Chapter 11 (Part 1 of 2): Revelations
awesome banner by dampersnspoons
I'm SO sorry this is so short, but I've had hardly any free time in the last two months! The second I finish anything, I want to show it to you, and this, so far, is all I could edit to my satisfaction. Hopefully I'll have more time this weekend.
More than anything, I just wanted you to know that I still care about this story, and I WILL squeeze it out eventually! I really hope you like where I've gone with this...
Best things in life start with a slap, Spike mused with a wicked grin.
It was a truth he couldn't ignore. Each time he'd felt the sting of a woman's hand, it left an indelible mark: one launched his career, the next stole his heart. The last two? Raised him from the living dead and brought him roaring back to life, in that order.
And Buffy... she must have known what she'd unleashed. Off she dashed like a frightened rabbit, sloshing through rain puddles in her flimsy stilettos and curve-hugging frock, hoping to escape the inevitable consequence of her actions. It was adorable, really. Adorably futile.
Spike set after her.
Quite the twist of fate, this was. Just when he thought he'd bombed; just when he got fed up with her and himself and his so-called friends and his rubbish calculator and bloody fucking Paris, she kissed him.
For weeks, he'd expected this kiss and easily visualized his suave reception. But when it happened, he was thrown. Stunned. Abnormally aroused. Turns out, kissing a beautiful woman after an eight year dry spell can regress even the worldliest of men: his teeth scraped hers, he got rough and grabby; there may have even been a girlish moan.
It was warranted, though. That crude, tangled little clinch told him so much.
I want you more than I can possibly understand, it said. Take me, fuck me senseless, teach me everything you know, make me beg and crawl and scream! Then the slap said, Just don't hold me accountable.
"Hmpf." Be right tidy for her, if he forced her. She'd get the satisfaction she ached for, no heavy cross to bear.
Like he'd let her get away with that.
Yes, he'd catch her, yes, he'd be there to aid and abet her disgrace, but this chase would end only with her consent. He wasn't a monster, after all.
Besides, once she got a taste, she'd wonder why she ever deprived herself the pleasure.
"Oh, Buffy..." Spike singsonged, shadowing her as she ducked under awnings and pushed through crowds of drunken locals.
The rain seeped uncomfortably through his suit, but he kept a leisurely stride, knowing he'd catch up to her at the busy Quai before the Seine. Nowhere to go after that... excepting his flat.
He phoned his driver with a location and watched Buffy move, all wet and lissome... he could practically taste her in his arms, smell her opening up to let him in. Fee fi fo fum.
"Taxi!" She waved at passing taxicabs, all occupied thanks to the rain. "Taxi!"
"You'd think they'd stop for the rich and pretty," he said, surprising her with his closeness.
"Go away!" She ran down the sidewalk. "I don't want you! I don't want any part of you!"
"Bollocks. You've never wanted anything more."
"Stop following me!"
She nearly got herself killed zipping across the road. "Christ, Buffy! Don't be stupid!"
"Leave me alone!"
"Be careful, you daft--" With a frustrated growl, he waited for another ebb in traffic and chased her in earnest.
She'd disappeared down a stone staircase at the river's edge. Done with cat-and-mousing, he jumped the railing and skipped three steps at a time.
She shrieked as he gained on her, and in a not at all shocking turn of events, her heel snapped. It hardly stopped her, though; after a brief stumble and curse, she cast off her shoes and sprinted barefoot.
Was she really that terrified? What the hell did Lindsey tell her?
"Buffy, stop! Buffy!" He nabbed her by the waist and held her tight. "Gonna get yourself hurt."
"Let me go, let me go!" Hysterical, she flailed about and spun in his grasp.
He wrestled her to a sheltered pass beneath a bridge while she sobbed a feeble protest -- I don't want you, you make me sick, what I just did makes me sick, I'm married to your son, don't you get it, don't you have any heart at all? -- but he couldn't hear any of it. Because with her dewy skin gleaming in the bluish light, wet locks pasted to her face, she looked so hauntingly beautiful, so delicate, so bloody exquisite that he was moved to cradle her head and touch her cheek to make sure she was real.
A confused hush came over her, and she searched his eyes.
He felt a strange sensation then, an aching need to possess her in impossible ways. He wanted to consume her, devour her, pass through her, keep her, lock her to his side and make her gaze at him like this for the rest of his days -- her eyes fluttering with so much fear and desire, her ripe lips quivering and begging to be kissed...
He smashed his mouth to hers, stifled the unwelcome ache by honing in on the sensory: her muffled pleas, her hot breath on his face, her velvety tongue, her cold hands on his neck, her stiffening nipples, the rough stone wall behind her.
Buffy uttered his name like a prayer and he lost control again, forgot all the important steps that go before flattening a girl against the nearest vertical surface and grinding into her with abandon. Luckily, she was right there with him, instantly coiling her legs around him and wiggling on his erection. Naughty.
Hands on her ass, he adjusted her on the wall, tasted her salty neck.
"I can't -- unh, mmnh -- I can't do this."
And yet she wouldn't let go of his head. "You can do anything you want."
"But," she said between gasps, "what if... someone sees?"
He ghosted his lips over her pulsing jugular. "No one's watching, pet. Too dark to see." He nipped at it. "Don't think. Just act."
"Spike, oh god, I can't--"
He kissed her quiet, this time with a promise of the wonders he could perform between her legs. It did the trick: she whimpered into his mouth, clawed at his hair and vised him with her thighs. Stopping for air, forehead resting on hers, he hiked up her dress and wedged a hand between their melded bodies.
Hissing when he found her bare -- no knickers, no nothing, just hot, slick, silken skin -- he teased a finger in and caught a spill of juices in his palm.
His eyes fell shut. Bloody hell.
She undulated to work him in deeper, said in a hot little whisper, "Yeah."
Music to his ears. He slipped another finger in, curved it toward her g-spot.
"Yeah," she said, humping his palm in earnest. "Yeah..."
"Yeah?"
She answered by biting her lip and ripping his shirt buttons, then ran her chilly fingers down his quivering torso and wrangled him out of his zipper to tug, light and fast, at his cock. Taken by surprise, he nearly jetted in her hand.
What was it about this girl? Spike wasn't easy to intimidate. He'd been with supermodels. Rock goddesses. Princesses! Porn stars! And yet this callow handjob made him sputter like a schoolboy? It didn't make sense.
So he pinned her hands to the wall and kissed her proper. He'd show her who was boss. No glorified secretary would rattle him off his game. He was Spike Pratt! They'd named positions after him! They'd made sculptures of his--
"Hahhh!"
Holy fuck, this girl was spry. And luscious. And tight.
Eyes stormy, she sank down on his cock and tipped her head back, tongue darting over her lips.
He curled his pelvis up to spear her to the hilt, and she made the sweetest, sexiest noise he'd ever heard.
He pressed his face against hers, closed his eyes. "Oh, Buffy..."
"Shut up," she said, cupping his mouth. "This isn't romance."
Wasn't it?
Rain sheeting on either side of them, their animalistic cries echoing off the stone walls, they clung to each other under the bridge, bodies convulsing in an arrhythmic, passionate, revelatory dance.
No. It wasn't romance. It was flamenco.
And it was so passionate, so revelatory, so stimulating that he knew he couldn't make it last -- especially when Buffy pinched his sensitive throat, using it for support.
So, he tore at her dress to fully access the curve of her spine: one of his all-time favorite body parts, and her coincidental Achilles' heel.
On contact, she thrashed to and fro, pressing deeper into his throat. He moved to touch her in front; wildly shaking her head no, she returned his hand to The Spot.
He dug into her pressure points. She gasped, went rigid, began to tremor.
"It's all right," he panted. "No one's listening, no one's looking. Scream."
Arms tight around his neck, pussy throbbing on his cock, warm nectar oozing down, she let loose a broken, guttural cry of release.
He shook her. "Look at me."
The very picture of surrender, she looked at him. Staring at her, thrusting with increasing force, he erupted with an unchecked shout.
When it was over, she sagged into him, exhausted and spent. So was he, but his warm, comfortable, sound-proofed bedroom was waiting for them.
Careful, he put her down. "Don't run off, all right? Just need my pants."
As he buckled his belt, he noticed her fiddling with her dress, trying in vain to close it in back. Brow furrowed, she said, "You broke it."
She sounded like a little girl.
Taking off his jacket, he placed it gingerly on her shoulders. Touched her hair, her neck, moved to kiss her there. For a fraction of a second, she recoiled, then clearly remembered that she no longer had the right.
"Car's waiting at the stairs, love. Let me carry you up."
"I can walk."
"Not barefoot, you can't. We're going to my flat, not the hospital."
"Your flat," she repeated quietly. It wasn't a refusal.
"That's right." He picked her up. "I'm not done with you."
Pliant and relaxed in his arms, she only sighed.
He'd blissed her into submission.
Read on... >>
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.