All About Spike

Enough
By Chris

Spoilers: None, really, but this is something of an AU epilogue to All the Way

Rating: NC-17

Feedback: You bet!

Summary: Pure fantasy, no plot to speak of here, just a little wishful S/B shipper smut. What if Buffy had realized how much she needs him sooner?

A/N: Thanks to the Tennessee Terror, happy early birthday to the Seattle's own penguin mistress extraordinaire, and a belated happy birthday to Ms. Bliss.



"Bloody Hell!" Spike cursed at the spilled tumbler of blood oozing down the arm of the easy chair and jumped up in reaction. "Will you never learn to knock? Sneaking up on a bloke's no better than barging in, y'know!" He bent to mop the spill and gingerly picked up the glass shards from the concrete floor. "What's the problem, then? More teenaged vamps need dusting? I'd have thought you and the Watcher could handle that..."

Buffy stood stock-still, poised as if on the edge of flight. She didn't speak, but nodded her head in a distinct negative. Seeming to make a decision, she took a slow step toward him.

"Well if the Bit's safe, what're you running from then?"

Electricity surrounded the silence of her hesitation. A thread of tension wove its way around the room, drawn as tightly as a hunter's bead on a doe. He could feel it, trained straight at his heart. Spike snapped his head up to follow her approach, trying to shake the bloody fantasies. Have to remember not to threaten her. She'll run like a frightened rabbit.

He tilted his head in consideration of the slight and now motionless blond. No, not a rabbit. More like a sleek fox: soft and deadly, but nervous in the presence of another predator. Her tongue darted out to trace around her mouth, drawing his eyes like a magnet to the soft curve of her bottom lip. What he wouldn't give for just one second of being that lip. Spike turned his back to hide the arousal he knew she'd find threatening, waiting for her to sort out her response.

There were only two things she wanted from him: help with the bad guys and a pair of ears to listen. He was well-trained to that now. The pain of having lost her and the fear of losing her again were leashes more effective than the chip at restraining his behavior. But bloody hell. If the psychic load of this particular encounter didn't come down a few hundred tons, he was going to lose himself completely.

Spike was so lost in the battle to retain control that the light touch of her hand on his shoulder made him jump backward hard enough to knock them both to the floor. Much to his surprise, Buffy didn't push him off immediately. Both seemed frozen in place, unable or unwilling to move from the unintentionally intimate tangle of limbs. Neither breathed, and two pair of eyes locked in a desperate attempt to see through the moment to reality.

Buffy broke the spell -- or did she begin it -- when she softly answered his earlier question. "I'm not running from anything."

-- -- -- -- -- --

Spike's eyes darkened to a deeper shade of blue, but he didn't move--not a muscle or an inch. His brain wouldn't let him believe the implication in her words, yet his heart was straining at him gather her into his arms and carry her off someplace far, far away. Far enough away that she'd never even remember Sunnydale existed.

She held his gaze almost shyly. Shyly? His Slayer? The confusion caused by the contradiction worked its way through his thoughts, occupying his attention, but changing nothing. The standoff continued until a small sigh escaped her lips and she leaned forward to place them carefully on the sensitive spot where the tendon in his jaw spasmed.

Shock held him tightly as the wet tip of her tongue traced its way to his ear, where she whispered "I need you." The quiet hurricane of her simple admission shook him out of immobility. Instinct took control. His hand turned her chin, and he lowered his head to take what he wanted so desperately. Lips slid over hers, hot and hard, but still he waited for permission to deepen the kiss. A soft sound escaped from the back of her throat as she opened her mouth, begging him to fulfill one of his deepest fantasies.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

He needed no second invitation. He feasted on her heat, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, eating her alive. No shy flower now, Buffy responded in kind, answering thrust with parry, catching his lower lip between her teeth, suckling on it, making him gasp--for her. Yearning to be closer, to remove the distance between them, she rotated her hips from beneath, never breaking contact with his mouth. Clever hands slid beneath her hips, thumbs caressing the rounded bones at the edge of her thighs as fingers dug into the soft flesh of her buttocks, encouraging her to grind her arousal into his groin, to feel the iron hard evidence of his desire. He growled his need from the base of his being, and with a ragged sigh, dragged his lips from hers and raised her chin again, questioning with his eyes. Only if it's real, they seemed to shout at her. Make your decision, they demanded.

She answered by pulling her hips from his hands and standing over him, prostrate on the floor. The worship in his eyes when she reached down to pull him up to a standing position was almost too much to bear. "Here?" she asked quietly, looking at the sarcophagus across the crypt. "Or. . .?" The question shook him out of his reverie long enough to realize what she was saying.

His eyes grew hard for a minute and his hands whipped out to grab her by the shoulders, almost violently. "If you don't mean this," his voice trembled with the ferocity of his emotions, "leave now. Just go."

She stepped closer in. He needed to hear it, and she needed to say it. "I'm here because I don't want to be alone any more. I need to feel. . . real -- and this is real." She reached out to touch his face. "Is that enough for you?" Her voice cracked with the strain of abandonment and confusion.

Afraid to speak, he gave a brief nod of his head and pulled her toward the ladder that led to the cavern below. When she realized where he was drawing her, she resisted, remembering the last time she'd been below the crypt. She could see the pain in his eyes as he'd cried out for any crumb of affection -- promising to give up everything that he was if only she could love him. Buffy raised dark green eyes to meet waiting blue, then let him draw her down the stairs to what had been a shrine to a woman who was dead now.

-- -- -- -- -- --

The gentle glow of torches emanated from the far end of the cavern, and Buffy wondered what she'd find on the other end of the passageway. Spike led her by the hand through the flickering shadows to the opening. Surprise lit her face as she evaluated what he'd done. This was no longer a dark, dreary dungeon with chains and hidden shrines to mortal enemies. Instead, it looked like a typical bachelor's apartment -- stark in its lack of ornamentation, but filled with utilitarian furnishings -- a chair, bookcase, even a lamp. Her eyes were drawn to the farthest end of the cavern, where there stood a real honest-to-god bed. She froze again as she considered the step she was about to take. He'd been right to warn her. This would change everything. He would demand all she had and more. Would the prize be worth the price? Her heart beat faster as the little voice in her head echoed her words from before: never alone again. Never.

Spike stood nearby, watching her absorb her surroundings. He could stare at her for hours, just contemplating the way the firelight danced on the golden strands of her hair -- pure silk, meant for touching, for sliding like satin over naked skin, for tangling in mouths and hands and heat. He was so lost in her presence that it startled him when she spoke aloud. "Not to impose or anything, but. . . a drink would be of the good right now. No tequila."

He chuckled, noting the small gulp that betrayed her nervousness. Libation, lubrication, satiation. Yes, that bottle of wine he'd been saving for a rainy day would come in quite handy. With a flourish of the hand and a courtly bow, he indicated the red chair, "I live to serve, my lady. Wait here."

Buffy took a seat in the rather oddly shaped chair and leaned her head against its curved back. Relaxing for the first time since she'd decided upon her mission tonight, she closed her eyes and let his image float inside her mind. It didn't seem so strange anymore, thinking of Spike as beautiful. It had been a lifetime ago she'd first had an inkling. The sheer physical perfection of his form and face had been highlighted by ugly bruises and hideous scars from his torture at the hands of a hell goddess. She hadn't thought at the time that he was capable of understanding real love. Loyalty, sure, even generosity. But love? That quiet, omnipresent and indestructible quality of giving of the self at any cost? That was beauty. And he'd been giving since the first moment he'd laid eyes on her on the stairs -- lost, hurt, and undeniably alive. Now it was her turn to give.

Spike moved back from near the bed and handed her a long-stemmed crystal wine glass, filled nearly to the brim. His eyes were warm on hers as he leaned over to the bookcase facing her seat, retrieved the whiskey bottle, and poured himself a drink. "Bottoms up, then, pet," he quipped as he lifted his whiskey glass in the air and knocked half of it back in one swallow. Buffy drained her glass of wine far too quickly, shuttered eyes tracking the knob in his throat as it moved up and down.

He stood in silence, watching her watch him. The air between them was thick with unspoken desire and unresolved feeling, so thick that he thought surely she'd soon move. She wasn't ready yet, he knew. But she wanted to be -- that, he felt.

Idiot.

Mentally smacking himself upside the head, he moved away from the chair as if possessed, then sat on the far edge of the bed. Here he was, waiting for her to seduce him, just because she'd come to him. His slayer hadn't a clue about seduction, or the power that her sheer existence held over him. If this was going to happen, he'd have to lead her, carefully, where she was asking to go. He knew how to do this the right way.

It felt strange to think of deliberate seduction again, after so very, very long. He pulled off his boots and stowed them under the bed, then removed his shirt, throwing it into a corner. A quick search under the bed yielded a pair of grey sweat pants. He exchanged the jeans for the sweats and then resumed his search under the bed. This time, he withdrew a pink hat box covered with hearts and unicorns. Harmony's candles. She'd have conniptions if she knew how they were about to be used. He pulled several candles out of the box, then shoved it back under the bed. With a swift glance at the slayer to ensure she wasn't watching his movements, he called out, "Now don't fall asleep, pet."

Silly slayer. She *had* fallen asleep. He moved quickly to extinguish the torches and turn out the lights, leaving only the dim glow of the candles to light the room. Darkness would help her feel safe. Taking a last look around, he nodded his head. Alright, then. Scene set. Ready for act two. Cocky grin in place, he stood up and strode barefoot back to where Buffy lay reclined in a relaxed puddle in his red chair.

-- -- -- -- -- --

His voice held a musical lilt and none of its earlier anguish when he whispered in her ear, "Better now, luv?" Buffy's eyelids fluttered open to find him leaning over her from behind, lithe fingers stroking slow, hard circles along the muscles of her neck. She arched her neck in response, tilting her head to allow him better access.

He moved in closer, following the pattern of his hands with butterfly light kisses. Touches so light they ignited the fire in her belly once again. She felt the heat growing, spreading downward and outward -- taking control of her reactions. He was kneeling now, nuzzling her collarbone, playing a tune along her arms with his hands. The heat was too much for her to remain still any longer, and she sat up, winding her arms around his neck, twisting her fingers in that shining, tousled hair, pulling his head to her mouth, reaching urgently for the possession and freedom his mouth brought.

A groan emanated from deep inside him as he struggled to keep the kiss gentle, to slow their dance to a waltz when the wild music playing between them demanded gypsy-like gyrations. He made slow love to her with his tongue, his hands spread wide across her face, fingers tangling in her hair. Despite his efforts, their kisses graduated from gentle caresses to wild passion. When her hands pulled out of his hair and began a feather-light descent down his back, he failed completely. He pulled her to full standing position and crushed her body into his, the kiss blossoming into a full-scale assault, neither of them knowing who attacked and who defended. Their tongues mated, again and again, until she was lost in him completely.

He felt the change in her, the moment when the balance shifted again and the hard core of fear and doubt melted. Sweeping her into his arms, he swiftly moved across the room to the bed and laid her gently on the deep blue satin of the bed. She mewled her complaint at the distance it created, reaching up to pull him back into her embrace, but he swatted her hands away. "Shhhh, pet. Be still." He reached out to brush a hand over her cheek, rubbing a thumb over her bottom lip as his hands worked their way over her body, barely touching, leaving fire in their path from stem to stern, finally reaching the loafers covering her small feet.

She watched his bent head, the tiny muscles of his jaw blinking on and off again, as he removed first her shoes, then her socks. She felt her stomach clench when he touched his lips to the inside of her ankle, dropping cool, delicious kisses up her calf until the leg of her pants would push no farther. He raised his head then, eyes heavy with desire, as his hand released the fabric of her pants and slid up to her waist. She drew in a sharp breath and held it as his fingers crept under her shirt, causing cascades of desire to ripple across her frame when she felt the first touch of skin on skin as his hand flattened onto her stomach, just above her panty line. Achingly slowly, he raised his body over hers, bending down at the halfway point to pull the drawstring of her pants loose with his teeth, never releasing her eyes from his stare.

Buffy shook with the force of his desire, and if she was honest, her response. Who knew that the sheer pleasure of watching him worship her body could bring her to a boiling point she didn't know she had? And all with her clothes still on. It wasn't in her nature to let go of control to this extent, but she couldn't manage to catch a thought and hold it long enough to gain rationality.

She felt his hands slide over the smooth skin of her thighs as he pushed her pants down into a puddle on the floor. She wiggled in anticipation of his return, arching up to encourage his hands' return to their ministrations, then moaning her disappointment when he sank back down to his knees, returning to his starting point at her ankle, lips burning icy fire up her calf, tongue teasing points on the sensitive skin behind her knee and up the quivering flesh of her inner thigh. A shudder ran through her, companion to the brief realization of the location of the next pulse point on his path up her body. His head was again within reach, and she stretched out hungry fingers to stroke the golden curls covering his crown, urging him on his way.

She felt sharp disappointment again, when he pulled loose from her grasp and stood up. That constant fear of rejection and abandonment crept in on the split second he was separate. She wanted the distance to disappear, wanted to crawl inside him the way she so frantically needed him to crawl inside her--to fill the empty spaces. Her fear was fleeting, almost unrecognized, and disappointment gave way to dark anticipation when he lifted her legs onto the bed and reached beneath her waist to pull her body up far enough to allow him to straddle her form on both knees.

Her eyes cleared to a crystalline emerald as she took in the Davidian symmetry of his torso and reached out hot hands to touch the sleek muscles of his abdomen. She marveled at how they jumped in reaction as she slid her palms up his chest, warm silk sliding over the pale marble of his pectorals. Swift fingers wound their way around his neck to play in the curling hairs at the base of his neck. He clasped his hands together underneath her, pulling her up to feel the cool slide of his lips against hers, the pointed duel of tongue on tongue, fire and ice.

She melted into his embrace, lifting her hips to complete the circle their bodies formed, grinding her strength into his groin. Electricity surged through the completed circuit, shifting the mood from that of slow, sweet seduction to fuel a raging passion that coursed through both bodies, welded together now, balanced in mid-air on the strength of his thighs and her grasp.

Feeling the power now, understanding on some fundamental level that this was not a dance of submission and dominance, but an expression of mathematical equality made up of strength and desire, she raised her thighs off his and rushed hands down the smooth skin of his sides to push at the soft cotton of his pants. At last satisfied that she understood the lesson of patience and the depth of his intent to satisfy, he twisted his hips from beneath her and pushed his pants out of the way.

Buffy lengthened her body against his on the bed, slipping smooth golden skin against the hair roughened muscles of his thighs and reveling in her power to tease the hard point of his desire to granite. She threw back her head as she removed her shirt, inviting his attention upward, reminding him that at the moment, she retained the shield of lingerie over unexplored territory. He watched the waves of her feline stretch move up her chest, then in a swift, predatory movement, dove downward. His mouth ranged electricity over her stomach, tongue dipping in and out of her navel, sending shivers of delight to every cell in her body. He raised his head to find her watching him, breathless with the pure fury of her need, eyes begging him for more.

She was a goddess, waiting for his worship, feeding on his attention and love. Spike froze, mesmerized again by the reality of her presence here, with him. She shifted beneath him, bringing him back to the moment in time -- there was still work to be done. He'd only just begun to satisfy. A slow smile made its way across his face as his eyes located the next target. The slips of black silk covering her breasts and sex were no real protection from the raw edge of his tongue, and he bent to the task with enthusiasm, pushing her over on her back and removing the wisp of her bra in a single fluid motion. The other could wait, for now.

Buffy reveled in the slow lazy circles of his hand dancing on her thigh while his tongue stroked the pink tips of her breast to stiff nubs. Over and over again, he laved his tongue up first one straining peak, then the other, stopping to listen to her gasp as he suckled as if receiving some ambrosia from them. She could feel the urgency building in her hot, wet center as the waves of the building inferno rocked her hips into his and sent her hands flying over his flanks. Her entire being pleaded for the resolution she knew he was spinning out in golden strands of sheer pleasure for both of them. He began a slow descent toward the wisp of material that was the sole remaining barrier between them, flicking his tongue over the shaking muscles of her abdomen and slipping a finger under the elastic and running it downward to slide over the thick wetness between her legs. She arched her back at the intimate touch, losing all sense of time and place as his mouth reached her apex and began to lap the juices that flowed copiously from her, a sleek, rumbling jungle cat consuming the milky fluid and sending her pulse racing beyond comprehension. He pushed her thighs apart and settled in, fingers and mouth working to raise her to a fevered pitch, twisting and pulling, pushing and sucking while her hands dug trenches in the skin of his scalp and neck. Low moans erupted from some primal corner of her soul.

When at last he could stand no more, he surged up her body, swallowing her whimper with his lips and tongue, murmuring indistinct words of greed and longing into her mouth as his thumb worried her clit into a hard knob of pure want. The animal sounds coming from her writhing form reached a zenith when he whispered his sharp command, "Look at me, luv." Midnight obsidian locked on lust-drunk seas as he buried himself to the hilt in her already spasming center.

She rose to meet his rhythm, answering each thrust with one of her own, riding the crest of unbelievable pleasure in waves over and over again, until at last they collapsed in a heap of spent emotion. After long moments spent perfectly still and completely comfortable, Buffy shimmied beneath him, languorously lifting her arms above her head and opening her eyes to find him propped up on one elbow, staring in wonderment down at her as his finger traced the beat of a still racing pulse in her neck.

"It's enough."

-end-

(I feel better now -- how about you?)

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