ch2

[Zlataslawa]

Crave, the story formerly known as FILF, by NautiBitz
Chapter 3: New Beginnings




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I want to have an affair with you.

Buffy lay awake, her husband sleeping beside her while his father's clipped baritone invaded her mind. Lines of colored light from the street below slid across the ceiling, blurring together at one corner of the loft, exploding before fading away.

Aren't you picturing it right now?

With a shudder, she flung her sheets off so there would be no tangles. And no picturing.

When they'd come home from the restaurant, she was still trying to wrap her mind around the absurdity of Spike's demands. And so was Lindsey: "I will never fucking understand what motivates that man," he'd said to himself, opened a beer and proceeded to chainsmoke on the balcony. He didn't want to talk about it.

Which was good, because neither did she.

Her many questions would have to remain unanswered for now. For instance, what did Spike do that was so unspeakable? How could he feel so little for Lindsey? What did he want with an average California girl who was raised to be anything but a billionaire's mistress? And why did he make her feel so dirty?

all soaked and throbbing and

She got out of bed and padded to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water and tapped a Tylenol PM into her palm. As she popped it, she noticed her phone was blinking. Text message from: Private Number.

Be at this address at 3:15pm Thurs. Don't bring a thing but your dazzling smile. -SP

"Ugh," she said, and slung the phone across the table.

Where did he get off, sending her to some snooty Beverly Hills shop in the middle of the day? Didn't he know that most work days went until five?

True, he'd insisted on buying her a dress for the benefit, and as she hadn't worn anything formal since prom, she had to take him up on it. But this was getting a little too Pretty Woman for her liking.

* * *

She arrived by cab after Lindsey helped explain the situation to her boss, and after she explained to Lindsey that his father only wanted to reach out to him through a neutral third party. Buffy would gladly endure an unpleasant evening out with the man if it might eventually lead to reconciliation.

All of which was true, minus the words 'only' and 'gladly'. She did suspect that in the twisted inner workings of Spike Pratt's mind, by pursuing her, he was trying to connect to Lindsey.

That was the official stance anyway. The kinky dream that drenched her panties that morning was the highly unauthorized counterpoint.

She'd half expected Spike to be there to help a la movie montage -- trying on the hats, laughing at her funny choices -- but he wasn't.

The storefront didn't have a name, only a frosted window, a number and a buzzer. When she said "This is Buffy--", they buzzed her in, whisked her to the back and set into motion a multitasking carwash-esque overhaul.

Touched by no less than four hands at once, she was measured, rubbed, plucked, colored, styled, fluffed, folded, and given zero say in any decisions. At the end of it all, she was sewn into a satiny, pale pink frock with an open back so low she was thisclose to indecent exposure. To add insult to injury, underwear was not permitted, and he'd had the cojones to request a barely-there wax. She'd refused, but god. The nerve.

This wasn't Pretty Woman, she realized. It was Stepford Wives.

Buffy was livid. If he thought she was fembot material, he was in for a big surprise.

* * *

"Well, well." Standing with one arm draped over the door of a classic Rolls Royce, Spike rubbed his chin and said, laughing a little, "Don't you look made to order."

She marched toward the car -- as best she could in five-inch slingbacks -- and said, "This is the last time I ever play dollie for you."

As she struggled and failed to enter the back seat without revealing any skin, he smiled and followed her in. "I'd better make the most of it then."

She had a retort ready, but then the doors locked, and she was suddenly alone with Spike Pratt in a car. How did she not foresee how ominous this would feel? There was a chauffeur somewhere beyond that black partition, but he was surely paid enough not to give a crap if she screamed.

"You won't be making anything with me, Mr. Pratt." She adjusted her halter and slid to the other end of the back seat. "Not tonight, not ever."

"Now, now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, pet." He poured a glass of champagne and offered it to her. "And please, call me Spike."

"Please, call me Buffy," she said. "I'm not a pet. And I'm not thirsty."

He arched a brow and said suggestively, "Afraid you might lose your head?"

She scowled at him and took the glass. Then she reconsidered. How far would he go to get what he wanted?

"Oh, come on," he said. "What do you take me for?"

"Should I answer that alphabetically or chronologically?"

"Don't insult me. I'm not interested in taking you by force." He sipped from his own glass. "'less you say 'please'."

"Please don't," she said matter-of-factly, and drank her champagne.

* * *

Spike clearly had a thing for lower backs. He wouldn't stop touching hers. When they posed for photos, when he introduced her, when they pondered a work of art... each time his hand magnetized to the inward curve of her spine and rested comfortably on the swell beneath it.

This might have been tolerable -- if it weren't for the fact that the naked spot he kept groping was a very established, super-effective erogenous zone of hers.

It wasn't him. It was the spot. Buffy involuntarily quivered and arched and got goosebumpy whenever anyone touched her there. Add to that the two glasses of champagne she'd downed in the car, and she was extra susceptible.

She hoped to God the quiver-arch was undetectable. If Spike mistook it for attraction, she'd have to skewer herself on that lethal-looking sculpture in the center of the museum.

Of course, that would only give their oglers more to gossip about. At first she thought her totally inappropriate butt-cleavage was causing the ruckus, but it turned out to be Spike's mere presence. She caught his name in whispers, saw double takes; the photographers were frothing. Even people he seemed friendly with were shocked to see him there. She began to wonder: was it the event he needed a date for? Or was it their 'date' that needed this event?

To add to her suspicion, Spike failed to mention the nature of their relationship at each introduction. Buffy had to take it upon herself to work it in: whenever she was asked what miracle she performed to get him to slum it with the art crowd tonight, she would reply, "I married his son."

"You have a son?"

Buffy was past the initial shock of hearing that response. "For twenty-four years now."

"Come, love," he said, rubbing his thumb on the small of her back. "Auction dinner's starting."

* * *

They were seated up front, just the two of them at a huge, round table. Spike had purchased all ten plates.

"So you want people to get the wrong idea about us."

"'People's ideas' are irrelevant to me." He shook out his napkin. "I want you to myself."

She sighed in frustration. "Why?"

"I'll tell you why if you answer me with the truth." He leaned toward her. "What do you want, more than anything?"

"Nothing. You to leave me alone. How's that for truth?"

He shook his head and focused on his salad. "It's not."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you read minds."

"I read people. Built a multi-billion dollar empire from nothing on that talent alone."

"Well you're reading me wrong," she said slowly, the way he had about her purse.

He wagged a forkful of radicchio at her. "I'm really looking forward to hearing you take that back." He chewed, swallowed. "You screaming yes yes, head lashing on the pillow... Or the table. Or the back seat of my car, I haven't decided."

She massaged her temples. "You have to give this up. I'm in love with your son, I'm perfectly content, and I don't need anything else. And I'm absolutely not not NOT going to give you what you need. So move on."

"No," he said simply.

She tried a different tack. "He may not admit it, but Lindsey is over the moon with the thought that you might care about him after all. He would be crushed if he knew you were only faking it so you could mack on his wife."

"He's a grown man. Shouldn't matter to him what I think."

"What is your problem with him? Do you even know how well he's doing?"

"I know he's squandering his trust fund while he barely makes a cent on his own."

"He's pro bono. He champions the underprivileged! If that's not a quality to be proud of, I don't know what is."

"The 'underprivileged' are lazy, drug-addled fools," he spelled out to her slowly, irate.

Buffy's jaw dropped. She could almost see the horns on his head. "You really are evil."

"Mm. If I had a nickel for each time I heard that... Oh wait. I do."

Incredulous, she shook her head at him, and he gave her a prurient grin.

"God." Face burning, she turned to her food. "Are we sure he's even yours?"

"Who? Oh. You're still talking about him."

"Yes. I'm still talking about him." And she would keep talking about him. Buffy immediately launched into a three-course-long monologue entitled Why I Love My Husband: his strength, his ideals, his spirit, his humor... Lindsey had everything she ever looked for in a man, and then some. She was the luckiest woman on earth, bar none.

Spike nodded and listened dutifully throughout, and when dessert came, he said, "It's not working, love."

"What's not working?"

"You're trying to appeal to my conscience." He sipped his wine. "And yours."

"Silly me," she said bitterly. "Forgetting you don't have one."

"I told you, I made up my mind."

"And that's where this 'love affair' will stay."

"Methinks the lady..." His gaze darted down her back. "Et cet'ra."

She rolled her eyes. Jerk.

The auction started, and feeling Spike's smile on her, she directed her attention to the stage. The first piece, a colorful Jim Dine, sold for five hundred thousand. Two more, by lesser known contemporary artists, followed and took modest sums.

When they unveiled the fourth piece, Buffy gasped.

"Sunflower IV, 1976, by Joan Mitchell. Oil on canvas."

She couldn't help but swoon. Mitchell's collection at the Whitney was what made her fall in love with modern art to begin with. She'd never seen this painting, and it was even more amazing than the ones in the lithograph series...

"Two million bid by private buyer," said the auctioneer, and the audience hummed.

Buffy crashed back to earth. She never could understand the need to own beauty, to lock it up and keep it to oneself, when it could be displayed in a museum for all the world to enjoy. And the fact that any of these people even had two million dollars to spare... that was just plain obscene.

"Two million one," the auctioneer said, nodding at someone in the back. "Do I hear two million two?"

Buffy saw the auctioneer look their way, divert his gaze and say, "Two million two."

Spike was casually dangling his bidding paddle in front of the table, where no one but the auctioneer could see.

She lowered the paddle to his knee and kept it there. "What are you doing?"

He glanced at her hand and whispered, "You like it, yeah?"

"I--" What was she supposed to say to that? No? Plus, she was still touching him, and he was making double entendre face. She took her hand back and stared into her mousse, hoping he'd let it go.

After being consistently outbid by one hundred thousand dollar increments, Spike finally said, "Oh for bloody's sake. Ten million."

As the crowd scandalgasmed, Buffy threw her napkin down, got up, and walked out.

* * *

She paced in the museum's hallway, calming a bout of hyperventilation.

The door popped open and Spike came out. "And you thought I was giving them ideas," he said with a tinge of amusement, patting his pockets. "That storm-out's gonna get you in the society pages for at least a year."

"What was that?" she whisper-shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

He shrugged, lighting his cigar not three feet away from a No Smoking sign. "Contributing to the arts."

"I cannot accept that painting."

Exhaling smoke, he laughed. "Careful, love. I don't fancy you that much."

She frowned, suspicious.

"You liked it. Must be worth the investment."

Oh. Okay. That was... preferable. Her breathing slowed to a more manageable speed.

Spike stepped up beside her and said in her ear, "Why would I try to buy you when I know you're already mine?"



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A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.


Tags: crave, crave (teh filf), fanfiction, human au fic