A/N: I just wanna apologize if the fic seems schizo at all; this is only my second long-term, many-chaptered project and I have so many ideas I'm trying to layer and piece together. I'm not sure I'm introducing ideas and foreshadowing as subtly as I want to, so any constructive criticism would be appreciated. Also, I've been trying to make the chaps longer but to no avail. My muse has a short attention span. (Anyone know if they sell Ritalin for mystical types?) Oh, and this chap should probably be NC-17 for some dirty talk and naughty fun, but since they don't allow those anymore ::coughprudebastardscough:: we'll just hafta slap an R on it and call it a day ;O) .





By the time the sun rises Anya has managed to push most of her concern to the back of her mind via a few hours of dreamless sleep. She climbed into the backseat sometime around two and fell asleep about an hour later; but it hadn't come easily. Between misusing her powers-- albeit harmlessly-- and being able to feel Spike's unease at her mood, she'd had a hard time settling down. But a little bit of black, mind-clearing slumber has helped her to bury her worries beneath the surface of her conscious.

For now at least.

She wakes in the backseat of the car, wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket. It's still dark inside because of the blacked-out windows, but she can see the sun shining through cracks in the paint. Stretching, she sits up and lets the blanket fall to the floor.

"Morning," she says to Spike, being careful to use her normal cheerful tones. She leans between the seats and plants a kiss on his cheek.

"Morning," he replies, pulling her up into the passenger seat. "Feeling better?"

"Oh, yes. I just needed a little more sleep."

"Good. Just as long as it's not PMS or anything of the like, I think I can handle it."

She smiles. "Then I guess you really don't have anything to worry about. Ever."

He gives her a questioning look. "Why? 'J you get a hysterectomy?"

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not human anymore, Spike. My body doesn't function like a regular woman's. Which means no more bloating, no more mood swings, no more cramps, and no more bleeding for five days straight."

"Well, that's a relief," he says, then adds, "for you, too, of course."

"Isn't it? I suppose the only drawback is not being able to have children. But I mean, now that I'm with *you*..."

"It wouldn't have been able to happen anyway," he finishes. "That bother you?"

She shrugs. "Not really. There *are* perks to being sterile, you know."

"Such as?"

She grins. "Well, for one, you don't have to worry about birth control. No having to stop because there's no protection. You can have sex anytime... anywhere..."

"Is that so." He looks over at her, sees that she's got that glint of seduction in her eyes. 'She's a bloody walking orgasm,' he thinks amusedly.

"Yes, it is," she says, voice reaching that mischievous, sexy note of hers. "Like say, in a car, spur of the moment, on the side of the highway. Sound enticing?"

"I'd have to say yes," he replies. "*Very* enticing."

"Good." She touches his thigh with her palm. "Now pull over. I'm horny."

Spike needs no further prompting. He steers the car into the shadow of an underpass and turns the engine off. Anya's on him in a second flat, covering his face with kisses as he pushes her back over into the passenger seat and reaches for the reclining lever. He pulls it and the seat falls to a gentle incline; she lays back with it, wrapping her arms around his neck as he moves on top of her. His mouth is all over her throat, his hands working at the buttons on her shirt to bare more of her skin to him. She slides the duster off his shoulders but leaves his ebony t-shirt on; 'This is going to be a quickie,' she thinks, glancing out the window at the passing traffic.

Spike pulls his pants down just far enough to free himself from the restraints of black denim and waits for Anya to finish getting her capris out of the way.

"Spike," she breathes as she puts her feet up on the dashboard.

"What..." he asks, climbing between her legs.

"Let's do something different."

He pulls back and looks at her. "Uh... in case you haven't noticed, Anya, we're in a soddin' car."

"It doesn't take up space," she tells him, grinning at his expression. "I want you to talk dirty to me."

A delighted smirk spreads across Spike's face. "Ahhh," he says. He likes the sound of this. "So Demon Girl wants a tongue lashing."

"We did the tongue lashing yesterday. I want the words that are inappropriate for use in public." She reaches down and runs a hand over his groin. "Come on, Fang Boy. Talk me up."

His smirk broadens as one of her legs bends around his wiry hips and pulls him into her; he thrusts forward to get himself deeper.

"Mmmmm..."

Spike starts to move slowly back and forth, pushing his hips against her to create that goddess-blessed friction they both love so much. His lips brush across her ear, he bites the lobe teasingly and then whispers, "You are so hot, Anya, so fucking hot. Hotter than any other woman I've been with."

She smiles and grasps the back of his neck. "Excellent start."

"I know," he says, then runs his tongue over her jugular, feeling her pulse quicken. "I want to taste every inch of your body." He licks along her jaw. "Every..." His tongue is on her ear again. "Single..." It skims over her lips. "Inch."

Anya opens her mouth and lets Spike slip his tongue in, flooding her tastebuds with a cool, palatable tinge of smoke and blood. In the few weeks since they started up the physical aspect of their relationship, they've shared hundreds of kisses, but Anya still can't get over how refined Spike's technique is. He's passionate, consuming, ravaging, tender, all at once; wet and open-mouthed without being sloppy, calculated without being mechanical. He's intricate, just the way she likes it.

Spike takes his lips away from hers and looks at her with that evil smirk on his face, increasing the pressure of his thrusts the slightest bit. She whimpers at him; he knows she wants it harder, but her wanting dirty talk has put him in one of his more uncooperative moods.

"You can do better than that, Demon Girl," he drawls. "Make some noise for me."

She moans louder, digging her fingers into his back for effect. "Yessss..."

He arches into the stinging of her nails, enjoying the sweet sadism of it. "Eh, it's getting there," he says as he surpresses a groan with a mock tone of unsatisfaction.

"Yeah? Well so am I," Anya tells him. Her words are punctuated with bursts of heavy breath. "Keep talking..."

Spike runs one hand up her naked leg, fingertips barely grazing the skin. The other hand pulls the thin blue strap of her bra down her arm, his mouth following to lap and nibble at her exposed flesh. "I'm gonna make you burn inside," he purrs. His teeth nip the spot where her shoulder and neck come together. "And I'm gonna keep you burning until you beg me to stop. And then you're gonna come so hard they'll hear you screaming back in Sunnyhell." The hand that was on her thigh moves higher, over her hippbone and between them, pressing against her with a delicious determination.

"Oh, God!" Anya cries out. 'This is working,' she thinks. 'This is definitely working.'

Spike is beginning to find it difficult to keep himself under control; Anya's demon is like a magnet to his, her sounds of pleasure are pushing him even closer to vamping out or having an orgasm-- maybe both. He grits his teeth and keeps moving on her, voice strained as he growls into her ear, "That's it, luv, let me hear how good I make you feel."

She closes her arms around his shoulders and kisses him hard, hissing his name into his mouth. "Sssspiiiike."
He returns her ravaging affections, the vibrations of her moans echoing back through her own lips. "God, you're so... unnnhhh... you're so good..." His voice catches in his throat as her fingers tangle in his bleached hair and pull his face to her neck.

"Hurt me," she gasps, eyes flashing with an inhuman need. She's close now, perched on the edge. "Finish me."

She hears him let out a rumble of approval, then feels the skin on his face turn hard and bumpy. He may not be able to drink from her, but he sure as hell can still bite her. His razorblade fangs hover over her tender flesh for just a second before plunging in.

Anya lets out a scream of fiery pleasure and searing pain as blood and orgasm well up and spill from her body. Her muscles throb and strain, nails digging deeper into Spike's back as he removes his fangs from her neck and roars the intensity of his own release. The drops of demon blood that managed to find their way to his tongue leave a powerful, bitter taste in his mouth that dissipates only after he slides out of game face and out of Anya's warm body.

Neither of them speak for a few minutes as they come down and haphazardly pull their clothes back on. Anya adjusts the seat so it's upright again, then turns to Spike, who by now is back in the driver's seat.

"Remember last night when we got into that name-calling fight?" she asks, wiping the last of the blood from her neck. "And I said we could have ended up beating the hell out of each other, and you said that or *screwing* the hell out of each other?"

"Yeah," he replies, throwing her a sideways grin as he puts the keys in the ignition. "Why?"

"Well," she says, "I think we just did."

TBC...