Chapter 30: Knots
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A/N: Hey, check out my crazy banner skillz (above)! I'm fairly proud 'cause the bikini was originally yellow, she wasn't quite Buffy-sized to begin with and that wasn't always James Marsters' chest back there. Miraculous! I also kinda dig how the design says 'you're reading this on the beach ...in 1986'. I didn't mean to do that, but I guess trashy '80s novels are ingrained in my subconscious. (Hi, I read the entire 'Hollywood Wives' series the summer I turned 12. Mmmm, corruption.)
Easter Egg! Kinda.: If you go back through all the chapters, you will see four NEVER BEFORE USED banners, a couple of which are pretty awesomely naughty. (I was once given an entire collection of SMG fakes. 90% of them are awful, but the other 10? Holy visual realization of NC-17 fanfic, Batman!)
"Admit it, Spike. You have a problem."
"Piffle. I can stop any time."
"Mmhm. You do know that was a brand new bottle, right? Completely full when you started."
"I think I can swing a replacement."
"That's not the point," she argued blithely, chin on her folded hands. "It's the principle of the thing. You're wasting precious... whatever that's made of."
"But it turns you so shiny and makes you smell like candy. And when I pour it here," he poured even more suntan oil down her back while teasing her with his sex-having voice, "you quiver."
As it pooled into her spot, she quivered and moaned. "Stop that."
"And when I rub it in," he demonstrated until she squealed and kicked her feet, "that happens."
She peered at him sidelong, suspicious. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you? Slowly but evilly."
"About time someone did." At her look, he smiled. "Not kill you. Do right by you."
"What--? Nobody's done me wrong." Not any more wrong than I've done them...
"Haven't they? This spot of yours." He teased its perimeter. "Like a flashing neon bullseye, this; how could any man miss it?"
"Spike," she leveled with him, frankness fueled by the mimosa she'd had at brunch, "you're not like other men. You notice things."
He leveled right back at her, "I notice you. And so should anyone else who lo--" Lips tight, he looked down. "Who wants to please you," he amended, trying to re-establish eye contact.
Turning her face away from him, she said, "Be glad he doesn't notice anything, or we'd..." Be over. ...All of us.
"Buffy--..." Spike stopped just short of touching her hair; she could feel the heat of his hand as palpably as his desire to get her to talk.
Knot twisting in her gut -- runs around the tree, an' pops back down the hole -- she begged him, desperate and quiet as a prayer, "Please."
After a moment, he expelled a long, noisy breath, and smacked the suntan oil down beside her head.
Stomach knots multiplying, tautening, Buffy braced herself for abandonment... but then he went and threw her for one more loop.
Leaning in close, he said in French, "Just enough left for the front."
She smiled, and the knots came undone.
* * *
"It doesn't seem real."
"Mmm?"
"Catalina," she said, astraddle his swim trunk-clad behind, gently massaging him with suntan oil. "It looks all storybook land from here. Like if you got a little closer, you'd find out it was a diorama."
He raised his head. "You've never been? I thought you had."
"When I was little. I don't remember much."
"Oh. I'll take you ashore if you want, but..."
"Thanks, but I'd rather stay here and not end up in Rich People Weekly." She kneaded his neck.
"Could get scandalous," he slurred, and groaned softly at her fingerwork.
"Here?"
"Right above... Yeah."
Plagued by a sudden vision of Lindsey finding out via grocery store tabloid, Buffy looked toward Avalon Harbor again. There were a hundred boats anchored there, far away from the Moveable Feast, but still... "You don't think there's anyone out there with a really long camera lens, do you?"
"Boat's not even in my name, love," he murmured sleepily. "We weren't followed, and I haven't been newsworthy for some time. We're safe."
"How could you not be newsworthy? You're a billionaire bachelor. A total hottie billionaire bachelor... You should be on the cover of every magazine, every week! What's wrong with people?" She frowned, truly stumped and outraged by this. "Is it 'cause you don't have a publicist?"
"And the truth finally comes out."
"The truth?"
"You," he said, turning around underneath her with an ultra-smug grin, "think I'm a 'hottie'."
Buffy chuckled. He was so vain. "Are you honestly surprised? I know you don't like mirrors, but come on."
He feigned total ignorance.
"You saw how all my friends reacted to you!"
"Don't care what your friends think." He walked his fingers up her front.
She huffed. "Okay, yes. I think you're a hottie. I do."
"Complete this sentence." He put his hands behind his head, got comfortable. "'My definition of a hottie is...'"
"Uh-uh!" She poured the last of the suntan oil on his chest. "You already know the definition."
"I want to know yours. Inasmuch as it relates to me, and so forth."
"Fine." Smirking at him, she closed the empty bottle and put it aside, rubbed her coconut-scented hands together. "I will tell you what makes you a hottie, but just this once."
"All I ask."
"Okay, well," she spread the oil over his flexing muscles, "you've got a nice body."
"'Nice'."
"Yeah. It's very defined and..." she slid her fingers down his torso toward his elastic band, "Greek statue-y. Better than Greek statue-y, really. More like... Van Damme-y, circa Street Fighter. Bad movie, but... good muscles."
He got a little moon eyed while she rambled. "Go on."
"Okay. You use it well. Your body? The way you move is..."
He tilted his head, waited.
"...also very nice."
"The way I move when?"
"I dunno. Whenever."
"Oh, come on! Throw me a bone, will you?"
"When you walk!" she returned defensively, and went on, "When you dance... When you..." she made a shy gesture, "You know."
He smiled with her.
"It's effortless. ...Fluid. You've got a lot of style, and I appreciate that. In a body."
"So that's it? Just my stylish body? Throw a bag over my head and it's all the same to you?"
"Quit fishing, I'm not done yet."
Happily, he settled in for more. "I'm listening."
"Your eyes."
They crinkled at the edges, sparked in the irises. "Yeah?"
"They're nice, too."
"Bloody--" He sat up a little to call out, "Is there a thesaurus on board?"
"Shut up!" she laughed, pushing him back down. "I'm trying, okay? This isn't easy."
"What you holding back for?" he goaded her sweetly, "Just say it!"
"You're gorgeous! I think you're gorgeous, okay? I always..." whoa, where'd that come from, "...have."
He looked surprised, touched, and thoroughly flattered.
Hoping to avoid any further true confessions, she pressed her lips together. He reached up to touch them, nudge them apart. She nipped at his thumb.
They startled at the sound of a throat clearing. It was Nigel, squinting purposefully at the sky. "Sir?"
"At ease, mate. We're decent."
He relaxed. "Is there something you need?"
Gazing adoringly at Buffy, Spike said, "Not a bloody thing."
* * *
"Aye aye, Cap'n." She saluted. "A-westerly we will go."
The day was almost over, but she didn't mind. There was still so much night to look forward to. Being with him was never boring, no matter what they were doing. She'd half expected an entire day of sex, not much to do or discuss in between. But the sex, while plentiful and never far from their minds, turned out to be kinda minimal compared to all the inbetween.
They'd splashed in the warm ocean, napped in the sun, talked about Hemingway, debated over bullfights, communed with a curious dolphin -- well, Buffy communed; Spike threw a cashew at it and told it to 'sod off, worm', which, coming from anyone else would have turned her off, but from him, somehow caused the opposite effect -- and now, she was in his lap, steering the boat toward optimal sunset viewage.
He placed the too-big hat on her head. "You're Captain now, Cap'n."
"You sure you wanna do that? I've been known to get drunk with power."
Clearing her neck of damp tresses, he feigned a gasp. "Not you."
"Oh, I'm shockingly bossy. For my sixth birthday? Some genius gave me one of those toy megaphones. Let me tell you, I ruled the world for three weeks straight. My way or highway, take no prisoners, iron fist Buffy."
She felt his smile on her shoulder. "Why only three weeks?"
"Dad ran over it in the driveway." She pouted. "He claimed it was an accident, but..."
"That's just cruel." He nodded at the loudspeaker hooked to the controls beside the wheel. "There's another one now. Give it a whirl, tiny tyrant. I'll even do what you say."
She gasped. "You want to me to get all corrupted!"
"You just figure that out now?"
"A leadership role, a hat, and a loudspeaker." She craned her neck to see his eyes. "You have no idea what you're in for, Pratt."
"I like surprises."
"You won't when I have you..." she gestured ahead of her, "swabbing the deck and... walking the plank." Off his languid snicker, she said, "Oh, it'll come to that! It will! I'll be all, swab that deck, you scurvy dog or..." she exhausted her limited pirate knowledge with, "or ye be feedin' the fish in ...Davy Jones' locker!"
He burst into laughter with her, squeezed her tight and said on exhale, "God, I love you."
And just like that, the fun came screeching to an awkward halt.
"Sorry," he said, on edge. "Slipped out."
Buffy tried to convey her profound inner conflict, but ended up stammering instead. "I... I, I can't--"
"I know. I know you can't. I'm not asking for it." He turned his head to the sky and sighed. "Let's not spoil this, yeah?"
"Yeah." After a moment, she took off the hat. "Keep an eye on the wheel for me?"
"Sure..." He seemed perplexed when she turned in his lap, put the hat on his head, looked into his eyes, and kissed him.
* * *
"Sir?"
Buffy didn't stop moving.
"Your dinner is ready. Would you like me to bring it up there?"
"No," Spike said, voice faint, eyes glazed and locked with hers. "We're a bit busy."
"Say no more, sir."
Nigel went away, and it was just them again, surrounded by a blazing orange sky.
While the sun sank into the ocean, she undulated on his lap, her palm on his chest. Supine beneath her, he closed his hand over her wrist, squeezed her hip. Breath heaving and harmonizing with his, she threw her head back, lolled it forward, and rode him into the sunset.
* * *
Buffy didn't want to go home.
Maybe she could live on this boat. It was far bigger than it seemed -- the cabin door opened into a lounge, dining area, kitchen, four little spacepod bedrooms with queen sized beds... Clearly, it was magic. Like Oscar's trash can, or Narnia.
The shower wasn't magic, though; it only held one person at a time. Right now, Spike was in it, humming a jaunty tune. As she tried to place it, he sang the lyric, "And I never known a girl like you before..."
She smiled to herself, but didn't get gooey over it. He'd probably just heard it on the radio that day. Not everything was about her.
Stretching on the bed -- hereby declared comfy enough for long-term living -- she rolled onto his white t-shirt.
He'd put it back on for dinner, and now it smelled like laundry, cologne, general eau de Spike, suntan oil, and just a hint of lobster. God, even his armpits smelled sexy...
"Should I leave you two alone?"
Buffy jumped up and tried to hide it behind her, as if that would make him forget the spectacle of her humping the bed while she smelled his shirt.
"Don't be embarrassed." Spike leaned against the door frame, drying his hair. "I knew a guy once fell in love with a sneaker. From two different worlds, they were... but they muddled through." He winked at her.
She pursed her lips. "It's not the shirt."
"Not the shirt, you say?" He totally knew it wasn't.
"It's the way you smell."
"Hm." Tossing the towel aside, he advanced. "Would you describe it as... 'nice'?"
Slowly, Buffy crawled to him. "I might."
"Well." He raised his arms and twitched his fingers all come and get it. "Why have clandestine encounters with my shirt when you can get a good whiff straight from the source?"
Looking up at him, she unraveled his towel and said with flirty lips, "Good point."
She pressed her nose against his hip, and inhaled, deep. He made a little 'hahhh' noise and quivered, then chuckled at his own reaction.
Buffy didn't stop there. With a slight back and forth head motion, she sniffed a heady trail up his body, to his neck -- he giggled, ticklish -- to his ear, across his collar bone to his armpit and down his side... to his groin.
"Hohh..." He quaked involuntarily as she held his cock and sniffed underneath it, all around it, then from root to tip. "Fhh!"
Sitting up to a kneel, gently stroking him, she murmured in his ear, "I love the way you smell."
At that, his breath got speedy and labored and his cock inflated to full length.
Now who was blinking a lot? Her lips curled into a saucy grin as the idea hit. "Start counting."
"Hahhh..." He thought she was kidding.
Hand gently gliding up and down his throbbing shaft, she prompted, "Ten..."
Spike searched her eyes, and started the countdown. "Ten."
Naked body rubbing against his, she buried her face in his neck, massaged his scrotum and built an intensifying rhythm.
"Hahh... Nine."
"That's it," she teased him with his own words. "Like seconds."
He shuddered, breathing in. "Eight."
At seven, she flicked her tongue along his pulsing jugular vein. At six, she skimmed her teeth over it. At five, she clamped down, and sucked.
"F-ahhhhhk!"
That was supposed to be 'four', but he was too busy coming on her hand.
* * *
"Oh, hang on." He seized her by a belt loop and pulled her close to rub her ass.
"What are you doing? We have to go."
"I've never seen you in jeans." He put her in his lap and wouldn't let her go. "I like you in jeans."
"You like me in everything."
"Shame, isn't it?" He clucked his tongue. "How will I ever decide what to make you wear next?"
"'Make' me wear?"
"You wore the itsy bitsy string bikini for me."
"I was indulging you."
"Indulge me again." He whispered, "Be Daddy's little dolly."
"Hohgohd," she couldn't help but exclaim in a hot whisper.
He snickered at her. "I almost forgot how much you like that."
"I don't ...like that."
"Might want to unclench your toes before you go on."
She flexed her feet. "Shut up. I can't help it."
He breathed in. "Neither can Daddy."
She slapped his thigh. "Stop it! It's bad. It's... bad for you, you shouldn't..."
"Bad for...? Is that what you think?"
"N-- It doesn't matter, it's not the point. I don't have to play silly games with you just to..."
"Buffy," he moved her off of him so they could face each other. "Listen to me, and listen good."
With a sigh, she sat next to him on the bed, and listened.
"These are not silly games. And they're not bad."
"I know, I just--"
"No, you don't." He looked into her eyes and said firmly, measuredly, "Nothing is off limits, all right? There is nowhere I won't go with you. Anything you ask, I will do, gladly. Anything you need, I will give you, no questions asked. Do you understand?"
These fervent declarations always got her a little lightheaded, but she managed to nod.
He slid a lock of hair out of her eyes, and squinted in thought. "I quite liked you in gold..."
Read on... >>
I'm kind of living inside this story right now (observe me writing all day and posting at 4am!), so I would really love to know how it's coming across on your end. Obviously this is more of an interlude without a lot of story propulsion, but y'know. It's heartening to hear that it's still entertaining enough to keep you reading. And so forth.
Or as Spike might say: Throw me a bone, will you?!
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.