She was powerless to do anything but stare.
She hadn’t felt the move. Hadn’t felt Spike come into the living room, lift her in his arms and carry her back to bed. It had only taken a blink to fall asleep after lying down on the sofa. How long she’d actually slept in the other room, she didn’t know; the only thing she knew was the living room wasn’t where she awoke. She awoke in the bed she’d purchased from Mr. Binns—a bed she evidently had all to herself.
Spike had assumed the space on the sofa.
A frown depressed her lips, a long sigh rushing through her body. This wasn’t the way she’d wanted to discuss the sleeping arrangements. At worst, she suspected Spike would be a little offended that she hadn’t slept through the night at his side. He’d promised he would behave himself, and he had as well as he could. There was no sense in blaming his subconscious for acting like any man would in his situation. A man who didn’t hide how much he wanted her and how he was determined to have her again, even if it meant waiting until she was ready to embrace a relationship of that magnitude.
He’d said please last night. He’d pleaded for the right to sleep beside her.
“I should’ve just woken him up,” Buffy muttered as she circled the sofa, irritated with herself. They had finally reached a point where she felt they understood each other. She was determined to work through whatever it was they had to work through, as long as she was allowed to tackle her own problems before addressing the issue of being claimed.
Lord knew what reasoning Spike had concocted to explain her leaving the bed.
Buffy wet her lips. She had nothing on except a Slayer-the-band t-shirt—on loan from Fred, though how Fred and Slayer mixed, she didn’t know—and her cotton panties. It was the same attire she’d worn to bed, but she’d already been under the covers by the time Spike emerged from the bath in his jeans…his very—umm—crotch-bulgy jeans. He’d done little more than grin sheepishly, wave a dismissive hand at his predicament, and slip into bed beside her with a soft, “’Night, sweetheart.” Not a peek under the covers.
Not that he would have seen anything novel. Nothing he hadn’t thoroughly explored.
Her treacherous mind flashed to their passionate night in the motel: Spike perched between her legs, his tongue lapping at her pussy as she writhed against him. And without warning, heat rushed to her groin. Perhaps it would be to her benefit to put on some clothes.
Buffy sighed, deciding, for better or worse, against it. She was throwing herself into the metaphoric frying pan, but she didn’t feel like being anyone but herself while in her own home. If she and Spike were expected to live together, platonically as it was, they would have to get used to seeing each other in various states of undress. It was the norm when two people occupied such small quarters.
It was the norm in a relationship.
She frowned and shook off that last thought. She very much wasn’t ready to consider the ins and outs of their agreement. Relationship though they had, the implication of the word was too heavy to bear at the moment. She preferred to compartmentalize the situation. They had a relationship; they were not in one.
Sometimes the difference was all the difference.
Spike was on his back, his left arm strewn over his eyes, his other curved over his bare chest, fingertips resting on his crotch. Unlike other vampires she’d known while sleeping—the one other vampire—he indulged in oxygen every few minutes. There was no rhyme or rhythm to the breaths he stole. No pattern. It simply occurred. One second he was perfectly still; the next, his sculptured chest rose and fell, a cool sigh lifting off his lips.
It was the first time she’d ever stopped to simply look at him. For all they’d been through—all the fights, the bitterness, the kisses, the earth-shattering sex—she’d never paused to take him in. He was such a strange vampire. He defied convention, eradicating the norm of what she’d learned and replacing her knowledge with a new school of thought.
Physically, he was a work of art, though it didn’t take serious contemplation to arrive at that conclusion. Buffy had always thought him to be sinfully gorgeous in a manner that struck her as thoroughly unfair. Right from the beginning of their twisted, complicated acquaintance, he’d presented himself as something above the understood. He hadn’t lunged for her; he’d teased her. He hadn’t fought her; he’d danced with her. And when he defied the unspoken boundary between slayer and slayee, he’d become a more powerful ally than any she’d had before.
He was everything she was supposed to hate. He’d killed with those hands. He’d maimed with that mouth. He’d looked at good people with cold indifference, destroyed them, and gone on with his business. It was his nature—it was who he was. It was what the world had taught him to be. And yet, he’d helped her when no one else would. He’d helped her in ways no one else could have.
Now he was in this apartment with her. Wanting her. Smiling at her. Buying her pizza and discussing things like what furniture they should buy. Acting like he was something other than what he was.
Acting like he wasn’t a vampire at all.
Spike was very strange.
And she liked him a great deal more than she should.
She liked looking at him, too. She liked it a lot.
Buffy wet her lips and shook her head. She couldn’t do this now. Not now. They had things to discuss. Thus with a step forward, she lowered her hand to his pale shoulder and gave him a hard tap.
“Spike?”
Nothing. Not even a grunt.
Figured he would sleep like the dead. Buffy rolled her eyes and edged closer. “Spike,” she said again, her voice louder and accompanied with another hard prod against his shoulder. “Wakey wakey?”
This time she got a response. Granted, it was little more than a long, “Graaaaummmphh,” but it was a definite improvement.
“Spike, I need you to wake up now.”
He yawned loudly. “Well…” he murmured, not opening his eyes. “I need merry bushels of cash an’ one of those li’l fried onion things. I’ll give you yours if you gimme mine.”
“You have merry bushels of cash.”
“No, I have merry bushels of stocks, some that turn into cash.” Spike flashed her a sleepy grin, the muscles in his scrumptious body rippling like a big cat. “You learn how to play the market.”
“I never imagined you as much of a market player.”
He shrugged easily. “What can I say, I’m a puzzle.” His eyes fell to the scraggly writing splattered across her t-shirt. “Slayer?” he drawled, cocking a brow. “Cute.”
“It’s Fred’s.”
“It’s appropriate.”
Buffy shrugged. “I’ve never listened to the band. Are they any good?”
“Not really your cuppa, I’d imagine.” Spike ran his fingers along his jaw. “You sleep well?”
“You didn’t have to move me back.”
“’S your bed, kitten. I’m jus’ a houseguest.”
“No, you’re not,” Buffy argued, frowning. “And it’s not my bed. I bought it with your money.”
“Money I gave you.”
“Yes.”
Spike stared at her for a minute, then waved a hand as though she was supposed to follow him to an obvious conclusion. “My giving it to you makes it yours, not mine.”
“Spike—”
“I shouldn’t’ve pushed you to sleep beside me, love. That was bloody stupid. I wanted it an’ I din’t care—”
“No, that’s not—”
“—making you feel like you needed to…get away from me was—”
“I didn’t. It was nice.” A warm blush spread across her skin. “It was really nice. I…you made me feel…I loved sleeping beside you. You just…in the middle of the night, you kinda got cuddly.”
His endless eyes absorbed her. “Cuddly?” he asked, his voice slightly choked.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Cuddly. And…with…there was some touching. Not much, and nowhere…ummm…naughty, but…touching, and…you might’ve said my name.”
The subject was having a notable physical effect on Spike. He ignored his swelling cock as apathetic parents might ignore their annoying child. His eyes remained locked on her. “I was having a very nice dream,” he said softly.
The blush grew deeper. “Yeah.”
“An’ I was…touching you.”
“Cuddly-like.”
“An’ that’s bad.”
No. “Yeah. Because we’re not…you know, we’re just doing the friends thing right now. Friends…no benefits. And this was our first night, you know, trying this. And…” She waved to roll over the words she didn’t want to say. “I just…we need a different thing. A different sleeping arrangement.”
“Because you din’t like me dreaming an’ touching you at the same time.”
“No, that’s not it.”
Spike’s perked brow stretched higher upward. “Yeah?”
“It’s because I really, really did…you know, like it…and I can’t.”
“You can’t.”
“I can’t.”
“Like it.”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
A small, sweet smile tugged at Spike’s lips. “You don’ make a lick of sense, pet. You know this, right?”
“I had a hunch.” Buffy licked her lips and heaved a sigh, her legs carrying her to the empty cushion beside him. It was likely very dangerous having this conversation while literally at his side—her naked legs rubbing against his jeans and his drool-worthy chest even closer for girly appraisal—but she didn’t care. “It’s going to be weird getting used to this.”
“When all I wanna do is shag you silly?”
Her blush deepened. “Well, there’s that.”
“I din’t mean to touch you, kitten. I can’t vouch for what happens when I dream. That bein’ said, I love touching you.” Spike’s eyes warmed when she shyly ducked her head. “I always want to touch you. Always.” He raised a hand as though to caress her shoulder, then thought the better of it. “But…this is important to me. You…bein’ comfortable with this thing we have.”
There was a beat; a long, hard sigh rolled off her back. “We need to come up with a new sleeping arrangement,” she said again.
Spike shrugged. “I take the couch. End of story.”
“No, not end of story.”
“I told you, the cash stopped bein’ mine the second I gave it to you.”
“Yeah, but it’s not an endless pit. Eventually, we’re going to need to rely on your…ummm…investment skills.”
“An’ if that’s the case, I want my money spent the way I want it spent.”
Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “So basically, you get your way regardless.”
“Now you’re gettin’ it!” Spike agreed with a broad grin. Then he sobered, his expression falling soft. “I take the couch, love. That’s the way it goes.”
A pause. Buffy sighed hard and rolled her shoulders. “Your strategy, then, is to be completely wonderful?”
He winked. “Hasn’t failed yet.”
“I’ll bet.” She shifted slightly, crossing her arms. “I am sorry about…you were so…ever since you got here last night, you’ve been unusually nice and understanding.”
“Unusually?”
“Well, considering you’re a vampire with a rap-sheet longer than Mussolini’s, you came in here, were nice to me, bought me food, said you wanted to sleep beside me, and then put me back in the bed after I…” She broke off, shaking with uncertainty. “I don’t get you.”
Spike shrugged. “Not much to get, from where I’m sittin’. Gimme a fridge with blood, a telly, a spot a violence, toss me a shag an’ I’m satisfied.”
“But just a few weeks ago—”
“That was before, kitten. Bugger if I understand it.” A beat settled between them, then he exhaled and met her eyes. “’m not blind. I’ve been around for sodding ever, Buffy. I’ve gutted people for lookin’ at me funny, an’ I enjoyed every ruby red moment. But since you, I’ve wanted…more. I’ve never wanted more until you. An’ yeah, that might be in part because of the claim…feelin’ more because of what we did…but it started before we shagged. It started back in that bloody school. When we first snogged. When I firs’ got a taste of you. I din’t know it then but…it started, love, an’ I don’t know where it’s going, but I know I wanna follow it till we get there. So yeah, if it means shackin’ up with you…wanting you but not getting to touch you…being with you without…I can do it. Anythin’ you give me is more than the whole of livin’ the way I was until this. It’s worth it to me.”
Then, hesitating a beat, Spike’s eyes fell to her lips before he leaned inward to caress her with a tender kiss.
While not a connoisseur of the art, Buffy had been kissed enough to tell the difference between a friend kiss and a lover’s kiss. She and Spike had locked lips many times now, each more explosive than the last, each touch making her rattle with electricity. He’d loved her mouth thoroughly as his body rocked inside hers. He’d kissed her breathless in the shower of the motel. In the alley where he’d found her, he’d taken her in his arms and just about fucked her mouth with his. He’d never kissed her in a manner to indicate sex wasn’t the objective. Not until now. The way his lips touched hers had her warming in places she never thought she would again feel heat. The hollowed chambers of her heart that hadn’t known anything but arctic cold since the Desoto blasted out of Sunnydale and took her away from herself. His kiss was beautiful and chaste, and left her all but starving.
It wasn’t meant to be anything more than a kiss, and yet she couldn’t stop her tongue from pushing past his lips. She couldn’t stop her hands from slipping up his bare arms. She couldn’t keep herself from pulling him closer. Needing to taste him. Needing his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her. Needing so much. So much.
Needing things she’d told herself she couldn’t have.
Stop.
Spike had caved without a fight, attacking her mouth with fervor. He gobbled her lips like a man who’d wandered forty years just for this. She was devoured. Consumed. She was lost, and in those few seconds, she didn’t care to ever be found.
“Buffy,” he moaned, fingers tunneling through her hair. “Slayer…”
Her head tilted back, her eyes rolling to the ceiling as his mouth began wandering down her throat.
“Christ, how I’ve missed you,” Spike murmured as his teeth scraped the claim mark. “You taste like honey, you do. Need to feel you, kitten. Need to feel you under me. Surrounding me.”
Somewhere in the back of her head, coherent thought was making a steady return. But God, how she wanted to ignore it. She wanted to lose herself. Now. Right now. With Spike’s kisses burning her skin, his hands abandoning her hair to slowly scale down her arms until he had her clothed breasts cupped in each palm.
“So warm,” he gasped. “Slayer…” His thumbs perched over her nipples, gently rubbing them back and forth. “My Slayer.”
It wasn’t until one of his hands slipped between her legs that the coherent thought started screeching and loud. Realization slammed into her and before she could help herself, she’d braced her hands against his chest and shoved him back. Hard.
Then she was up. Up and moving. Moving fast. Moving because if she didn’t put space between them, she would be in his lap, ripping at his jeans and impaling herself on his cock. And she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t. She refused to use Spike like that.
She refused to lose herself.
“I’m sorry,” she babbled, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Spike. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Buffy?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just…I have to…” A moment of weakness. Their eyes clashed. He looked so lost. So confused. He sat bare-chested on the sofa, panting, his erection strained against his jeans, his eyes drinking her in, not knowing what had happened or why.
“I’m sorry,” Buffy said again, her eyes misting. Air thinned. Walls closed. She needed to get out. “Spike, God…I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”
He swallowed hard. “I din’t mean to…I thought you…wanted…God, I buggered this up.”
“No. No, you didn’t, Spike. I did. I lost…but I can’t. I can’t. Not now.”
And then she was moving again. She was moving fast, and she couldn’t look back.
Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t risk meet his eyes a second time. Couldn’t look at what she’d done to him.
Not lest she drown in shame.
She needed Fred. Now.
TBC