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Muse

He supposed you could call her his muse. Every night, as the haze cleared and his eyes adjusted to the lights of the stage, he’d find her. The one. The woman he’d sing to that night, pour out his heart and soul and passion to as he held her eyes.

The opening riffs of the first song in the set sounded as he scanned the writhing crowd that pulsed in the hot, smoky club. There she was. Tonight’s girl.

Blond hair, tiny, curves in all the right places showcased in clothes that revealed just enough. Her arms were raised above her head as she swiveled her hips to the beat that rocked the small club. And then she opened her eyes. Green, like the deepest sea after a storm. A slow smile crept across his face as his familiar opening rang out, " . . . and my name’s Spike," and the crowd cheered wildly. He locked eyes with the blond. He could see her reaction as she caught his gaze, almost a challenge as she returned his smirk and refused to look away.

Oh yeah, this was gonna be a helluva show.

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The club was dark during the set change, people milling around. She held her ground, wanting a good spot to get a look at the lead singer her friends had caught the night before, the one they’d raved sounded and looked like liquid sex. Well worth the cover charge. So after a few drinks at the bar while the earlier acts played, she jockeyed for a good location near the stage, praying she was about to be entertained after the killer week she’d endured.

The lights came up in a kaleidoscope of colors and the band began to play, a seductive hard rhythm that had her swaying to the music in minutes. She closed her eyes and let the sounds wash over her until he spoke.

That voice. Low, a bit of a rumble, a hint of a growl, a tinge of a purr. Seductive as hell. Her eyes opened to meet a pair of the most gorgeous ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. And he was looking straight at her. She flushed but didn’t, couldn’t, look away.

And then he started to sing. They were on, the best band of the night for sure, but it wasn’t the music that kept her riveted to the floor, eyes never leaving the stage. It was him. He worked the crowd, his energy practically vibrating off him in waves as he crooned and wailed through the songs, amply rewarded with the screams of the crowd as they rocked out.

But it wasn’t just the energy, though she felt its tug like the rest of the mass on the floor. It was more. He always seemed to come back to her, to meet her eyes with a look that made her feel as though she was the only person in the room and he was singing just to her.

It was hot. Not just writhing, sweating, bodies moving around her hot. Internal temperature rising to the point of combustion hot. At the end of the first song, he did this thing with his tongue, while he looked head on at her, and it shot straight to her pussy, leaving her wetter than her ex had ever been able to in his sad attempts at five minute foreplay.

Her inner slut demanded reciprocity, and she slowly licked her lips, rewarded by the flash in his eyes as he smoothly began the next song. They teased back and forth as the band played on, to the point she started drawing evil glares from the other swooning chicks jockeying for attention. As the set drew to a close, Buffy knew she was more turned on than she’d ever been in her life, primed and ready for action. But the lights went dark as the last song ended and when they came back up, he was gone, leaving her feeling like a sixteen year old left stranded on second base.

She left the packed floor and headed for the bathrooms. Her whole body felt sensitized; every move sent a zing and crackle through parts she’d never considered erogenous zones before tonight. And those she had were tingling, begging for attention.

Her nipples were hard and heavy against the thin drape of the halter she wore, every brush making her long for harder contact, like fingers slightly rough from guitar strings, or a devilish tongue that could stroke and soothe.

She shifted against the wall as she waited in the insanely long lone for the ladies. Her thigh slid against the other as she propped a leg back against the wall, causing an involuntary shiver at the slight friction on her clit that was aching for contact. She welcomed the cool air that flowed up her brief leather mini, but the temperature change didn’t cool the fire at all.

She didn’t usually go for quick, anonymous fucks and bar pick-ups weren’t her style, but tonight she was giving it serious thought. She had an itch that needed to be scratched. And soon.

The line inched forward and she turned to scan the pickings. Too tall, too short, too psychotic, too needy. Damn, Goldilocks, pick a bed already,. But none of them were what she needed. None of them were the bleached blond, blue-eyed rock god that had set her world ablaze.

She gave up the search, She had her trusty vibe at home that would at least take the edge off, and she wouldn’t have to kick it out of bad in the morning. She could go home, close her eyes, capture him on stage, all sexy cheekbones and swagger, and catapult off the edge in record time. Probably multiples.

She wrenched away from the wall and headed for the back exit, away from the crowd, suddenly needing to be out of this place. The scene was dead, the new band flat, and there was nothing here for her.

The dark hallway was technically off limits to patrons, but she’d been here enough that she knew her way to the small door leading to the back alley without having to fight the crowd in front. She realized her hand had unconsciously moved to her breast as she reached for the door, grazing her nipple through the fabric as the images of him continued to swirl through her mind. She glanced around, but the hallway was deserted, no one had witnessed her little indiscretion. She pushed against the door, which seemed stuck, then gave a little shove and it swung wide.

The alley was equally shadowed, the faintest beams of moonlight barely illuminating the few boxes and the dumpster that occupied it. As the door shut, cutting off the echoed din of the music, she shook her head to clear her thoughts after the stuffy closeness of the club.

It didn’t work. She couldn’t seem to stop her fingers from darting to the other breast now that she was alone, tweaking the turgid peak roughly as she groaned with relief. She felt like a cat in heat, but she didn’t want to stop, needed to just take the edge off. She leaned back against the wall and slowly slid one hand up her thigh as the other drifted from one soft mound to the other. She slid her finger under the edge of the dripping wet thong and gasped as she brushed the sensitive bundle of nerves that sent shots of pure pleasure through her belly. She stroked herself, once, twice, three times and gasped as her head flew back, eyes closed against the sparkles behind her eyelids from the self-induced satisfaction.

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They were all wired by the time they left the stage, strung out on the feedback and exhilaration of a kickass performance. The next set was gearing up as they stowed their instruments and his mates pulled him with them towards the audience, looking for adulation and some easy pick-ups.

He stood at the edge, off to the side with the beer the bartender had cracked for him when they’d emerged from the back. He wondered if she was now doing a slow shimmy for the next lead singer, on to the next target like so many on the bar bunnies in the crowd. After a careful scan of the throng in front of the stage, he realized she was already gone. Unexpected disappointment surged through him.

He patted his pockets for his cigarettes, in need of the slow soothing slide of the smoke to settle him. The narrow hallway to the back was quiet for the moment, save one couple so deep into one another they seemed not to notice him until he was upon them. They broke their clinch and moved away as he shrugged an apology and headed out the door.

The alley was dark and cool. He leaned back against the door as he tapped his smokes and extracted a cigarette, flicking a bright spark to its tip as he inhaled the welcome nicotine. He wished she’d still been there. After the way they’d been going at it, he’d thought she’d have stuck around. They often did, his muse of the night, though he rarely did them. The fantasy that kept him going on stage infrequently inspired when he came face to face.

He flicked the ash from the burning tip before taking another long drag. She’d seemed different though. Fucking gorgeous for one, from the tip of that shampoo commercial hair to the toes of the come shag me boots that added a few inches to her diminutive height. But it was more than that. She’d had a sparkle in her eye, like she knew the game he played and she was going to best him at his own tricks.

And she had. She’d used every bit of body language known to woman to trumpet that she was ready, willing and able if he was man enough to take her, all while dancing to his tunes. It had been a real effort to keep himself under control up there on the stage.

He tossed the cigarette down and crushed it beneath his boot as he filched the next from the pack. Bleeding shame she’d left. He’d like to have known.

He felt the door move at his back and he jolted, realizing his quiet was about to be invaded. He ducked to the other side of the dumpster, into the deeper shadows as he crushed out his cigarette. He wasn’t up for idle chitchat at the moment.

He heard the door swing shut and the click clack of a single pair of heels on the pavement for a moment before they stopped. And then he heard her moan. Deep, breathy, orgasmic. He stepped to the side and nearly dropped the unlit cigarette he’d pulled out.

There she was. Muse of the night. And holy fuck, she was getting herself off, right there in the alleyway;. He watched her fingers slide deeper as her head fell back and she full out moaned her pleasure. His cock could have pounded nails at that moment as he watched the tremor, the twist of her lips as she peaked. He knew he had to have her.

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Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound of measured applause echoed loudly in the quiet alley as her eyes shot open and her hands flew to rearrange her disarrayed clothes. Oh shit. Could she get arrested for this?

"That, luv, was the finest show I’ve seen tonight." His beautiful growl sent sparks to all the synapses that were still firing in her already overloaded system, as she tried desperate to recover her equilibrium.

"Then I guess we’re even. You were the best show I saw tonight, too." She was surprised how low and husky and . . . suggestive her words sounded in her ears. He seemed to like as he stepped closer and tossed the unlit cigarette in his hand to the ground.

"You know what I think?" He was inches from her now, as he tilted her face up to meet his entrancing, hypnotic eyes. She couldn’t find her voice, her breath seemed gone in the tiny space between them, so she shook her head.

He dropped his lips to the shell of her ear, pinning her to the wall. "I think together, we’d be even better."

Her breath hitched in her throat as he waited, still, not moving away, but not moving towards her. Her brain was definitely mush at this point, reduced to one repeated exclamation of Yes! Yes! Yes!, but her voice didn’t seem to get the memo.

Instead her lips took action, meeting his in a clash while her tongue tattooed out her acceptance as they intertwined. He groaned as she ground her hips against his hardness, almost squealing at the solid length she found waiting for her there.

He broke away as his hand slid to caress her thigh, pulling it up to curve around his hip. "You want it here? Now?" he purred against her lips. "You want me to give it to you in this alley, up against the wall?"

She bit his lip as his words settled in, sliding her hand to pull loose the button-fly of his faded jeans, her fingers sliding down the smooth steel of his cock.

"Fuck me, now," she commanded in his ear, as he growled against her neck. "Such a dirty girl, gonna have to give it to you good, luv."

He thrust into her hand, lifting her easily and holding her against the cool roughness of the bricks. She locked her legs around his back as he pushed the nonexistent skirt away and shoved her thong to the side so he could plunge into her dripping depths.

He slid inside in one smooth thrust until he was buried completely in her welcoming body, and the frenzied pace of their coupling froze as their eyes met with the force of their joining. She knew her breath was coming in high-pitched, breathy gasps as she struggled to process the sensation, the way he filled her entirely, as though made for nothing but her.

He leaned his forehead against hers as he held her steady and withdrew, only to slide home again, slowly, almost reverently this time, as though savoring the experience.

"Fuck." His softly muttered exclamation caused her to open her eyes. "Never felt anything like this, pet, you’re like a kid glove wrapped snug round me." He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her throat, a rain of soft touches as he continue to murmur, "So beautiful, so much fire." She drew his face back up between her hands, and captured his lips again, unleashing the passion that had been overwhelmed by the sheer wonder of their joining.

His breath grew ragged as he began to increase the pace, long, deep strokes that had her shuddering as he hit that spot deep inside, pushing her to the brink as she bit his shoulder to muffle the scream that ripped from her lips as she shattered into a million pieces around him. She felt his answering shudder as he spilled inside her, hot and wet juices mingling to run down her thighs as he eased her down to stand on shaky feet.

They stood in utter silence for a few minutes, bodies still loosely intertwined as their breathing slowed, hands gently caressing in reassurance that this wasn’t a dream. She buried her face in his shoulder, relishing the hard warmth of his body as he sheltered her for the moment. She didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to think about the fact she’d just screwed a stranger in a back alley like some sad groupie. As long as she didn’t open her eyes, the magic was still there, the feeling they’d just connected that made this more than some drunken encounter.

The door to the alley swung open, throwing a sharp square of light onto the concrete. "Yo, Spike, we’ve got the equipment loaded. You done with your smoke?"

There was a brief pause in which she knew they’d been spotted, still in dishabille, leaned against the wall.

"Oh, sorry man."

He straightened, pulling away from her enough to look towards the door. "Be with you in a minute." His tone was dismissive and the door shut abruptly, plunging them back into shadows that she welcomed now to hide the rising blush on her face.

"Sorry about that. . ." He paused and traced a finger down her cheek and across her swollen lips gently. "Don’t know your name," he murmured with regret.

She tried to pull away. "Maybe that’s best." Her laugh was as brittle as an old pane of glass. "After all, I think we both got what we were after."

She refused to meet his gaze as she stepped out of the comfort of his arms, trying to straighten her skirt and halter into something that resembled her pre-ravishment state. She could feel the stickiness on her thighs and the wild excitement that had run through her veins only minutes before seemed to have deserted her. Now she just felt dirty and a little stupid. She moved to walk away.

He caught her arm. "Please don’t go," He pinned her eyes with his, that same mesmerizing look that had enthralled her so when she’d first seen him on stage, as he echoed his words from that moment. "My name’s Spike."

She searched his face in the shaded light. There were a thousand reasons to walk away. But his eyes held the promise of a reason to stay.

She stepped back towards him. "I’m Buffy."

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He supposed you could call her his muse. Every night, as the haze cleared and his eyes adjusted to the lights of the stage, he’d find her. The one. The woman he’d sing to that night, pour out his heart and soul and passion to as he held her eyes.

There she was. His Buffy.





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