Even better. She was spooned into him, her back against his front, and her hand on his hand that was wrapped around her belly. She held onto him as if she were afraid he’d let go. No chance of that.
She hadn’t woken up again since he’d climbed into bed with her. Seeing her thrash in bed, and whimper in fear, had caused his instincts to protect her at all costs to kick in. If he could fend off the demons in her dreams, he would. Her grateful hug had caused his libido to kick in, and that hadn’t sat well. Here she was, trying to gain some comfort and thank him for being there, and he’d wanted her. Again. Then he’d gone and asked her if she wanted him to sleep in her bed. He’d wanted to kick himself for not being able to help himself. When she’d hesitated and put it in his hands, he’d been frustrated. Leaving it up to him was not safe. If she told him no, he would have gone. But she’d said yes instead.
What was she thinking? I’m a bad, rude man, Buffy. I’m not for the likes of you. I’d only hurt you. Just ask Anya. Or don’t, actually. I don’t need her tainting me against you. You see me as some kind of hero, as maybe a friend even. When I see me through your eyes, I can almost feel like a good man. But I’m not. I’m nothing but a vampire, and I’d prey on someone as sweet as you.
“Spike?” she murmured, wiggling against him.
He shut his eyes, Oh Christ, no. Yep, sure enough his member was wide awake now. All it took was the sound her voice saying his name in such a manner, a little wiggle, and he was hard as a rock.
Irritated with his response, he jumped out of bed and all but stomped into the bathroom, hoping to tame his erection.
Buffy wasn’t sure what happened. One minute she was in bed snuggled up with him, and she’d awoken, wondering if he was awake, and the next thing she knew, he was stomping off to the bathroom.
Had he hated being in bed with her? Did she hog the blankets? Oh God, did I snuggle up to him? Did he hate being snuggled up to me? She felt hurt. Obviously something had upset him, unless he always stomped off to the bathroom in such a manner, and that didn’t seem plausible.
Well, fine, she thought huffily, and crawled out of bed, stomping herself downstairs. If I’m that repulsive to him, then I’ll just stay away from him. He won’t have to deal with me at all then!
The idea that he possibly found staying with her a trial, and that he’d much rather be off screwing Anya hurt terribly. She best not forget her place with him. She was the victim, and he was there to protect. It was what cops did: Serve and protect. Any connecting she might have felt they’d done, any attraction she might have picked up on, was possibly all one-sided and could very well be the by product of grief and shock. Was it still even shock at this point?
And honestly, did she really feel grief over Parker? Sure she felt sad that he was dead, no one deserved to have to go at such a young age and especially not that way, but she didn’t feel that thing over his death. She didn’t feel that she would miss him, or that she would pine over him and wonder what could have happened in the future for them.
Truth was, she hadn’t seen much of a future there.
Parker was the first man who’d showered her with affection, who charmed her, wined and dined her and the first man to take her virginity. She did it with him more out of just wanting to get it over with than because she cared for him. Fact was, he was just there. She’d tricked herself into thinking she loved him, but she didn’t. Any love she fooled herself into thinking she had for him had been flung out the window the minute she saw him in the throes of passion with Gwen.
That bitch.
Spike grabbing her arm, knocked her out of her reverie. “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “I got out of the bathroom and you were gone.”
“Nothing,” she said haughtily and yanked her arm from his grasp. “I can make breakfast if you like?”
“How about I make you something? You made breakfast for me yesterday.”
“Sure, fine, whatever,” she said, shrugging.
He cocked his head to the side, studying her. “What’s going on? You’re not acting like yourself.”
“I am too,” she snipped.
He frowned, “No, you’re really not. How about you tell me what’s gotten your panties in a twist?”
“I do not have my panties in a twist.” She smirked then, a brilliant idea hitting her. “How do you even know I’m wearing any?”
He grinned, “You’re not that kind of girl, Buffy.”
Rolling her eyes, she started for the bathroom. “I’m going to use the shower.” At times like that, she really enjoyed not being able to hear, for if he was shouting for her to stop, she couldn’t hear him.
Something was up with her, and she was hell bent on not telling him. Her attitude was cold and he did not like it. She wasn’t warm and welcoming to him, she was stiff and uptight. That wasn’t the Buffy from the day before, and the night before that.
Oh God, what if she’d felt his erection? What if she’d been repulsed by it?
He sneered at the fridge, “Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe she isn’t as sweet as I thought; maybe she really is an uptight rich bitch.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head, “And maybe I shouldn’t be talking to refrigerators.”
Fine then, he thought. I’ll just keep my distance. She’s in my care and that’s it. I’ll serve and protect and keep it distant. Nothing says we have to be friends. Nothing says we have to be anything.
Okay, sure he’d thought she was too good for him, and that he’d only hurt her, but damn! It hurt to know that she possibly felt the same way; that she was above him and he was beneath her.
This is good. This is just what I needed to be clear on what I am doing here. Distance. That’s what he need. Distance.
The idea though, of not talking with her, of not seeing her laugh and feeling her bestow a smile upon him, made him feel an incredible sense of loss. Clenching his jaw, he pushed the feeling aside, as he was so good at doing, and set to work on making breakfast.