swinging to tickle along the column of her neck. She gasped at the sensation, allowing her head to fall back against his chest. With a growl, he snatched the keys out of her hands to try his luck. He had better success than she, but by the time he found the right key, she had his shirt open and was sliding her hands over the velvet cut of his muscles.

The door burst open and slammed against the wall as Spike swept her back up and carried her over the threshold. “You got ahead of me,” he grumbled against her throat.

She trembled. “Then you should catch up, don’t you think?”

He growled, making her cling to him tighter, burying her face in his hair. “Where?”

She understood him instantly. “Upstairs.”

He held her more securely as he mounted the cast iron stairs to her bedroom, barely glancing at the new arrangement.

Dropping her on the bed, he shrugged off the shirt and jacket, pulling the loop of his necktie off over his head. He was about to toss it aside when she smiled impishly at him. “Keep that handy,” she purred. “We might need it later.”

“Why, Miss Summers,” he started, “I’ve never heard such . . .” his words petered out as she lay back on her elbows, slowly sliding one elegantly shod foot and then the other up along the lengths of her calves, allowing her skirt to fall up around her waist.

He just stared at her in awe. “Fuck, but you’re pretty.”

She blushed and laughed, then presented one foot to him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

He took the heel in his hand and sank to his knees in front of her at the foot of the bed. But to her surprise, he didn’t take the shoes off her right away. Instead, he ran his tongue in lingering strokes along the side and over the top of her foot, pausing to give the same attention to the medallions there that he had to her earring. Buffy hadn’t known her feet were so sensitive, but even through the silk of her stockings his touch aroused her. He took careful time to explore every inch of the first foot before gently tugging on the tie holding the shoe in place, allowing it to fall to the floor as he turned to give similar attention to her other foot.

She watched all of this, fascinated. This as the most erotic thing she had ever seen. He seemed transported by being allowed to do this, and his reaction was as much a turn on as his actions. It seemed to take hours for the other shoe to hit the floor, and by the time it did, she was his to command.

He rose up on his knees between her calves and met her eyes. She lifted one foot to stroke her toes along his bare chest. His warm hands coasted up her legs, pushing her skirt higher to reveal the black garter holding up her stockings and the black silk panties covered in tiny red rosebuds that covered her intimate places. His fingers caught in the straps of the garter, quickly releasing the catches before gently sliding the silk off one leg and then the other. He nuzzled his cheek into the warm, bare flesh of her inner thighs, and she whimpered at the feel of his hot breath so near her center. He kissed and nipped at the delicate skin as she spread her legs wider and wider in invitation. His hands moved up again to the waistband of her bikinis, and he met her eyes as he began drawing them down, almost as though asking for permission. In answer, she drew her knees together gracefully, allowing him to remove the panties easily, before she spread her legs again in open invitation. His blue eyes were so dark now, and they never stopped watching her as he lowered his mouth to her.

Her head snapped back with a moan as he nosed his way into her damp curls. His breath, warm and moist on her most intimate places was overwhelming, and she cried out as his firm tongue began making gentle forays of exploration into her folds. Her legs slipped over his shoulders, drawing him in, encouraging him, and he heeded the demand, working deeper and harder into her. “Spike!” she gasped out ecstatically, the bottoms of her feet on fire, the skin on her scalp tingling.

She felt him hesitate for a split second. When he continued, there was a subtle change, just a hint more aggression as he sucked hungrily at her lips and clit. She cried out and arched against his mouth as his arms slid under her waist, holding her up so he could devour her more readily. He had forgotten nothing during their long separation, and it took bare moments longer before the fires he had stoked in all parts of her body merged and she came, screaming his name.

He stood up as she lay there, lost in her release, her enormous eyes never leaving his. She heard his shoes skitter off the rug and onto the hardwood floor before he bent to pull off his socks, his own gaze never breaking with hers. She wondered if he felt the same way she did, afraid that if she closed her eyes or looked away, he would be gone again. He released the button at his waistband and in a moment he was naked before her, proud, humble, hard. It made her want to cry.

He stepped back between her legs and bent down to kiss her, wrapping his arms about her waist and shoulders as he delved into her mouth. With a deft lift and twist he pivoted them so he was sitting on the bed with her astride him. She felt the teeth on the zipper of her dress give, and a moment later the warmth of his coarse hands coasted over her back, cleanly releasing the clasp of her bra as he explored her back, his mouth hungry on hers.

She broke the kiss to lean back slightly, rising up on her knees over him. He understood her encouragement, gathering her skirt up in his hands and lifting it up over her head and off, the delicate bra tangled up in the fabric as well. Her arms tangled around his neck as she slid back down him, her body screaming in relief at the skin on skin contact. He must have felt it, too, because he groaned deep in her mouth, making her tremble.

His cock was hard and hot against her belly. She bounced slowly on the springs of her legs, rubbing her stomach along his shaft in time to his grunts of pleasure.

She was proud she hadn’t forgotten anything, either.

He tipped her back over his arm slightly, making her breasts more accessible. He nibbled and licked at the upper curves of them as she moved against him, her hands reacquainting themselves with the muscles of his back, bunching and releasing as he caressed her. But it wasn’t enough for him, and finally with a growl of frustration he wrapped his hands around her ribcage and lifted her up to suck one dusky nipple roughly between his teeth.

She cried out at the electricity that shot through her body at his rough treatment, clutching his head to keep him in place. He laved and sucked each nipple to marble hardness, his hands cupping the fullness of each breast as he worked it. She could feel his cock, now freed from between them, bobbing and prodding at the soft flesh of her thighs and ass cheeks, seeking entry. She shifted, catching the head in her wet center before slowly sinking down onto him.

It was like coming together for the first time, only better. A revelation tempered, deepened by their knowledge of each other, their history, their loss and pain. There was nothing separating them anymore. No secrets, no commitments elsewhere. The anger and guilt and insecurity lingered, but it was theirs, and finally they were both free to deal with it. Free to be together, however they wanted to be.

She began to move, rising and falling over him in undulating waves, the luxurious friction of his generous cock stroking every surface within her as she encircled him. He breathed her name, his eyes wide in wonder, dark with desire as he met her rhythm. She rested her forehead against his, meeting his gaze unwaveringly, her hands coming up to cup his head, her thumbs tracing along his cheekbones.

She didn’t even realize she had begun to cry until he kissed the first tears away. “Shh, shh, don’t cry, petal. Please don’t cry.”

The growing pleasure inside her seemed to push the tears out, making her weep more, harder, as her climax approached. “I missed you,” she admitted in a hoarse whisper. “I missed you so much.”

He held her tightly, helping her ride him as he kissed her tears and lips. “I’m here now, Buffy. And I’m not going away again. Buffy . . .” She could feel him swell within her as his own release approached. Her channel tightened in response, strangling him with each stroke.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the orgasm that ripped through her body. He held her tight as she seized around him, keeping her from falling, keeping her from pulling off him as he thrust up into her fiercely, pushing through the tight muscles of her clenching tunnel before catapulting into his own release, sobbing her name.

The first thing she noticed as awareness returned was that his own face was damp with tears. She gently stroked her fingers along the tracks, but he turned his head away and buried his face in her shoulder.

When they could move again, he hitched her up to slide up the mattress, slipping out of her so they could lay side by side on the bed. She gathered him to her, softly stroking his hair as he held her.

“I missed you, too,” he murmured into her neck.

She kissed the top of his head. “Not anymore.”

He shook his head in agreement. “Not anymore. ‘m home now.”

And she realized that she was, too.

Neither of them remembered much about Saturday.

Their muscles, aching and relaxed and blissed out, remembered.

The bed, stripped of all but the fitted sheet, a comforter tossed haphazardly across, remembered.

Their hearts, now content and eased, remembered.

But had anyone asked for any of the sweat-dripping, come-soaked details, they both would have been at a loss.

Sunday started out a bit less intense. Spike woke first, the dawn’s light just starting to filter in through the scrim walls. He rose quietly and dressed, clothes feeling awkward on skin that had worn nothing but her for the past thirty-six hours. He raided her pocketbook for her keys and slipped out silently.

When he came back, bakery bag in one hand, a carrier containing large steaming coffees in the other with the Sunday Times under one arm, she was waiting, a look of relief evident on her face. He moved to the table quickly to put down his load. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She pulled the silk of her robe tighter about her. “I woke up and you were gone.” Her voice was so small.

“Just went for breakfast, love.” He gathered her up in his arms, dropping kisses on top of her head and down along her face. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Buffy. Not until you send me away. And probably not even then. You let me back in, and I’m gonna be hard to get rid of now.”

She caught his mouth with hers, showing him how much that thought bothered her.

They were both grinning when the kiss ended. He gave her a light swat on the behind. “Now back to bed with you! I’m not through having my evil way with you.”

She trembled in false fear and grabbed the bakery bag as she scampered away. “You are a bad, rude man.”

He caught his tongue between his teeth, his eyes running over her lasciviously. “And don’t you forget it.”

She laughed, a happy sound that lightened his heart. He picked up the coffee and the paper and followed her up the stairs.



Being bad and rude today seemed to consist of lying across the bed at her feet while she sat up against the headboard, doing the Sunday crossword. She had a sheet half draped over her, although Spike wasn’t sure if it was there for modesty or just to keep the crumbs out of her lap. Too bad. He wouldn’t have minded going in after those lucky crumbs.

He curled his arm under his head and lay back, contented. Her toes occasionally slipped out from under the sheet to caress lightly along his bare hip. He didn’t think she was even aware she was doing it, just confirming for herself that he was still there. He slid his free hand under the sheet to drift up and down her calf absently.

His eyes drifted around the room, registering for the first time the changes she had made to the room. The bigger bed was the most obvious, and a change he was grateful for. The furniture was all a honey maple to match the color of the floors, with wrought iron fittings and ornamentation. The scrim panels creating translucent walls were alternately bunched and tied with raffia, making texture and pattern along the plain surface. Color in the room came in localized pops from the rug, a dark blue oriental one that was soft under his feet, from the royal purple armchair and from the purple and blue bed linens. The comforter cover was strips of multicolored patchwork alternating with blue and velvet to make a sensual, colorful pattern on the bed. Well, currently on the floor. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he finally said.

“Thanks.” She nibbled on the end of her pen. “But I didn’t do it. What’s an eight letter word for kingdom with G as the third letter?”

“Hegemony. What do you mean you didn’t do it?”

“Hmm?” She glanced up from scratching letters into boxes. “Oh, my friends did it for me as a housewarming present when I moved in. Anya’s a designer. She specializes in boudoirs,” she exaggerated the pronunciation, making it BOO-dwar, “so she went a little nuts up here.”

“Anya.” He thought for a minute. “Do I know her?”

“I don’t think you met.” She filled in another row on the puzzle. “She’s mom to the kids I did the Halloween picture of.”

“Oh, that one. Scary lady. Got cornered by her at your show.”

“You think she’s bad now, you should have seen her when all she cared about was money and sex. The kids have grounded her. A ten letter word for a Roman spring with R and C as the fifth and sixth letters?”

“Lupercalia,” he supplied without hesitation. “The box looks good up there.”

Her eyes shifted to the dresser where the red and black silk box rested on top of a stack of graduated boxes. “It was too pretty to throw away.”

“Uh-huh.” He rolled over on his side, propping his head up on his elbow to watch her. “’S that why you’ve got my picture hangin’ up downstairs? Cuz I was too pretty?”

She gave him a hairy eyeball over the top of the magazine. “I had nothing to do with that. I hadn’t come up with a way to revise that one, so it was stuffed in with the other waste canvasses. Anya found it and hung it up. Seven letter word for poetic victory with Y as the second letter?”

“Pyrrhic. And you could have just destroyed it.”

She lay the paper down, meeting his gaze with a look that conveyed both sympathy and amusement. “No, I couldn’t.”

He tried to hold her gaze, but couldn’t. “I’m glad,” he said, looking down to pick at one errant fingernail. “The changes you made to the others were excellent, amazing even. But I’m glad to know there’s something left from before.”

“William,” she said softly, “I didn’t change the paintings in order to hurt you . . .”

But he didn’t hear her as blood surged in his ears. He rose up and pounced on her, making her squeal as he pinned her to the mattress. He covered her mouth in a joyful, exuberant kiss before drawing back to look into her eyes. “Say that again.”

Her eyes filled with compassion, and she laid a gentle hand on his cheek. “I didn’t change the paintings to hurt you.”

“Not that,” he shook his head. “Before that.”

Now she just looked confused. “Um. What’s a seven letter word for poetic victory?”

“No, pet, after that.”

“I don’t . . .”

He leaned close to her ear, felt her tremble beneath him. “Say my name,” he breathed into her ear.

She exhaled. “Spike . . .”

“No.” He met her gaze, and knew he was begging, knew she could see how desperate he was.

She swallowed nervously, as though facing a personal demon. “William.”

“God. You can’t know . . .” His mouth descended on hers, certain he could taste the lingering sweetness of that one word in the recesses of her mouth. After long, decadent minutes he pulled away to bury his face in her neck. “I’ve been waiting for months to hear you say that again. Every time you call me Spike, it’s like another knife in my heart, reminding me how I’d hurt you, how I’d failed you.”

Her fingers came up to toy with his soft curls. “I don’t know what to call you anymore,” she said quietly. “I don’t know who you really are.”

“Yes, you do.” He raised his head. “You know me. You know me better than anyone. You know the man I should be. I want to be that man, Buffy. For you. For us.”

She kissed him softly. “I want you to be him, too. If only because you seemed so happy then.”

“I was. I am.” He began kissing along her neck. “How could I be anything else with you?”

She tangled her strong limbs around him, drawing him closer, and he couldn’t be separate from her anymore. He moved into the cradle of her hips and sheathed himself in her.

Home. He was home. She was his home, and it was the only place in the world that he ever wanted to be. Burying his face in her fragrant hair, he gathered her close and began moving into her, short, slow, deep strokes that sank him further and further into her. “God, Buffy,” he quaked at the power of his feelings, “God, I love you. Love you so much.”

He felt her tighten, tense slightly beneath him. Her hesitation hurt, but it was a pain he would gladly face every single day as long as she let him stay.

“Shh, shh,” he caressed her hair, never slowing his movements as he spoke against her ear. “Don’t. You don’t have to. Just say my name. That’s all I need to hear.”

She sighed, relaxing beneath him. “William.” And in that name he heard compassion.

“William.”

He heard forgiveness.

“William!”

He heard desire.

“Oh god William!”

And as he lost himself in her completely, he allowed himself to hear the smallest fragments of love.

Monday morning came and found them still in bed.

Buffy cracked one eye open from the shelter of William’s arms to look at the clock. She closed it again with a groan. “I have to get up for work.”

He pulled her closer, nuzzling into her hair. “Nuh-uh. Called Tara and got you the day off.”

“When did you do that?” She snuggled back against him, feeling his length rising to prod against the curve of her ass.

“Last night, after you fell asleep.” His hands joined his mouth in caressing her, stoking her desire. “You’ve had a tirin’ weekend. Figured you could use a day off to recover.”

Buffy giggled. “Yeah, somebody’s been riding me hard the last few days.”

“Oh, you think so?” His voice was deep with arousal and amusement. “Fine then.” He rolled onto his back, pulling her along to mount him. “You ride for a change.”

She grinned through sleep heavy eyes, positioning him with a practiced hand before sinking down onto him. The sense of wonder she felt every time flooded her, and she poured it into him with each stroke, each movement perfect choreography to the music of their pleasure.

Hours later, Spike finally did chase her out of bed. “I’m taking you out to lunch. You haven’t had a decent meal in three days, and you have to keep your strength up.”

She stretched decadently on the sheets. “Are you talking out out, or out in the park out?”

“’M talking restaurant. I want to be seen in public with you for a change.”

Buffy blushed, pleased at the possessive tone in his voice. “I’d better shower, then. I’m rank.”

He leaned over her, inhaling deeply at her neck, between her breasts and over her stomach. “You smell magnificent. Like one of Aphrodite’s priestesses, all incense and sex . . .” His head moved lower.

She gripped his hair to stop him. “If you want to go out, you’d better not start that again.”

Spike growled but backed off. “Hurry up, or I might decide to eat early.”

She squealed and scrambled from the bed, catching up her robe as she dashed to the bathroom.

The hot water felt good on her blissfully overworked muscles. She felt like a new woman when she got out of the shower and dressed.

Spike showered quickly while she changed, cleaning up as best he could since he had to dress in the same clothes he’d been wearing on Friday. She was pleased to see he’d left his hair natural, the soft curls lending him a sense of vulnerability.

“So, where are we going?” she asked when they’d settled into the cab.

He smiled. “Back in time.”

“That’s not very informative.”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll see when we get there.”

Buffy curled up in the safety of his arms. “I don’t usually like surprises.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Maybe I can change that.”

She sighed melodramatically. He just chuckled.

She relaxed against him, listening to his heartbeat through her skin, feeling his warmth seeping into her as she watched the city go by. Feeling this good, this comforted, should be wrong somehow, a small part of her whispered. But she couldn’t for the life of her think how.

The cab turned up Madison and then onto Fifty-third before finally slowing down to pull up to the curb. William paid the driver, then helped Buffy out of the car. She looked where they were for the first time and whirled on him in surprise. “But this is where we first . . .”

“Met?” He smirked his sexiest, most suggestive smirk.

And it was. It seemed like a lifetime ago when they’d been here. Everything had changed, she had changed so much that this should be different somehow as well. But aside from the baskets of fuchsia hanging from the blue awning and the late lunch crowd overflowing the patio to enjoy the summer weather, the café was exactly the same.

She felt a twinge of trepidation.

He squeezed her hand with a smile. “Go on in.”

She gripped his hand more tightly. “What about you?”

“I’ll be along, don’t you fret.” He pulled her close and kissed her forehead gently. “Got somethin’ to take care of, but I’ll just be a tic. Now go.” He gave her a gentle shove.

He stood on the curb, his hands in his pockets, a knowing smile on his face, as she went into the restaurant. She knew this because she glanced back at him every two steps. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. But somehow this had more of the makings of a guilt trip than a nostalgia trip.

“Buffy!”

He head snapped around at the sound of a familiar voice.

Willow had risen up from her seat to wave Buffy over to the table where she, Anya, Oz and Xander were all gathered.

Buffy glanced back over her shoulder, but William was gone. Bemused, she crossed over to her friends.

Willow caught her up in a hug. “Congratulations, Buffy. The show was such a hit! You must be thrilled.”

“Well, um, I . . .” She let her confusion show. “What are you guys doing here?”

Willow seemed puzzled as well. “Tara called and asked us to meet you here for a celebration lunch. Didn’t you know?”

Buffy shook her head.

“Oh.” Willow’s brow scrunched up for a moment before she smiled brilliantly again. “Well, surprise! Come on, sit down and order so we can give you your present.” And she guided Buffy down into one of the chairs.

She ordered, scanning the room, but there was no sign of William. Where was he?

Willow and Anya distracted her by putting a wrapped package in her hands. “You guys shouldn’t have.”

“Of course we shouldn’t,” Anya agreed. “So you should be grateful instead of falsely humble. Now open it and tell us how much you like it.” She smiled brightly.

Xander put his arm around his wife. “She’s starting in the diplomatic corps next week,” he said with an amused but long-suffering sigh. “But she’s got the right idea. Open up, Buffster.”

Buffy tore the paper off to reveal a leather-bound album. She opened it to the first page, and saw the invitation postcard, set into a starburst of carefully folded ornate paper. The page was labeled “First Opening, Yggdrasil, June 19, 2004.” The next pages were clippings of the ads from the various newspapers and magazines around town, and after that were photos from the show itself and a CD. “That’s the whole collection on disc,” Willow explained. “They’re in the order of the installation and all labeled, so you’ll always have it.”

“Willow collected everything,” Anya interjected, “and I put it all together. It’s important to document your career achievements.”

“And you haven’t seen the best part.” Willow turned the page again to reveal three newspaper clippings, all dated from Saturday and Sunday. “Your first reviews.”

She had been so lost in her reunion with William, she had forgotten about the art critics who had come to the gallery that night.

“You haven’t read them yet?” Anya deduced.

Buffy shook her head, her mouth dry.

“Here, let me.” She took the book from Buffy’s hands. “The Times one?” she asked, looking to Willow, who nodded enthusiastically. Anya cleared her throat. “In this age of cynicism and postmodern abstraction, romantic, whimsical art seems to be out of place. But a new artist has managed to capture the joy of modern life in a fantastical setting in a way that is neither quaint nor affected. Buffy Summers views the world through a lens of fantasy, but not to the trite expressions of the dragons and unicorns crowd. Instead she is able to express deep, powerful emotion through color and imagination. Her self portraits especially are passionate expressions of pain, loss, identity and rebirth that the viewer cannot help but be moved by.”

Anya kept reading, but Buffy didn’t hear any more. She’d done it. She’d cracked it first try. A glowing review in the Times, for this couldn’t be described as anything else, meant instant recognition in the art community. She would never be another Manet or Pollock, but she could make a career of her art now, the way she used to imagine she would. Tears welled up in her eyes as she felt something give, release in her heart. She felt like her feet had been planted back on her path after having gone astray for so long.

Willow seemed to see the emotions overcoming her and leaned over to hug her again. “You deserve it.”

Buffy laughed, wiping her eyes delicately.

That’s when she saw him.

William sat, two tables away, leaning back in his chair to watch her pointedly, his long fingers toying with the silverware. She blushed and looked away as their food came. She dared a glance again when the server left, to see him still sitting there, still watching, his eyes warm and sexy and concerned.

And now she knew what he was doing. He was recreating their first encounter. Would he want her to slip away to meet him in the bathroom again? A part of her was embarrassed at the thought, but everything else in her screamed her willingness to do just that.

But he gave her no sign, just watched her.

“What are you staring at?” Willow asked quietly.

The other three glanced at her before following her gaze straight back to William. “Don’t!” she gave a strangled cry, focusing all her attention on her salad.

“I think that guy’s checking you out, Buffy,” Xander observed. “You want us menfolk to rough him up for you?”

Oz cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement at the idea of either of them roughing anyone up.

“No,” Buffy felt her blush flaming across even the tips of her ears. “No, it’s fine. I just . . .”

William rose up out of his chair gracefully and moved across the floor toward her, not swaggering, not stalking, but she felt every movement in her own body. He stopped next to her, not too close. “I’m sorry,” he said, soft but clearly, “I couldn’t help admiring you. Do you mind if I join you and your friends?”

She blushed again. “No, not at all.” She rose to move her chair over and make room for him. This wasn’t how things had gone that day. What was he up to?

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” Willow asked.

He smiled his power charm smile. “You have a good memory. We did meet, last fall. My name is Fitzwilliam . . .” he offered his hand, but she interrupted.

“Spike, right?”

He smiled apologetically. “William. I’m not going by that nickname anymore.”

Buffy introduced him around methodically, her brain buzzing. He wasn’t going by Spike anymore? When had that happened? And what was he doing? Had he set this up just to meet her friends? They all seemed pleased to meet him, but Willow kept shooting her questioning looks while Anya studied him critically.

The conversation started again, but with the new player, it became more of a question and answer session. Where are you from? What do you do? How do you know Buffy?

“Oh!” Anya exclaimed suddenly, her mouth full of food. She waved a finger at him as she swallowed. “Now I know you! From the other night, remember? I knew I’d seen you somewhere before! You’re Buffy’s model, aren’t you? I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

“Anya!” Several horrified voices rang out, but William just chuckled.

He and Oz fell into discussions about performer representation and William’s new practice, but Buffy could feel Willow watching her as she ate. Finally, without looking up, she said quietly, “You know that lunch we need to have? To just talk about things?”

Willow nodded.

“Most of it has to do with William.”

“Are you two . . .” She didn’t finish, just looked at Buffy meaningfully.

Buffy shrugged and smiled a little.

“We’ll talk. I’m a married woman, I need my vicarious smoochies!”

William seemed to be going out of his way to win over her friends. And as she watched him talk music with Oz and cars with Xander, investment strategy with Anya and electronic freedoms with Willow, she realized that she had never let him into her life before. He had been so eager for her to meet his friends, his surrogate family, but she had never returned that to him. Not because of shame or guilt, but because she hadn’t felt connected to even her closest friends. Angel had isolated her, denied her even the comfort of friendship. And now here was William, socializing with her friends simply because they were her friends. Once again showing her how different her life could be.

She rested her hand on his leg and squeezed gently, trying to convey so much through one touch. He looked at her, smiling but questioning, and it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms.

When they finished eating, the servers cleared their plates and then, to almost everyone’s surprise, brought out a tray with slices of rich chocolate cake for each of them.

“I love the cakes in this place!” Anya exclaimed in a throaty voice.

“Yeah,” William looked seductively at Buffy, dipping the tip of one finger into the frosting, “me, too.” And he subtly licked the icing away, drawing the barest tip of his finger into his mouth.

Buffy was hard pressed not to moan aloud.

She studiously ignored him as they ate, listening in on his conversations as she talked with Willow and Anya. She was deathly afraid he would attempt some kind of payback for her actions that first day.

Buffy stuck her fork in for another bite of cake and was surprised when something in the cake made a click-thunk sound, sending her fork skewing sideways. She dug around a bit and pulled out a small, chocolate-crusted lump.

“Problem, pet?” she heard close to her ear.

“There’s something in my cake.”

“Here, let me get that for you.” William caught the lump delicately between two fingers and popped it in his mouth. He rolled it around once or twice before holding it between his teeth so she could clearly see his tongue circle around it, cleaning off the cake to reveal a silver circle. Anya and Willow were staring as well as he deftly licked all the chocolate out of the inside of the circle before sucking it back in to repeat the process on the other side. She could almost hear her girlfriends imagining what else he could do with that tongue.

Buffy didn’t have to imagine. She had firsthand knowledge.

And nearly came on the spot.

Finally he pushed it out of his mouth and held it up between his fingers. “Hmm,” he said, turning it back and forth. “Looks like a ring.”

And he offered it to her.

She hesitated before taking it from him. It was indeed a ring, platinum with an antique bezel holding a single small diamond.

Her heart pounding, she looked up at him in surprise, saw the hope shining there, and panicked.

“Uh, I . . .” She pushed back away from the table. “I’ve got to . . . excuse me.” And she pelted away from the table, well aware of the eyes of all her friends on her and William’s fallen expression.

She locked the bathroom door behind her and leaned against it, the coolness of the overly air conditioned room raising gooseflesh on her heated skin.

He couldn’t be asking her this. Not now. She just . . . she was just starting to get her life back together. Did he really want her to hand that all over to him before she had a chance to enjoy it? And after everything that had happened between them, did he think she could trust him enough for marriage?

She crossed to the sink and splashed water on her face, blotting it off gently with a towel before checking her makeup.

And was transfixed by the reflection in the mirror.

Gone was the passive, insecure creature this mirror had last shown. In her place Buffy saw a confident, independent, strong woman who worked for what she wanted and wasn’t ashamed of her power.

She saw the woman William had seen in her, all those months ago.

What was she afraid of? He had breached the walls around her heart ages ago. And instead of invading, he’d laid down his arms and surrendered to her. She was the only one still armed in this struggle. She was the one with the power to hurt him. So what was she afraid of?

There was a soft knock on the door.

She didn’t have to ask who was there. She knew.

Was she willing to open the door to him?

The knock came again. “Buffy?”

She drew a deep breath and unlocked the door.

He opened it and slipped in, closing it quietly behind him. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to quite look at her. “Look, pet, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you in there. I just wanted you to know. I’ll be whatever you want, Buffy. I’ll be your lover or your friend, your bloody houseboy if you want, as long as I have a place in your life. But I wanted you to know what I want. I want to be your husband. I want to wake up every morning knowing you trust me to make you happy and go to sleep every night proud that I took care of you. You make me feel like I’ve never felt before in my life. Like a man. And I want to spend the rest of my life thanking you for it.”

“William,” she said softly, laying a hand on his arm.

So he could clearly see her ring finger, bare now of all but the simple platinum engagement ring.

He looked up at her in confusion.

“You saw me before anyone else did,” she said softly. “Knew me in ways no one else ever had. I’ve become someone I can be proud of. Because you saw it in me. But I’m not finished becoming whoever the hell it is I’m gonna turn out to be. Not without you. I love you, William. I’ve loved you for the longest time. I was just too stupid to know it.”

He wiped a tear from her cheek, heedless of the ones flowing freely down his own. “Not stupid, love. Never stupid. Just a little lost is all.” He lifted her hand to place a gentle kiss directly on the ring. “So, is this a yes?”

She smiled. “You’ll have to wait a bit. Technically I’m still married until October.”

Still holding her hand, he drew her close. “But didn’t you know October is the month of romance? It’s when I fell in love with you.” When his lips met hers, they were soft and warm and wet with joyous tears, full of promises of love and happiness for the future.

When it ended, she snuggled close under his chin, wrapping her arms around him. “And in the meantime?”

“The details we work out later. The basics are that we live in hopeless sin together so I have something to make you an honest woman for.”

She looked up at him intently. “Nothing with you could ever be a sin.”

He kissed her again, and she lost herself in his passion.

They were interrupted by a firm knock on the door.

Startled, they broke apart, laughing when they remembered where they were.

“What say we go out and shock all your friends,” he murmured in her ear, “and then go home and christen our engagement?”

She looked into his eyes, a brilliant smile lighting her face. “Sounds like heaven.”


Fin