Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: 'Girly selfishness' is in high gear. You've been warned. J

~+~

The rain had stopped by morning. Isobelle picked her way through the puddles that flooded the walk, trying to keep her shoes dry. Success. She fit the key in the lock, then paused. She didn't want to go inside. She wasn't in the mood to deal with Spike yet.

The porch swing swayed invitingly, rocked by a light breeze that stirred the muggy air. She settled in, kicking off her shoes and resting the arches of her feet on the railing. The heat, the swing, the sunlight on her toes - she should be feeling good. So why wasn't she?

Spike.

Memories of the night before started to leak into her conscious mind, making her skin itch and stomach churn. She had wanted to kiss him. No, it had been more than that; she had wanted him to kiss her. World of difference, right? Hardly. Dancing, holding, touching - the way he had looked at her and had run his hands over her… what the hell had gone wrong?

"You're home."

She hadn't heard the door. She glanced over and saw Spike leaning in the doorway.

"I'm home."

"How was work?"

Small talk. He was keeping it light and safe. Good try, Isobelle thought, but I'm not in the mood for safe.

"Work was a non-event. Callback was a mistake."

"But, you didn't get home 'til now?"

Aww, that's sweet. He noticed.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Didn't feel like spending the rest of the night talking to your bedroom door."

Irritation crept into her voice. Talking to Spike was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Isobelle, about that…"

"Spike," she interrupted, "Let's drop it, okay? I really don't want to get into this now. I'm tired and cranky and us talking would not go well."

"I wanted you to know I'm sorry."

The swing slammed into the side of the house as she stood up. Her irritation began to mix with embarrassment. He's sorry?

"About which part?" she asked. "The 'leaving me standing in the den' part, or the 'bedroom door freeze-out'? Because I have to admit, both were new experiences for me."

She tried to push by him and into the house, but he blocked her path. Taking her by the arm, he guided her back to the swing.

"Could you just put the attitude away for a minute? I'm sorry for which ever one pissed you off more."

She pulled her arm from his grasp and tried to look mad. Humility stained her cheeks pink as she tried to separate her bruised ego from what was truly troubling her. She sat back down and took a breath, collecting her thoughts.

"The door. You ignored me and that wasn't acceptable. I can write off the - other - as being caught up in the moment, but I'll be damned if I let you brush me off like that."

Spike nodded. The soul prickled inside, stirred up by her anger, and a desire to appease her.

"No more brush-offs. Promise."

Isobelle blinked at him. "So, that's it? A little mea culpa and we're done?"

Spike made himself laugh. It hurt to laugh. It felt like razorblades slashing his chest and throat. But he choked it out, swallowing back the things he really wanted to say and do.

"We're done. Or, I could repeat the whole thing on my knees and add a few lines about begging your forgiveness. Your call."

Isobelle remained silent. Seconds ticked by as she considered his words. One part of her (where the hurt feelings and embarrassment still bubbled and burned) was enjoying this; having him standing there, waiting, was coldly satisfying.

That shook her.

How could she take pleasure in his discomfort?

What was he really apologizing for?

Hurting my feelings.

He's let it become all about me. And that's wrong, because it has nothing to do with me. He's the one who walked away and he's the one who's shut me out. These are his responses to - what? One errant dance? There has to be more to it than that.

Not me.

Him.

Oh, no.

She had been right, last night. He did share her feelings of affection and attraction, but having them reciprocated had been too much for him to handle. God, now she was punishing him for being sensitive.

There was nothing for her to forgive, but he wanted to hear the words.

"Okay," she finally relented, relieved as the tension started to fade. "Now you're teasing me. I'll take that as a sign things are right between us."

"Always."

Isobelle reached over and squeezed Spike's hand. "Good. I'm glad." She started to smile but it got lost in a yawn. Suddenly she was very tired.

Still holding onto his hand, she used it to pull herself up off the swing. "I guess I should go take a nap. Spending the night brooding isn't very restful."

Spike reluctantly let her fingers slip away. She paused in the doorway.

"You'll be here when I get up?"

More razors sliced inside.

"Of course."

~+~

It was dark and cool in the basement, a respite from the heat that baked the upper floors of the house. It smelled of damp concrete and laundry detergent. It reminded Spike of his crypt, except that it was cleaner.

The dryer hummed in the corner while Spike stood at the sink. Bed sheets were soaking in the pink-tinged water. He wrung the excess water from one section of linen and started scrubbing it with a brush. White sheets. Why did she have to put white sheets on my bed? His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked the bristles of the brush against the bloodstain. He had been careless last night, passing out and bleeding all over the bed. The burns on his chest had split and wept all over his sheets. He added bleach to the mark and scrubbed harder. Just make it go away, make it go away…

He tossed the sheets in the washer, then stripped off his T-shirt and added it to the load. Welts ran down his chest like wax from a candle, raw and red against his white skin. It had taken a whole vial of Holy Water last night to quiet the soul. It still picked and mewled inside, having tasted the comfort that Isobelle provided, wanting more. He pulled a clean shirt from the dryer before heading back upstairs.

He checked his room again, making sure he had cleaned up all traces of blood. Satisfied he hadn't missed anything, he put fresh linen on the bed and lay down. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet house. There it was. Slow, steady and deep. Breathing. Her breathing. Tucked in bed, down the hall, walls of plaster and wood between them - he could still hear her. He jammed a pillow tight to his chest, wincing as the welts stung.

You'll want Buffy just as much, he promised.

~+~

It was dark outside when Isobelle finally woke. Checking the bedside clock, she saw it was after ten PM. She had slept the day away. She got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen, calling out for Spike. There was no reply. He said he'd be there when she woke up; it disappointed her he wasn't home.

Home. She smiled at the thought. He'd been with her a month. When had she started to consider her house his home? Probably around the time it had started to feel like a home again, instead of a collection of walls and furniture. It was nice to walk through the door and know someone else was there, or had been there, and would be, later. Even when he was out, his presence lingered: paperback novels tucked in the arms of the sofa, the spicy scent of sandalwood from his soap, little notes on the counter… She picked up the note. Refined script flowed across the paper.

'belle - Sorry I didn't wake you. Had to go out. Supper's in the fridge. S.

"Had to go out?" she muttered, heading for the fridge. She laughed out loud, seeing his idea of 'supper': two peanut butter sandwiches and a banana. "Great if I was twelve," she commented to Miranda. The cat brushed against her leg, begging for treats. "Forget it," she chastised. "I told him he'd spoil you."

Supper in hand, she went to the porch and sat on the swing. It was a balmy night, the oppressive heat of the day having faded with the setting of the sun. She rocked in the swing, picking at her sandwich and enjoying the peace. A few of her neighbours were lingering on their decks, taking in whatever sights wandered down the quiet suburban street. She groaned quietly as Mrs. Sabic came trotting into sight. Yelping behind her was the ball of noisy white frizz she insisted was a dog. Plastering a smile on her face, she nodded as the woman approached her steps. Mrs. Sabic was the lurker of the neighbourhood; nothing happened without her knowing about it. Isobelle was surprised it took the old woman a month to stop by; she was sure Spike had been the topic of a few fence-side conversations since his arrival.

"Good evening, Mrs. Sabic. Nice night for a walk, isn't it?"

"Oh, darling, too hot. Too hot," she moaned. Her words were drawn out by a thick Romanian accent. "Can't hardly breathe in this heat."

"Not too bad out now," Isobelle replied.

"Not too bad - bad for you to be sitting here alone. Where is that fellow you have?"

Isobelle grinned. That took less than thirty seconds, she thought. Mrs. Sabic must be itching for details.

"Out. He' s out."

"Out? He should stay out. It doesn't look good. Young girl, like you, alone with this strange man… "

"He's a friend, Mrs. Sabic. Just a friend."

The old woman frowned at Isobelle and waggled a crooked finger at her. "You should want better friends. He's out all hours at night, isn't he? And staggers back home every time. No friend, if you ask me."

Isobelle narrowed her eyes. "How do you know all that?"

"I walk the dog. I see things. I see your fellow is maybe not so good. What kind of man stays out all night and hides during the day? It's not right."

"Thanks for your concern, but it's really none of your business." Isobelle stood and headed for the door. The old woman clucked her tongue and yanked at the leash in her hand. The white scrap at the end yipped once and bolted down the walk, owner in tow. "And keep your mutt out of my flowerbeds," she added, under her breath.

~+~

Spike pressed the Popsicle against his jaw. "Who ever heard of a convenience store running out of ice?" he muttered. Sticky grape liquid oozed out of the wrapper and trickled down his arm as it melted in the warm night air. "Not too bloody convenient, then."

He swung through the backyard gate and approached the porch steps, stopping short when he saw Isobelle sitting by the door. He tossed the makeshift cold-pack aside and tried to wipe the purple mess from his hand. She stood as he climbed the stairs, crossing her arms over her chest, coolness in her eyes. Suddenly, Spike felt like a schoolboy, caught coming home late from his lessons.

" 'belle," he greeted, hoping the bruise didn't show.

"Spike," she returned. She looked him over from top to bottom, pausing when something near his waist caught her eye. Before Spike could stop her, her hand had pulled the tail of his shirt out of his pants. A stake clattered to the porch.

Confusion played across her features as she picked up the weapon. With a sigh, she turned around and went into the house, Spike close at her heels.

"I can explain… " he started, closing the door behind them.

~+~

"Goddammit, 'belle, lookout behind you!" Spike shouted, pulling his stake from the dusty pile of his latest victim. Isobelle pivoted sharply on her heel in time to see a vamp lunge towards her. She had been so engrossed, watching Spike, she had forgotten to be on the lookout for any other dangers. With a yelp, she ducked the savage backhand aimed at her head, feeling the air whoosh by as the vamp's blow failed to connect. She twisted into a tight tuck and roll, trying to put some distance between her and the vamp's flying fists. She tucked well, but as her shoulder connected with the hard earth of the graveyard, she lost her momentum, landing flat on her back with a loud thud.

Spike winced at the sound. He paced a few feet away, giving her a chance to regain her footing and re-engage the advancing vampire.

This was a stupid, fucking mistake! his mind raged. What in the hell had ever possessed him to bring her along on patrol? Because she asked to come, you nit, and you haven't got the balls to say no to her.

"Get up, 'belle. Don't let him close in on you while you're on the ground."

"Great advice," she panted, twisting away as the vamp tried to kick her in the ribs. Her back spasmed, but she kept moving, putting enough distance between her and the vamp to stagger to her feet and meet him head on. The stake Spike had tucked into the waist of her cutoffs dug into the small of her back as she stood in a fighter's stance. Now better prepared, she easily dodged one punch after another.

Okay, so far, so good, she thought. Twenty-six seconds in, still alive.

Isobelle knew this was incredibly idiotic. The skills needed in demon fighting were nowhere close to her basic self-defense techniques. She was rusty, that was for damn sure; each move made her muscles and joints burn with the strain. But, after discovering what Spike had been doing at night, she had insisted on tagging along.

~+~

"No bloody way," he said flatly.

"Why not?"

"Where would you like me to start?" He began ticking off reasons on his fingers.

"Too dangerous, too dangerous, you don't know how to fight, too dangerous…"

"Stop repeating that one."

"…not to mention if I have to worry 'bout your ass… "

"HEY!!" she warned.

"Sorry… your HIDE… you'll get me good and trashed. So forget it."

"Can so fight… " she pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No, you can't. You help teach little girls -like you -how to keep their goodies safe from all the bad men and muggers, but you have no chance against the uglies I seek out."

"But… "

"NO! No buts!" he growled in frustration. "I'm sure you can take care of yourself, under normal circumstances. But vamps, demons… they're stronger, faster, and are only in it for the kill. Why would you want to put yourself in that kind of situation?"

"Okay, stop making sense. It's annoying."

"So, it's settled. You're not coming."

"If you say so."

Silence.

"Spike?"

"What?"

"Can you show me a few moves?"

~+~

Spike watched as Isobelle held her own against the now pissed-off vampire. Being human, she lacked the strength to really put the pound on a demon, but she was in good shape and fast on her feet. And she was proving to be a quick study. He should have known she wouldn't give up that easily. When she had asked him to show her some basic moves beyond her self-defense training, he understood that he would never get the idea of patrolling out of her head until she did it once. With great reluctance, he taught her a few things he thought would keep her from getting killed. Now, with bemused pride, he watched as she made good use of his lessons.

Not bad, he decided.

Isobelle stepped back as the vamp's punch went wide and took the opportunity to go on the offensive, aiming a hard kick to his abdomen. She landed it, but at the last second, he grabbed her ankle, jerking her off her feet and causing her to fall once again. The impact drove the air from her lungs, making her cough and sputter for breath. She looked up dizzily and saw the vamp looming over her, bending down for the kill. Someone was shouting her name. As the demon leaned in closer, she caught a glimpse of long, sharp fangs headed for her neck. Panic rose, clearing her head, urging her into action. With a savage blow she rammed the palm of her hand into his nose, feeling the bone buckle and crack as it flattened against his face. The vamp howled, stumbling back in pain. Taking a deep breath, Isobelle drew one leg back and with all her strength, drove it into the side of the vampire's knee, popping it out of joint and making him crash to the dirt. Rolling up on her knees, she pulled the stake from her cutoffs and plunged it into his heart. Dust and debris smattered her hot sweating skin as the vamp burst into ashes below her.

"Ugh, that's disgusting," she complained, trying to brush the remains from her skin. The sweat made it sticky and it started to itch. She looked up to see Spike crouch by her side and place a supporting hand behind her back.

"You alright?" he asked, running his eyes over her body, checking for wounds. Seeing only a few scrapes and bruises, he helped her up and led her towards the bench where she had stored her backpack.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she said, holding tightly to his arm as they walked. There was no way she was going to tell him that it felt like she'd strained every muscle in her body. He'd never let her hear the end of it.

He saw her wince as she sat on the stone seat, but gritted his teeth, biting back the 'I told you so' that was waiting to be spoken. Pulling a towel and a bottle of water out of her pack, he knelt in front of her, wet the cloth and started to wipe the dust from her scrapes. She rested her hand on his shoulder as he drew the towel over her skin, from shoulder to wrist. The dust came off easily and the itching started to subside. Adding more water to the towel, he did the same thing to the other arm. It felt nice, having him take care of her. At least he wasn't yelling at her. She frowned and reconsidered that last thought. Spike, being quiet, wasn't necessarily a good thing; at least if he was scolding her on how distracted and unprepared she'd been, she wouldn't have to wonder what was on his mind.

Spike sat back on his heels and looked at Isobelle. Her dark blue eyes were staring at him pensively. They were startling - clear, deep - like they saw everything and every thought that flitted through his mind. The soul twitched inside, excited from the fight and Its proximity to her. He handed the bottle of water to her and she took a long sip.

"Well?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Well what, pet?"

"Isn't it time that you started telling me about everything I did wrong tonight, reminding me how stupid and foolish it was to come out, how you were right and I was not and so on and so on…"

"Why would you think I'd say something like that?"

"I don't know. I didn't expect the silent bit. I figured the lecture was about to come."

Spike gave her a small smile. "Nope. No lecture. But, this was stupid, foolish, and I was right… "

"Okay, I get it… "

" …and you did a good job."

She gave him a surprised look. "Really?"

Spike wiped absently at a smudge of dirt on her chin. "Yeah. Not that I'm thrilled about it, but you held your own. Too much parry, not enough thrust. They're vampires, 'belle. Dancing with them won't tire them out. Get your target off-balance and go for the heart. End it fast, then move on."

He tossed the towel to the bench and held her hands, his fingers running lazy circles over the inside of her wrists. "But you shouldn't be doing this. This isn't what you were meant for. These hands… these aren't killing hands. They're for healing, for compassion, for … " he spoke softly, gazing down at the tangle of fingers and palms. Isobelle kept quiet. Despite the chill of his skin, his touch made her feel warm, and she savoured the tiny thrill that rippled through her.

Seconds ticked by in silence. Spike looked up, meeting her eyes. With a start, he released her hands and stood up. "Right," he said, absently brushing dust from his jeans. "I think that's enough for tonight. Let's go." He quickly returned the towel and bottle to the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Offering his hand to Isobelle, he helped her up off the bench and began to lead her out of the cemetery.

"Isn't it still early?" she asked. "It's barely after midnight… "

"I said we're done."

They exited the gates and made their way down the deserted streets. Isobelle didn't want to go home; she knew if they returned this early, he'd excuse himself and retreat to his room, or possibly wait until she fell asleep and go back out alone. The idea of him doing this by himself, having seen the danger involved, up close, unsettled her.

She cast him a sideways glance as these thoughts ran through her mind. A near full moon had risen, bathing everything in a clean white light. It silvered his bleached hair, and made his pale, flawless skin glow. Her stomach gave a small flutter as she took in the sight. God, he's handsome. No, not handsome, that's not strong enough. Sexy. Intense. Beautiful. Her mind continued to ramble and, distracted by him, she stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk.

"Careful," he said, his arm shooting out to grab her waist, to keep her from falling to her knees on the concrete. She flushed with embarrassment.

"Thanks," she replied, holding onto the back of his arm as she regained her balance. "Guess I zoned out for a minute."

Spike watched her cheeks redden as she righted herself. His hand was firmly set on her hip, keeping her steady, as she found her footing. They continued walking. Spike left his hand where it was, his arm resting nicely along the curve of her waist, encouraging her to settle closer to his side. She let her hand drift down from his arm, to glide along his shoulder, before settling it shyly on the small of his back. Heat oozed from her palm, through to his skin and he bit his lip. Her simple, casual touch felt good. Not sexual - well, not completely sexual - but warm, accepting, comforting… The soul latched onto the sensation, begging for more. He gave in to Its demands and slowed his pace, prolonging the walk home, keeping her close for as long as he could manage. It was getting harder and harder to deny his feelings, to refuse the desire of his soul. He found her so bloody attractive, but he could never hope to have her. Just like Buffy.

But not just like Buffy. Spike closed his eyes and focused on the feel of her palm on his back. Buffy's touch hadn't felt like that; it had never been gentle or modest. Her hands had always wrung from him the extremes of pleasure or pain; he had accepted every stroke, every punch, with gratitude. She berated his feelings, denying his claims of love by telling him he was in love with pain – well of course he was. Buffy was the embodiment of pain – hard, defeated, tenacious, and proud – and he had loved her for it; had loved her in spite of it. Part of him still did. But he couldn't deny that the devotion he still felt for Buffy had begun to pale in comparison to what he was starting to feel for Isobelle. The soul inside wanted her, not the Slayer; no matter how hard he fought It, nor how much he punished It, Isobelle was all It saw.

Isobelle willed herself to relax into Spike's half-embrace, not wanting to do anything that would make him withdraw his arm. Tentatively, she moved her hand from his back to his waist, and was rewarded with a light squeeze on her hip. She resisted the urge to respond in kind, only settling closer to his side.

Isobelle inwardly groaned as they approached the house. She didn't want the moment to end. They climbed the steps to the porch, Spike releasing her to dig his keys out of his pocket. Isobelle slumped down on the porch swing, setting her feet on the railing, as Spike tossed the backpack into the entryway. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment.

"You coming inside?"

She shook her head. "No, not yet. It's cooling some. Too nice to go in." Thank God he didn't turn the light on, she thought. The darkness, broken only by the moonlight and the street lamps, drew out the quiet mood of their walk home. She patted the spot next to her on the swing. "Join me?"

The swing shifted as he settled in beside her. She pressed the arches of her feet against the rail, rocking the swing slowly. Spike let his eyes wander to her legs, watching the muscles of her calves tense and release. The moonlight created highlights and shadows on her skin, drawing his gaze from her calves to her knees and upward to the hem of her cutoffs, which had ridden up slightly to tease him with a hint of her thigh. Both Soul and Demon were stirred by the sight.

"Thank you."

"Huh? Sorry?" he said, confused.

"For taking me with you tonight. You didn't want to, but I really appreciate that you brought me along."

"Oh. Well, you're welcome."

He wanted to touch her, to brush a stray curl from her face, or have her slide over and press one of those milky white thighs against his…

Too hard! Too fucking hard! Being this close and trying not to hold her, to pull her into him and do things that would make her quiver and moan…

Isobelle caught him off guard by shifting slightly onto her hip, resting her head on his shoulder and snuggling into his side. Spike was stunned. Did she realize what she was doing, or was she just tired and trying to get comfortable? Surrendering to the soul that cried inside, he slipped his arm out from under her and draped it across her shoulders. She didn't move away, instead pressing closer, brushing her chestnut curls against his cheek.

This is nice, she thought. She'd been afraid that he would move away and keep his distance. But he hadn't. That pleased her to no end.

"Spike?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"What we did tonight. Patrolling."

He gave an unnecessary sigh. "It just needs to be done."

"By you?"

He gave a small laugh. "You want to do it? You weren't bad tonight love, but don't quit your day job."

"That's not what I mean." She tilted her head up, trying to catch his eyes. "It's not something you have to do."

"You fancy having all these evil little nasties running around your hometown?"

"No, but I didn't even know vampires were real before I met you. I guess I just don't understand why this is so important."

"It's complicated." He hugged her a bit closer. "Do we really have to talk about this now?"

"Sorry," she mumbled, pressing her cheek into his chest. "I can tell you're not doing it for yourself, satisfying what's left of the big bad lust for manly violence."

"What makes you think you know me that well?" he asked, a bit more sharply than he intended. Isobelle winced slightly at the tone of his voice, but didn't pull away.

"Just a feeling. Tell me I'm wrong."

He couldn't. She was right. Damn her for learning to read him so well. But he couldn't tell her why. His reasons weren't completely noble or selfless; every night was a test and each righteous kill would take some of the self-loathing away. Twisted, destructive vamp therapy. It was a pathetic excuse, but nowhere near as shameful as his core motivation: he fought demons, risking life and soul, to win the respect of a girl who was probably happier that he was gone.

But how much of that mattered anymore?

God this is pathetic, he thought. Look where I am. It's the middle of a warm summer night and I have one of the prettiest little things I've ever seen curled beside me, and I'm still fixating on someone who would as soon as stake me as talk to me. So what do I tell her?

"You're not wrong," he relented, softening his tone. "Just know that I have my reasons."

"As long as they're good ones, I'll accept that."

"Big of you, 'belle, thanks."

"Don't… " she said, planting her hand in the middle of his chest and pushing herself up from his side. "Don't be glib about this."

Spike turned to face her, and was stunned to see tears, unshed, shining in her eyes.

"I'd never stop you from doing what you feel is important," she began, voice shaky, "but I was never scared before tonight… I… I… care about you… and if anything happened to you, out there, alone at night… I… damn, this was not the way I thought I'd have this discussion with you… " She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes, trying to clear the tears away.

She cared about him.

Do it.

Want her.

Take her.

Please, please, please…

His hand rested on her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that trailed down her skin.

"No?" he asked gently, hoping his voice didn't shake. "Do you want to start over?"

"Uh-uh," she sniffled. "I am embarrassed enough as it is. I'm sorry… I should never have started this now… especially since… well, last time… "

"Shh, don't be upset, love."

He stroked her cheek tenderly.

Please.

NOW!!!

"Look at me, Isobelle."

Hesitantly, she lifted her blue eyes to his, and was taken aback at the warmth she saw there. He was studying her intently, his eyes roving over her face, caressing her with his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned forward, his lips meeting hers in a soft, slow kiss.

Everything stopped in that moment. Isobelle was only aware of him, the cool dryness of his lips on hers. Spike savoured the warm wetness of her mouth, easing his tongue between her lips, deepening the kiss. He couldn't get close enough to her…

Yes… yes… yes… yes…

Thank you.

Reluctantly they separated, Isobelle drawing a long, needed breath as their lips parted.

"Spike," she whispered, tracing his mouth with her fingertips.

"I know," he replied, pulling her across his lap, cradling her against his body. "I will, I promise."

Joy, anxiety, regret - they all flooded through him as he held her close. He was giving in; the soul was beating him. Beating him? Why was he fighting It in the first place? Isobelle was everything he should want in a woman; everything William would have wanted as well. But - Buffy… what of her? Was that part over now? What had he started here? Could he walk away from Isobelle when he was ready to face Buffy again?

Spike squeezed his eyes shut, trying to rid his brain of these thoughts, these conflicting emotions. Isobelle nestled closer, placing a kiss on his neck.

Stop!

Feel.

Love…

He felt her tongue dance over his skin as she kissed a path to his jaw. Tilting his head, he gave in again to the pleas of his soul and captured her mouth with his.

~+~