DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss’,
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Wesley has convinced Willow to spend the night at his flat in order to protect her until she can hide again, while Buffy has shown up where Spike is hiding out…
His fingers tangled in her hair, strong hands cupping the back of her head, as the kiss that had started out desperate and bruising softened to a gentle rain of caresses, his mouth sliding from hers to skim along the line of her jaw, across her closed eyelids, down the other side of her cheek as if he was memorizing her face with his lips. Spike’s breath was coming in feverish pants, her name a murmured litany eddying over and through her skin, and Buffy could feel the thudding of his heart through the cotton of his shirt as he held her tightly against him. It was more than desire that made his body gallop almost beyond his control; the abeyance of his fears coaxed his internal rhythms into a celebration he was more than happy to embrace.
She was the first to break away, but only because she believed he’d allow himself to suffocate rather than stop kissing her. “Spike,” Buffy murmured against his cheek. “My bag.”
He turned his head and saw the small suitcase still sitting in the hall. “Looks like you were takin’ my welcome as a sure thing,” he said, but the gleam in his eye told her he was teasing. Picking it up, he had deposited it inside, closing the door to the rest of the world, before she could respond to his remark.
“Not that there was ever any doubt,” he went on to say. His hand was back on her neck, his palm against her cheek, and Buffy closed her eyes against the stroke of his thumb along her skin, leaning her head into the caress with a small sigh. “What made you come back?” Spike asked softly.
Every sweep loosened her muscles even more, soothing her into distraction. “Angel said---.”
As soon as she said the name, Spike stiffened, his hand freezing, and she choked on the rest of her words as her lids fluttered open again.
His jaw was locked, and the flare buried deep within the sapphire sputtered in indignation. “No, really,” he said tightly in the face of her silence. “Tell me. What did Angel say?”
The name was a sneer and she felt a chill travel down her spine. Way to go, Buffy, she thought angrily. Now fix this before it gets any worse. “He was playing Mr. Overprotective again,” she said. “He doesn’t like the fact that the cop in charge of the investigation has a little crush on me, so he made me go home after my show. Only…it felt wrong there. Empty.” She grabbed at his hand when he started to pull away, forcing him to stay in front of her. “It took me about thirty seconds to realize it was because you weren’t there, you big jerk,” she finished.
He so desperately wanted to believe her; it was etched in the blue brighter than even the relief when he’d first flung open the door. She witnessed the fight dance across his face, and felt her own heart break in kind. You did this, she scolded herself. You took this powerful, independent, achingly fragile creature, and you broke him.
She hadn’t meant to. God, how easy it would be to wish that the she’d never walked into Willy’s in the first place. How much simpler her life would be right now. But she had. And she’d shared with him her soul if not the deliberations of her past, and he’d gobbled it up like a starving man. Does it really surprise you that he wants more? she wondered. You offered him nibbles when he wants to devour it all, because this is a man who doesn’t do things halfway. It’s all or nothing with him.
“Do you have everyone in this town bewitched?” Spike asked. A wall had come up between them, his eyes now shuttered, and his voice had grown distinctly cooler. “Am I s’posed to feel flattered that you decided to give me the buzz? Couldn’t have the cop, and the boyfriend wasn’t there for you to spread them, so you figured good ol’ Spike would do in a pinch. Guess I’ve got a purpose in your life, after all. Gotta service the girl. Give her what she---.”
The sharp crack of her palm across his cheek was too loud in the small room. In spite of her earlier frustration with herself, anger now bubbled up inside Buffy at his harsh words, and she forced herself to lower her hand to her side, ignoring the sting that tingled in her fingers. “How dare you,” she said in a low voice. “I do not sleep around. I am not Faith. You wanna know how many men I’ve been with in my entire life? Three. And I was fucking married to one of them. So don’t you try turning this around on me because that’s not the way this is going to work. I didn’t come here because you were some kind of also-ran, Spike. I came here because you were the only-ran, and the sooner you get that through that thick noggin of yours, the happier we’re both going to be.”
As she watched, the scarlet imprint of her fingers on his face began to fade, its only competition for her riveted gaze the brightness in his eyes. Does he even know how much he gives away, she wondered, or is that just me? Bitter anger easing into disbelief, followed by the return of that hurt desperation with a flicker of satisfaction buried somewhere behind it all.
“Are you…staying?” Quiet, almost flat, but she could still hear the hope underlying the pain.
“Does the suitcase not make that obvious?” she asked, matching his tone.
“I meant…not leaving again.”
“Only to work. And to…put in the proper appearances.” When she saw him start to close down again, Buffy rushed to add, “That’s all they are, Spike. Appearances. When this is all over, if you still have that ticket, and if you still want me to, I’m ready to fly back to California with you.” Her eyes shone. “If you still want me to,” she repeated.
“Of course I still want you to, pet. I just…I hate the idea of you with that wanker.” His head tilted as the last vestiges of his rage dissipated. “Want you here.”
Lifting her hand to press it to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart vibrating through her fingers, Buffy smiled. “I am. Always.”
The silence settled between them as they just stood there, neither moving, eyes locked in rumination. “So,” Spike said casually with a curious cock of his brow, finally breaking the quiet as if the fight had never happened. “You were married?”
She mirrored his action. “You and Drusilla Conti?” she mimicked in the same tone.
His smile was slow. “Someone had to teach me all those tricks that made you scream.”
“I’ve never screamed, Spike.”
Taking her hand in his, he guided her away from the front door and toward the bedroom, hiding his grin as he relived her words in his head. Sure, she’d slapped him, but he would’ve been disappointed if she hadn’t. His words had been deliberately harsh, echoing his own frustration and pain even though he didn’t really believe them himself. But she was there. She’d come back. And she wanted to stay, to leave with him, to be with him.
The room was dark, the only illumination the streetlight streaming in through the window, and Spike was an ebony shadow before her, just the white of his hair visible to guide Buffy inside. When he halted before the bed, she stopped him from turning around by pressing herself into him, breasts crushed against his muscled back as her arms snaked to his front. The heat poured from his skin, burning and singeing her own as she lifted her fingers to the uppermost button, trembling slightly as they slipped the first fastening, holding her breath as she slid to the second.
Buffy’s nerve endings sang as the fabric fell free. He started to shrug out of the shirt, but her voice stopped him. “Don’t,” she said, and though it was merely a whisper, the single word’s clarity silenced Spike’s movement. All she could hear was the coarse rasp of his breath, driving her hands beneath the material to pull it from his frame.
“Did you know,” she started, and leaned forward to skim her lips over the arch of his shoulder blade, “that no matter where I go…” Another kiss, this one on the other shoulder. “…no matter what I’m doing…” Her hands settled at his waist, lightly digging into his pelvis, as her tongue found the ridge of another scar, one he hadn’t yet shared with her. “…all I ever see is you.”
“Sshhh…yeah, I do.” Nimble fingers found the buckle at his navel, deftly undoing it to disclose the button and zipper underneath. “It’s never really you, of course. Just someone who might be the same height, or have the same build. Or they’ll say something and I’ll hear your voice inside my head like you were standing right behind me.” Under her guidance, his pants fell to the floor with a dull weight, allowing his erection to spring free. She pressed her cheek into his spine and wrapped her hand around his length, feeling his groan of pleasure resonate through her skin.
“You were wrong when you said I was hiding from my past,” she went on. “I’m not. I’m living in it. But for the first time, you’re making me see that I don’t have to. You make me want to move on.”
His body was an inferno as it pressed into her, the curve of his ass nestling against her stomach, and Buffy brought her other hand around to begin tracing delicate patterns along the top of his thighs, teasing and brushing against his balls as she pumped slowly at his cock. This was for him, she thought. In their short time together, Spike had always been the one to give during their lovemaking---and she had to be honest with herself and call it that because any other term just wouldn’t be fair to either of them---making it about her pleasure even as he attained his own. Even just holding her the previous night. Though nothing sexual had occurred, it had still been about fulfilling her needs. After what he’d been through today, Spike deserved to have this for him.
He turned within the circle of her embrace, but when he tried undoing her own clothing, Buffy batted his hands away. “No,” she said, and pushed him gently so that he fell back against the bed. “You just watch.”
She’d done stripteases before. Privately, for Angel. For some reason, he liked to just sit back and watch her, for hours it felt like. That didn’t mean she liked it. Something about baring herself so erotically made her uncomfortable in front of him, but she’d always scolded herself for just being a prude.
Now, it was different. As she caught the glitter of Spike’s eyes, watching her through heavy lids as he leaned back on his hands, Buffy felt the flush of desire wrap around her in a convulsive grip. She wanted this as much as he did. To show him what he did to her.
Her blouse had already become untucked from their kissing at the door, so she set trembling hands to the buttons.
The second exposed the delicate lace edge of her slip.
As the fifth cleared the hole, the hardness of her nipples became even more apparent, straining against the silk as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders. Each breath became heavier, forcing her breasts to rise, to rub against the fabric in an excruciating chafe that begged for satisfaction.
She saw him swallow and fought to stifle her smile. It was getting to him just as badly as it was getting to her. But it would well be worth the wait.
The skirt was next, joining his trousers in a soft heap on the floor.
When she raised her foot and set it carefully on his muscled thigh, Buffy felt her clit begin to throb when she saw his cock visibly jump at the contact. “Can you take my shoe off for me?” she asked innocently.
Though she knew he would’ve loved to just get it on then, Spike joined in on her play, taking her ankle in his strong hand to slide the heeled shoe off, tossing it aside. His hand started to slide up her calf, but she pulled her leg away with a remonstrative click of her tongue.
“I didn’t say anything about my stockings,” she teased. Lifting her foot, she rested it on his shoulder, grateful for those years of dance classes her mother had always insisted upon, and slid the hem of her slip up around her thighs so that her garter was exposed to the open air.
Buffy used him as a brace, feeling him tense as she leaned against him, her fingers freeing the hosiery to begin rolling it down her leg. She had to bend her knee in order to reach further, and every inch the stocking traveled only brought her hips closer and closer to Spike’s face.
Even she could smell her arousal at that point. As she pulled the hosiery free, she saw him claw his fingers into the bedspread to fight from touching her, his now dark eyes fixated on the view she was offering him between her legs.
For some reason, that only made her wetter.
It was the same game for the other leg, and Buffy could almost hear the growls coming from Spike’s throat as she tossed the second stocking onto his twitching cock, watching it dangle there for several excruciating seconds before slipping to join its mate at the foot of the bed. Stepping back, she turned around and looked at him over her shoulder, dropping first one strap of her slip, then the other, letting it fall to the floor.
The air on her nipples was a welcome relief, and Buffy exhaled in pleasure, her head tilting back as she reveled in the respite, her golden hair streaming down her bare back.
“You’re killing me here, luv,” Spike said. “Please…just…need to touch you.”
She turned then, a coy smile on her face. “You will,” she replied. “We’re almost there.”
Truth be told, she wanted him to touch her as badly as he did. Though her plan to move slowly was deliberate, every second felt like molasses, too long to withstand from feeling his hands assuage the heat that now boiled beneath her skin. Carefully, Buffy closed the gap between them, and hooked her thumbs into the sides of her underpants, pushing them down just enough so that they would fall the rest of the way of their own accord.
He reached then, a single finger running the line from the hollow of her throat, downward between her breasts to her belly button, stopping to swirl around it for a moment before continuing to the beginning of the darker blonde curls between her legs. “So beautiful,” Spike murmured.
“Only because you make me so,” Buffy said. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his neck and climbed onto his lap, holding herself rigid as she felt the dripping head of his cock brush against her clit, setting alight her skin as tinder.
His hands guided her hips just long enough to pull her firmly to him, allowing his arousal to slide effortlessly inside her. Though the impulse to close her eyes and lose herself in the sensations was strong, Buffy forced her gaze to remain on Spike, watching as he lost his own battle to the feelings and hugged her to him, his lids shutting before he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She nuzzled her cheek against his unruly curls, taking him in until she could feel his own coarse hairs tickling her clit, and then holding them there while they both savored the adjustment to his girth.
It was probably only a few seconds, Buffy thought afterwards, but staying like that seemed like an eternity before she tugged his head back up and lowered her mouth to his. Gentle at first, almost chaste. Feeling the soft pressure of his lips against hers. Tracing that full bottom lip with the tip of her tongue before coaxing it to part from the upper. Tasting him, drinking him down with every sweep, as his tongue joined in the dance, tripping and falling and rising again to skim in heady rhythm with the pulsing of their bodies.
Only then did she start moving. Lifting her hips so that he slid from her heat, agonizing inch after agonizing inch, until barely the tip of his cock remained a presence in her slick slit. Hesitating. Holding him in as her fingers tangled in his hair. And then back down again, stretching and squeezing and sucking him in until the moans that filled the room were indistinguishable as to whom they belonged to.
His. Hers. Didn’t make a difference.
Every downward thrust was accompanied by that slight roll of her hips that forced the tip of Spike’s cock to glance across that spot deep inside her, driving Buffy to clutch at him with almost the same fervor as he held her around the waist. It was next to impossible for her not to just throw him back and ride with abandonment, but she wanted this to last, wanted him to know and feel with everything she had to give just how much she needed him.
So she took her time, kissing and sucking and lapping at his skin like it was her last supper, gradually increasing her tempo as she felt her muscles begin to give under the strain. When the tremors began to ripple through her stomach, Buffy tore her mouth away, finally acquiescing to the need to quicken her pace, and immediately felt Spike latch onto her breast, sucking it hard against the roof of his mouth as his teeth grazed across the sensitive skin.
She screamed, her head thrown back as she arched herself harder and closer against his sweat-slicked skin, riding up and down his length with an insatiable need as she bore out her orgasm, only to be silenced when Spike knotted his fingers into her hair and forced her lips back to his. His free hand palmed the other breast before scraping his nails down her abdomen, sinking and sliding to her ass to coax her faster.
Buffy’s breathing was ragged as she broke free from the kiss, leaning her forehead against his as the tremors undulating through her body began to ease, knowing from the familiar twitching of his cock inside her---ever so deep and plunging harder and stronger with every stroke---that he was close.
“Never lettin’ you go,” she heard him murmur, and then felt him stiffen, his fingers bruising her skin as he clung to her sides, his own shout of release accompanying his orgasm as her inner walls sucked and wrung him dry.
She waited until his muscles began to sink into the mattress, where she could tell that it was only because her legs were wrapped around his hips that he wasn’t lying back, spent. Tenderly, she brushed her lips over his, thirsty for more, but knowing they had all night to indulge that desire. “Not going anyplace,” she whispered back. “I finally found where I want to be.”
His apartment was both what she’d expected and not---tastefully decorated in creams and browns, a vast array of heavily laden bookshelves dominating the main room, the slightest of disarrays left on the dark wooden coffee table. The surprise came from the long swords proudly on display over the fireplace, and Willow stood before them, the deli bag hanging forgotten in her hand as she cocked her head to stare at them.
“Were you a samurai in a previous life?” she joked as Wesley came up to her side.
“You don’t like them?”
Her study of the weapons was serious. “I guess they’re kind of pretty, in a shiny, pointy kind of way,” she mused.
He stepped forward and ran a hand lovingly over the hilt of the nearest. “I find them extraordinary,” Wes said. “One of the reasons why I love to fence, I suppose. It’s not a matter of who has the greater brute force. It’s a question of skill. Intelligent assessment of your partner so that every thrust, every parry, every riposte, means something. So much more interesting than the normal slap and dash, don’t you think?” The last was asked directly at her, his eyes ingenuous behind his spectacles, and Willow had to fight the blush from creeping into her cheeks as her head struggled to keep his words within the realm of his conversation topic.
“Of course,” she said weakly, and then remembered the bag in her hands. She held it up. “Do you want to get these ready while I go change? Eveningwear is not the most comfortable when it comes to going through files.”
“Oh. Yes. Certainly.” Taking it from her, he gestured toward one of the three closed doors. “The bathroom is through there, and the guest room---your room---is just to the left.” His gaze was thoughtful as he watched her retrieve her suitcase from near the door. “I would imagine fuzzy slippers are more conducive to relaxing anyway,” he added with a slight smile.
Willow giggled nervously at his gibe and scurried away, keeping her eyes averted as she fought the thoughts tumbling around inside her brain. It had been like this the entire trip to his apartment. First, in the cab, sitting so close to him, unable to forget for a second how she’d felt in his office because for some reason, his knee remained firmly pressed against hers.
Then, as they’d talked and laughed at the deli, waiting for their order to be filled. Those few minutes could’ve been lifted directly from that first lunch they’d had together, after the initial onset of nerves had passed. Not speaking of anything remotely personal, but concentrating on trying to appear as normal as possible. It had worked, even if only for a short time.
Of course, it didn’t stop her wondering if he wanted to kiss her again. Especially when she’d caught him paying just a little too much attention to the items he was emptying from her drawers as she gathered up her files. Willow was certain that the slip of cotton he’d been holding when she turned around to look at him was one of her nightdresses, and they had both studiously avoided looking at each other until they’d arrived at his apartment.
And now here she was, stripped down to her underwear in his bathroom, trying to figure out what she had to wear that said both, “I’d love for you to kiss me,” and “I really, really, really don’t want to be uncomfortable while we research.”
Normally, she’d just slip into a raggedy but still wearable pair of trousers and a loose top, not even bothering with a bra or shoes. But if she didn’t wear a bra, what kind of message would that be sending? Maybe it would just encourage him more, which could be a good thing. Or maybe he’d think she was easy and be turned off. Or maybe he wouldn’t even notice because he was too much of a gentleman and would never consider suggesting such a thing. Or maybe…
Willow sighed. She could do this all night. She’d already been gone for ten minutes and the only things she’d accomplished were taking off her heels and getting out of her dress. Damn.
A short knock at the door startled her into dropping her clothes, fumbling hurriedly so that they wouldn’t fall into the toilet. “Are you all right in there?” Wesley called out. “Finding everything OK?”
“Just jake,” Willow called back. “I’ll be right out.”
No more time for deliberation. Grabbing the items that had slipped from her grasp, she quickly pulled them on and looked in the mirror. Definitely going to be non-romantic kind of research sharing party, she thought sadly. An old flannel shirt she’d snagged years ago from Xander topped her favorite baggy trousers. I look like a lumberjack, she groused.
Slipping her feet into her slippers, Willow opened the door to what at first looked like an empty room, only to spot Wesley kneeling on the floor, spreading out the files she’d brought in careful piles before the fireplace. His suit coat was gone as were his shoes and tie, and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves in anticipation of their night ahead. The sandwiches were arranged on a platter on the coffee table. “Whatcha doing?” she chirped as brightly as she could manage, and saw the folder he’d been holding go flying as her voice startled him from his work.
“Trying to get us…organized.” His voice faltered when he looked up to see her hovering at the corner of the leather couch. Blue eyes slowly scanned down her front, pausing at her slippers before beginning the journey back up, a smile quirking his lips as his gaze settled on her face. “You look…comfortable,” he said.
Inwardly, she groaned. Translate comfortable to mean awful, she thought ruefully. “It’s important not to restrict the blood flow to the brain while trying to come up with the answers to save your best friend’s life,” she said in a bright tone that belied her secret dismay. “Even if it means you have to look like Paul Bunyan.” Ignoring his chuckle, she flopped down to sit on the rug in front of the fireplace, reaching for the nearest file. “Where do you want to start?”
When he didn’t answer her right away, Willow glanced up from the pages to see him gazing solemnly at her. “Why do you do that?” he asked softly.
Her mind raced. “Do what?”
“Downplay how lovely you are.” His hand stretched to brush back a piece of hair that had slipped from behind her ear.
She laughed, in spite of the tingles now tickling her skin. “Oh, right. Because that ever-so-fashionable flannel and fuzzy glad rag combination makes the cover of Vogue every single time.”
“They’re just clothes.” Another sweep of his eyes over her, and this time, there was no mistaking the lingering before they were back on her face again. “Which make you look adorable, by the way. Something about seeing a woman in a man’s shirt, so…” He stopped, cutting himself off as he frowned. “I don’t want to know whose shirt that is, I think.”
Her heart was pounding, and this time, there was no denying the flush in her face. “We should really get to work,” she said and looked back down at the words that now swam before her eyes.
Long fingers caught her chin, and tilted her head back up, revealing Wesley even closer than he had been. “I don’t…really…feel like working right now,” he said softly.
“Oh?” It wasn’t even a word, more like a vocalized breath. “Did you…want a sandwich then?”
He shook his head. The skittering thought, oh god he’s finally going to kiss me, was almost immediately accompanied by his lips on hers, firm and warm and oh god he’s finally kissing me. After only a moment of hesitation, Willow responded in kind, eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into him.
He was so much stronger than he looked. As she lifted her hand to tentatively prop herself against his chest, she felt the hardness of his muscles beneath her fingers, lean and powerful and flexing as his arms pulled her closer, tugging her gently so that she was sitting across his lap. There was no mistaking that hardness, however, and the flood of desire that quaked in her thighs took Willow by surprise in its intensity.
When she moaned against his mouth, Wesley tightened his grip around her, coaxing her lips to part with his tongue as one of his hands found the bare skin in the small of her back. How long had it been since someone had held her like this? Willow wondered. Not since Oz, and even then it had been more sweet and tentative, his fear that he would hurt her holding him back in spite of her reassurances that she wouldn’t break.
Wesley seemed to have no such fears. Each sweep of his tongue was certain, taking just as much as he was giving, and his hold on her was steady, urging her to do more, to open herself up to what he was more than willing to offer.
She shocked both of them when she abruptly pulled away, catching her swollen bottom lip between her teeth as she shifted her weight to straddle his hips. Their bodies were level then, the length of his erection pressing cleanly into the cleft between her thighs, and this time, Willow initiated the kiss, not even closing her eyes as her mouth met his, savoring the decadent arousal that was quartered within their embrace.
Too long, she thought. We waited too long for this. She had ached to know what this would feel like ever since that first night, and now, in hindsight, she wondered how she’d managed to stay away from it for so long. All the remnants of the day---the fears for Spike, the confrontation with the lawyer, the pretense of wanting to compare research---vanished from her head. All she cared about was at that moment kissing her like his life depended on it, and she was kissing him back.
And it was wonderfully liberating.
Their breathing was a harsh rasp when they finally broke from the kisses. Gone was the blue of Wes’ eyes, blackened by his desire, but Willow reached up to remove his glasses anyway, desperate to see him without the distortion of his lenses. “Why do guys always have the prettiest eyes?” she complained with a smile.
“You’re lucky I’m so secure in my masculinity,” he chuckled. “And please tell me you’re not going to break out into ‘Jeepers Creepers.’ I detest that song.”
She laughed. “I very much do not sing, so you’re safe there.” He still had one hand on her back, and she felt his fingers begin tickling the knobs of her lower spines. “We’re not going to get any research done tonight, are we?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky.
His mouth back on hers was his response, twisting to guide her onto the rug, ignoring the spreading and bending of the folders underneath her back as he pressed her into it. Stretching his length alongside hers, Wesley released his grip to slide his fingers to her stomach, feeling the quivering of her abdominal muscles beneath his touch as their tongues dueled.
She wanted more. He was giving so much, and each beat, each shimmer, each taste he was proffering only augmented the need she hadn’t even realized had been simmering inside. So when he hesitated, hovering at the bottom of her ribcage though it was more than obvious from the hard cock pressing into her pelvis that he wanted more, Willow took the lead by reaching between them, tracing the outline of his erection through his trousers with her fingers.
His moan of approval made her smile, and she grew bolder, undoing his belt to allow her hand room to slide inside. She encountered the wet of his pre-cum first, using it to lubricate her thumb as it carefully circled the head, and Wesley pulled back to stare down at her.
“I want to make love to you,” he murmured, eyes serious though a smile haunted his lips. “Although I’d imagine, that’s fairly obvious by now. But I won’t if---.”
“I would love that,” Willow whispered, and then added as if an afterthought, “Please.”
His smile leapt into his eyes. “I do adore how you make me laugh,” he said as his mouth descended again.
She expected him to rise to go to the bedroom, but Wesley seemed content to remain where they were on the rug, deftly undoing the buttons on both of their sets of clothes to toss them aside, baring their skin to the cooler air of the room. When his lips left hers to trail down her chin to the hollow of her throat, Willow pressed her cheek into the soft mat, breathing in its scent as it tickled at her nose.
“I never knew sheepskin was so soft,” she said with a giggle.
“It’s not sheepskin.” His teeth caught her earlobe and nipped playfully as he palmed her breast through her bra. “It’s alpaca.”
“I never knew alpaca was then,” she countered. She gasped when his tongue disappeared again to land instead at her navel, sliding his body down to match. Her eyes widened when she felt him begin tonguing the wetness of her pussy through her underwear, and gulped back the squeak that rose in her throat.
Wesley froze. “Do you want me to stop?” he queried, lifting his head.
Wordlessly, Willow shook her head.
With a smile, his mouth returned to its task, and she bucked when his teeth grazed over her clit. Even through the cotton, it was incredibly sensitive, thousands upon thousands of shocks traveling up her spine, and without even realizing she was doing it, she was hooking her fingers into the garment and pulling it free from her legs, exposing herself to a more direct assault from his tongue.
The quivering in her thighs began almost right away, with the first sweep of his tongue along her inner lips, and she writhed beneath Wesley’s strength when he used his arms to pin her down. It deepened when he caught her clit between his teeth, the world swirling to a violet around her as she fought to retain some modicum of control, but when his fingers began sliding in and out of her soaking pussy---one, then two, and finally three---it became too much.
Willow’s back arched away from the rug as she came, her fingers clawing into the soft fibers as her legs clamped around his shoulders to hold him tight. Wave after wave cascaded over her flesh until the air itself seemed to collapse around her, leaving her spent and saturated and feeling very much like she could sink into the floor itself.
“I can stop,” Wesley murmured as he climbed back up her body. His mouth was at her neck again, and she turned her head bonelessly to accommodate his searching lips.
“Don’t you dare,” she replied.
Though she was still floating from her own orgasm, the firmness of his initial penetration sparked Willow to wrap her arms around his shoulders, hugging him as close as he would let her, and he slowly began to pump in and out of her still trembling slit. He didn’t play games. All the way in with agonizing slowness. Then almost all the way out with that same degree of care, leaving only the head of his cock inside her each time he pulled away.
“Harder,” she whispered against his neck.
Wes obliged, strengthening his thrusts to begin to pound into her body, driving her in the smallest of slides against the friction of the rug each and every time.
“Wanted you,” he said, and thus began the stream of words, soothing and caressing and exciting her all at the same time, punctuating his movements just as they matched them. “So lovely…take my breath away…fuck…can’t get you out of my mind…you’re always there…Willow…want you…so much…Willow…please…”
And then his mouth was back on hers. No more words. Only the quickening sensations of their bodies joining. Melding together in a painting of colors that blurred into a frantic collage.
His release was sudden, surprising her just as she crested above her second, and Wesley tensed as he buried himself inside her, coming with a ferocity that shook his hold on the rational to leave him panting, and exhausted, and hungry for more.
Willow clung to him, holding back the swell of emotion that rose in her throat as he lost himself in the cloud of her hair. “I like your research parties a lot better than Giles’,” she joked, running her fingers down his sweaty spine, glorying in the power he kept hidden so well.
“So much to learn from you,” he agreed, and rolled to the side, pulling her against him so that she lay curled into his chest. His fingers brushed aside the red strands that covered her freckled shoulder, and dropped a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “So much.”
The sound of the key in the lock coaxed her from her sleep, but familiarity of the pattern wasn’t enough to rouse Faith from her bed. Instead, she rolled over onto her stomach, her back to the bedroom door, and drifted between consciousness and slumber, her thoughts a jumble of images---a gunshot, the red of a burning cigarette tip in a dark alley, a chocolaty baritone deceptively gentle.
When the mattress squeaked behind her, her response was automatic. “Richard…” Faith murmured, and snuggled back into the warm body that now lay with her beneath the comforter.
“Time to forget that name, dollface.” His voice was muffled where he was nuzzling her neck, but it was enough to slam the brunette into wakefulness, bolting upward even as Angel’s arm shot out to hook around her waist.
“Get your mitts off of me!” she hissed, twisting around to try and rake her nails down the side of his face.
He laughed, easily catching her hand in his. “See, now, here I thought you knew the rules,” he said. He shoved her down into the mattress, pinning her by the shoulders. “And since when did you get so picky? I thought skirts like you were up for it any time, anywhere.”
“Since I got me a little taste is when,” she spat.
All mirth disappeared. “I’d watch what you say to me,” Angel warned. “You forget. I’m the one in charge now. What was his, is now mine. That includes you.”
“What about B? Don’t tell me she doesn’t rev your motor. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
“Leave Buffy out of this.” Danger dripped from every word, his brown eyes furious as he glared at her. “This has nothing to do with her.”
When he lowered his mouth to hers, Faith’s reaction was instinctive.
“Fucking bitch!” he roared, pulling away to swipe at the blood where she’d bitten him. Without thinking, he backhanded her before she could get away. “And here I thought a smart dame like you would know which side her bread was buttered on.” His hands squeezed into her shoulders again, but she refused to cry out in pain even though she knew that was exactly what he wanted. “Do you like it on the streets? Is that it? Because I can put you back there right now if that’s what you want. All you have to do is pull another stunt like that. The choice is yours, dollface. Take me, or the high road and all the glory that comes with it.”
Staring up at him in defiance, Faith knew that it wasn’t really a choice. She had a little money, but not nearly enough to keep her safe for any length of time. Being on the streets these days meant needing help, and after having had a taste of freedom the last few years with Richard, there was no way she could go back to it now. Not without some more resources on hand.
And the fucking bastard Angel knew it.
When she closed her eyes, he chuckled, easing his grip as he pushed back the hair from her face. “That’s it,” he crooned, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek. “I knew you’d see the light. You skirts always do, sooner or later…”
To be continued in Chapter 18: What Men Will Do…