Author's Chapter Notes:
*Admin Notes- Before anyone even decides to make a comment that this is not Spuffy it is as far as the site rules are concerned. Buffy and Spike are the central characters, they are not romantic, but they are centric. So I don't want to see flaming please - Pari*
She knows he's there, of course she does. Even if the tang of cigarette smoke on the night air hadn't given away his presence she'd know, sense him, feel the day-denied tingle in her gut. And lower.

She lies, still beneath the crumpled sheet, strains slayer-sharp ears over the soft, sated breathing at her side, trying to pick up a noise, a confirmation. The sound of leather on tree bark. She has him, can picture him in her mind's eye. He's by the tree in the front yard, leaning back against it; not relaxed but with that uneasy, coiled spring tension that seems to fill him these days. He's watching the house, too-blue eyes fixed on the open window that drifts her scent to him. Her scent and?

She turns her head to look at the sleeping form beside her, let's her eyes travel over the rounded curve of his naked shoulder, the sweep of his broad chest framed by the white sheet. He's all smooth curves and gentle inclines, the definition of his body softened by polished, golden skin, warm and comfortable and safe. His face is childlike in sleep, vulnerable, innocent. His hair is still damp where it springs from his wide forehead, a reminder of what went before, of his gentle hands and tender love-making. He's a considerate lover, careful and attentive, and so, because of this, is she. But lately she's playing a part. There's something missing. She aches for something more than the warmth his body brings her, something unnamed that she craves even while it scares her. She keeps it locked away, holds back the fire that rages for release, afraid he wouldn't understand, afraid of what he'd think, afraid he couldn' answer the need. But some nights the flames are stronger, and she lies at his side and burns.

So she leaves the window open despite the coolness of the night air, despite Riley's comments about the chill. She leaves the window open because sometimes she feels suffocated in this room, with him, enfolded by the heat of his body and his unspoken need for her to be something she doesn't think she can be.

And because despite herself she needs to feel part of the night, feels the pull of the darkness she'll never admit.

And because she knows, in the dark of the yard, watching and waiting, he'll hear. Hear this.

Her hand moves to Riley's thigh, fingers stoking gentle circles on the sleep-relaxed muscle. He stirs quietly, moving toward consciousness as her hand moves higher, opens smiling, drowsy eyes to meet hers. She leans to kiss him, to wake his mouth with hers, and moves her hand higher still, caressing, stroking. She knows him well, knows how to bring him quickly to arousal, to bypass the softness of his foreplay, to cut to the fuck. He's ceased to be surprised by the sudden urgency in her, doesn't say anything as she straddles him, seems content to lose himself in the feel of her, ready to ignore the distance in her eyes.

She pulls herself back, tries to focus, but the cool night air is on her back, fingers of phantom darkness caressing over-sensitive skin like a lover, electric with the knowledge of another presence.

At first she told herself, when she thought about it, which she tried not to do, she told herself she let him hear as a lesson. Teach him she's beyond him, that it's Riley she makes love to, Riley's skin beneath her fingers, Riley's mouth on hers, Riley's arms around her, Riley's cock inside her, and that this, that she, would never, never be his.

But, in darker moments of honesty, with Riley gasping his pleasure and surprise between her legs, and the window open and the knowledge that he's there, listening, burning inside her, she knows that's not the truth of it. Then she wonders if, and the thought brings a clutch of desire so intense she gasps and grinds herself harder onto Riley's cock, muscles clenching around him so tightly he groans, wonders if it excites him. Wonders if he's down there, aching for her the way she aches?

And then it's not Riley she sees but a slimmer form stretched out beneath her, bow-string taut muscles beneath night-pale skin, crystal blue eyes passion-darkened, locked with hers, and it's that image blazing in her mind that sends her crashing over the edge, crying her release to the night. To him.

But it's not real.

Fantasies mean nothing; midnight mind-games, dark little secrets denied with the daylight.

They don't mean a thing.

She sighs and curls on her side beneath Riley's arm, her body heavy with release, eyes fixed on the open window. She senses more than hears the soft sigh from the yard below, feels him leave. The tang of cigarette smoke lingers a moment longer, then that too is gone and she sleeps.





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