'Where can I run to?
Where can I hide?
Who will I turn to?
Now I'm in a virgin state of mind.'
Buffy stretched on the sidewalk before her house, the heat seeping in through the huge clouds that formed overhead to spread over her skin. She sighed, checked her ponytail to ensure that her long golden hair was sufficiently encased, and then took off at a slow jog through the quiet neighborhood. As she ran she felt her muscles relaxing into the familiar mindless rhythm, the tension that had built up in them over the past week slowly dissipating.
She savored the silence which was broken only by the mundane murmur from inside the houses, the occasional roar of an engine, the chirp of a bird; so different from the violent sounds that normally followed her. Her mind roamed as she moved, speeding ahead of her feet as it drifted aimlessly, eventually bringing her back, however reluctantly, to the object that had fixated her for the past week: Spike. Even now the imprint of his lips against hers refused to vanish, no matter how often or vigorously she washed her face. The sensation of his cool hand cupping her breast haunted her as well, leaving her with a hollowness in her stomach that she couldn't explain.
After that awkward, altering, kiss she'd fled, locked herself in the bathroom, waited until she'd heard the tell tale sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. When she'd emerged she'd discovered that he'd taken one of the thick quilts from the linen closet, a sacrifice she felt she could live with if it had enabled him to leave. Except that he hadn't, not really.
Buffy paused in her run, hands over her head, as she breathed in the hot summer air. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, her complexion flushed as she closed her eyes, calming her heart beat. His presence continued to make itself felt to her, every time she entered her house, her room, her bed, she saw him there. No matter that he'd been there for little more than twelve hours, it had been long enough for the house to absorb every inch of him. Enough for her to forget her disgust, her duty, and succumb to his touch.
Although in her defense, she concluded, he did have an extremely talented touch.
Buffy grimaced and began the trek back to her house, her mind still occupied by the Spike problem. She knew unequivocally that there was no one she could confide in, she was completely alone when it came to erasing Spike from her sensory memory. Not even her recent frantic attempts with Riley had proved successful. Instead, they'd had the complete opposite effect; each time she left his bed she came away increasingly unsatisfied, the question of how it might've been with Spike, if she'd have let it go that far, ensconced in her mind. The adjective mind-blowing had appeared in conjunction with it more that once.
The red sun sat perched precariously on the horizon as it sank, the shadows extending from under the trees, the heat lessening only a fraction of an inch. By the time she'd reached her house dusk had effectively fallen, leaving the sky a myriad of bruised purples and blues, the first few stars winking against the sky. She made it to the door before she noticed the silent figure watching her from the shadows of the porch, his lit cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth. She froze, her hand on the knob, her hazel eyes wide with shock.
He smirked, the gesture hiding the nervousness that sprung to life at the sight of her. Carelessly he tossed the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out, his cerulean eyes taking the opportunity to drink in the sight of her, flushed and dazed. He took a step forward, fought the urge to grab her in his arms and press her against him, to feel her heat engulf him again. "Slayer," his voice was rough as he addressed her, "We need to talk."
She nodded once, dumbly, the shock of seeing him finally wearing off to be replaced by a giddiness that she couldn't explain. She turned the knob absently and stepped inside, gesturing for Spike to follow her. He did so wordlessly, moving aside so she could close the door.
Silence engulfed them as they stood in the dim foyer, each eyeing the other warily, fighting their own internal wars against the instinct that rose in them, commanding them to seize, claim, know. He took a step forward, she followed suit. He swallowed hard, his voice choked, "What happened last time …."
"Was a mistake," she finished, her hazel eyes drowning in his, her skin aching for his touch, "We were both angry."
He nodded, "A simple mistake." Sighed, moved closer despite the warning that signaled in his brain. She didn't back up.
"It's just been so long," they both said in unison.
The words sunk in, awareness shining in both their eyes. Buffy raised one trembling hand and placed it on his chest, heard his sharp intake of breath at the heated contact, felt the coolness of his skin through the silk button down dress shirt and the thin cotton tee beneath it, "This is wrong."
He nodded, his hands going to her waist, "More than that." Buffy's eyes fell closed as he touched her, yearning spearing through her as the cold palms shifted, the fingers tracing her muscles. One hand came up to cup her face, the coolness of his touch coaxing her heavy-lidded eyes to open. Without another word he pressed his mouth against hers.
Buffy let out a startled gasp at the onslaught of sensation his mouth evoked. His long masculine fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer to him, the other hand encircling her thin waist. Even pressed as she was against him, breast to chest and hip to thigh, she felt the need to get closer. Her slender arms wound about his neck, tousling his hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss.
The cool pressure of his tongue against her mouth startled her and she jumped, unprepared for the raspy tenor of his voice as he murmured against his mouth, "Let me in." She parted her lips, his tongue finding her own, claiming, caressing, possessing, imitating the joining of two bodies. Her head spun as she clung to him feverishly, giving herself up completely to his kiss.
"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I mentioned talking," Spike panted when they finally pulled apart.
Buffy nodded numbly, the ghost of a smile flirting around her lips, "You complaining?"
He shook his head feverishly, "Bloody hell, Slayer. Of course not." The urge to take her back into her arms and claim her as his fought against his control. He swallowed, ignoring the pink dart of her tongue as it peeked out to moisten her thoroughly kissed lips. He deliberately ran his hands along the sides of her body before releasing her and taking a step back.
Buffy sighed at the loss of contact, a small pout forming on her mouth. Settling herself on the edge of the stairs she glanced up at Spike, noting the hardness of his face, "I'm guessing you still want to talk."
He nodded, fighting to keep his hormones out of control. Certain parts of his anatomy had very specific ideas of what they'd like to be doing with the willing Slayer, and the least of them was talking -- unless of course, it was dirty. Keeping his eyes firmly focused on hers he nodded, "This shouldn't be happening."
Buffy nodded, fighting back the sudden prick of hurt that his words had caused. She was very much aware that despite the last two interludes there had not been any significant change in their situations; she was still a Slayer and he was still a vampire, albeit a chipped one. And, as always, there was Riley to consider. "You, vampire. Me, Slayer. And there's Riley," Buffy added, "He is my boyfriend."
If it was possible Spike's face hardened even further, "Can't forget that can we."
Buffy shrugged, "He's exactly what I need."
Spike's jaw clenched and unclenched as jealousy began to wind it's way through his system. Forcing his voice to remain neutral he lifted one eyebrow, "And what exactly would that be?"
Buffy settled back on the stairs, outwardly oblivious to Spike's tense frame, "He's reliable, safe, sweet, normal …" She paused for a second before continuing, "And human."
Spike's hands fisted, "Sounds more like a puppy to me."
Buffy frowned, "Riley's the one for me." Her mind flashed back to the recent debacle in his bedroom and she flushed guiltily, "Sure we have our problems but, in general, everything we need is already there."
Spike snorted, "A soul?"
Buffy nodded, "A soul. Also, I love him. He loves me."
That was it, the tenuous grip Spike had on his volatile emotions flew. In two long strides he was at the edge of the stairs. He reached down and yanked Buffy up viscously by her arm, her mouth widened in surprise and anger but before she could speak his mouth was on hers, plundering and claiming. The hands on her body were rough and demanding, taking all she was willing to offer and then some. Buffy's senses swept into overdrive as he kneaded her taut breasts, her head tilted back as she gasped, Spike's cool lips latched onto her throat and sucked on the tender skin while he tormented one tight nipple. He pulled free suddenly, his hands holding her a few inches from him, Buffy's skin screaming at the loss.
"Tell me," his voice was low and dangerous, "that he can make you feel like that."
Buffy opened her mouth to prove him wrong and found that she couldn't. She stared up at him, her hazel eyes a mass of confusion, her inner voice thrown into even greater turmoil at the swirling blackness in Spike's orbs. He smirked at her, correctly reading her silence and, before Buffy had time to collect her wits, was gone.
Where can I hide?
Who will I turn to?
Now I'm in a virgin state of mind.'
Buffy stretched on the sidewalk before her house, the heat seeping in through the huge clouds that formed overhead to spread over her skin. She sighed, checked her ponytail to ensure that her long golden hair was sufficiently encased, and then took off at a slow jog through the quiet neighborhood. As she ran she felt her muscles relaxing into the familiar mindless rhythm, the tension that had built up in them over the past week slowly dissipating.
She savored the silence which was broken only by the mundane murmur from inside the houses, the occasional roar of an engine, the chirp of a bird; so different from the violent sounds that normally followed her. Her mind roamed as she moved, speeding ahead of her feet as it drifted aimlessly, eventually bringing her back, however reluctantly, to the object that had fixated her for the past week: Spike. Even now the imprint of his lips against hers refused to vanish, no matter how often or vigorously she washed her face. The sensation of his cool hand cupping her breast haunted her as well, leaving her with a hollowness in her stomach that she couldn't explain.
After that awkward, altering, kiss she'd fled, locked herself in the bathroom, waited until she'd heard the tell tale sound of the front door opening and slamming shut. When she'd emerged she'd discovered that he'd taken one of the thick quilts from the linen closet, a sacrifice she felt she could live with if it had enabled him to leave. Except that he hadn't, not really.
Buffy paused in her run, hands over her head, as she breathed in the hot summer air. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, her complexion flushed as she closed her eyes, calming her heart beat. His presence continued to make itself felt to her, every time she entered her house, her room, her bed, she saw him there. No matter that he'd been there for little more than twelve hours, it had been long enough for the house to absorb every inch of him. Enough for her to forget her disgust, her duty, and succumb to his touch.
Although in her defense, she concluded, he did have an extremely talented touch.
Buffy grimaced and began the trek back to her house, her mind still occupied by the Spike problem. She knew unequivocally that there was no one she could confide in, she was completely alone when it came to erasing Spike from her sensory memory. Not even her recent frantic attempts with Riley had proved successful. Instead, they'd had the complete opposite effect; each time she left his bed she came away increasingly unsatisfied, the question of how it might've been with Spike, if she'd have let it go that far, ensconced in her mind. The adjective mind-blowing had appeared in conjunction with it more that once.
The red sun sat perched precariously on the horizon as it sank, the shadows extending from under the trees, the heat lessening only a fraction of an inch. By the time she'd reached her house dusk had effectively fallen, leaving the sky a myriad of bruised purples and blues, the first few stars winking against the sky. She made it to the door before she noticed the silent figure watching her from the shadows of the porch, his lit cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth. She froze, her hand on the knob, her hazel eyes wide with shock.
He smirked, the gesture hiding the nervousness that sprung to life at the sight of her. Carelessly he tossed the cigarette to the ground and stamped it out, his cerulean eyes taking the opportunity to drink in the sight of her, flushed and dazed. He took a step forward, fought the urge to grab her in his arms and press her against him, to feel her heat engulf him again. "Slayer," his voice was rough as he addressed her, "We need to talk."
She nodded once, dumbly, the shock of seeing him finally wearing off to be replaced by a giddiness that she couldn't explain. She turned the knob absently and stepped inside, gesturing for Spike to follow her. He did so wordlessly, moving aside so she could close the door.
Silence engulfed them as they stood in the dim foyer, each eyeing the other warily, fighting their own internal wars against the instinct that rose in them, commanding them to seize, claim, know. He took a step forward, she followed suit. He swallowed hard, his voice choked, "What happened last time …."
"Was a mistake," she finished, her hazel eyes drowning in his, her skin aching for his touch, "We were both angry."
He nodded, "A simple mistake." Sighed, moved closer despite the warning that signaled in his brain. She didn't back up.
"It's just been so long," they both said in unison.
The words sunk in, awareness shining in both their eyes. Buffy raised one trembling hand and placed it on his chest, heard his sharp intake of breath at the heated contact, felt the coolness of his skin through the silk button down dress shirt and the thin cotton tee beneath it, "This is wrong."
He nodded, his hands going to her waist, "More than that." Buffy's eyes fell closed as he touched her, yearning spearing through her as the cold palms shifted, the fingers tracing her muscles. One hand came up to cup her face, the coolness of his touch coaxing her heavy-lidded eyes to open. Without another word he pressed his mouth against hers.
Buffy let out a startled gasp at the onslaught of sensation his mouth evoked. His long masculine fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer to him, the other hand encircling her thin waist. Even pressed as she was against him, breast to chest and hip to thigh, she felt the need to get closer. Her slender arms wound about his neck, tousling his hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss.
The cool pressure of his tongue against her mouth startled her and she jumped, unprepared for the raspy tenor of his voice as he murmured against his mouth, "Let me in." She parted her lips, his tongue finding her own, claiming, caressing, possessing, imitating the joining of two bodies. Her head spun as she clung to him feverishly, giving herself up completely to his kiss.
"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I mentioned talking," Spike panted when they finally pulled apart.
Buffy nodded numbly, the ghost of a smile flirting around her lips, "You complaining?"
He shook his head feverishly, "Bloody hell, Slayer. Of course not." The urge to take her back into her arms and claim her as his fought against his control. He swallowed, ignoring the pink dart of her tongue as it peeked out to moisten her thoroughly kissed lips. He deliberately ran his hands along the sides of her body before releasing her and taking a step back.
Buffy sighed at the loss of contact, a small pout forming on her mouth. Settling herself on the edge of the stairs she glanced up at Spike, noting the hardness of his face, "I'm guessing you still want to talk."
He nodded, fighting to keep his hormones out of control. Certain parts of his anatomy had very specific ideas of what they'd like to be doing with the willing Slayer, and the least of them was talking -- unless of course, it was dirty. Keeping his eyes firmly focused on hers he nodded, "This shouldn't be happening."
Buffy nodded, fighting back the sudden prick of hurt that his words had caused. She was very much aware that despite the last two interludes there had not been any significant change in their situations; she was still a Slayer and he was still a vampire, albeit a chipped one. And, as always, there was Riley to consider. "You, vampire. Me, Slayer. And there's Riley," Buffy added, "He is my boyfriend."
If it was possible Spike's face hardened even further, "Can't forget that can we."
Buffy shrugged, "He's exactly what I need."
Spike's jaw clenched and unclenched as jealousy began to wind it's way through his system. Forcing his voice to remain neutral he lifted one eyebrow, "And what exactly would that be?"
Buffy settled back on the stairs, outwardly oblivious to Spike's tense frame, "He's reliable, safe, sweet, normal …" She paused for a second before continuing, "And human."
Spike's hands fisted, "Sounds more like a puppy to me."
Buffy frowned, "Riley's the one for me." Her mind flashed back to the recent debacle in his bedroom and she flushed guiltily, "Sure we have our problems but, in general, everything we need is already there."
Spike snorted, "A soul?"
Buffy nodded, "A soul. Also, I love him. He loves me."
That was it, the tenuous grip Spike had on his volatile emotions flew. In two long strides he was at the edge of the stairs. He reached down and yanked Buffy up viscously by her arm, her mouth widened in surprise and anger but before she could speak his mouth was on hers, plundering and claiming. The hands on her body were rough and demanding, taking all she was willing to offer and then some. Buffy's senses swept into overdrive as he kneaded her taut breasts, her head tilted back as she gasped, Spike's cool lips latched onto her throat and sucked on the tender skin while he tormented one tight nipple. He pulled free suddenly, his hands holding her a few inches from him, Buffy's skin screaming at the loss.
"Tell me," his voice was low and dangerous, "that he can make you feel like that."
Buffy opened her mouth to prove him wrong and found that she couldn't. She stared up at him, her hazel eyes a mass of confusion, her inner voice thrown into even greater turmoil at the swirling blackness in Spike's orbs. He smirked at her, correctly reading her silence and, before Buffy had time to collect her wits, was gone.