“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Buffy said to herself, the mantra doing nothing to calm her raging nerves as she walked up the steps to Spike’s front door. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she groaned, fidgeting for a moment before forcing herself to reach out and knock on his door, repeating the action when the sound was so faint that she barely heard it.
The petite blonde, unsure of what to wear, went with casual—Spike had been dressed in a pretty relaxed way their last meeting—but was now wishing that she’d gone with professional—anything to distance herself from the strange connection she seemed to feel with the surprisingly young artist. But she forced a smile onto her face, and was the very image of calm and cool when said young man opened the door.
It was at the moment that they locked eyes and the burning embers of desire ignited her insides… it was at that moment that Buffy realized she wanted him. Utterly and truly, she wanted him, and it was a stubbornness inside of her that finally forced her to see that. God, how had it come to his? She’d met him once before, and she was already fawning over him like a teenager in love for the first time. And we all know how well those stories work out, her brain mutinously muttered, snapping the blonde out of her reverie to greet Spike.
“Good morning,” he replied, subtly yawning as she followed him through the door and into a different room than before—half of it was a full kitchen larger than her entire dorm room, and the other was a makeshift lounge of sorts.
“Sorry for getting you up this early,” Buffy said, catching his ill-concealed yawn and repressing one of her own. She noticed as he moved to the other side of the counter that his hair wasn’t slicked back as it had been their prior meeting, but that it was in soft curls close to his head—and he looked absolutely adorable. “If today’s not a good time—”
“It’s a perfect, pet. No time like the present, eh?” In truth, Spike was terrified. Yes, he was familiar with sketching the human anatomy, but his previous subjects had been so… sterile. Well, considering that his only prior experience with nearly-bare (choice word: nearly) anatomical sketches was in art school years before, in a crowded classroom and not in the privacy of his own home, there tended to be a lacking in the personality of the engagement. But now, the beautiful blonde goddess before him, still showing signs of her recent sleep with her mussed hair and sleepy eyes… How in the world was he going to distance himself from the lust, when he wanted her so?
“Good,” Buffy replied, absentmindedly. Glancing about the room, she noticed that a plush white sofa was moved into a clear space between an armchair and a picture window, the light streaming through the glass illuminating the space. “Is that…?”
“I was, erm, thinking for now that you could be there—pretty relaxing, I’ve been told,” he commented, resisting giving the blonde a lascivious look. Why he couldn’t just restrain himself and make it easier on the both of them, he had no idea, but there was no way in hell that he would do anything to make that easy smile on her face go away. Attempting to call at least a semblance of professionalism, he added, “We can start whenever you’re ready. There’s a robe on the sofa over there if you’d like to change into it.”
Buffy had no idea that the calm demeanor of William was little more than a façade of what he felt he should be doing in the situation. In fact, he was completely at a loss as to the etiquette of an artist towards his nude subject—but luckily for him, she was as in the dark as he was. As an art student, the blonde had partaken in anatomy classes similar to those Spike himself had gone through, but they were so cold, and unfeeling, and entirely unlike the tangible thread drawing the two closer and closer.
“I’ll go do that, then,” Buffy answered carefully, moving across the room and finding the garment just where he’d said it would be.
“I’m making coffee, if you want some in a minute,” he called when she left the room to go change in the restroom he’d showed her during her first visit.
“That’s great,” she replied, her voice slightly muffled after the click of a door shutting. Spike busied himself with the coffee pot, a recent purchase which he wasn’t exactly sure how to manage. He’d bought it, he reasoned, in case Clem ever stopped by to visit, not because of the blonde only a thin wall away and stripping her clothes from her body at that exact moment.
“Bugger.” At the thought of her golden tanned flesh, his black jeans became unbelievably tight, and his simple black t-shirt felt constricting and hot. “Okay, what to think about…” It was a not-too common game for the Englishman to play, as he usually had quite excellent control over the activities of his groin, but there was something in that blonde fireball that caused blood to rush in southward, and out of his brain. “Okay,” he repeated. “Michael Palin. The Tour de France. Rupert in a tutu—”
“What was that, Spike?” Just when he thought he’d finally conquered the minx’s seduction, she pranced into the room carrying an armful of clothes and wearing nothing but the thin cotton robe—why couldn’t he have given her something less flattering? Say, chain mail?
She’d look bloody gorgeous in anything, mate, so don’t start playing ‘What If,’ he told himself, trying not to look from her wide smile down to her perky breasts—was it cold?—or the golden thigh peeking from the fabric when she settled herself down in a chair. “Coffee?” he offered lamely, removing the pot from the maker before it had finished being filled, and only noticing the coffee was still dripping when it began to flow across his white marble countertops.
“Oh, no!” Buffy said, jumping up and rushing to help the transfixed and quite immobile artist. She quickly pushed a few buttons and managed to shut the machine off before the entire quart of black liquid managed to make its way on Spike’s counter and floor, and grabbed a few paper towels from the roll to soak up the mess. When she bent over to place a few on the floor, the curve of her bum was revealed to Spike’s open, gaping eyes; he was frozen to the spot, unable to look away and still wondering just what had happened to make the beautiful blonde bend over in front of him, her ass barely inches away from his denim-covered groin. If only he’d grasp those hips and grind himself into—
“So I take it you don’t drink a lot of coffee,” Buffy’s musical voice said when she straightened once more, turning to face him and paralyzing him again with her hazel green eyes—but the intensity in them was belied with a laughing, light humor.
“Not much,” he admitted, finally regaining the ability to form words. “Would you still like some? I can, uh, make a second attempt.”
“That’s okay,” she answered, finally giving into the urge to laugh out loud. “And I thought that I was a failure in the kitchen.”
“Oi!” he protested, “I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent chef. Just don’t understand the fascination you Yanks have with bitter black water, is all.”
“You have yet to prove it to me.” Was that a challenge? Their eyes met and she grinned, letting him know that it was exactly what it was.
“Oh, I’ll show you, baby,” he answered in a husky tone, smirking back and putting his tongue between his teeth.
Oh god, tongue thing, tongue thing! Buffy thought disconcertedly, but still smiling that wanton grin at Spike. Only when the clock chimed eleven did they tear their eyes off of one another, neither wanting to admit it but both openly appraising the other.
“Alright, pet,” Spike said, raising a hand to run through his hair. “I’d reckon it’s about time to get started on the artwork.”
“Okay,” she said, waiting until he moved to her side of the counter before following him towards the couch. She was trembling with anxiety, but there was also something in her, a vixen inside that couldn’t wait to throw off the thin black robe.
Spike was staring hard at the plush piece of furniture, concentration written on his features. “I think you should just lay back and get comfortable, and then we can work from there,” he said conversationally. “I’ll, erm, make a few sketches, so you don’t have to sit here for too long.” His voice cracked on ‘too,’ and Buffy raised an eyebrow, realizing that beneath the calm demeanor he was just as nervous as she. Well, if he could try to play it off…
“Okay,” she said, and began to untie the knot holding the piece of cloth together.
The blond’s bright blue eyes were stuck staring at her with shock. “I’ll just turn around, then,” he said, his voice cracking.
“No need,” she responded lightly, parting the edges of the garment and letting it slip to the floor and pool around her feet.
When the entirety of her curves was exposed, Spike somehow found himself stumbling backwards and graciously landing in the proper armchair. Buffy stared at him fiercely, a determination clear in her gaze which caught his eye, despite the clear view of her other, more intimate physical assets. But she looked away to settle herself down on the couch, and Spike couldn’t resist himself anymore—he had to drink in the gorgeous visage of her beauty.
She was thin, but obviously active—the slender structure common in young women. Drusilla had always been buxom and brazen, but there was a hint of innocence in Buffy, a slight blush tinting her smooth skin despite her confident words. When she laid out sideways on the sofa and stretched her arms above her head in a relaxed posture, her pert little breasts caught his eye, and Spike couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to wrap his lips around the pink nipple in the center. God, he was hard; his only relief was the convenient excuse of placing his sketchbook over his lap—otherwise, he was sure his desire would have been apparent.
Unfortunately for him, Buffy was all-too aware of just how much he wanted her. Sure, she couldn’t see the most obvious sign, but there were other, more subtle ways to see whether a guy wanted to “copulate.” For one, Spike was nearly panting, and his eyes had a glazed look in them as he openly appraised her body. He’s just doing his job, the logical side of her mind tried to explain.
Are you kidding? He’s all over you like hot on heat! the inner vixen proclaimed, much to Logic Buffy’s chagrin.
Even if he was, he is sooooo off limits—he’s your boss!
Not really, the minx wheedled. Technically, he’s not the one paying you—he’s kind of a coworker. So go for it!
We are not having this conversation right now, Logic Buffy said, the finality in her tone warning Minx to keep her conceptual mouth shut.
Shaking her head and trying to dispel the sudden bout of schizophrenia, Buffy looked over to Spike only to see him just as stationary as before. “Um, Spike?” she gently offered. “William?” Nothing. “Spike!” she shouted, finally breaking the bleached blond out of his reverie.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” He looked adorably guilty, and she couldn’t help but start to giggle.
“Just wondering whether you had something on your mind,” she airily replied.
“I’ve got something on my mind alright,” he answered, almost absentmindedly, with a husky tone that made Buffy’s extremities begin to tingle deliciously. With that statement, Spike lifted up an expensive artists’ pencil, studying the blonde’s body the entire time.
“How do I… look?” she asked uncertainly, her posture comfortable for her but unaware of how suitable it was for the painting.
“Fantastic,” he answered shortly, giving her a quick smile. “Why don’t you… tell me about school?”
The suggestion seemed strange considering the fact that she was currently lying nude in his living room and staring out huge windows at the Pacific Ocean and the pure white sky outside, but Buffy began to speak, telling Spike all about why she’d chosen to attend UCLA and how she’d adjusted—and started loving—college life.
By the time she was half-way through telling him about Kathy, her first roommate (who was literally from hell), Spike had outlined his drawing and done the most G-rated parts of the sketch; he had hoped that hearing her talk of platonic things like school would discourage the suggestive banter they seemed to fall into, but it did nothing to discourage frat-house fantasies from creeping into his mind.
You stupid prat, he said to himself, wincing at the reality of his surname, just get it done!
He was right. Cautiously, his eyes flicked upwards and drank in the visage of her smooth, sensual body, feeling as if he was sharing something intimate with her as he traced the curve of her breasts, shading in the slight shadow and rubbing a finger along the perfect nipple. Immediately, he felt himself harden; yet he forced himself to continue, glancing up at Buffy again to find her wide eyes locked on his own.
“Spike?”
“Hmmm?” he murmured, realizing that she’d asked him a question. His pencil moved down the taut muscles in her stomach and traced along her legs, forcing the thought of them wrapped around his waist out of his mind. A few quick smudges, and it was done—not that he really needed a guide sketch, when the image of her nude form was so very ingrained in his mind.
“I was just wondering who that was,” Buffy replied, indicating with a nod of the head towards a painting leaning against the wall. When Spike realized which she was referring to, he paled slightly and a pained look appeared on his face.
It had caught Buffy’s eye a few minutes earlier; the dark-haired woman was dressed in an antique fashion, in a dress similar to those in the late 19th Century, with a kind of aged wisdom in her oddly youthful face. Her eyes were half-closed and an expression of superior knowledge was apparent in her wide smile. The manner of dress suggested the painting was not modern, but Buffy quickly came to the conclusion that William himself had painted it—and it was apparently a subject of difficulty for him.
“That,” he said finally, “is Drusilla.” The pencil had stilled on the paper, and Spike soon set both aside, rising to his feet and walking towards the kitchen. “Break time,” he said shortly, opening a cabinet and pulling out several bottles of alcohol, silently looking each over before settling on the Jack Daniels. “Would you like a drink?”
Oops, Buffy thought, casting a surreptitious glance at the painting once more before cautiously rising to her feet and pulling on her robe. “Oh, is it alright if I get up?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, pet,” he replied. “The sketch is done, if you’d like to take a look.”
Do I want to? she wondered silently, advocating to damage control first and satisfy her curiosity later. “No, I’m fine,” she started to answer, when she strode towards the kitchen towards the man drinking straight from the bottle. Before she could reach him, however, a strange feeling resonated through the floor, and within moments, the floor began to violently rock.
“Ah!” Buffy yelped, the rolling of the earth throwing her forward—and straight into the arms of Spike as they both tumbled to the floor.