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Buffy walked back into the kitchen and started randomly opening cupboards, trying to keep herself occupied and her mind away from what she had just seen. Spike’s cock. She slammed a cupboard door and opened another one. Spike’s hard cock. This was so not of the good! She reached into the cupboard and grabbed a jar. Images of the huge bulge pressing at the front of his jeans assaulted her brain. God, it had been big. The twinges between her legs started up again. She cranked open the jar. What was wrong with her? She felt dizzy and hot, sweat starting to drip down her back and between her breasts.

“You gonna eat that pet? Cause, I really thought you’d be pickier about what you put in your mouth.” Buffy froze, and looked down at what she was holding. Pickled squid. Ew!

“Yeah, I like squid. And I am picky. I’m all with the picky. Picky, that’s me.” She was babbling now, her brain frantically trying to figure out a way to not have to eat the squid that she was now cornered with. Fortunately, he just smirked at her and walked back into the living room, plopping himself into the leather armchair in the corner.

Spike watched from the corner as she shoved the jar back in the cupboard. He smiled at the thought of Giles opening it months later and getting a good strong whiff of unrefrigerated dead squid. Damn, she was flustered. He wondered why it was affecting her so much. He gave her a hard time about her sexual history, but he didn’t really believe she was as innocent as she put up. Surely she’d seen a hard-on before? Or maybe she was so innocent she had simply never noticed. Bollocks. She’s a slayer. All power and passion. Maybe it’s because it was him. Maybe she had noticed it in a way she wasn’t prepared for. Maybe that sniff I caught earlier wasn’t in my head. Heh. Either head. His smile broadened at his little joke, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back.

Buffy turned on the water at the sink and washed her hands, trying to gather her thoughts. She couldn’t deny that there had been times in the past, particularly when they fought, that she had had flashes of fantasy where they would be punching, kicking, her every move blocked and matched, where she would get in one good kick, and be on top of him, straddling him, grinding into his crotch. Or, she would slip, and his hand would be around her throat, shoving her up against the wall, as he would press himself between her legs and hold her there, captive. They were so well matched, physically, that she had excused her mental forays as mere extensions of the violence. They had certainly never occurred, in you know, reality.

And now this? She had been staring like a schoolgirl in the bathroom, and the sight of his obvious erection had made her all twitchy in her down-there parts. She turned off the water and rubbed her hands aggressively on the towel. No. I’m just hot and exhausted. And it’s been awhile, since I had, well, that. He’s just around and my fried brain is confusing my desire to kill him with something else. Satisfied with her logic, she turned around and walked back into the living room, flopped down on the couch, tucked her feet up under her and grabbed one of the fashion magazines out of her book bag, determined to ignore the vampire that now appeared to be dozing in the corner.

Spike had listened to her wash her hands for like five minutes and then come back in and drop down on the couch. He had taken a deep breath, grateful for his heightened sense of smell, and had been rewarded with the slight tang of arousal wafting by from Buffy walking through the room. He smiled to himself. She could deny it all she wanted, but he knew now. She wanted him. She might never, ever admit it, but right now, or at least before, she wanted him.

He had smelled her before, when they fought. But, that was different. He got hard, she got wet. It was just the way it was when you were fighting for your life, or trying to kill someone. And they were well matched. God, if they fought that well together, the shag must be damn near heaven! Or hell. He grinned. Depended on the perspective.

He opened his eyes. She was sitting there, curled up in a ball, some chick mag on her lap. She was turning the pages quick and hard, and he heard her swear when she accidentally tore one. Gotta lighten the mood, or she’s gonna combust.

“So, Slayer, where’s Captain Cardboard?” You git! Supposed to calm her down, not piss her off more!

Buffy just rolled her eyes. “Dunno. Something about camping. Male bonding or something.”

Well this was interesting. The Slayer seemed patently disinterested in what her muscle-bound boy toy was up to. “Male bonding? You sure about that?”

“Whatever. He’s all moon eyes at me. He’s not shacking up with some chick if that’s what you’re suggesting.” She glanced up at him and turned another page.

Spike was quiet, thinking. She hadn’t been with the ponce that long, and she was clearly already bored. Well, that’s to be expected. She’s a slayer. Needs a bit of monster in her man. No way is he giving it to her the way she needs. Git’s probably not givin’ it to her at all. Spike’s brain started to derail again to the bad place. Snap out of it! She’s finally calming down. Plenty of time later to rile her again. “Blood.”

Her head snapped up again. “What?”

Spike had latched onto the first non-naked thought that had jumped into his head, which, being that he was a vampire, turned out to be blood. And actually, he was noticing now that he was hungry. Couldn’t remember the last time the Watcher had deigned to feed him. Fucker. “Yeah. Blood.” He pointed at his stomach. “Hungry.” He rested his hand there, rubbing circles around his abs. He quirked up the corner of his lip in a soft leer, leaned his head back, and narrowed his eyes. “Feed me.”

Buffy just looked at him. He was saying something about blood, and touching himself, and giving her a look that was most clearly not a look having to do with hunger. At least, not hunger for food. She was yanked out of her distraction at his last two words, and she felt her anger surge.

“Does everything have to be all about the innuendo with you? God! You’re a pig Spike!”

He laughed. “Yeh I’m a pig. A big bad pig.”

She looked like she was going to throw her magazine at him, but instead jumped up off the couch and stamped into the kitchen. He was so aggravating! Maybe if he’s sucking down some pig’s blood his mouth will be too full to talk.

Spike got up and followed her into the kitchen, his eyes watching her hair as it skittered across her back, sticking to the sweat on her skin. She walked up to the fridge, yanked it open, and a few loose jars threatened to roll out. Reaching in the back, she grabbed a Styrofoam tub of blood, turned around and set it on the counter.

He had been staring at her ass again as she bent over to reach into the fridge. Her tank top had slid up a little bit, exposing her lower back. It was tanned and shiny with sweat, and Spike found himself lost in a mental image of her, bent over, naked and sweating, one of his hands tangled in her hair and the other gripping her hip, as he pounded into her from behind. Blood flooded his cock again, and he was suddenly dizzy with an onslaught of lust.

Buffy shoved the tub of blood over at Spike, and she gasped when she looked at him. He was leaning on the counter, his hands gripping the edge, knuckles white. His eyes were dilated and his mouth slightly open, his tongue running lightly over his lower lip. The look on his face was one of pure want, and Buffy felt a shock shoot from her throat directly to her pussy, and a surge of moisture into her panties.

When she looked up at him, Spike gripped the counter as hard as he could in a desperate effort to retain control. A torrent of emotions had shot across her face; first shock, then anger, then… was that desire? A sudden blast of a distinctly Buffy scent hit his nostrils then, and he felt the floor drop away as he realized his own lust was being reflected in her eyes. The scent was so strong. Her knickers must be soaking.

Just as quickly as he realized what was happening, reality returned with a jolt as disgust replaced the want that had been so clearly stamped on her face.

Slayer-Buffy had drop-kicked her hormones. She had stood there for a few seconds, staring at Spike, her body launching into full-betrayal mode and just about to do something so not of the good. He looked like he was about to pounce on her, the muscles of his arms corded and tight, and she realized with a mental shove that this was Spike, master vampire, Slayer of Slayers, twisted, pervy, irritating, evil Spike!

“God, shut up!” She rushed past him, down the hall and into the bathroom, locking the door. And then she realized he hadn’t said anything and she had told him to shut up, and the embarrassment that she had been trying to quash suddenly dominated her world. She sat on the floor in front of the tub, hooking her thumbs in her pockets and leaning her head back. She could feel the damp between her legs, and her face started to burn.





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