Disclaimer: Yeah, right, sure I own 'em. In my dreams. Buffy and Spike are the property of Joss Whedon, UPN, and Mutant Enemy Inc. No copyright infringement is intended. The song is entitled "The Right Kind of Wrong", is sung by LeAnn Rimes, and is used without permission as well.
Author's notes: Goddamn that Thanksgiving Buffy marathon. I started watching the show a few episodes before "Graduation", so seeing all these old episodes is making me contemplate whether Buffy should be with Spike or Angel, whether Angel should be with Buffy or Cordelia, whether Cordelia should be with Angel or Doyle...but at least it's what fueled me to start writing Buffy fic. Let me get the James Marsters bug out of me first, then I might start with Buffy/Angel or Willow/Oz.
Know all about
Yeah, 'bout your reputation
And now it's bound to be a heartbreak situation
But I can't help it if I'm helpless everytime that I'm where you are
You walk in and my strength walks out the door
Say my name and I can't fight it anymore
Oh I know I should go
But I need your touch just too damn much
Loving you
Isn't really something I should do
Shouldn't wanna spend my time with you
I should try to be strong
But baby you're the right kind of wrong
Might be a mistake
A mistake I'm making
But what you're giving I am happy to be taking
'Cuz no one's ever made me feel the way I feel when I'm in your arms.
They say you're something I should do without
They don't know what goes on when the lights go out.
There's no way to explain
Oh the pleasure is worth all the pain
I should try to run
But I just can't seem to
'Cuz everytime I run you're the one I run to
Can't do without
What you to do me I
Don't care if I'm in too deep, yeah...
Buffy Summers awoke with a start. Her surroundings were unfamiliar: a halfway collapsed house in the middle of God knew where. Why was she here? Where was here, for that matter? And why on God's green earth was she not wearing any clothing?!
She sat up, pulling her leather jacket over her exposed chest. Her muscles ached, and her body was covered with tiny bruises. Frowning, she suddenly looked down at the jacket. It wasn't hers. Buffy closed her eyes and, praying, turned around.
There, sprawled out behind her on the ground in a similar state of undress, lay Spike.
"Oh, God," she moaned. "Oh, shit. Goddammitt all to hell." She continued to utter obscenities at random intervals as she rose to her feet and began to pull on her clothes, which were strewn haphazardly across the cold cement floor.
It was all coming back to her now. The fight, Spike's now-defective chip, and then...How could she have lost control like that? How could she have let Spike, of all people, get the best of her?
"No," she stated resolutely. She wasn't going to think; she wasn't going to over-analyze this. She was going to look upon it as the mistake that it was, feel some guilt, and move on. In a few seconds, she would be out of here. All she had to do was find her own jacket. She scanned the room. It could be any where - under any pile of rubble. But when she finally spotted it, it wasn't under any rubble. No, of course not. There it lay, in plain view, taunting her. Right underneath Spike's sleeping head.
A few slow, cautious steps and several muttered curses later, Spike stirred. If only he would just roll over, off of the jacket! But to her horror, he did no such thing. He stayed rooted to the spot and opened his eyes.
"Leaving so soon?" he inquired. She gazed into his eyes and answered his question with one of her own.
"When did the house collapse?" He looked around, the fact just now registering. When his eyes shifted back to meet Buffy's, Spike shrugged.
"Probably somewhere between the first time and..." he trailed off, licking his lower lip. "How many times was that now, luv? I lost count."
"Give me my jacket," she demanded. He rose to sit, dangling the jacket in front of her tantalizingly.
"Come and get it," he challenged. With a roll of her eyes Buffy reached for the piece of dark leather.
She shouldn't have.
Spike's hand shot out and clamped around her wrist, yanking hard. She stumbled, but ultimately failed to regain her balance. Instead, she was neatly delivered into Spike's cold but inviting lap. He jerked her forward by the waist, pressing his lips against hers.
"God, get off of me!" she exclaimed, and wrestled her way free of the vampire's vise-like grip. He grinned.
"You know you want me," he murmured seductively. Buffy placed her feet firmly on the ground, slightly apart, and folded her arms across her chest; it was a stance of defense.
"Let's get one thing straight," she said firmly. "Last night was the most...revolting, cheapening...perverse act I have ever experienced. It was a mistake, and it will never happen again. Are we clear?"
"Perverse?" Spike repeated incredulously. As he spoke, he stood, pulling on his pants. He didn't miss the way Buffy's eyes traveled quickly, appraisingly up and down his body before she averted them. "Oh, come off your high horse, Slayer. I may be perverse, but you gave me a run for my money. Do you think I've forgotten everything already? How I made you scream? How you rode me for all I was worth and sucked me 'till there wasn't a drop left in me? I haven't forgotten. I won't forget. And you know what? I think you liked it. I think you've never had it any better. You can walk away right now, put on as big of a show as you like, but you'll be back. You'll lie awake at night and you'll remember and you'll crave me. You just better hope that when you come crawling back on your knees that I'll still be here for you to use and abuse, then throw away until you've got another itch you've gotta scratch."
By the time he was through speaking, Spike had backed Buffy up against a wall, his body flush with hers. Heat emanated from her skin, making him hard in an instant. He pressed into her until she groaned; until he felt her nipples harden beneath the tiny scrap of fabric she wore as a top against his bare chest. Her lips were mere centimeters away from his, and his gaze strayed up to her eyes, then back to her lips, and finally settled on her eyes, watching as she did the same.
"Spike..." she whispered. It was all the permission he needed. He bent down and forward to capture her mouth beneath his, prying her lips apart so his tongue was able to invade her mouth. He explored her hot, wet depths, a thrill of exhilaration coursing through him as she kissed him back, tongues dueling, fighting for power. Last night, she had been unaware of what she was doing. He could almost forgive her if she left right now, claiming it was nothing but a fit of passion, regardless of where he suspected her true feelings lay. But now, she was completely willing, her warm, soft body yielding to his demanding hands.
He lowered her to the floor, climbing on top of her as he undressed her, and took her again.
He pulled out of her when he felt the last wave of his orgasm wash over his body. Beneath him, she panted heavily. He rolled off of her and listened while, after resting for a few minutes to get her breath and strength back, she stood and dressed once more. This time, he let her go without comment, but watched her openly. She threw one last backward glance over her shoulder at him, then left.
Spike smiled to himself. Last night, she had sought release from the closest person; him. This morning, she had given herself to him fully and freely.
She would be back. All he had to do now was wait.