Author's Chapter Notes:
Hi, guys! Thanks for all your lovely reviews! *waves*
Chapter Thirteen: Kiss me and make me better …

Previously: Franco was taken hostage by the Slayer Army. Buffy, who’d nearly gotten tricked by Tierre, managed to reach her friends before he did. Scarlet regrouped faster than expected, but still weren’t able to attack because of Franco’s dangerous situation. In order to avoid a glaringly obvious bloodshed, Tierre volunteered to take Franco’s place. But even as a hostage, Tierre managed to push all of Buffy’s ― and Seyhan’s ― buttons…

***

Everyone was calmer by the time they made it to Angel’s New York base, mostly because Seyhan had finally listened to reason and behaved himself. He had returned to his seat beside Drusilla and sat there so stiff and straight, he looked like he was wearing a corset.

The only problem was that, Tierre, for some reason, refused to lift his head from Buffy’s lap. She’d tried pushing him off, verbally harassed him, and threatened to hit him if he didn’t get up.

He didn’t budge. He claimed he was very comfortable for now and since that rarely happened, he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Buffy didn’t believe him. How could he be comfortable in that position? Tierre had lifted his entire body onto the seat, but he refused to let even the tip of his shoes touch Angel, so he’d curled up into a near fetal position. Even if he had stretched out, he still wouldn’t have been comfortable, any way. The van was big, but it was in no way wide enough to accommodate his full length.

Fuming silently, Buffy finally gave up and just let him lay there. She wasn’t in the mood to gobble up his bait right now. No doubt he was just trying to get a rise out of her like he did Seyhan. Maybe he had even been hoping to cause them to crash against another car or something. If that happened, he could escape easily. He was the only one inside the van with skin thick enough to withstand flames.

And why should he torture himself like this, anyway? He was going to hurt his back. He’d be much more cozy if he just sat up.

Not that she cared.

His reasons became clear once they pulled up in front of the brownstone and everyone in their van started piling out. Buffy opened her door and jumped, unceremoniously dumping Tierre’s head off her lap. He scowled at her. She smirked at him as he crawled out of the van.

He stretched, long, sinewy muscles rippling beneath his soaked shirt, “Umm … that was relaxing,” he breathed. He did look relaxed, Buffy thought. And content. And sultry. And his hair looked nice, all tousled up from resting on her lap like that, and―

Geez, girl, get your hormones under control! You’re 26, not 16! Buffy chastised herself.

Then she noticed that Tierre was looking at the inside of the van with a smug look on his face. And Angel was looking at the same spot with a thundercloud above his head.

Buffy peered inside. She groaned at the sight of a Tierre-shaped water stain on the seat.
Xander came to stand beside Angel, “That can’t be good for your upholstery,” he commented. The vampire glared at him.

Tierre snickered. Angel’s eyes seared him, “You! Get inside the house. Now!” he barked.

“Aw, c’mon, Peaches. Sea-water never hurt anyone. Except for those who are drownin’ in it.”

“Move!”

Tierre sighed theatrically, “Still can’t take a joke. Well, let’s go, pet. I need a shower.” He snagged Buffy’s wrist and started leading her up the steps towards the brownstone.

The Slayer tugged her wrist free, “I don’t think so, asshole,” she sneered, “I’m not getting anywhere near a shower with you!”

Their hostage was all innocence, “I only said that I needed a shower, Slayer, not that you had to give it to me,” his look turned mischievous, “Here, now, love, what’s goin’ on in that pretty head o’ yours?”

Buffy was horrified to feel a severe blush creeping up her cheeks. So much for being 26 and sophisticated.

“Leave her alone, Tierre!” Willow defended her best friend, resolve face firmly in place. Huh. Déjà vu, she thought. She turned to Buffy, “Ignore him, Buffy, he’s just trying to annoy you.”

“I know, Will. Just keep him away from me. I’m not sure what I might do if he starts up again.”

“Oh … well, actually―”

“Come on, Willow. Let’s go!” Giles called.

Buffy frowned, “Go? Go where?”

“Some of the Slayers are injured, Buffy. We need to get them to a hospital. And look at Drusilla, she looks like she’s been through hell… which she had, I suppose.”

Buffy looked over at Dru. The vampiress did look like hell. She was leaning against the van weakly. Seyhan had given her his jacket, so her wounds were covered up, at least. But she must have been in great pain. Buffy knew Dru was not a true warrior. She’d always had Spike to do the fighting for her.

Which only made what she had done even more … brave. Buffy grudgingly conceded that the least they could do for her was to get her injuries looked at.

“The hospital is Wolfram and Hart owned, right?” the Slayer asked her oldest friend.

“Of course. You don’t expect us to take a vampire to St. Vincent’s, do you?” Willow grinned at her and gave her a little wave before she joined Xander, Giles and the rest of the injured brigade.

Buffy’s frown got deeper when she saw Angel herding Seyhan into one of the vans, “You’re going with them?”

“Yeah.”

Buffy was beginning to panic, “Do you have to?” she refused to look at Tierre and see how he was reacting to the news that they were going to be alone together.

“Buffy, it’s a Wolfram and Hart hospital. I have to admit them there personally.” Angel told her in a tone that conveyed that she should have known that already.

“Why can’t Giles do it?”

“Yeah, Peaches, why can’t the old man just hand over two van loads of Council merchandise to the capable hands of Wolfram and Hart?” Tierre butted in.

Buffy’s blood boiled. She knew that already. She didn’t need him of all people to point that out. Now she felt like a spoiled brat who couldn’t look past her own self-interest to the needs of others.

“This won’t take long, Buffy,” Angel tried to reassure her, “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“And you expect me to baby-sit him?” Buffy shook her head, voice dipped in sarcasm, “And what am I supposed to do if he decides to bolt? Offer him tea and crackers?”

Angel gave her a ghost of a smile, “No. I expect you to kick his ass.”

Buffy grinned, “Ohh… may I?”

“I’m standin’ right here,” Tierre sniped.

Just then, Drusilla approached Tierre, “Tierre … can we talk?” she asked softly.

“Drusilla, we have to go. The others are waiting,” Angel said, holding a van door open for the vampiress, “That can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” Drusilla replied, but she kept her eyes on Tierre. It was clear that she didn’t trust him to stay put once they were out of sight.

Tierre’s face was unreadable as he looked at Dru, “You have to go, Dru.”

“But I need to talk to you!”

Buffy bit her lip to keep from arguing for Drusilla. Naturally, she didn’t trust the vamp, but she also couldn’t help but feel just the smallest bit of respect for her determination. Drusilla looked like the mere act of standing required her full concentration, and yet she refused to go anywhere until she spoke with Tierre. Buffy held her breath, waiting for Tierre’s verdict. She didn’t expect him to take it easy on Drusilla, though. He didn’t seem like the kind to show compassion just because the other person looked like they got run over by a car after they got mugged.

Tierre sighed, and the straight line of his shoulders relaxed, “Fine. We’ll talk when you come back from the hospital.”

Drusilla was so relieved; she swayed on her trembling legs. Angel was by her side in a flash, offering his support. She leaned against her Sire, even as she smiled warmly up at the man who had her Childe’s face, “An hour, Tierre. That’s it.”

“Good. And don’t be late. I hate to be kept waiting.” Tierre turned and jogged up the steps to the brownstone. He entered the house and shut the door behind him without waiting for Buffy.

The Slayer watched dejectedly as the two vampires turned away. Angel, feeling guilty for dumping such a load on the petite blonde, took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, “Buffy, watch your back, okay?”

“Will do, as long as you promise that you’ll give me a proper burial when you come back.”

“Buffy …”

“Yeah, yeah, go on. Don’t keep them waiting.”

Buffy lingered on the bottom step, watching her team drive away to the hospital. She stayed until the vans’ tail lights were no longer visible from where she was standing. And then, knowing that she could no longer prolong the inevitable, she trudged up towards the house.

She didn’t want to go inside, knowing the only other person there would be Tierre. But contrary to what she’d been spouting off to Angel earlier, she wasn’t afraid that she might get into a fight with Spike’s eviler twin and get killed in the process. Buffy had sent her lover to hell, fought a god and her own best friend, and had defeated the origin of all evil. She’d died twice already, before she was even old enough to drink. To say that she was confident in her abilities as the Slayer would be an understatement. If it came down to it, she knew she could give Wolfson a fight he’d have nightmares about for years.

And yet her feet still had to be forced to keep on moving.

A soft breeze blew and Buffy shivered, suddenly remembering that Tierre wasn’t the only one who needed a shower. She huddled into Angel’s jacket, but the warmth it offered failed to chase away the cold. The fading smell of the vampire’s cologne did nothing for her, whereas the clean, masculine scent of Tierre’s warm skin, combined with the fragrance of the sea, had intoxicated her. And his lips …

“Oh, crap!” Buffy blurted out, stopping just in front of the door. What was she doing? Why was she so fixated on a meaningless kiss, anyway? And it had been meaningless, especially to the conniving, manipulative Wolfson. He’d probably already forgotten that it had happened. Buffy was angry and humiliated and was still beating herself up for being so stupid.

But … it was never going to happen again. She now had all the proof she needed to convince herself that Tierre wasn’t Spike. She’d made the right decision in facing Tierre, because now she no longer had any doubts.

Tierre Wolfson was not Spike, no matter how similar they were. Those similarities were what made Buffy realize how much she still missed Spike. That was why her reaction to Tierre was so strong.

Yes, Buffy was older now, more mature, wiser, even. But she was still only human, and was subject to the same emotional pitfalls as everyone else. She knew this now, and so she forgave herself her momentary weakness. Anyway, why should she be nervous around Tierre? There was no need to worry, because he wasn’t Spike, and therefore he meant nothing to her.

Nothing at all.


~*~*~*~


Tierre stood in the foyer for what felt like forever, but in reality was probably just a minute or so. Maybe even less. He could still hear Peaches, and the Golden Girl herself, chatting outside, but he didn’t even bother to eavesdrop on their teary good-bye. He wasn’t interested.

The house was dark, but Tierre refrained from turning the lights on. He didn’t need them anyway―he possessed the superior vision of a vampire. Besides, if he turned on the lights, then he would have to admit that he was indeed here, in this lonely brownstone, once again. He didn’t want to do that.

He called himself an idiot for running off like he did. But then, all he wanted to do was to get away from Drusilla and her wounded, but brave, doe eyes. She had looked so vulnerable, so frail. It astounded him that even after all this time, after she had abandoned him, he still felt the need to protect her.

Which was dumb. Drusilla needed no one, cared for no one. She’d proven that to him before. Tierre had scarpered before he could slip and demand that she explain why she kept popping up out of nowhere, and then vanishing on him.

Tierre wasn’t just overly-emotional, he was also destructively impulsive at times. Two qualities that had him flirting with death more times than he cared to remember. Two weaknesses no warrior could afford to have. Most especially, if they were expected to lead. Ivo had spent precious time and effort drumming into Tierre’s skull, over and over, that he must let his brain lead as much as possible. Instincts were essential, of course, but emotions were only a luxury.

Tierre had often thought that he had disappointed Ivo because he was never able to completely change his jump-without-thinking attitude. Like now. In his rush to escape one painful memory, he had run right inside another.

He had only been in this house once before ― on the day Toya died. No one had blamed him for that, but Tierre knew it had been his fault. His stupidity, recklessness and erroneous judgment had gotten his best friend killed.

That day had also seen the monster that resided in Tierre emerge from its human cage. Angel had often called him an abomination, a beast, but never once had Tierre allowed himself to believe the vampire until he was overwhelmed by rage and bloodlust and single-handedly slaughtered a tribe of cannibalistic skinwalkers.

It didn’t make a difference. Toya had still died. And a part of Tierre had died with him.

He had escaped from his team once they returned to New York, and Tierre had found himself breaking into Angel’s brownstone and sneaking into the room he knew had been reserved for him. He remembered curling up on the bed, feeling as though he’d been buried in ice: he was cold, he was numb and no sound, no color permeated the white haze he was wrapped in.

There had been people … Angel had seen him. Numb though he had been, he had expected to be killed, or at the very least, thrown out. But Angel had done neither, just left him in peace.

But there had been no peace for Tierre that night. He lay in that bed, broken and bleeding, bathed in the crimson life of friend, foe and self, seeing nothing but Toya’s mangled body interspersed with the gruesome remains of his killers. Tierre’s heart was shriveling away ― he’d felt its dying gasps, and he’d cried for someone to come and make the pain go away.

He had cried for Maggie, his strength and home. But she hadn’t been there, and had she been there, he would have run away. He didn’t want to taint her, too.

Up until now, Tierre still had no idea as to why he’d gone to Angel. Looking back on it, he thought it might have been because he’d unconsciously waited for punishment. For death, if the vampire were that merciful. Or perhaps, he had been waiting for comfort, the gift of sanctuary. For one night, at least, would someone please keep the monsters away?

But nothing had happened. Ivo eventually came and took him home. He had understood Tierre, forgiven the younger man. But none of it had been what Tierre needed.

And so, upon arriving at the Scarletta estate, Tierre had sealed himself up in the dungeon at the bottom of the manor, where no one could get to him unless he let them. The estate ― once a paradise ― became his prison.

But down in the dungeon, it was dark.

And the dark felt like home.


~*~*~*~


Buffy knew, the moment she stepped inside the house, that she was intruding.

Tierre stood with his back to her, but she saw in his stance, in the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, that he wasn’t inside the house. Not really. He was somewhere else. With Toya.

She remembered what Angel had told her about Tierre’s one and only visit to this place ― the time when he had lost his best friend, that handsome young man with the happy smile, Ikari Toya.

Buffy’s anger at him evaporated. Her earlier resolve that he meant nothing to her shattered. She remembered what it was like to feel as though you were losing your best friend ― she hadn’t forgotten when Willow had tried to kill them all. She was luckier than Tierre, though, because Willow had returned to them in the end. Toya would never be coming back.

And Tierre was hurting right now.

Buffy forgot that she was supposed to hate him for trying to manipulate her, for kidnapping Yesha, for being such a prick in the first place. But that was okay. She’d just have to remember to hate him later.

For now, he needed her. And that was all that mattered.

She stepped forward silently, and gently eased her hand in his. When he didn’t immediately pull away, she grew bolder and tightened her grasp.

Slowly, he turned his head and looked down at their joined hands, staring at them as though he’d never seen anything like them before. She tried to will him to look at her, but he had a mind of his own and refused to comply. She was left gazing at the tips of his gilded lashes. She didn’t need the light to see him. There was enough moonlight streaming through the oak-and-glass door for her to divine the chiaroscuro set of his features.

She saw him suck in his lower lip; saw the tip of his teeth sink into the soft flesh. Blood welled from his self-inflicted cut, gleaming in what little light there was like garnets.

Buffy gasped softly at the sight. She lifted his hand to her lips and brushed a feather-light kiss across his knuckles. She only gazed at his lips, and when he let the wounded one go, she turned his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist, just above his pulse. It was only then that he met her eyes with his own.

They were black in the shadows, but what she saw in them made her want to run away. Or hold him close and take him far, far away where he could be safe. Where the ghosts couldn’t find him.

For one infinity, he was unmasked, naked in front of her. She saw his battered soul, saw the scars that marred his eternal beauty. She felt the wounds in his heart that never stopped bleeding. Behind his cold smile and his sinner’s eyes, he wept.

He was weeping still.

“How did Toya die?” Buffy heard herself ask. She had no right to ask, but she had to know. She had to name the demons that tried to consume him. Once she did that, she would destroy them.

“I made a mistake,” he whispered “But he trusted me, ‘cause he was my friend. He followed my lead. He died.”

A mission gone wrong, Angel had said. Buffy wanted to know what kind of mission it had been and why Tierre believed he had gotten Toya killed, but she knew those short, simple words were all that he could say on the matter for now. Anything more would spill more blood.

She was so bad with words, and even worse at giving comfort. But she had to try, “It wasn’t your fault.”

At that, he drew back, pulled his hand from hers. His eyes narrowed, “And how do you know that?” he asked coolly, “How do you know I don’t kill those I love with my own hands?”

He was slipping away, she was losing him. Buffy fought to hold on. His wounds were throbbing with fresh pain, and he was lashing out at the one that brought it forth. “I just know,” she murmured, tipping her head back to look up at him.

He studied her face, and then his lashes swept down to hide his thoughts, “What is this, Buffy? You like to roll around in the dirt?”

I may be dirt, but you’re the one who likes to roll around in it. Buffy blinked back tears. Spike had hidden his pain behind sheer bravado. He had set up an illusion guaranteed to make her think that there was nothing she could say or do that would hurt him enough for him to leave her.

Oddly enough, in a roundabout way, Tierre was doing the same thing.

“You’re not dirt, Tierre. Don’t ever say that.”

“You change your mind fast, Slayer. One minute, you despise me, the next you’re trying to comfort me. Have you forgotten what I’ve done to your poor, little elfin friends?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I know you had nothing to do with it?”

“What were you doin’ in the estate then? Sight-seeing?”

“Mercury is guilty as sin, Tierre, but you’re not. That’s what I believe.”

Suddenly, he was very close to her, “No, that’s what you want to believe,” Tierre drawled, his voice low and seductive, “What is it, love? You miss your pet vampire? I’m not exactly Spike, you know. But I don’t mind if you want to play pretend.” He looped his arms around her hips and pulled her to him, grinding his hips against her. He ran his tongue over his teeth in a deliberate show of lasciviousness.

Talking wasn’t doing the trick. Buffy didn’t like seeing Tierre retreat into that dark place where he inflicted pain on everyone else to avoid feeling his own. Gently, she cupped his cheek in one hand, smoothing her thumb over his cut lower lip. “You hurt yourself,” she murmured. She felt him stiffen, knew he’d stopped his wicked games.

She stood on tiptoe, her hands on his shoulders. Just before her lips touched his, she heard Tierre ask, “What are you doin’?”

She leaned back and smiled into his eyes, “Kissing you,” she breathed softly, “Kissing you to make you better.”


~*~*~*~


He had forgotten what the Buffy-drug could do to his system. Or actually, he hadn’t forgotten at all, he just really wanted to. It pissed him off that she affected him like nothing else could in the past two years. Affected him? Of course not! He was just a guy, that’s all, and Buffy was so bloody sexy. That was it. Just his libido making its presence known.

Tierre could do denial as well as Buffy circa 2002.

She wasn’t going to make him better. No one could. How dare she think that she could drive away loss, sorrow, guilt, betrayal and loneliness with just one kiss? Was she so bloody arrogant that she thought she could take away the agony in his soul? He didn’t need her pity, or her charity. He wasn’t Spike ― that spineless, gutless weakling who was always so eager for any crumbs she might throw his way.

But he was weak, wasn’t he? How else could he have let his guard down with her? She had no business looking into people’s hearts and knowing their secrets.

It was the soddin’ house’s fault. He hadn’t expected this effect ― to be hit by reminders of Toya’s sudden severance from life so strongly, he felt them like they were physical blows.

He hadn’t expected Buffy’s kindness.

Her kiss was soft, brief and filled with reassurance. She tasted of honey, woman and the ocean. Despite the innocent intentions of her kiss, Tierre felt desire waking up the chilled cells of his body.

She pulled back before he could respond and the beauty of her face as she gazed up at him was incredible, “It’s okay,” she soothed, delicately tracing the scar on his brow, “It’s going to be all right.”

It was a promise, he knew. A promise that he would never be alone, that from now on, she was there for him. It was a promise meant to heal him, given even without the knowledge of just how deep the wounds really went. It was a lover’s promise, simple and powerful and generous and true.

Tierre leaned his forehead against Buffy’s, and for a moment, he just breathed. He didn’t want to think ― his thoughts were now all shot to hell, anyway. He just wanted to be, for a while. To forget. To feel. To let Buffy’s fire melt the ice that had begun to claim him since the time of Toya’s death, until it now sealed him in one unbreakable block.

She held him close and didn’t let go, and for just a moment, she was all he needed. For just a moment, he was free. For a moment, there was peace.

For one, perfect moment, Tierre knew exactly why Spike had loved Buffy so much.

He dipped his head, eyes already half-closed, searching for her life-giving lips. She kissed him once again, and this time, it was anything but chaste. The second they touched, the gentleness gave way to intensity and hunger. They deepened the kiss, and Tierre groaned at the tinge of pain when Buffy mimicked his earlier actions and sucked in his lower lip. He slid his hands in her hair, twining his fingers in the soft strands until they were hopelessly entangled, and gave Buffy a deep, drugging, intoxicating kiss that literally made her toes curl.

But Buffy had to pull away. Tierre made a sound of protest and tried to pull her back, until he saw that she just needed to breathe. He can hold his breath for a total of eight minutes and seventeen seconds ― an ability tested by underwater fighting ― but this was hardly fighting. And Buffy was no freak like him. So he waited as patiently as he could.

A smile curled his lips when he saw the dazed look in her eyes. She held on to him so tightly, he knew she’d leave a mark. He was very pleased by the idea.

She touched her swollen lips and raised her eyes to his. There was surprise in her expression, and … recognition?

“Buffy?” he couldn’t take it anymore. What was she seeing?

She started at the sound of his voice. She looked at him at as though seeing him for the first time. And then she smiled a bittersweet smile, “Tierre,” she whispered, both loving and lonely. She traced the scar on his brow again.

And just like that, the spell was broken.

His name sounded odd coming from her. Maybe it was because it was clear she had another name ― another man ― in mind.

Like Spike, for instance. The ultimate of all wankers.

His anger returned. Now he remembered what it was about her actions that inspired such an emotion. It was her arrogance, her assumption that he would just fall into her arms. With one kiss, his past would be magically forgotten.

But it didn’t work that way. Tierre didn’t forget his past. In fact, now he remembered Spike’s, too. And Buffy’s role in the vampire’s life. It made him want to laugh at the irony. Buffy was offering him kindness, and he didn’t want it, had no need for it.

Spike had groveled and begged for just a crumb from her like a starving mongrel and got nothing but her disgust. He had offered his tattered black heart and she had tossed it to the ground, jumped up and down on top of it just so he got the message, and then threw it back in his face. Hard.

And this was before she started using him for sex.

Tierre knew he was evil, and therefore, was in no position to judge the actions of others. But he also knew cruelty when he saw it, and the way Buffy had treated Spike was just … pure cruelty. He would never admit it to anyone, but Tierre actually felt for Spike. He was sorry for what the vampire had to go through. Surely Spike had known that the only reason Buffy had ‘forgiven’ him and had let him join her again was because she had needed someone strong enough to fight with her. He had certainly known that when Buffy told him she loved him, she had lied. She’d said it out of pity. The poor vampire was dying, why not give him a pat on the head before he goes? Don’t worry, Spike. I won’t forget you. I’ll even miss you a little.

Tierre even felt angry and indignant on behalf of the vampire he always proclaimed to hate. Over the years, he had begun to feel a kinship with Spike, and this was disturbing because he didn’t want to be Spike. But even so, he couldn’t help but think that the only one who would ever understand him was a vampire long dead.

Tierre never allowed himself to dwell too long on those feelings, though. They were just distant emotions; the way you might feel sorry for a stranger who got robbed. Spike and Buffy had nothing to do with him. He had his own battles to fight, and this thing with Buffy was just a short detour on the long road.

It might be a very pleasing detour, though.

“What’re you thinking, pet?” he murmured, taking her hand in his. He lowered her fingertips to his lips, “Tell me.”

She parted her lips, and Tierre pressed a kiss right in the center of her palm, letting the tip of his tongue exert a slight pressure. She sucked in her breath, her mouth forming a little o. Just one touch, one, tiny touch, and it was enough to rock her from where she stood.

A part of Buffy knew what Tierre was doing. Just as he had tried to seduce her for information at the beach, he was trying the same tactics again. Only not for information this time, but for distance. He was pushing her away.

Her heart protested, but her body did not. In fact, it was cheering Tierre on. His fingers gripped her wrist, and she was enchanted by the way the long digits encircled her wrist completely. His hand made her delicate bones seem fragile. He made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in so long. His gentle, yet unbreakable hold was symbolic of just how much power he already had over her. Does he know this? Does he care? Does he know that far from making her feel small and powerless, he made her feel strong?

Tierre pulled her to him slowly, giving her plenty of time to refuse if she changed her mind. His heart was hammering inside him at a frenetic pace. Silently, he begged her not to change her mind. If she said no, he would have to let her go, and then he would implode.

This had begun as a pleasing little past time, but now his body hummed with his need for Buffy. Again, this was unexpected, but he might as well start stopping his predictions as long as she was around. Her very presence undermined his strategies. So much for cool control. His training just flew out the window.

But did he care? Hell, no!

She was so close now, that even in the dark, he can make out those few, adorable little freckles on the bridge of her nose. He wanted to kiss each and every one of them, “Make up your mind right now,” he urged, “Right this instant, Buffy, while I can still stop …” Be quiet, you buggerin’ idiot! What makes you think you can stop? he raged at the little voice of Honor that always squeaked at the most inopportune times. Another small voice began to make itself heard, this one the voice of Bloody Awful Poetry. Oh, how he hated that pansy voice. Shut up! No poetry. No need to subject Buffy to that!

“Decide, goddamnit!” he growled, “Or I swear I’ll―”

Buffy’s answer was to smash her lips to his, her tongue forcing its own entry, giving him a French kiss so erotic, it had no rating.

Bloody, wonderful, hell.

Bye, Honor. I’ll see you later. If you’ll still have me, that is …


~*~*~*~


They couldn’t even make it to the second floor. They just ended up on the upper landing, Buffy on the floor with Tierre practically on top of her, his jacket discarded beside them. For all Buffy cared, they could have been rolling about on hot coals. And even those wouldn’t have competed with the fever that was consuming her.

With a possessive growl, Tierre ripped Angel’s jacket off her, throwing it away with unnecessary force. Buffy giggled and he glared at her, “Don’t tell me you like wearing Angel’s clothes.”

Angel? Who’s Angel? No, really, for a moment, Buffy completely forgot. “No,” she whispered, her hand stealing to the front of his trousers to cup his steely length, “I like your clothes. Especially when you’re not wearing them.”

Saucy little kitten. She made him burn. He liked the feeling. Bending his head, he tongued the pointed tip of one perfectly shaped breast right through the fabric of her dress. Buffy gasped and squirmed beneath him.

“How the hell do you take this bloody thing off?” he demanded, scowling at her dress like it had committed a crime against him.

“At … the back,” Buffy was tugging at his shirt, “Take it off. Now, now!”

“Do you mind?”

At the vigorous shake of her head, Tierre took hold of the top of her dress and tore it away from her. At the sound of ripping fabric, some of Buffy’s senses returned, “My dress …!”

“Forget it. You won’t be needing it.” Tierre’s eyes feasted greedily on her half-naked form. Cor, why did she have to be so lovely?

Buffy grabbed fistfuls of his white shirt, and shredded it into two pieces. Buttons popped and went flying. Tierre stared at her, open-mouthed. She winked at him, “Sweet revenge,” she purred, delighting in the wicked, sensual curve of his lips, and disappointed that a white undershirt dared to mask his lean physique from her starved gaze.

Tierre pounced on her without warning, “My turn,” he rasped. Buffy’s squealing giggles melted into moans and whimpers as Tierre’s tongue laved attention on her nipples. Her fingers wreaked havoc in the wheaten silk of his hair. Starburst exploded behind her eyes. She tugged him up and kissed him fiercely, desperately trying to quench the fire by sharing it with him. His hands grasped her hips, then glided lower, hiking the annoying remains of her dress up around her waist.

And then he was touching the smooth, bare skin of her thighs, tracing her length in light, feathery circles, closer and closer to where she ached for him, burned for him. She barely registered him taking care of the barrier of her thong, her mind was floating somewhere near the ceiling by then.

His fingers brushed her sopping mound, and Buffy broke the kiss with a cry. She opened her eyes and found Tierre looking right at her, his eyes bottomless pools of such desire and passion that she got drunk just looking at him. Without breaking eye contact, Tierre delved his fingers inside her. Buffy’s back arched off the floor, a silent cry echoing from her. She had to close her eyes, the feeling was too much, but it only flooded her more, as he stroked her, brought her to a dizzying high. Her hips began to move to the rhythm they both set. She reached out for him blindly, wanting to hold him close, but where was he? Suddenly, his talented fingers were gone, too. She mewled in protest.

When his tongue parted her folds, Buffy’s searching hands flew to her mouth to muffle her screams. The sensations became so intense, that she tried to move away, before she lost control completely. But Tierre would have none of that, and he held her hips, not letting her go. Buffy thrashed helplessly beneath him, “Please … oh, God,… please ….Tierre…Spike … want you …” she didn’t even know she was babbling, she only knew she had to let him know this was torture, and she wanted her release but please, please, don’t you dare stop.

When Buffy came, her release was so instantaneous and violent, she felt as if an earthquake shook her from the inside out. Her body rocked as she sobbed out her long, sweet relief.

Tierre crawled back up her trembling form and gathered her in his arms, holding her close. Buffy buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, fists clenching and unclenching around the cotton of his undershirt, riding out the last waves of her climax. It seemed to take forever, but finally she was able to summon the strength to open her eyes. She pulled back her head to look up at him.

“Hey,” she murmured lazily. She ran a finger along his smooth lower lip. The cut had disappeared, “See. Told ya I could make you better.”


~*~*~*~


Tierre chuckled. In one fluid movement, he sat up and pulled her with him, situating her firmly on his lap, “Is that what you think?” he drawled huskily, nuzzling her neck.

Buffy gasped at the feel of his erection pressing up against the back of her thighs, “Oh, my, Mr. Wolfson, sir, what’s wrong?” she asked, eyes wide and innocent, “Is something bothering you? Are you in pain?”

She felt his blunt teeth take a little love bite against her neck. A rush of heat flooded Buffy.

“God, yes. But ‘bothered’ is an extreme understatement.” Tierre whispered, licking the spot he had playfully nicked, “This is all your fault, you know. Now what are you going to do about it?”

Buffy suddenly rose, shifted her legs, and sat back down. Astride. On his lap. Her hand reached down, brushing against his throbbing shaft, “I think I know what’s wrong, Mr. Wolfson. You’re all swollen and thick and hard,” she said, still sounding as innocent as butter and honey.

Tierre choked on laughter and desire, “You little minx.” He groaned when her delightful hand eased his zipper down, and stole past his boxers, boldly teasing him this time.

“Do you want me to massage it all better?”

Tierre’s answer was to kiss her hard. Buffy’s passion equaled his, but she was unaware that a part of the bruising kiss was a punishment for making him want her to the point that his emotions were see-sawing, clouding his clear thinking.

The other, bigger part of the kiss was … simply because Tierre wanted to kiss her.

He thrust up against her instinctively, little, throaty rumbles issuing from him as Buffy began to pump him with her hand slowly. They broke apart, kissed again. There were no other noises save for their harsh breathing and the unmistakable sounds of mutual pleasure.

Just when he thought he won’t be able to stand it anymore, just when he thought of grabbing Buffy and plunging deep into her sweet, hot core, taking her until she screamed as loud as he knew he would, something intruded in Tierre’s fogged consciousness.

“Tierre?” Buffy, noting the sudden tension in his shoulders, scanned his face in concern, “What’s wrong?”

Tierre didn’t answer. He wrapped an arm around Buffy’s waist, and without even being aware that he was being gentle about it, eased her off him. He reached for his jacket and gave it to Buffy, forgetting his own state of near-nudity, “Put that on and go upstairs.”

“Why?”

“Someone’s coming.”

He could tell she didn’t understand, because nothing had disturbed her Slayer-radar ― yet. But Tierre’s senses were sharper than a Slayer’s, or a vampire’s. In the beginning, they hadn’t been. But over the years, through training and experience, they’ve grown better and better.

Or worse. He could say that this time, it was worse. He gritted his teeth at the disturbance, wishing that he could just say ‘bugger it’ and take Buffy upstairs.

But he couldn’t ignore it, not if turned out to be a threat. So he listened, like an old spider that would know by just a sway to its web, if the intruder was foe or prey. And then … he relaxed.

Not foe. Just intruders. Very noisy intruders.

Buffy, who hadn’t moved an inch away from Tierre, opened her mouth to ask him again what was happening, but at that moment, she heard the voices. She groaned in frustration.

Tierre grinned at her, “Friends o’ yours?”

“Unfortunately,” she muttered, watching with obvious disappointment as Tierre rose and tucked himself in. She snickered when he had trouble zipping up his pants, “Need help with that?” she asked sweetly.

“It was your ‘help’ that did this to me in the first place.”

“Hey, you started it.”

The voices grew louder. Buffy rolled her eyes: Elsa and Andrew were at it again, arguing over gigabytes or whatever. She wondered what they were doing here. She made a mental note to ask them that before killing them.

“Come on,” Tierre said, “We better get decent. Those two must’ve called Angel on his cell already to tell him that they’re here. They’d be searching the house for us soon enough.”

All Buffy could think of as she followed Tierre to the second floor was Grr…Aarghh…


TBC





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