Spike settled himself on the couch with the remote when Buffy disappeared up the stairs. She'd asked him if he was going to get ready, too. He chuckled and told her to call down when she was close to being done. If having Cordy for a step-sister and Willow as his best friend had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that women definitely took too much time to get ready for a date. It also taught him to appreciate all of the primping and preening that went into their delectible appearance because they did it all for them, the male of the species... or, in Willow's case, the just as attractively preened female of the species.
"I'm almost ready, Will," she called down after more than an hour of showering, blow-drying, cursing and giggling.
He smiled and grabbed his bags from the floor. Five minutes in the shower, less than three to run a dollop of gel through his hair and to spritz himself with his trademark Paco Rabanne and another two or three to dress. Buffy still wasn't ready.
"Love, I'm waiting," he called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Just a minute," she called down to him.
He wondered if it was just a matter of instinct for all women to keep a man waiting. What a man could do in a fraction of the time took women hours.
He smelled her before he saw her. The cherries and vanilla wafted down the stairs announcing her arrival and he felt as if time had stood still. There was no presence of the dubious ticking away of moments gone by as her beauty assaulted him on all levels. The strappy little number was definitely a wise choice. The fitted scarlet sheath moulded itself to her curves hitting, as promised, right around mid-thigh. It drew his attention to the swell of her breasts as they rested against the crepe of the bodice. The neckline was not so dangerously low as it was enticingly enhancing to her form. And the straps were as thin as the satin laces of a fine corset where they skimmed her golden shoulders. She had her hair knotted up into a French twist with just a few loose tendrils to frame her face. Her legs were tan and bare, made even more shapely by the kittenish heels of her matching red sandals. She was chewing on her glossy red lip in nervous anticipation of his reaction.
His eyes drank in every inch of her before coming to rest on the expectant green of hers. He had never seen anything so precious, so perfect.
"Should... should I go change?" she asked, not sure if she was overdressed.
He stood before her, just as striking, in a pair of charcoal grey trousers and sports coat topping a fitted navy blue t-shirt.
"No," he told her, finally finding his voice. "You're bloody perfect."
Her whole face lit up with a relieved smile. For a moment, she was worried that she'd overdone it. She'd never been on a date. She had no idea what he meant by some place nice. She assumed it meant, well, some place nice. And when her mother went some place nice, she'd wear something worthy of such a nice place.
He reached for her hand and escorted her down the last few steps, drawing her close when she reached the bottom.
"Bloody perfect," he repeated, his voice no more than a whisper.
He buried his face in her neck and closed his eyes as her arms came up to wrap around his shoulders.
"Love you so much, Buffy," he swore.
"I love you, too, Will," she replied, her voice warm with the tenderness and awe of a first love.
He was a gentleman in every way. He opened the car door, belted her in and basked in the glow of her giggles and blushes as the compliments tumbled from his lips. He couldn't stop himself. She inspired things in him that he never knew possible. She brought out the poet in him.
When he pulled into the parking lot of The Melting Pot, she let out an unexpected chuckle. He turned off the ignition and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
"Is this okay? We can go somewhere else," he told her, suddenly worried.
"No, no," she was still giggling. "This, Will... is perfect. It's exactly where I thought you'd take me."
He stepped out of the car and went to her side to open the door for her and help her out. She was quietly smiling as they made their way into the restaurant.
"Reservations for Giles," he told the hostess.
She smiled and escorted them to a small table in a secluded, darkened corner of the already very intimate restaurant. He ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio and then turned his attention back to Buffy.
"But I'm not--"
"In that dress, you are," he assured her, knowing the protest still sitting on the tip of her tongue.
She blushed and let the words fall away. The maitre'd returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses. He poured a small amount into Spike's glass and waited for him to taste it. He nodded his approval and Buffy watched as both glasses were filled.
"This is too much, Will," she told him. "This has got to be costing you a fortune."
He gave her a wink and told her that it was all courtesy of dear, old Da.
"Rupert is pretty liberal with his allowance," he explained. "Guilt factor. And I'm not fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth."
She raised her glass and waited for him to do the same.
"Then I propose a toast to Rupert," she said trying to be serious. "And to the beautiful man he's created and raised."
She could have sworn she saw Spike blush. He clicked her glass and cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing questioningly on hers.
"I mean... well, men can be beautiful, right?" she asked. "In a totally macho kind of way. You know, man-pretty."
He was still watching her with a wonderous glaze in his eyes.
"Um, I mean... what I meant was how beautiful you are in here," she explained, placing her hand over her heart. "Not that you're not beautiful outside, too. Because you are. In that totally masculine grr kind of way."
He wasn't doing anything to bail her out as she continued to plunge even deeper into her sea of explanations. He sipped at his wine, amused by her sweet innocense.
"Are you going to ever shut me up?" she finally asked.
He leaned across the table and captured her lips in his, sucking gently on her bottom lip before slipping his tongue into her waiting mouth. He stroked the softness of her inner cheeks, the velvety roughness of her own tongue with his before leaving her mouth completely.
"Shut up, Kitten," he grinned, pleased with the effect his kisses had on her.
Her skin was flushed, lips slightly swollen from the contact and her eyes wide with desire. He loved the way she looked at him. It was the intense gaze of a woman who was completely in love. He only hoped that she saw the same profound desire and love in his eyes when he looked at her.
They ordered the traditional Gougere and Emmenthaler fondue. Buffy watched, mesmerized, as their server prepared the pot right in front of them, swirling the cheeses around with white wine, a grating of nutmeg, fresh lemon, garlic and Kischwasser. Spike insisted on feeding her, dipping a small chunk of bread into the creamy blend of cheeses with his fondue fork. She moaned appreciatively as soon as the food hit her tongue.
"Oh my God! This has got to be the best thing I've ever had in my mouth!"
"The best?" he asked with a naughty leer.
"The best non-living thing," she corrected returning his heated gaze.
By the time they had made it to the dessert course, with Buffy insisting all the way that she was about to pop, they had finished off the wine and had started on glasses of Cointreau. The sweet liqueur complimented the dark chocolate fondue perfectly. Buffy sipped at her glass aware of the way Spike was watching her all the while.
"What are you thinking?" she asked him, her voice a little more husky than she'd ever imagined it could be.
"That I'd love to drizzle chocolate down the side of your lovely throat and watch it drip down onto your breasts," he told her, his voice laced with desire. "And then I'd love even more to lick every bit of it off of you."
That earned him a wide-eyed stare that seemed to hold some sort of challenge for him to do precisely that. She finished her drink, never taking her eyes off of his. She couldn't wait to get him home and out of those clothes. She couldn't wait to get him into her bed and under her skin. But he wasn't playing by the rules. He paid the bill and whispered to her that they had one more stop before going home.
He pulled the DeSoto into a small lot at the end of 49th street and reached over to unlatch Buffy's seatbelt.
"One more stop," he repeated, lifting his hand to ghost over her collarbones.
She felt a delicious shiver make its way down her spine as she closed her eyes. His hand was replaced by his mouth. He dotted the delicate bones with soft kisses and light sweeps of his tongue. Her body buzzed with the warmth of the alchohol they had consumed and the fire of desire he was making her feel with each stroke of his mouth and hands. His hand had slipped down to cup her breast, naked beneath the thin material of her dress. He rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger, emitting a low, growl of satisfaction when it pebbled from his touch.
"Mmmm," she moaned. "If you don't stop now, we won't make it home or anywhere else."
He reluctantly pulled away after gracing her lips with a chaste kiss.
"Fine, then," he told her. "We'll play it your way. Was just giving you a preview of what to expect when we get home anyhow."