Buffy awoke lazily, her entire body in a state of satiety as she blinked open her eyes. A sound registered in the back of her mind that, as she became more aware of her surroundings, seemed strangely like the ringtone of her cellphone. That curious pondering was banished, however, when she became aware of her own nudity, the arm thrown possessively over her chest—and the events of the prior night that had led to sex of the mind-blowing variety.
Slowly, the blonde turned on her side to face Spike, his beautiful eyes still closed and his breathing even and quiet. His arm encircled her waist more tightly when he felt her move, pressing her thighs against a suddenly present erection, flashing her back to just what the peroxide blond had done for her the prior night. Emboldened by lust, Buffy reached down and began to lazily stroke his cock, the appendage growing even harder beneath her touch.
Spike was dreaming. It was a very good dream, with a paint-covered Buffy rubbing his member and kissing his chest, the different colors of the oils dripping onto his bare skin with strange sensation. A moan escaped his lips, and the fuzziness of the dream slowly began to dissipate, leaving him all too aware of the ministrations of Buffy in reality.
“Naughty minx,” he rumbled, a smile appearing on his lips even while his eyes remained closed. “Kitten wants to play?”
Without another word, Spike pinned Buffy beneath him, her hands sliding up his chest and pulling him down by the shoulders into her kiss. Their lips moved passionately, powered by lust even while both blonds were fighting off the drowsiness inherent to anti-morning people. Spike’s hands were grasping Buffy’s upper arms, but they slid down the skin until her fingers laced with his; he rolled beneath her, smiling at the sleep-disheveled blonde when he finally took a good look at her.
He could wake up to this every day. Buffy’s long hair was tangled and mussed, and the light makeup on her face had been smudged in sleep.
She was gorgeous—and absolute vision.
Buffy blushed when he told her so, although that might have been as a result of the hungry gaze in his eyes rather than the words themselves. Her thighs cradled his hips and her center was pressed against his stomach, his erection nestled in the curve of her ass as she leaned forward to kiss him again. God, her mind lost her when she kissed him. Or was it that she lost her mind? She had yet to think a single thought other than those of Spike that day and as the sunlight streamed through the huge windows and warmed their entangled bodies, she honestly was not afraid.
But the beeping from downstairs started again, and Buffy guiltily broke away, gazing down upon the hurt-puppy pout on Spike’s face and nearly giving in… before remembering the day of the week and leaping off Spike’s supine form with a yelp.
“Where’s the fire, love?” Spike asked, hoping the insecurity he felt was not resonating in his voice.
It was, and but Buffy didn’t hear it. Instead of jumping back into bed and lavishing his sculpted body with the adoration he deserved, she leaned across the mattress and placed a quick, intense kiss on his lips before flashing him a smile and dashing out of the room. “Class!” she yelled briefly as she thundered down the steps, finally reaching her clothes in the living room just as the ringing ended.
“Why me? Buffy moaned, grabbing her phone out of her purse before viewing the three missed calls of the day—all from her dorm. There was also a text message from Willow’s cell, proclaiming quite obviously that it was morning and that she had a class in less than two hours.
“Would you like some coffee?” The voice behind her was unexpected and caused Buffy to whirl around embarrassedly, all too aware of her nudity; she suddenly felt awkward and looked away from Spike’s friendly gaze, not seeing the hurt flash in his eyes as she began to pull on her clothes. You really shouldn’t be awkward, a new voice said, one that was a strange mixture of the vixen and the brain. He’s seen you naked twice before, through work and play. Why is now any different?
Maybe because I haven’t had a morning after in, say, ever? Buffy countered, lost in her thoughts and not noticing Spike slip out of the room to dress.
Said thoughts were currently trying to come up with an instance where Buffy had faced the age-old ‘nakedness after sex… what are the rules?’ question—and were failing. Angel and Parker, of course, caused complexes centered around the lack of next-morning smoochies, but the overnight visits were conspicuously absent from her relationship with Riley. Granted, part of that stemmed from her own insecurities, but it would have seemed that the ever-so-wholesome brunette would have insisted that she spend the night—but never had.
But with Spike, there had been no question. When they’d finally collapsed with pleasure, his arms had encircled her body and brought her close to him, and to move would have been impossible. Yet, in the suddenly harsh light of day, all of her reservations came crashing back to her, and Buffy was seized with a panic.
She didn’t care that she couldn’t find her thong; she didn’t care that she was employed with this man, and that any awkwardness between them would definitely resurface in the future. She didn’t care that her heart was screaming with protest as she gathered her things, and made her way to the door—but she found herself unable to move when his steps behind her signaled his approach, and he reached a tentative hand out to stop her.
As she turned to face him, she expected slight indignance at her supposed departure, the miffed look one got when their company left without saying goodbye. But nothing could have prepared her for the anger in his eyes, and the underlying shock and disappointment of her casual dismissal of their night.
He could have screamed at her then, picked a fight until their passion turned into fiery lust once more—but he saw the vulnerability in her eyes then, and her aloofness was explained in an instant.
She was scared. As much as the blonde didn’t want to admit any sort of weakness—something he’d sensed from her right off the bat, and hadn’t been proven wrong about since—Buffy was terrified of fear itself. And one of the simplest kinds of fear that existed was that of one’s inabilities.
Before Spike had really been able to process the surprising revelation, Buffy shied away, having sensed his realization and strengthening her walls again. “I have to go,” she said brusquely, turning away and taking steps towards the door.
“Buffy—”
SLAM.
The petite blonde didn’t look back towards the door as she pounded down the steps of the walkway towards the bus stop—if she hurried, she could make it in time and get back to her dorm in time for class. So preoccupied by her thoughts, she didn’t notice the man in the black sedan across the street snapping a photo of her leaving the house.
~*~
Stevenson Hall was wracked with activity when Buffy slipped into the building and made her way to the dorm. I’ve really got to look into off-campus housing, she thought, raising an eyebrow at a door left wide open to reveal its occupants in a heavy necking session, before moving up the stairs and into her room.
Willow and Tara looked up in surprise from their lip-lock (was the building making everyone in it horny or something? Pssh, like that’d ever happen!) to see the distracted, occupied look in Buffy’s eyes. “Hey Wills, Tara,” the blonde offered weakly, setting her purse down and moving immediately to her closet to grab a random set of clothes, her makeup bag, and a towel. Without saying another word to the anxious-to-question couple, she exited the room and went down the hall to the restroom, stealing a shower stall and stepping immediately into the icy spray to soothe her aching body.
Normally, Buffy wouldn’t have showered in water cooler than boiling, but her decision was ideal in retrospect—the feel of the spray pounding against her sensitized skin was bringing back memories of Spike stroking each spot, and if the water had been any warmer it may have rekindled the blaze smoldering within her. Still, Buffy couldn’t get the thoughts out of her head, of his lips, his tongue, his fingers, his chest, his cock; the awe, lust, passion, adoration in his gaze as he twisted his hips and caused her to cry out in pleasure; the elysium she found in his arms.
The thoughts did not leave Buffy as she hurriedly dressed and went back to her dorm room, thankfully having found it vacant after Willow and Tara left to the dining hall; they remained as she padded her way to her class and listened to the teacher lecture on capturing impressive moments in one’s life—Spike’s lazy strokes as she hummed with pleasure, her hungry gaze as she sucked on his lip and elicited a gasp with a surprisingly sharp nip—and assigned a portfolio from each of them revolving around the subject. Her mind did not wander, but stayed firmly on its chosen topic, as she made her way back to her dorm and tried to do her work, trying to focus on a day with her mother instead of a night with her lover.
Lover? The word came out of nowhere, but sent the blonde on a subject that she was not sure she wanted to approach. Just what had been her night with Spike, anyway? Was it a fuck? Were they fucking? Was it a game for him, an exciting secret that he could tell to his buddies at the bar? As much as her heart screamed at the obvious slander, Buffy could not let herself imagine it in any other way—she was rebuilding the walls, sheltering her heart from her own perceived truth and keeping it ignorant of the ways or love.
Because, Buffy reasoned, that was the only way to stay safe. But as she turned her pencil to the paper once more, she saw nothing but deep ocean eyes, full of hurt, sweeping her away.
~*~
Spike was preoccupied, unable to focus on the white canvas before him and instead staring into the tumultuous ocean outside. He was seated on the edge of his bed and trying to conjure up an image of something other than the golden goddess sleeping in his bed only hours before, but he could think nothing of her and the depths of hurt in her eyes.
He should have been drinking. There was nothing for a rejected young man than a nice tumbler of alcohol, the fumy taste on his tongue, burning his palate in a so very unaristocratic way.
He should hate her for walking out on him without more than five words to him, after the night they shared. But insecurity at his bollixing up their budding something only reminded him of what he knew to be the reason behind her leaving—her own demons.
Everyone had them, he mused, but some manifested themselves better than others. Ever since he’d been a young child, William always sought approval from his mother and especially Giles, having lacked a true father figure and need a kind of paternal recognition. But his mother’s death as he grew from boy to man sparked a fire inside, consuming all need for affirmation as he withdrew himself from his heartbroken uncle, delving first deeper into his drawing—and then, ever so literally, into Drusilla.
It had been escape with her, yet at the same time birth into the man he’d always wanted to be. There was no logic in his first façade of Spike—only swagger, guts, and foolhardy pursuits, most ill-thought-out as a result of Dru’s spontaneous whims. But when he learned to channel all the awakened feelings into his painting, his life had gained affirmation of his own delivery, and Spike went through yet another change.
He knew nothing of Buffy’s history, Spike realized with a jolt, taking a sip of the bitter coffee made in vain. He barely knew anything of the girl, really—other than her California upbringing, dislike of natural disasters, and her status as art student inspired by now-deceased mother…
Ay, there’s the rub. No mention of father.
The textbook commitment phobia—abandonment during pivotal years (Spike was very in tune with abandonment issues), a few troubles with early relationships, and voila! one insecure, emotionally hardened young girl breaking young boy’s heart.
Spike didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but really, how could a man leave his own child behind? Taking a sip of the now-cold coffee, he grimaced. There was no denying that he felt something strong for Buffy, that was certain—but he wasn’t so lovestruck that he was about to become a whipping boy, that was for sure, and until she came around to her own demons, he wouldn’t enable her to turn their something into anything less than it was.
But as he stood to take his cup to his sink, he noticed a tiny scrap of cloth half-beneath the chair across from him. Bending over to retrieve it, he found himself holding onto a lacy thong, the sudden scent of her arousal besieging his senses and sending him into a dizzying state of lust.
Before he knew it, he was pulling on his duster and reaching for his keys, stepping through the door after tucking the cloth into his back pocket. There was nothing wrong, really, in helping Buffy overcome her demons—and what better way to do so than show her just how to give in to what she felt?