Normally he wasn't fond of using windows when perfectly good doorways were available. And after putting up with enough god awful weather trying to win Drusilla back in Brazil, he should've been headed right back out of town to avoid the kind of heat that would warm even his unnaturally cool flesh. But the combination of those factors served to create a unique -- and not at all objectionable, at least to Spike -- situation.
Heat affected living things, and neither humans nor vampires could claim exception. Vampires were merely made uncomfortable by extremes in weather. Humans, on the other hand, suffered at the hands of heat. It made them thirsty, made them sweat, made them lethargic. It made them want to strip out of their clothes, lie down, and not move until the weather cooled.
Spike considered it an incredible stroke of luck that not only did the Vampire Slayer succumb to those urges, but that he happened to be there to witness it.
She slept fitfully in her narrow bed, sweat shimmering with moonlight on her exposed flesh as if she were covered in glitter. Her clothes lay abandoned on the floor across the room, and the bed sheets were tangled around her feet. Damp hair clung to her smooth cheeks, and one hand curled under her chin. She slept on her side, facing the window, the fall of her arms mostly concealing her breasts from view, and her legs positioned in a way that cast shadows over the dark curls between her thighs.
If he'd had breath, it would've caught at the sight of her. If his heart had still beat, it would've paused to take in her splendor. If blood had still clamored in his veins, it would've begun rushing excitedly. But the strangeness of vampire physiology didn't prevent other responses.
His jeans suddenly felt too tight. His hands ached to touch her. His tongue snaked out of its own accord to wet his lips. And his entire body, finding itself no more immune to her than it was to the summer heat, slipped silently through the window and into the girl's bedroom.
He suddenly felt as affected as she was by the heat... but it had nothing to do with the weather. The sight of her scorched him, and though no sweat clung to his back, he experienced the same urge to strip off his clothes. He was thirsty, but for a nectar other than water or blood. His every motion felt slow and tired, as if the air around him had become warm molasses.
His t-shirt fell to the floor with only the smallest of sounds; a gentle rustle of cloth, like the whisper of a smooth, bare thigh against velvet. His boots were toed off quietly, and his socks removed without any audible sound at all. His jeans were unzipped carefully, and with aching slowness, the rasping noise of metal teeth coming so low that it didn't reach the girl in the bed.
Naked, he slipped across the room in absolute silence, his weight on the balls of his feet, like a stalking cat. Somewhere in the night outside, a car stereo whispered out the low sounds of old Southern blues, and the moan of a saxophone drifted into the room as he climbed carefully into the bed.
She didn't wake even when the bed shifted under his weight, and he was careful not to jostle her resting place too much when he stretched out on his left side, facing her. He pressed himself softly against her, one thick forearm wrapping around her curving silken waist so that his fingers brushed slightly at the small of her back, just above her rounded buttocks. His other hand gently stole under the graceful arch of her neck until her head was cradled on his strong bicep.
A soft sigh blew from her lips, her warm breath flowing up his shoulder, burning his neck. She snuggled closer with a contented murmur. His hand opened and pressed to her back, and their movements pressed their pelvises tightly together.
She knew better than to betray her waking in such a circumstance, but he was aware just the same of the exact moment that she emerged suddenly into alertness. Her muscles tightened very slightly, and he could feel their subtle shift underneath his palm and fingertips. Her breathing lost its rhythm, but only barely, as she forgot the deeper, longer cadence of sleep. Her heart beat once, then again, as she took stock of her situation.
When her eyes finally opened and the pretense of rest was forgotten, her gaze flickered up to meet his. Recognition filled her eyes, and puzzlement, and something else. When her hands moved, they didn't reach for a weapon... they reached for him.
She brought her hands up between them, her fingers running from his collarbone to his navel in an exploratory caress. Palms slick with sweat branded his flesh; one settled at the center of his abdomen and the other pressed against his hip bone. His fingers stroked gently at the curve of her low back, teasing at the sweet dimple of flesh where her buttocks began. His other arm bent toward him again to gently tangle in her hair, and their mouths met somewhere in the middle.
Her lips were soft and surrendering, and her hot mouth opened freely to his touch. Their tongues greeted each other with a wet, intimate slide, and then their mouths broke apart again. She pulled in a breath of heated air, and he took advantage of the pause, delicately licking the sweat from her upper lip. She arched into his touch again, and her idle fingers suddenly erupted into motion again, roving his bare body, learning the contours of his muscles and reveling in the strange warmth of his skin.
Their mutual explorations eventually brought them to an impasse, with their hands resting on each other's hips, coming close to a more dangerous familiarity.
Some mutual consent burned in both their eyes; both recognized it, and they clutched one another more tightly, their lips locking together in a hungry kiss. They shifted sinuously, in a play of solid muscle, carefully avoiding tumbling out of the small bed. Spike ended up on top, gently holding both of Buffy's hands above her head with one of his own while his other hand slid lovingly down from her outstretched arms to glide a feather-soft touch over one breast, then down along her rib cage to rest at her waist. He relinquished his hold on her wrists to move further downward, his head ducking to catch one tender nipple between his teeth, flicking it teasingly with his tongue.
Her gasp was answered with a moan, and he shifted again, his tongue lapping salty sweat from the valley between her breasts, soaking up the warmth that flowed in waves from her body. His freed hand journeyed between their bodies, finding the heat-dampened curls between her thighs and exploring there. His fingertips discovered pliant folds, and dipped between them, dancing over wet flesh and delving deeper inside. Buffy's head stretched back as she unconsciously bared her throat to him, and her body twisted on the bed, the sweat-stained sheets clinging to her back.
Her fingers wrapped around the sides of his neck with a whispered scrape of fingernails, drawing him up for another long, hard kiss. His hands abandoned their newly uncovered territory in favor of other playgrounds, and roamed her body with restrained power behind every touch and revealed tenderness in every movement.
Spike inhaled sharply when her hand ventured between their tightly pressed bodies, snaking in to take hold of his erection. She squirmed impatiently, guiding him to the moisture and warmth that had only moments before provided sanctuary for his fingers. Her leg bent upward, her heel hooking behind his knee, and her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer; her hips angled up, and his cock was pulled and thrust and urged inside her, until he was buried and drowning and burning all at once...
He held still, arms tight around her and his face nuzzled against the side of her neck, as his nerves screamed of combustion and complete fusion, waiting for the wildfire to flash through him and reduce him to ash. It didn't, but the scorched remains of his being finally mobilized, still blazing, and set his body into motion again. The flames only built with friction, the intensity of their coupling throwing off sparks that fed the fire.
They clenched together, quivering, as both reached their climax, and the act consigned them both to the flames, burning them to mingled ashes and rebuilding both from the whole. When the molten fire finally receded to smoldering cinder, they collapsed, curled around each other despite the heat of their bodies and of the summer air.
They traded gentle kisses and lingering touches for at least thirty minutes before Buffy rolled contentedly into her lover's arms, tucking her head under his chin and giving all appearance of sleep.
"Spike?" Her voice was soft, questioning, and accompanied by a warm breath against his chest.
He tightened his hold on her, kissed the top of her head, and murmured some unintelligible encouragement for her to continue.
"Why did you come back?"
He smiled, his hand stroking soothingly up and down her back. His lips declared their affection for her in a covetous kiss before he answered.
"The real question is... why did I ever leave?"
Buffy laughed softly, burrowing further into his embrace and slipping a leg between his, catching them both up in a tangle of limbs.
"Of course, now you have to work for the good guys," she informed him.
He frowned, but didn't loosen his embrace. "I do?"
"Yeah. I don't sleep with bad guys." Her voice sounded smug, and more than a little cocky. He was sure it was a tone she'd picked up from him.
"What if I don't want to be a good guy?" he asked, somehow knowing the answer already.
She pulled away abruptly, moving to climb out of bed, and he snagged her arm, tugging her back into his hold. A wicked grin split her face.
"Alright, I get it. This is bribery, or blackmail, or... something." His scowl was only half-serious.
She tucked herself between his arms again, planting a soft kiss on the center of his chest.
"Yeah," she agreed, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "This is definitely something."