He was making her dizzy.
“Spike, please stop pacing.”
He shook his head frantically.
“Really, you’re driving me nuts.”
She didn’t know why she had this urge to reassure him that everything was okay when everything really, really wasn’t. And yet, the urge was there. There was something so authentic—so genuine—about his distress, and though she couldn’t explain it, she wanted to provide some solace.
Obviously, she was sick and twisted, but that was old news. Not only did she have the enjoying of what had happened last night, but not half an hour ago, she’d asked him to keep screwing her.
Well, not asked in so many words, but she definitely hadn’t complained when he read between the lines. Her body had been on fire—that strange buildup to orgasmic release that she was so not used to—and at that moment, it had seemed more important than her pride. Or almost more important, as she’d never actually gotten around to asking.
Now she wanted to comfort Spike for…well, rape was an awfully strong word, and since she’d enjoyed it—being the sicko that she was—she wasn’t too keen on using it. But still, she was entirely wigged and disgusted, and Spike was a big part of that.
She hated herself for enjoying it. Hated herself for not throwing him off of her in disgust once he started having sex with her that morning. Hated herself, most of all, for sitting here and feeling bad for making him realize the truth.
He really needed to stop pacing. Her sicko-eyes were really enjoying how taut and tense his body was.
I am completely disgusting.
He really did have that whole ripply-muscle thing going for him. It really, really wasn’t fair.
I am completely and utterly disgusting.
She needed to get out of here before she did something crazy, like actually comfort him.
“You need to slow down. Count to ten. Throw something. Breathe into a paper sack. I dunno. Just stop pacing!”
Spike stopped shortly and whirled around, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t breathe, you stupid bint!”
“Well, sorry! Forgive a girl for trying to help!”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Well, obviously. Your nervous breakdown is going off without a hitch. Now will you please stop pacing?”
“I’m not pacing!”
Buffy blinked. Oh. He actually had stopped. “Well, good. Let’s keep it that way. You wanna maybe not pace over here and unprisoner me?” She shook her other leg demonstratively, careful not to reveal the bite mark on her inner left thigh. The one he’d given her the night before—the one he’d sealed with words and a demand that she didn’t understand. She sensed it was important; she sensed the bite mark meant something huge, something significant, and couldn’t thank her lucky stars enough that he’d somehow missed it in his wig out.
For some reason, she didn’t want him to see it. She didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but something told her that things would be much worse if Spike knew he’d bitten her. Much, much worse. Especially if he knew that said bite had been accompanied by a random caveman demand, followed by an order to respond in some derogatory fashion that threw Women’s Rights out the proverbial window.
She had absolutely no idea how he hadn’t seen it, but she was counting her blessings. Her mind was made up: Spike could never, ever know about that mark.
“You want me to untie you,” Spike repeated, blinking.
“Well, yes. As comfortable as this looks…it’s anything but.”
“You’re not crying anymore.”
Oh, so he’d noticed that. That didn’t mean she didn’t feel like crying, naturally, but the part of her that felt used and violated—while still shaken and angry—couldn’t be as mad as it wanted to be because she knew that he was just as shaken.
“Don’t take that to mean that I’m not super pissed beyond the telling of it.”
Spike shook his head, a strange emotion clouding his eyes. Well, not strange for normal people, but it definitely looked strange on him. She’d seen his guilt and regret, but the look on his face now was a step above that. He was thoroughly broken by what he’d done. As though all the hurt and outrage that she wasn’t feeling had transferred to him. And it wigged her out that she suddenly felt she had the power to read Spike’s emotions, because that was so not a thing she wanted added to her resume.
“I’ve never…” Spike sighed and shook his head again, nearing her cautiously as his hand dipped back into his jean pocket. “I swear, Slayer, I’ve never forced myself on a woman before.”
The funny thing was, she knew he was telling the truth. She knew it. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She trusted that he was being honest with her—she could tell. Perhaps it was that strange non-resume-thing again, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.
“Never?” she repeated skeptically. “Yeah, coming from the evil vampire, that’s much with the reassuring.”
“There are certain degrees to evil, pet,” he replied, his eyes on the ground. “Maybe it was Angelus’s thing. Well, no, scratch that—it was Angelus’s thing. He gets off on pain.”
“And you don’t?”
Spike sighed, his fingers sliding over her ankle. “Not pain like that. I’m a mean, nasty bloke—don’t need to add sex offender to the list to make me the poster child for all things evil in the world. I’ve done my fair share of torturing, yeh. I won’ deny it. An’ there’s no reason for you to believe me. I know it, but I’m sayin’ it anyway. Rape isn’t my cuppatea, luv.”
It’s not rape when you enjoy it, though.
Buffy shivered. “Just unchain me. I wanna go home.”
He paused and arched a brow, looking up. “You sure you’re not gonna boot me across the room this time?”
“No.”
She expected anger, but instead, he flashed a somber smile and dropped the shackle. The metallic crash against the floor made her jump. “I deserve it.”
“You’re creeping me out.”
“’Least I’m not pacing.”
Buffy grinned a little at that. “Now the arms, please?”
“You gonna stake me?”
“Maybe.”
He unchained her. Buffy blinked in astonishment and met his eyes.
Why is he doing this?
“Because I’m enough of a rat bastard. I had a plan. I buggered the plan an’ practically buggered you in the process.”
Had she said that aloud or could he read minds? “Spike—”
Was it natural to want to comfort the man who had assaulted her? Was it even assault?
God, she was confused. She’d just spent the night in a surreal place with a surreal version of Spike. First with his head between her legs, then with his cock inside her. She hadn’t slept, and when she’d finally decided to struggle, Spike had started moving inside her and all reason had been lost.
She was sick. She was absolutely sick. And on top of that, she was emotionally exhausted; caught between hating him and feeling sorry for him, piled on top of totally hating herself.
Her emotions were tangled. If she thought about it another second, she’d just start crying again. Because, drunk or not, Spike had terrified her. What he’d done to her was terrifying. And this wigsome, penitent Spike wasn’t helping matters. Things would be so much easier if he’d be the ass he had been after he’d slid out of her body. If he’d never known what he’d done the night before, so she could stake him and begin the healing process.
This Spike was more broken than she could ever be. And it scared her that she knew that. That she could tell just by looking at him how much turmoil he was in, and how badly she wanted to tell him that it was okay.
Buffy sighed and tugged her camisole down over her breasts and squeezed her thighs together.
“Slayer,” he said softly. “I know…this won’t mean anything but…I’m sorry.”
She shuddered. It meant something. It meant a lot. And she resented it.
But she didn’t tell him that.
“I wanna go home.”
He was still for a long beat, then nodded and backed away, hurrying to the other side of the room. “Best not look a gift horse in the mouth, yeh? Lemme find you some slacks.”
“Spike?”
He paused and looked back at her.
Buffy swallowed hard. “For the record…I’m willing to believe that what happened here…didn’t happen here. Don’t ask me why—as you said: gift-horse-mouth kinda thing. But here’s what is gonna happen: I’m gonna go home, take a shower, and forget everything.” She paused. “But…you need to leave. I mean it. Leave town. Never come back. If you come back—”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I know this tune, Slayer.”
“I mean it.”
“An’ I have no reason to doubt it.” Spike forced a weak smile and nodded again. “Gonna go find you some slacks.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
And with any luck, so was he. Spike would leave and she could return to her normally scheduled life.
And try to fit herself into a universe where none of this ever happened. She didn’t want any self-examination. She didn’t want to think about how every woman’s nightmare had turned into the hottest experience of her life. She didn’t want to consider what that made her. She didn’t want to clash how hurt and angry she was against how good he’d made her feel. Physical pleasure didn’t win over emotional duress, and although she knew that, convincing herself was an entirely separate matter. She was confused enough for several lifetimes as it was. So she was determined not to think of it. She would walk away from Spike right now with this bizarre understanding, and never give their night together a second thought.
It was a nice idea, as far as pipe dreams went.
To be continued…