All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20  21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31  32  33  34  35  36  37  38  39  40  41  42  43  44  45

Affinity
By Ginmar

Chapter 11

Damned tree.

Spike cursed under his breath as another branch snagged something he'd prefer remained unsnagged. And he wasn't at all certain of the reception he'd get, the whole issue of William almost dampening his need to see her just once more before he left for LA.

He drew level with her window, and got a whiff of the shampoo she was using; something that made his stomach growl. At least, he thought that was his stomach. He hoped it was his stomach, but it was amazing what a day of abstinence did to a guy. She must use a different flavor every day, he thought, because the scent always wafted about him.

Type of shampoo, he corrected himself. Flavor was her herself; all the different tastes. For a moment, he seriously considered just ripping branches aside and jumping, the rest of the house be damned; but he considered the look on Will's face if she caught them somewhere between the bath and the bed, and with a great sigh, he tried to conjure up the sort of thoughts that had kind of worked when his blood was his own....

Ah. Bill Clinton naked.

Angel naked.

Harris in a tutu; Anya in a kitchen. The killer snot monster from last year suddenly developing an amorous yen for a bleached blonde British vampire.

That last might have succeeded all too well, he thought. He relaxed for a minute, or as much as he could, considering, and grappled his way to the windowsill. Trying not to look too eager -- like anyone could see him -- he tore off his duster, and yanked off his boots before tiptoeing to the bathroom door, almost shaking with eagerness.

Striving for nonchalance, he opened the door, poking his head around and looking in.

"You know, only in America do people get so dirty they need to bathe every day."

Buffy looked up at him, consideringly, relief flowing outward through her entire body. She'd been afraid he wouldn't come; and the feel of that fear made her wonder why. Just sex, that's all. That was easier to believe with him tearing his tee shirt off in front of her, and revealing that lean lithe torso. Her breath suddenly came up short, and her nipples abruptly tightened with a tingle. Which was absurd, because the water was hot... He shoved his jeans down his legs, and he was partially erect. She was glad she was sitting down in hot water, because there suddenly seemed to be tremors going through her limbs that mad her wonder if she could have stood up if she wanted to. And breathing? Who needed breathing?

Spike caught her look, her eyes huge, and froze for a minute. Oh, how was he going to last a couple of days in LA? He dipped one foot into the water between her legs, and slid down between her legs. He still wasn't certain of his reception; she'd looked at him wide-eyed, but hadn't said anything. Doubts, however, disappeared, as she slid against his back, sliding her arms under his, and around him, notching her chin over his shoulder. He could feel her swallow as well as hear it, and feel little tremors in the arms around him. He slid back against her, feeling her breasts tightening against her back, feeling her arms knotting tighter around his chest. His Slayer was such a frail thing sometimes, he thought, reaching up with one hand and cupping her palm with his hand. She was looking at him with uncertain eyes, but her cheeks were wildly flushed, and he could feel her heart beating wildly against his back. It seemed to reverberate all through his body. She was so passionate in bed, but it was a furnace that she didn't know how to control, and none of the gits she'd been with...He shut off that thought with a certain bitterness. Spike, vampire Doctor Ruth? Not bloody likely. She shifted against him, burying her face against the back of his neck with a shiver and a sigh, and he decided that words weren't so great after all. Who needed them? As long as she was wrapped around him like that, he didn't need anything else. He slid his arms over hers, and laced his fingers through hers. She responded with a sigh and a swallow that so obviously came around a lump in her throat that his brain locked and all he wanted to do was relieve that tension. Love hurts, indeed, he thought ruefully. Too right that was. Hurt him worse than anything to see her all locked up in her emotions like this, so clenched up she couldn't get the words past the knot in her throat.

She kissed the back of his neck, just once, pressing her lips against his skin as gently as if he was some virgin, as if he were still the boy in London a hundred years earlier. It said so much that she couldn't, and with her heart beating through his body as if it were his own, he couldn't contain himself, blurting out something he thought might make her feel better.

"You know, I was the most awful twit in the world."

"What?" She whispered.

The words tumbled over each other like water from a melting avalanche, unstoppable, like a verbal orgasm... "I was the most awful git in the world. There might even be pictures of me. Giles? Ha. Had him beaten. I had curls. I wrote poetry. I wrote bad poetry. I wrote poetry that was so bad people cringed when I opened my mouth. I was the biggest geek in London, and you have no idea how competitive that was then... I was such a geek, I had this crush on this stupid woman..."

Buffy reached around him, and turned his face to her, looking into his face wonderingly. "What are you talking about?"

"You asked what I was like, when I was human. I was barely human. I was so-- " She stopped him with a kiss, twisting around and making him twist with her till they were sideways in the tub, with one of her legs in front of him. She wrapped her arms around her head, and kissed him with the pent-up emotions of a stupid day, and wondered why it was that he alone could make her forget it all. His body slithered like quicksilver beneath her fingers, all lean muscle, and sleek bone. She pushed him against the back of the tub, pressing her hands against his chest, climbing over him till she was positioned just on top of the head of his dick, and he sucked on his own lower lip as she lowered herself around him, engulfing him like some whirlpool. She was hotter than the water. He grabbed her hips, wishing he could blush, wishing he could match her temperature. She hadn't even gotten all the way down, so slowly was she descending on him, making him aware of every part of her body, the slick muscles inside her. She braced her hands on the sides of the tub, eyes never leaving his, even when she hit bottom, and her clitoris hit his body. It was him that closed his eyes and shuddered, his hands leaving her body, flying to the edge of the porcelain and grabbing it as desperately if he was going to fall off a cliff. She swirled against him, rubbing against him, her muscles shuddering around him, locked onto him as if they were parts of the same machine. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she used her arms to pull bit by bit up his length, and he saw black sparks in front of his eyes. He leaned forward and grabbed her in a kiss, but she didn't speed up one bit. "What are you doing?" He whispered. He knew if he tried to speak in a normal tone, his voice would break.

"Taking it slow."

"Why?"

She gave him a shrug that almost looked nonchalant. "Well," she said almost casually, "You are kind of old. Don't want you..."

He was startled into laughter, finally having to bury his face in her shoulder to muffle himself. She giggled into his hair, but stopped abruptly as they both slipped and she was abruptly jerked down all the way on top of him. The laughter made all sorts of different muscles active, around him, in him, and they both went rigid. She gave a choking noise, and he thought confusedly that she had something in her throat, but instead she gasped, and shuddered against him, her wet muscles clamped around him so tightly that he himself succumbed with a groan. It was so abrupt and so fast he was left shaking. The aftershocks faded and they stared at each other, wide eyed.

He reacted with his instincts, leaning forward and kissing her, all his tension gone. He felt like he'd been wrung out and ironed. "C'mon, love." He whispered finally.

"Why?"

"What?" He whispered into her neck, "questioning my judgment? At your age?" He shifted gingerly, pulling out of her, and watched her flinch and sigh. "Buff? Does that hurt?"

"What?" She looked at him, then blushed. "Yes. A little." She blushed even more."I guess. Don't like it when you leave me." She was so red he was afraid she was going to explode. She looked away and pulled herself to sit on the edge of the tub, grabbing a towel, which he pulled out of the way so he could slide into her lap, between her legs, grab her face, and kiss her until she threw her head back and sighed at the ceiling. It almost did him in.

"C'mon." He whispered again. He stood up and took her hand, grabbing the towel again, and patting her dry. She all flushed and hot, slippery with whatever she'd scented the bathwater. He ran the towel up her arm, following it with his mouth, kissing up her arm till he got to her wrist, where the pulse was jumping crazily. He got no further there because she abruptly wound her arm around his neck and pulled him to her mouth. He groaned into her mouth as they twisted against each other, one hand in her hair, the other sliding down her body till it dived between her legs. She started against him, against his mouth, and it was he could do not to wrap her around him right there. He disengaged, stepped back, and flapped the towel at her, cocking an eyebrow. "You're all wet." He said disapprovingly. "You'll catch a cold."

It had to be at least ninety degrees.

"Who do you think you're kidding?" Buffy asked as he dropped to his knees in front of her, the towel sliding down one thigh, as if he were polishing a piece of furniture.

"Well, I was hoping you'd fall for it." He traced her leg with the towel in one hand, and the tips of his fingers, enclosing her thigh with light fingers, sliding to her knee, then further. He pressed his face to her stomach while she sucked her breath in abruptly, causing him to look up at her, his chin in her pubic hair, his eyes so blue they were almost black in this light. He blew on her damp curls and she closed her eyes, beyond all self-consciousness now, trembling with anticipation. He slid his demon hands up her legs while she sucked air into lungs that didn't seem to work suddenly. He buried his face in her curls, breathing her in, absorbing her shudders into his very fibers. Her hands roamed through his hair, pulling and twisting. Reluctantly, he pulled away, possessed by an idea.

He traced his fingertips down her other leg, cupping her buttock with one light hand, tracing the muscles on the front, kissing his way to her knee, then kissing back up to her inner thigh. "Oh God." Buffy gritted out. With a grin, he popped up to his feet, a markedly cheerful presence in contrast to the way she clung to the door. "C'mon Buff." He whispered in her ear. He followed this pressing against her, his whole length, brushing his lips along her collarbone.

"Trust me?" He whispered.

"What?" She was in a daze.

"Trust me?" He pulled the sash of her bathrobe off of it, and dangled it in front of her eyes, and bit his lip. She looked at his lip and nodded.

He eased her back on the bed, shifting her to the center, then pulling her arms over her head and tying her wrists together. "Comfy?" He whispered.

She nodded. "Then let's see how uncomfortable I can make you." He whispered.

He slid off the bed, and walked around to its foot, seeing how she closed her legs, blushing. He seated himself casually on the foot, of the bed, looking at her feet, then thoughtfully reaching out and tickling the sole of one foot. She giggled a bit and then wriggled. Despite the situation, there was something so innocent about that giggle, so much of the old Buffy in it, that he had to look away, suddenly overwhelmed.

He was going to remember this when he and his sire had their chat. Oh yes.

He picked up her foot, making her wriggle at the exposure, but she sagged abruptly when he scraped his fingers slowly, lightly, in a straight line down the center of the sole. He followed this, slower still with his tongue. Buffy's eyes widened suddenly. He pressed kisses to the inside of her ankle, and then worked his way up her calf till he reached her knee. He turned on his back between her legs to kiss the back of her knee, then rolled over onto one side to start his way up her inner thigh. He rested one hand, casually, as if she were an armrest, on her crotch and abdomen, feeling the tension in her stomach muscles. He kissed the inside of her thigh, licking the tight muscles as if he were a cat cleaning its paws after a meal, kissing his way up the crease of skin between her thigh and body. He kissed the soft skin between her pubic hair and navel, glancing up as he did so to see her not quite panting at him, her breasts doing the most enchanting ebb and roll like waves on an ocean. He buried his face in her stomach to hide his response, afraid he was going to explode right then and there.

He sighed into her stomach, control reasserted, and worked his way down her other leg, slowly, leisurely, as if he had to map out her body with his tongue, licking her skin like a cook testing the taste, caressing her fevered flesh with the barest of fingertip touches. She twisted around him, a sea of skin and sense, her free leg rubbing against him, her muscles shivering despite the heat. He kissed her ankle, then paused between her legs to enjoy the view. Then on hands and knees he crawled up to her abdomen and started the journey northward. He lowered himself to her skin, kissing her abdomen, fingertips slipping along damp skin, feeling the heat and moisture increase against his own stomach. She was moving involuntarily beneath him, either trying to get away from the tormenting sensation or closer to it.

He'd been wanting to do this forever, to wander over till he knew every inch. He kissed his way between her breasts, raising his head to find her eyes on him, glazed, breathing shallowly. Instead of kissing her lips, he leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose, then her forehead.

Then he lowered himself between her breasts, holding her eyes, cupping the sensitive flesh on the underside of her breast. He traced the curve, up and down, with one fingertip, as if it fascinated him, which wasn't too far from the truth. Then he kissed his way up the side of her body, finding the sensitive spots on the side of her ribs, and ending at the palm of her hand. "How ya doin'?" He asked jauntily.

"Oh, just fine." She said sarcastically.

"Really?" He traced one long finger over her left nipple. Buffy closed her eyes, and strained against the sash, and Spike had to close his eyes for a moment and think of Xander Harris in his boxers or something. "Do you have an appointment somewhere? Because I could go."

Buffy glared at him, and he spotted revenge in that glare. He traced his finger down her body, dipping with the lightest of touches between her legs, to find her so wet he actually had trouble finding his way inside her. She shuddered under him, thrusting against him, and he shushed into her mouth, just intending to tease her, stroking her clit with his thumb, finding it swollen. She moaned into his mouth, breathing hard. He had to stop for a moment, afraid again that he was going to explode right then. It was a good thing he hadn't intended to use his tongue, because he was afraid if he did so, he'd embarrass himself. He caressed her with his fingers, just stroking lightly, watching her eyes lose their focus, feeling himself lose his own control, wanting to taste her again, feel the shudders through his tongue, straight to his brain. He thought about cricket, about golfing, but a sudden mental image of Buffy in her sweats and tank top appeared before his brain, contrasting with the naked reality in front of him, and he tossed his plan aside. So much for self control. With his hand buried between her legs, she was arching and moaning against him, slicked with a fine film of sweat. He fell on her like a starving man, ripping the sash away, and diving between her legs as she rubbed her wrists once and then, ironically enough, grabbed the iron rails on the headboard as he found her clit with his mouth and sucked on it so hard that her eyes rolled back and her legs convulsively came up on his shoulders. He only time for a few strokes before she plunged her hands in his hair and pulled him against her. He savored the rythm of her orgasm, his own pelvis involuntarily moving on its own as she undulated under him. He crawled up her body with the last shreds of control he had, and promptly tossed that control aside and sank into her depths with a groan.

Her muscles twitched around him, still tender, and she wriggled to let him deeper inside. She slid her hands up his arms, locking her eyes to his, reaching up for a kiss, and he groaned again as if she were torturing him, and melted into her arms. He ground into her, throwing his head back as if to try and find some control somewhere but it was all gone. She was twisting under him, kissing every part of his body she could reach with her mouth, gasping against his chest, kissing his chest and shoulders with wet noises as his desperate rhythm pulled them apart and brought them back together.

In contrast to her, his orgasm was soft and gradual, rolling over him for so long parts of his body lost feeling. He rolled over her, burying his face in her shoulder, feeling the surge of ecstasy washing over him and leaving him almost helpless in its wake.

He came back to himself to find her watching him with those wide eyes. "What?" He muttered.

"I..." She gulped. Her face had turned bright red again, and there were even red blotches on her neck and chest. "I love watching you do that."

"Oh." Spike said faintly. "Really."

"Yes."

"Oh." Oh, hell. Angel could wait.

For centuries, if need be.

"Well," he said, "I guess I'll just have to keep that in mind, won't I?"

She kissed him, biting his lip. "You'd better."

They were both asleep before the last syllable.



Continued in Chapter 12

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