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“Buffy,” Spike gasped when she finally broke away from the kiss long enough to draw a breath. “Love – wait…”

There was a reason why he wanted her to wait – something important he had to talk to her about – something that should be preventing him from accepting her advances – from feeling – oh, *God*!

“Can’t wait,” she muttered in a husky voice, her hand behind his neck holding him firmly as her mouth dropped to caress the side of his neck, at the line of his turtleneck, her free hand coming to rest at his back, just below his waist, and press his swelling need against her, hard. “Now,” she added in a throaty whisper against his skin.

*Yes, now, now, need you, Buffy…* his mind echoed his agreement with her words. He was desperate for her, longing for her, drinking in her scent, her warmth and nearness, like the sweetest water to a parched and dying man. How could he have thought to resist her, when he needed her so badly? Why had he wanted her to stop?

A tiny voice, nearly drowned out completely by his desire, tried to remind him of the answer – this wasn’t real…it was a deception…she didn’t care, she was using him…he needed to get her to stop…

*Don’t want her to stop…* his mind rebelled against the soft voice of reason. *Need her – don’t ever want her to stop…*

Her hand behind his neck pushed at the fabric of his shirt for a moment, wanting to uncover her mark to her touch, and he heard a soft growl of frustration rise in her throat at the barrier between her and the sign of her possession. She drew back to meet his eyes, her own feral and glittering with possessive lust as she demanded in a harsh whisper, “*Off*!”

He felt a shudder roll through him at her commanding tone, knew that this was an order he could not defy, but still, he hesitated. The instinct to obey, new, but still strong, warred with the instinct for self-preservation.

The indirect sunlight filtering through the closed blinds still set his skin to tingling in a natural warning of danger, though he knew it couldn’t really hurt him unless it was direct. The thought of baring his body to it sent a feeling of fear through him that was primal, instinctive, rooted deep inside him as a part of his very nature.

But so was the fear he felt at the smoldering anger beginning in Buffy’s eyes at his hesitation.

The wild, feral creature that had claimed him was visible again in her eyes, demanding the absolute obedience he had promised, a warning in her green eyes as both her hands went to his waist, impatiently pushing the material of his shirt upward as she hissed, “*Now*!”

His hands lowered to take over her work, pulling the soft shirt off over his head, as her hands slid slowly up his chest, leaving a trail of fire everywhere she touched him. As he dropped the shirt to the floor, her hands suddenly caught his wrists, pinning them forcefully to the wall on either side of the door, level with his head.

Lust-darkened eyes of jade met his in a smirk for just a moment, before slowly, boldly roving over the flawless alabaster of his chest. The desire in her heavy-lidded eyes, the arousal he could smell, sense, rolling off of her, made his knees feel weak and his cock harden with anticipation and need.

She looked him in the eye again as her right hand released his wrist, and the unspoken warning was clear. He did not move as her hot hand moved slowly over the smooth ivory skin of his cool torso, exploring his body in an almost leisurely way, without inhibition. The silent message was clear – he was hers, and she would touch him as she pleased.

Not that he was complaining.

Suddenly, her eyes met his again with a cold, predatory smile, and she shoved his chest hard, pressing him against the door as she moved in closer. His back flattened the blinds covering the small window in the door, leaving several small gaps that allowed the searing sunlight to touch his bare skin in thin lines here and there.

He gasped in pain and tried to move forward, but she only shoved him back hard again with a soft little snarl, and the threat in the sound was stronger than that of the deadly sunlight on his back. He dared not move again, despite the pain – not without her permission.

“Buffy,” he gasped as she pressed her lips to his skin, just above his collarbone, heedless of his predicament. “Buffy – please…”

“Shhh,” she murmured, her hot lips against his skin, ,just before she raised them, meeting his eyes for only a moment – but it was long enough for him to see the cruel amusement in her deep green gaze.

His eyes widened with shock and hurt as a chill went down his spine at the frightening intensity of the Slayer’s hard, glittering gaze. It was not that she did not realize, in her consuming lust for him, that she was hurting him. He could see in her expression that she *did* know.

She simply didn’t care.

He barely had time to register the fact before she broke his gaze, to plunge the heat of her mouth down over her mark on his throat, and an overwhelming sensation of pleasure swept over him, drowning out the screaming of his tortured nerves from the slowly singing places on his back.

“Buffy,” he gasped out. “God, *Buffy*!” His unrestrained hand moved unconsciously to rest on her hip, wanting to pull her closer.

Her hand instantly caught his wrist again, without lifting her mouth from his throat, slamming his hand back painfully hard against the doorjamb. Her teeth scraped lightly across the surface of the wound on his neck, sending a burning sensation through him to rival that of the scorching sun on his back. It was a warning; he had almost forgotten himself. He was not allowed to touch her.

In that moment, as her touch ceased to give him pleasure, to ease the burn of the light on his back, for a bare instant, instead inflicting her own brand of pain, his entire body felt as if it were on fire, as if he was being burned alive. He let out a soft little cry of pain, of pleading and submission, and although she still did not let him move away from the window, she returned her mouth to its gentle work.

But the damage was done.

A sense of sorrow began to creep over him, beneath the surface of the pleasure she was giving him, as the painful truth sank in. His body was still responding to her powerful touch, but his heart felt heavy, and a part of him deep inside was sobbing with hurt and shame, at the way she was using him – and the fact that he was allowing it.

She didn’t care. He was nothing but a toy to her – nothing but a possession to be used to bring her pleasure. She could dominate him, hurt him, until he was desperate for it to end; or give him such unspeakable pleasure that he could not express it, that he would hunger desperately for more of her touch – if it pleased her to do so.

But she could never love him.

This harsh reality gradually began to steal the pleasure from her touch, until the intensifying heat of the sunlight on his scorched skin overwhelmed the sweet sensation of her lips, her tongue, caressing his throat. The physical and emotional pain brought a soft sob to his lips, his body shaking as he weakly tried to push her back, unable to bear any more of the agony she was putting him through.

The Slayer’s eyes were glazed with an unearthly glimmer of desire and anger, as she slammed him back hard against the door again, her hand on his chest deliberately pressing his back through the blinds against the cool glass of the window – but all he felt was fiery heat, intensified as she raised her red, swollen lips from his throat, as she met his eyes with a demanding challenge in her own at his slight defiance.

He hated the longing, the ache inside him that wanted her touch back – wanted the lie of her lips to obliterate the pain in his heart, his body, to send him into sweet oblivion, even if it literally consumed him. He hated her for making him feel it, for making him want her with her mysterious hold over him, effective even when he knew how little he truly meant to her.

But most of all, he hated the pleading, desperate sound of his own hoarse voice as he moaned, “Buffy – please – please…”

But it seemed to satisfy the demanding, possessive force that was in control of the Slayer at the moment. She smiled, and put her arms around his waist, pulling him away from the door and against her body.

The blinds snapped back into their normal position, and the searing heat that had tormented him was relieved. Weak with a combination of the pain from the burns on his back, and an unreasonable gratitude to his claimant that no further pain was to be inflicted, he stood there, leaning unconsciously closer to her, gasping for breath.

“Shhh,” she whispered again in a soothing, comforting tone, and he felt the urge to break down – to take the comfort she offered, regardless of the fact that he knew he would not even need it if not for her abuse.

He fought it stubbornly, blinking back tears, pressing his trembling lips together in a defiant line. He should hate her! He should despise her for what she had done to him – what she was *doing* to him. And yet, he desired her embrace, her kiss, more than ever.

God, what had she done to him?

Her piercing eyes of jade found his, searching, questioning, and he averted his gaze, feeling too open, too vulnerable, his body, his heart – God, even his mind! – exposed to her scrutiny.

*No,* he thought desperately, focusing his every thought on closing his mind to her, not wanting her to see how deeply hurt he was, how devastated by her cruelty. *No – I won’t let you in! I hate you – I hate you…*

The Slayer’s eyes narrowed dangerously, as in her attempt to read his thoughts, she got his message, loud and clear. She saw the resolve in his face, the firm set of his jaw – and beyond it, the pain he was trying to hide – and a slow, calculating smile spread across her face.

She knew just how to break down that little wall of his.

Her strong hands on his waist suddenly became soft, gentle, as she backed up away from the door toward the island in the center of the room, pulling him with her slowly. She stopped when she had almost reached the island, letting her arms fall away from him completely and regarding him for a moment before moving to walk slowly around behind him.

His body was tensed, awaiting her judgment. He had sensed her anger when he had attempted to shut her out of his thoughts, though he was not sure yet if he had succeeded. His eyes were closed, his breathing fast and shaking slightly, as he braced himself for her violent reaction.

He was caught by surprise and completely off guard when he felt her hands, tender and gentle, brushing slowly up his sides and around to his back. He felt suddenly self-conscious and ashamed, and tried to pull away from her, even as he did expecting the action to be punished.

But she only made her hands on him firmer, though still not hard, and pushed gently forward, until he was pressed between her and the counter – trapped, unable to evade her gentle touch.

“It’s all right,” she softly said. “Let me see.”

The concern, the compassion in her voice, were his undoing. He fought back the sobs that threatened to overpower him as her hands ran tenderly, carefully, up and down his back, tracing the burns left by the sunlight, but not touching them. The gentleness that she was showing now, as if his pain mattered to her – as if *he* mattered to her – was what he had craved so desperately – not just since the claim, but his entire bloody life – but had always been denied.

His emotions were so raw, so near to the surface, that he knew he was on the verge of breaking down as she whispered in a tone of affectionate sorrow, “My poor baby…” her gentle, warm hands moving between the dark red marks that criss-crossed his back.

When he felt the soft heat of her lips press lightly, tenderly, over one of the burns – it was more than his ravaged emotions could bear. He broke down, his shoulders shaking as he tried – futilely – to repress the sobs that finally overcame him. The tender gesture of compassion touched a deep need in him – flooding him with a sense of relief, safety, and belonging.

*Maybe,* he scarcely dared to hope. *Maybe she does…*

Suddenly, he felt her lips against his skin turn up in a smile – and his heart sank with a sense of despair and disappointment as he realized the game she was playing. Her mouth moved upward slightly, and in the knowledge of her true motives, the heat felt oppressive, painful, not soothing as it had moments before.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, before kissing him tenderly again, but this time the subtle mockery was obvious to his wounded heart. She was making light of his pain and insecurity, using it to bend him to her will.

It hurt. Bad.

“Don’t,” he whispered in an anguished, pleading voice, pushing back against her, ignoring the pain of his injuries. “Stop – Buffy, stop!”

She complied, her cruel goal accomplished, stepping back and releasing him, a firm hand on his arm turning him around to face her, moving in close to him, her eyes shining with a strange light, a smirk on her face at successfully reaffirming her power.

He was bent slightly back over the counter, drawing away from her, at the moment no longer desiring her touch – just wanting to get away from her. Relentless in her quest for power, the Slayer extended a hand to stroke lightly down his face, and as much as he hated her touch in that moment, he dared not pull away from her.

“You can’t win this, Spike,” she whispered with a soft, triumphant smirk. “You’re mine. In every sense of the word.”

His eyes closed, trembling with the emotions that coursed through him, Spike spoke softly, in a voice of stark, honest pain, “I hate this. I hate what you’re doing to me.”

She only smiled, moving in nearer, her thumb rubbing away a tear on his cheek. “I know,” she answered simply, quietly, without malice or compassion.

His jaw set in resentful anger, as he added in a voice that was trembling, but harder, “And I hate *you*.” He half-expected a blow – an angry reaction to his defiant words.

What she did was so much worse.

She pressed nearer, eliminating all space between them, as she reached a soft, strong hand behind his neck to pull him closer to her, her fingers touching the edge of her mark. He gasped slightly at the sudden contact, his lips parting slightly, breathing harder as he fought for control.

*No…no…no…*

She leaned in, covering his mouth with hers in a kiss that was invasive, demanding, and he resisted her, struggling to pull away. But as her fingers gently massaged the token of her bond over him, he found himself responding in spite of himself, craving the nearness and connection that now only she could give him.

The moment he started to respond to her kiss, the Slayer drew back, smiling into his eyes with cruel triumph. He stared at her, stunned by his own reaction as much as by the sudden loss of contact.

“Hate me?” she murmured with a soft little laugh. “No…you really don’t.” The truth hit him like a blow, driving his terrible situation home, as she added in a cold, mocking tone, “That’s what makes it so funny.”

He flinched at her words, shaking his head slowly. He didn’t want to hear this – couldn’t hear it.

“You can’t help it,” she went on mercilessly. “You might *want* to hate me…”

“Please,” he whispered, shaking his head, unable to look at her, just desperately wanting her cruel words to stop.

“…but you can’t. You need me, Spike. You’re. Mine. But you know what?” She moved in even nearer, her face mere inches from his as she smiled coldly at him.

“Stop,” he begged her softly. “Please – please just stop this…”

She ignored him completely, answering her own question. “I’m *not* yours. Not really. That’s what *really* gets you. You want me to need you – to want you like you want me – and I don’t. Won’t. Ever. Not unless I *decide* to let you make me. And that’s *so* not gonna happen!” she sneered.

His eyes shot up to hers, wide with shock and hurt, as he realized that she was talking about his unreturned claim – and the fact that she never *would* return it. He felt his heart slowly crushed under the weight of her words as she went on.

“Yeah, you managed to get a little bit of an edge for a minute there last night. So maybe now, I want you too. I’ll give you that.” She shrugged with a careless smile, leaning in closer. “But you know what the difference is between you and me, Spike?”

“Please – please stop – please don’t,” he sobbed quietly, pleading desperately for the painful things she was saying to end.

She was not finished yet, and did not intend to stop until she was. She pressed her hand behind his neck, forcing his head to tip back, baring his throat to her. Almost instinctively he tilted his head slightly, offering up the mark to her in an unconscious gesture that once again proved her words.

She did not touch the mark at all, as she leaned in close to deliver the shattering blow in a cold whisper.

“*I* can have *you* -- any…time…I…want.”

He was stunned, heartbroken by her words. “God, Buffy,” he gasped, shaking his head in disbelief at her deliberately hurtful behavior. “Buffy, please stop! Please!” His voice softened with defeat, and an aching sorrow as he repeated in a whisper, knowing that it was really too late – she was finished, “Please.”

Something in his pleading voice, some echo of the depth of his pain, reached past the possessive creature that had been in the forefront of the Slayer’s psyche – already receding now that her demands of submission had been met for the moment -- and touched the protective, caring part of her heart that wanted to nourish and defend her vampire.

She stepped suddenly back away from him, releasing him, and he finally raised his eyes to look at her, his own expression dull and defeated. He was surprised, however, to see that her eyes were clear, startled, and held none of the primal menace and possessive cruelty that had filled her moments before.

Only Buffy stared back at him, with eyes slowly widening with shock and horror at the memories of the things she had just said and done.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Spike…” She shook her head slowly.

He looked away, sensing an apology – not ready to hear it.

She moved a hesitant step closer to him, speaking in a slow, disbelieving voice. “God – I’m so sorry, Spike…”

He just shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered in a tone of mingled despair and disgust. “Don’t…”

Desperate, she moved in closer, putting her hands on his arms, crossed defensively over his chest. “Please – Spike, I – I don’t know why I – said those things…why I hurt – oh, God, your back! Are you okay?”

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered, pulling away from her slightly. “Buffy – just don’t, please…”

She ignored his efforts to escape her, intent only on *doing* something to make right the wrong she could remember committing, but had no idea why she had done it. It was just as it had been the night before. She felt as if something else had taken control of her, and the things she had done, while she had wanted to do them at the time, horrified and repulsed her now.

“Spike, please just listen to me!” she insisted, moving in closer. “We need to…”

“I said *don’t* bloody *touch* me!” he suddenly roared in anguish and pain, his arms flying out to break her grip and shove her forcefully backward.

Caught off guard by the unexpected blow, she staggered and fell back onto her rear. He watched as her eyes narrowed in anger – saw that light of fury come into her eyes – as she quickly rose to her feet, closing the gap between them in a matter of moments, her hand drawn back in preparation for a brutal backhand blow.

He couldn’t move away, had no choice but to simply take it, and he braced himself – but the blow never fell.

Buffy suddenly withdrew her hand with a little gasp of shock and dismay. She shook her head, staring between her hand and Spike with stricken eyes, breathing hard.

“Spike,” she whispered. “Something is – something is seriously wrong here.”

He huffed out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t have to tell *me* that, Slayer,” he muttered, looking her in the eyes with a sarcastic smile that was full of pain.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy repeated, sounding distractedly and uncertain and – well, frankly, terrified. “I’m sorry. I – I have to go.” She looked back at him suddenly, and then quickly away, unable to hold his gaze after the things she had done. Without hesitation she turned and headed for the door.

He despised himself for caring at all, but felt that uncertainty, that need, coming over him, an almost desperation as he watched her walk away, and could not help but ask quietly, “When will you be back?”

She stopped with her back to him, pausing for a moment before she replied, “I don’t know. I – I’ll be back at least by sunset. To get you for the meeting. Other than that – I just don’t know.”

And without a backward glance she walked out the door.

It was only after she had gone that a stunning thought occurred to him – a thought that left his mind spinning and searching with mingled excitement and apprehension for an answer.

Yes, she was the Slayer, and didn’t get hurt as easily as normal mortal girls – but he had shoved her, hard, knocking her to the floor. It had to have caused her at least a little pain – judging by her reaction, the stiff sort of way she had risen from the floor.

He had hurt her.

And his chip had not fired.





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