Chapter 31: Limits
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A/N: This chapter doesn't feel entirely polished to me, but I want to FINISH this story, so I'm trying to turn off the inner persnicket and just put the shit out there raw. Here's hoping it is not actually shit. (And as always, feel free to fix my French.)
The apartment was dark and quiet.
"Linds?"
No answer... and no Huey bounding to the door to greet her. On edge, Buffy flipped on the light and ventured into the living room. No messy work piles on the coffee table, no crumpled cigarette pack, no clothes...
She rushed to his closet.
Full.
With a shaky exhale, Buffy sat on the bed. The power of guilt, ladies and gentlemen.
If she'd checked her voicemail sooner, she'd know that Lindsey had gone straight from the dog park to Fred and Charles' house in Silverlake. It became an impromptu party, and he'd probably get home late.
Well, good, she thought, as she listened to the laughter in the background. He deserved some fun. The kind of fun, she hoped, that involved coming home so late there were no questions about her day, or who she'd spent it having sex with.
As if he could hear her think, Spike sent her a text message.
I want a picture of you.
She smiled, lay back on the bed, and snapped a picture with her phone.
Buffy wasn't very photogenic. Much like a yeti, or the Loch Ness Monster, hers was a likeness that was notoriously difficult to capture on film. This casual snap was a rare exception.
Hair fanned around her, cheeks pink from the sun, there was something about the light in her eyes and the meaning of her smile that she'd never seen before, yet made her more recognizable than ever. It was childlike, it was womanly, it was her soul in a 2"x3" frame.
She sent it to Spike, and he replied soon after via text with an audio clip:
"J'aime la façon dont tu me regardes," he purred. "Bonsoir, ma belle."
I love the way you look at me, he'd said. Goodnight, beautiful.
Unclenching her toes, she played it again. And again. And again...
* * *
"So? How was it?"
"Fun!" Buffy exclaimed cheerfully, and slid his eggs onto a plate. "I mean, lots of lazing around talking. A little swimming, dinner in the harbor. The views from Catalina are crazy, and oh, saw a dolphin. Your toast is ready, can you grab...?"
"Yeah," Lindsey said, grabbing the toast. "Dolphins, huh? --Is this the last of the butter?"
"Might be some in the freezer..."
"Doesn't matter, there's enough."
As they squeezed past each other, their bodies and eyes met. Buffy tore away quickly. "Did you have fun last night? You got in late."
"Yeah," he said. "Sorry about that. Me and an old friend of Fred's got into it and I lost track of time."
"Into it? Like, fist-fighting?"
"No," he laughed. "Just talking. Heavy stuff."
"Oh yeah? What about?"
"Family," Lindsey said, buttering his bread. "Mistakes. Expectations. Fathers and sons, husbands and wives..."
She was sorry she asked. "That is heavy."
"Yeah. She called me out on a few things; really made me think."
Buffy paused mid-pepper-shake. She?
"Turns out," he brought his plate to the bar, "she's a shrink. Has a private practice in Bel Air, wrote a book, does talk shows... the whole nine." He shook his head like he'd been duped. "Guess what her specialty is."
Hitting on unhappily married men? "I can't imagine."
"Kids born into wealth."
"And did you leave a Lindsey-shaped hole in the wall when you ran the other way?"
"No," he said, sitting down to eat. "I made an appointment with her."
"Oh. Wow." Buffy had only been begging him to see a therapist for months... "She must be good."
"We'll see how it goes. --That your phone or mine?"
"Huh?" Her eyes widened as he reached for her phone. "Oh--"
"Message from your secret lover," he said, reading the display.
She snatched it from him. Message from: Will. Heart pounding, throat closing, she said as normally as she could, "That's Willow."
"Yeah," he said with a chuckle, "I know."
"Dream on, funny boy," she said, beyond relieved that she'd password-protected her phone, especially when she read it:
Just think, I could be licking your sweet spot right now.
As goosebumps rose against her will, she deleted the message and composed a reply, saying, "She can't remember the name of the old candy shop in Sunnydale."
Lindsey asked, "What was it?"
I could be biting your neck.
"Sweet Cravings."
* * *
Dark chocolate cherries, butter, fresh cilantro, olive oil, black pepper, brown rice, Kashi GoLean Crunch,
"Going out?"
Buffy shut the kitchen cabinet to see Lindsey raiding the fridge. "Grocery run. We're down some essentials."
"Oh." He glanced at her bare midriff and opened a beer bottle. "Need a hand?"
"Nah." Arms over her navel, she typed hand soap - the pumpy foamy kind, into her phone. "It's more an excuse to hit Nordstrom for their one-day sale. Something tells me you'd rather stay home and catch the game."
"It's like you know me." He tipped his drink at her and took a swig.
"Anything I can get you? From Whole Foods, I mean."
Lindsey shrugged. "Few more of these, I guess. Oh, butter. Did you--?"
"Got it." 12 pk Newcastle Brown Ale - bottles, not cans.
Message sent. She slid the phone into her back pocket.
"You look nice."
Did she overdo it? Not sure where to look or what to do with her hands, she said, "Thanks. How was therapy?"
"Good. Great. Weird." He nodded, squinting. "I don't really want to talk about it."
"That's fine." Kinda what she was going for. "You don't have to. I'm just glad you went."
Lindsey left the kitchen. Her phone vibrated, and she read the reply:
Your wish is my command, Tiny Tyrant.
Suppressing a grin, she said, "So, I'll see you laterish?"
"Have fun." He sat on the living room couch, his self-imposed bed since the Lilah confession. "Don't buy out the store."
Funny, that was exactly what she told Spike when he hatched this little plan. The conversation opened like this:
What are you doing tonight?
Shopping.
What are you really doing tonight?
Seeing you.
* * *
"Did you leave anything for the other shoppers?" Buffy asked, staring aghast at the mountain of Nordstrom bags littering the penthouse suite's master bed. "Tell me you're returning most of this tonight."
"If that's what you want." Spike stood behind her, ardently exploring her outfit as if hip-huggers and a gold boat-neck blouse were an exotic novelty. "But it is all your size. Lots of shoes..."
"Do I look like some kind of stereotypical shoe whore to you?" She kind of was. And it didn't help that he was kissing her shoulders, fondling her hips, and was that a Kooba handbag over there? "This is repugnant, Spike. I'm repugged."
"That the word for what happened to your nipples just now?"
"That's only from the kisses, I'll have you know, and I'm not taking more than one bag, and I'm paying for whatever I'm ta--" His soft lips shut her up and reminded her why she was here. She turned around in his grasp to face him and clutch his neck.
Their mouths came apart and he whispered dangerously, "How could your husband let you leave in this?"
Her eyes rolled back as he finessed her spot. So he was in that kind of mood.
Minor adjustment... and she was right there with him.
"This," he rasped, tugging at her gold belly chain, "stays on. All night."
"Yeah?"
Top lip curling, he brought her hand to his hard-on. "He insists."
Tonight's request was fairly vague: what she might wear shopping, but sexier -- tight jeans a must, show a little skin, toss in a little gold. She squeezed. "I was afraid you'd think it was trampy."
He laughed at that. "Pet. You could wear a crotchless fishnet bodystocking and still be elegant." The thought process played out on his face. "Hey--"
"No."
"All right, I'll give you a pass." He grinned wickedly. "For now."
"Uh-uh!" She halted his closing-in lips with a finger. "Limits, Spike. I have them."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it! I'll play Beach Bunny, Secretary, or..." she gestured at her current ensemble, "Bargain-Hunting Barbie with you all you want, but I draw the line at Tacky '90s Stripper Barbie." She said over his snickering, "No stretchy red lace, no daisy dukes, and no crotchless onesies."
He heaved a burdened sigh. "Guess I had better return it all, then."
"Tch."
The air between them pulsing like it always did when they smiled at each other, he pulled her close. "It's been too long."
"It's been three days."
"I want you every day."
She knew how he felt. Luckily, there weren't that many steps to the bed.
A bag crumpled beneath her head as Spike ravished her, one knee parting her thighs. He cast the bag aside, but it ripped, and its contents spilled out on the bed.
Buffy recognized it right away: Burberry, Spring collection. "Oh... Holy Vogue, you're good."
"Wait 'til I get your clothes off."
"No, this!" She held up a skirt. "That, too -- but how do you know women so well?"
"Oh," he said, and took it from her. "I don't. I mean, I do, but I didn't pick these out. Andy did."
"Andy? Who's Andy?"
"My shopper." He found a pale pink sweater. "I may have swayed the color palette a bit."
Right, of course. Spike didn't have time to buy his own clothes, let alone hers. As he slid the soft cashmere over her shoulder, she said, "Is that Andi with an I?"
He gave her a cryptic head-tilt. "And if it was?"
"Psh. I don't care." She shrugged in support of her not caring. "It's just... intimate, sometimes, buying clothes for someone. Measuring, and stuff. It doesn't matter, I mean, it's fine..."
Spike cracked a smile. "Andy's a man. And while he might fancy a go at my inseam, that's my tailor's job. Also a man. The only females who work for me, save three dowdy, middle-aged housekeepers, are at corporate. I have no earthly desire for any of them, I've stopped hiring call girls, and all I want," he paused for effect, "is you. Anything else?"
Embarrassed, she looked away. "Sorry."
Burning her with a stare, he whispered, "Do you still fuck him?"
She'd been expecting this question -- eventually. But instead of the speech she'd prepared, she found herself answering with a simple, honest headshake: No.
He kissed her cheek, then her lips. Started peeling off her clothes with increasing fervor. Likewise, she peeled at his. Off with his tie, his mauve button-down, his perfectly tailored slacks...
He nudged her up the bed, over clothes. Belts. Silk scarves. A leather jacket to die for. "We should... mmnh... move this stuff so you can return it."
"Just take it, love, I know you want it."
"Spike, no. I can't accept it or explain it."
"Keep it here! Take what you want when you want it." He went back to kissing her.
She pushed his shoulders. "I can't do that! It's wrong."
"How is it wrong if it makes us both happy?"
"Handouts do not make me happy!"
"'Handouts'?" He looked offended. "Gifts, Buffy. You're not a bloody charity case, you're my lover and I'm giving you a gift."
"You've already given me too much!" She pulled something bulky from behind her head. "I don't like to owe anyone anything and--" Oh. My. God.
Cue the Jesus choir.
"What now?"
"These boots..." The very ones she'd dogeared in a magazine, tried on three times, wished she could justify... "I wanted these boots."
"Oh, look at you. You're getting teary-eyed."
"They're too expensive, Spike."
"You deserve them, Buffy."
"No, I don't. I really don't."
"They're just boots. I want you to have them, no strings attached. You don't owe me a thing, and you know it."
She whimpered.
"Come on." He slipped a finger underneath her belly chain and pouted. "Don't make poor little Andy lug all this back to the store... all his hard work gone to waste? I mean, look at this." He emptied another bag, spread its contents around. Tut-tutted at a creamy L.A.M.B. sandal. "He'll be so insulted when I tell him you turned this down."
She swiped the shoe. Evil. That's what he was. "Fine. I will go through everything, and choose enough for two bags. At a reasonable price. After the sex. But it's not an exchange thing."
"You think too bloody much," he rumbled, yanking her panties down her thighs. "Legs up."
Her legs in the air, she touched the sandal, and spotted the perfect skirt to go with. Oh, god, if she could keep all of this...? Clutching the two items to her naked breast, envisioning her fantasy closet, she wiggled on his tongue and just about came.
Spike laughed. "Oh, I get it."
She hazarded a peek. "What?"
He climbed up her body with a mischievous gleam. "Go through it now."
"Now? But... but--"
"While I fuck you." He flipped her onto her belly. Situating himself behind her, he raised her up to hands and knees and said, "One by one. Describe it to me."
"But there's... so much."
He drove into her, making her shout. "Better get started, then."
"Ohhh... khay." Fists opening, catching her breath, Buffy tried to focus on the clothes while his cock speared her. She picked up the closest item: a gray stretch-wool skirt with a chic ruffle detail on the backside hem, and checked the tag. "Re-... Rebecca Taylor... pencil skirt. And, uh... unh... ooh, matching jacket."
Moving her hips to and fro, thumbs on her belly chain, he said, "D'you like it?"
"It's... it's, um..." She had enough trouble speaking; articulating feelings was a bonus challenge. "It's cute--"
He stopped pumping, grabbed her hair to pull her close and ran his fingers down her spine. "Love? Or hate?"
She quivered and welled. "Love."
"Good," he breathed. "Put it on the right."
She put it down on the right side of the bed.
Spike reared back, thrust deep, and said, "Next."
* * *
"We're messing it all up."
Pretty much everything ended up in the 'love' pile; the pile that he was now rigorously fucking her upon, doggy style.
"Guess you'll have to keep it all, yeah? Can't return it now."
She whined. "Why'd you have to get me so much stuff?"
"'Cause Daddy loves you the most, Princess."
Toes curling, ecstatic that he was in this mood tonight, she grabbed his head and told him, "Yes."
"Daddy loves his secret whore," he whispered, and she was gone.
* * *
Was there a fetish for sex on piles of expensive clothing? If so, Buffy was pretty sure she had it.
Spike was such an enabler -- rubbing soft fabrics on her skin, draping accessories over her body, talking about all the pretty things Daddy bought her, how much he loved to spoil his favorite little whore, how nicely she'd grown up... Buffy lost track of how many times she peaked.
"That's my girl," he said, pulling out to let her spill onto the clothes. "Look at all that lovely come."
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she whispered, spasming against his hand. "Wait, not that skirt!"
"Shhh," he massaged her clitoris to make things worse. "Such a thing as dry cleaning. Show your hard-working father a little gratitude."
"Oh, fuck!" She started coming all over again.
When she was spent, told him she couldn't take it anymore, he hooked her trembling legs over his shoulders.
Needing to kiss him, Buffy looped a silk scarf around his neck to bring his face to hers.
He kissed her lips, then whispered, "Pull it tight."
What? Oh. The scarf.
She criss-crossed it and spread her arms apart.
He pistoned into her. "Tighter."
Carefully, she wrapped it around her hands to pull it tighter.
"Tighter."
When he started blindly pounding her into the bed, Buffy heard herself whisper, "You're such a good little boy."
His orgasm was instant, volcanic, and seemed to startle even him.
When he collapsed, sweat-slick forehead landing on her chest, she realized what she'd done.
* * *
Finally, she blurted out, "I can't leave without talking about this."
He popped a grape into his mouth. "'Bout what?"
"What I said, when we were... When I had the scarf around your neck?"
He laughed. "Oh, that."
"I seriously don't know what came over me. It..."
"Seemed like the right thing to say at the time?"
"No. I wasn't thinking--"
"Good. You shouldn't think when we're fucking. You went on instinct, I had a gut reaction. That's how mind-blowing sex is done."
Was he truly unscathed, or was this just a defense mechanism? "Spike, I don't ever want to remind you of--" She couldn't bring herself to specify. "...That time in your life."
"Oh, stop being so careful, will you? Yeah, I had a hellish childhood. My mother is a deeply troubled woman." He wiped his hands on a napkin. "You're not her."
"I don't want to remind you of Darla either..."
"You're night and day, the two of you." He shook his head. "Look, I tried to tell you on the boat, what you and I do together, it's not about them."
Buffy gave him a sidelong glance.
"It's about us. Testing our limits. Breaking free of the past. Don't you see? You've changed everything, Buffy." Spike opened her left hand, wove his fingers through hers, squeezed it tight. "The more you bring out, the more it can't touch me. You're not like anyone else. You make it new. You make it ours."
She didn't notice her eyes had welled until their joined hands blurred in her vision.
"Life's too short to play it safe." He yanked her toward him, making plates clatter, and held her ring finger to his heart. "Don't ever be afraid to push the boundaries with me." He kissed her knee. "I like it."
* * *
"What'd you get?" Lindsey took the Whole Foods bag from her and nodded toward her single Nordstrom bag.
"Not much. Skirt, shoes... mostly work stuff." The rest is filling two closets in a hotel penthouse. She walked toward their bedroom and raised her voice so he could hear, "Prices so low they're practically giving it all away. Did Texas win?"
"Texas lost," he said from the kitchen. "Slammed by Dee-troit."
As he went into detail, Buffy gingerly unclasped her belly chain, her skin raw from Spike's rough handling of it. That's when she noticed the bright red hickie on her left hip, peeking over the waistline of her jeans.
"You sneak," she whispered. "I'll push your boundaries, all right."
I like it.
Give it a whirl. I'll even do what you say.
Is there anything more you desire, my mistress?
"Huh," Buffy said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "Someone's been asking for it."
Read on... >>
A/N: I ran a spellcheck on this. Some suggestions for NautiBitz: Nativities, Tidbits, Nanobots, Nitwits, Nudists, Turbots, Nitrites, Nutmeats, Antibodies, Debits, Doubts, Nudity's. I think I'm going to answer to "Nutmeats" from now 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.