Buffy stirred to consciousness reluctantly, too comfortable to want to wake up. She was curled up against some male-shaped object, which, in turn, had its arms wrapped around her. Nice arms. She wriggled closer, then realized there was a lot of niceness to be had pretty much everywhere.... Her eyes snapped open. Spike, eyelids at a sleepy half-mast, gazed at her drowsily, too peaceful to move, and naked to boot. He was lying face down, so if anyone poked their head in her door -- and why shouldn't they, who knew he was here? -- the first thing they'd see would be his flawless behind, then perhaps his arm flung across her, his head pillowed on her shoulder. She rather suspected that perfect though his butt was, it might be rather startling to come upon it unawares. She jumped out of bed before that could happen, tripping over their clothes, all of which were strewn around the room. She grabbed garments at random and wound up in jeans and camisole, then poked her head out the door. "Dawn?"
"Hey, we're leaving."
"Oh, shit." Spike one's visible eye looked amused at this, then shut. She slipped out the door, seizing her sweatshirt on the way and yanking it on as she went.
At the foot of the stairs so much gear was piled up, it looked like the invasion of Normandy, assuming Normandy was invaded by either drag queens or teenagers. She saw bags, suitcases, deflated air mattresses, comforters, pillows, and more makeup boxes than there were actual girls in the house. Among them were Dawn's. She looked around for the clock, then Tara and Willow. Nowhere in sight, and the girls milling in the living room looked distinctly uncomfortable with her presence. "Hey!" She thought. "I'm a cool older sister! Honest! No dork cooties here! Seriously!" She nodded and waved at them as if to indicate her own harmlessness, and they responded by staring in appalled silence and then huddling in furious whispers. With a queasy smile, she thought, "You're all going to wind up dating chess club members!" and headed for the kitchen, where voices of the witches alerted her to perform a nookie check in the hall mirror. To the uniniated eye, this looked, in fact, like nothing so much as an itching attack, as she frantically patted various body parts in the reflection and checked not-so-surreptitiously for hickies. A cough made her freeze. Three of Dawn's guests, arms folded across their non-existent chests disapprovingly, stared at her from near the front door. As she blinked at them in horror, they exchanged glances, then whirled and escaped to the living room, where another furious storm of whispering erupted. She tiptoed after them, and beheld a group of girls, each of whom seemed to be hissing into her own pastel-hued cell phone. She shrank back from the doorway, and made her escape.
At the kitchen door, she paused, trying to compose her features into that of someone who had not just spent the night, naked, in the arms of a vampire. The club was just not ready for that quite yet, she was afraid. Hell, look how she'd dealt with it, and for her there'd been the definite compensation of orgasms, not only her own, but Spike's, which were... She derailed that train of thought with effort and plunged onward. "Hey, guys."
Tara and Willow were on opposite sides of the island, and as she glanced from one to the other she felt the sinking sensation of She Who Has Been Talked About. Fine. What, was she not supposed to...? She dragged herself back to the present with almost-visible effort. "What's up?"
"Well...." Willow said. "Dawn wants to go over to Janice's house."
Janice, the very definition of The Bad Teenage Influence. "Uh..." Buffy started to say.
"She wants to make it up to her for not being able to invite her to the party."
Buffy thought about it. "Kind of defeats the whole purpose of it, doesn't it?"
"Well, there's that." Willow said. "But, you know, Buffy, if you try and keep them apart any more than you have, they'll just, you know..."
"Act like you and I did when we were their age?" Buffy asked wistfully. "But Janice just doesn't have any sense..."
"That's why we invited them over to my places," Tara said proudly. "You don't know about that, by the way."
"No." Tara said firmly. "That way, they get to have a little slumber party, and we get to curry teenage favor, and Dawn gets to feel like she pulled one over the Authority Figure's eyes."
Buffy was impressed. "Is this a two-person job?"
Willow flushed. "Well, you know, chaperoning and all that..."
The front door opened and there was a flurry of voices and commotion. Buffy poked her head out and found herself confronted by a man she'd never seen before. "Hi?"
"Hi. Are you Buffy? Jake Long." Her hand disappeared into a huge mitt that could have caught baseballs. "Nice of you to have my girls over. We'll have to have Dawn over real soon."
"Oh, no problem."
"Oh, no," Dawn said suddenly. "No, this was like the best party ever. Really." She put her arms around her older sister's shoulder and hugged her a little too desperately to be convincing. "It was great having you." She followed them out onto the porch, casting an innocent glance in Buffy's direction that implored her to stay inside.
Spike's upstairs, sleeping, Buffy thought. Her own private mantra, tailored to the occasion. She drifted back to the kitchen, noticing once again the odd feeling of unease with her friends. Willow seemed more comfortable with Tara than she did with Buffy, and Buffy herself was suddenly tired. She'd told Willow something about Spike, but Willow had not offered her anything about herself. How's the magic addiction going? What's up with that?
Parents sifted through promptly now, making her wonder if there had been some pre-arranged signal. If she were a parent in Sunnydale, she sure as hell wouldn't leave her kid unattended even during the daylight. She hung back, uncomfortably aware she hadn't brushed her teeth yet, certain that if she ducked upstairs to do it, they'd all vanish behind her back. She kept her mouth firmly closed, smiled, and waved. Tara, Willow, and Dawn were the last to go, and she tried to feel bad about locking the door behind them. Even before she turned away from the lock, though, the reason for that was behind her.
Spike came padding down the stairs in bare feet, bare-chested and rumpled. He was wearing sweats. More importantly, he was wearing her sweats. She was torn between two thoughts, looking at him, looking at the narrow line of hair that led from his bellybutton to where the waistline loosely floated, inches below. If I pull that drawstring, she thought...Bad enough, that one, but even worse was the sequel; I guess vampires get morning erections, too. She swallowed suddenly, her face abruptly flushing, her throat dry, her temples hot. Heat bloomed through her veins, as she looked back into his eyes. She leaned back weakly against the front door, watching him swallow, too. "They gone?"
She nodded, knowing her voice would squeak if she talked.
He hesitated, seeing the flush on her face, afraid his own voice would crack. They stared at each other. A long minute ticked past. "Want to go back to bed?"
"Oh, yes," she whispered breathlessly, and then he crossed the five feet or so at the foot of the stairs and kissed her so hard that her head actually fell back against his arm. She wrapped her arms around his neck so tight he gave a little grunt, then pressed her hard against the door, grinding into her, hitting the seam of her jeans just perfectly. The sweatpants revealed every line of him and he took full advantage of this, shoving against her at just the perfect angle, even while he cursed the concept of button flies. She was making noises of her own in the empty house, urging him on with little pants and moans, till he grabbed her waist and pulled her around him. She pulled back and gasped, "Right here?"
Breathing hard, he jerked his head no. "Uh uh. Too fast the last few times." He stumbled toward the stairs with her wrapped around him like some pretzel. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she responded by tightening arms and legs around him and squeezing fiercely. "Just wait," he hissed at the threshold of her room, then stumbling to the bed. He wanted to go slow this time, but his blood was frantic, his hands shaking. He'd thought, hours alone, an empty house, but he felt he was going to burst if she touched him. She yanked him down against her, fumbling out of her sweatshirt, not even noticing when he ripped her camisole. He tore at the buttons of her jeans, pausing one moment to draw a finger over her crotch and feel how wet she was, even through the material. He was so hard it was physically painful, blood beating in his head in a way that shouldn't even have been possible. Not that he noticed, not with her wriggling out of her jeans under his shaking hands, shoving them down to her ankles, and spreading her legs for him. The sight of her, wriggling for him, trying to skin the jeans off her ankles even while she sucked his tongue into her mouth, almost ended it for him right there. His cock was poking out of the sweats on its own and with something like desperation, he shoved the fabric down and shoved inside her as if she were some sort of finish line. It was harder than he'd intended, and she stiffened around him, clenching him so hard he arched backward like a bow, trying to stave off the crashing orgasm, feeling the minute throbs of her muscles around him as she slowly relaxed around him. Every muscle on his body was rigid with the effort, not helped by Buffy bracing herself as close to him as she could, her nipples hard and red, brushing his chest like little fingertips. He swallowed convulsively, not even able to look at her for fear the sight of her would set him off, not even daring to thrust.
He breathed again slowly, letting it out, lowering himself to her, bowing his mouth to her breasts. Her gasping echoed in his ears as he found his rythm, pulling out as far as he dared, then sliding into her like some long wave at low tide, going as far as he could, then just a little bit further. He twisted on top of her, desperate to touch everywhere, cocking her leg against his side, and startled by the jeans still around one ankle. She toed them off behind his back and wrapped her legs even higher around his back, so that when she pulled him against her, her knees kept bumping into her own arms. The bed beat against the wall and his fingers tore holes in the cover as his hands clenched and released with the tide of her movements.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.... he couldn't tell if it was her or himself gasping that frantic refrain with each thrust, didn't matter who did it. He could feel it, feel it start with her, twist her around him, till he shook against her, forehead against hers, gasping in time to a pulse he didn't have, emptying what felt like his soul into her. If anything, she wrapped her legs even tighter around him, kissing his forehead, his hair, his shoulder, whispering things he thought he was hallucinating. Couldn't be hearing it, couldn't be thinking that he was hearing it, don't trust anything anyone says at orgasm.
Except she whispered into his hair, her body shaking against him, under him, and he remembered, that's when I say it. That's when she lets me say it. With the last strength he had, he pulled out of her, and tried to be surprised at the way she pulled his body back against her, and pulled his head to her breasts. Her hands traced him over and over as if she were taking an inventory, and he noticed it. It was what he did. She was shaking, her fingertips unsteady in his hair, but her lips were soft on his forehead.
"Don't tell Xander." He muttered.
"Don't tell Xander."
"How romantic." She lifted his head so she could look into his eyes. "Why?"
"Because I like the idea of him not knowing." He wiggled a little, till he was nose to nose with her. "Not knowing what" -- his voice dropped to a whisper -- "what we do when we're alone." He bit his lip, looking at her lips. "I want to look at you across the room and see you the way only I see you."
"Well, you and the football team," Buffy said lightly, trying to look away.
"Ha." Spike said. "Isn't that cute?" He sat up, between her legs, and was rather startled that she didn't shift or act uncomfortable in the slightest. It was all he could do not to look at her till he lost consciousness, all that soft skin, the way she tasted so amazingly different in locations just scant inches apart. "That's all I was thinking about, when I was..." He managed to see the cliff before he jumped off it. "When I was away." He finished lamely, avoiding her eyes. Looking for a diversionary tactic, he picked up her foot, and tickled it. She gave him a God-you-are-so-lame look that didn't intimidate him in the slightest; as a matter of act, he found it so cute that it distracted him from whatever it was he had been thinking. It took a minute, but the thought occurred to him, what did she just say? 'How Romantic'? Wasn't that it?
Romantic. Sarcasm to indicate he wasn't doing something that... he had been? Romantic. They had both been silent for seconds now, looking at each other, Spike watching her breathe, noticing that she was breathing faster, Buffy noticing his eyes going dark, and swallowing.
Spike crawled over her, lowering himself to her body, and then wriggling. Buffy stiffened under him and he stroked her cheek with one finger. "What?"
"That thing you do." She whispered. Her voice got even quieter. "The way you..." She swallowed. "Just before..." With a visible effort, she steadied herself. "Just before you come inside me, you do that, you shift, like you're settling in, getting comfortable...." He stared at her, sliding one hand down her body, slipping one long finger between her legs. She blinked a bit as he did that, her face all rosy and guileless, and she looked so innocent, somehow, that all he wanted to do was give her pleasure.
"Anything else you like?" He whispered, thinking, Damn. There is something to be said for making love in the dark. Her eyes were going to set fire to him. He had his chin propped in one hand now, but his other hand was busy, relentless, and her eyes were getting hot and confused. She cocked her leg around his hip, trying to pull him closer, but he just gave her a half smile. "Take notes, luv. There's going to be a quiz. Can't have you forgetting." Keeping his eyes on hers, he kissed his way to her breasts, taking her shivers into his mouth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her eyes closed now, but when he lifted his head she slowly opened her eyes. "Pay attention," he teased. He kissed lower and lower, licking her belly button, the little hipbone, the inside of her thigh. He checked; oh, he had her attention, all right. No time for finesse, now. He shoved her legs wide open, separating her flesh with cool fingers and honing in on his goal. She was a fresh peach, soft and liquid, her pulse pounding against his tongue, in his brain, through his nerves, straight to his heart, his cock, the roots of his hair. He kissed her, showing her some of the things a man can pick up with a certain amount of inspiration, like a Slayer making soft little inarticulate noises above him. He clutched her hips to hold her still, lifting his head and clucking at her in mock disapproval for disturbing his rythm. Then he shook his head at himself, playing around when he had her spread out before him like a delicacy. He leaned in again, sighing in sheer pleasure when he could, murmuring appreciative noises in his throat, like some sort of gourmet. She clutched at his hair, the sheets, twisting, but she didn't look away. Tipping her hips up for more, she matched his motion, circling and twisting, till all her tension gathered in a little ball and shook apart, tearing her thoughts to shreds and fragments. She was breathing hard, sweaty, her eyes heavy-lidded, her limbs quivering weakly, and Spike lifted his head, burning her image into his brain. Then he settled himself for another siege, thinking to himself that daylight wasn't so bad, as long as it didn't kill him. He could savor the sight and taste of her, the rare pleasure of seeing her clearly as he drove her mad with his tongue and his hands.
Only when she came again, and again, and he felt her wincing did he stop, realizing she was sore. Her hand lay limply in his hair, the other against his cheek, and he had to smile against her soft little stomach to hide his smug male expression. She was all soft and boneless, breathing with soft little pants as she came down. He kissed his way back up to her mouth, and was startled to find her clutching at him urgently, her fingers digging into his shoulder. Then she took his cock in her hand, and he gulped. "Sure?" He whispered.
"Oh, yes," she breathed into his mouth.
Oh, she was wriggling under him, and he wanted to, all right. He was hard all over again, and she wasn't helping at all, or rather, she was helping much too much. He positioned himself delicately, watching her close her eyes and shudder as he did so. "Buff?"
"Yes." She kissed him with both hands on his cheeks, licking her lips when they separated, and he bit his lip in response. She found his cock again with one hand, but he knew the way, sliding into her as gently as he could. She flinched a bit at that, and he froze. "Buffy... I'm going to..." He made to pull out of her, but she stopped him with her feet behind his buttocks.
"No, it's okay," she gasped. "Don't stop." With gingerly care, he pulled back, feeling her relax slightly, and she urged him back with her mouth and hands, her little breaths against his shoulders. He went slow, a long languorous sweep into her body, giving them time they'd not had before. There was nothing like it, this slow leisurely fuck on a hot afternoon, having time to see her face, having time to see her body. Unreality hit him; this is really happening, the two of them rocking in each other's arms, twisting and sighing, every sense rubbed raw and sensitive. He had to glance down to believe it, past her face, her breasts, his own body, to see himself, sliding into her. She was tensing and relaxing around him with shivering little gasps, freezing at the top of every stroke, her hands fluttering to his face and back, sliding all over. "Oh, god..."She whispered. She caught his lips as he thrust and receded in her, kissing him slow, whispering things under her breath that he couldn't hear. She was boiling around him, turning him to ashes, so wet she was an ocean around him, the only thing keeping him from bursting into flames. He braced himself on his elbows to see her better, awed at the impossibility of it all.
The very question deserved a kiss. Buffy Summers, demanding an explanation during sex. She shook her head at him, smiling slightly, and he wriggled his hips in the cradle of her thighs, watching her eyes widen. "You." He whispered. "Trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
He didn't know why it struck him as funny, but it did, and he laughed out loud, burying his face in her shoulder and collapsing on top of her. She giggled, too, despite being crushed, which only made him tip a glance up at her. "Now what?" Sad to say, he was having trouble keeping his concentration.
"Well, I was just going to say, it's a good thing that I didn't say what I was going to say."
"What?" He slid forward in her, wondering if he could break her concentration. Slow and hard, as far as he could go, holding himself there, go a little further. He stared down at her, watching her watch his stomach muscles twitch as his hips rocked against hers. "You were saying?"
She brought up her fingertips to her face, her flat little stomach shaking against his, hands gripping his arms tight enough to bruise. "You." She took a ragged breath as he hit something exquisitely sensitive. "God, you're beautiful."
He stared at her, eyes huge, proving her point. With his wide, stunned blue eyes and soft mouth, he looked like a debauched angel. She'd never complimented him before. His mouth opened and closed, and he looked bewildered. Her amusement faded away as she saw it -- such a simple phrase -- reverberate. Reaching up with both hands, she pulled him down to kiss him as gently as she could, unnerved by the look on his face, the look that didn't go away. Slowly, he began to move, burying his face in her shoulder, faster, deeper, till one hard thrust made her freeze beneath him, hands clenching on his shoulders. Then he lifted his head, staring down into her eyes, and she back at him, face washed free of all defenses by orgasm. Almost dazed-looking, he moved slowly inside her to his own orgasm, never looking away, not even when it hit him and his whole body trembled, shaking. You're beautiful, she thought, never more so at that moment. She hadn't been lying when she'd told him she loved watching him come. He was naked in more ways than one then, and she wondered if she was seeing William without Spike's defenses.
He rolled over onto his side, taking her with him, fingers on her chin. His scrutiny was unnerving, the same serious look he gave her when it mattered, when she was most in need of it. "I meant it." She said quietly. He didn't exactly smile, but some of the look left his face.
"Any other confessions you'd care to share?" he asked, too lightly.
The question fell like a rock between them, and Buffy scrambled to repair the damage.
"Lots of stuff." He took a deep breath at that. "An awful lot of stuff. There's..." She swallowed. "It's easier for me to feel it than say it, you know?" She laid her hand anxiously against his face, swallowing when he turned his cheek into her palm. "But..."
He nodded, never looking away from her eyes. He could cope with that. "There's got to be something you want to tell me."
She moved closer to him, biting her lip to keep from grinning. "Well..."
"You know what I was thinking?"
He let it go, amused at the air of Big Secrets About to Be Revealed. "So?"
"You were wearing my sweats."
"So now both of us can say we've been in my pants." She dissolved into giggles, embarrassed but pleased, and he drank in the sight of his Slayer, making stupid jokes.
"Is this a preview of the wit I have to look forward to?"
Buffy gave him a look that was so much like the old Buffy that his undead heart gave a jump. "If you're lucky."
Continued in Chapter 33