Chapter 3. Expressionism
The Mandeville Hotel, the next day
Buffy glanced at the clock on her nightstand and groaned. It was well after ten already and while she didn’t have anything planned for the day that couldn’t be postponed, she should be getting up anyway.
Even if she truly didn’t want to.
Sleep had evaded her until dawn and even with as tired as she’d been by then, it was a restless sleep, plagued with dreams featuring a handsome stranger with bluer than blue eyes. Be it that she were awake or asleep, her mind kept replaying their encounter over and over, twisting and turning it around, wishing she would have done this or that so the end result would have been different.
Sadly, many, if not all, of those dreams had been interrupted by the appearance of a certain idiot who seemed to think she was his property. She sighed, why couldn’t she get rid of him once and for all? Other men would have quit by now, but not Riley Finn. He was completely clueless. It should be more than obvious to him that she’d never return his feelings. She hadn’t before and now that she’d met Spike, the possibility of her ever being remotely interested in anything he—or anyone else, for that matter—had to offer had decreased exponentially. After all, why should she settle for someone she hardly thought of as even a friend, when a virtual stranger could make her feel so much more in just a few hours?
Well, she was wide awake now and since she didn’t have anything better to do, no one said she couldn’t daydream. Daydream that her night hadn’t ended the way it did with Spike, and that Riley had disappeared from the face of the earth and they hadn’t been interrupted by anyone. It shouldn’t be too hard to create a fantasy where things—for once—went exactly the way she would have liked them to. So what if her daydreams wouldn’t be anything but dreams, unless Spike contacted her or by some miracle she managed to get hold of him? No one, no one at all could take those away from her.
She found a more comfortable position on the huge bed, closed her eyes and concentrated until she saw him clearly in her mind. Until she felt the soft caress of his lips against her cheek; his fingers drawing intricate patterns over her skin which came alive under his touch. Her own hands traveled over the expanse of her body as she got lost in the fantasy, liquid fire coursing through her veins as the hum of desire grew.
He had insisted on accompanying her to the hotel and then up to her room after the exhibit ended, convincing her by asking what kind of ‘escort’ would he be otherwise, that it was his job to guard her from any perils she might encounter on her way, from all the things that go bump in the night. Not that she’d needed any convincing whatsoever, but she wasn’t about to let him know that. She wanted to be pursued, persuaded, wooed and seduced into a giving mood by him, making her surrender all the more sweet.
As soon as they were inside her room though, the mood changed… when being as close as possible to him took precedence over anything else.
Ever the gentleman, he readily helped her remove her shawl, his cold fingers lingering on the skin of her shoulders and back as he did. Shivers ran up and down her spine from his touch. Her breath hitched in her throat as she waited for his next move.
He leaned down, his lips mapping the back of her neck while his hands drifted over her shoulders, caressing her arms slowly on their way down to her waist before pulling her against him until she felt the hard evidence of his arousal in the crease of her backside.
She gasped in surprise when he suddenly turned her around, a decidedly predatory gleam shining within his indigo gaze as it settled on her mouth. One hand skimmed her breast as it slid upwards until it reached her hair, then quickly disposed of the pins that held it in place on top of her head, his fingers threading into the silky strands as they tumbled loosely over her shoulders and back.
“You’re so beautiful, love,” he murmured huskily, his hand leaving her tresses to cradle her jaw, tilting her head slightly to the left while lowering his own oh so slowly until their lips were no more than a breath away. “My sweet girl,” he whispered before claiming her lips passionately with his.
Her hands weaved their way up his chest, delighting in the solid mass of muscle beneath her fingertips as they climbed to twine around his neck… and just in the nick of time. Her knees buckled, legs almost giving in when he captured her lower lip between his teeth, tugging at it lightly before brushing his tongue over it sensuously. She couldn’t stop the moan that rasped in her throat, allowing his tongue entrance to the moist cavern of her mouth to tangle with hers.
His hand moved back to cover her breast, molding it, weighing it in his palm briefly before lowering the top of her gown, exposing her for his pleasure. Feeling his cool touch against the bare, sensitive flesh of her nipples caused them to harden and ache with desire for yet more of his attentions.
He broke the kiss, his mouth intent on exploring the column of her throat. She sighed as he took his time, applied his talents upon her neck, adorning it with tender kisses and gentle sweeps of his tongue, occasionally nipping the skin between his teeth making her hiss and shudder. Slowly, he worked his way lower, building her passion, making her yearn for him to treat her breasts to the exquisite feel of those lips.
It was the sweetest form of torture she’d ever known when he reached the swell of her mounds, placing a gentle kiss to each before choosing one to trail a wet path with his tongue straight for her nipple. She arched forward, wanting, needing him to complete the journey, to feast and devour all she offered but he denied her, choosing instead to draw upon her desperation in an orchestrated dance, back and forth, back and forth. Each lustful heave of her chest was met only by his breath, lips pulling away, hovering so close over her needy peak, teasing it almost cruelly. He stilled her by placing a firm hand to her torso, making it clear he was in control.
Insanity threatened to overtake her, she needed him so badly and yet he continued to remain just out of reach, forbidding her body’s attempts to close the gap between them. His thumb strummed the small of her waist, letting her know he had no intention to leave her wanting. He inhaled sharply, as if wanting to smell her arousal, memorize it, relish in the fragrance of her desperation for a moment longer, making her entire being tremble with anticipation.
His grip tightened in response and she could feel his own desire in every subtle movement as he prepared her… readied them both. Her whispered ‘please’ elicited an animalistic, possessive growl from deep within his throat and without warning...
Riiiiing... riiiiing…
Buffy started as the shrill timbre of the phone flooded the hotel room, effectively snapping her out of her fantasy. She opened her eyes and watched the device confusedly as it rang, still unable to believe that her daydream had been interrupted. Confusion soon led to anger, as disappointment and unfulfilled desire coursed through her body. She’d been so close, so close and now…
“No, no, NO!” She pummeled her pillow with her fisted hands. “Even the damn phone is against me! Unbelievable! This better be something important, because if it’s not… grrrr,” she exclaimed before taking the receiver off its cradle and practically barked into it, “What?!”
“Miss Summers? I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a Mr. Jonathan Levinson with a special delivery for you at the reception desk.”
“Who? For me? Are you sure? I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said, her innate curiosity making her forget all about being angry.
“Yes, Miss Summers, I’m quite certain. Would you like to speak to him first over the telephone?”
“Yes, please.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to imagine who this Jonathan Levinson person was.
“Good morning, Miss Summers, this is Jonathan Levinson speaking.”
“Err, good morning. I hope you don’t think I’m bad-mannered or anything, but would you be so kind as to tell me who you are?
“Of course. I’m Mr. William Wellington’s assistant and I have instructions to deliver a gift from him to you personally.”
“W-William Wellington?” She swallowed hard, her heart thundering inside her chest. “The artist?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t know him, I mean, why would he send me a gift? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I wouldn’t know, Miss. I’m just following orders.”
“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in about… ten minutes then.” She hung up the phone, completely shell-shocked. William Wellington was sending her a gift? Why would someone she’d never met before want to send her a gift? Unless he was… nah, that was not possible.
*****
Exactly ten minutes later, Buffy stepped out of the elevator and walked up to the reception desk.
“Good morning, I’m Elizabeth Summers. Is there a Jonathan Levinson still waiting for me?” she said smiling sheepishly at the woman behind the counter, hoping that would make her forget the rude way she’d answered the phone earlier. After all, it wasn’t the woman’s fault that everything seemed to be against her trying to have at least one happy ending to last night, even if it was only in her dreams.
“Oh, yes, Miss Summers, good morning. Mr. Levinson is waiting for you in there.” She pointed to a small office on the right.
“Thank you.”
She walked over and knocked on the door, waiting rather impatiently for it to open and when it did, she couldn’t hide her surprise at seeing the man who’d been talking with Riley the night before on the other side. This was William Wellington’s assistant?
“Jonathan Levinson?”
“The one and only.” He chuckled as he extended his hand, taking hers to shake it warmly. “Miss Summers, I presume?”
“Y-yes.”
“I was sent by Mr. William Wellington to give this to you.”
He moved to the side to let her see the gift was none other that her favorite piece out of the collection they had on display the night before. The one she’d discussed at large with Spike. ‘The one’.
“B-but… this has to be some kind of mistake. This painting is invaluable, why would he give it to me? I don’t even know him,” Buffy asked, unable to take her eyes away from the painting. This couldn’t be happening, could it? Not to her. It was too good to be true. Maybe she was still dreaming?
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Summers, but I’m quite certain there’s no mistake. Mr. Wellington was quite adamant that this particular piece was to be delivered to you. As a present,” he added.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m just following orders, Miss. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to work.”
He moved to the door and was about to leave, when Buffy shook off of her stupor.
“Wait! Can you tell me anything else about him, about Mr. Wellington, I mean?” What he looked like? Why on earth would he give such an amazing gift to someone he didn’t know?
“Sorry, Miss, I’m not in liberty to disclose any information about him. Surely you understand.”
“Y-yes, I understand. Mr. Wellington is a very private man. But… I’d like to at least thank him… in person if it’s possible. Is there any way I could contact him?”
“I’m truly not at liberty t—”
She sighed and smiled sadly. “I know, I know, to disclose information about him. What if I send him my business card and let him decide if he’d be willing to meet me? Would you give it to him?”
“Yes, Miss, I can certainly do that.”
“Perfect.” She took one of her cards out of her purse and wrote a few lines on it before giving it to the man. “Thank you so much, you’re so kind for delivering the painting and for doing this for me.”
He smiled softly, taking the card and putting it in his suit’s pocket. “You’re welcome, Miss Summers. Oh, and before I forget, I will be bringing the painting’s certificate of ownership and all the other documents you’ll need to transport it back to the States later today. I hope that’s not an inconvenience for you?”
“No, of course not, thank you, Mr. Levinson.”
She stayed in the small office for a long time after he left, gazing at the magnificent painting. Her painting. She couldn’t believe it was hers. In fact, she half-expected him to return any minute saying there had indeed been a mistake and that the gift wasn’t meant for her after all.
She couldn’t get over it, couldn’t understand what could have possessed William Wellington, a man who didn’t know her, to give her something as precious, as priceless as this piece, but of course she wasn’t about to question her luck either. How could she when she’d fallen in love with it the second she laid eyes on it the night before? And… when it was the one tangible part of a memory that last night wasn’t just a figment of her overactive imagination?
She glanced at the clock over the desk and saw that she’d been inside the office for over an hour already. Knowing she couldn’t stay there for much longer, she walked over to the desk and called the front desk asking if they could send a bellboy to help her bring the painting up to her room. She was aware she could have probably asked the hotel manager to safe-keep it in their vault, but for the time being, she refused to keep it out of her sight.
*****
Spike’s home, just outside of London
Spike twirled the small business card over and over in his fingers, unable to put it down despite having memorized the small message it contained. Buffy wanted to meet him, to thank him in person for the painting. That, of course, should be out of the question. Should be. Were it anyone else, he wouldn’t hesitate to deny such a request.
And that was precisely the problem.
She wasn’t just anyone else, she was the one woman to have captivated him beyond reason and he wasn’t certain if he could deny her... anything that she wanted. She was offering him another opportunity, one more chance to see her again, to bask in her radiance, her warmth... he wasn’t sure he could deny himself.
Of course, granting her request also meant revealing his true identity. Only a handful of people knew he was William Wellington, the artist. Could he trust her? To keep his secret?
It had been bloody difficult for him to walk away from their first encounter and he’d only been with her for a few short hours. Would he be able to walk away a second time?
He’d spent the remainder of that evening sketching her face on his drawing pad, wanting to recreate her beauty as perfectly as he could to always remember. The way her eyes lit up when she laughed, when they got lost as she talked about his work, how her lips curled at the ends before blooming into the most magnificent smile he’d ever witnessed, how warm her hand felt under his, how soft her skin felt when he kissed her cheek...
Should he decide to see her again, to expose himself to the warmth, beauty and purity that was Buffy as he had last night, would he be able to give her up a second time? Did he trust himself not to pursue anything beyond what could be nothing more than a chimera with this woman?
Yes, he most assuredly could. He was a Master Vampire for hell’s sake, completely in control of both his demon and the man. Of course he could control his reaction to a woman, no matter how desirable, how perfect he thought she was.
Decision made, he dialed the operator to connect him with The Mandeville Hotel and after securing a private-salon at deVille, he left a message for her at the reception desk saying that William Wellington would meet her there at five o’clock.
Yes, he would meet Buffy Summers again, but it would be on his own terms, not hers. And this time would be the last time they ever saw each other.
*****
Receiving William Wellington’s message had thrown Buffy for a loop. Yes, she’d asked to meet him in person, but she hadn’t truly expected him to accept… hoped he did, yes, but never counted on it.
After the initial shock wore off, she proceeded to try on all of the clothes she’d brought with her, finally settling on a yellow sundress with golden high heeled sandals. It was simple yet elegant and complimented her skin tone and figure perfectly, not to mention the few inches the heels added to her height did wonders for her confidence.
Satisfied with the image reflected on the bathroom mirror, Buffy grabbed her purse on the way to the door, nervous yet excited to meet the reclusive artist who'd gifted her with something she considered priceless.
*****
Spike arrived at The Mandeville Hotel nearly ten minutes before the predetermined time, situated himself on one of the huge couches in the lobby near the lift and waited for Buffy to appear. He would never admit it to another living soul, or unliving creature, but he was quite… eager to see her again. He wanted, no, needed to confirm that she was indeed as beautiful, warm and radiant as she’d appeared to him the night before.
A couple of minutes before five, the lift’s bell chimed and its doors opened to reveal the most glorious creature he’d ever gazed upon. Dressed in a yellow dress, she looked every part the radiant sun he’d compared her with last night. So intently was he staring at her that he almost forgot he didn’t want her to see him just yet and quickly brought the newspaper he held in his hands up to conceal his face from her before she could look his way.
He watched her walk into the restaurant and waited a few minutes before following, relishing the thought of her reaction when he finally exposed his identity to her.
*****
Buffy thanked the maitre d’ after she’d been led to and seated in the private salon Mr. Wellington had reserved, although she would have preferred a clear view of the entrance. As it was, she’d have to crane her neck to see if anyone were to walk in and she didn’t fancy Mr. Wellington finding her like that.
Sighing deeply, she placed her hands in her lap, wringing them nervously while waiting. She glanced at the elegant clock hanging on the wall; it was five after the hour already. What if he didn’t show? No, he wouldn’t have left her a message saying he would or make the reservation if he didn’t have the intention of coming, would he?
He moved like a predator, stealthily, as only a true creature of the night could, inhaling deeply as he approached her, delighting, drowning once again in the familiar, delicate vanilla scent that was hers and hers alone before making his presence known.
She was about to turn around to call the maitre d’ when a deep voice purred in her ear, “Good evenin’, love.”
tbc
Just so you know, I'm planning to update this story every Wednesday, unless my muse decides otherwise. ;)
Okay, now is your turn, what did you think of this chapter? I'd love to know, if you feel inclined to tell me. *battes eyelashes*