Part Three
Unable to take the pressure a single second longer, Spike pushed Buffy back over the kitchen table and pressed himself against the full length of her body, kissing her deeply.
The blood was pumping inside his head so hard and fast that the rushing sound stopped him thinking. Everything was pure sensation – the soft yet firm skin of Buffy's hands, as she grasped at his arms tightly; the moisture on her lips; her scent.
Oh god, her scent! It called to him, and took him over.
He needed her. Couldn't bear another moment of her glorious torture without diving the rest of the way into the abyss.
Like they'd done a hundred times before, his callused hands trailed a path up her thighs and slid under her skirt. In a single motion he ripped away her panties.
She moaned and pushed herself up against him, grinding against his length.
To what felt like a siren song welcoming him home, Spike glided himself into her to the hilt.
Then the world stopped. He paused, and held his breath, feeling everything wash over him. It felt like her heat was melting him, and he had never felt so privileged to be burned.
Moments later, when he finally allowed himself to breathe again, he began to move.
As desperate as he felt, their coupling was not frantic. Not slow, but steady. Intense in it's rhythm.
Spike felt as if he didn't know a single thing about himself anymore. He'd slotted himself into her existence, and it was all that mattered. Nothing else felt real.
Was this how she felt when she'd come to him, demanding he help her disappear from the world for a few hours at a time?
He truly got it now. He understood. With her, all his turmoil vanished. Nothing mattered but the moment, and nothing existed outside of it. He was hooked and he knew that if she were ever to deny him again he'd go mad without the solace of her flesh. Every other experience in his long life paled in comparison.
He was free.
Then everything was suddenly building towards a crescendo, and he was soaring. Below him he heard Buffy reach her climax, and he felt her squeeze him into oblivion.
Wholly unable to hold out, he followed her over the edge into bliss and she shuddered as the world fell away once more.
Spike came back to himself with a jolt, not sure if he'd blacked out or just gone temporarily brain dead from overloading his senses.
His breath was heavy. Labored. And Buffy had her teeth against the flesh of his neck again.
Trying valiantly to collect himself as he became painfully hard once more, Spike attempted to peel their clothes off, hoping to relocate to his bedroom so that they could do it all again. So he could explore his queen more carefully, at leisure, and in a thousand different ways.
Buffy shifted herself awkwardly against him, however.
Looking up at him, she shook her head and said, "Leave it on."
It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the jacket.
Of course it struck him as a little weird, but he knew all too well that she had her kinks, and he refused to dwell on it. It was only when he'd complied and she demanded that he then take her, bite her, and make her his own that he truly stopped to think.
"What?" he said.
He must have misheard. She'd never asked for that before. Not once came close.
"Claim me," she told him, more fervently. "Make your mark."
He pulled away slightly, and looked deep into her eyes, but couldn't find any answers there. Again he tried to shrug off the surreal sense of something out of place.
"Later," he breathed, as she squeezed his cock between her silken walls. "We can talk about it, ugh! …later."
But just like that, Buffy switched. Her movements ceasing, Spike could feel her anger begin to bubble up.
"Why not?" she demanded.
He was at a loss. Utterly dumbfounded.
"It's a big thing," he reasoned, still trying to read her expression. "We haven't talked."
And they hadn't. Not really. Not since he got back. He'd had all these big speeches planned, but he tossed them out the moment he saw her again. They weren't good enough, but he'd known they'd need to confront things sooner or later; needed to work some things out if they were ever to have a chance in the future.
His brow furrowed, as he tried to piece together how they'd ended up back locked together. Several of the bits didn't match. He was struck again with the sudden knowledge that something was wrong.
Trying to place all of the ill fitting information into his sex addled brain, Spike was not prepared when Buffy shoved him off her, and he fell to the ground in a mess.
As he looked up he could see her standing above him – the light haloed around her head, as her hands went to her hips.
"You told me there was no one else!" she yelled, hysterical.
Getting to his knees, Spike found himself only able to repeat over and over the words, "Only you, only you!"
That seemed to placate her, for a bit. She helped him back to his feet, then began kneading the sensitive flesh around his prick, in the hopes that they could get right back to it.
He went to object; to tell her that there was some vital breakdown in communication, but she told him to "sshhh," and he found himself beginning to fall again.
His brain was fuzzy, and his demon told him to stop fighting it, but when Buffy moved his head to her neck and told him to drink he fought each and every one of his instincts and pushed back once more.
"Buffy, wait," he began, pleadingly.
She slapped him, then. Hard. And only as he processed what happened did he hear the apartment door click open.
To be continued...
