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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



Buffy switched off the StairMaster, checked her pulse, and sipped some Evian.

Get your get your get your get get your freak on

Sunlight flooded the exercise room, and Spike entered, wearing nothing but gray boxer briefs. And apparently, he was saying something.

in your face/ open your mouth/ give you a taste

Buffy plucked out her earphones. "What?"

"Said I didn't know you were in here. This off-limits like the house?"

She shrugged, doing everything in her power to keep her eyes away from his lower half. "It's not technically the house, so -- neutral territory. Don't you own any shorts?"

Tiny shake of his head as he looked around. "Just trousers."

Buffy leaned casually against the StairMaster. "I think a shopping trip is in order."

"Don't," he said, striding over to the weight bench.

"Don't what?"

He chose two 25 lb. barbells and slid them into place. "Dress me up to your liking, like you did my car."

"Maybe you'll like it," she challenged, hand on her hip, "like you did your car."

He sighed. "I'm not your bloody Ken doll."

"Who said you were? I'm just trying to--"

"Help? I'll tell you what you can do to help," he said, sitting down on the bench and leaning back. "Spot me."

"Huh?" She fully expected him to say 'Go away, that's how.'

He gestured at the bar with his chin.

Oh, no... standing over him while he... "Shouldn't you wait 'til your hand is healed?"

"It's fine. Gonna help me or not?"

* * *

"Ooh, denied at two-twenty-five!" She helped him pull up the bar and return it to its hinges. "And I was so impressed up until that moment."

"Quiet you," he said, breathing heavily, Adonis-like body sheened in sweat.

A good number of seconds went by before she realized he'd said something else. Look at his eyes. Eyes. Eyes! "Huh?"

"Your turn," he repeated.

"Oh, I don't bench press--"

"C'mon, Summers." He sat up, patting his face with a towel. "Let's see what you got."

"But... it's all covered in your nasty boy-sweat."

He wiped off the bench, picked up her towel and laid it down. "Better?"

"No. I can still smell it."

"Down."

With a whine, she switched places with him. "Okay but if I start bulging with man muscles it's gonna be all your fault."

"You're not gonna bulge," he laughed, rolling off the heavy weights.

She lay back and looked up. "Yeah, speaking of, this is why you need shorts."

He gasped and teased, "Naughty Buffy... Lookin' at my bulge."

"It's right in my face! How can I not?"

"By lookin' at the bar that's about to crush your chest."

"Oh," she took it from him, and lifted and lowered it with ease. "This is nothing. Gimme more."

"Next set," he said, smiling down at her.

* * *

"Will you just quit while you're ahead?" he replied to her insistence that he pile another set of barbells on. "No way you're gonna make it."

"Oh yeah?" she asked between pants. "You think so, huh?"

"You have tiny arms! You can't possibly lift a hundred pounds."

She smiled saucily. "Wanna bet?"

"Oh, please..." But, then again, Spike was never one to turn down a wager. "Stakes?"

"If I make this, you let me take you to Nordstrom's."

He narrowed his eyes, raised a brow. "And if you don't?"

"Anything you want."

A slow, wicked grin. "Oh, you're on."

* * *

"These?"

"No." Spike looked both embarrassed and bored out of his mind.

"These?" She held up another pair of shorts.

"Definitely not."

"These?"

"What are you trying to do? Turn me gay?"

She giggled. "Okay, point." She put that one down.

"This is humiliating."

"Aha! This is it, I can feel it." She held up a black pair and pressed her cheek against it. "And so soft too."

He squinted. "Gonna be nuzzling my crotch?"

"Well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Those are alright, I guess."

"Perfect. Now go try them on."

"No bloody way! Look, if they don't fit I'll return them."

Buffy sighed, shaking her head. Men.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN



Buffy lay back in her beach chair, languidly sipping a juice and tonic. "Yoo-hoo! Ke-en? Where are you, Ken?"

She heard him curse her name.

She giggled. "Oh, Keeeeennn..."

The door to the guesthouse opened a crack. His head popped out. "You keep calling me that and I'm comin' out there starkers."

"Does that mean 'naked' in your language?" she asked, head cocked, putting on the ditz.

He smiled. "In English? Yeah."

"Okay," she shrugged. "Ken."

He gasped, aghast.

She laughed.

Accepting the inevitable with a burdened sigh, he came forward, modeling another pair of shorts.

"Oohhh, nice." She nodded in appreciation and sucked on her straw. "I likey."

"Better than the last three, then?"

"All good. Now, spin." She spun her finger around.

He rolled his eyes and turned slowly, arms out.

"Come over here."

He cautiously approached her.

"Don't be afraid, Kenny." She sat up, and when he came close enough, she adjusted the tag, and patted his behind. "Perfect."

"Do I please you, Mistress?" he asked sarcastically.

"Oh, very, very much." She sat back. "You can service me now."

"Oh good."

When he came at her, she gasped, shrinking back -- Oh my god, he's really gonna--

And then he scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the pool's edge, and tossed her into the cold, cold water.

Buffy surfaced, spitting and screaming obscenities.

Spike pointed at her emphatically. "Yeah, you know you deserved it!"

"Okay, okay." She wiped the water out of her eyes and treaded to the pool's edge. "Maybe I did." She held out a hand. "Help me out?"

"Oh no. I know that trick, love."

She made the most serious face she could. "I promise I won't pull you in."

"You promise?"

"I totally promise."

He sighed, and held out his unbandaged hand. She pulled him in.

His head shot out of the water. "You little liar! I'm gonna--"

She knife-stroked toward the shallow end. He darted after her, caught her ankle, and pulled her under.

She managed to spin, wiggle out of his grasp, and vault out of the water like a dolphin while pushing his head down.

He took that opportunity to seize her hips and yank her toward his face.

She felt his nose on her navel, and gasped.

Bear-hugging her torso tightly against his body, he emerged. "Oh, I got you now."

"Nuh-uh," she said, looking into his eyes as she held onto his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist, "I got you."

Expression darkening, Spike slid his hands up her back. Rough, calloused fingertips on her peach-smooth skin, eyes on her wet lips...

"Whoa, whoa. Reign it in, Little Miss Carried-Away."

Just then, Buffy's brain conveniently recalled an image of Spike the night before, staring at his ex-girlfriend in a blind rage, blood oozing down his arm.

So she did what she had to do: She splashed him and swam away.

"Alright Barbie," he said, wiping his face, sighting his target on her retreating form. "This means war."

She grabbed the metal ladder and propelled herself out of the pool, water cascading down her back. She slipped two fingers under her bikini bottoms, adjusting them like girls do in the movies, and turned to smirk at him while she wrung her hair.

"Get back in here!" He splashed her from there, but she jumped out of the spray. "I'm not done with you yet."

"I guess Barbie wins," she said breezily, and turned on her heel. "Later, Ken."

Breath heavy, he watched her sashay into the house and close the door.

Right.





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