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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is the dirtiest thing I've ever thought/written. Please let me know what you think.
Spike went into his apartment and flicked on the light switch. The blinking, blue and gold Christmas lights Tara had criss-crossed over his window came on at the same time the bulb in his only lamp blew.

“Bugger,” Spike said, realizing he was going to have to find a fresh one using only the jittery, colored light.

He moved mostly by memory to the galley kitchen, set the bread on the counter and squatted in front of the sink. Spike opened the cupboard door and rummaged around when his search was halted by a knock. He stood, walked to the door and opened it to find the strange girl standing on his welcome mat.

For the first time he noticed there was a neat cicatrix running through her lips beginning at the edge of the heart-shaped upper half and then traveling past the bottom. Spike rubbed the scar running through his right brow; they already had something in common. He’d earned his during his first professional fight, the only time an opponent had been quick enough to land a blow to his face. Ever since then he’d gotten better at dancing around the ring until he exhausted the other fighter.

Spike wondered if she’d been marked in battle or if someone had intentionally marred her perfect face. Already the thought of anyone touching her that way made him want to kill and she hadn’t even said a word yet.

The girl smiled at him, but it didn’t touch those eyes.

“Hi,” she said.

“Come to borrow a cup of sugar, pet?” he asked. Spike couldn’t help smiling at her, teasing the back of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

She was clasping her hands together nervously and he noticed she wore a ring on every finger, even the thumbs. Spike was ashamed at himself for checking out the pleasant shape of her tan legs, but her baby-blue shorts seemed more like a hint than actual clothes. She was wearing a white tank top with little ribbons where the straps connected to the neckline.

“Something like that. Can I come in?”

“My lights are out. It’ll be a second,” he said.

“Can I wait inside?”

“Sure,” Spike said, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. He shook his head and then darted out of her way.

She stepped into the apartment, her face alternately illuminated in blue then gold. Spike moved toward the sink again and was surprised when the girl shut his door, effectively sealing them in together amid virtual darkness.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Spike, well that’s what I’m called. My Christian name is William McClay, but I go by Spike,” he said.

Why the fuck was he so tongue-tied? Spike had been with a lot of women. He could talk to girls, hell, his best friend in the world was a girl. Yet this bold, little bird had him fumbling like a novice.

“Are you really good at volleyball or something?” she asked with a quirk of her shiny, pink lips.

“Cute, that’s what you are. No, I’m a boxer. Few years back I hit this bloke so hard he said it felt like I’d driven a railroad spike through his head,” Spike said.

He stood up to full size, wanting to look intimidating and wondering why. Maybe it was the way she’d pushed herself inside his space, the way she needed his help but kept dancing around instead of asking. Maybe it was because he was suddenly feeling completely out of control. She was looking at the objects in his apartment, the odd collection of junk he hadn’t cleared away.

Aside from Tara’s Christmas lights and the twelve-inch, pre-decorated tree she’d stuck on the mantel above his useless fireplace, there weren’t many personal touches. Spike had a framed photo of Tara, himself and his mum on the wall. The mystery blonde looked over the picture before she picked up one of the dumbbells he’d left on the floor and tossed it from hand to hand.

“You don’t look so tough to me. I bet I could take you,” she said.

She came closer to him, a challenge in her walk. Spike couldn’t resist her pull and moved toward her in kind.

“What are you, a buck oh nine? I could break you in half, love,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.

“Don’t call me that, you don’t love me,” she said, as her expression lost all pretext of a smile. She was still moving as she dropped the weight with a thud on the hardwood floor.

“Well, what should I call you, what’s your name?” Spike asked.

They were so close now he could see a wisp of her light hair stuck to her mascara. He reached toward her to brush it away when suddenly she slammed him against the wall with more force than he thought possible. Her lips were on his; her tongue wriggling inexpertly around his mouth. She didn’t taste like booze, which would have made some kind of sense. No, she tasted like toothpaste, like she’d brushed her teeth, like she’d gotten ready for this moment. Spike touched her waist and tried to calm her kiss into something softer. At first she responded to his gentleness with a moan at the back of her throat but then she was grabbing his hands and pushing him away.

“What is it?” he asked.

The girl looked up at him with those heartbreaking eyes and then she dropped to her knees. Her thin fingers were tearing at the button of his jeans, lowering his zipper and then she was yanking his pants down to his ankles. Spike tried to touch her shoulders, but she swatted his hands away.

Spike knew himself well enough to realize this girl was a disastrous confluence of all his obsessions. Her beauty, the violence of her seduction and the bizarreness of the situation turned him on. He’d had an intense fling with a girl called Drusilla a few years back that had introduced him to his own need for pain within his pleasures. Add to that the fact that she was clearly a lady in distress, something he found impossible to ignore, and Spike knew he was in danger of losing all sense of proportion.

As soon as the girl writhing at his feet touched his cock it got hard. She looked…intrigued, was that the word? Like she’d just figured something out that had been puzzling her for a long time. She squeezed him a little too tightly, but then she was kissing it, making him feel good. Her lip gloss was so sticky; her mouth was hot and wet. Spike looked down at her in the syncopated light; she’d move forward on his cock and her skin looked blue, back and it was gold. Her long hair was bouncing against his hips and she was cupping his ass with incredibly strong hands, manipulating him into her mouth.

Spike didn’t know if he should hold back or try to cum; she was making cooing sounds, her pupils were blown, she liked it or was pretending to. Then she did something with her tongue and he wasn’t thinking about what he was supposed to do, just doing it. The orgasm didn’t sap any of his desire or strength; it didn’t satisfy. It just signified an ending, like a period concluding a sentence.
She dressed him again before standing up and meeting his eyes.

“Can I touch you, lo-baby? We could ring in the New Year again and again,” he said, reaching his arms toward her.

She stepped out of range.

“I have to go.”

She slipped out the door into the hallway, leaving him panting and alone with his back resting against the wall.
The next morning when he was taking a shower, Spike noticed a constellation of bruises on his hips where her fingers had been pressing into the flesh.





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