He knew that following her could end up being one of the worst mistakes he had made. He knew it, and yet no amount of force or reasoning could keep him grounded. Could keep him from running after her. He had let her go alone once, and now they were blocked by a manmade wall of inherent prejudice. She needed space—he respected that. He had to.

But he couldn’t stop himself from following her. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything but, if only to ensure that she was all right. That nothing came about her patrol, and that the cemeteries in Natchez were just as easy to handle as those in Sunnydale.

That she didn’t need him.

Spike expelled a deep breath. Worrying alone was ridiculous. She was the Slayer. She could handle herself better than anyone. And had this been a few weeks ago, he would think nothing of it. After all, he was what he was. A vampire that thrived in destruction. That thought blood was better flavored with tears. That indulged every scream he had inspired, every plea for mercy he had dismissed.

A vampire that had loved with every inch of his body without loving.

Until now. And none of the rest mattered, because it was all before. Before he knew the agonizing bliss of loving Buffy. An epiphany only realized the night before that felt like it had been living with him forever. And he was prepared to face her anger if it meant satisfying his qualms about her safety.

So he followed. Not too far behind, not so close that she would sense him immediately. He had to make sure that she was all right. That she would come home to him tonight.

He would be a guardian kept in shadows if need be. Just as long as he could see her, he was content.

*~*~*

The Natchez City Cemetery had a haunting beauty about it that nearly disregarded the notion that it was a cemetery at all. And regardless of what all could be said, Buffy had spent a fair share of her adult life in cemeteries. Never had she thought one beautiful. Serene. The land was simply panoramic. The mausoleums chipping with age in a way the Restfield crypts never seemed to accomplish. Family plots were fenced in individually; a small runway for visitors ran throughout the seemingly endless acreage. Statues of the Virgin Mary and large adorning crucifixes were situated on various tombs, wilted roses coloring the ground where loved ones had come to pay their respects. Generation upon generation upon generation. Here. Right here. Beneath her feet.

Buffy drew in a deep breath and shuddered. This was a holy place. It was not like Sunnydale. It didn’t have vampires crawling out of graves every other night. There weren’t ritual sacrifices being made to any of the hierarchy of demons. This was not a battleground. It wasn’t made for it, and never had been.

It was a holy place—until now. Until the arrival of the Scoobies and all the demons of Hell that followed.

For the first time in her life, she understood the difference between graveyards and cemeteries. In graveyards, she was comfortable. She spent so many nights walking among the shadows that it eventually became easy for her to disregard the knowledge that the dead rested beneath her feet. That initial feeling of discomfort that she had always experienced as a child was long way given to the pangs of more familiar tedium. She had schooled herself to the point of apathy. One could not be a Slayer and feel uneasy in her territory. It was a decent way to get killed.

She just didn’t realize how neutralized she had become until she crossed the gate and digested the view presented. She had never felt so unwelcome on hollow ground.

Buffy dispelled a sigh, shivering lightly and tucking her hands into her pockets. It was hard to imagine that just a few short hours ago, she had awakened in Spike’s arms, warm and content. The patterns he drew across her skin with devilled ease as though he was trying to memorize every contour she presented. The feel of his arms around her, holding her to him—she had never experienced such contentment. Such a drive of tenderness and protection.

And then awakening. That look of sleepy adoration in his eyes. When had that become normal? When had it changed from loathing to tolerance, from tolerance to friendship, from friendship to lust, and now to…what? She remembered a time not too long ago when hating Spike was as natural as breathing. When he was her mortal enemy and not her confidant. When she would sooner dive into a pit of rattlesnakes than let him as close as she had let him get. Wanted him to get.

It was happening fast—but it wasn’t. For everything she had known about him before, she would have thought him to be the type who took what he wanted and ran. And he wanted her. He made no secret of it. He wanted her, and he could have had her by now if that was all he wanted. She asked him for time, and he honored her request. He honored it so much that he reminded her of it when she was all but begging him to be more the Spike she had known over the years; not the Spike that was worming his way into her heart.

She was terrified of the prospect. Terrified of what it meant. Because despite however much she thought she was ready, there were some truths to be reckoned with. Things she had tried to forget but kept resurfacing. He was a vampire. Despite all the want of goodness that was there, he was a vampire. He wouldn’t be with them in Natchez if it weren’t for the chip—he would be plotting against her. Trying to kill her. Thinking of inventive ways to make her wounds bleed again. He had tunneled through the bowels of Sunnydale for a ring that would ensure an all-go pass on endless monstrosities. They had fought under a shade on the campus. He had come there to kill her.

What’s it take to pry apart the Slayer’s dimpled knees?

Last night, she had offered to show him. Last night, he had refused her.

No, not refused. She had never seen a man look at her the way he had. Aroused desire screaming down whatever moral code a vampire would live by. Even Angel, who had more than one demon to contend with—that knowledge that if he touched her, he had the potential of losing everything. With Spike, it was exactly the opposite. A sense of wonder that she was allowing him to touch her at all—honored by the privilege, determined to make sure that he did not take her for granted. Where Angel feared losing everything, Spike seemed to fear gaining the very same. He held her like she was precious to him. They had been dancing around each other for days, and true, had he not initiated that first kiss in the Myrtles, such would be a non-issue. But he had. He had, and here they were.

He was a vampire. She had done this scene. It was wrong.

It had been wrong the first time. Wrong, but acceptable. That vampire had at least owned a conscience. That vampire had been cursed with a soul.

The vampire with her now—no, he had no soul. All he had was a chip. The rest was all him. All Spike. He was a killer; had been from the first. The very same vampire that had formed his own mission to see her six feet under from the moment he took the crash-course into her life. Spike, whom up until just recently, had been so lovesick for Drusilla that Buffy at times found herself envying the sick vampiress. No one had ever loved her so unconditionally. So fully. Without reservation. Without anything that required any thought at all.

And if they continued like this…if she ignored the warnings and followed her heart instead, like she had so many times before, and let herself into this, what then? She fell in love with him? With how serious her feelings were, that eventuality was creeping up on her with no room to escape. She did not doubt the sincerity in his feelings for her. In the declaration he made the night before; how he wanted her, and not just sex—yes, she believed him. And the thought of stepping back, from removing the Spike factor from her life before they even had a chance to see how great they could be together, made her heart ache in ways it never had. Never.

He was already there. And not for the kisses, the touches; it was everything. The casual trades, the provocative banter, the jokes, the ease of their conversation. She valued him as a friend, but her heart had dug trenches that were so much deeper than that.

So say she did this—gave it her all. What happened when it was over for him?

What happened when the chip no longer worked? Buffy honestly could not see him causing her harm—he had promised her as much, and she believed him—but for everyone else out there. The happy meals with legs, as he had once called them. He would not give that up. Not for anyone; not even for her.

Because he was a vampire, and such was the way of vampires.

If it came down to that, if he started killing again…

She was not about to kill another boyfriend. Not Spike. It would be easier if they remained at arms length. That way, when the inevitable day arrived, she could swallow her pride and tell him to leave town. Leave her. Go somewhere and never come back so she would never know the pain of killing him.

And that was all well and good, except for one thing.

She didn’t want to keep him at arms length. The look in his eyes tonight alone had nearly broken her. She wanted to run back, bury herself in his embrace, and tell him everything that had happened so he could fill the air with empty promises, kiss her temple and assure her that all would be all right.

If she allowed herself to do that—if she threw all caution aside for a man with no soul, what in God’s name did that make her?

And more importantly, did she even care anymore?

Buffy expelled another breath and shivered. She licked her lips and withdrew her hands from her pockets, crossing her arms over her chest and making her way down the winding path of the cemetery with slow ease. It occurred to her out of nowhere that Christmas was coming soon. Was it next week? So hard to believe that this time last year, she had been agonizing over Angel and the awkward, forced distance she had implemented because they couldn’t be friends. Just last year. And now, here she was. Agonizing over a different vampire. Wanting a different vampire.

Falling in love with a different vampire.

No. She frowned and shook her head. That was one thing she couldn’t allow herself. It would be so easy to lose herself in Spike—she nearly had. It couldn’t happen. Being in love was not a walk through the clouds; it was hogtying her heart to the back of a truck and watching it spin out of control in a race of twisted metal and broken glass. Watching a single candle burn on her birthday cupcake. Feeling that sickness in the pit of her stomach.

Angel had been bad enough. Spike might destroy her.

She had been so willing, too. So open and damnably willing. And now, just thinking of it—putting everything in perspective—she was miserable.

Miserable and cold.

It took a minute to differentiate internal cold from exterior. Buffy’s frown deepened, her shivers becoming more pronounced. The freeze was palpable; she felt it with every fiber of her being. That was strange. Natchez could get as cold as the next town, sure, but this was different. The air around her was still warm. Temperate. But her insides were shattering with frost. It came upon her with no more warning than a shot in the dark. She reached out to grab hold of something and steady her balance and nearly tripped in recourse.

It was on the drop that the feeling ceased being an annoyance and drove nails to her bones. A shrill gasp escaped her throat; her body tightening in an internal turn to fight off whatever had seized her insides. It was burrowed deep within her. Something grasping her, drawing out the elixir of her power. Gnawing through flesh without touching her. She felt something had latched onto her back, but there was nothing. Nothing except crashing waves of dizziness that spanned to steal her consciousness. And the next time she tripped, there was no recovery. Only falling.

Falling.

Stone scratched under her skin and the scent of blood smacked her in the face. The cold took a more pronounced turn—her strength draining. Her jaw dropped and she tried to scream for help, but no sound came out. Something was wrong. Something was horribly…

The next few seconds were a blur of recognition, too fast for her to follow. She hit the ground the next instant—open palms supporting her fall. There was a flash of platinum blonde and a possessive, predatory growl that she had never heard before. And then, just like that, it was gone. The cold—something yanked from her back, scratching lines into her skin with a wrathful cry. Buffy panted, fisting earth between her fingers as warmth seared her veins. An undercurrent of feeling. The numbing of her flesh began to wan. She glanced up when she thought she could, breathing harshly still, and allowed the flood of relief to fill her insides.

Spike.

It was a cathartic moment. Spike was here. Spike was here for her. God, Spike was here and he was…

Fighting some very ugly demon. Screaming at it at the top of his dead lungs.

And ripping it to shreds.

Buffy blinked wearily and tried to sit up, her arms and legs wobbly. It was futile; she slipped and fell again, rolling onto her back. The sting of Spike’s curses filled the air. She didn’t catch much—small increments of filthy fuckin’ hands and kill the bloody bastard for touchin’ his girl and a thousand other snarls as he ripped the shadow limb from limb.

It was over within seconds. The instant the demon fell, Spike abandoned his fury and rushed to the Slayer’s side, taking her in his arms and bringing her to his chest, murmuring words of comfort that were more for his sake than hers. He pulled away after a blink, his hands taking chart of her body to make sure everything was all right and feathering her face with kisses.

“’S’all right,” he told her, lips dancing down her throat. “You’re all right. ‘S gone. Took care of it. God, I—”

Buffy clutched the leather at his forearms, anchoring herself to him. Her mind was a blur. She had absolutely no idea what had just transpired. How she had been walking in the cemetery alone one minute and found herself in Spike’s embrace a minute later. Her head was still achy; strength returning to her muscles little by little. Whatever it was, the attack had been so sudden that its aftershock was nearly more excruciating than the blow itself. “Spike?” she asked softly. “What happened? What are you doing here?”

“You din’t see it,” he said, unable to draw his mouth from her skin. It was a reassurance thing; she understood that. His way of satisfying his fear. And though it registered distantly that she should be irritated that he had gone against her wishes and followed her, there was no sense in being angry with someone who had just saved her life based on technicalities.

If she were completely honest with herself, she would confess to having never felt quite as safe, quite as secure, as she did at this moment.

“I…didn’t see what?”

Spike forced himself to pull away, though his arms tightened around her body, coaxing her head to his shoulder as he stroked her back. He inhaled her scent gratefully. She was certain she felt him trembling. “’aven’t seen one in an age,” he replied gently, releasing a quivering breath. “Not since me an’ Dru were in Japan before the war. ‘S one of their demons.”

“A Japanese demon?”

“’S called buruburu, ‘f memory serves.” He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead. “Out of their folklore. Lurks in forests an’ graveyards. ‘S a parasite, you see. Latches onto whoever’s passin’ by an’…God, it had you.” He drew back and pressed his brow to hers, leaning in for a quick kiss of comfort. “Hafta be a ghosty or what all to see it, sweets. Somethin’ a li’l less human. You din’t even know it was on you.”

“Spike—”

“Could’ve lost you,” he murmured into her hair. “God, Buffy…” He pulled back slightly, hand coming to caress her face. “You know what those things do? Freeze you—steal your strength. Steal your bloody energy.” His hands were running laps up and down her arms, as though to rejuvenate said strength simply by the presence of comfort. “Are you all right? I need to get you back. Rest up an’ what all.”

Buffy didn’t protest. Couldn’t. Not even when he lifted her into his arms. She wasn’t the type that needed a knight in white armor—in fact; she was more the type to resent the notion. And yes, while her throat itched to offer its condensation, she couldn’t bring herself to voice it. Her muscles still felt too pliant to walk. To be trusted with anything.

There was a difference between arguing for keeps and arguing to argue. She didn’t want to argue with Spike if she could avoid it. Not anymore.

Spike headed for the back room the minute that they arrived at the townhouse. He set her on the bed without a word and reached for the buttons of her jacket. After satisfying his concern that she wasn’t bleeding anywhere but her leg and upper arm from where she had scraped herself on the headstone, he nodded—more to himself—and reached for the hem of her tee. Buffy was numb with recovery, watching him as though his actions were being portrayed on a screen far from herself. Thus when he glanced to her face, seeking reaction, he pursed his lips and forced a small smile. “Lift your arms, pet.”

So strange. She heard the words. She knew what she was supposed to do. Her body, however, refused to comply.

There was a pregnant pause as he studied her, a shadow coloring his eyes as his features took in the sharp pangs of rejection. “’m not gonna touch you. Promise. I jus’ gotta see where it hurts, all right?”

Buffy’s eyes widened. That was the furthest thing from her mind. “No. You don’t…I…Spike—”

“Lift your arms, sweetling.”

She complied immediately, hoping that her body language would convey everything that words were failing to so horribly. It didn’t. He divested her shirt and added it to the growing pile at the bedside. Her own hands went to her bra, a hiss rushing through her teeth as a hook snagged on a hidden scrape from where the underwire had gone amiss. Spike helped her without touching her as promised, not reacting to the flesh revealed more than a simple licking of his lips before returning his attention to the task at hand.

“’m gonna go get a washcloth,” he said, voice hoarse. “Be right back.”

She thought to protest, but he was gone and back before her voice could surface. Something cool touched her skin; the hurt quelled and a moan of approval escaped her lips. Spike’s eyes flickered to her face briefly, but he did not pursue her pleasure. As soon as the wound was clean, he threw off his duster, stripped off his own shirt and covered her breasts before she could think to what was happening.

It amused her, though, that he thought taking off his own clothes would be simpler than redressing her with the worn shirt at the bedside. And as though reading her thoughts, he met her eyes sheepishly and offered the first grin she had seen since initially arriving home. “’S longer,” he offered lamely. “It’ll cover your bits, right?”

She smiled and hugged the material to her body. “Smells like you,” she said.

Spike stared at her, specks of light dancing across his eyes. Timid—not wanting to break through for fear of the other. “Buffy—”

He had to inspect her below the belt. She knew that, just as she knew that he was hesitant in initiating such a bold move. The burn of his gaze was passionate—hurt, but passionate. And it was entirely her fault. For everything that she had been so in arms with just a short while ago, it didn’t seem to matter now. With him, the sky was the limit. She was worried, would likely always be worried, but the tug on her heartstrings was too great to ignore. There would be no avoiding him.

“You followed me,” she said, taking his hand in hers and lowering it to the clasp on her jeans. He accepted the invitation for what it was and abandoning her fly for a moment to throw her shoes and socks to the other side of the room before stripping her trousers as well. There was a sizable scrape on her inner thigh; one along her back from where the buruburu latched and been torn away. The washcloth returned, dabbing soothing circles where it hurt. Spike drew in a breath, inhaling her scent—her reaction to his touch—but made no move to further it.

It was a minute before he replied. She had forgotten what she said when he did. “I followed you,” he confirmed. “Had to make sure nothin’ went wrong. I know ‘s not what you wanted, but—”

“Spike—”

“Can’t help worryin’ ‘bout you, sweetling.” He smiled, though there was no feeling behind it. “Be a love an’ turn over. Need to see this other mark.”

Buffy did as he asked, lying face down upon the mattress and hugging a pillow close. The bed creaked as he added his weight, crawling over her body, contemplating, and then straddling her ass for the best vintage point. A soft gasp tickled her throat, soothing in the least. She felt his erection pressing into her and ached to arch back into him, but somehow knew that the move would be one of the more insensitive things she could have attempted.

If he was at all aware of her musings, he did not betray it. Instead, his hand skimmed the torn skin, nostrils flaring at the rising scent of her blood. “God, Buffy,” he murmured. “Your sweet li’l…’m so sorry, pet. Should’ve been there sooner. Should’ve—”

“It’s not your fault. Doesn’t even really hurt all that much.”

“I din’t see it quick enough.”

“If I’d asked you to come with me, none of this would’ve happened.” When she received no reply, she took that to mean that he agreed with her and would say nothing more for fear of triggering her anger. “Spike?”

“Mmmm?”

“What’s a backarack doing in Natchez?”

The vampire grinned, fingers massaging her sensitive skin delicately. “You mean a buruburu, sweets?” She nodded. “I have no bloody clue. Only seen one before tonight, an’ it was a bloody long time ago.”

“You think it has anything to do with what’s going on?”

“The book, you mean?” She shrugged, her body rippling with the motion. The hardness in his jeans became more pronounced. Spike clenched his teeth. “Can’t else imagine why a bloody buruburu would be here, so yeh. ‘m gonna phone up Rupert after you’re tucked in an’ give him a bloody earful.” His hand slid under the hem of the shirt she now adorned, skin trembling against hers. “Mistake to put you in this,” he murmured.

That was it. They had to talk this out before the mixed signals made her go completely over the edge. Buffy drew in a deep breath and pushed herself up, preparing to turn around. “Spike…”

Almost immediately, his hands came to her shoulders to halt the movement. “Don’t,” he gasped. “Don’t. I’ll bloody lose my mind ‘f you—”

“It’s okay. We need to talk.”

“Yeh. An’ hearin’ those four words really gives me incentive to stay here an’ chat.” He was off her the next minute, throwing his duster over his nude shoulders. “’m gonna head over to the house an’ get you somethin’ to eat,” he said. Then he stopped at the door, registering the half-dazed Slayer that was propped on her elbows, watching him with intense uncertainty. And he wavered. “Are you all right? I don’ know how long it’ll take to bring back your strength, but…” There was no conclusion. He just stared at her for long seconds before remembering himself. “I, uh…I’ll be back in a flash.”

The minute he was gone, Buffy fell back on the bed and mewled. God, why was it so difficult to talk to him when he was here? She knew exactly what she wanted to say. Regardless if her feelings were still muddled, there was a fine line between where they had been this morning and where they were now.

He had not tasted her blood. He had not asked to, not attempted. Would she have let him? She honestly didn’t know. Everything was so confusing right now.

The slam of the front door announced his return. She thought he would come to her directly but he set to busying himself in the kitchen instead. There were a few murmured curses and the occasional clamoring—things that inspired grins even if she knew it was better not to poke fun at him. Really, for a vampire that had killed Slayers and prided himself on being the Big Bad, he was incredibly sweet.

The minute his voice became audible, she nearly started off the bed. It took a few seconds to realize he was not speaking to her.

“Have you an’ your lot found anythin’ yet? Right then—that’s helpful. How ‘bout why there are bloody buruburus runnin’ around an’ latchin’ onto slayers as they patrol? Yeh, you heard me…well, of course I killed it! What the hell do you take me for? No, she’s fine. Restin’, right. ‘m makin’ her supper, then I think she should get some sleep. Bloody no, she’s not goin’ out there again. This thing nearly killed her!” There was an estranged sigh. “I know for goddamned well that she’s the Slayer, but ‘f there’s one of these blighters in this hellhole an’ I’m the only one that can see it, whaddya think the odds are that she’ll get away next time? No, that’s not a threat, you bleedin’ pillock! Well, for the toss I gave it, I’d sure as hell hope it’d…oh, for Chrissake, jus’ find out what the hell this thing is doin’ an ocean away from where it’s s’posed to be. Right?”

Buffy pursed her lips, her heart aching. God, he was trying. He was trying so hard, and no one was giving him any credit for it.

And for what she had done earlier tonight…what she had said. What she had subconsciously delivered.

He was still with her, though. Still caring for her. All in all, regardless.

A few minutes past before he finally returned to her bedside: a bowl of soup in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. “’S chicken noodle,” he said, setting the delicacies at the nightstand. “Thought it’d be the best, considerin’. Don’ know ‘f you like tea or not, but ‘s the next best thing they had in the kitchen.”

Buffy smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Don’ mention it, sweets.” He paused, considering her, then wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to leave. “’m gonna go watch the telly. I’ll be up for a while yet, but you should get some rest.”

“Spike—”

“Whatever needs to be said can wait one bloody night.” A sigh tickled the air. “Honestly, I don’ think I’m up for it at the moment.”

“No, I mean—”

“Sweet dreams, Slayer.”

It was obvious he wasn’t going to stop long enough to hear a full sentence. And there was no way she was going to let this rest until morning. She wanted him to know now—before the influence of daylight could break her. Before everything else came rushing back. It had to be now. “Stay.”

That did it. Spike froze at the door. “What?”

There could be no mistaking her meaning. It was all or nothing now. Buffy edged over, making enough room in the bed for him. Not that she had taken up an obscene amount in the first place, but she chose for the less subtle of the movements. “Stay with me,” she repeated. “Please. Just…until I fall asleep, if you don’t want to the whole night. I just…please stay.”

Another long pause. The vampire turned to face her fully, head cocked to the side. “You sure?”

“Yes. Please.” She patted the mattress beside her eagerly. “Please. I want you here.”

Spike inhaled sharply but didn’t say another word. He discarded his duster on the pile of clothes that he had removed from her earlier and hesitated, then crawled in. His arms came around her as they had been that morning. And yet, even with him pressed as closely as he was, holding her as he was, it still felt as though miles separated their course.

She ate her soup in silence, drank the broth when prompted, and sipped at her tea as much as she could. And there was nothing else.

Nothing else.

She was so sick of uncomfortable silences. The entire day had been filled with them. Compiled and shared from side to side until there was nowhere left to turn. When she wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her head on his stomach, his hold tightened but remained rigid. His body was with her—his mind far away.

Untouchable. Far from her.

This was not what she wanted. God, this was nowhere near what she wanted. She hated this. She hated touching him and not knowing whether he felt her or not. Not knowing if she had driven him to such a state where the cold had efficiently frozen a barrier between them; if she had, how could it possibly have happened so quickly?

Simple answer. She had wanted more space, and he was giving it to her. It was all because of that initial seed of doubt. Because of the jubilated mess that was today. That was the reason.

She needed them to get back where they had been when the sun rose. She needed it desperately. Having tasted both, she knew what she wanted.

And yet, that seed of doubt remained. Anchored exactly where Xander had placed it. A blockade between where she was now and the door she ached to go through. It made all the difference in the world.

Regardless of the consequences, she had to try. This at least. Get past this.

“Spike?”

The vampire stirred a bit; thumb stroking her forearm in a manner that was nearly habitual. “Mmm?”

Buffy drew in a deep breath and tightened her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

The gentle caresses came to an abrupt halt. Spike swallowed and glanced down at her, as though for the first time taking in their proximity. “What for, sweetling?”

“For…everything, really.” She expelled a breath and shifted slightly against him. “I know what Xander tried to do today was deliberate, but it worked. I don’t even think his intent was to be…”

“A wanker?”

She grinned humorlessly and nodded. “Yeah. He’s just…he’s worried about me. About the decisions I make. I understand that. I mean, he’s seen a lot, you know? Been there with me through the good and the very, very bad. The things he said…they’re things I need to think about. But I shouldn’t have shut you out to do it.”

There was a long pause. Spike studied her face for endless seconds, the softness that she had cherished returning in increments. Flooding his eyes with hesitant tenderness. As though closing himself off meant it could no longer hurt. He swallowed hard and nodded a second later. “I know what I’m up against, luv,” he said. “What the bloody odds are. An’ I know that no one in your lot particularly cares for me. ‘S not like I planned for any of this to happen…it jus’ did. No countin’ for that.” He tore his eyes from hers. “I can’t help what I am, Buffy. I’ve been this since before you were a thought. An’ until this, I never thought I’d wanna be anythin’ more. I never…I never thought I could have these feelings for someone who’s not…” His jaw clenched.

“Dru?” Buffy whispered softly.

“Yeh.”

“You still love Dru.”

There was no immediate answer, though his eyes sparkled with a curious glow she had not seen before. “No,” he said a minute later. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’, no. A part of me will always be hers. She was my maker. She bloody well showed me the world.” A fond smile curled his lips. “She was amazin’, I’ll grant you that.”

Buffy sat up. She didn’t know how much of that she could tolerate. “All right, I get the picture.”

Spike grinned at her. With a certain boyish charm that she had taken for granted. “Jealous, pet?”

“I just don’t wanna know how wonderful your first love was. Or should I start talking about Angel so you can do a contrast and compare?”

“She wasn’ my firs’. An’ ‘f you start talkin’ about Angel, we’re done here.”

“See? Not of the fun, is it?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Buffy, ‘m tryin’ to tell you somethin’. Yeh. Dru was my everythin’ for a century. Got that. I thought she was my world. Treated her like it, too. Made a dark princess outta her. I was at her beck an’ call when she wanted me. A willin’ slave that’d do anythin’ to keep his master pleased. ‘S jus’ another thing I can’t change. Don’ know ‘f I would ‘f I could.”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

Buffy didn’t even realize that she had started to move again until she felt his iron grip on her arm, twisting her around so that they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. There was a sudden flurry of passion embedded in his gaze. A spark from the nothing that had been there just a minute ago. It took her breath away.

“Listen to me, you little fool,” he rasped. “Yeh, I thought Dru was my world. Turns out she was jus’ my guide, you see. A bloody journey through dark to reach the light. My world is right here.” He pulled her even closer, his cool breath fanning her lips. “An’ now that I’ve tasted both, I’ll never mistake one for the other again.”

The next thing she knew, he had crushed her mouth to his with hunger that did not have a name. His hold on her skin was beginning to ache, but fuck if she didn’t care. For a blessed rush of all her fears, the entirety of her world shifted and she knew what she wanted. She knew—right now—what she wanted. And if this was going to be all there was to it, then god, was she going to take it. They deserved this. Just this. The rest could wait. Decisions could wait. All doubts put on reserve. This she wanted for tonight. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips and tongue battling his for dominance. The needy, raspy sounds that he rumbled sent shivers across her skin. The way he held her made her feel wanted in a way she never had before. As though the line between existence and nothing depended on his grasp on this reality.

It was a good thing that he remembered that she needed to breathe. She was too forgone to care anymore. And then— god —his mouth was on her throat. Smothering her skin with heated kisses, lapping at pulse points as the tight ball of need grew more persistent in the pit of her stomach. She ground her sodden center against the hardness at the apex of her thighs, earning heady gasps in her turn. Watching the glow behind his eyes go from desperate to lustful to finally in total awe. A hand had slid under her hem and was caressing her breast with soft, loving strokes that both warmed her heart and charged her body. And when he bent to her neglected breast and nipped at the fabric separating her skin from his mouth, she thought she would lose what little sensibility she had left.

Then he captured her right nipple between his thumb and forefinger and teased her with rubbing pinches. Buffy threw her head back, thrusting her hips into him. “Oh God,” she gasped, forehead pressed to his. “Oh my God.”

“You like that?”

She licked her lips and kissed him again, eyes opening slowly. His own were trained on her face, somewhere between adoration and arrogance. A grin tickled the corners of her mouth. Time to level the playing field a bit. She snaked a hand between them to grasp his denim clad cock as her own mouth descended on one of his flat, male nipples, biting hard enough to elicit a harsh, pleasured gasp. “What do you think?” she retorted, licking a path around the irritated skin.

“God, Buffy…”

“Not an answer.”

“Fuck.” He abandoned her breast with a sound of disappointment, right arm encircling her waist again—reaffirming his grip. Then she felt him tugging at the elastic of her panties just before his hand dipped in.

Buffy’s eyes went wide, her own hands abandoning their objective to steady herself at his forearms. “Oh God.” He was teasing the thin curls, sampling the moist tenderness with promised touches that were almost whispers against nothing at all. Her brow collapsed against his shoulder as she arched herself into his touch, small mewls of need rumbling through her throat. “Oh…holy…God.”

“Mmm…” He peppered her throat with kisses. “Only bad girls wet their beds, you know.” He aligned his index finger with her slit and edged upward just slightly. Enough to prompt an estranged bark of plea from her mouth. “An’ you’re very wet.”

Then, without ceremony, he slid two fingers into her. And they both gasped with pleasure.

“Spike,” she murmured, whispering kisses against his shoulder as she sobbed softly. She moved over him in slow, even strokes, her nails digging trenches into his forearms. The touch was tame compared to some others she had given and received, but it seemed forever had occurred between the boys in the past and the man that held her now. As though her body was finally rejoicing in finding whom it had sought all along. “Oh God.”

“Buffy…” He pressed a final kiss to her throat and withdrew his hand without further perusal. He ignored the murmur of complaint that she gave him in turn; instead rolled her over so that she was pressed against the mattress once more, his hungry eyes taking in the flush in her cheeks and the lust burning her gaze. “Buffy,” he said again, voice guttural. “’S this somethin’ to you? What are we doin’ here? God, tell me this is somethin’.” He dipped his head to kiss her again before she could reply, then whispered heatedly against her lips, “Please. God, please.”

She released a deep breath that offset the fierce pounding within her chest and took his face in her hands. “It’s something,” she replied. “I just…I’m so…”

Spike exhaled intensely and nodded, brushing a nearly chaste kiss across her forehead. “I know, pet.” He dropped his weight to his left arm, his free hand snaking down her body to tug at her panties. “’S this all right?”

The world seemed to pause and her eyes went wide. And then, despite all the heat burning her cheeks, Buffy balked. Sex had a tendency to screw things up, especially when neither one of them knew where they stood. Her hands dropped lifelessly to her sides, numb with the voices of angels shouting down demons as war threatened to break out in the calamity that was her baffled state of being.

The look that she reflected must have conveyed her panic. Spike’s eyes softened and he brushed a kiss across her temple. “I’m not gonna take anythin’ off,” he said. “Zipper stays up. We’re not ready for that…dunno ‘f we’ll ever be. I jus’…” He lowered his head to her stomach and took in her scent. “I wanna taste you. ‘F this is all I’m gonna get, I wanna have your taste to remember tonight by.”

Was she being so obvious about her indecision that he read this as potentially the only chance they would ever have at true intimacy? The thought, for how she was feeling now, was blatantly ridiculous, but she knew better than to trust the night when morning came to spread light over mistakes made in the dark. And yet, somehow, she didn’t think she could ever consider this a mistake. For everything and nothing at all.

Spike ran a hand down her middle to cup the apex of her legs, fingers dancing over her clit. The touch was so unexpected that she gasped and nearly bucked off the bed. She wasn’t used to reacting so violently to the smallest of caresses, and the notion was nearly threw her off her hinges. Granted, her sexual history left more than a little wanting. The feelings that the vampire inspired, for one, were unlike any she had ever experienced. She had never known lust to genuinely coincide with affection. Up until now, she hadn’t thought it possible.

“God, Buffy, ‘m gonna burst.” Spike lowered his head to her mound and inhaled. “You smell so good. So bloody good. Lemme have a taste. Jus’ a li’l taste. I’ll stop ‘f you don’ like it. Promise, I will.”

Buffy released a trembling breath and nodded before she knew what she was doing. She was rewarded with a heart-melting smile and the whisper of a kiss against her stomach. The vampire turned back to the clothed prize at his disposal, licking his lips in anticipation. A touch then, gentle. His hands slid up her thighs, his thumbs hooking under the thin fabric that separated them. There was a beat of hesitation—his eyes finding hers to scope out any last minute ploys at refusal.

He lingered a bit too long; she glanced back up at him and smiled. She didn’t say anything, but the smile was all he needed. A shiver coursed down his spine and he returned it best he could, afraid to reveal too much, to let her know how much this alone meant to him in the course of simple gestures. Instead, he focused his attention on dragging her panties down her legs; hailed them to his nose before tucking them securely in his back pocket.

When his eyes found her again, skin flushed, eyes wide, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and waiting for him on her bed, the world for all its worth seized to matter. “Good God,” he gasped, sliding forward, his arms worming under her thighs to arch her quim to his mouth. He inhaled her fragrance desperately, committing every turn to memory. Every spiced spark to tickle his senses. He couldn’t help the moans that scratched at his throat. He couldn’t say anything to convey the wealth of feeling bubbling within him, and he decided not to try. A shiver waved across his skin and he buried his face in her nest of curls with a trembling sigh. She couldn’t know what this was doing to him. Just this. The implicit trust in her smile, the baring of herself to him without qualm. It was too much. For everything that had happened today, it was too much. “Buffy.”

And it was the same in turn. Buffy had never felt so open, so exposed to anyone. Her initial instinct was to push him away and clamp her thighs shut with a bolt lock. No one had ever done this to her before. And true, while she had a vague idea of his intentions, the secrecies itself behind the act remained foreign to her. His awe, the way he was taking this so seriously, helped little in building her esteem. It seemed on the brink of impossibility for anyone to apply their mouth where he intended and enjoy it.

Another low moan rumbled across his body. “God, Buffy,” he gasped. “You’re so beautiful. So lovely.”

Her cheeks heated. Never had she considered that part of her body beautiful, and she found it odd that anyone would. “Thanks,” she replied lamely, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Spike—”

And that was it. He was done talking. Done looking at her without touching her. Before another word could birth into the air, he lowered his head and licked a wet pathway up her slit, exciting a strangled, surprised cry from her lips that played harmoniously against his ears. He moaned into her favorably, his long tongue lapping up her ambrosia.

It was unbelievable. Her taste. Her responses. At the slightest touch, she writhed past the brink of control. Her hesitation only enhanced her charm. It wasn’t difficult to decipher that no one had ever done this to her before. No one had ever decided to worship her as she deserved. And God, he didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful.

“Spiiiike…”

He smiled, bracing her around the middle with one arm as the other hand itched up her leg to play. She took initiative at that, casting her legs astride his shoulders to rein him into her. Baring both hands free to do as he wished. His smile broadened at that, but he did nothing but murmur his approval. Turning back to her. Eager fingers parting her outer folds with muted delicacy, sliding nimbly into her haven as his mouth took to teasing her clit. He blew across her hypersensitive bundle, tended the tender skin that protected it with his tongue, and back again without a reprieve.

“So good,” he murmured into her, causing her to buck against his face. “Buffy… fuck, you taste so good.”

“Uhhh…”

His eyes trailed heatedly up the length of her, and he could no longer hold back. With a moan of capitulation, he captured her clit with his tongue and sucked the needy bundle into his mouth, enveloping and crashing wave upon wave of endless euphoria. He was here. God, he was really here. She was sobbing her pleasure because of him. He nibbled at her. Drank her in. Caressed her burning skin between his teeth with gentility that offset the passion coursing through his veins. His fingers slipped out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest. He was touching every part of her there was to touch; tasting every part of her there was to taste. Staking his claim without fangs. In the only way he could. In the only way she would let him before it was over.

“Oh Jesus!”

“Mmm,” he murmured in agreement. And his mouth returned to her before she could issue another word, nibbling softly at her moist folds. He grinned inwardly when she arched off the mattress again. Her hands had fisted in his hair, directing his mouth where she wanted it, and he obeyed willingly. He lapped at her, drank her in, treasured her flavor. Her warmth. The liquid aphrodisiac that she forfeited; his eternal fountain. It was pure Buffy, and it drove him wild.

The sound of his name colored the air once more. Panty. Hoarse. Her heated cries were becoming more and more desperate. Spike nuzzled her once and returned his attention to her clit; all sense of logic and reasoning flying out the window. His tongue enclosed around her once, twice, and drew her to his mouth once more. The moans echoing throughout her body shot directly to his crotch. He was painfully hard, his own body demanding release but suffering the pangs of rejection. He was too enraptured with her. Too captivated with her taste to ever let go. Every lick nailed another jolt into the coffin of finale. He couldn’t stop touching her.

“God,” he rasped. The sensations charged her enthusiasm further. They shared that, in retrospect. “My golden goddess.”

“Ohhhhh…”

“Taste so fucking good.”

She mewled his name again, her hips thrusting forward in a frenzy of unvoiced demand. And he caved willingly. His fingers found her clit and caressed her in roughened but similarly genteel circles of adoration, his tongue delving into the sweetness of her core. And he was lost forever. Simply that. The touch. Her nectar flowing into his mouth. He lapped her up, probing as deep as he could, stroking, finding that perfect spot within her. And he took. He took long rounds caressing her, his eyes rolling in the back of his head before falling shut at the wonder lain before him. He grasped her thighs when he sensed her reach precipice, drawing all her spendings into his mouth with a moan of surrender. And that was it. A whirlwind of sensation. He drank everything in. Every cry. Every arch. She sobbed her pleasure and it was music to his ears. Every sound to escape her throat a different epiphany to a world that no longer bothered to keep check. He felt his cells ready to combust simply by watching her. By knowing that she was screaming in effect to what he had done. That he had given her this. And it was everything. Everything. The picture of timeless perfection lodged within his memory.

Hers. He was eternally hers. Whatever she would have him for, he was hers. He knew no other haven than when he was with her. No other peace. It had taken him this long to find her, and damn if he ever let her go because of something as inherently stupid as disapproval from her friends. He was hers. And that was simply that.

It took a few minutes for either of them to come down. Spike rested his head against her stomach, panting harshly for reasons that were beyond him. Her fingers tunneled lovingly through his hair, her own gasps of recovery satisfying his every whim. Forever could pass just like this and he wouldn’t care. Buffy’s body was beneath his, the scent of her climax lingered in the air, and the worries that awaited him with sunrise were on perpetual hold.

This was peace.

And that, naturally, meant it couldn’t last.

“Spike,” came the tentative whisper. He felt a familiar pang stab his heart, but there was nothing he could do but comply. They had known going in that this was just tonight. The decisions of tomorrow were intact. This was a stolen hour. A few blissful minutes before reality stepped in. His time was not up for grabs.

It was with that resignation that he sat up, careful not to let her see his eyes. “Right then,” he whispered. “I—”

The next thing he knew, she mauled his mouth with hers, her arms thrown around his neck as she hauled herself into his lap. He was stunned stupid for a long minute, unsure of anything until hearing her moan around his tongue. And then all was left to instinct. He hugged her close, grinding his erection into her perfumed center with all the fervor he was still hesitant to express. With everything he could without revealing too much. Her mouth was enthusiastic against his, wrestling hot, needy kisses as her hands took chart down his body.

When her hand reached for his fly, though, his entire body froze.

No. Not like this. This was not what she wanted. Not tonight. It panged every nerve in his body, but he grasped her wrist and pulled away from her, searching her eyes with flecks of hope alongside the bittersweet taste of disappointment. “Kitten,” he whispered. “You do that, an’ you’re gonna have a monster on your hands.” He paused. “Literally.”

“It’s okay.”

“I go commando.”

“I was banking on that.”

A wave of panic crushed his system. While it was what he wanted more than anything, there were certain values of right and wrong to be adhered. Especially the level of respect she would have for him in the morning. Tonight was a break from all the rest. He didn’t want to ruin a beautiful encounter with sex that she would deem wrong when dawn approached. His heart couldn’t survive it. “This isn’t what you…I thought—”

Buffy smiled softly, caressing his face with her free hand as her other persistently tugged at the clasp on his trousers. “I’m not…doing that,” she said, a charming blush tinting her cheeks. “I just…I wanna do something…you—”

Ah. So that’s what this was. A gratuitous thank-you wank.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it.”

“But you…”

Her voice trailed off for what her eyes could illustrate. Spike hissed a sigh and followed her gaze with more of the same. “Yeh,” he murmured. “It happens. Happens all the time ‘round you, now that I think of it.”

“Then let me—”

“Nothin’ I can’t fix with my two hands. Buffy, you should really—”

“Let me do this. Please.”

It was the please that got him. Struck him as ironic though he would never laugh at her. The Slayer, sitting in his lap, her body warm and pliant from the orgasm he had given her, asking him if she could have him off as a token of her esteem. That, and then something else. Something more. A buried spark in her eyes that betrayed so much more the other.

When he refused to voice another protest, she accepted that as her go ahead, leveling her mouth to his again. She wrapped her free hand around his neck, pressing her brow intimately against his. And when he sprang into her warmth, they both moaned for the feel of it all. Her tentative fingers, so shy, so careful, running down the length of him in a way that turned him on more for its simplicity than any of the nasty, explicit acts he had locked away in his internal cupboard. The girl in his arms was pure sunshine. Burning him up so good that he didn’t care anymore.

Her eyes were closed. Her brow was pressed to his. She dipped her hand inward to caress his sac, her nails soft and exploratory. Her head arched slightly against him when he released a long moan, a smile tickling her lips. She cupped him with pristine tenderness, thumb rubbing circles into his sensitive skin with shy reserve that did not know her.

It dawned on him then. The intimacy of connection. His eyes glued to hers, closed as they were. Her sweat-laced forehead resting against his. Wanting that lasting fulfillment of their union. She was memorizing him as he had her. Committing his every contour to memory, similarly noting that tomorrow might bring with it a different tide. A new realization. A coming that would make this the only time they would have together. Her doubts were real. Very real. Her mind was confused and her heart was trying to stay out of the way.

But she wanted him. She wanted him with every inch of passion that he wanted her. And like him, she recognized the significance of this. Of just this. Of belonging for one night before the world came crashing back. And that was why she was doing this. For her sake as well as his. Because she wanted to. There was no gratitude in her touch—pure yearning at its best.

Buffy’s hand returned to his length, a quivering breath pressing past her lips. She leaned inward to taste his briefly before taking course in laps that marked him a lost man. Her thumb encircled the leaking head of his need with every pass; caressing him so gently he was afraid this would be over before granted time to start. And when he felt the hint of her sensitive wetness brushing over him, he clutched at her shoulders and gasped.

“Buffy—”

“Shhh…” She pressed her own hand between her legs, coating her skin with her juices before returning her touch to his aching cock. That line of torment surpassed for a whole new one. Spike grasped her hips and held, thrusting forward ever so-slightly into her hand. The feel of her essence on him was too much to bear. Her graceful fingers gliding up and down, shifting ever-so often to squeeze his sac. Up and down, again and again. Her thumb becoming more boisterous—pressing into his head, earning jerks and moans and whimpers and long mewls of her name with no relent. Her speed gained momentum. Grasping not too tightly, but not loose at all. Touching him with a blatant disregard for reservation. And never removing her brow from his. Keeping that intimacy. That touch. Kissing his lips every few seconds. Her eyes closed. Memorizing him.

It was too much. His hands dug into her skin when he felt himself about to tumble over. And without a word, she fisted the material of her t-shirt and nodded encouragingly, welcoming his ejaculate into the soft cotton that surrounded her. Spike abandoned her hips and grasped her arms again, holding her fiercely to him as the waves crashed and receded. Too much still. Too much. Perfection.

Buffy.

“Oh God,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Oh fucking Christ.”

She was quivering, too. Shaking to her foundation. And slowly, allowing the minutes to tick by with their solace, she opened her eyes, finding his intent upon her.

They stared at each other for endless seconds. Passing on what words could not be trusted with. Then he drew her near and kissed her. Tenderly. Lovingly. Conveying the ache he felt rising in his chest the same as before.

Their stolen moments.

“Thank you,” she said. He nearly chuckled in disbelief, but there was something serious in her tenor that could not be laughed at. “For trusting me.”

Spike licked his lips, not knowing what to say—not knowing if he should say anything at all. He nodded in place of words, tucking himself back into his pants before he could grow hard again. Now with their scents lingering together, it was difficult not to imagine what it could be like. Every day like this. Every moment a captured second in unending ecstasy. Together.

But for now, they had this. Tonight. They had tonight. This quiet before the storm until the sun rose. When they would be strangers again.

TBC

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chapter 26

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