Chapter 30 Brainstorm

The cab ride down to lower Manhattan was quiet.  Spike held Buffy wrapped in his arms as the lights of the city flashed by, and he reveled in this quiet moment of contentment, dropping light kisses on her head, stroking her arm gently with his thumb.  This was a moment the bastard couldn’t take away from him.

The last three days at work had been hell.  Everywhere he went, Stevens was there, with that condescending smile on his face, putting his greasy paw prints all over every moment Spike and Buffy spent together.  After that first confrontation, he never mentioned the affair again, but somehow constantly implied it, and with it implied layers of meaning Spike hated to think about.  Always hanging over them was the threat of what Angel would do.  Spike was beginning to think his own imagination was worse than anything Angel could actually come up with.

Yesterday had been the worst so far, although Spike wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was the worst it could get.

Stevens had come into his office after the preliminary presentation to the Robaartsman management team.  “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?” he said, perching on the front of the desk.

“Fine.”  Spike ignored him, focusing on the notes he had taken in the meeting.

Angel picked up the stapler off the desk and studied it.  “I know the final presentation to corporate is Monday, but it turns out I have to go to Chicago on another project for the weekend.  Think you can manage affairs here while I’m gone?”

“I can manage just fine,” he ground out.

“I’m sure you can.  Just don’t want to overstep.”

Spike didn’t reply.

“I feel bad going away for so long, you know?  Buffy hates to be alone.  Still, I’m sure she’ll find something meaningless to occupy her time with until I get back.”

“Did you have a point, or are you just waxing my desk with your ass for fun?” 

“Hey, maybe you could check in on her for me.  You’d be doing me a big favor.”

“Get out.”

Angel smirked as he rose, pausing at the door, a look of false gratitude on his face.  “I’d really appreciate it.”

It had taken all of Spike’s restraint not to throw the damn stapler after him. 

He squeezed her lightly.  It was a constant struggle for him every day to tell her about Angel or not.  She seemed so happy right now, he hated to take that away from her.  But she had shown him tonight that no matter what direction she was moving, she still had loyalties to her marriage.  If she knew, she would want to do the right thing.  Which meant giving him up and going back to the bastard to try to make things up to him.  Spike didn’t trust the son of a bitch not to use it against her, using guilt and shame to control her, crush her spirit.

He was honest enough with himself to admit that he wasn’t ready to lose her yet.

“What are you thinking about so hard?”  Buffy turned her head up to look at him curiously.

“You.”  He kissed her lightly on the forehead.  “You’re all I think about.”

She smiled and snuggled up against him.  “You should get a life.”

Except that the life he wanted was with her.  “I’ll get right on that.”

He’d tell her.  He had to.  Just . . . not right now.  After the weekend, after they’d had their time together.  Or at the end of the week, when he had to give her up anyway.

But he wasn’t strong enough to do it now. 

Buffy belonged to him for the weekend, however Angel might try to spoil that, and Spike intended to take full advantage of the fact.  Show her in deeds if not in words what he felt and how she could be treated by the right man. 

The cab dropped them in a quiet residential block on the Lower East Side.  Buffy waited as he paid the driver, then leaned against him as he put his arm comfortably around her shoulders.  She felt unusually stiff, and he didn’t think it was from the cold.  “Nervous, pet?” he asked, a bit surprised.

“A little bit.”  She wrapped her arms tight around herself.  “It’s been a long time since I went out for anything but business.”

“Meaning Angel’s business.”

She nodded.  “I couldn’t tell you when the last time was that I went to a purely social dinner.”

Spike gave her an encouraging squeeze.  “You’ll do fine.  You’ve got me, and you know Tara already.  You two have all manner of things to get on about.  Art school, galleries, the local art scene.”

“And you.  We can always talk about you.”

“Oh, bloody . . . is this where you start pryin’ out all my past doings?”

She laughed.  “If it wasn’t before, it is now!”

“Well, don’t waste your time.  Bird doesn’t know a thing.”

She elbowed him lightly in the ribs.  “You are a terrible liar.”

He sighed melodramatically.  “You just aren't going to let this go, are you?” 

“Do you really expect me to?”

He stopped her, turning her more fully into his arms.  “No.  I don’t ever want you to let go.”  And he captured her mouth in a slow, wet kiss that brought them both a measure of peace.

Chapter 31    Samhain Night

The building he led her to was an Arts and Crafts style apartment building, complete with paneled lobby and wrought iron elevator cage.  Spike kept Buffy close to him as they rode up the seven floors to Tara’s apartment. 

The door to apartment 713 bore a wreath made of woven wheat and dried apple slices, arranged so that the little stars made by the apple cores showed clearly.  “You ready?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.  “Ready.”

He smiled supportingly and knocked on the door.

A moment later Tara opened the door, accompanied by a cloud of warm air heavily scented with exotic spice and incense.  “You made it!”  She leaned in to kiss Spike lightly on the cheek.  “And only half an hour late.”

“When have you ever known me to be punctual?”

“I think it’s happened once or twice.”  She smiled softly.

“Exception that proves the rule.”

“And Buffy!”  Her smile, still warm, turned a bit shy.  “It’s great to see you again.  Won’t you come in?”

Spike rested his hand on the small of Buffy’s back as he guided her down the long paneled hall to the living room.  He felt rather than saw her reaction to the room.  A slight intake of breath, an instant’s hesitation, and Spike knew she loved it as much as he did. 

The room was rich in dark paneling and burgundy paint.  The hard wood floors were covered in worn hand-woven rugs which set off the plush cushioned, tapestry upholstered sofa and chenille slip covered armchairs.  The focal point of the wall opposite them was a tiled fireplace with a small fire crackling merrily away framed by wide, built in bookshelves running floor to ceiling and stuffed tight with all manner of books.  Where there wasn’t molding on the walls, art hung, all manner of artists and styles arranged together in a harmonious cacophony.  Track lights emphasized the occasional piece, but they were turned low and supplemented by candles burning in wrought iron holders attached to the walls throughout the room, with more candles lit on every available surface.  It was warm and comfortable and inviting.  For Spike, it was sanctuary, second only to Buffy’s arms. 

“Here, let me take your coats,” Tara offered.

“Oh!”  Buffy remembered herself.  “These are for you.”  She offered up the handful of orange and maroon sunflowers she had brought.

“They’re beautiful!”  Tara buried her face in them as Spike helped Buffy off with her coat.  Tara took their coats and handed the flowers to Spike.  “Will you put those in water while I give Buffy the tour?”

“Glad to, pet.”  He watched as they disappeared down the hall, then headed to the kitchen with a smile.

Kennedy was there already, dicing tomatoes and peppers for the salad.  “Hey, Blondie,” she said, never taking her eyes off the knife.  “How’s it hangin’?”

“Down and to the left, last I checked.”  He reached into the armoire they used as storage space to pull out a hand thrown vase.  “You?”

“Still high and firm.”  She glanced up at him as she scraped the red and green pieces into a low bowl.  “So, you finally got a girlfriend, huh?”

He put the vase under the faucet and turned the water on.  “Just keep your hands to yourself, yeah?”

She snorted.  “Please.  I’ve seen your ex.  You’ve got terrible taste in women.”

“Seein’ as how I was hot for your honey once upon an age ago, I’d watch how hard you toss those stones.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him and began dressing the salad.

He chuckled as he arranged the flowers haphazardly in the vase, then dropped a quick kiss on top of her head on his way by.  “Brat.”

She grinned.  “Dumbass.”

He set the vase on the mantle as Buffy and Tara came back into the living room.  “I can’t believe you have this wonderful apartment and it’s rent controlled.”

“I was really lucky,” Tara agreed.  “I found it listed in the paper my sophomore year at Columbia.  The couple that had it before was big arts supporters, so they were happy to sign over the lease to a young couple just starting out in the art world.”

“Couple?”

“That would be me.”  Spike couldn’t resist wrapping his arms around Tara’s shoulders.  “I’ve been Mr. Tara Maclay so often, she should pay me alimony.”

“A gay woman should always keep a male friend on hand for just such emergencies.”

He hugged her with a chuckle, pleased to see that Buffy was smiling, too.  “You want a glass of wine, Glinda?”

She turned her head to look up at him. “Yes, please.”

“Buffy, love?”

“That would be nice.”

Kennedy popped out of the kitchen.  “Did I hear alcohol mentioned?”

“Wine,” Spike confirmed.

“Well, you know what I want.”

“Right.  One fruity girly drink with a little paper umbrella coming right up.”

“Jerk.” 

As he opened the wine, he watched Tara make the introductions between Buffy and Kennedy.  Kennedy’s combination of pleated plaid miniskirt and thigh-high mistress of pain boots seemed to throw Buffy for a minute, but he was pleased to see her quickly adapt to the girl, and ask her the standard questions about her background, education and current life goals without discomfort.  Kennedy excused herself after a few minutes of conversation, pausing to get her gin and tonic from Spike on her way back to the kitchen.  “Nice piece there.”

“Told you.”  He handed her the drink.  “Now hands off.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He swatted her on the behind as she passed.

Tara and Buffy had moved over to a small table by the window, heavy with pictures and votive candles surrounding a small silver bowl holding a clear liquid that Spike knew to be rum, an offering to the deceased being honored by the shrine.  “This is my mother,” Tara explained, indicating a large photo in a silver frame.  “She died when I was sixteen.  And that’s Kennedy’s brother.  He was killed in a car accident three years ago.”

“So, I guess this is a really sad holiday for you,” Buffy said, accepting the wine from him.

“No, not at all.  This is the night the world of the living and the world of the dead are closest.  So it’s the one night of the year that we can send them messages and maybe get an answer.  And if nothing else, it’s a comfort to remember them, especially for those who have lost someone in the last year.”

 “It sounds wonderful.  I’ve never known a witch before.”

Tara smiled.  “Well, you won’t be able to say that anymore!  But you probably know more of us than you think.”

“Lookin’ for another convert, pet?” Spike asked playfully while stroking his free hand gently along Buffy’s back.

“You know we don’t do that,” Tara chided him.  “If we did, the whole coven would be nagging me about recruiting you.”

Buffy looked puzzled.  “Why William?”

Tara smiled, a wicked twinkle in her eye.  “Because we don’t have many men.  And because he’s a good-looking guy.  If you like that sort of thing.”

Buffy laughed and looked over her shoulder at him.  “Everybody wants you.”

“And you thought I was exaggerating my charms.”  He kissed her lightly.

Kennedy came in with a bowl in each hand to set on the table.  “Who’s hungry?”

Dinner was a Moroccan feast, with a chicken tagine, the tomato and pepper salad, couscous with plump currants, and a second salad of carrot coins and onion.  Everything was redolent of cumin and cinnamon and coriander.  “This is incredible, ladies.”  Spike complimented them, suitably impressed.

“Tara did most of the actual cooking,” Kennedy admitted, handing him the bowl of couscous.  “I just did the chopping and mixing.”

“Which ended up producing half the meal,” Tara admonished her. 

“Well, it all smells wonderful!”  Buffy said.

The meal was comfortable, with conversation flowing as easily as the wine.  He and Kennedy discussed music, and especially the passing of Warren Zevon.  Buffy and Tara talked about the challenges of relocating to New York City.  Buffy asked Kennedy about her band, what kind of music and where they played, while Spike got the rundown on last night’s opening from Tara.  He was gratified to see how well Buffy got along with both women.  Buffy had been right.  It was a bit like bringing her home to meet his family.

“Does Tara ever get up on stage with you?” Spike heard Buffy ask.

Kennedy shook her head, her mouth full of food.  “Too shy,” she said, swallowing.  “I’ve talked her into singing backup on a couple of recordings, but beyond that, no luck.”

“You sing?” Buffy turned to Tara. 

Tara shrugged, so Spike intervened.  “She sings like a dream, if you get enough drinks into her.”

Tara blushed.  “I don’t think karaoke night at the Varsity provides a good demonstration of my abilities.”

He scoffed.  “You outsung everyone there that night, even with half a bottle of vodka in you.”

She gave him a dirty look.  “Keep that up, and I may have to bring up some of your attempts at public performance.”

He was horrified.  “You wouldn’t.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, then turned to Buffy.  “Our second year at Columbia, he developed a crush on this English major . . .”

“Tara,” he growled a warning.

But Buffy was enjoying it too much.  “Go on.”

With a wicked grin at Spike, Tara continued.  “He found out she liked to go to poetry slams at one of the coffee houses in the Village.  So he spent weeks working on a poem for her.  He almost failed International Moot Court because he was working on this poem instead of preparing his case.”

“Bloody sonnets don’t come easy,” he protested, surrendering to the inevitability of the story.

“So we get down there, and it’s all dark goth, pain is my co-pilot free verse trash, and here he’s got this elegant, romantic and very precise poem.  But he did it.  Got up there and read it.  It got so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.  He then got down off the stage, grabbed his coat and walked out without another word.  If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was making a statement against the quality of work being performed there.”

Buffy covered her mouth with her napkin, her eyes showing equal parts amusement and sympathetic mortification.  “What happened then?  What about the girl?”

He snorted.  “She was in the back, makin’ out with one of the waiters.  Which was why she came.  Not for the poetry.  She never even knew I was there.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!”  But he could still hear the amusement in her voice.

Somehow, it didn’t bother him.

As they finished eating, Tara rose from the table.  “Spike, will you help me clear?”

Buffy rose to assist.  “Let me.”

“Absolutely not,” Tara insisted.  “You are our guest.  Spike, on the other hand, is family and has to help out.”  She handed him several plates with a smile. 

“Yes, mum,” he sighed melodramatically, taking the plates from her.  As he rose, he kissed Buffy, enjoying the taste of spice on her lips.  “You rest easy.  I’ve got this.”  Kennedy got up as well to lead her into the living room while he and Tara quickly emptied the table.

As he scraped the dishes and stacked them neatly on the sideboard, Tara opened a small bakery box and began placing diamond wedges of baklava on dessert plates, one by one putting them in the microwave to warm.  “What you are doing is wrong,” she said suddenly.

He spooned the remains of the salads into small storage bowls.  “I’m not doing anything.”

“Spike, you told me what you were planning before you even came over here.  I know that’s her.  His wife.  And it’s just not right to treat someone like that.”

“Didn’t we have this argument already at the gallery?”

“We barely started this argument.”

“Tara, I’m not doing anything,” he insisted.  “Not anymore.”

“She’s too nice a girl for you to use this way.”

He threw up his hands.  “What do I have to do to convince you?  I love her!  I’m not going to hurt her!”  He realized what he had confessed as soon as the words were out of his mouth.  He sighed, rolling his head back.  “Bugger.”

Her soft eyes widened, and she quickly turned back to concentrate on scooping ice cream onto the plates with the warm pastry.  “How long?” she finally asked.

He snorted.  “Who knows?  A week ago?  Two?  The minute I saw her?”  He put the containers in the fridge and began getting coffee cups down.  “It’s been a while since all I cared about was her bein’ happy.”

“But you leave at the end of the week.”

“I know!  I know,” he lowered his voice.  “And the worst part is that her husband knows.”

“Oh, Spike!  Does she know?”

He shook his head.  “I tell her and I lose her.  Of course, if I don’t tell her, I lose her anyway.”  He filled the coffee cups methodically.  “God, Tara, how did this get so far out of control?”

She leaned against the counter, sympathy written on her face.  “You want the magickal answer or the mundane?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Okay, the mundane.  And that one’s simple.  You are a brilliant man, and one of the best judges of people I know.  You can break any situation into its component parts and understand the dynamics of each piece perfectly.  But you live totally in the moment.  You have no head whatsoever for the long term.  That’s why all your plans blow up in your face.”

“Thanks.  I feel real comforted.”

“Spike.”  She laid a hand on his arm.  “You started this relationship in deceit and revenge.  Those are the seeds you planted and that’s the harvest you are forced to reap.  The love is just . . . fortuitous weeds among the crop.” 

“That’s the metaphysical answer, innit?”

She smiled.  “Partly.  You didn’t really think you’d get away without it?”

He met her eyes, letting his vulnerability show.  “What do I do?”

She shrugged.  “You’re the only one who can decide that.”

They were both quiet, ice cream melting and coffee cooling.

Finally he spoke.  “Thanks for tonight.  It was nice to get to feel like a normal couple for a little while.”

She smiled.  “Does this mean I get to tell the Anatomical Drawing class story?” she asked, handing him the dessert tray.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I so would. . .”

Chapter 32    Lazy Day

She went to sleep curled up against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart as it slowed from the pounding pace of their lovemaking to the easy, constant rhythm of sleep.

She woke in the warm cocoon of his arms, his body spooned up along her back, his hands moving in lazy patterns over her stomach and breasts and thighs.  She sighed happily and cuddled back against him more closely.

“Good morning.”  His low words vibrated in her ear and along her spine as his hands continued moving gently.

“Mmm.  It’s good so far.  Maybe if we just don’t move, it’ll stay that way.” 

He chuckled softly.  “Don’t move at all?” he asked, the motion of speaking caressing his lips lightly along the sensitive skin behind her ear.  His hand slid down to caress the barest inside of her thigh, making her gasp and push back against him.  “Or is some movement allowed?” 

“Some is good.  Some is definitely better . . . than . . . none oh!”  He tangled her top leg in his, pulling it back to spread her thighs and allow him to trail his fingertips over the sensitive skin high on the inside of her legs.

“So you like that?” he mouthed against the curve of her throat.  “What about . . . this?”  His fingers walked lightly along the crease where leg met hip, then through the tangle of soft curls to the junction on the other side.

His slow, playful sensuality overwhelmed her mind as well as her body.  Her world collapsed to the warmth of his mouth on her neck and shoulder, the velvety prod of his erection against the small of her back, and the unremitting swirl of his fingers in and around her labia.  She couldn’t breathe, gasping as he explored her, murmuring soft encouragement as he built her climax step by step.

“I love the way you feel when I push into you after you’ve come.”  The pure eroticism of his words pushed her along as much as his two fingers slipping inside her, leaving his thumb to continue toying with her clitoris.  “All tight and fluttery.  “Won’t you come for me, Buffy?”  He nuzzled at her hair as his hand worked.  “I want to be inside you so badly right now . . .”

She clutched at his wrist, holding his hand still as she rode his strong digits eagerly, whimpering his name.

“Yes, love, that’s it.  Let me make you feel good.  Let your William make the whole world go away . . .”

Her whimper gained in volume as her release tangled around her, squeezing out breath and sound with each thrust of her hips.

“Almost there, petal.  Just let me . . .”  And he twisted his wrist.

She screamed, hoarse and ecstatic, as her body exploded, slamming against him and his hand as wave after wave of climax swept over her.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.”  His voice was thick with want as he rolled her still-vibrating body to face him, dragging her leg up over his hip and continuing over onto his back so that she straddled his waist.  She lay on his chest, unable to support herself as she recovered.  But she could feel him poking, prodding at the damp flesh of her thighs and sex, seeking entrance.  She shifted her hips subtly, catching the head of his shaft just so to let him slip deep within her.

“Christ, Buffy!”  He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to him as he rocked her up and down on his length.  She felt him bury his face in her hair as she nestled into his shoulder, enjoying the slow undulation of their bodies. 

They just rocked like that, wrapped in and around each other for what seemed longer than an eternity and shorter than an instant, when she felt him begin to tighten under her.  She rose up on her arms, allowing the tips of her breasts to barely touch his chest and her hair to fall around his face as she increased her movements, sliding her channel high along his shaft before taking him back in deeply.  His fingers clutched into her hips, encouraging her along, and she watched in fascination as his head tipped back, the tip of his tongue caught lightly between his teeth. 

She was so transfixed by his face that she didn’t notice the second orgasm until it seized her, snapping her head back.  “Oh!  Oh, William!”

“Buffy!” he growled, clutching her hips to his as he jerked erratically up into her in release.

They collapsed into a sated pile of tangled limbs, catching their breath between satisfied chuckles and contented sighs, sharing soft kisses and gentle touches.

“That,” Buffy said when she finally regained the power of speech, “was without a doubt the best wake up call I’ve ever had.”

He smirked against her hair as he ran tender fingers through the tresses.  “Beats an alarm clock, does it?”

“Hands down.  I’m awake and relaxed.  Perfect way to start the day.”

“Except for being after ten o’clock.”

“Is it really?”  She twisted her head to look at the clock.  “You know, I used to always be up before seven.”  She nestled back into his arms.

“I know, I’m a bad influence.”

“Mmm.  Lucky me.”

He laughed softly.  “So, what do you want to do today?”

“Would you mind if we went down to the studio?  I want to get a start on that painting of the kids, so I can have it done for Christmas.”

“Nah, that’s fine.  I’ve got some paperwork I was going to put off until Sunday night.  I can work while you paint, we can take frequent shag breaks,” he bussed her lightly on her laughing mouth, “and we’ll be closer to where I plan to take you out to tonight.  You did bring a sexy little number to wear out, didn’t you?”

She smiled up at him.  “And a couple of sexy numbers to wear in as well.”

“Oh, pet,” he groaned, rolling on top of her.  “Talk like that will guarantee I never let you out of this bed.”

She patted his chest.  “Just think of all the fun you’ll have getting me back into it.”

After a relaxed, playful and (mostly) platonic shower, they dressed and Buffy returned her toiletries to the black overnight bag.  She was surprised and oddly touched when William added a shirt and a few other items to the bag as well before shouldering it to escort her downstairs to the lobby and a waiting cab.

On the drive downtown, William had the cabbie pull over and wait with Buffy as he ran into a bakery to grab them breakfast.  Moments later, he came back with a white bakery bag and two large, steaming styrofoam cups.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she said, taking one of the cups from him as he slid back into the cab.  “I am so in need of . . . wait,” she paused, the cup inches from her face.  “This isn’t coffee.”

He grinned boyishly at her.

She sniffed delicately, then peered through the vent into the cup before looking at him incredulously.  “You got hot chocolate?”

“Yup.”

“Why did you get hot chocolate?”

“Because it goes better with chocolate croissants.”  He shook the bag at her temptingly.

She just shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling.  “What are you, twelve?” 

He leaned forward and kissed her, all lips and tongue and passion.  Nope, definitely not twelve.  But he tasted like warm, rich chocolate already.

They settled into their respective work at the studio comfortably.  As Buffy went around opening radiator valves to take the autumn chill out of the room, William set up her easel and stool, then arranged himself on the couch, using one of the armchairs as a footstool.  She pulled out her art cart and a clean canvas and began sketching and then painting in the background of the Halloween picture.

They worked quietly like that for several hours, Buffy with her brushes and paints, William with his papers and laptop.  She smiled to see the gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

He finally rose and stretched before coming to look at her progress, one hand resting on her shoulder.  He didn’t comment, simply observed before placing a gentle kiss on her neck that sent electric shivers down her spine.  “I’m going to nip out to the deli for some lunch,” he said quietly.  “You want anything?”

She turned to look at him.  “A tuna sandwich?”  At his nod, she continued.  “On wheat with lettuce.”

“Got it.  You want any crisps or anything?”

She nodded.  “And a bottle of water.  Thanks.  Oh!”  She fished around in her pocket and handed him the key ring.  “So you can let yourself back in.”

He took the keys, catching her hand as well as he bent down to kiss her again, slowly but undemanding.  After a long moment, he released her with a sensual smile.  “Back in a bit, love.”

She went back to her work, but a realization slowly started worming its way up through her brain.  She stopped in mid-stroke when she suddenly realized what it was. 

He went to get her lunch.

He didn’t ask her to do it.  He didn’t make her go with him.  He didn’t just get her whatever he wanted.  He asked her, and bothered to remember what she wanted.  It was such a little thing.  But when was the last time it had happened?

Maybe not since her mother.

But what did it mean?

William came back with the sandwiches, interrupting her train of thought.  She washed the paint off her hands, and they ate picnic style in the middle of the rugs.  A bit of teasing play with a pickle quickly escalated into gentle lovemaking there on the carpet.  It was brief but luxurious, and afterwards they lay in each other’s arms, drifting quietly in and out of sleep.

She woke first but lay still, his head nestled at her breast, his strong arm wrapped around her waist, their legs tangled together.  Toying gently with the soft curls at the base of his neck, she thought about her earlier epiphany.

She was suddenly aware of all the attentions he paid her.  Not the obvious sexual attention, but the subtle, thoughtful ones.  His awareness of her moods.  His interest and encouragement of her art.  How he respected her wishes, her requests and was never threatened by her.

He was always saying how he wanted to show her how she should be treated, what she deserved.  Was this comfortable domesticity what he had meant?

That thought scared her.

She had gotten involved with him to learn about herself, to improve herself for Angel.  Her sexual skills had certainly improved, but what if it wasn’t about that?  She was seeing now how an intimate relationship could be.  But William had treated her like this even when she had been hopeless in bed.  So that meant that the relationship was based, not on the changes in her, but on the character of him.

Angel wasn’t William. 

He never would be.  And she couldn’t change him, certainly not against his will.  But why would he want to?

But now that she had seen what was possible, could she be happy going back to the way things were?

Instead of improving for her marriage, had she ruined herself? 

What did it mean?

She must have tensed, because William looked up at her with sleepy eyes.  “You okay, pet?”

She nodded quickly, then bent her head to kiss him, losing herself in the fullness of his lips.

He would be gone in a week.

      Meaning would wait until after that.

Chapter 33

There was a long line of college students and young professionals waiting outside the club William took her to that night.

“Caritas?”  Buffy asked.

“It means ‘of the heart’,” William explained, guiding her past the line to the bouncer at the door.  “Fitzwilliam,” he said to the burly man, nodding to the clipboard.  “Your boss is expecting me.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fitzwilliam.  Right this way.”  He opened the rope for them and escorted them to the front door.

The club itself was very techno.  Bare steel columns supported catwalks and decks.  The stage was backed by a bank of video screens flickering images in time to the rhythm of the live band performing in front of them.  The hard edges were softened by cozy conversation nooks furnished in softly upholstered sofas and colorful area rugs.  The art on the walls was industrial kitsch.  The whole place had the feel of space reclaimed, like all of the people there had brought whatever they could get their hands on to make this place their own.  Buffy wasn’t a big clubber, but she could tell this place was different.  She liked it.

William wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her close amidst the crowd.  “Do you want to dance?”

The rich combination of acoustic and synthesized sound coming from the band reached out to her, but she shook her head, stretching up to say into his ear over the noise, “Too crowded.”

He nodded and guided her back toward the bar.  He had just leaned over the rail to order their drinks when a voice rang out.  “Spike!”

Buffy and William both turned to see a man in the best made tacky suit Buffy had ever seen coming down the bar towards them, his hand extended.  “Spikealicious, babe, how are you?”

“Can’t complain, mate,” he said, gripping his hand firmly.  “How about you?  Bitch queen keeping you out of trouble?”

The larger man rolled his eyes.  “Constant thorn in my side.  And you know I love it.”  His smile was enough to light the whole room.  Buffy was entranced as he turned his attention to her.  “And who is this delicious young thing?”

She offered her hand.  “Buffy Summers.”

“Well!”  Ugly Suit Man took it and bent his head to place a courtly kiss on the knuckles.  “Enchente, Buffy Summers.  Allow me to introduce myself, since your date has such a tragic lack of manners.  I’m Lorne.  Lorne Rockland.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rockland.”

He chuffed.  “Please.  My mother was Mr. Rockland. Call me Lorne.  And you,” he turned back to William, who had just taken out his wallet to pay for the drinks he had ordered during this exchange, “put that away.  You know your money’s no good here.  If the boss lady found out I was making you pay for your drinks . . .”

“I’d probably rip your ears off,” came a low, throaty voice from behind them.  Buffy turned her head in time to see a sultry brunette drape herself over William.  She was one of the most stunning women Buffy had ever seen.  Tight black leather pants and a brilliant red silk tank held up by the thinnest of straps displayed her lush, curvy figure perfectly.  Her black hair flowed in loose waves around her face, framing her sultry dark eyes and voluptuous lips, painted a glossy red to match her top.  She looked like molten sex.

And she was kissing William.

It wasn’t deep or aggressive, or even all that sexual.  But it was an intimate, familiar caress. 

Buffy had felt jealous before, felt the cold, angry fingers of it prod through her mind.  But now it boiled and raged in her, a visceral, palpable thing.  She wanted to snatch William away and slap this intruder, stake her claim and draw blood for the trespass. 

Instead she just stood there, insecure and threatened as this woman pawed her . . . Buffy stopped.  Her what?  It wasn’t as though she had any claim to him, any right.  She was married to someone else, and he would be leaving in a week, free to move on.

That thought twisted the knife the brunette had plunged in her gut. 

“You never call, you never write,” the other woman was saying to William with a smirk.  “What’s a poor girl to do?” 

“I’m sure you kept busy,” he smirked right back at her.

She cocked her hip.  “Yeah, that’s me, busy, busy, busy.  It’s good to see you, Spike.  It’s been an age.”

“You too, pet.  But you look great.”

“Feel pretty great, too.”  She nodded toward Buffy.  “Who’s the cutie?”

“This is Buffy Summers,” he said, taking Buffy’s arm to draw her closer.  “Buffy, I’d like to introduce you to Faith Davies.” 

The woman held her hand out unselfconsciously.  “Pleased to meet you, B.  Old Spike here doesn’t bring girls around very often.  Good to see you getting’ around again, Blondie,” she addressed William.  “You’re a sexy guy.  It’s a shame to see you keeping it in the box.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She just laughed.  “In a manner of speaking.  God, I hate your uptight British slang!”

“So, Faith, you and William are old friends?” Buffy interrupted, trying awkwardly to draw the other woman’s attention.

She looked confused.  “Who’s William?”

He nudged her lightly.  “I am.  And Buffy’s the only one who gets to call me that, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Uh-huh.”  Faith looked at the two of them appraisingly before answering Buffy’s question.  “Yeah, I’ve known Spike for, what, eight years?”  She looked to him for confirmation.  At his nod, she continued.  “We’ve gotten drunk together, he’s bailed me out of jail more than once.  If that’s how you define friendship . . .”  She shrugged.

Despite her tough words, Buffy sensed a thread of vulnerability, and it touched her through her jealously.  William called her a friend, and Buffy knew from having met Tara just what that friendship meant to him.  She couldn’t believe that he would bestow that friendship lightly.  She took a deep breath and smiled.  “Yeah.  I would.  That’s exactly how I’d define friendship.”

“Friends help you move,” Lorne interjected.  “True friends help you move bodies.” 

They all laughed at the surreal platitude before Faith turned on Lorne.  “Don’t you have work to be doing?”

“I’m gone, boss.  Buffy, it was a joy meeting you.”  He kissed her cheek as he squeezed her shoulder.  “Spikikins, you take care now.”  And with a wave he disappeared back into the crowd.

“So,” Faith turned to the two of them, “you guys came for the dancing?”

“Actually,” William said, draping his arm around Buffy, “I was hopin’ to give Buffy an art lesson in Pearl.”

Faith’s eyes widened in surprise.  “An art lesson?  Downstairs?  Interesting class you’re teaching there, Professor.”

“Buffy’s a professional artist,” he explained.  “I’m just helping her get a broader range of experience to draw from.”

Buffy couldn’t resist interjecting.  “William’s big on new experiences.”

Faith barked a laugh.  “I’d imagine.  Yeah, go ahead down. You know the back way.  I’ll have a table and drinks waiting for you.  I have to be down there in a minute anyway.  My house manager is out with a sprained ankle tonight.”

“Thanks, pet.  See you down there.”

He used the arm around Buffy’s waist to guide her around the end of the bar towards the back as Faith leaned over the rail to speak to the bartender.  They went down the back hall, past the bathrooms to a door marked “Staff Only.  No Admittance.”  It was this door William pulled open and held for her, revealing the stairs behind.

She paused at the top of the stairs and looked at him coolly.  “You’re wearing her lipstick.”

His fingers snapped to his mouth, pulling his fingertips away to look at the crimson stain there before rubbing more firmly with the heel of his hand.  “Better?”

She shrugged her shoulder and started down the stairs.

Halfway down she stopped, turning to face him.  “Have you slept with her?”

He stopped, his foot on the step below hers so their eyes were even.  She could see the amused, puzzled look on his face.  “Are you jealous?”

In answer she grabbed his head and kissed him, covering all the places Faith touched with her own mouth. 

His arms were instantly around her as he returned the kiss hungrily, one hand tangling in her hair, the other smoothing over her back.  Their mouths slid over each other, tongues meeting eagerly as he backed her up against the wall, pressing his body into all her sensitive places.  “Yes, I slept with her,” he murmured in the moments their lips were apart.  “A couple of times, eight years ago.  She offered me things no man could resist.  Something about warm champagne.”  Buffy captured his mouth again, shutting him up until he moved to her neck, one hand grasping at her breast.  “I figured out pretty quickly she needed a friend more than a lover.  I got out of her bed and I haven’t been back.  I promise.”

She let him return to her mouth, rubbing eagerly against him in apology.  He ground against her, but pulled back a moment later.  “Shh, love.  I’m not taking you here in a public stairwell.”

“Then take me home,” she begged.

“You’d like that.”  But he stepped back.  “But you’ve got a lesson pending, so your green-eyed monster will just have to wait.”

“For your one eyed monster?”

“Exactly.”  He stroked her covered mound with the bulge of his erection, sliding his mouth over hers one last time before nudging her on down the stairs.  “Get on with you, vixen.”

She pouted, but continued descending the steps.  “Yes, master.”

“Oh, no, Miss Summers,” his voice came, low and seductive from behind her.  “That’s a whole ‘nother set of games you aren’t even ready for.  Yet.”

The promise of his words set her whole body trembling.

Chapter 34 In These Shoes

The interior of Pearl differed from Caritas as much as was humanly possible. The subdued lighting accented jewel toned hues of purple and blue and russet.  The place looked voluptuous, like a sultan’s harem, with low couches and silk cushions for seating and enormous brass trays on low legs for tables.  And everywhere the establishment’s namesake could be found.  Pearls roped the chandeliers, beaded on the upholstery and cascaded out of the simple candle centerpieces.  There was only one word to describe the place. 

Decadent.

They were met at the end of the service hall by a tiny little waitress dressed almost demurely in black trousers with a belt of pearl ropes around her waist and a silk vest that didn’t quite meet in the middle, revealing cleavage and navel but not much more.  She escorted them through the crowded room to a table where their drinks were already waiting for them.

Spike barely registered any of it.

Buffy was jealous.

The implications were overwhelming.

It took all of his restraint not to do exactly what she had asked, take her home and worship her, reassure her, pour his heart out into her tiny little hands.  But if he was careful, if he was cautious, he now knew he had a chance at something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider.

Maybe he could win her for himself.

His heart pounded even thinking about it.  He had a week, a week to convince her how much better off she could be with him.  He needed to think, though.  He needed to try to see the big picture before he chose a course of action.  Best to stick to the design for the evening.  Play tonight; plan tomorrow.

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, just enough to ground himself.

“What was that for?” she asked, a bit bemused.

“Do I need a reason?”

“Apparently not.”  She picked up her drink and sipped it.  “This is a nice place.”

“You like it?”  He rolled a mouthful of whiskey around his tongue.

“Yeah.  It has a nice ambiance.  Do they have live music?” she asked, indicating the proscenium jutting out into the room.

He resisted an evil smirk.  “There should be some performers coming out any time.”

Almost as if on cue, a bluesy piece of music started drifting out of the speakers, and a young woman strode out onto the stage.  She was dressed all in black leather, from the micro mini-skirt to the bustier to the short waisted jacket.  Her strawberry blonde hair fell around her shoulders in ringlets and her lips were painted an almost black red.  Her body moved sinuously in rhythm to the music as her hands lifted her curls luxuriantly to fall down her back.  She slid her arms out of the jacket and cast it aside, leaving her arms and shoulders bare above the scallops of the bustier.  When her hands dropped to the zippers on the sides of her pants, Buffy spun to face Spike, away from the stage.  Her eyes were huge and a beautiful blush was sweeping over her face.

“You brought me to a strip club?”

He waggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously.

“Why?”  She tried to sound indignant, but he could hear the faint touch of curiosity in her voice.

“Three reasons.”  He set his drink down and moved so they sat knee to knee as he bent his head close to hers.  “First, the owner is my friend and I wanted you to meet her.”

“Faith.”

“Faith.”

“The friend who shops for lingerie for work.”

He tapped his nose.  “Right in one.  Second, I do actually have something I want you to see that might help you with your art.  And this was the best place to demonstrate it.”

“And third?” she asked, shifting her eyes surreptitiously back to the now nearly nude dancer up on the stage.

“Because, little miss prim and proper, I know your secret.”

“What secret?”  Her chin went up, challenging him, her eyes flashing.

He leaned closer to her ear.  “That the sight of barely dressed people doing shocking things excites you.”

She smacked him in the chest, but he just chuckled and grabbed her wrists, running his thumbs enticingly along her pulse points.  “Look at her, Buffy.”  He let his voice drop into the low, resonant pitch he knew made her weak.  “She wants you to watch her.  And you do, too, don’t you?”

“William,” she breathed.

“Am I interrupting?”

He muttered a soft curse as he twisted his head to see Faith standing behind him.  But he released Buffy’s arms and patted the seat next to him.  “We were just getting started.”

She straddled the bench and leaned back against the arm, legs spread wide.  “So, B, what do you think of the place?”

“It’s . . . nice,” Buffy finally replied.  Spike could see her reacting to Faith’s blatant sexuality.  The jealousy was rising, but he thought he saw a bit of curiosity as well, wondering what it would be like to be so open and raw.

“For a topless bar, you mean?”  Faith didn’t sound offended.  “Not what most people expect.  No pole, no lap dances, no bump and grind, no dark, smoky atmosphere.  Not a lot of single guys.  We’re kind of the art house of the New York strip scene.  Hell, half my girls are in the dance programs at NYU and Columbia.  Even have one Julliard ballerina.”

“How did you come up with the inspiration for it?”

“I danced in plenty of those other joints, just to stay alive and off the streets, you know?  But after seein’ enough, I started to think I could do it better.  So I took some business classes and then found a softhearted club owner to take me in.  Lorne was an easy mark, let me rent out the basement space.  I was makin’ a profit inside of six months, and within two years I was makin’ more than Lorne was upstairs.”

Spike leaned over to explain to Buffy, “Faith bought out Lorne’s interest in Caritas last year.”

Faith waved it off.  “He’s happier.  Hated the paperwork.  Now he can focus on developing talent and enjoying the party.”

“How did you get approval for this?  I can’t believe this area is zoned for adult entertainment.”

“Ixnay on the legals in front of the shyster, B,” Faith said, jerking her head towards Spike.  “What he doesn’t know keeps me outta the slammer.”

“Oh.”  She looked flustered.  “I’m sorry, I . . .”

“No sweat.  Spike’s a gem.  He’ll lie through his teeth for me as long as he doesn’t know the truth.”

“So it’s not really lying, is it?”

Faith looked at her appraisingly.  “No, I guess it’s not.”  She looked like she was about to add something when there was a loud crash from behind the bar.  “Dammit!  That had better not have been tonight’s delivery.  Excuse me, you guys.”  And Faith rose to stride purposefully towards the voices now arguing in the vicinity of the crash.

Buffy turned to Spike, looking thoughtful.  “Was she dancing when you met her?”

“Yeah.”  He took a swallow from his glass.  “I think she had been for a couple of years.”

“But she was, what, eighteen or nineteen?”

He shrugged.  “She looked . . . older.  A lot older.  Things had been bad for her at home.  Didn’t get much better after she left.”

Buffy was quiet for a long time.  “You have a lot of women friends.” 

“Guess the blokes are all threatened by my manly presence,” he smirked.

“Or else you’re such a woman you can only make girlfriends.” 

He leaned forward until his mouth nearly rested on her ear.  “Am I not man enough for you?”

She caught her breath and shook her head faintly.

“Do I need to remind you how much of a man I really am, Buffy?” 

She hesitated, making him chuckle.  “Come ‘ere, love.”  He drew her to sit between his legs, her back resting against his chest, his thickening cock nudging against the curve of her behind.  “Feel that?” he murmured in her ear.  “Remember how good it makes you feel?”  She nodded slowly, and he could tell without seeing her that she had gone glassy eyed.  His heart thudded in his chest, but he continued on.  “Behave yourself or you won’t get it again.”  It was an empty threat and they both knew it, but she responded anyway, a slight jerking of her body against his.  “Time for your lesson.”

“What kind of an art lesson can you give me here?”  Her words were erratic as she tried to retain control of her breath.  “I had life drawing.  I know how to draw naked women.”

“’S not about that,” he said as a slender brunette came out on stage, moving aggressively to an old Prince tune.  “Your stuff is good, but it’s very static.  So we’re gonna look at muscles in motion.  No, Buffy,” he commanded in her ear as she turned away when the dancer dropped her skirt to reveal tight lacy little briefs of rich blue.  “Watch her.  Watch how the muscles in her legs flex just before she takes a step.”  He dropped his mouth to the side of her neck and felt her pulse fluttering there.  “Every movement is anticipated by muscle shifts just before and weight shifts just after.”  He slid his finger lightly along her shoulder.  She shivered, but never took her eyes off the dancer, who had just finished unbuttoning her blouse, exposing the matching lace push-up that exposed the curved tops of her breasts.  “See how the tendons across her shoulder flex just before she raises her arms?  How the muscles in her ass tighten and her weight shifts slightly as she takes a step?”  He dropped one hand to her thigh to toy with the hem of the little red cocktail dress she had worn.  “What else can you see?”

He could feel her breathing against his chest, heavy and rapid as she fought for words.  “Along . . .  her ankle.”

“Mm-hmm.”  He stroked his cheek lightly along her soft hair.

“And the muscles over her back contract on the side she’s turning toward.”

“Very good.”  She arched back against him as he spoke into her sensitive ear.  “And watch the way her calf twists when she pivots.”

She sagged back against him. 

“Buffy.”  He wrapped his arms around her, losing himself in her arousal.

“Oh, William, I .  . . I have to . . .” she pushed away from him.  “I’ll be right back.”  She rose unsteadily on her low heels, turning to kiss him a bit more intensely than she’d intended, he thought, then moved off in search of the facilities.

He couldn’t help but snigger.  Gave whole new meaning to relieving yourself. 

Spike scooped up the whiskey and leaned against the arm of the couch.  He could use a bit of relief himself.  She was like a drug to him.  He loved the low buzz he got just being in her presence.  He felt sharper, more alive around her.

He allowed himself a brief moment to fantasize about what life would be like with her.  They’d make love when they woke up every morning, then he would go to work while she worked on her art.  They’d have quiet dinners in front of the fire, then curl up to read or watch movies together, and then indulge in each others’ bodies again before they went to sleep in each other’s arms.  He couldn’t think of a better way to spend the rest of his life. 

He glanced over and noticed Buffy standing at the bar talking to Faith.  He smiled when Faith noticed him and grinned wickedly, causing Buffy to look in his direction and blush.  And yet again she amazed him.  Despite being jealous of the woman, Buffy was making an effort to talk to Faith.  He was glad.  Faith could be aggressive and abrasive, but she was a good girl, and he thought Buffy could learn a lot about assertiveness and resilience from her.  Faith would benefit as well, exposed to Buffy’s grace and joyfulness.

He turned to set his tumbler down, and when he looked back, they were gone.

He looked around for them, but saw only the waitress coming to check if he wanted another.  He handed her his glass with a nod and went back to scanning the room.  A Latiny tune with a salsa beat started, announcing the next dancer, but he paid no attention.  Buffy had been gone for a while, and he wanted her back.

A bright flash of red from the stage caught his eye, and he glanced instinctively.  And froze, eyes locked on the dancer.

Buffy was up there.

He had missed her entrance, but now she stood in the middle of the stage, hands above her head, hips drawing figure eights in time to the Spanish rhythm, small pops at the end flicking up the hem of the cocktail dress’s short full skirt.  She had let her hair down to fall in a soft amber cascade over one shoulder and she had exchanged her comfortable dancing shoes for black patent leather fuck me pumps that gave just a touch of the fetish to her otherwise demure outfit.

She didn’t look his way at all. 

Slowly she rotated, presenting all angles to the crowd, her hips never stopping their sensual circling.  Eyes closed and head tilted back, she ran one hand down her breast and over her stomach to caress down her leg, then both hands coasted up her thighs, pushing the skirt up to reveal the lace tops of her stockings, the white silk tabs of the garters holding them up and the white triangle of silk covering her sex.  Her fingers caught at the tabs and released them with an almost audible snap.

He was torn between wanting to grab her off the stage and wanting to see how far she would go.  He was hard enough to go up and take her right there, give everyone a right good show.  Leaning forward, he adjusted himself discreetly, curious to see what she would do next. 

Buffy didn’t disappoint him.

She turned again, presenting her backside to his side of the room.  Her right hand lifted the left side of her skirt, revealing one tanned cheek to the audience.

Fuck, she was wearing a thong.

For the first time, she looked at him.  Her eyes were heavy with seduction, and with a wicked grin she caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth in a gesture he knew she had picked up from him.

He growled softly.

Her right hand popped the second garter, then held the back of the skirt up as her other hand went under the front of the skirt to catch the stocking with her thumb and push it down her leg, bending over until her head almost touched her knee and the right side of the audience had a beautiful view of the normally hidden part of her underwear.  She slipped her foot out of the shoe and finished removing the stocking, sliding her foot back in as she slowly came back upright, letting the hose unfurl between her fingers before allowing it to fall to the floor.  Still in time to the music, she slowly pivoted to repeat the show with the other leg for the left side of the very appreciative audience.

There had been no announcement made, but somehow the crowd seemed to know that this dancer was different.  Everyone was watching her, some staring openly, some moving in time to the catchy beat.  A hum went up with the release of the first stocking, and by the time the second hit the floor, there was a soft cheer.  They were all watching his girl, and he couldn’t blame them. 

But a part of him hated each and every one of them.

She presented her back to them, her pelvis still popping and shifting with the music.  She looked over her left shoulder and then her right as though evaluating the audience.  Her eyes met his briefly and he could see how empowered this was making her feel.  He cupped himself and her little tongue came out again, making him groan.

She twisted an arm up behind her back and caught the zipper, slowly dragging it down and shrugging to open it, revealing the bare skin of her shoulders and an expanse of white brocade across her lower back.

She hadn’t . . .

But as she dropped the glittery dress to the floor amid whistles and applause, he realized that she had worn the corset that had driven him to distraction that day in the lingerie shop.  She stretched her arms out, hands twisting and flowing, as she turned back around to reveal her bared breasts to the room.

She just danced that way for long moments, giving herself over to the music and allowing everyone to enjoy the view.  Then her hands dropped to her waist and one by one she released the hooks holding the corset closed over her waist.  With one deep breath the garment fell away, leaving her in nothing but the tiny white silk panties and shiny black shoes, her body undulating as though she were making love to an invisible partner.

She was incredible.

The crowd thought so, too, shouting and applauding as the music came to an end.  She hesitated as though coming out of a trance, then sketched a quick bow and disappeared back behind the curtain.

He finished off the rest of his whiskey in one swallow and rose, intent on the door backstage.

The bouncer at the bar near the doorway rose to intercept him, but stopped as though waved off by some unseen signal.  Spike was grateful.  He didn’t really want to punch out any of Faith’s staff.

He found Buffy in the second dressing room.  She was still in nothing but the shoes and thong, a short silk robe thrown around her shoulders that someone backstage must have given her.  It covered none of her attributes.  Her skin was flushed and her chest heaved from exertion and something more.  Her eyes were wide and luminous as she spun to face him when he closed the door behind him.

He was on her in two steps, grabbing her shoulders to shove her up against the wall, his mouth devouring hers.  She wrapped her arms around his neck fiercely as she thrust her tongue against his, her hand slipping between them to quickly release his throbbing cock from his pants while he slipped a finger in to slide the narrow strap of her thong aside.  She twisted one leg around his waist and rose up as he gripped her hips and in concert they maneuvered themselves together.

“Oh, Christ,” he groaned, her moist heat tight and comforting around his shaft.  Her echoing moan spurred him to start moving against her, his mouth catching hers again as he slowly thrust into her. 

“William . . . oh yes . . .”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t let the customers come back here and fraternize with the girls.  This just isn’t that kind of establishment.”

Buffy yelped and tried to pull away, but Spike thrust deep into her again, pinning her to the wall with pelvis and shoulder while blocking her from view with his other shoulder.  He snapped his head around to glare at Faith.  “Sod off, girl.”

She just chuckled.  “Thought Buffy might like to be able to get dressed.”  She stepped in and dropped the handful of clothes onto the small stool at the vanity.  “Guess I was wrong.”

“Faith . . .” 

“Your girl’s got some moves there, Spike.  You ever need a job, B, you come see me.  We could be a hell of a team.” 

“Look, you stupid bint,” Spike growled in frustration, “either get the hell out or join in.  I’m done bein’ polite.”

Buffy squealed, her face buried in his shoulder in embarrassment.

Faith chuckled.  “Don’t think B’s into threesomes, sport.  Stop by the bar on your way out, girlfriend.  Got an envelope with your name on it with almost a hundred bucks in tips for you.  Have fun, children!”  And she closed the door behind her. 

He gathered Buffy tight in his arms and staggered the few steps it took to thrust her back against the door, preventing any other intrusion.  She whimpered again as he pushed deep into her.  He could feel her tight around him, her arousal swelling her soft flesh in preparation for him.  She was soft and wet and snug and exactly where he wanted to be.   Both her legs tangled tightly around his waist as they rode each other fiercely.  Words were impossible, both of them too far gone from an evening of teasing and jealousy and sensuality.  Instead they resorted to primal, gutteral sounds and grasping, clutching hands to communicate.  Their mouths fought voluptuously with each other, tongues caressing and exploring, swallowing cries of pleasure that could have emanated from either of them. Within moments she was cresting around him, her soft mewling cries and trembling body satisfying the primitive male in him as he found his own release in her. 

They clung to each other in the aftermath.  “You were beautiful up there,” he whispered softly.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”  He kissed her lingeringly.  “If you ever do it again, I’m gonna lock you in a room for the rest of your natural born life.  Got it?”

She laughed.  “Got it.”

Spike pocketed the shoes on the way out.

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