BIG hugs to Megan for all her help with this chapter. Sweetie, you absolutely did not overstep your bounds with your suggestions. And of course, big thanks to Mari, Jenny, and Tami for their revisions. You gals are awesome! *hugs*
She’d never before awakened in a bed with a man, and the sensation filled her with a devastating rush of warmth and alarm. The arm around her middle tightened almost immediately as though sensing her unease, the chest pressed against her back rumbling a soothing purr as Spike subconsciously drew her nearer to nuzzle her hair. Buffy lay awake for a long time, staring mindlessly into nothing. Trying hard to put to right what had happened last night in the jumbled mess of her mind. What she’d done in the mindless aftermath of complete devastation.
The tears she’d cried weren’t for Angel. Not entirely. While she knew she would never forget the betrayal in his eyes or the way his hand had reached for her, she’d reconciled with what she’d done almost immediately. There hadn’t been a choice—Angel himself had made sure of that. It was sacrifice Angel or lose the world, and after everything they’d suffered through, the world definitely deserved the most weight.
Angel didn’t know why he’d died. Why she’d run him through with a sword. Why she hadn’t returned his declaration of love. Why anything which had occurred in the last moments of his life had occurred at all. It was something she couldn’t change; something she’d just have to live with. Something she’d done to save the world; something she couldn’t regret.
It wasn’t losing Angel which had broken her; it was everything. It was this. It was lying in an unfamiliar bed in the suburb of a city which hadn’t been her home for two years. A city where she’d left as a child and was returning to as an adult. It was lying in bed beside a man who touched her in ways no man should—her worn, beaten heart was bleeding, and she’d willingly tossed herself into another arena. She was broken all over, and she’d hoped Spike would fix her.
She didn’t know why she’d thought sex would make it better. Lying in the calm beside him, the idiocy of her actions glared with unforgiving scrutiny. She’d used him. She’d tapped into the feelings she knew he had for her and used him in order to feel something other than hollow. She’d used him and she was disgusted with herself.
Namely because despite all her efforts, turning off her own feelings was impossible. She’d thought she could ignore what she felt for Spike in the aftermath of something so brutal. She was wrong. God, she was wrong. But that didn’t make things better.
No. It made things immeasurably worse.
And she hurt. God, she hurt. She hurt for Spike. For the tender way he cuddled up behind her. For the gentle purrs he released into her hair and the loving way his hands caressed her body, even in sleep. He gave her so much without asking for anything, and while last night had been one of the most explosive nights of her life, her bruised heart was prepared for another crushing blow.
I can’t do this.
There was nothing left to give. Nothing left in her whatsoever. No want of love to give. No want of love to receive. Nothing but an ugly scar where there had once been warmth—a scar which ached with resounding freshness whenever her treacherous mind wandered into the forbidden territory she’d crossed last night. In everything that had happened, she’d never suspected this would be the fallout. She hadn’t known what she’d thought would happen, but complete isolation was about as far down the line as one could feasibly travel.
Spike hadn’t been coy in his intentions or desires. Since the beginning, since the sinful kiss they’d shared in the halls of Sunnydale High, he’d been as forward and blunt in his wants as any man she’d ever known. He’d rocked her foundations and wheedled his way into her heart. He’d defied everything she knew about conventional vampires in how unconventional he was. He’d been her friend and confidant when she felt at her loneliest.
She’d wanted him so much before what had happened at the mansion. Before the totality of her loss came crashing down and she realized the consequences of everything which had occurred since she awoke that fateful morning.
She’d lost her home. She’d lost her friends. She’d lost her Watcher. She’d lost her mother. She’d lost her first love. She’d lost everything.
She’d lost everything but Spike, who refused to allow himself to be lost. Spike had rushed her away at her request. Spike hadn’t pried her for conversation. Spike had fed her, cared for her, and wouldn’t have touched her last night had she not been the one to jump him. Had she not been so desperate to feel something beyond the cold that she was willing to do anything or use anyone in order to fulfill her needs.
Even someone she cared about.
At once, Buffy felt old. Very old. She’d just barely crossed the boundary of her seventeenth birthday and she felt decades had passed overnight. She’d used someone she cared about and there was no taking it back. There was only the hurt she’d cause him in the afterward. The knowledge she had nothing she could give him. Nothing of the words he’d whispered or the caresses he’d given her. There was absolutely nothing.
Sex without love was something she couldn’t abide. Not after what she’d had. A part of her had hoped Spike would fuck her cares right out of her, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he’d been convinced he was fucking Angel out of her when there was no way he could. Not when Angel wasn’t the source of her pain. Angel was far removed from her; she hurt for him but not because of him. Not because of what she’d done. Killing Angel was necessary. She’d known it going in, and she knew it now.
It just didn’t happen the way she’d wanted it to happen. Losing Angel hadn’t crushed her, but it had been the final straw.
And now here she was. Lying beside a man who cared for her—a man she cared for in turn—but there was nothing more between them. Nothing she could part with; nothing her broken soul could entrust into his bloodstained hands. He was a vampire; a vampire whose moral boundaries were about as set as the devil’s in paradise. He said he wanted her, and she believed he meant it, but what would his promise be worth in a month? In two months? What would it be worth to him when he realized how broken she was? What would it be worth to him after the excitement was over and it became painfully clear she couldn’t stomach being with a man who regarded morality with the same casualness that others might regard the weather.
Spike had whispered pretty words, but pretty words couldn’t save her.
Buffy shivered hard and sighed. She knew her conclusion wasn’t fair. She knew it, but she couldn’t help herself. The bottom line remained: Spike was still a vampire, and no amount of poetry or promises could change his nature. Spike was a very soulless vampire. Spike could destroy her without hurting a hair on her head.
If Spike gave her a reason to kill him as Angel had, she wouldn’t survive. And she didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out if he would.
There was nothing left in her. Nothing left at all. If she stayed with Spike, she would end up destroying him. She couldn’t keep giving her body without giving her heart, and her heart was too battered to be given away. She couldn’t trust herself with another vampire, knowing he might one day give her reason to kill him. She couldn’t stay with Spike until she was healed because the blackness inside her would rip them both apart.
Buffy sniffed hard and slowly wiggled out of his embrace. She expected the arm around her middle to tighten at the first hint of movement, but Spike offered little more than a yawn and turned over in his sleep. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, wincing when her sore muscles complained under the movement. Her thighs were tender, and her pussy ached. Spike had nearly broken her at first; his anger and outrage at what he thought was holding her back.
Then the night had turned on her, and the fury in his eyes washed into bone-melting awe and wonder. He’d stroked her face with his fingertips, pumping sweetly into her body and whispering words against her lips which would have crushed a lesser woman. He’d claimed her as his own. His fangs had pierced her body and her blood had flown into his mouth. He’d murmured words and proclaimed her as his. She supposed it was the truth.
She did belong to him. She just couldn’t have him, and he couldn’t have her.
Her vision blurred as she raised herself to trembling legs. She ignored the dull ache attacking her muscles with every step she took, just as she ignored the cold air stinging her skin and the resounding pang which struck her heart the further away from him she walked.
She couldn’t stop herself, however, from glancing wistfully over her shoulder at the man she’d left on the bed. Her eyes were soft and her heart was sore; there wasn’t an inch of her which didn’t hurt.
Somehow, Buffy made it to the bathroom without collapsing. She flipped on the light and winced as her tear-filled eyes blinked in adjustment. A long violent sigh rolled off her shoulders, and before she knew what she was doing, she was standing under the shower nozzle, her face turned upward as water cascaded over her aching body. It always seemed to work in movies. The cleansing power of a good scrub-down. The purity of water to wash away the night’s sins. She hoped the dirt and grime staining her flesh would carry with it the weight holding her down, but she received no such satisfaction.
She could bathe and scrub all she liked. Her problems weren’t going anywhere. She was still far from home. She was still quaking with the aftermath of Spike’s passionate lovemaking. She was still breaking because she knew she wasn’t programmed for this. For any of it. For the softness in his eyes or the way he touched her like she was cherished. For feeling like she ought to give him something when she had to keep whatever she had left. Whatever feeling beyond the cold had to be preserved, else she’d truly be left with nothing.
It was because of that, she couldn’t stay with him. At all. She couldn’t hand herself over to reckless abandon and allow him to fuck her concerns away. She couldn’t do last night again. Never again. She couldn’t have sex when love wasn’t in the equation, and though she felt closer to Spike than anyone, there was no love. There was the want of love, but wishing could not make it so. She couldn’t love when she was broken.
And even if she could, one resounding truth refused to waver.
No more vampires.
Buffy sniffed again and wiped at her eyes. A useless gesture, of course, but needed nonetheless.
I can’t do this.
There was no reason to believe Spike would make any of this easy. A part of her had expected him to join her in the shower, and she was not disappointed. Buffy honestly didn’t know how much time passed before the shower-curtain rattled and his presence consumed the small space surrounding her. Her body rejoiced even as her heart broke down sobbing again. She stood motionless, facing the showerhead, trembling and waiting for him to make a move.
And God when he moved, the walls came tumbling down. Spike’s arms wrapped around her middle, his strong chest flattened against her back. His cock, hard but undemanding, settled provocatively against her ass. And he held her for long minutes without a word.
He was going to crush her.
“It’s all right, kitten,” he murmured, and she realized with a start she was crying again. Spike didn’t pressure her; didn’t ask why or plead with her to stop. She’d seen men come undone at a woman’s tears and wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful that he didn’t demand she cease sniveling for his benefit.
It didn’t matter; she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t all right.
“I’ll take care of you.” His lips innocuously brushed the bite mark he’d given her the night before. The one proclaiming her as his to the world. Buffy trembled and gasped, an unwanted but sorely-needed rush of lust making her already-wobbly knees even weaker. To her surprise, Spike didn’t purr in delight. Instead, he merely kissed the mark again and nuzzled his face against the curve of her neck. “I’ll take such good care of you.”
“Spike,” Buffy whimpered, her hand falling to his where it rested against her abdomen. Their fingers intertwined without hesitation. As though this was what they were built for. As though every move was purposefully synchronized, and her body knew it in spite of her head’s confusion and her heart’s objections.
His left hand fell from her waist, his right maintaining a possessive, near reverent clasp on hers. Perhaps subconsciously, his hips had begun a seductive dance against her backside, the sensual length of his cock rubbing her ass into a new kind of crazy. She had no idea how it was possible to collapse with desire with her heart and mind at such war—especially with her body sore and overly tender from last night’s lovemaking. But God, at the softest touch, her insides liquefied into molten desire. She was at once aching and consumed with need. Wetness slicked the flesh between her thighs. Sparks of arousal had her every fiber blazing. Her conviction, fresh and painful as it was, surged and died. She knew then she wouldn’t be able to walk away without one more taste.
Without knowing exactly what she was leaving behind.
Buffy wasn’t accustomed to being so easily manipulated. So effortlessly aroused. Not once had Angel left her burning like this. His touches had always warmed her, made her feel precious and cherished, but similarly kept her dressed in pure white without any move to soil the ideal of her untainted innocence. While his kisses had done their part to ignite an inner fire, Angel had never pursued her arousal. Not until the night she gave him her virginity.
Spike didn’t just pursue her arousal—he hunted it down. He craved it. He drove her out of her mind and made no small noise about the magnitude of his rejoicing when his pursuit was met with success. Spike wasn’t the type to be content simply building a fire. No, he would caress her until her insides were burning, then encourage the flames to a roaring explosion.
The determination housed within her bones began to waver. How was she supposed to think about leaving him when he touched her so lovingly? Her set mind blanked completely as his free hand dipped between her thighs, nimble fingers caressing her tender folds with flippancy which made the strokes seem almost accidental. Raw emotion spread through her body like a disease, and she sagged against him, weakened and powerless to fight.
Allow me this. God please, allow me this.
“Are you sore, baby?” Spike asked, sucking her earlobe between his teeth and giving it a seductive tug. “I wasn’t exactly gentle with you last night.”
Could he feel her indecisiveness? Did he know she was too much of a coward to stick this out? Did he know she was slipping away from him? Did he know she wouldn’t be with him this time tomorrow?
Tears threatened to spill down over her cheeks again. Buffy’s eyes fell shut and she trembled, her legs spreading in silent welcome for his addictive touch. He didn’t question or allow her time to second-guess the invitation; he captured her clit between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth dropping again to the mark on her throat. His arm tightened around her middle when she gasped.
“Answer me,” Spike pleaded softly, his voice tight with need. “I want to be inside you so bloody badly, but if it’s gonna hurt—”
“I am a little sore,” she confessed, regretting the words immediately for the way he inhaled sharply and began to withdraw. The decision she’d made was unmovable—her intentions undeterred. But she’d be damned if she didn’t leave him with memories of warmth and tenderness to coincide with the cold solace he’d provided her with the night before.
She’d need memories of this to keep her warm when she was alone.
“I don’ wanna hurt you.”
Alarm seized her insides. No, she needed this. She needed him one last time. Before she sent herself into a self-imposed exile, she needed Spike. She needed to know exactly what she was leaving behind. She needed to try and convey everything she didn’t want to feel through touch—and in doing so, everything she wanted to give him. “Please.”
“Please?” he echoed, his teeth gently scraping the bite mark. “Please what?”
“Please, Spike…”
Spike squeezed her hand and tugged her against him so that her back was resting completely against his chest, her weight supported by his entirely. “Please what?” he echoed. “Hurt you? Sorry, sweetheart, no can do. I’m not angry now. I hurt you enough—”
“You didn’t—”
“An’ I’m not gonna.”
Buffy shook her head, hot sparks blazing across her skin. “Don’t hurt,” she managed between gasps, coherency mingling with desire. “Just…just love me.”
For a second she thought she’d said something to upset him; Spike went rigid, breaths crashing against her wet, trembling flesh and his body quaking so hard against hers she honestly didn’t know where he ended and she began. Perhaps she’d gotten ahead of herself—not that it mattered, of course. It wasn’t like she was going to see him again. Today would be her last with Spike. She was spiraling down a dark path where even he could not follow. She didn’t need any more demons whispering in her ear. She didn’t need another vampire lover.
Not when she couldn’t allow herself to love him.
The silence around them broke on a reverent gasp. “Oh Buffy,” Spike moaned, twisting her at once in his arms. And the thin veil keeping reality from fantasy shattered; he was there, drowning her in the crystal tide of his endless eyes, preventing her from hiding herself from the veracity of the world around her.
Her heart hammered hard against her chest, making her knees rattle and her bones shake. And when his lips fluttered over hers, a dam inside broke. His kiss was so soft. So tender. His tongue stroked hers, savoring her, his small whimpers rumbling against her mouth. He tasted so good—the perfect embodiment of the ever-proverbial forbidden fruit. Buffy could kiss him forever and not want for anything. He was all male. He was danger personified. Yet in his arms she felt safer than she had in all her life.
It was false security, she knew. The hands which caressed her had caused endless amounts of pain and suffering. How many mothers had wept over dead sons and daughters as a result of these hands? How many husbands had lost their wives? How many children had been left orphaned? How many times had Spike licked his victims’ blood off his fingers? How many tears had he left in the past?
Those were the sort of scars which could never be healed. Not with time. Not even with death. And she knew it wasn’t really Spike’s fault. Spike couldn’t be held accountable for being what he was; for doing what was natural to him. She couldn’t hate him for being a vampire. But she couldn’t lose herself in another killer’s arms. She couldn’t—not when she was still scrubbing Angel’s dust off her skin.
She couldn’t risk choking on darkness. Spike had already wormed his way deep into her heart; she hadn’t thought of what would come of it in the aftermath of slaying Angel. Perhaps, had Angel not come back in those fateful final seconds, she wouldn’t feel this way. She wouldn’t have been reminded of the prevailing responsibility on her shoulders. The calling she was fleeing from but could never escape.
Once the emptiness subsided she knew she would have to pick up the pieces. Her sense of duty would return. And if she stayed with Spike now, if she allowed their relationship to deepen even more, and if he one day betrayed her, there would be no recovery.
It was a dangerous supposition, she knew—living her life based on what ifs. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t trust herself with anything absolute. As long as Spike was a demon he would always be evil. Always. He could promise her the sun and moon and stars and mean every word; it didn’t matter. His nature demanded blood and violence. Spike had no ties to her beyond the forged alliance they’d formed over the past few days and the passionate night they had shared together. She’d employed him for solace, and God she hated herself for it.
Vampire or not; she cared for Spike. She truly did. And she hated knowing she’d used him. Even if Spike had known he was being used.
He had, too. He’d known he was being used. Last night it had angered him. He didn’t seem angry now.
“You taste so good,” Spike murmured into her mouth, hiking her legs around his waist, the head of his cock rubbing along her aching slit. “So warm an’ sweet.”
Buffy mewled against his lips, thoroughly hating herself. She wanted to shut her mind off completely.
He stroked her clit almost lazily, his mouth breaking from hers to whisper small kisses down her throat. “You’re mine, you know,” he whispered, his teeth again grazing the bite mark he’d given her. “This here? This makes you mine. Forever.”
The words made her stomach tighten but Buffy didn’t reply. She merely tightened her arms around him and rubbed herself against his hand.
“Say you’re mine, Buffy. Say it again.”
Her eyes blinked with new tears. “I’m yours,” she said, but the words rode out on a long, strangled sob as his cock sank deep inside her pussy. Her vaginal walls clamped hard around him, her body attempting to suck him in deeper than biology would allow. Tortured bliss spread through her veins. The water hitting her skin had long gone cold, but she didn’t care. Between the cold at her back and the cold body of the vampire moving inside her, she was surprised she hadn’t melted with heat.
Nothing in her life made sense. Nothing.
“Again,” Spike begged, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Say it. Please, baby…”
Her heart wrenched. “Yours.”
Deeper and deeper. Buffy couldn’t keep herself from crying. Spike didn’t question her. Didn’t do anything but caress her face and kiss her lips as his cock slid rhythmically in and out of her body.
She wanted to freeze this moment. To forget the pain ripping her insides apart. To forget the world which defined them by what they were. She would never have this again. This was a moment she would bottle and carry with her. This would be a moment to take with her wherever she went.
Because, with Spike or not, she was his. Somehow she knew she was his.
She just couldn’t stay.
“It’s all right,” Spike murmured, kissing her shoulder. “It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.
And try as she might, even as he made love to her with his words and his lips and his body, Buffy couldn’t stop weeping. She just prayed he didn’t look into her eyes. If he did, he’d know immediately this was their last time together. And he’d hate her for it. For using him. For making him believe something. For making him think she could give him something she didn’t have.
He’d be within his right to loathe her. God knows she loathed herself enough.
The very thought, however, left her feeling colder than before. And Buffy knew without question that she wouldn’t survive it. Even if she never saw him again, she couldn’t abide the thought of Spike existing in the world…and hating her.
TBC