The only possible thing that he could do to top his own stupidity at this point would be to stroll up and knock on the Slayer’s door. Spike sighed and shook his head, his fingers coiling and uncoiling nervously, his eyes glued to her bedroom window. God, he was pathetic. It had only been hours since he saw her last—and after what had happened, that should have been enough to last lifetimes. And yet, here he was. Pacing beneath her window like a hopeless sap with some wretched crush.
It killed him to know that she was only a few feet away from him—just a few precious feet—and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“Bitch,” he muttered irritably, though there was no malice behind the word. No true hatred. Was it even bloody possible that he’d hated her so thoroughly just twenty-four hours ago? He didn’t think so. And how was it that one little bizarre, drunken experience with her had turned him into a pathetic, sniveling, lovesick fool?
A long, bitter chuckle tore through his throat. “Well, princess, I guess you were right,” he drawled, cracking his knuckles to avoid the temptation of reaching for his smokes. “I definitely am covered in the Slayer.”
He was so bug-shagging covered in her that he couldn’t bear being apart from her for more than a day. He couldn’t manage to crawl past the stupid city limits and get on with his miserable unlife. He knew he was dust the next time she saw him. Knew that he’d have no excuse. Something told him that, “Sorry, pet, but I did try,” wouldn’t make up for much.
There was just something about her. Something that he wanted to be near always. And bloody hell, if that wasn’t a frightening thought, he didn’t know what was.
Dru had seen it all along. Not only that, but the stupid bint had actually taken it upon herself to go and mention it. As if he wanted to know that he was covered in the sodding Slayer. If the infuriating woman had only kept her filthy mouth shut, he’d never be in this position. He’d never have come back to Sunnyhell. Never would have done something as colossally stupid as swipe the Slayer from her own sodding safe hold, then force her to the drunken, albeit amorous attentions of his mouth. And for all that, he couldn’t even remember what the tart’s pussy had tasted like.
He wanted to kill her. Maybe that would get his mind back in order. But God, he wanted to fuck her more. Wanted to take the full Slayer tour—see her sights, ride her rides, the whole nine bloody yards. Killing her was no good; he knew that now. Something told him that if she died, he’d go with her.
The next time he ran into Drusilla, he was staking the bitch. And the truly terrifying thing was, his demon seemed to have no problem with that thought at all.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He had no idea; all he knew was that he needed the Slayer. Needed to see her; hold her. Needed to make sure she was all right. That the stricken light that had haunted her eyes that morning was gone. He wanted to sniff at her hair and run his tongue all over her delectable body. He wanted her to moan his name as she came. He wanted to feel her hands all over him. He wanted so many stupid, impossible things—the forefront of his desires being Buffy herself. The girl before the calling. It was so dim-witted, but it was what he wanted. What his demon was pining for—what he’d felt he’d lost the second she left the factory that morning.
The bloody tart had taken him with her when she left. How dare she make him want her this much?
“Am I bein’ punished?” he mused aloud, rubbing his jaw, resting back against the siding beneath her window. “I’ve killed slayers, an’ I tried to kill this one.” He turned his eyes upward and sighed. “Am I bein’ punished now?”
Not that he believed there was a thing out there to punish him, but right now his world was so dodgy, nothing was completely out of the question.
His answer came the next second with a bolt of the fiercest lust he’d ever experienced. It struck him from nowhere—blazing heat spread through his cold body so quickly that he wondered, for an insane second, if he was going to dust. Vamps didn’t just spontaneously combust under starry skies without a lit match in sight, but God, he was burning up.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his left hand beginning a slow massage of his erection through the denim. “Oh bloody…Buffy?”
He didn’t know why, but he suddenly thought he smelled her. Felt her—truly felt her, like her body was pressed against his. And God, if that wasn’t disconcerting. He could clearly see that she wasn’t with him. He was alone on her lawn, and she didn’t even know that he was still in town.
That didn’t keep him from feeling her. He felt her hands on him, her mouth nibbling sensually at his throat, felt her hands prying at his belt buckle—okay, so those hands were his, but they felt like hers. And as she curled her warm fingers around his cock, his eyes rolled shut and he thrust his hips forward with a needy growl. “Buffy,” he whimpered. “Bloody…”
When the sodding hell had she become Buffy to him? And what in the world was he doing, standing on her lawn with his jeans bunched at mid-thigh and his hand pulling at his dick?
Okay, so this was the stupidest thing he could do—masturbating in the Slayer’s yard while moaning her name. How in fuck’s name had he hit rock bottom so fast? How had he gone from badass slayer-killer to a sniveling, lovesick pansy who would follow the Slayer across the globe just to get another taste of her quim? He was pathetic; nothing could trump how bloody pathetic he was. How terribly low he’d sunk.
Not even the sight of Angel walking up the street.
Spike’s eyes rolled up. Fuck. Bloody figured. He didn’t leave when he had the chance, and this was how the Powers were punishing him. Buffy would have been well within her rights if she had staked him that morning, but instead, she’d let him go. She’d given him an out, and he, being the great git he was, had ignored her.
And where had it gotten him? If the Slayer peeked out her window, she’d see him spectacularly wanking off while her honey-pie walked up the bleeding street.
Bloody hell.
He might be the running for Dumbest Vampire in the World at the moment, but there was absolutely no way that Spike was going to tempt fate. Angel was strolling closer to the house, and while he couldn’t see him yet, he would in a minute. Spike wasn’t about to sit around and wait for a stake to find his chest. If Angel was here, chances were, he’d rely on the tree outside Buffy’s room to climb up.
And then his grandsire would be alone with Buffy.
The demon roared in protest. Spike shook his head and jerked his jeans back up his hips, biting back a groan as he tucked his thick cock back behind the zipper.
I’m bloody dust.
He still felt her hands on him. Buffy’s phantom hands and mouth caressing him in ways that the true Buffy never would. It took everything he had, rationale notwithstanding, to convince his legs to run. To tear himself away from the Slayer’s yard before he was caught lurking by the one bloke who deserved Buffy’s pussy even less than Spike did.
The burn only grew worse the farther he got. Something had his insides twisted and for the strangest second, he began to panic that he couldn’t breathe.
Sweet Jesus, what’s happening to me?
Even with as hard as he ran, Spike only managed to get a few lawns between them before he crashed to his knees and tore frantically at his fly. A loud growl ripped through his throat as his fangs burst through his gums, and he tossed his head back in relief the second his hand was around his cock again.
The burn only got worse. He was jerking himself off so hard he thought he might bruise, but there was no end in sight. The burn only got worse.
And Buffy was likely in the arms of another man.
Spike snarled again, and rubbed his shaft harder.
What’s happening to me?
Buffy yelped and jumped back, wrapping a hand around the towel she’d dressed herself in and leveling a glare in Angel’s direction. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
He scowled. “Nice to see you, too.”
“I’m in a towel, here!”
Something in his eyes told her that he’d noticed; that and the way he looked her up and down and swallowed uncomfortably. “I can see that. I—ummm—I was just wondering…you didn’t come in last night, and people started to worry.”
She had absolutely no idea why, but hearing even the hint of an accusation in his tone had her ready to lash out. Had his voice always been so annoying? How had she never noticed it before? “Yeah. So my mother told me. Hey! Speaking of which, where the hell do you get off coming to chat up my mother while I’m very much elsewhere? Need I remind you how much she hates your non-living guts?”
“Hey,” Angel barked, “you didn’t show. I was worried. Excuse a guy for coming up to check on a friend.”
“Yeah. I gotta tell you, though, if Willow eyeballed me the way you do, I’d have serious reservations about changing in front of her.” She ignored the hurt in his eyes and marched to her dresser. “Anyway, you can obviously see that I’m here. I’m alive. I’m in one piece. And I’m still in a towel. So you can uninvite yourself to now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Angel ignored her, stalking forward intently. “What is wrong with you?”
“Other than the fact that I wanna get naked without worrying about you going all Jeffrey Dahmer on me?”
“Stop it. That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. What? You’ve only been around since Moses and you haven’t figured that out?” Buffy jerked her flannel pajama bottoms out of her chest of drawers and worried a lip between her teeth. She was in a bitchy mood to end all moods, and she had no idea why. Only that every second Angel lingered around like a broken puppy, the more difficult it became to keep from knocking his teeth out. In all honesty, she had no right to be angry with Angel, and somehow, knowing that just made her even angrier. “Look—I had a long, rough night and I don’t intend to make this another one. Just…just leave, okay?”
She turned around, hand clutching the terrycloth at her breast and her stomach falling when he took another step forward. God, did he have a learning deficiency or something? Couldn’t he tell that she was busy?
Okay, so maybe not so much with the busy. She’d just masturbated for the first time, thinking of Spike, and had hoped to float a little on her high before the ultimate crash and burn and mental ass-kicking over why she’d ever think of Spike like that, and—
She froze, her eyes going wide.
Was it possible to get horny as all hell again just by thinking of what she’d done? Because she was. It hit from nowhere—a storm of arousal so strong that she had to grab the dresser lest she sink to her knees. And to her astonishment, none of it was for Angel. Not for Angel, whose death had nearly broken her, and whose return had ruined everything about her life that she’d tried to put back together.
Angel, who until last night, she would have sacrificed anything to be with again.
Right now, she was wet and burning and she wanted Angel gone so Ghost Spike could tongue her to oblivion.
Buffy raised her eyes to Angel’s once more. “I—um. You need to go. Please. Go.”
Stupid vampire seemed to take every demand for his absence as an invitation to come closer. “You look…Buffy, are you okay?” No, she was very much not okay. Her legs were wobbly and her clit was throbbing, and she suddenly felt like Spike’s head had poked under the towel. That his mouth was currently very invested in her pussy, and not even her ex-boyfriend could provide the proverbial cold-shower.
“No. I mean yes. Yes, I’m fine. Please leave. I mean it. Leave.”
He paused and sniffed, then looked at her in shock.
“And don’t do that!” If she wasn’t so busy trying to subtly rub her thighs together to create friction, all the while holding the towel up to maintain dignity, she would have thrown something. “Did I give you permission to smell me?”
“Buffy—”
Maybe screaming at him wasn’t the best option, though something told her it was a bit late to try for soft and sweet. Anything was worth a shot. “Please…you just…you just caught me at a bad time. I’m sorry. I’ll try to…I’ll try to explain everything tomorrow, okay?”
Angel frowned again and for a second, she felt sorry for him.
But not sorry enough not to throw his ass out of her window if he didn’t leave her alone.
He almost missed the heat when he came. The second he moaned and spurted onto dark blades of grass, the warmth that had nearly dusted him vanished in a blink. Spike whimpered and tossed his head back again, pulling at his cock until he was sure he’d drained his balls dry.
He tried to ignore the fact that it had been Buffy’s name on his lips when he climaxed. That he’d felt her rubbing his erection, felt her silky tongue curling around his aching head, her ruby lips drawing him into her wet, blissful inferno of a mouth. He tried to ignore everything, but he couldn’t.
Instead, he lurched over, and fisted a handful of earth.
Something was very wrong. He’d never been pulled to anyone like this. Never. Not even Dru. And the thought that he’d have to sleep in an empty bed tonight didn’t help matters. If he was suffering, Buffy needed to suffer. Or fuck him. Yes, he preferred her fucking him. Riding him mercilessly to repay the crime he’d committed against her. She should bruise him with her body for what he’d done to her; use him the way he’d drunkenly used her.
No. That wasn’t fair, and he suffered a fresh wave of guilt simply for the thought. He’d hurt her. He didn’t deserve anything.
Spike released a trembling sigh and forced himself onto shaky legs.
Not deserving her didn’t make the fantasy stop, though. He didn’t suppose anything could.
Buffy merely squeaked and, for the second time in half an hour, fell on her ass the instant that whatever had been toying with her reached its release. And Angel stood there, slack jawed and dumbfounded.
She would have curled up in horror if she wasn’t feeling so satisfied.
To be continued