Buffy lay in bed listening to the sounds of the empty house settling around her. Her lips were still tingling from Spike's kiss. She kept replaying it over and over in her head. Why had she let him kiss her? She didn't even know him. And cocky! Why hadn't she opened her mouth and put him in his place?

If I'd had an audience I would have said something, she thought. If you had an audience, none of that would have happened in the first place, was the immediate response.

She wrote about things like that. They didn't actually happen to her. She never let anyone get close enough to her for those things to happen. Wouldn't her fans just have a field day to discover that their favorite writer was a 19 year-old virgin? She couldn't help but let out a giggle herself at the thought.

Wouldn't they be shocked to fund out that the writer whose nom de plume was Elizabeth St. James was actually college drop-out, pool hustler Buffy Anne Summers who still lived with her mother and younger sister? And that her relationships had all been brief and had all ended with a strong kick to the shins and a resounding no.

She wrote about love, romance and bone-numbing sex. The closest she had ever gotten to any of those things was kissing Spike in her front yard.

The phone rang making her jump. She couldn't imagine who could be calling at this hour. She glanced at her alarm clock. Nearly midnight. Mom was probably calling to tell her not to worry. She'd be home after cleaning up the gallery.

"Hi Mom," she answered, not even bothering to find out who was ringing at that hour.

"Sorry to disappoint, Pet."

Her body tingled at the dulcet tones of the British voice at the other end of the phone.

"Spike? How... How did you get my number?" she asked, surprised to hear from him.

"I've got my ways."

She could practically hear the self-gratifying smile on his handsome face.

"Why are you calling me?" she asked nervously.

"Couldn't get you out of my mind," he told her. "So, I stopped by Barnes and Noble on the way home to pick up some new reading material. Care to ask what I bought?"

She was almost afraid to know.

"Um, what... what did you buy?" she asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"A little novel called End of Days by a young lady named Elizabeth St. James," he told her. "Ever heard of it?"

Oh God, oh God, oh God... why would he buy the smuttiest novel she'd ever written? Did he even know?

"Why would you buy that particular novel?" she wanted to know.

"Angel had mentioned it after I asked him just what novel he was thumbing through when he decided that you actually wrote soft porn for women," he replied casually.

She was so going to kick Angel's ass.

"I was hoping you'd let me read some of it to you," he informed her.

"Why would you want to do that?" she squeaked. "I mean, I've already read it... of course, I have. Because I wrote it. So, why? Why read it to me?"

"Ever heard of audio books?" he asked.

Of course she had. What self-respecting author hadn't?

"I was hoping this could be my informal audition to be the voice of your audio books," he said. "I've recorded a few before if you'd like my resume."

"And you decided that calling me at this hour was the best way to get an audition?" she asked drolly. "You could have waited until tomorrow and made an appointment with my agent."

"Perhaps I could have. But I thought you'd appreciate the personal touch," he said, his voice dropping down enough to send shivers through her body. "So, I already have a passage prepared. Are you comfy? Because I'd like you to be relaxed and ready to absorb the reading."

She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. I am so going to regret letting him do this, she told herself.

"I'm comfy," she told him, her voice a shaky whisper.

"Are you sure? Maybe you should tell me what you're wearing... are you in bed?"

"What does that have to do with you reading the passage?" she asked.

"Just trying to get a... feel... for my audience," he said glibly.

"I'm in bed," she relented.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What are you wearing?" he persisted.

"Jammies," she told him.

"Gathered as much," he couldn't help but grin. "Didn't take you for the type to sleep commando. What kind of jammies, Love?"

She thought about lying and telling him she was wearing a lacy little teddy that left nothing to the imagination.

"A pair of grey and blue plaid boxers and a grey t-shirt with a cartoon of farm animals that says 'Eat More Veggies.' Does that work for you?" she challenged him.

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Just how old are you Buffy?" he asked.

"Just how old are you, Professor Benson?" was her immediate response.

"Which number do you want?" he asked her. "The one on my drivers' license, or the one I give to nosy first year college students?"

She smiled at the way he answered her question with one of his own. She imagined he had many a nosy freshman girl wondering just what it really took to get an A in his class.

"How about the truth?" she offered. "And I'm 19."

She was younger than he thought.

"Right then," he said a little too tightly. "I suppose turnabout's fair play. I'm 25."

"Twenty-five, huh?" she asked.

"Alright, you nosy little chit. I'm 35," he amended.

There was an awkward silence while Buffy waited for him to say something, anything else.

"Can I tell you what I think about age?" she finally asked, breaking the silence.

"If I say no, are you still going to tell me?" he asked.

"Mmm..." she thought for a moment. "Probably."

He sighed. "Give me your take on age then, Pet."

"Age is just a number of years you've been on the planet," she said matter-of-factly.

"Meaning?"

"Just that. It's a number. Your friend Angel is 23 years old. He acts like a 16 year-old in heat," she explained. "Willow's 19. She acts as stodgy as Giles and he's 40-something... he won't divulge his real age."

That earned her another chuckle from the other end of the phone.

"So, you said something about auditioning for me?" she reminded him, suddenly feeling bolder than she had before.

"That, I did."

"And you have something prepared?"

"Ah, yes. I do."

"Alrighty then, give me a brief intro to the passage and then begin," she instructed him.

She heard him clear his throat and then heard the flipping-through of pages as he found his place in the book.

"Amanda has just admitted to her kidnapper, Ethan Raine, that she has fallen in love with him. Ethan, although shocked by her revelation, can't help but profess his undying love for her, as well. Got a good grasp on Stockholm Syndrome, do you, Love?" he asked.

"Just... just read the passage," she told him, licking her suddenly-dry lips in anticipation of his interpretation of what she was sure would be one of the smuttiest passages in the novel.

Why was she not only letting him do this but encouraging it? Nothing good could come of it. She closed her eyes and saw the bright blue of his eyes piercing her memory. That's why I'm letting him do this, she thought. When she had walked into the Bronze that night, his eyes were the first thing she saw. And the pull was insanely strong. Everything else just faded away. There were no sounds, no scents, no faces but his. He was all she could see and it dizzied her beyond her wildest fantasies.

"And we begin in the boudoir of Ethan's castle with Amanda now his willing captor," he said, leading her into the scene.