Spike wasn’t the first vampire to sink his fangs into Buffy. She’d been around too long not to have a close call or three while in the throes of slaying. Even if it didn’t happen all that much any more, vamps had been known to get the Slayer pinned, at which point they got cocky, going in for the suck when they should’ve been making sure she wasn’t in a position to kill them instead. She hated the slight tearing of her skin that happened when she either kicked them off or dusted them. That always stung like a bitch.
Spike was, however, the first vampire to bite her twice. And the first to do it during sex. She wasn’t going to consider the significance of that.
Instead, she was going to consider the pale lines of his body sprawled beneath her, the long stretch of his muscles as he folded his arms under his head, looking up at her with hooded eyes in wicked anticipation of what was going to come next. It was taking all of Buffy’s strength to remain perched above his pelvis, her limbs still shaky from the blood loss of his bite, but to the naked eye, she knew she looked perfectly in control. Her thighs were clamped around his hips, no quivering in sight, and her fingers weren’t trembling where they danced over his chest, though she felt like she’d been caught in a windstorm. She had the situation completely in hand. The power of it was heady.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, pet?” Spike murmured. “Seein’ what you want…knowin’ nobody’s goin’ to tell you no if you reach out and…ahhhhh…”
The last was lost in a prolonged sigh as she sank down onto the length of his cock. It took only a single stroke for her to bury him balls-deep, only a single stroke for the control she’d been exerting to snap, only a single stroke for the shudders of pleasure to start somewhere in the pit of her stomach and pitch her forward onto her hands so that her hair trailed across Spike’s chest. His cock wasn’t as long as Ethan’s, but it was thicker, with that slightly odd bend to the left that seemed to hit spots inside Buffy that she’d never before known existed. Her inner walls contracted automatically, as if to suck him even deeper, and Spike groaned.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. No longer was he posing nonchalantly for her, waiting for Buffy to do all the work. Now, his arms were up, around her, long fingers tangling in her hair to yank her down flush against his body, mouth devouring hers in a greedy kiss. He tasted of blood---her blood, she realized---but the coppery tang seemed a natural extension of their joining. It seemed right.
The shift in angle meant he wasn’t nestled as tightly against her hips as he had been, and Buffy pushed back in order to feel the coarse rasp of his zipper scrape against her ass again. She didn’t thrust, much as she could sense the coiled desire in him for her to do so. She just held him there, losing herself in the kiss, until he finally broke it off to stare up at her.
“Fucking usually involves some kind of movement,” he commented. His voice was rough, his tone annoyed, and his tangled fingers tugged a little too viciously at her hair. Tiny prickles of pain shivered down her spine, but Buffy kept her pelvis still, choosing instead to lean in and start nibbling at his collarbone.
“I’ll get there,” she said. “Just relax.”
“Says the girl who’s already had the chance to get off once,” he muttered.
Flattening her tongue, she ran it up the side of his neck, capturing his earlobe between her teeth when it met that particular obstacle. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had any satisfaction,” Buffy said. “I’ve got the bite marks to prove you’d be a liar.”
His hands left her hair, going down to her hips to shove her more forcefully down onto his cock. “Not enough.”
A frisson of fear rippled through her, but Buffy ignored it, concentrating on tracing the harsh angles of his face with the tip of her tongue. “I’m not going to let you drain me,” she said.
“That’s not what I meant.” He bucked up, trying to make her start riding him. “And I know you want this. That lovely quim of yours is soaking for it.”
Tightening her thighs around his hips again, she sat back up, bracing herself against his chest. “Maybe that’s not what I wanted you to fuck.”
He stopped. Then, a sly leer twisted his features, his fingers loosening their hold to slide around to her bottom. Buffy gasped when his thumb pressed against her ass, lifting just enough to allow him to continue the delicate exploration. “I like the way you think, Slayer,” he murmured.
She started gliding up and down along his cock, long, slow strokes meant to coat him with her fluids, not provoke stronger thrusts. As she rose, Spike’s fingers pulled out of her ass, only to slide back in when she’d lower herself again, a rhythm they maintained in panting silence for several minutes. He never took his gaze off her, even when she curled her nails into his chest like talons, and more than once, she had to close her eyes to block out the penetrating blue. They made her dizzy. She didn’t want to be dizzy. She wanted to be in control.
When the quiet broke, it did so in drips and drabs, her labored breathing overlapped first by his guttural groans, then by the occasional word. “Slayer,” he called her. And, “Pet.” Hearing him call her by name, though, heated Buffy’s strokes even more, where the others were merely labels. It amused her when she realized that it took Spike very little time to figure that one out.
“You had ‘em all tonight, you know that, don’t you, Buffy?” he said. “The lot of ‘em. Demon. Human. Vampire. Eatin’ out of the palm of your hand, if you’d wanted. All you had to do was crook your little finger.” He slid a third in to join the other two in her ass, his tongue curled up behind his top teeth. “Bloody gorgeous, you are. Even better when you’re fighting. Fuck, Buffy. Do you know how hard I got watching you take out those two Fyarls? All I could think of was how good it was goin’ to be, how fuckin’ amazing you’d be at makin’ it hurt.”
She squeezed more deliberately on the downstroke, causing Spike to hiss in delight, but still he didn’t break his gaze. He only smiled, and she caught the amber glints flashing in his eyes.
“And?” she prompted. Even the single word was hard to get out; her growing shortness of breath made speech almost impossible.
He sat up then, dragging her back fully onto his cock while his hands slipped away from her hips. “I wasn’t even close,” he said before eradicating the distance between their mouths, pulling her against him again so that her breasts were crushed against his chest.
The world spun as he flipped her to the bed, not once breaking the contact of the kiss. His hands found hers and pulled them above her head, guiding her fingers to curl around the edge of the mattress where it met the headboard bolted to the wall. Only then did he break away, his cock slipping from her pussy as he sat back to push his jeans off and finally out of the way.
His eyes were on her thighs, and as Buffy watched, Spike reached out and ran his fingertips over the pricks of his bite. “Could kill you now, you know,” he said.
She smiled. “You could try.”
A single brow shot up. “You think you could take me? In your drea---.”
He never got to finish the sentence.
As quickly as he’d turned her, Buffy was back on Spike, bodies tangling and twisting until he was lying down again, his cock trapped between the outer lips of her pussy. “There’s a reason I was on top,” she said. “And considering the really crappy night I’ve been having, I wouldn’t piss me off if I were you.”
He just grinned. He was still smiling when she lifted her hips up. Reaching down to guide him, she slid the head of his cock across her slickness, away from her pussy and back along the crack of her ass until it was positioned at her waiting entrance. “C’mon, Buffy,” he goaded. “Do it to me. Make it hurt.”
Slowly, she began to bear down, feeling the initial resistance and pushing past it until she felt him break through the outer ring and start sliding deep into her ass. When the insistent pressure drew the moan from her lips, it dawned on her almost immediately that Spike was groaning too, his hands digging painfully into her hips as he helped push her down the rest of the way, stretching and filling her for lingering seconds that burned into her flesh. By the time he was fully sheathed, Buffy was gasping for air, hands trembling where she clutched at his chest.
“That’s it,” he said, and it was a sibilance that slithered over and around her, caressing with claws that made her skin erupt in goosebumps. “That’s my Slayer.”
She’d already started to slide back up when she heard it. “I’m not yours,” Buffy said. The harshness of her tone surprised even her.
Spike knew right away what his mistake had been. “’Course not,” he replied.
It was meant to placate, but she blocked it out, only wishing to focus on the feel, the power, the hunger, of him. His hold on her eased, and one hand slipped between their pelvises. When he touched her clit, though, the unexpected contact startled her into slamming back down onto his cock, and she almost missed what he added next.
“…have to be off their nut to think they could put a leash on you.”
“Shut up, Spike,” Buffy muttered. She didn’t want to hear any more words, pretty or not. Oblivion was within her reach, and she just wanted to take it with both hands and wrap it around her for what few hours of the night were left. If he kept talking, that would be impossible.
So, she silenced him herself. With a kiss. With a lot of kisses. She dragged him into a sitting position, curled her arms around his shoulders, and devoured his luscious mouth, all the while gliding up and down his cock. They took it slowly at first, allowing her to adjust to his girth, but it wasn’t too long before she was slamming down against his thighs, forcing him deeper, harder, tearing into his skin with teeth and nails when he started thrusting his fingers into her pussy at the same rhythm he was pumping into her ass.
By the time he started speaking again, Buffy was too far along to care.
She screamed when she came, though what words passed her lips, she had no idea. Her thighs quivered, her strength failed. The darkness she’d been seeking shrouded her senses, blocking out the pain, blocking out all of it, and Buffy welcomed it with open arms.
Then, she heard him.
“Come back to me, luv,” Spike murmured. “Don’t disappear on me now.”
She blinked, and there he was, eyes dark and coaxing, his body still moving beneath her, though without her aid, his pace had begun to ebb. Blood trickled from a series of scratches on his neck, and the scarlet lines riveted her for a long moment. She’d done that. Apparently, she was not the only one who could bleed.
“I know you’re not done yet,” he went on. “Can see the fire still burnin’ in you.”
She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but something prevented the words from coming. Instead, Buffy let herself fall back onto the bed, dragging him with her, spreading her legs up and back to allow him to continue fucking her ass in their new position. Not once did their gazes break from the other.
This time, Spike took the initiative, resuming the almost painful tempo they’d established when they’d been upright. In spite of the force of each thrust, however, in spite of the way Buffy felt like she was being split in two, his voice remained a soft litany of praises, cushioning each stroke whether he meant them to or not. She came again without his hands ever straying near her clit, and moaned his name as the darkness threatened to return.
“Right here,” he said, as if in response to her call. Loosing his hold on her knees, he fell forward to swallow her mouth in a kiss, his hand palming her breast as his strokes quickened. He came with a bang, not a whimper, growls rumbling in his chest, hips like steel as his back went rigid. In the middle of their kiss, his canines elongated, facial bones shifting and grinding to allow his demon forward, and his fangs unabashedly shredded her tongue.
Buffy didn’t stop him.
Her muscles were molten by the time their mouths separated, her arms letting him go and falling limply back against the mattress. “What happened to me being on top?” she teased, her voice faint.
“You had your turn,” Spike said. As his features reverted to his human countenance, his hips shifted so that his cock slipped from her ass. “Seem to recall you bein’ the one to pull me down that second time, too.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. When her eyes drifted shut, she felt him disappear and the bed bow under his weight as he settled at her side. “S’pose you’re goin’ to scarper off back to your room now,” he said, his tone neutral.
All the possibilities flashed through her head. None of them settled until she turned to look at him.
His head was bent, hair in curly disarray, and he was playing absently with one of her hardened nipples. The scratches on his neck had already stopped bleeding, but bruises were starting to blossom along his pale chest, painting his skin in reminders of what they’d done.
The choices whittled down into one.
“I don’t think I can move,” Buffy said. She yawned widely to accentuate her point, and curled onto her side so that her back was to Spike.
“No,” she heard him murmur. His body spooned around hers, his arm snaking around her waist to tug her firmly against him. “I don’t s’pose you can.”
She was asleep in less than a minute.
His good mood evaporated as soon as the door thudded shut behind her. When she was without his guidance, Buffy’s methodology left a great deal to be desired, and Ethan invariably had to clean up the mess she left behind. Her refusal to take necessary steps meant valuable time lost, and this latest need to see to security---most likely, to incapacitate them rather than eliminate the threat---was costing him even more. There was blood being spilled here, and the most important fact was that it was his own. That just wouldn’t do. He and Buffy would have a long chat once they were quit of this place.
His thoughts drifted back to her arrival at the flat earlier in the evening, the look of shock on her face at seeing him sprawled so indelicately along the floor, the feel of her warm hand as she stroked him closer to orgasm. In spite of his pain, his cock hardened with the memory, and he shifted as carefully as he could in order to ease the strain against his trousers. In hindsight, perhaps he’d been hasty in allowing her to stop. If she’d continued, there was every possibility that he wouldn’t have gone out to La Muerte Pequeña and none of this mess would’ve occurred. She would’ve gone to bed like a good little Slayer, and he wouldn’t have stayed out so late looking for her mysterious Englishman. The need to return to the flat to ensure her continued safety would’ve been too great.
Of course, that then made this his fault for putting a halt to her handjob, and that just wasn’t true. All of this could be placed firmly on Rupert’s shoulders. If his old friend hadn’t trounced him so badly, Ethan wouldn’t have had to seek shelter within the club. It was as simple as that.
The silver lining in all of this was the fact that it would disappear as soon as he and Buffy returned to the flat. Placing the charm on Jutta’s Ring required only a few ingredients, and those were easily obtained. Once the spell was done, all fears of discovery---whether by the Watcher’s Council or Wolfram and Hart---would be banished, and they could leave this dreadful city for sunnier climes. Hawaii, perhaps. Buffy had always expressed a desire to---.
His blood chilled.
Memories of the past few minutes came crawling back, curdling his veins even further as they replayed, faster and faster, through his head.
Buffy touching his cheek.
Buffy arguing with him about Jutta’s Ring.
And not once had he sensed the cold feel of her ring on his skin. Not on his face, not on his chest.
Had he seen it? His mind raced, but came up with nothing. The fact was, he didn’t know. He’d been so relieved to see her, to realize that she’d fought so hard through Wolfram and Hart’s security---.
But she hadn’t. She’d said so. She’d specifically left in order to disable them. But then…how had she come to him in the first place? In what world could a vengeful Slayer walk through Evil Incorporated’s front door and reach him, unscathed?
A brave, new world.
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, the anger at his Slayer changing course and aiming straight back upon himself. Lilah’s wine. It had to be. He’d been duped. His only consolation was that he’d been duped by one of the best.
Likely, they were on the way to the flat right now, ready to take back what had rightfully been theirs in the first place. He didn’t know if they would find Buffy, but amidst his self-recriminations arose a seething desire for her to be there, waiting for them, poised to kill and protect what she’d gone to such clever lengths to retrieve.
Another part hoped she would be safely ensconced elsewhere. Lilah Morgan would not be unprepared for a Slayer. The only way to guarantee Buffy’s wellbeing was to pray she was far, far away when Wolfram and Hart’s people arrived.
Ethan had a feeling it would be the only way he’d see his Slayer alive again.
Dawn was just starting to flood the sky with golden ambience, though Lilah couldn’t see it very well from the window of her office. The smog was already cloaking the city, and she turned away from the depressing murk to stare instead at the files stacked on her desk. She should be working. Really, she should be doing anything to keep her mind off how the team she’d dispatched to Ethan Rayne’s apartment was doing, but somehow, it kept straying back.
They had been gone for almost two hours now; surely that was enough time to find a bloody ring, wasn’t it? The brat was still whining about his thumb, too. Lilah half-hoped they’d bring that back as well just so that she could get him to shut up.
When the phone jangled, she jumped, her nerves skittering like a wild horse. She felt like clawing at her bare skin to get it to stop, but that would accomplish nothing except force her to wear long sleeves to the firm’s gala the following week. She wasn’t going to do that. She had a killer strapless dress that she wanted to show off.
“Lilah Morgan,” she said when she answered it. It still surprised her that she could sound so calm.
She could hear the sounds of the street through the telephone line, the muffled cough of the team leader as he cleared his throat. “We’ve done the search,” he finally said.
“And? When can I expect you back at the office?”
When he coughed again, all she could think was Jesus, is he getting sick? “Don’t tell me you’re stuck in traffic,” Lilah said tightly. “I specifically sent you out before the morning rush so that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“No, no, that’s not it. It’s just…the ring’s not here, Ms. Morgan. We did a clean sweep, and there’s not a sign of it.”
She stared at the slats of light that ribboned her desk. Dust motes were visible in the air above the wood, more than she would’ve expected in such a sterile environment as Wolfram and Hart offices, and her breath suddenly seemed to choke in her throat.
“Ms. Morgan? Did you hear me?”
Her fingers went white around the phone. “I heard you,” she said. “What about the Slayer? Did you try interrogating her yet?”
“She wasn’t there.” There was a pause. “The place was trashed, Ms. Morgan. Somebody got there before we did. And it looked like the girl packed a bag. There were holes in her drawers where stuff had obviously been.”
So, the Slayer was on the run. Lilah’s breath started to even out again, her mind already working on how to fix this.
“Stay right where you are,” she ordered. “I’m going to see if we can pinpoint the Slayer’s current location. If she’s still local, be ready to go after her.”
She disconnected, but didn’t hang up the phone, instead punching in the extension she wanted. Somebody better be in, Lilah thought. Time wasn’t on her side right now; her best hope was that the Slayer hadn’t hopped on the first plane out of town. Maybe then, she stood a chance at getting the ring back before heads started rolling.
To be continued in Chapter 12: Blood on the Rise…