They’d fallen asleep again, Buffy, surprisingly, having nodded off first. Spike watched her, much like he had when he’d woken in the middle of the night. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she was perfect in his eyes. It was her heart; her capacity for love and her extreme loyalty -- even when there were those undeserving of that loyalty and love.
Like say, him.
But she was right there, right by his side, taking care of him. Taking care of him. When had anyone taken care of him? And, when had he ever taken care of anyone? He and Sam hadn’t taken care of each other, that was for sure. When had he ever felt the urge to take care of someone—well someone that was not his daughter. And, well, he’d fucked that right up hadn’t he?
Christ. He was in love with Buffy.
The realization hit him not with the force and impact he thought it would; probably because he’d known all along, but had never wanted to admit it. Not for him, not because he was afraid of what he felt, but because of her. Because he was afraid that if she reciprocated those feelings, he’d somehow fuck up and lose her.
He needed her now. Needed her with him, to stay by his side and give that loving support she was so effortlessly giving him. And right now, she was literally by his side—but what happened when she left when her vacation was up? What would he do then? Who’d take care of him then? Who would keep him in check? Who would make sure he didn’t stray from the path he was making right now?
The answer was simple: The only one that was going to keep him on that path was himself. The only one that would make sure he didn’t stray was himself. He had to take care of himself; he’d have to keep himself in check.
And he could do it. He could. He had to. If he didn’t then. . . he’d never be worthy of her. But . . . could he ever have her? She lived on the east coast, he lived on the west. His heart though, his heart had known that all along and had never stopped. His heart knew what his head knew, but it kept right on going, kept right on beating, aching and striving for her.
What was a bloke to do? Surrender? Set her free? Indeed, what was a bloke to do?
Buffy was having an erotic dream. In her erotic dream, Spike was her lover and he was currently grinding himself against her center, her leg up over his hip, her center pressed against his hardness. He was hitting her cloth-covered pussy at just the right spot, right on her clit, so that everytime he undulated against her, electric shocks of pleasure coursed through her, bringing her closer and closer to completion.
His lips were on her neck, nibbling, sucking and kissing. His hands were under her shirt, cupping her breasts, flicking her nipples with the pads of his thumbs. He was moaning into her neck and trailing kisses up to her jaw and down to her mouth, which he claimed voraciously.
“Buffy, my love,” he breathed, his breath hot and creating goosebumps to form all over her body.
“Spike,” she murmured in response and ground herself harder against him, needing him, needing release. She didn’t want the pleasure to end and yet couldn’t stop herself from seeking the completion. She just wanted to make sure he was right there with her when she tumbled.
She claimed his lips, teasing his tongue with hers, reveling in his chase of it when she retreated it back into her mouth. She heard him growl, deep and low, and the sound sent shockwaves to her pussy.
God, that was hot.
Needing to breathe, she tore her mouth from his and moaned when his grinding came to a stop.
He was frozen and tense against her and God, she needed –
“Buffy.”
Her eyes snapped open and settled on cool, startled blue eyes. He was apologizing to her with his eyes. He was sorry. Why was he –
Because they’d been dreaming. It was a dream. All a dream.
Her body was aching, striving, reaching. . . she needed that release. She needed it badly, and she needed him to be the one that gave it to her.
Moving her hips so that her pussy brushed against his sweat-pant covered cock; he moaned and closed his eyes. He bit his bottom lip and his hands jutted out from underneath her shirt, and he stilled her, holding her firmly in his grasp. “What are you doing?” he manage to choke out.
“Spike, I . . . I need. . . “
“What, Buffy? What do you need?”
She moved her hips again, ignoring how tightly he was holding on to her, ignoring his signal for her to stop. She didn’t want to stop. She wasn’t fully awake; she was drunk on him, drunk on the feelings inside her swirling about, drunk on the need for release.
She swallowed hard, and searched his eyes, searched for his acceptance, his need and his desire.
He answered her by crashing his lips down on hers and toppling her. Her arms wrapped around him, her fingers diving into his hair, twining through his soft curls.
“I won’t take you,” he whispered into her mouth, “I won’t do it.”
She whimpered when his hand slipped inside her pajama bottoms and he started stroking her through her panties. “Spike,” she moaned, her head rolling back onto the pillow.
“I won’t,” he whispered again. “I’ll give you this, but I won’t take you.”
She was there. She arrived, shouting her pleasure to the heavens, bellowing his name. Bursts of color went off like fireworks behind her eyes and, just as soon as she’d gone up and off, she came down, crashing to Earth.
Crashing to reality.
Her eyes widened and she looked up at him in horror. “I’m sorry.”
Now his eyes widened, “Why? Why are you sorry?”
She shook her head, “I – I shouldn’t have done that. I was . . I came onto you!”
“Buffy,” he said gently, caressing her face with his non-sodden hand. “It’s okay, we came onto each other.”
Her eyes welled up in tears, “It’s not okay.”
She welled up even more at the apparent hurt in his eyes. “Why?” he asked softly, “Why was that bad?”
“Because I – I took advantage of you.”
He reared his head back slightly, looking at her as if he’d just realized she was there. “What? You’re saying you took advantage of me?”
“You’re upset and you have a hangover. You had a bad day yesterday and a bad night and—why are you laughing like that?”
Spike rolled off her, “Oh God, that’s . . . that’s irony. You’ve been helping me realize what a ‘man whore’ I’ve been and now you’re apologizing to the ‘man whore’ for doing what he does best—getting a woman off. Remember that I’m the one that takes advantage of the weak and needy?”
“You don’t have to make it sound so callous,” she bristled, sitting up and adjusting herself.
He looked over at her, “Didn’t like the ‘getting a woman off’ bit?”
She scowled at him and jumped off the bed, “No, I didn’t. But that’s fine. Because we can just pretend that that didn’t happen—“
“Oh, no Princess. It happened,” he told her firmly, rolling out of bed and still sporting an impressive erection. “It happened and there’s no going back. At least not for me there isn’t. That was. . . “he shook his head, “It was a bloody revelation, Buffy.”
“Of what?” she asked timidly, afraid of what he’d say. Afraid of what she felt, of what he felt, of the implications of it all.
He smiled, “You’ll see. I’m going to prove it to you, Buffy.”
“Prove what?”
“That I can be a good man. The man you deserve.”
“I know you’re a good man, I’ve been saying—“
He held up his hand, halting her. “No, I know you have been, but you haven’t seen me try. You’ve seen bits and pieces, snatches of the good man. I’m going to show you more of him. Make you see him all the time so there’s no doubt that I’d be good.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Good for what?”
“Good for you, Buffy. Good for you.” He sidled up to her, and she let him, she stood there and simply watched him, wondering what he was going to do.
He smiled tenderly at her and cupped the side of her face. “I’m going to make you love me.”