A/N: Certain pieces of this part are removed in order to comply with Fanfiction.net's smut rules. If you are of the age to view such content and wish to, the entire, unchanged work can be found at http://www.gypsy-dreaming.net. If not, deal with the censorship.
* From William Shakespears "Othello" 3.4 v.160-163.
'Wind in time,
Rapes the flower trembling on the vine,
And nothing leads to shelter it.'
July was well underway and the summer heat hadn't waned at all. The inhabitants of Sunnydale were sluggish in their eat, alive and undead alike, each searching desperately for the pleasures that would allow them to escape the heat; to dawdle away the hours until night, and the nights until the fall.
Buffy sighed and rolled over in bed, her hand languidly tracing the cool flesh of her lover. He stirred, his charcoal eyelashes forming shadowy crescent moons on the sharp planes of his face as he slept. Her hand moved from his arm to his chest, tracing one flat nipple before venturing down the middle to the hardness of his stomach. He stiffened, moaned, his eyes fluttering open to look at her as she sat above him, her long golden hair falling about her.
Buffy was the first to stir, her body warm against Spike's cold chest. She kissed him lightly, teasingly, "I should go. It's almost morning."
Spike nodded, kissing her back, "Your mum will be worried."
Buffy sighed against his mouth, her agreement lost in his kiss.
Joyce's return from her art buying trip a week ago had done little to discourage the pair. From her house they had ventured to Spike's crypt situated in the middle of the graveyard, conveniently furnished with a large feather bed on the lower level. Night after night they'd met, frantically, obsessively. Buffy, for her part, couldn't get enough of him. She lived solely for the moments when he entered her, filling her completely, bringing her to new heights of pleasure. Her nights were all his. Spike was just as enthralled, the scent of her haunting him in her absence, the sensory memory of her body tattooed on his very fibers.
The net they had woven around each other was to tangled now to escape.
Buffy left his bed reluctantly, dressing slowly beneath his heated gaze. He followed her lead, slipping on a pair of jeans as he escorted her to the upper level of the crypt. She stepped out into the warm night, Spike close behind her. His arms wrapped themselves about her waist, pulling her against him, his mouth finding her ear. She sighed, pressed into him and turned her head to kiss him.
His hands stroked her stomach, her breasts, her neck, intimately. Every action betraying their intimacy, the ever-growing connection between them. When they pulled away they were both breathless, the silent night heavy around them. Her hand traced his face, before pulling him down into another kiss, "I don't want to go."
He nodded, his hands tight on her body, "I know."
She kissed him again before disentangling herself from her reluctantly. It was getting harder and harder to leave every time. Her body screamed out for his, desperate for his touch, his kisses. She began to walk away slowly, determinedly not looking back. She couldn't.
* * *
Arthur smiled at the photographs that lay on the table before him. This, he thought smugly, this was better than gold. Casually he flipped through the photos, chuckling as he viewed the blonde duo in a variety of compromising positions. That this would bring Finn around to his side he had no doubt.
Love, when manipulated was a very powerful tool. Hatred, even more powerful, and Jealousy? Jealousy was the strongest. You could drive a man insane with just the barest whisper of the emotion, manipulate him until he saw nothing but green and fell easily into the trap set.
Replacing the pictures in their manila envelope he leaned back in his plush office chair, arms behind his head as he contemplated the ceiling. Today would be a fine day indeed, "But jealous souls will not be answered so; / They are not ever jealous for the cause, / But jealous for their jealous. It is a monster / Begot upon itself, born on itself." *
* From William Shakespears "Othello" 3.4 v.160-163.
'Wind in time,
Rapes the flower trembling on the vine,
And nothing leads to shelter it.'
July was well underway and the summer heat hadn't waned at all. The inhabitants of Sunnydale were sluggish in their eat, alive and undead alike, each searching desperately for the pleasures that would allow them to escape the heat; to dawdle away the hours until night, and the nights until the fall.
Buffy sighed and rolled over in bed, her hand languidly tracing the cool flesh of her lover. He stirred, his charcoal eyelashes forming shadowy crescent moons on the sharp planes of his face as he slept. Her hand moved from his arm to his chest, tracing one flat nipple before venturing down the middle to the hardness of his stomach. He stiffened, moaned, his eyes fluttering open to look at her as she sat above him, her long golden hair falling about her.
Buffy was the first to stir, her body warm against Spike's cold chest. She kissed him lightly, teasingly, "I should go. It's almost morning."
Spike nodded, kissing her back, "Your mum will be worried."
Buffy sighed against his mouth, her agreement lost in his kiss.
Joyce's return from her art buying trip a week ago had done little to discourage the pair. From her house they had ventured to Spike's crypt situated in the middle of the graveyard, conveniently furnished with a large feather bed on the lower level. Night after night they'd met, frantically, obsessively. Buffy, for her part, couldn't get enough of him. She lived solely for the moments when he entered her, filling her completely, bringing her to new heights of pleasure. Her nights were all his. Spike was just as enthralled, the scent of her haunting him in her absence, the sensory memory of her body tattooed on his very fibers.
The net they had woven around each other was to tangled now to escape.
Buffy left his bed reluctantly, dressing slowly beneath his heated gaze. He followed her lead, slipping on a pair of jeans as he escorted her to the upper level of the crypt. She stepped out into the warm night, Spike close behind her. His arms wrapped themselves about her waist, pulling her against him, his mouth finding her ear. She sighed, pressed into him and turned her head to kiss him.
His hands stroked her stomach, her breasts, her neck, intimately. Every action betraying their intimacy, the ever-growing connection between them. When they pulled away they were both breathless, the silent night heavy around them. Her hand traced his face, before pulling him down into another kiss, "I don't want to go."
He nodded, his hands tight on her body, "I know."
She kissed him again before disentangling herself from her reluctantly. It was getting harder and harder to leave every time. Her body screamed out for his, desperate for his touch, his kisses. She began to walk away slowly, determinedly not looking back. She couldn't.
* * *
Arthur smiled at the photographs that lay on the table before him. This, he thought smugly, this was better than gold. Casually he flipped through the photos, chuckling as he viewed the blonde duo in a variety of compromising positions. That this would bring Finn around to his side he had no doubt.
Love, when manipulated was a very powerful tool. Hatred, even more powerful, and Jealousy? Jealousy was the strongest. You could drive a man insane with just the barest whisper of the emotion, manipulate him until he saw nothing but green and fell easily into the trap set.
Replacing the pictures in their manila envelope he leaned back in his plush office chair, arms behind his head as he contemplated the ceiling. Today would be a fine day indeed, "But jealous souls will not be answered so; / They are not ever jealous for the cause, / But jealous for their jealous. It is a monster / Begot upon itself, born on itself." *