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The first thing Buffy felt when she woke up was the throbbing pain in her head. It was electric, intense, like nothing she had ever felt in her entire life. Her first thought was to send up a silent prayer, begging whoever was listening to kill her now rather than make her face the day like this.

Her second was that she couldn't move her arms.

Oh God, she thought, panicking. I'm paraplegic! I drank so much I lost control of my limbs! Not only that, but it felt as if her brain wanted out of her head. And was putting up a damn good fight to get there.

Breathing deeply, Buffy forced herself to ignore the pounding of her brain against her skull and concentrate on wiggling her fingers, pleased when she found that she could. Right then, no paralysis. That was something, at least. She struggled to move her arms again and stopped when her wrists chafed against fabric straps.

Tied? she thought incredulously.I'm tied to a bed? It was definitely a bed she was lying on, if not a particularly comfortable one, and it couldn't be her own, because as of yesterday, she didn't have one. For a moment she was afraid she had gotten so drunk that she had gone home with one of the seedy looking guys from the club for a night of kinkiness, of which she had no memory. She'd heard of things like that happening all the time. Still, she of all people would be one to remember hot, steamy sex. Besides, she was still fully clothed, something she could tell even with her eyes still closed.

On that thought, Buffy forced her eyes open, surprised by how dark the room was. Her inner body clock was telling her that it was late afternoon. Sun should be streaming in through the windows, and Buffy twisted around, trying to figure out why it wasn't. She quickly determined that it was because the room had no windows.

Okay, she thought, trying to ignore the racing of her heart. Tied to a strange bed in a room with no windows. She could handle this. No problem.

Wracking her brains, Buffy tried in vain to recall the night before. She remembered beer. Lots and lots of beer. She had been upset because she was as much of a failure as her family had always thought she was, and she had been facing the utter humiliation of admitting defeat. She had been determined to get drunk, and had apparently succeeded. Admirably. After that?

Buffy froze, eye widening as she remembered. The woman. The tall, pale, dark-haired woman in her personal bubble. What was it she had said? Something about stars and sunshine and someone named William. Crazy, nonsense words. The woman had seemed harmless enough, but she was the last thing Buffy remembered before waking up here. Buffy wasn't stupid. She could put two and two together. Clearly, she had been kidnapped by the insane woman (and no doubt several burly accomplices. No way would Buffy believe she had been taken out by that little wisp of a woman) and brought here, to this small, windowless bedroom where she was being held hostage.

And there was only one reason that Buffy could think of that would explain why anyone would want to kidnap her.

Ransom.

The crazy lady had found out, somehow, that she was Buffy Summers of the Sunnydale Summers, and decided that she was the best way of getting to her parents' money. Hell, she'd probably been tracking her ever since she'd left home, learning her habits and figuring out how best to capture her.

Well, she was in for a nasty surprise. Buffy'd be shocked if her family was willing to fork over a penny of their precious fortune to save their hoodlum daughter's hide.

"Hmph," she muttered, feeling strangely triumphant. "Take that, bitch."

"Take what, luv?"

If her hands hadn't been tied to it, Buffy would have jumped five feet off the bed. As it was, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from yelping. The voice, very British and very male, sent shivers down Buffy's spine. Not the kind of shivers she should be having—the Oh-God-I've-been-kidnapped-and-now-one-of-them-is-talking-to-me shivers—but the other kind. The hot-guy-just-spoke-to-me shivers. And he was hot. He had to be. Un-hot guys just didn't have voices like that. And she'd known her share of un-hot guys. These were not shivers she should be having while tied to a bed in a strange house.

The last thing she wanted to do was strike up a conversation with this guy, no matter how hot he might be. Slowly, she closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. She'd been unconscious for a while, hadn't she? Maybe he'd think she was talking in her sleep.

"Doesn' work like that, pet," his unbelievably sexy voice traveled across the room. He sounded amused, and Buffy felt her anxiety turn to anger. How dare he laugh at her? She was a victim of abduction. Hardly a laughing matter. "See, I know when you're awake. Your heart speeds up an' your hot li'l body gets all tense," he paused for a moment and Buffy stayed stubbornly silent, determined not to give him what he wanted. She could almost see his shrug. It would be a lazy shrug, his taut muscles rippling loosely in a devil-may-care way. Oh God, what was wrong with her? She never reacted this way to men. The only sex she had ever had was the obligatory losing-of-the-virginity sex with a boyfriend who'd known less about the process than she had. It had been fumbling, messy, and wholly unromantic. The few men she'd dated since then had never stuck around long enough to get that far, and frankly, she hadn't wanted them to. At twenty-three, Buffy had been convinced that actual sexual attraction was a myth cultivated by Hollywood and smutty romance novels.

Until now.

Not that she was attracted to this guy. She hadn't even seen his face, for Chrissake. All she'd done was hear his voice. You didn't fall for a person after just hearing their voice. Even she wasn't that ridiculous.

What did he mean, 'hot little body'?

"If that's the way you wan' it," he said, and Buffy heard him rise slowly. She kept her eyes firmly shut, refusing to let herself peek, to match a face to that sinful voice. "I can always torture you awake."

Buffy's eyes flew open and she almost whimpered when she saw him. A pair of striking blue eyes stared down at her. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones and full, sexy lips. Peroxide blonde hair slicked back gave him a sinister, severe look, which the scar on his left eyebrow only served to enhance. For a moment, Buffy was grateful that her hands were bound. If they hadn't been, she was afraid she wouldn't have been able to stop herself from reaching up and mussing that sexy hair of his until it curled softly around her fingers.

His muscular body was clad all in black. A tight black T-shirt stretched across his toned chest, tight-fitting black jeans and black combat boots completing the image. Her gaze lingered on a considerable bulge in the below-the-belt vicinity and she found herself blushing as she felt a rush of warmth between her thighs. She's never reacted this way to a man's private parts. She's found Brian's—the boyfriend she'd lost her virginity to—to be small and alien looking, not remotely appealing in any way. For some reason, the thought of this man's...manhood...was making her hotter than she'd ever been in her life.

Spike smelt the girl's arousal as it permeated the air, and it made his already hard cock twitch painfully in his jeans. Fuck, he wanted her. Hours of watching her sleep, tied to the bed, her legs spread in such an inviting way had inspired a slew of fantasies that left him in desperate need of a good wank. He'd considered taking her while she was unconscious, but the idea had been...distasteful to him. All he wanted was to fuck and feed, of course, but the idea of an unwilling bedmate had never excited him as much as it had his grandsire. Spike enjoyed the seduction, the challenge, almost as much as he enjoyed the violence.

Before this day was done, this girl would be begging him for it.

Granted, threatening her with torture probably wasn't the best way of going about that, but he was tired of waiting for her to wake up. Now, staring down into her wide green eyes, her scent surrounding him, he was glad that he had forced her awake when he had.

"There now," he said quietly, reaching out to run a finger down the side of her cheek, starting only slightly at the reaction his demon continued to have. "That wasn' so hard, was it?"

Buffy tensed under his touch, trying to ignore the electric shocks his fingers on her skin sent through her body. This could not be good. She was being held for ransom, tied to a bed in a room with an unbelievably sexy stranger—a sexy stranger who had threatened her, very seriously, with torture—and she was more turned on than she had ever been in her life.

Was this like that thing where people fell in love with their kidnappers? Some twisted, lusty form of Stockholm syndrome? Buffy wracked her brains, trying to remember back to the psychology course she had taken during her time at UC Sunnydale. It had been an ultimately useless class; as part of a group of interior design majors, the psychology professor had focused on the reaction of the human brain to different colors and patterns. She seriously doubted that she could ask this guy to let her redecorate the room in bright, fuzzy yellows so that he might feel more inclined to let her go.

She wasn't sure she could ask this guy anything. She seemed to have lost the use of her vocal chords.

Snap out of it, she demanded angrily, fed up with her own swooniness. The fact that this man was entirely drool-worthy did not give her an excuse to drool. If anything, she should be flailing about, demanding to be released, or whatever the hell kidnapped people did. At least she was scared. That was strangely reassuring. She was at least experiencing one emotion that most people experienced in this situation. There was something decidedly sinister about this guy, something that screamed danger in all the most shiver-inducing ways.

He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, which didn't seem particularly fair. She was the captive one here, after all. The least he could do was launch into some sort of villainous monologue.

Clearing her throat, Buffy met his eyes defiantly, ignoring the way her stomach flip-flopped under the intensity of his gaze.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice flooding with the anger and frustration she was feeling. "What do you want with me?"

Spike chuckled, enjoying the indignant anger that surfaced in her eyes. She was a feisty one, this girl. All the more fun to toy with.

"Not exactly in a position to be askin' questions, luv," he reminded her, trailing his gaze down her prone form. The girl squirmed under his scrutiny and Spike smirked. "Seems I should be the one givin' the orders."

Buffy's treacherous mind raced through a number of scenarios in which he was giving orders and she felt herself blush furiously. God she was twisted. It was just disturbing. She set her jaw, determined not to let him see in her face where her sick mind kept going.

Still, if the way his brilliant blue eyes were roaming her body was any indication, he was definitely checking her out. Buffy wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disgusted by that fact. Part of her—the entirely feminine part, the part that was currently a big pile of Buffy-goo just being near him—was ecstatic. She was used to guys giving her the once-over—hell, even the twice-over—and not giving it a second thought, but for some reason, knowing that this guy was appreciating her in that way made the woman in her feel especially...womanly.

The other part of her, the sensible, sane part of her that was painfully aware of the fact that she was in mortal danger, was disgusted. Disgusted that this man would kidnap her, restrain her, and then mentally undress her. Disgusted that she could find him remotely attractive considering what he had done to her. Well, what he had threatened to do to her, anyway. As far as she could tell, besides being kidnapped and tied down, she had yet to be physically harmed.

Taking courage from that thought and forcing the sane part of her brain to take over, Buffy suppressed her lusty-tinglies, ignored the flip-flopping in her stomach and met his gaze with cool disdain.

It probably would have been easier if he hadn't been looking at her like that. Like he wanted to tear her clothes off and ravage her then and there. Buffy could feel her angry declaration dying on her tongue. Desperately trying to salvage the remains of her resolve, she faltered as she spoke.

"They...they won't pay," she said stupidly, silently cursing herself as she felt her cheeks heating again. To her surprise, her captor looked genuinely confused.

"Who won', luv?" he asked, one eyebrow arched. God she loved it when he called her luv.

What? No. No she didn't. It was sexist and demeaning and caused absolutely no shivers to cascade down her spine. And what did he mean, who won't? Did he think she was stupid?

"You know who," she snapped, fed up. Fed up with herself, fed up with him, fed up with the whole situation. "My parents. Whatever you're asking for, they won't pay it, so you might as well let me go."

Spike's eyebrows shot up, and he almost let out a laugh of surprise. He would have if he hadn't thought it would wake Dru, who would no doubt wonder why he hadn't started the torture session. Dru loved a good torture. Spike himself enjoyed it immensely. But he had other plans for this girl.

The fact that she thought she was there to be ransomed was bloody priceless.

He considered flashing some fang, just to clear up that little misunderstanding. It amazed him how people could live so close to the Hellmouth and still not know what went bump in the night. He wondered how many times this girl had caught a glimpse of a people with funny looking faces and written it off as a trick of the light. In such close quarters, he'd like to see her try to delude herself so well.

But as he stood over her, gazing down at her provocatively bound body, taking in the angry fire in her eyes and the defiant line of her jaw, he knew instinctively that letting his demon loose right now would be a bad idea. He could feel it, feel the demon growing increasingly impatient every second that past without him being inside her, and no matter how much the feeling disturbed him, he knew he wouldn't be able to control it if the demon came out to play.

And he would control it. He would make her beg. It was suddenly imperative that she want him, too.

So instead of responding, he sat back in his chair and stretched out lazily, the picture of ease.

"An' why's that, luv?" he asked, enjoying the confusion on her face. She didn't have a clue what was happening to her. "Mum an' Pop don' love you?"

She shot him a look that would freeze hell, and Spike realized with amusement that he'd struck a nerve. He grinned cockily, enjoying this far too much for his own good.

"That's it, isn' it? Poor li'l rich girl, hasn' got anybody to love..."

"Shut up," she snapped, and Spike's grin widened. She was incredibly hot when she was angry. "Send them the ransom letter, for all I care. Just don't wait around for a reply."

Buffy realized as she said the words that maybe declaring her worthlessness as a hostage wasn't the brightest idea. Would it convince him to let her go, or just kill her on the spot? Were you supposed to string them along, make them think you were worth millions and then make a break for it? And where was 'it' anyway? She had no idea where she was, or how to get out. She could be in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of Kentucky with a million doors that all led back to one room for all she knew.

The man was leaning forward slightly, those scrumptious lips of his curled into a smirk. "Good thing I'm not after your money, then," he said quietly, in a tone that suggested the many things he was after. It gave her shivers again, and not the unpleasant kind, which was infuriating. The guy was practically threatening to violate her, and she was reacting like he'd just asked her out to dinner. She was almost afraid to ask, but...

"What do you want, then?" No way would a guy kidnap her just to take her hom, tie her up and violate her. Sure, it might be a perk—for him, she interjected hurriedly—but it certainly wasn't a motive.

Of all the questions she could have asked, that was the one Spike wasn't ready for. He'd thought he was. He'd though the answer was relatively simple. I want to fuck you. I want to taste you. I want you out of my head. He smirked when he realized what the answer was.

"You," he said simply, waggling an eyebrow suggestively.

The female part of Buffy, the part that she was on the cheerleading squad for team Throw-Yourself-at-Him when it wasn't a pile of goo, was doing back-flips. The sane part was majorly freaked out. Buffy felt her heart race as she swallowed hard, suddenly very conscious of the fact that the hem of her dress was riding up her legs.

"Okay, woah, be kind, rewind," she said, glancing nervously at her skirt. Whoops, bad idea. The guy glanced down to where she had, eyes glazing over slightly when he saw what she'd been looking at. "First of all, what kind of sick pervert kidnaps a girl and ties her up to tell her he wants her? Second, you're not coming anywhere near me, I took five years of Tae Kwon Doe and I could whoop your ass even with my hands tied, and third, are you insane? Mentally imbalanced in some way? I mean, I don't even know your name!"

She wasn't entirely sure how that last part had managed to slip out. She couldn't possibly care what his name was, not after the freaky confession he'd just made. She should be caring about keeping him distracted long enough to get loose from these infernally tight bonds.

Spike, for his part, was enjoying the thought of her "whooping his ass" immensely. He was tempted to untie her just to let her try. Fighting always got him hard. Not that he needed any help in that department at the moment.

"Spike," he said, rising from his chair and moving to stand over her again, his gaze lingering on her long, bronzed legs. Slowly, he began to run a hand up one, smiling slightly when she tensed but did nothing to stop him. "The name's Spike. I'm the big bad around here, luv. Sick as they come. An' if you'd been anyone else—" he paused, his fingers lingering at the hem of her dress lightly, "—you'd be dead by now."

She had to stop him. She knew she had to stop him. It was sick. It was sick and wrong, and she should not be enjoying it. She was just...her skin was so hot, and his cool fingers felt so good on her flesh, and she just knew that if he...if he...

"Ooh," she moaned as his hands slid beneath her dress, under her thong, his fingers tapping her clit with expert precision, causing her to arch into him almost involuntarily.

Spike watched wide-eyed as she writhed beneath his hand, his demon roaring in triumph as he brought this woman pleasure, his cock jumping early in its denim cage. He found himself panting as he slid his fingers into her quim, eyes widening as he felt how hot and tight she was. Fuck, he wanted her so much. He'd never wanted anyone as much as he wanted this girl at that moment. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, something was telling him that that should bother him, but looking at this girl's face as he pleasured her, her eyes glazed over with lust, he couldn't remember why it was and bloody hell he didn't care.

He felt his control slipping as he brought her closer to completion, his demon struggling to get through. He tried to hold it back, knowing in his gut that unleashing his demon now would only result in frightening her, but as she moaned again, arching into his fingers and writhing in pleasure, he let go. His demon broke through with a roar, demanding blood. Her blood. Now.

Through her lust-addled haze, Buffy was dimly aware that a change had taken place. Instead of standing beside the bed, the guy—Spike? Was that even a name?—was now on top of her, straddling her knees as his fingers thrust furiously in and out of her, his thumb rubbing her clit mercilessly as his other hand palmed her breasts, plucking at her peaked nipples through the fabric of her dress. God, she'd never known bliss like this. She could feel her climax coming, could feel herself getting closer and closer...

There was another change too, though. Something else was different, something drastic that she just couldn't put her finger on...

He glanced up and met her eyes for the first time since he'd begun touching her, and she saw it. His eyes. They weren't blue anymore—they were yellow. Yellow eyes? His forehead too. Something was wrong with his forehead. It was...bumpy. Wrinkled, like he'd grown extra skin in that region and was thinking really hard. And his teeth...

It is night, and the dark surrounds them, swallows them, threatening to crush them as they run. Faster, harder, keep running, don't stop. They're coming. They're coming—the men with the yellow eyes and teeth sharp as razors. They're coming. Don't stop.

But one stops. She stumbles, gasping and crying. It's too much—she's too young. The others urge her onward, their screams echoing in the stillness. But the girl does not move, and they know she is lost.

The man with the yellow eyes is smiling as he snaps her head from her body.

"That should teach bad little girls to run from vampires," he hisses, as the world falls away.

It was the proverbial bucket of ice water. Buffy felt as though she'd been floating outside her body and had just now returned to it, the memory from her childhood—the one her parents had put her through years of therapy to repress—served to negate all warm-fuzzy feelings she'd been having towards this thing. This thing that had its fingers inside her. That was moving towards her neck with its fangs.

Vampire.

It was nearly unbelievable, an age-old nightmare come back to haunt her. The man on top of her was not a man at all. He was a vampire. And there was no doubt in her mind that he wanted her dead.

"Get off me," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. He didn't stop, his hand pumping her harder, his sharp gasps for breath—unnecessary breath, Buffy realized—coming faster. She began to struggle, kicking her legs out from under him, twisting her hips until his hand slipped out of her. Her body protested violently, screaming out for his touch, but she refused to listen.

"Get off me," she said again, louder this time, kicking him away from her with more force than she knew she had. He went flying backwards, tumbling off the bed and landing on the floor with a dull thud. Buffy brought her knees to her chest, ignoring her throbbing cunt as she watched, wild-eyed and panting, waiting to him to throw himself back onto her.

She knew about vampires. Growing up in Sunnydale, you had to. She may not have known much, but she knew some. She had a history with vampires, a history most of Sunnydale's still-living residents could claim, but a history nonetheless. She knew enough to know that this—whatever was happening between them, whatever she thought she felt when he touched her—could not happen.

Spike sat where he'd been thrown, breathing heavily, his demon receding as his head began to clear. What the bloody hell...? One moment he'd had his hand inside her, finger-fucking her into oblivion, and the next he was on the ground. He'd wanted her, God how he'd wanted her...wanted her more than blood, more than violence, more than...

More than Dru.

He froze, appalled. He wanted his girl, this human girl that cowered at the sight of his demon, more than he wanted Drusilla? His dark princess? The love of his unlife?

No. He couldn't. He wouldn't. It wasn't possible.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. Even through his confused, despairing haze, he managed to feel a twinge of sadness at the sight of the golden girl shrinking away from him.

"S-stay away from me," she warned, her voice shaking slightly. Spike stayed where he was, torn, disgusted with himself. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. He should be glad she was cowering, take pleasure in the fact that he brought her fear. Inside, his inner William was pining for Drusilla, and his demon was aching for his girl.

He couldn't take it anymore. With a frustrated roar, he turned on his heel and burst out of the room. Night was coming on, he could feel the sun going down.

He needed a drink.

*~~~*~~~*~~~*


Buffy struggled against her bonds, concentrating on stretching the straps as she worked her hand back and forth, painfully aware of the rope burns developing where the straps chafed against her wrists. She thrust away from the headboard harder, grunting her frustrations—the emotional and the sexual. She was seriously starting to regret kicking the vampire away before reaching her climax—if the bone-shaking teasers she'd been getting had been any indication, it would have been earth-shattering.

She felt a wave of disgust hit her as she reminded herself angrily of what he was.

"A vampire," she spat, grunting as she punctuated the word with a violent tug at her bonds. "A killer," she pulled again, wincing as the straps bit into her flesh. "A thing," putting all her strength into her final thrust, she let out a cry of triumph as she heard the cloth rip. A few more solid tugs and her left hand was free. Finally, she thought, pulling herself to a sitting position on the bed as she worked to free her right hand. She felt terrible, still nauseous with the after-effects from her killer hangover, her body aching for the blissful release that the vampire's fingers had promised. She knew how wrong it was—at least, her mind knew. Her body didn't care if he was a vampire or a flying monkey so long as he kept using those magic fingers on her. Why couldn't she stop reacting to him this way? Her mind was chanting vampire, vampire, vampire while her body hummed sexy, sexy, sexy...

Both parts of her wanted to know where he was.

Slowly, she slid off the bed, padding softly across the carpeted floor towards the door. She didn't expect it to be unlocked—no one was that cocky—and was pleasantly surprised when the doorknob turned in her hand. Creeping out into what looked to be a dark, dilapitated apartment. Not exactly what she would picture a vampire's lair looking like. Still, at least there weren't a thousand doors leading to one room.

Buffy crossed the room quickly, feeling her way through the half-light to the front door. Reaching out, she grasped the cool metal of the handle and began to turn it—

"Nasty dolly," came an eery, familiar voice from the darkness behind her. Buffy whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat as she caught sight of the pale woman stepping out of the shadows. "Bad sunshine."

The woman was on her in a second, grasping Buffy's throat in a grip like a vice, nails like claws making crescent marks in her skin.

"We shall have to punish you."





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