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CHAPTER 9 -- The Dance

Spike and Xander entered the swanky ballroom. Xander tugged on his tuxedo tie, searching the room, “How do you keep finding out where she is?”

“I have my sources,” Spike replied, walking further into the room, scanning its contents. It was some type of black tie event. All the women wore sequenced gowns to the floor, some a little more dramatic than others.

He spotted her on the other side of the dance floor. She looked stunning, wearing a floor length scarlet gown that had a diving neckline and a daring slit up the left leg. When she turned around she revealed her bare back. She was laughing at something her redheaded friend had said. They were talking to an older gentlemen. A waiter walked by and the man stopped him, handing out champaign flutes to the group.

Buffy must have felt his gaze because she spotted him immediately. She had the decency to hide her anger and politely excuse herself from the conversation before storming over to him, her legs gracefully elevated in black stilettos with ties wrapped around her ankles.

“This is a fundraiser banquet for children. What are you doing here?” She barely had control of her voice, it wavered in hatred.

“I have about as much right as you to be here,” he raised an eyebrow at their questionable occupation.

“Willow runs a grade school for underprivileged city kids. I help her with the fundraiser gala every year.”

Spike’s eyes softened. Waves of guilt washed over him for ruining her night with his need to see her. Her hair was up in a simple twist. Spike fought with his hands to keep himself from taking out the clip and running his fingers through it.

“Let’s take this dancing out onto the floor,” he gestured towards the area with waltzing couples.

“You call this dancing?” she hissed, as she let him take her forearm and lead her onto the dance floor.

Spike smirked, “That’s all we’ve ever done.”

The band began a new song, a jazz number with moody trumpet solos. Spike took her hand at arm’s length before smoothly pulling her against him. Buffy gasped and swallowed as they began to sway to the music. The hand on her back drifted to the low line of the backless dress. Buffy was too aware of his hand against her skin and his azure eyes searching her face. She looked anywhere but at him, her body stiff in his arms. An older couple drifted by, smiling at the young blondes. Buffy nervously returned the man’s smile and the woman winked at her as they went by. Oh, if she only knew, Buffy thought. She tried to relax -- it was just a dance, not a tango with death. He wasn’t there to kill her -- too many witnesses. But the effect he was having on her caused her to worry. He was everywhere and she couldn’t help it. She buried her head into his chest, inhaling his scent -- tobacco and cologne. She imagined the smell of leather would be there too had he been in his street clothes. She felt him rest his cheek in her hair. It was all strangely comforting. Was it strange to find comfort in you mortal enemy’s arms?

He breathed in her perfume -- intoxicating. The wariness he had for the world disappeared when she was around him. The feeling of her in his arms and the overwhelming sense of protection and possession that overtook him -- it was addictive. And scary. The idea that he could find his place in the world in making this girl happy worried him. He’d never felt this way before. The emptiness inside he always thought was a necessity with the job, now didn’t seem so important.

“Spike . . .” she whispered. She sounded tired, worn.

He hugged her tighter, “Don’t talk.”

She immediately stiffened, “Why? Does your boy have another gun pointed at me?” She met his eyes for the first time since they started the dance.

He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, caressing her cheek. He smiled, “No, I asked you to shut up because when you’re cussing me out it makes it harder to kiss you.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide, “Wha . . .” but she was cut off by his warm lips pressed to hers. It wasn’t a long kiss, or necessarily an in-depth one, but she didn’t fight him, and when he did pull back, she was breathless.

“Admit it,” he requested, also gasping, “there’s something between us.”

Her eyes were glazed, “Hatred? Disgust?” She offered half-heartedly.

“Heat. Desire,” he countered. His eyes roamed over her, trying to memorize her entire form at once. “God, I want you,” he breathed.

“To kill me?” she asked, a slight twinge of hope. Killing . . . killing she could deal with, the threat of imminent death she could handle, but this man . . . this man she could not.

Spike turned Buffy, her bare back pressing to his front. He ran his hands possessively down her arms before intertwining his hands in hers. “See that chair there?” he nodded at a gold backed chair at an unoccupied table at the edge of the dance floor.

“Yes,” she whispered. He brought her hands up, placing hot kisses on the backs of them before wrapping them around his neck. Buffy continued to stare at the chair as he let go of her hands -- they stayed where he had placed them. “I want to bend you over it while I take you from behind,” he spoke, voice low and seductive. His long fingers ran a trail down her sensitive flesh, running over the outsides of her breasts and wrapping around her waist. He continued to sway them to the sultry trumpet floating to them from the stage.

“I’d take you so hard your legs would get weak.” He kissed he shoulder. Buffy’s eyes continued to watch the chair, visualizing all of his words while the rest of the world continued to fade around her until all that was left was her, him, and the gold chair. “I’d slide these little straps down until your dress fell to the ground.” He smirked, “Although I’d leave the shoes on,” he breathed in her ear, her eyes drifted shut at his words. “They’re fucking hot.”

“No,” she forced out. She whipped around in his arms, startling him. “I don’t want you. I’d rather kill you. I’d rather you kill me.” Her eyes were watering, “I can’t want you.” He watched her helplessly, “I can’t . . .”

Shots broke out around them. Spike swept Buffy to the floor, his body fully covering hers. Screams echoed off the ballroom walls, the sound of tables and chairs being turned over surrounded them while patrons fled.

Spike was grabbed by the neck of his tuxedo shirt and heaved off Buffy. He rolled back up onto his feet, the gun from inside his jacket out and pointed. Four men surrounded Buffy -- they were dressed in high-tech black ensembles with ski masks and goggles -- the same men from the warehouse. The one on the right yanked Buffy up off the floor. Another had a gun to Buffy’s head.

“Who the hell are you?” Spike ground out.

“No one of your concern just yet,” one of the men replied. He took a cloth out of his pocket, placing it firmly over Buffy’s mouth.

“No!” Spike yelled.

“Spike . . .” Buffy whimpered as she struggled against the four men, each twice her size.

He felt a sharp pain in the back of his skull and everything surrounding Spike faded to blackness.

TBC





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