Sex, Lies and Video Feeds (1 of 1)

(A/N: Characters: Not ours, Joss' - we’re just playin' with 'em)

(WOOT - this got nominated for a Loves Last Glimpse Award!)


Spike shifted the paper bag filled with bottles of whiskey, which clinked against each other and broke the silence in the graveyard. What a night it had been. Everything had gone smoothly. He’d fixed it so the Scoobs found the camera surveillance system. After that, it had been easy. Trust them to be curious and go flipping channels.

Getting Anya to want him had been easy too. If it hadn’t been her, it would have been some other girl, maybe some other location. But whether live, or on tape, he’d wanted the Slayer to see him in his full glory, fucking another girl.

The Slayer thought he was a vampire. That he had no feelings. That he was beneath her, only good for one thing. Well that might have been all right when she at least showed him she felt... anger, anything. He’d take anything. But not what she’d been offering of late.

That flat, dull look. Those words... lies.... She didn’t feel anything for him. She could put him out of her head. Didn’t need him for anything. Right, she’d closed herself up tighter than ever. So tight, she even believed her own lies. Well he wasn’t having it anymore. No more.

He’d seen a bit of emotion from her at Anya’s wedding party. Jealousy. That had given him the idea of playing up on it. Make her feel. Make her acknowledge him.

And it had worked. He hadn’t expected her to confront him so quickly after she’d seen him and Anya. But there she’d been outside the Magic Box. Hadn’t said a thing that was real. Not her. Heart of stone. Or so she thought. But the harder you were, the better you could crack. And she would. He promised himself, she would.

* * *
Buffy stalked through the graveyard, on patrol. On high alert patrol. On gotta kick the ass of every demon around so I don't have to think about seeing Spike inside of Anya patrol. Where the hell were the damned demons? Why weren't there vamps out when she needed to hurt something so badly? Where was the distraction she needed from the pain she never thought she'd feel?

And why in the hell was she caring, anyway?

Stupid Slayer.

Back behind a gravestone, she heard the clinking of bottles. Might be vamps. Might be a demon stalking her. Might be curfew-breaking teenagers. Whoever, they were going to die!

Buffy vaulted over the gravestone and landed in a fighting stance, ready to throw a power kick, only to see her least favorite vamp in the entire world clutching a bag of booze bottles. She kicked him in the face anyway.

The bottles crashed to the ground, liquid seeped out of the bag. Spike merely rubbed his jaw and didn’t move, nor turn his gaze away from hers. "What’s this then? Spared me in front of your friends, but this the real you coming out? You want to punish me? Or... you come out to play? Hmm?"

Buffy gritted her teeth. "I'm. On. Patrol." Damn him, damn him for making her hurt like this! "Just lookin' for a vamp to stake. And look, lucky me, I found you." She launched a flurry of blows at his face, more to distract than to hurt, and slipped a stake into her hand.

One spinning kick later, she flung it at his heart.

He caught it mid-air and tossed it aside. "Losing your touch, or miss on purpose? Or can’t decide," he added, giving her a meaningful look. Ah, she was glorious when angry. That flush staining her cheeks made him think of her laying on the ground, fighting to get closer to him. Breathing. Just breathing so hard for him.

This time, when her fist came flying toward him, he dodged the blow and stretched his neck, casually getting the kink out. "Come on Slayer, do your best. Put me down. Just see that you don’t end up down there with me," he taunted, blocking her hits, rolling out of the way.

"I'm never going to be low enough for that, Spike! And I'm just getting warmed up with the fighting - gonna take you out once and for all." Gonna erase the temptation of getting down and dirty with you forever, less than the dust that's all you'll leave behind. She spun into a low kick, high kick, belly kick combination, and sent Spike staggering back against a gravestone, bottles rolling under his feet.

As he struggled to get his balance, she taunted him again. "I'm doing this for the pain you caused Xander. And because I've wanted to dust you for a long, long time."

"Come now, you know you want to do a lot of things to me. But dusting isn’t one of them," he answered, sitting up on the tombstone and brushing the crumbled stone off him.

He was right. Damn him for seeing me so clear! Infuriated, she launched herself through the air, intent on smashing that kissable mouth, those sharp white teeth, those sensual lips shaping truths she didn't want to acknowledge, didn't want to hear. When he couldn't talk about her feelings, they'd go away. Wouldn't they?

Despite his casual stance, he was ready for her. When she moved, so did he, snaking his hands out, gripping her waist and lifting her up. When she landed, she was straddling his knees. "Go on, you were explaining how you’re doing this for Xander," he taunted, making sure she felt his manhood pressed against her center. "Delightful shiver that. You must be cold."

For a brief moment, Buffy froze in place, remembering the first time she and Spike had really let loose, first in a fight, and then in each other. They'd brought the house down. Before she knew it, her hips pressed down against him, her body trying to draw him up through their clothes. Into her.

Then, she flushed furiously, and elbowed him, one-two right-left, across that beautiful, taunting face. "And cold's all I am," she hissed, shoving herself backwards and off of his welcoming hips.

He gave a jeering laugh. "Not from where I’m sitting, Slayer. Not from where I’m sitting." Bending, he picked up her stake and threw it to her. "Want a re-match? Show me again what it is you want to do to me? This time... tell the truth." The challenge hung between them.

"The truth?" She gave a bitter laugh. "The truth is I'm going to kill you. Now. Tonight." She flipped the stake in her hand again, point foremost, and lunged at him.

Sloppy. She knew even as she struck that her aim was off, which didn't make any sense. Why would her body betray what she thought she wanted so completely? Her life would be simpler without Spike in it. Safer, too. A world of safer.

The stake glanced off his raised forearm. He swung his leg around, kicked her in the ass, and sent her staggering forward. Without turning to look at her, he rescued the one unbroken bottle on the ground and walked away. "Go home Slayer. We have nothing to talk about until you find yourself."

"Bite me, you blue-eyed bastard!"

Spike ran his tongue over his fangs, and slammed his crypt door shut.

* * *

Stunned, Buffy watched him disappear. Her breath came in pants and her belly clenched low down at the thought of Spike's tongue flicking over his fangs, her breasts. No! No! Sexy Spike thoughts are Bad Spike thoughts!

Her mind replayed their fight; so unsatisfactory, so unfinished. What did he mean, walking away from her like that? She started pacing the cemetery, angry feet raising puffs of dust. Just who did he think he was? Find yourself. She wasn't the one who was so lost he was sleeping around with ex-vengeance demons on the rebound! She wasn't the one so confused about what he felt that he-- that she-- well, anyway, it was all Spike's problem.

Not hers. Never hers. She knew who she was. She knew what she was. The Slayer. She killed vampires. She didn't kiss them. Even when they were beautiful as Lucifer's favorite fallen angel and knew her body better, made it feel more, than anyone else ever had.

Yeah, luv, you do. Kiss us, that is. Her head snapped up, sure that she'd heard his taunting voice. But no. The crypt door remained firmly shut. She was, emphatically, alone.

Spike's idea of truth was crazy anyway. She didn't need to listen to him and his insane-o 'tell the truth' riff. Not when there was Slaying to be done. So it was time to get with the program. She trailed out of the graveyard, casting one look back at the crypt door. Quiet as the grave. Not like him to give her the last word. Huh.

What truth did Spike expect from her? He knew he meant nothing to her. Less than nothing. Less than whatever thing was less than nothing. And then less than that. She didn't care about him. She didn't care about anything.

* * *

Surly, bruised, hungover and altogether pissed off, Buffy swung open the door to the Magic Box the next morning. Beating the crap out of assorted demons and dusting a handful of vamps who'd been minding their own business at the Bronze, and then drinking an entire (totally skanky) bottle of rum had not been able to purge Spike's mocking words from her mind and heart. Showering for an hour that morning had erased neither her anger nor her confusion. No chance of washing that vamp right out of her hair.

Maybe she really did have to ask herself what she wanted.

Nah.
Above her head, the bell jingled merrily. Just a little cranky, she reached up and wrenched the bell from its hanger, and flung it into the street. At the register, Anya looked up from counting the morning money.

"You are going to pay for that, of course. Damage to the store." She nodded in that annoyingly perky way. "If you break it, you bought it."

Buffy curled her lip in disdain, and stopped immediately as she inadvertently reminded herself of Spike's sexy snarl. "I think I've saved you enough money over the years, not to mention on hospital bills, that you can let the damned bell go, Anya."

Chipper and grinning, the ex-demon smirked at Buffy. "Looks like someone needs a thaw in her pants."

Buffy glared. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Anya shrugged innocently. "Nothing. Nothing at all." She paused. "But obviously Spike was right about you. What with the needing a man and all."

Buffy gaped. Stuttered. "Spike. You and Spike. Talked. About me." Gathering her fury, she gained speed. "And when exactly did you have time to have this deep heart to heart about me and my 'needing a man'? When he was busy fucking you on the table of your cheap and craptastic excuse for a real business?"

"Hey!" Anya's brows drew together. "This is a fine example of capitalism and consumerism and the American Dream in action. And maybe, since you never have spent any money here, you should leave and stop using the oxygen that real customers with money and credit cards are going to need while they peruse my fine merchandise." She crossed her arms, and jerked her head toward the door. "I think you know where to find the door."

"That's it. He's a dead man. I mean, even more so." Buffy slammed the door open.

As she left, she could hear Anya shouting after her, "Don't forget that you owe me $13.49 for that bell!"

* * *

He sat sprawled on the lazy boy, staring at the telly. Daylight had broken, he could tell from what was on. Hadn’t gotten a bit of sleep. All night long, the confrontation with Buffy ran through his mind, like a video tape on a loop. Why was she being such a bitch? Why couldn’t she just admit there had been more between them than just a bit of sex? He’d break her. He would.

The door to the crypt slammed against the marble wall, startling him. A petite dark figure with the sunlight behind her was visible. The door started to close and she came into focus. Eyes all afire. Smelling of soap and sex. Need. Spoiling for a fight... or something else.

"What can I do for you, Slayer?" He gave her a knowing look, spreading his legs wide and leaning his elbows on his thighs as he looked up at her.

Just look at him. So calm. Almost patronizing her with patience. Smug bastard. Goddamned gossiping, smug, lying, cheating, beautiful bastard! Buffy stalked forward into the dim coolness of the crypt, letting the door swing slowly and ominously shut behind her. Perversely, Spike's very calm only made her more enraged

"For starters," she hissed, leaning toward him, "you can stop discussing me with ex-vengeance demons who don't care who --or what-- they fuck as long as it's male."

"Oh? We have those in Sunnydale? I’ll need a number." He ran his fingertips down the side of her thigh, raised his chin in challenge. She was fuming. On edge. What would it take to push her over?

"Pleasurable shivers chased Spike's fingers up her leg, but the angry heat she felt at his casual words was the stronger sensation. She gripped his wrist in her fist, twisted it in a way that put pressure on the bones inside, grinding them together. A human would have screamed. "You already got her number, you-- You had her number all over the display tables at the Magic Box. How dare you! How dare you tell Anya anything about u-- me?!"

She tossed her hair back over her shoulders. "It's not like you're an expert on the subject, anyway."

His blue eyes drilled into hers as he refused to wince. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. "No? I think I have your number." His gaze traveled to the pulse at the base of her neck. "Who else knows how to make you beg?" Dropping his gaze to her abdomen, where a sliver of skin appeared right above the waist band of her pants, he added, "or scream?" Oh yeah, she’d screamed when he bit her just there. The thought had his fingers digging into his thighs.

A staggering rush of desire flooded her system, not quite buckling her knees. Her hand tightened on his captive wrist, near to cracking bones. How in the hell did he do that with just two short sentences? "I never begged," she gritted out.

"What are you doing now? This your idea of foreplay?" He put his other hand over hers, pried her hand off. In the process brushing his thumb across the inside of her palm. He felt her shiver. Her hunger. Fuck.... as if burned, he pulled his hands back.

"Please Spike... fuck me... please," he emulated her words and met her gaze again. "Sounded like begging. What would you call it?"

She stared at him, at his beautiful face and his taunting eyes, then closed her fingers tightly around the caress to her palm. Swallowed audibly. Her face flushed with desire and embarrassment. "A really, really bad case of temporary insanity."

"Beautiful insanity." He slid his hands up her thighs again, firm, so strong. They could squeeze him so tight. He knew she wanted it. Wanted it bad. So bad he could taste it.

Gaze locked with hers, he asked. "Why are you afraid?"

Fear. So that was it. No wonder she didn't recognize the feeling. Slayers weren't supposed to be afraid of fallen angels. They were supposed to slay them.

"I'm not afraid of you." She bit her lip. His hands felt so good on her legs. She knew they were even better in other places, doing other things. "I'm afraid--" and her voice dropped, nearly inaudible. "I'm afraid of me. This --whatever it is-- it's wrong."

A flash of anger reflected in his eyes. "Wrong? This is wrong?" He moved his hand, stroked her inner thigh, brought it close to her core. "Or this... because it feels good. Because it makes you feel... something?" Feeling her both tense and relax under his palms, he sneered. "Or is it because you feel something else? Coward."

Her hips moved to his touch before she could stop them, swaying closer. Deep in her throat, something that might have become a whimper started, but she choked it off. Shut it down. Like every other feeling too dangerous to bear. Locked it away, repressed, chained, imprisoned it.

At least, that was what she intended to do.

Her hands shot forward, fisted in his hair. Looming over him, there in his ratty brown recliner, she brought her lips within an inch of his, that sulky, sullen, perfect mouth. Low-voiced, she breathed her words against his skin. "I'm no coward, Spike."

Heat, from her breath... her nearness... washed over him. In a sudden move, she straddled his knees. Only his speed stopped her from sliding down to press her sex against his. Gripping her hips, he kept some distance between them, even as his pants grew tight around him.

"You mean because you’re not afraid to ride me?" He cocked his head. "That’s what you want, isn’t it? To ride me, then step over me and leave. Not happening that way. Not again. There’s a price to pay this time."

"A price?" She licked her way along his jaw, since he wasn't letting their hips meld together. Nipped. Breathed in his ear. "I'm broke, Spike." Her hips rotated in his grasp. "Practically bankrupt."

Oh, god, that mouth of his, she had to have it! Softly, Buffy pressed her lips against Spike's. Teased along them with her tongue, danced it between his fangs to tangle inside his mouth with his own. Pulled back, slowly, licking the taste of him off of her lips. "How do you want me to pay you, Spike?"

He gripped her hair with one hand, dragged her head back and kissed her back. His mouth was hard, unyielding, his tongue darting in and out, tangling with hers in a dangerous dance. When he felt her press toward him, he shoved her away. Her short pants were driving his senses wild, he tried not to listen... to that, and to the wild beat of her heart.

"You know what I want."

Buffy ground her hips down against Spike's groin, reveling in the hardness there. He'd had to let go of her hips to push her back, thank god. Her body practically wept with relief to feel him there, against her center, where he belonged.

Belonged? What the fuck?

She smiled wickedly at him as she flexed her thighs, moving their bodies together, separated only by a few layers of clothes. Give him the words, then. Who cared?

"Make love with me, Spike. Nobody knows my body like you. Nobody makes me need them the way you do." Her tone was throaty, sensual. Anything and everything he'd ever wanted to hear. Sure. Why not? Just as long as he never realized it was the truth.

He raked his hand over her breast. Squeezed. His gut clenched at the way her head rolled back, at the sharp intake of her breath. At the way her legs tightened around him, steel bands, pinning him in place. Ready to ride him into the ground.

His arousal surged against her, against her heat. Raised his hips hard. "This what you want? This?" Another sharp thrust of his hips, before he dragged her down against him, seeking the heat of her mouth. Her lying mouth. He nipped her lip, drawing blood, groaning as she kissed him back.

The words were right... even her husky tone. It would be so easy to lose himself in her, but he knew she didn’t believe the words. By the time he broke the kiss, they were both trembling with desire. "Go home. Go home Slayer. Until you can admit that you feel, not only here..." he squeezed her hips, "but here." Dipping his head, he moved his mouth over her heart. "You have one... even if you hide it in deep freeze."

Panting unevenly, overheated beyond bearing, Buffy stared at him in disbelief. "What about what you want, Spike? You don't want me to leave. You want to bury yourself in me till we both forget we were ever two people."

She slid against him, slowly, torturing them both. Bit the side of his neck, just above the carotid, slowly, deeply, and deliberately. His angel-blue eyes closed, and his jaw jerked as she did it. When she finally rocked back on his lap, she added, "So. Come on and take what you want."

He gripped her hips, whether it was to prevent her from moving against him or moving away from him, was debatable. He got up, taking her with him, reveling in the power of the thighs that wrapped around him. Cradled his arousal, teased it.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He dropped her cold, took a step away... away from the scent of sex and desire, of the promise of fucking her into oblivion. "Been there, done that. I want more this time. I don’t want to forget."

Buffy groaned as her heated ass met the cold, harsh stone floor. Pants sure as hell didn't soften the landing-- or the rejection. Eyes burning hot, she glared up at him.

"Why should you? It's not like I can, either." Too late, she shut her lips tightly and looked away. Stupid Slayer. Pay no attention to the elephant in the dead man's crypt. Stupid, stupid Slayer! She tucked her knees up in front of her, and wrapped her arms around them, refusing to meet his soul-piercing blue eyes again.

"What did you say?" he whispered, crossing over to her and lifting her chin up when she wouldn’t answer or look at him.

She jerked her head free of his fingers, humiliated. "I can't get you out of my damned head. Happy now? Ready to slice me up some more?" She stood abruptly and brushed off the seat of her jeans. "Don't think I can hang around for that, so sorry."

It couldn’t be that simple. Was it a trick? He tamped down on his elation, refusing to fully believe just yet. "Usually the other way around, isn’t it?" When he thought he’d lose her, that she was walking out that door, where he couldn’t follow, he gripped her shoulders. Rough. Anxious. "You don’t get to say that and just leave. I want to hear it all. How am I in your head?" He shook her, "say it."

She looked up at him bleakly. "Why, so you can torment me with it the rest of my life? No way. Even the Slayer can be taught."

"Might do that anyway, yeah?" He cocked his head. "You already know how I feel. Why’s it so bloody hard? Why?"

Her shoulders slumped. He wasn't going to let it, or her, go. Not this time. Nearly inaudible, she choked out the answer. "If I tell you... if you know what's in my hea- heart," she stuttered out, "you'll leave."

"Will do." A little sun never bothered anybody, did it? But he was on the cusp of something here, maybe even more than he’d ever expected. "Go on. It won’t hurt a bit and I promise not to bite."
After all they’d been through, that she didn’t trust him was what got him every time. Didn’t trust him enough to open up, to let him in. To give him a part of herself, even a small part.

"But I don't want-- I don't want to tell you. 'Cause then it's with the leaving and the pain. And, surprisingly enough, I don't like pain. I've had about all I can take.. Can't really take any more."

"What leaving?" More silence. "Sod it all, I’ve never left you. That’s your area of expertise, come...fuck... leave --not necessarily in that order," he growled.

A watery smile. "Yeah, Spike, you're yelling at me, and that's fine. Because you're here. You're not off in LA, you're not in South America; you're here. Get it now?"

He didn’t. Not at first. "I may be a bit slow... it might take some explain... You’re talking about that wanker Riley, and the ‘vampire who can’t’?" It took another moment for the other shoe to drop. But when it did, his eyes burned with hope and promise.

"You’ve done your best to run me off." It was a fact. She couldn’t refute it. But she was ignoring something more important, and Spike wouldn’t let her anymore.

"I’m still here," he said hoarsely, spreading his arms out and letting them drop at his side. "Right beside you."

"Are you?" Her eyes flared with something undefinable as she turned to look squarely at him. "Are you really, Spike?" Her fingers trembled and her heart raced. Could he possibly mean what she hoped he meant? Could they-- work?

He brought her up hard against him, so hard he had to be leaving an imprint on her body. "Feel me. I’m right here. All of me." He cupped her chin, sweeping his thumb back and forth over her cheek and the corner of her mouth. "Hear me." Moving close to her ear, he whispered a poem that had kept him awake many nights, one in which he hoped he captured all the ways she tied him up in knots. "Taste me." He brought his mouth over hers and ran his tongue across the seam of her lips before dipping it inside, deep. For once, it was a slow, lingering kiss. He put all his feelings inside it, the loneliness when she rejected him, the need for more, his heart and soul. Breaking the kiss, he leaned his forehead against hers. "Know me."

Buffy shuddered against Spike, consumed by a desire beyond any she'd known with him, with anyone. His body, his touch, his words, his kiss. Overwhelming. Frightening. Stunning.

Beautiful.

"No leaving," she warned, as a last chance, should he want to take it. But her arms wound tightly around his waist even as she said it. "Not anymore."
"Not ever," he corrected, lifting her up in his arms and taking her over to the bed and following her down. Her golden hair spilled across his pillow. Her face was slightly flushed. He knew how to get the rest of her that color, a stroke here, and there. Bloody hell, no one could get him hard as fast as she could. She hadn’t even touched him yet.

"Not ever," she agreed, laying her hand against his beautiful sculpted cheek. She laid her forehead against his, just as he had done to her a moment before. Their eyes met, clung. She swallowed. One more step. The hardest.

"I love you, Spike."

"I knew it," he rolled on top of her and kissed her hard, before she could say anything else. Before she could take it back. This only happened in his dreams, and he was going to make this one last as long as possible.

Filled with desperation and desire, she kissed him back, delving her tongue deeply into his mouth, flicking the tip along his fangs, tracing the valleys and ridges of his palate, tasting his unique flavor. The pressure of his body above hers, weighing her down with passion, urgent and sweet; his hands, roaming along her body and cradling her face... it was all edged with a peculiar clarity both new and frightening, yet ancient and welcome.
When they parted briefly so that she could breathe, great gasping gulps of air, she finally answered him back. "'Yes, yes, you're very smart.'" She laid a kiss on those perfect lips that would have melted stone. "'Now shut up.'"

"Whatever you want." He braced his weight on his elbow and dipped a hand under her blouse, slowly pushing it up to reveal creamy soft skin, stretched taut over muscle. Bending his head, he kissed her stomach, and smiled against her skin as she shivered under his touch. This time he would have all of her, everything she had to give. He cherished the moment.

Scraping razor sharp fangs across her stomach, he lathed and soothed the burn with his tongue, while moving his hand splayed on her abdomen in slow circles, moving ever so close to the waistband of her pants, skimming over it, never staying still.

The soft stroking and the sharp fangs hit Buffy's skin with sensual contrast, shivers rippling along her stomach as she cradled Spike's head in her hands, fingers running through his hair, pausing and tightening in time with his slow, circular strokes, the touch of his sharp teeth. Gasps and murmurs of encouragement fell from her lips, and all the sensations were new, unfamiliar, and intensified by the truth she'd finally admitted.

It was almost, she thought dazedly, like coming to him as a virgin, but without the ignorance. "My Spike," she purred throatily beneath him, hips raising in a silent request for more intimate touches.

That was it. With those few words, she handed him power over her. The very thing the vampire in him sought through all their encounters, every time she'd said no but her body had said yes, every time she'd fought him away, only to jump him and demand satisfaction. "That's right Slayer, I'm yours, and you're mine," he growled his claim, peeling her pants and underwear clear off in a single motion.

On his knees, he stripped, never taking his eyes off her. He wanted her in every sense of the word, she'd admitted she was his, and he was about to prove it. An instant later, he scooped her up and pushed her up hard against the headboard so that he was kneeling in front of her and she was straddling his hips. His sex hot and hard, touching her, rubbing against her as he thrust slowly. "You said something about riding?" Gripping her hips, he brought her down harder, throwing his head back and clenching his teeth as her tight muscles closed around him.

Buffy permitted Spike to take her, to guide her hips up and down and all around as she fought with the clasp of her bra and tore her T-shirt off. He was so deeply inside of her that the blunt head of his cock crashed into her cervix with every stroke, punishment and pleasure all in one. Gritting her teeth, she slid along him, gradually taking control of the rhythm with her strong thighs and sense of balance.

His head was tipped back, his jaw clenched as he thrust upward into her again and again. She took a moment to appreciate his beauty, and then deliberately slowed the rhythm she had created. "Look at me, Spike. I want you to watch me riding you." It took a moment for her words to penetrate his sex-dazed mind, but the slowing, deepening rhythm surely got his attention. "Look at me."

She slipped her fingers into her mouth, and was sucking them as he opened those angel-blue eyes. When she was sure he was paying attention again, not lost in mindless bliss, she removed her fingers from her mouth and circled his nipples with her wet forefinger and thumb. "Gonna ride you till you're exhausted and then drive you crazy again...." she growled at him, controlling their slow, deep rhythm with the precision of a power gymnast turned ballerina.

His eyes clung to her as tightly as her body clung to his, long slow drags that slowly drove him up the wall. He wanted, needed more, but his every thrust met with resistance. Her teasing touches and gestures pushed him to the edge of desperation. He had to reclaim control, the predator in him demanded it.

Lifting up, he turned them so her back was no longer against the headboard. He slid a hand up her side, cupping her breast as he dipped his head down and kissed its tip and trailed moist hot kisses up to her throat. Then, without warning, he pushed her torso back and lifted her hips, still kneeling between her legs. Bowed back, with her head on the mattress, she was vulnerable, his to take, and he took. With every powerful thrust, he marked her as his, took what was his, reveled in the sounds she made... all his.

For once, Buffy had no need to ration out her moans and gasps. They spilled from her lips just as freely as her hair spilled across Spike's bed. He already knew the secret; she'd lost the battle there. But somehow it really felt like winning after all. No need to hold back --anything.

She locked her ankles together behind his steadily thrusting hips, pulling him ever deeper into her thirsty body, letting him go only reluctantly. And slowly, inexorably, she raised herself from her back on the bed before him until she faced him again, eyes staring into eyes, her stomach muscles working overtime, heels pressing into his straining buttocks as she rode him, rode him, rode him, arms twining under his and up along the beautiful sculpted muscles of his back Her fingers slid along the gleaming flesh there and dug deeply into his shoulder blades

Groaning from the intense sensations of it all, she attacked his mouth with her own, tongue thrusting into his hot mouth in time with his body thrusting into her wet self, plunging deeper and deeper, lashing at his tongue, whipping past his fangs and then returning to envelop them in an unmistakable invitation for even more.

With Buffy penetrating his mouth over and over, surrounding him, practically fucking him into the bed, Spike's world narrowed. All he saw was the light at the end of the tunnel, reached for it, chased it with every powerful thrust of his hips, every grunt, reeling under the force of building pressure. "Come on, that's it," he dragged her up against him, and rolled them over, never breaking contact. Gaining leverage, he kissed her one last time, before lifting himself up and driving back into her.

"Come on Slayer, come on, come on," his pleas grew louder with every thrust until he felt her tighten around him, felt her quiver from the inside, helped her come apart... just as she made him explode and shout out his climax. He slammed his palm up against the headboard, "that's it... that's it...."

Wracked by shuddering, screaming, pounding sensation, Buffy exploded into a million shimmering pieces beneath Spike's shouting, thrusting, exultant orgasm. She cradled his head against her sweaty breasts, but the tenderness didn't last long.

She slid out from beneath him, leaving him in the bed like storm wrack tossed onto the beach by the wrath of nature, and headed for her clothes. "You're not fucking the Slayer, Spike. You're with me. With Buffy. Try not to forget it."

When her words and actions finally penetrated his brain, she was already on the other side of the bed, where her clothes were strewn on the floor. His mouth went dry. She was leaving him? Again? "Buffy...."

She kept her back to him, refusing to allow the hurt to show. It figured. It just figured that once she'd given him everything, all of her, no holds barred, he'd be able to hurt her more. Her naked back was eloquent as she scooped up her clothes and began, fingers trembling, to dress.

"Spike..." she returned cooly.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared. "Sod it all, I thought this... this was over," he gestured toward her. "You said it was over, now you're bloody leaving again." The statement hung between them, full of accusation and hurt.

She dropped the clothes again, but kept her back to him. "Damn it, Spike, what do you want from me? You practically torture a confession of my feelings out, fuck me till I'm blind with pleasure, and can't even be bothered to use my name when you're inside of me? I'm not the only one who sends mixed signals around here, and if I want to leave to get my head straight again, then that's what I'll goddamned well do." Finally, she looked over her shoulder at him, anger and hurt clear on her face.

"Put up or shut up, Spike. Tell the truth. What do you want?"

"I want you," he said without hesitation, striding toward her without bothering to cover up. He lifted her chin, possessively slid his hand down the column of her throat, and looked into her eyes. "Don't know what it matters what I call you. Buffy, Slayer, luv, pet... it's all the same. Maybe I'll just call you Mine."

"Mine." She repeated his last word, doubtfully. Then, thoughtfully, "mine...." Her stance shifted subtly, and the tips of her breasts brushed, feather light across his chest as she moved closer. Winding her arms about him, she said it one more time, as much possession in her tone as there was in his touch. "Mine."

"Works for me," and she flung him through the air to the tossed and tangled bedcovers, landing on top of him a split second later.

"Good. Now, Mine..." Cupping her ass, he rolled her over and landed on top. "Something's wrong. Haven't broken anything yet, the bed, the headboard, the telly... so come on then, let's break things."

Love. Pain. Sex. Death. It defined their relationship, and it suited him just fine.

(A/N: Please leave feed back and/or concrit.)